Gert Hofmann (ed.) Figures of Law Studies in the Interference of Law and Literature E D I T I O N K A I R O S 3 A. Francke Verlag Tübingen und Basel E D I T I O N K A I R O S 3 Kulturwissenschaft und Ästhetik Herausgegeben von Gisela Dischner, Reinhold Görling und Gert Hofmann Gert Hofmann (ed.) Figures of Law Studies in the Interference of Law and Literature A. Francke Verlag Tübingen und Basel Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Bibliothek Die Deutsche Bibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über <http: / / dnb.d-nb.de> abrufbar. Gedruckt mit Unterstützung der Faculty of Arts des University College Cork, Ireland. © 2007 Narr Francke Attempto Verlag GmbH + Co. KG Dischingerweg 5 · D-72070 Tübingen Das Werk einschließlich aller seiner Teile ist urheberrechtlich geschützt. Jede Verwertung außerhalb der engen Grenzen des Urheberrechtsgesetzes ist ohne Zustimmung des Verlages unzulässig und strafbar. Das gilt insbesondere für Vervielfältigungen, Übersetzungen, Mikroverfilmungen und die Einspeicherung und Verarbeitung in elektronischen Systemen. Gedruckt auf säurefreiem und alterungsbeständigem Werkdruckpapier. Internet: http: / / www.francke.de E-Mail: info@francke.de Gesamtherstellung: Ilmprint, Langewiesen Printed in Germany ISSN 1862-2151 ISBN 978-3-7720-8211-5 Danksagung Der National University of Ireland in Cork schulde ich Dank für die Gewährung des Forschungsfreisemesters, das eine konzentrierte abschließende Bearbeitung des vorliegenden Buches erst möglich machte. Der Faculty of Arts, der Faculty of Law und dem Department of German gilt mein Dank für deren finanzielle und logistische Unterstützung bei der Organisation der Tagung über die „Figures of Law“, die im Juni 2005 am University College Cork stattfand, außerdem dem College of Arts, Celtic Studies and Social Sciences für die Gewährung eines Druckkostenzuschusses aus dem Research Publication Fund. Zutiefst dankbar bin ich allen meinen Freunden und Kollegen, die auf dieser Tagung eine solch großartige, intellektuell stimulierende Atmosphäre erzeugten, auch denen, die zu diesem Buch etwas beitrugen, obwohl sie am Symposion, aus dem es hervorging, nicht hatten teilnehmen können. Ein besonderer Dank gebührt Anna-Maria Mullally und Michael Shields für ihre klugen, feinsinnigen Übersetzungen. Außerdem möchte ich meinen früheren Studentinnen Sinead Mary Ring und Elaine Morley von Herzen danken für ihre freundliche organisatorische Hilfe bei der Vorbereitung und Durchführung der Konferenz. Acknowledgments I owe gratitude to the National University of Ireland in Cork for granting me the sabbatical, which made it possible to complete this work in a concentrated manner. I am grateful to the Faculty of Arts, the Faculty of Law, and the Department of German who have financially and logistically supported the symposium which took place in June of 2005, and to the College of Arts, Celtic Studies, and Social Sciences for supporting the publication of this book by means of their Research Publication Fund. I am deeply grateful to all my friends and colleagues who have participated in the symposium, creating such a great spirit of intellectual endeavour, and also to those who have contributed to this book, even though they have not been able to take part in the event of 2005. I am especially thankful to Anna-Maria Mullally (UCC) and Michael Shields (NUIG) for their mindful translations, which I find truly inspirational. I would also like to thank my former students Sinead Mary Ring and Elaine Morley for helping me so kindly with the organisation of the conference. Inhalt Gisela Dischner und Gert Hofmann Dialog über den Nullpunkt der Sprache. Ein gesetzloser Auftakt .. .... . 9 Gisela Dischner and Gert Hofmann Dialogue on the Zero Point of Language. A lawless prelude …....... .. 15 Gert Hofmann Einleitung ………………………………………………………… .. . 21 Gert Hofmann Introduction …………………………………………………… . … ... 33 THEORY AND PHILOSOPHY Adam Thurschwell Law and Literature and the Right to Death .............................. .. ........ 45 Paul Hegarty The Near-dead and the Non-dying Body................................. .. .......... 63 Tim Murphy and Gerard Staunton The Envelope and the Letter: Reflections on Law’s Ambience ..... .. .. 77 Graham Allen Spilling the Beans: Teaching and Contract Law ………………….. 101 META-LITERARY STUDIES Christine Künzel „Aus einem Bette aufgestanden“. Anmerkungen zum ‚Verhältnis‘ zwischen Recht und Literatur ……………………………………... 115 Caitríona Leahy (Un)precedented texts: what comes and goes ‘before the law’…......133 Carola Erbertz Die schwierige Freiheit der Postmoderne. Zum Verhältnis von Gesetz und Buch bei Edmond Jabès ………………………...... 147 Cornelia Vismann Files, not Literature ………………………………………………... 163 Catherine O’Sullivan Madonna and Whore: The Perplexing Media and Legal Response to a Female Child Molester ……………………………………….. 175 LITERARY STUDIES Andreas Stuhlmann Heinrich Heine’s Figure of Justice ………………………………... 199 Neil Buttimer Images of Law in Pre-Famine Gaelic Ireland ……………………... 217 Hans-Joachim Jürgens „Alle Gesetzlichkeiten sind langweilig.“ Ungeschriebene Gesetze in Theodor Fontanes Roman Effi Briest……………….................... 231 Gisela Dischner und Gert Hofmann Dialog über den Nullpunkt der Sprache Ein gesetzloser Auftakt Dasein heisst eine Form verteidigen. Nichts ist mehr selbstverständlich. Der unbequeme Ausbruch aus der Wortgewöhnung entzieht den Boden unter den Füßen. Wenn die Sprache aufhört, Transportmittel sozialer Kommunikation zu sein, wird ein Nullpunkt erreicht. Es gilt diesen Nullpunkt zu erreichen. Nichts sonst gilt mehr. Nichts. Jede Silbe neu buchstabieren. Sprachlos werden vor dem Sog, wenn der Boden entzogen ist; ein Sprachbeben geschehen lassen. Kein Wort ist mehr an seinem Platz der Bedeutung. Alles bewegt sich. Alles fließt. Schwindelerregt einsteigen in diesen Fluss, der alles Gewohnte überschwemmt hat. Denken ist dieser reissende Fluß. Antigone kommt mir in den Sinn. Wird nicht in Antigone dieses Denken Körper und Leben? Antigone figuriert den „Nullpunkt“ in der Sprachlosigkeit eines Liebesakts. Die eigene Form aufgeben, bis zum Äussersten verausgaben - und dabei die Form des Andern verteidigen, eine Form jedoch, die immer eine der Auflösung ist. Antigones Liebe beweist eine ultimative Gleichgültigkeit gegenüber der Selbstliebe, die den Andern konsumiert, um sich selbst zu erhalten. Sie ist deren Auslöschung: Sie gilt dem Leichnam des Bruders, dem Vereinzelten, Verweslichen, formlos Werdenden - nicht der davon abgeschiedenen brüderlichen „Seele“, jener Hypostase eines abstrakten Bleibenden, einer physisch unwiederbringlichen, aber metaphysisch erinnerten und abgehobenen Identität, in der sich nur das Ethos der eigenen spiegelt. In diesem Punkt hatte auch Hegel sich versehen und nicht radikal genug gedacht: Antigones Bruderliebe ist keine Idee, sie unterwirft sich nicht den geistigen Gesetzen sittlicher Individualität, sie ist das körperliche Eigenleben einer Form der Auflösung, die auch die Auflösung des Selbst im Andren ist. Keinem ist die Wirklichkeit des Todes vertrauter als dem Liebenden. Indem er selbst noch dem Tode sich nicht unterwirft sondern hingibt, vermag er dem Leben den allergrößten Dienst zu erweisen. 10 - Gisela Dischner und Gert Hofmann Antigones Sprache ist die Klage, der Schrei - der Nullpunkt der Sprache. Ihr Handeln ist die stumme Tat des Anti-Rituals, die totale Selbstauflösung sprachlichen Sinns im Namen des Nichtbleibenden, und Akt einer sinnlosen Zärtlichkeit am schon Verwesenden, reine Liebesgabe, Liebeshandlung; sie schöpft handelnd den letzten, ohnmächtigen Gedanken, den der körperlichen Einverwandlung von Liebe, Tod und Sprache. Antigone ist souverän und ausgestoßen, das Gesetz ihres Handelns und Sprechens ist die Gesetzlosigkeit. Até. Nullpunkt der Sprache, Nullpunkt der Menschlichkeit. Kein bekanntes Wortufer mehr in Sicht. Erst wenn ich die Übersicht verloren habe, kann ich sehend werden. Ich sehe alles in einer neuen Beleuchtung. Wer bin ich? Ich bin nicht mehr Ich. Ich bin dieser Fluss. Ich überlebe die Panik des Überschwemmtwerdens in mir. Ich überlebe die Todesangst vor dem Sprachverlust. Ich bin tot, wenn ich keine Sprache mehr habe. Ich durchbreche diese Angst: Ich habe keine Sprache, die Sprache hat mich. Ich stelle mich in ihren Dienst. Ich lasse sprachgeschehen. Dabei folge ich Gesetzen, die nicht kenntlich sind - sie werden gesetzt, indem ich ihnen folge. Nur im Vollzug erkenne ich sie. Nur im Vollzug sind sie. Ich kann sie nicht spracherfassen. Aus dem Denkfluß steigen Worte empor: frisch, glänzend, frei. Nicht mehr festgesetzt in Kommunikationsstrategien. Unsichtbar und atemlos. Gesetze des Festgesetzten gelten nicht mehr. Nullpunkt. Freiheit heißt: sich in den Dienst solcher Gesetze zu stellen. In solcher Freiheit entsteht ein neuer Wortgeschmack. Nichts Abgeschmackt-Bekanntes kann mehr zugelassen werden. Ein Verstummen vor der Strenge unbekannter Gesetze, eine Empfindlichkeit für jedes Wort, ein Ekel, ein Schmerz vor dem Gerede, ein Rückzug, ein Schweigen - terra nova. „Uns wiegen lassen, wie auf schwankem Kahne der See ...“ (Hölderlin), ist das die formlose Form, die gesetzlose Anti-Strategie und Anti-Formel der Sprachwerdung aus Sprachverlust - und der Selbstwerdung aus Selbsthingabe; die haltlose Hingabe des „Kahns“ an das Spiel der Wellen, der Form ans Formlose, der Erkenntnis ans Unerkennbare, des Ziels an die Weglosigkeit? Man behält nur das, was man hergibt. Das „Unzerstörbare“ (Blanchot) ist nicht das Selbst, sondern dessen Verausgabung im Spiel mit dem Andern, also das schöpferische Selbst, die Liebe. Doch mit dem Sprachverlust geht die soziale Ohnmacht einher, mit der Selbsthingabe die Verachtung der Wissenden und Mächtigen ebenso wie die der Unterwürfigen und Gläubigen: die Verbannung aus dem Schutzraum ihrer Gesetze. Die Einsamkeit der Gesetzlosen koinzidiert mit dem Ostracismus der Liebenden. Antigone und Ödipus Colonus, der sich ganz der Führung seines Kindes - einer Ikone sozialer Ohnmacht - anvertraut und zuletzt im heiligen Hain der Erynnien finale Zuflucht findet, beweisen dies. Die Nullpunkt der Sprache - 11 Selbstverausgabung des Pharmakos eröffnet unbetretbare Räume und unbegehbare Wege zur Selbstwerdung, zur Sprachwerdung. Wenn die alten Wortverkettungen gerissen sind, lösen sich einzelne Worte, werden frei, werden neu, werden schön. Das Allergewöhnlichste vibriert, freigeworden aus der Sprachverstrickung, in neuen Konstellationen mit dem Andern, Unbekannten. Die Sprache spricht: ein Fest aus neuen Wortvermählungen, befreit von den Gesetzen der gewöhnlichen Sinnbedeutung. Sinnentleert, frei. Große, neue Bedeutungshöfe entstehen in der unbekannten inneren Sprachlandschaft: ein neuer Sinn aus Sprachmusik, ein Hochzeitstanz im freigesetzten Strömen der Worte. Literatur ist wie ein „Patchwork mit endloser Fortsetzung“, das die „‚zerrissenen Ränder‘ der Wahrheit“ zu immer neuartigen Figuren fügt: „wie eine Mauer loser Steine, die nicht zementiert sind, in der jedes Element für sich allein steht und gleichwohl in Beziehung zu den anderen: Isolate und flottierende Beziehungen, Inseln und Zwischen-Inseln, bewegliche Punkte und gewundene Linien.“ (Gilles Deleuze) Ich folge dem unbekannten Rhythmus der Gesetze, die ich nicht fassen kann. Ich folge dem Diktat dieser Gesetze, ich setze mich aus - das Diktat folgt meiner Ausgesetztheit ... Ich staune über neue Wortbegegnungen, über neue Sinngebungen. Etwas fügt sich, fügt sich unter mir, wenn ich mich füge - nicht sprachmächtig, aber sprachliebend. Ein tiefes Atemholen nach der atemlos machenden Sprachmaschine, in die ich mich freiwillig gezwungen hatte. Die sprachliche Dauerkommunikation, die einer totalisierenden Kontrolle unterworfen wird, erfasst uns alle immer mehr. Aber zugleich produziert sie einen Dauerinformationsfluß, der trotz Zensur nicht mehr aufzuhalten ist. CNN, Channel 4 und Al Jazeera sind tendenziell nur mehr gleichberechtigte Facetten in einem einzigen globalisierten Medienweltbild. Die brutalen Gesetze des Kapitalismus in der globalisierten Gesellschaftswirklichkeit werden damit immer deutlicher entlarvt. Die Maske von Humanität und Freiheit und Demokratie bröckelt in rasender Geschwindigkeit, sichtbar auch für deren Nutznießer und Ausbeuter. Welche Folgen hat dies für die Sprache? Und für eine andere, gesetzlose harmonia nicht integrierbarer, fragmentativer Denk- und Sichtweisen? Das Ganze erfährt eine Zuspitzung: Indem ich mich in den Dienst der gesetzlosen Satzungen sprachohnmächtiger Sprache begebe, steige ich aus, ich verschwinde als Subjekt, ich bin nicht mehr identifizierbar, ich bin unberechenbar, ich bin frei. Ich konfrontiere den Zwangszusammenhang, dem sich die Mehrheit unterwirft, mit der Möglichkeit der Freiheit. Ich führe dies sprachlich vor: Es gibt gesetzlose Gesetze, die nicht der Profitlogik und 12 - Gisela Dischner und Gert Hofmann Vertragsethik der Wirtschaftsgesellschaft unterliegen. Gesetzlose Gesetze, die stattdessen, jenseits aller sozialen, politischen und sprachlichen Möglichkeiten, an das Überleben einer humanen Bildungsgesellschaft und ihrer Individualethik glauben lassen, ohnmächtige Gesetze des Widerstandes und der Subversion gegen jede Form der Macht, auch gesetzlicher Macht, im Namen der Gerechtigkeit. Sprache als Kunst, Literatur, gründet in jener elementaren Schicht einer gelassenen Ohnmacht, die den Traumatisierungsbestrebungen realer Macht und Gewalt grundsätzlich entzogen bleibt. „Der Mächtige ist Herr über das Mögliche, er ist aber nicht Herr dieser Beziehung, die nicht der Beherrschung angehört und für die die Macht nicht den Maßstab abgibt.“ (Blanchot) In diesem Sinne kommt Literatur und Kunst gerade ob ihrer wesentlichen Ohnmächtigkeit ein fundamentalpolitisches oder -ethisches Potential zu: sie sind subversiv gegenüber der Macht als Prinzip, nicht nur als realpolitischer Größe. Antigone hatte Kreon gerade dadurch, dass sie sich ihm im politischrhetorischen Diskurs (scheinbar) unterwarf, auf der fundamentalethischen Ebene der tragischen Kunst kategorisch ins Unrecht gesetzt und widerlegt. Ähnliches gilt für den humanethischen Anspruch einer freiheitlichen und kreativen (also im radikalen Sinne Kants aufklärerischen) Erziehungs- und Bildungspraxis, in der die Literatur eine entscheidende Rolle spielt. Sie orientiert sich - als Praxis einer „perpetuierten Identitätskrise“ - ausschließlich an einer Vision dessen, was sein soll, und erweist sich gerade deshalb zunehmend als inkompatibel und subversiv gegenüber den ökonomischen Gesetzen eines modernen Bildungsmanagements, das sich längst den Positionen des Vertragsrechts unterworfen hat: „Contract law, the legal imperative of a successfull delivery of pre-advertised outcomes, flattens teaching (...) into a mode of conveyance or delivery without delay. (...) In such an environment any philosophy of teaching [and] the teacher who believes that teaching involves some kind of delay, a process in which outcomes cannot be specified or even, for some, guaranteed, or, for some, even imagined, might come to the conclusion that teaching itself is under threat.“ (Graham Allen) Der Ausstieg ist möglich. Der Ausstieg aus einem sprachlichen Funktionszusammenhang, dessen reibungsloser Ablauf den status quo garantieren soll. Die aus solchem Ablauf isolierten Worte dienen nicht mehr als konventionelle Bedeutungstoken im Umlauf sprachlicher Kommunikation, sie sind untauglich für die Umgangssprache; ich umgehe sie neu, tastend, behutsam, ich stelle sie in Zusammenhängen, die scheinbar keine sind: Selbst Los Gelassen. Nullpunkt der Sprache - 13 Literatur ist gesetzlose Sprache - fundamentalkritisch gegenüber den diskriminierenden Kategorien von gesetzlich und ungesetzlich. Literatur ist sprachliches „Falschgeld“ (Derrida), sie destabilisiert den bedeutungsregulierenden Umlauf der Sprachsymbole und unterläuft dadurch deren konventionierende Macht. Literatur sprengt den Kreislauf der Kommunikation und versetzt den Leser in die Einsamkeit einer exklusiven Begegnung mit dem Text - die Einsamkeit eines Urhebers von Sprachsinn. Was soll das also sein? Der Leser allein kann dies beantworten, er ist zu einer und mehr Lesungen aufgefordert, aufgefordert zum Denken in Freiheit. Die unsichtbaren Gesetze folgen einer Poeto-Logik, die als solche nicht formulierbar ist. Sie ist nachvollziehbar für den, der sich ihr öffnet. Der Leser ist auf sich selbst verwiesen, wenn er das Wort Selbst liest. Er kann es isoliert betrachten und die folgenden Worte zusammen denken: „losgelassen“. Keine vorgegebene Grammatik ordnet sich zum Schema Subjekt-Prädikat-Objekt. Die Subjekt-Objekt-Trennung ist aufgehoben. Das Selbst ist nicht notwendig Subjekt. - Das alte Schema ist nicht mehr eindeutig, eine Vielzahl von Ergänzungen lassen sich herstellen, z.B.: ‚Ich habe selbst losgelassen‘. Aber das los, das sich mit dem ‚Los‘ assoziieren läßt und auf das Schicksal-Los des ‚Selbst‘ verweisen mag, ist ein Apokoinu. Es ist vorwie rückbezüglich und entläßt den Leser in die Vieldeutigkeit von Lesungen. Selbstlos ist jetzt kein sozial altruistisches Attribut; der Vorgang der Auflösung des Subjekts wird sprachlich vorgeführt. Spielerisch läßt sich auch eine Kausallogik konstruieren wie diese: ‚Wenn ich selbst losgelassen habe, werde ich selbstlos gelassen‘, aber die Attribute ‚selbstlos gelassen‘ können auch einfach gelesen werden, ohne Zuordnungen. ‚Selbstlos gelassen‘ - die Zustandsbeschreibung einer freien Bewegung, die keine Information ist. ‚Selbst losgelassen‘ läßt Lesungen zu, die das Loslassen des Subjekts (das Selbst losgelassen) wie den Vorgang des Freiwerdens (wenn ich selbst losgelassen habe - was geschieht dann? ) konnotieren. Das Apokoinu wird als solches lesbar und führt den Leser zu einer Sprachbewegung, die er „selbst“ schöpferisch vollzieht. Im Vollzug kann er in den Zustand geraten, den er sich spielerisch erlesen hat - selbstlos gelassen zu werden; auf keiner Ichidentität mehr beharrend, den Zustand des verschwindenden Subjekts nicht als Identitätsverlust erleidend, sondern als Gelassenheit genießend: Das thetische Ego als Illusion durchschauend, dem Denkstrom sprachlich folgend, einen ekstatischen Vorgang vollziehend. Hier und jetzt selbstlos gelassen werdend. Das bedeutet, diesseits der sozialen Sphäre und ihrer Gesetze und Vorschriften der Gesetzlosigkeit im Namen menschlicher Freiheit und Kreativität Raum zu schaffen. Ein erlesener Zustand, der für den Augenblick der Lesung befreiend wirkt - vielleicht auch über diesen Augenblick hinaus. 14 - Gisela Dischner und Gert Hofmann Wäre solche Befreiung folgenlos und unverbindlich, wie die engagierten Polemiker behaupten, gäbe es wirklich den Elfenbeinturm, dann wäre von totalitärer Seite (sei es von Hitler oder Stalin) nicht „entartete Kunst“ verfolgt worden. Schlagen wir aus der Art, zerreißen wir das Netz normativer Sprache, in das man uns zu verstricken und zu ersticken droht. Setzen wir das Recht immer wieder der Literatur aus. Gisela Dischner and Gert Hofmann Dialogue on the Zero Point of Language A lawless prelude To exist means to defend a form. Nothing can be taken for granted anymore. The discomfiting breakaway from the customary word pulls the ground from under our feet. When language ceases to be a means of transport for social communication, a zero point has been reached. This zero point has to be reached. Nothing else matters more. Nothing. Merely to spell each syllable. To become speechless in the pull of the removed ground, to allow linguistic tremors occur. Words are no longer at their appointed sites of meaning. Everything is in motion. Everything is flowing. Dizzily, you enter this torrent which has flooded over everything that is familiar. This is the cascade of thought. This thought quickens and is embodied in Antigone. Antigone figures the “zero point” in the speechlessness of an act of love. One gives up of one’s own form, spends oneself entirely - in defence of the form of the other, a form, nevertheless, which is forever dissolving. Ultimately Antigone’s love proves itself indifferent to a self-love which consumes the other in order to preserve itself. It extinguishes that self-love; is reserved for her brother’s remains, for that which is individuated, decaying, becoming formless. Her love is not for not the departed fraternal soul, that hypostasis of an abstract remaining, that physically irretrievable but metaphysically enduring detached being, in which only the ethos of one’s own identity is reflected. Hegel also misjudged this point and didn’t think radically enough: Antigone’s love of her brother is no mere intellectual idea, is not subject to the spiritual laws of moral individuality. It is corporeal, the physical and independent existence of a form of dissolution, which is the dissolution of the self into another. The reality of death is less real to everyone but the lover, who serves life best not in passively yielding to death, but in actively expending herself. Antigone’s language is the lament, the cry; 16 - Gisela Dischner and Gert Hofmann the zero point of language. Her actions are the mute act of the anti-ritual, the complete self-dissolution of linguistic meaning in the name of the departing. They are a gesture of futile tenderness towards the already decaying, a pure gift of love, a pure act of love. Thus she actively creates the last fading thought, that of the physical transformation of love, death and language into each other. Antigone is sovereign and outcast, the law governing her actions and speech is lawlessness itself. Até. Zero point of language, zero point of humanity. No familiar word-shore in sight. Only then when I have lost the overview, can I gain sight. I see everything in a new light. Who am I? I am no longer I. I am this flow. I survive the fear of flood in myself. I survive the deathly fear of the loss of speech. I am dead, if I no longer have any language. I break through this fear: I have no language, language has me. I place myself at its service. I allow languagetohappen. In so doing I follow laws which are unknown - they are enacted as I follow them. Only by observing them do I recognise them. Only through this observation do they exist. I can’t capture them in language. Words ascend from the flow of thought: fresh, shining, free. No longer set fast in communication strategies. Invisible and breathless. Conventional laws don’t apply anymore. Zero Point Freedom means putting oneself at the service of such laws. This kind of liberty creates an entirely new taste for words. Nothing jaded or familiar is acceptable any longer. A silencing before the rigorousness of the unknown laws, a sensitivity to each word, a revulsion, pain at spoken language, a retreat, muteness, terra nova. „Uns wiegen lassen, wie auf schwankem Kahne der See ...“ (Hölderlin). 1 Is this the formless Form, the counter-strategy and counter-formula for the creation of language out of its loss? Self-actualisation through self-exertion; the unrestrained yielding of the “skiff” to the play of the waves, of form to formless, recognition to ignorance, of direction to aimlessness? One keeps only that which one gives away. The “Indestructible” (Blanchot) is not the Self, rather it is the complete exertion of this self in play with the Other. The “Indestructible” is, therefore, the creative self which is Love. However, the loss of language is accompanied by social disempowerment, and the offering up of oneself is greeted with the contempt of the knowledge-holders and the powerful, as well as that of the obsequious and the believers. What follows is the banishment from the protected sphere of their laws. The loneliness of those without laws is echoed in the ostracism of those who love. 1 Be lulled and rocked as On a swaying skiff of the sea (Translation into English by Michael Hamburger). Zero Point of Language - 17 Oedipus and Antigone, too, are proof of this. Oedipus Colonus trusts fully in the guidance of his child, Antigone - in an icon of social powerlessness - and ultimately finds sanctuary in the holy grove of the Eumenides. In permitting themselves to be scapegoated they open up barred rooms and impassable paths to self-realisation and speech. When the old word chains are broken, individual words are released, become free, become new, become beautiful. The most ordinary vibrates, free from linguistic entanglement, in new constellations with the Other, the Unknown. Language speaks: a celebration of new word unions, unbound by the laws which otherwise govern meaning. Emptied of significance, free. Great new courts of meaning grow up in the unfamiliar inner linguistic realm: the word music patterns new meaning, a wedding waltz gliding across the unleashed flow of words. Literature is like an “infinite patchwork”, “which joins the ‘frayed edges’ of truth” to ever new shapes, “like a wall, of loose uncemented stones, in which each element stands both unique but also in relation to the others: isolated and floating relationships, isles and channels, moving points and winding lines.” (Gilles Deleuze, Bartleby, Melville) I adhere to the unknown rhythm of laws I cannot grasp. I obey the imperative of these laws, I reveal myself - the imperative follows my self-exposure … I marvel at new word encounters, new interpretations. Something complies, submits itself to me when I conform, not in control of language, but in love with language. The breathlessness caused by the language apparatus into which I had voluntarily forced myself is followed by a profound inhalation. We are entangled ever more tightly in the net of an unremitting linguistic communication, cast by a totalizing force. Simultaneously however, this communication carries with it a constant flow of information, unstoppable even by censorship. CNN, Channel 4 and Al Jazeera are more equally placed aspects of one single, globalised, media world picture. The brutal laws of capitalism in a globalised social reality are thus increasingly exposed. The mask of humanity, freedom and democracy is crumbling rapidly, noticeable, also, to those who hide behind and exploit it. What consequences does this have for language? And for another lawless harmonia of those alternative ways of thinking and seeing which have ever been fragmented and disintegrating? The entire situation is worsening: By placing myself at the behest of the lawless rules of linguistically powerless language I drop out, disappear as a subject, I am no longer identifiable, I am beyond reckoning, I am free. I counter the enforced connection to which the majority submits itself with the possibility of freedom. I will present this in language: there are lawless laws, which are not subject to the logic of profit and 18 - Gisela Dischner and Gert Hofmann the contractual ethics of industrial society. Lawless laws which exist outside of any social, political and linguistic possibilities, permitting, instead, belief in the survival of a humane Bildungsgesellschaft and its individual ethics, powerless laws of resistance to, and subversion of, all types of power, even legal power, in the name of justice. Language as Art, that is, as Literature, is grounded in that base layer of a relaxed impotence, which remains unmoved by the efforts of real power, to traumatise. “He who has power is Lord of the Possible, but he does not govern this relationship, which is beyond sovereignty and for which power does not set the measure” (Blanchot). In this sense both literature and art gain a fundamental political or ethical potential, regardless of their essential powerlessness. They are not only subversive of power as a real political significance, but also of power as a principle. By (apparently) conceding to Creon in their political rhetorical exchange, Antigone actually succeeded both in rebutting him and placing him in the wrong, in accordance with the fundamental ethics of Tragedy. The same can be said for the ethical claims of a free and creative (and therefore enlightening in the radical Kantian sense), formative and educational practice, in which literature plays a decisive role. It is oriented - as the practice of a perpetuated “identity crisis“ - exclusively towards that which ought to be. It thus proves itself increasingly incompatible with and subversive of the economic imperatives of modern educational management. This style of management has long since kowtowed to the authority of contract law: “Contract law, the legal imperative of a successful delivery of pre-advertised outcomes, flattens teaching (...) into a mode of conveyance or delivery without delay. (...) In such an environment any philosophy of teaching [and] the teacher who believes that teaching involves some kind of delay, a process in which outcomes cannot be specified or even, for some, guaranteed, or, for some, even imagined, might come to the conclusion that teaching itself is under threat.“ (Graham Allen) It is possible to exit. Opt out of an linguistic system, whose smooth operation is supposed to maintain the status quo. The words isolated from such an operation no longer serve as conventional signifiers in the spread of linguistic communication. They are unsuited for colloquial language; I go around them anew, carefully touching them, I corner them in contexts, which appear to be none: Selbst Self Los Less/ Free/ Loose/ Lot Gelassen Set/ Composed/ Poised/ Self-possessed Literature is language without laws - at its core critical of the discriminatory categories of legal and illegal. Literature is linguistic “counterfeit” (Derrida), it destabilises the circulation of linguistic symbols, which regulates meaning, Zero Point of Language - 19 and undermines, thereby, their conventionalising power. Literature blows apart the circuit of communication and places the reader in an exclusive encounter with the text - experiencing the loneliness of an inventor of linguistic meaning. What should this be? Only the reader can answer. He is challenged to one and more readings, challenged to think in freedom. The invisible laws adhere to a poeto-logic, which nevertheless cannot be formulated as such. It is comprehensible for those who open themselves to it. The reader is directed toward himself when he reads the word ‘Selbst’ (self). He can observe it separately and for himself link the following words together as ‘losgelassen’ (set free). No prescribed grammar aligns itself to the scheme subject-predicateobject. The separation between subject and object disappears. Self is not necessarily subject. The old scheme is no longer unambiguous ... a variety of solutions may be produced, e.g. ‘Ich habe selbst losgelassen’ (I myself have set free). But the ‘Los’ which (in German) can also be associated with ‘lot’ and can point to one’s own ultimate lot, is an Apokoinou. Rhetorically it refers forward as well as back and thus frees the reader to a variety of interpretive possibilities. ‘Selbstlos’ (selfless) is now no socially altruistic attribute, the process of dissolution of the subject is presented linguistically. A causal logic such as this is playfully constructed: ‘When I, myself (‘Selbst’), have let go (‘losgelassen’), then I will be left selfless’ (‘selbstlos’). But the attributes ‘selbstlos gelassen’ can also be read simply, without mutual reference (selfless poised/ composed/ self-possessed). ‘Selbstlos gelassen’ (to be left selfless) - the description of a voluntary action, yet which offers no information. ‘Selbst losgelassen’ (to let go of oneself), permits readings which connote the release of the subject (the Self released ) as well as the process of becoming free (when I, myself, have let go - what will happen then? ). The Apokoinou becomes interpretable as such and guides the reader towards a linguistic manoeuvre which he creatively completes “himself”. In completing this manoeuvre he can arrive at that state which he has playfully selected - that is, to be left selfless; no longer presiding over personal identity, not suffering the condition of the disappearing subject as loss of identity, rather enjoying it in a state of relaxed composure. Apprehending the thetic Ego for the illusion that it is, linguistically following the stream of thought, completing an ecstatic process. Becoming selfless and self-possessed in the here and now. That means making room this side of the social sphere and its laws and prescriptions for lawlessness, in the name of human freedom and creativity. An exquisite condition which has a liberating effect for the moment of reading - perhaps even beyond this moment. Were such a liberation to be vague and without consequence as the engaged polemicists would have it, were there really to be an ivory tower, then „degenerate“ art wouldn’t have been persecuted and banned by the totalitarians, (whether Hitler or Stalin). If we set 20 - Gisela Dischner and Gert Hofmann ourselves apart from our kind, we tear the net of normative language in which it is sought to trap us and suffocate us. Let us expose law to literature over and over. (Translated by Anna-Maria Mullally) Gert Hofmann Einleitung Rechtsprechung. Dürfen wir dieses Wort wörtlich nehmen? Wie spricht das Recht? Im Deutschen verlegen wir uns auf den unpersönlichen Passiv und sagen: Recht wird gesprochen. Aber wird es gesprochen wie eine Sprache „gesprochen wird“ an den Orten ihres Herkommens? Wo sind diese Orte und wer sind die Sprecher des Rechts, woher kommt es, wer spricht es? Es scheint sich schon anzudeuten, dass wir dieses Spiel mit Worten, mit der Sprache und mit dem Recht, mit dem Recht als Sprache und mit der Sprache unseres Umgangs mit ihm nicht zu weit treiben dürfen. Natürlich sind die Orte der Rechtsprechung die Gerichtshöfe, und seine „Sprecher“ dort im strengen Sinne vor allem die Richter und Juroren; sodann im weiteren Sinne auch alle, die mitreden im Diskurs des Rechts als einer kulturellen Praxis, die nur in ihrer letzten Konsequenz immer wieder in Akte richterlicher Rechtsprechung mündet, also alle, die darin nicht nur professionelle, sondern, als Kritiker im Namen der Gesellschaft und der Humanität, auch intellektuelle und ethische Verantwortung übernehmen, nicht zuletzt also Philosophen und Literaten. 1 Aber Recht spricht man nicht so, wie man eine Sprache spricht. Im Sprechen einer Sprache teilt sich immer auch diese Sprache selber mit, als das genuin Sprachliche, das alle individuellen Sprechakte rekapitulieren und variieren, als beständig sich wiederholende und unabschließbar bleibende Bewegung sprachlicher Selbstbegründung, als niemals sich erschöpfende Emergenz der langue aus der parole. In diesem Sinne ist es richtig, zu sagen, dass auch die Sprache selber spricht, wenn ich spreche. Sie ist das, was mein Sprechen trägt, weg von sich selbst ins Offene des Gesprächs, hinüber zum Anderen, in die Schrift, in die Zukunft, über Kaskaden der Repräsentation hin zum Symbolischen, vom Satz zur Autorität der Gesetze. 1 Vgl. hierzu Ian MacLean, “Responsibility and the act of interpretation: the case of law”, in: The political responsibility of intellectuals, hg. v. Ian MacLean/ Alan Montefiore/ Peter Winch, Cambridge University Press: 161-187. 22 - Gert Hofmann Wo aber das Sprechen der Sprache zu resignieren droht, vor dem Gesetz selbst, d. h. vor dem kategorischen, apriorischen und daher außersprachlichen Anspruch der Gesetze hebt die Rechtsprechung erst an. Das Recht spricht niemals (es „wird gesprochen“), die Sprache, die immer sprechen muss, bleibt seiner transzendentalen, kategorischen Rationalität äußerlich. Die Sprache trägt das Recht nicht, sie muss ihm dienen, sich unterwerfen. In Akten reiner Performativität dissoziiert sich die Sprache in der Rechtsprechung von ihrem Gegenstand, dem Recht, indem sie es rein, als das Andere ihrer selbst in Wirksamkeit versetzt 2 und in seiner diskriminierenden Macht, die über Leben und Tod kategorisch zu entscheiden behauptet, erfahrbar werden lässt - ohne es dabei durch ihre eigene Unabschließbarkeit zu kontaminieren. Idealiter initiiert und inszeniert die Sprache das Recht, ohne es zu interpretieren; und die Rechtsprechung zielt konsequenterweise auf nichts anderes ab, als die sprachliche Repräsentation des Rechts restlos in faktische Präsenz zu konvertieren. Das freilich ist eine Fiktion, die das Recht selbst wiederum nur einer sprachlichen Geste verdankt, dem ganz und gar rhetorischen Versprechen der Sprache, Recht zu gewähren 3 , indem sie es spricht. Das Recht bedarf der Rechtsprechung, um sich der Wirklichkeit gegenüber in seiner diskriminierenden Macht, als normative, urteilende Gewalt, zu konstituieren. 4 Aber auch Akte der Rechtsprechung können nicht verstanden werden als Akte einer reinen normativen Performanz - sie wären dann nichts anderes als Akte der reibungslosen Konversion einer stummen, kalten kategorischen Semantik transzendentaler Gewalt in diskriminierte, Recht und Unrecht fraglos und sprachlos unterscheidende Wirklichkeit, die der Jeweiligkeit des Einzelfalls niemals gerecht werden könnte. Sofern sie als Produkt einer Praxis der Rechtsprechung gewollt ist, 5 bleibt die kategorisch 2 Vgl. Costas Douzinas/ Lynda Neat (Hgg.), Law and the Image. The Authority of Art and the Aesthetics of Law, London Chicago 1999: “throughout history law has been the performative language par excellence, a language whose success is measured by its consequences, its ability to act on the world.” (10) 3 im Sinne von “wahr machen”. 4 Insofern erscheint der Einwand von Petra Gehring gegen Derridas dekonstruktive Annäherung an die „Ordnung des Rechts“, sie begreife zu einseitig das Recht nur „analog zur Ordnung der Sprache, die auf Wahrheit hin angelegt ist“, nicht ganz stichhaltig, denn gerade auch als „normatives Phänomen“ einer „Machttechnologie“ - im Akt des Urteilens, am Kontenpunkt der Performanz - bleibt das Recht kontaminiert mit Sprache; Petra Gehring, „Gesetzeskraft und mystischer Grund. Die Dekonstruktion nähert sich dem Recht“, in: Einsätze des Denkens: Zur Philosophie von Jacques Derrida, hg. v. Hans-Dieter Gondek u. Bernhard Waldenfels, Frankfurt a. M. 1997. Umso einsehbarer ist freilich Cornelia Vismanns Forderung nach einer Analyse der eigentlichen Historizität rechtswirksamer Gewalten diesseits des dekonstruktiven Verfahrens, auf die sich auch Petra Gehring beruft; Cornelia Vismann, „Das Gesetz der Dekonstruktion“, in: Rechtshistorisches Journal 11 (1992): 250-264. Zur komplizierten historischen Genese der Verflechtung und Separation von Recht und Literatur vgl. den Beitrag von Cornelia Vismann zu diesem Buch: Files, not Literature (163-174). 5 Wodurch sich demokratische Gesellschaften grundsätzlich auszeichnen. Einleitung - 23 gemeinte Performanz der Rechts-Urteile notwendig eingebunden in eine sprachliche Performanz des Urteilens, also in die Semantik, Narrativik, Hermeneutik und Pragmatik wirklichkeitsimmanenter, durch und durch sprachlicher Diskurs- und Entscheidungsprozesse - selbst dann noch, wenn ihnen, versehen mit dem Attribut der Rechtskräftigkeit, die Sprachabsolution scheinbar erteilt worden ist. Lyotard hatte daher im Lichte solcher unmöglicher Verschränkungen von Sprache und Gesetz, von Wort und Kategorie, „eine Art […] Meta-Gesetz“ angenommen, jenes „Gesetz der Gesetze“, das nur besagt: „Seid gerecht“ und im stetigen Verfolg solcher Gerechtigkeit einer Logik des „von Fall zu Fall“ folgen muss, die sich unweigerlich sprachlich geriert. 6 Sich auf Lyotard berufend spürte dann Derrida diese Sprachverfallenheit der Rationalität des Rechts ausgerechnet im Herzen des kategorischen Imperativs auf, jener Kantischen Formulierung des „Gesetzes der Gesetze“ als Formel moralischer Gesetzlichkeit schlechthin, welche durch die „als-ob“-Verknüpfung von Maxime und Akt 7 alles moralische Handeln als Praxis der Gerechtigkeit, wiewohl kategorisch gewollt, einem sprachlichen Gesetz metaphorischer Verschiebbarkeit und historischer Unabschließbarkeit unterwirft: Ich hatte versucht zu zeigen, wie [das „als ob“] virtuell Narrativität und Fiktion ins Herz selbst des Denkens des Gesetzes einführte, in dem Augenblick, wo dieses zu sprechen und das moralische Subjekt anzurufen beginnt. Obgleich also die Instanz des Gesetzes anscheinend jede Historizität und jede empirische Narrativität ausschließt, in dem Moment, wo ihre Rationalität jeder Fiktion und jeder Einbildungskraft gegenüber, sei diese auch transzendental, fremd erscheint, gewährt sie anscheinend a priori diesen Parasiten noch Gastfreundschaft. 8 Mit andern Worten, auch Rechtsurteile - auch wenn sie tatsächlich, mit der Kraft wirklicher Gewalt versehen, wirklichkeitswirksam sein mögen, bis hin zur Entscheidung über Leben und Tod - können Wirklichkeit nicht einfach diktieren, sie sind, noch unter dem Deckmantel ihrer rhetorischen Absolution, gezwungen, Wirklichkeit auszulegen und sich selbst den Auslegungen der Sprache der Wirklichkeit, ihren Fiktionen, Figmenten und Verschiebungen zu stellen. Auch rechtskräftige Urteile können in den „Erzählungen“ des Rechts mit dem Index der Fragwürdigkeit versehen und verworfen werden: im Namen der Gerechtigkeit, als Tribut an jenen Zug von „Unentscheidbarkeit“, den Derrida 6 Jean-François Lyotard/ Jean-Loup Thebaud, Au juste, Paris 1979: 101-102. (Übers. v. Detlef Otto u. Axel Witte, entnommen aus: Jacques Derrida, Préjugés. Vor dem Gesetz, Wien 1992: 44). 7 Die ‚zweite Formulierung‘ lautet: „handle so, als ob die Maxime deiner Handlung durch deinen Willen zum allgemeinen Naturgesetze werden sollte.“ Immanuel Kant, „Grundlegung zur Metaphysik der Sitten“, in: Kant’s gesammelte Schriften, hg. v. der Königlich Preußischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, Bd. 4, Berlin 1911: 421. 8 Jacques Derrida, Préjugés. Vor dem Gesetz, hg. v. Peter Engelmann, übers. v. Detlef Otto u. Axel Witte, Wien 1992: 46. (Originaltitel: Préjugés. Devant la loi). 24 - Gert Hofmann in Force de loi zu Recht als allen gerechten Entscheidungen innewohnend identifizierte. 9 Gerechtigkeit erweist sich daher, folgen wir Derrida mit Giorgio Agamben über Derrida hinaus, als das allem geltenden Recht wesentliche Potential seiner eigenen Dekonstruierbarkeit, als das reine Potential des Rechts, im Exzess seiner selbst alle Urteile zu suspendieren und genau darin die Quelle seiner Souveränität und seiner „Kraft“ zu offenbaren. Solches kann sich nur ereignen in einer Sphäre des „Banns“, des Ausgenommenseins von allen Gesetzen und ihren diskriminierenden Bedeutungen, und im Namen der singulären Würde jenes Einzelnen und seines Überlebens jenseits aller Gesetze, in dem der Status des Souveräns ununterscheidbar wird von dem des Verbannten, aus der Sphäre des Rechts Verstoßenen. Liegt aber darin nicht die Gefahr des dekonstruktiven Verfahrens, dass die im Dienste der Gerechtigkeit des Einzelnen „von Fall zu Fall“ sich offenbarende kategorische Unentscheidbarkeit des Rechts in einen Zustand führt, wo die Übertretung der Gesetze nicht mehr von der Geltendmachung des Rechts unterschieden werden kann? The prestige of deconstruction in our time lies precisely in its having conceived of the entire text of tradition as being in force without significance, a being in force whose strength lies essentially in its undecidability and in having shown that such a being in force is, like the door of the Law in Kafka’s parable, absolutely impassable. […] What threatens thinking here is the possibility that thinking might find itself condemned to infinite negotiations with the doorkeeper or, even worse, that it might end by itself assuming the role of the doorkeeper who, without really blocking the entry, shelters the Nothing onto which the door opens. 10 Agamben deutet auch die Folgen an, die sich daraus für das Verhältnis von Recht und Sprache ergeben: But insofar as law is maintained as pure form in a state of virtual exception, it lets bare life (K.’s life, or the life lived in the village at the foot of the castle) subsist before it. Law that becomes indistinguishable from life in a real state of exception is confronted by life that, in a symmetrical but inverse gesture, is en- 9 Vgl. Die „zweite Aporie“ der „Heimsuchung durch das Unentscheidbare“: „Jeder Entscheidung, jeder sich ereignenden Entscheidung, jedem Entscheidungs-Ereignis wohnt das Unentscheidbare wie ein Gespenst inne, wie ein wesentliches Gespenst. Sein Gespensterhaftes dekonstruiert im Innern jede Gegenwartsversicherung, jede Gewißheit, jede vermeintliche Kriteriologie, welche die Gerechtigkeit einer Entscheidung […] (ver)sichert, ja welche das Entscheidungs-Ereignis selbst sicherstellt.“ Jacques Derrida, Gesetzeskraft. Der „mystische Grund der Autorität“, übers. v. Alexander Garcia Düttmann, Franfurt a. M. 1991: 50f. (Orinialtitel: Force de loi. Le »fondement mystique de l’autorité«; zuerst in englischer Übersetzung in: The Cardozo Law Review, vol. 11 (1990), numbers 5-6: Deconstruction and the Possibility of Justice.) 10 Giorgio Agamben, Homo Sacer, Stanford University Press 1998: 54. (Originaltitel: Homo sacer: il potere sovrano et la nuda vida, 1995.) Einleitung - 25 tirely transformed into law. The absolute intelligibility of a life wholly resolved into writing corresponds to the impenetrability of a writing that, having become indecipherable, now appears as life. 11 Derrida hätte auf diese Entgegnung, seinerseits geleitet durch die Lektüre Kafkas, mit seinem erneuerten Bekenntnis zur Unentscheidbarkeit der Frage nach dem Wesen des Rechts (nach dem „Gesetz des Gesetzes“) reagieren können, mit dem Bekenntnis zum Beharren in der Frage, ungeachtet aller bereits „vor dem Gesetz“ gegebenen Antworten. Der Alternativfrage, „ob die Erzählung Kafkas eine mächtige philosophische Ellipse verbirgt“ - also eine kategorische Antwort, die das Sprachliche der Erzählung transzendiert - „oder ob die reine praktische Vernunft [das moralische Fundamentalgesetz, das sich im kategorischen Imperativ artikuliert; G.H.] in sich etwas von einer Phantastik oder von einer narrativen Fiktion bewahrt“, wäre dann mit einem perspektivischen „je nachdem“ zu entgegnen. Der Aufschub der Antworten gebiert neue Fragen. 12 „Eine dieser Fragen könnte lauten: Und wenn das Gesetz, ohne selbst von Literatur durchdrungen zu sein, seine Möglichkeitsbedingungen mit der Sache der Literatur (la chose littéraire) teilte? “ 13 Das Verhältnis von Recht und Literatur, oder von Recht und Sprache überhaupt, wäre dann jedenfalls keines der Ununterscheidbarkeit - vielleicht aber eines der Kontingenz, der gegenseitigen reinen Äußerlichkeit, in welchem sich nichtsdestotrotz beide durch eine gemeinsame Grenze definieren? Wird nicht durch eine solche Grenze das Andere in seiner absoluten Anderheit und Äußerlichkeit, die durch keine Gemeinsamkeit einer verbindlichen höheren Ordnung relativiert wird, gleichwohl zur Möglichkeitsbedingung für die Selbstbehauptung des Einen? Von diesen Fragen leiten sich viele der Fragen ab, die in diesem Buch gestellt werden, denn ließe sich nicht etwas Ähnliches gerade vom Recht sagen, das in der Selbstbehauptung seiner von aller Sprache abgelösten Kategorizität sich gleichwohl nur sprachlich konstituieren kann, in der Rechtsprechung? Der von Lyotard, Derrida, Agamben und anderen initiierte rechtsphilosophische Diskurs der vergangenen Jahrzehnte führt genau auf diesen Punkt: nur im Exzess seiner selbst, 14 in der Überschreitung seiner gesetzten Grenzen zur Sprache hin kommt das Recht in Kontakt zur Quelle seiner 11 Giorgio Agamben, Homo Sacer (Anm. 10): 55. 12 Vgl. in diesem Buch den Beitrag von Carola Erbertz zum „Verhältnis von Gesetz und Buch bei Edmond Jabès“: die jüdischen Gesetzestafeln lassen sich übersetzen in ein „Buch der Fragen“, das die Rückkehr zum „Ursprung“ der Gesetze als eine „unabschließbare Bewegung“ offenbart und dadurch erst der „Menschlichwerdung“ der Gesetze den Weg bahnt (147-162). 13 Jacques Derrida, Préjugés (Anm. 8): 46f. 14 Jacques Derrida bezeichnet dies als das „Übermäßige der Gerechtigkeit“: „es gibt Gerechtigkeit nur dann, wenn sich etwas ereignen kann, was als Ereignis die Berechnungen, die Regeln, die Programme, die Vorwegnahmen usw. übersteigt.“ Gesetzeskraft (Anm. 9): 57. 26 - Gert Hofmann Souveränität und kategorischen Autorität, zum Wesen der Gerechtigkeit, aus dem allein es sich immer wieder erneuern und bewahrheiten kann. Nur im Exzess seiner selbst begründet sich die Kategorizität des Rechts, im Überschreiten der Gesetze hinaus in die illegitimen Jagdgründe der Sprache „vor dem Gesetz“. Nur so bewahrheitet sich seine Souveränität, sein Vermögen und seine Kraft, sich selbst zu setzen in Sätzen der Sprache, die sich legitimieren lassen als Gesetz. 15 Aber: “is there a legitimacy that would derive from but overcome the illegitimacy that takes place when the law founds itself in the space before the law? ” 16 Liegt in dieser sprachlichen Äußerlichkeit und Exzessivität die eigentliche Möglichkeitsbedingung des Rechts, also gerade in der Uneigentlichkeit seiner Sprachverfallenheit, so teilt es diese in der Tat, wie Derrida zu Recht vermutete, mit der Literatur. Literatur, so muss die These hier lauten, verdankt sich allererst den Exzessen des Sprachgebrauchs, in Akten des Überschreitens bestehender Grenzen und geltender Normen, welche Sprache überhaupt zu diskreditieren und der reinen Immanenz eines spielerisch souveränen Gebrauchs, seiner Erratik und Phantastik zu unterwerfen vermögen - welche aber gleichwohl Sprache als ganze immer wieder anders hervornötigen. Im Wesen dieser intrinsischen Exzessivität berühren und durchkreuzen sich Recht und Literatur, Berührungen, welche die kategorische Grenze zwischen ‚Innerhalb‘ und ‚Außerhalb‘ des Rechts, oder zwischen Recht und Literatur, nur dadurch manifest werden lassen, dass sie sie überschreiten - und zugleich verschieben. Die Grenze manifestiert sich nur dynamisch, als ‚Flucht‘ ihrer vergeblichen Überschreitungen, wie in Kafkas Parabel die scheinbar unendliche Schwellen-Flucht der Säle, Türen und ihrer Wächter ins Innere des Gesetzes. „Wenn es dich so lockt, versuche es doch, trotz meinem Verbot hineinzugehen. Merke aber: Ich bin mächtig. Und ich bin nur der unterste Türhüter. Von Saal zu Saal stehen aber Türhüter, einer mächtiger als der andere. Schon den Anblick des dritten kann nicht einmal ich mehr vertragen.“ 17 Die Flüchtigkeit dieser Grenze verschließt und öffnet. Sie versiegelt das Recht in seiner unantastbaren kategorischen Würde, aber sie eröffnet auch, nach der anderen Seite hin, die Möglichkeit einer Pragmatik des Rechts, der Verhandlungen mit dem Türhüter und der durch das Gesetz selbst nicht vorzuschreibenden, zwecklos beharrlichen Verhaltungen des „Mannes vom Lande“ oder „K.s“ 15 Gesetz und Satz sind im Deutschen beides perfektive Ableitungen desselben Verbs: setzen. 16 Caitríona Leahy, (Un)precedented texts: what comes and goes ‘before the law’; in diesem Band (133-146, hier 136). 17 Franz Kafka, Der Prozeß. Roman, hg. v. Max Brod [Gesammelte Werke in sieben Bänden, Bd. 2], Frankfurt a. M. 1976: 182. Einleitung - 27 zum Gesetz, die sich der anti-kategorischen Wirklichkeit, also dem Singulären, Erratischen und Supplementären jener humanen Würde zu nähern vermögen, die keinem Gesetz unterworfen werden kann und letztlich der Souveränität des Rechts selbst den Boden bereitet - gesetzliches Niemandsland, rechtlicher Ausnahmezustand 18 vor dem Gesetz. Eine solche Pragmatik des Rechts, da sie selbst exzessiv ist, rührt per se an die Exzesse der Sprache, figuriert sich im Literarischen und verflüchtigt die Grenze zwischen Recht und Gerechtigkeit oder Recht und Leben, jenes Verhältnis einer „absoluten Asymmetrie“ 19 , in einen unabschließbaren Prozess des Erzählens. Giorgio Agamben hat gezeigt, dass sich die abgeschiedene, „heilige“ Würde des Kategorischen durch eine Pragmatik der Gerechtigkeit und sprachlichen ‚Magie‘ einem Prozess der „Profanierung“ unterziehen lässt: im Kinderspiel, das jede Norm wieder ihrem jeweiligen rechten „Gebrauch“ unterwirft, 20 und in jener „kindlichen Weisheit“ über die „Gerechtigkeit“ der Beziehung von „Zauber“ und „Glück“, „welche behauptet, das Glück sei nicht etwas, das man verdienen kann“: Daß die Fessel, die Zauberei und Glück zusammenkettet, nicht einfach unmoralisch ist, daß sie im Gegenteil von einer höheren Ethik zeugen kann, zeigt sich in der alten Maxime, die besagt: wer merkt, daß er glücklich ist, hat schon aufgehört, glücklich zu sein. 21 Die Quelle des Glücks ist die Zauberei, die uns mit ihrer Großzügigkeit, ihren Exzessen überrascht, nicht das Recht, das uns zumisst, was uns zusteht. 22 Ebenso ist für Agamben die Zauberei, als „Wissenschaft der geheimen Namen“, Quelle der „Gerechtigkeit“. Der geheime Name ist die „Abkürzung“ für jene souveräne „Macht über Leben und Tod“, die mit der Annahme des identifizierenden sozialen Namens verloren geht. Der „geheime Name“ ist „in Wirk- 18 Vgl. Giorgio Agamben, Homo Sacer (Anm. 9): 27; “Life […] can in the last instance be implicated in the sphere of law only through the presupposition of its inclusive exclusion, only in an exceptio. There is a limit-figure, a threshold in which life is both inside and outside the juridical order, and this threshold is the place of sovereignty.” Vgl. auch dens., Ausnahmezustand, übers. v. Ulrich Müller-Schöll, Frankfurt a. M. 2004; ders., Was von Auschwitz bleibt, Frankfurt a. M. 2003. 19 Jacques Derrida beschreibt das Walten der Gerechtigkeit im Verhältnis zum Andern in Anlehnung an Lévinas als Verhältnis der „absoluten Asymmetrie“. Vgl. Gesetzeskraft (Anm. 9), 45f. 20 Giorgio Agamben, Profanierungen, übers. v. Marianne Schneider, Frankfurt a. M. 2005, 79f. (Originaltitel: Profanazioni, Roma 2005). 21 Ebd.: 48. 22 Ähnlich Jacques Derrida, der in Falschgeld Gerechtigkeit als eine wahnsinnige Logik des „Exzesses“, hervorgehend aus der Ökonomie der „Äquivalenz“, des Tausches, beschreibt: Jacques Derrida, Falschgeld. Zeit geben I, aus d. Franz. v. Andreas Knopp und Michael Wetzel, München 1993, vgl. z. B. 91f. (Originaltitel: Donner le temps I: La fausse monnaie, 1991.) 28 - Gert Hofmann lichkeit die Geste, mit der das Geschöpf dem Unausgedrückten zurückgegeben wird“, 23 hingegeben an die ohnmächtige Würde eines nackten Lebens vor aller Namengebung und diesseits aller Legitimität, das sich in seiner Ohnmächtigkeit und Namenlosigkeit aller rechtmäßig diskriminierenden Gewalt entwindet, auch der Gewalt der Gesetze, denn Die Gerechtigkeit ist namenlos wie die Zauberei. 24 Was wir hier beobachten können, ist eine Inversion von Souveränität und Ohnmacht, von Gesetz und Literatur, die sich nur in Exzessen des Sprachlichen, im rechten, d. h. spielerischen Gebrauch der Sprache ereignen kann, also innerhalb der Literatur als jenem Raum, der sich mit den Exzessen der Sprache allererst eröffnet und damit auch den Exzessen des Rechts, der Rechtsprechung im Namen namenloser Gerechtigkeit eine Bedingung ihrer Möglichkeit erfüllt. 25 Das „Land der Spielzeuge“, die Literatur, die Magie der „geheimen Namen“, die Gerechtigkeit haben gemeinsam, dass sie eine Form des transzendentalen und kulturellen Vergessens darstellen: 26 sie dekonstruieren das Kategorische, sie diskreditieren die transzendentale Norm des Gesetzes ebenso wie die kulturelle Autorität des „Heiligen“ und geben sie dem menschlichen Gebrauch zurück. Zugleich versetzen sie den Menschen in eine Art Ausnahmezustand gegenüber der Gewalt des Gesetzes. Sie ermöglichen ihm, auch außerhalb der Sphäre des Rechts - „vor dem Gesetz“ - zu überleben und der singulären Figur, der „Einzigartigkeit“ seines Lebens gerade dadurch gerecht zu werden, dass er die Grenze zwischen Recht und Leben, zwischen Erwähltheit und Verworfenheit, Protektion und Ausgesetztheit - ähnlich wie Zarathustras Seiltänzer, der „verächtlichste Mensch“, der den Abgrund zum Beruf macht 27 - in erratischer Eigenmächtigkeit eher tausendfach beschreitet, erkundet und fin- 23 So wie für Derrida das Recht immer wieder an das Unentscheidbare der Gerechtigkeit verwiesen werden muss; vgl. oben Anm. 9. 24 Giorgio Agamben, Profanierungen (Anm. 20): 50. 25 Vgl. zu einer Ästhetik der Ohnmacht vom Autor: Schweigende Tropen. Studien zu einer Ästhetik der Ohnmacht, Tübingen Basel 2003. 26 Vgl. Giorgio Agamben, Kindheit und Geschichte. Zerstörung der Erfahrung und Ursprung der Geschichte, aus dem Italienischen v. Davide Giuriato, Frankfurt a. M. 2004: 103f. (Originaltitel: Infanzia e storia. Distruzione dell’esperienza e origine della storia, Torino 1978): „Das Land der Spielzeuge ist ein Land, dessen Bewohner damit beschäftigt sind, Riten zu feiern und Objekte und heilige Worte zu manipulieren, deren Sinn sie vergessen haben. […] Im Spiel löst sich der Mensch von der heiligen Zeit und „vergißt“ sie in der menschlichen Zeit“ - der spielende Mensch dissoziiert sich von der gleich bleibenden Norm jeder Form ritualisierten Handelns (also auch des Rechts im juridischen Sinn) und wird zum singulären Ursprung seiner eigenen Geschichte(n), also der Erzählungen seiner selbst und der Welt. 27 Friedrich Nietzsche, Also sprach Zarathustra I, Kap. 3-6. Einleitung - 29 giert, als dass er sie je definitiv überschreitet und so den kategorischen Urteilen des Rechts erliegt. Solche Schwellenfiguren des Rechts, allesamt Epiphanien, Repräsentanten und Advokaten des „verächtlichsten Menschen“, ohnmächtig gegenüber der Macht des Gesetzes und doch Souveräne des Lebens, dadurch selbst eher „asymmetrische“, supplementäre Spiegelungen der Recht setzenden Souveränität als deren Komplemente, Adressaten und Untertanen, solche Zeugen für die Flüchtigkeit der Grenzen des Rechts bevölkern die Regionen der Erzählungen „vor dem Gesetz“. Solchen Figuren, Konfigurationen und Konstellationen des Rechts, und ihren theoretischen Abstraktionen, ist ein Großteil dieses Buches gewidmet. Sie spiegeln das Wesen menschlicher Ohnmacht, Hinfälligkeit, Sterblichkeit, aber sie manifestieren im selben Zug auch wesentliche literarische und rhetorische Qualitäten des Phänomens Recht als solchen. Obwohl sie erst jenseits der Reichweite des Rechts in Erscheinung treten, appellieren sie doch an seine Autorität auf eine herausfordernde, provokative Weise. Als Ausgestoßene privilegiert durch ihre exzentrische Perspektive offenbaren und verdeutlichen sie die Komplexionen und Limitierungen des Rechts als einer menschlichen Wirklichkeit. Das „Gesetz der Gesetze“, so scheint es, offenbart - im Exzess seiner selbst - eine wesentlich literarische oder ästhetische Qualität, welche dem Menschlichwerden und Gerechtwerden des Rechts dient. In diesem Sinne versucht dieses Buch den Diskurs über die conditio humana des Rechts zu eröffnen - ein Diskurs, der sich nur als ein Diskurs über die Literatur des Rechts führen lässt, über seine intrinsische Literarizität und Ästhetik. Der Diskurs über die conditio humana erfordert - und fordert heraus - das Bewusstsein der Sterblichkeit. Im Falle des Rechts bedeutete die Herrschaft über die Grenze von Leben und Tod das Siegel auf die Wahrheit seiner kategorischen Autorität; die Dekonstruktion dieser Herrschaft und die Verflüchtigung dieser Grenze im Namen menschlicher Ohnmacht und Gerechtigkeit ist die Sache der Literatur und ihrer Theorie. Im Moment des Todes hört das menschliche Subjekt auf, Subjekt des Rechts zu sein - in den Exzessen der Sprache, im Literarischen lebt es weiter. Deshalb entgleitet sich die Autorität des Rechts selbst in der Definition des Todes, die eigentlich die äußerste Reichweite ihrer Herrschaft markieren und bestätigen sollte. Der Augenblick des Todes kann auch für das Recht nur bezeugt werden durch den Anderen, der als Zeuge nicht selber tot ist, in einem Akt der sprachlichen Stellvertretung, der Verdopplung und Verschiebung - der Literatur im weitesten Sinne - durch welchen der Tote, und der Tod als Ereignis, Tat, Sprechakt und Schreibprozess in die Sphäre der Lebenden zurückkehrt, in deren Wirklichkeit, denn die Wirklichkeit des Todes ist die Fiktion (das Zeugnis) der Lebenden. 28 Was sich hier kundtut, ist die 28 Vgl. in diesem Band den Beitrag von Paul Hegarty, The Near-dead and the Non-dying Body (63-76): “In this thinking it is not death as otherness, but death as otherness permeating our living that is essential” (64). Von Blanchot her argumentierend kommt er zu 30 - Gert Hofmann Möglichkeit, “that the question of ‘literature’ belongs […] at the heart of law and jurisprudence”, und das Verlangen, “to locate ‚the literary’ […] within the very essence of law itself, beyond the kind of general cultural resemblances that have previously been identified.” 29 Der Tote, der vom Recht ausgeschieden worden war, kehrt auf diese Weise, in den Konfigurationen des Literarischen, zurück vor die Schranken des Gesetzes, als unauflösbarer Rest, als nicht kategorisierbares, sprachliches Sediment aller Prozesse der Rechtsprechung, als eine Art Widergänger des Rechts im Leben, der die Diskriminierungen des Rechts nachhaltig unterminiert 30 und die bleibende Souveränität des Sterbenden (der immer selber stirbt, und immer weiter stirbt) gegenüber der Souveränität des über Leben und Tod Richtenden unabweislich geltend macht. Adam Thurschwell zeigt in diesem Buch daher folgerichtig, wie das (individuelle, bürgerlich revolutionäre) Recht auf den Tod, das keinem richterlichen Urteil und keiner Hinrichtung je zum Opfer fällt, an die Grundfesten der (politischen) Souveränität des Rechts überhaupt reicht: “Death and its impossibility, hidden in language and exposed by literature, would thus be both the foundation of sovereignty and the condition of its downfall, and between these (non-)beginnings and (non-)endings, would constitute the impossibility of sovereignty’s ever attaining its claim to totality or stasis.” 31 Was wir in Betracht ziehen müssen, ist eine Pragmatik des Rechts, welche die Grenze zwischen Recht und Leben, kategorischer Autorität und lebendiger Souveränität nicht urteilend - und ausgrenzend - definiert, sondern in einem unabschließbaren literarischen Prozess, erzählend und gleichsam spielerisch sich selbst überschreitend immer wieder aufs neue zieht. Dass eine solche literarische Pragmatik des Rechts, wenn schon nicht der Theorie, so doch der Phänomenologie des Rechts wesentlich ist, haben verschiedene jüngere Ansätze des Law and Literature-Diskurses mit zunehmender Deutlichkeit zum Ausdruck gebracht. Peter Goodrich hatte als einer der ersten die Defizite traditioneller Rechtswissenschaft in dieser Hinsicht herausgestellt: “Law is literature dem Schluss, “that writing and ‘literature’ in the widest sense are the location where the relation to death is played out” (64). 29 Adam Thurschwell, Law and Literature and the Right to Death, in diesem Band (45- 62). Eine umfassende Darstellung der bisherigen Genese des “Law and Literature”- Diskurses bieten Tim Murphy und Gerard Staunton in ihrem Beitrag The Envelope and the Letter: Reflections on Law’s Ambience (77-100). 30 Dass die Grenzziehung dieser Diskriminierungen zwischen Recht und Literatur auch einen ausgeprägten Gender-Aspekt hat, zeigt Christine Künzel in ihrem Beitrag „Aus einem Bette aufgestanden“. Anmerkungen zum ‚Verhältnis‘ zwischen Recht und Literatur (115-132). Vgl. dazu auch den Beitrag von Hans-Joachim Jürgens, der die Rechtsauffassung in Fontane’s Roman Effi Briest auf die spezifische „Bipolarität“ des Geschlechterdiskurses im 19. Jhdt. und die darin erfolgende Konstruktion „hegemonialer Männlichkeit“ zurückführt: „Alle Gesetzlichkeiten sind langweilig.“ Ungeschriebene Gesetze in Theodor Fontanes Roman Effi Briest (231-244). 31 Adam Thurschwell (Anm. 29). Einleitung - 31 which denies its literary qualities […]; it is a language which hides its indeterminacy in the justificatory discourse of judgement […]; it is a narrative which assumes the epic proportions of truth; it is, in short, a speech or writing which forgets the violence of the word and the terror or jurisdiction of the text.” 32 Goodrichs Provokationen aufgreifend fordert Maria Aristodemou: “we need an approach that is sensitive both to the literary qualities of law and to the lawmaking qualities of literature” 33 - während sie zugleich die Defizite der Rechtswissenschaft benennt, den Reichtum ihres eigenen ‚artifiziellen‘ Wesens anzuerkennen: “It aims to preserve the illusion of order, consistency and inevitability, to obscure the fact, that its history, decisions, and stories could have developed in a different manner, taking in other experiences, other views, other voices.” 34 Das vorliegende Buch möchte den unvermeidlich gewordenen Diskurs über die ästhetische Exzessivität des Rechts, über seine unvermeidlichen literarischen Grenzüberschreitungen in die vielfältige Kasuistik lebendiger Wirklichkeit und menschlicher Bedingtheit auf drei Ebenen vertiefen: zunächst auf der Ebene der Theorie und Philosophie, um die von Derrida vermutete Gemeinsamkeit gewisser Möglichkeitsbedingungen von Recht und Literatur weiter zu erforschen, sodann durch eine Reihe metaliterarischer Untersuchungen, um die Abhängigkeit der kategorischen Grenze zwischen Recht und Leben, Gesetz und Wirklichkeit von literarischen und medialen Figurationsprozessen erkennbar werden zu lassen, schließlich durch literatur- und rechtskulturgeschichtliche 32 Peter Goodrich, Law in the Courts of Love: Literature and other minor jurisprudences, London/ New York 1996: 112. Ähnlich Costas Douzinas/ Lynda Nead, a.a.O. (Anm. 2): “indeed, in modernity, law has become a literature that represses its literariness and an aesthetic practice, that denies its art.” (5) 33 Maria Aristodemou, Law and Literature. Journeys from Her to Eternity, Oxford/ New York 2000: 9. 34 Ebd.: 26. Das Problem der Interdisziplinarität in Bezug auf das Verhältnis von Recht und Literatur, das Maria Aristodemou durch die Radikalität ihres Ansatzes einer gegenseitigen ‚phänomenologischen‘ Durchdringung gleichsam zu unterlaufen versucht, behandelte vor allem Jane B. Baron, “Interdisciplinary Legal Scholarship as Guilty Pleasure: The Case of Law and Literature”, in: Law and Literature [=Current Legal Issues 1999, Bd. 2], ed. by Michael Freeman/ Andrew D. E. Lewis, Oxford/ New York 1999. Ihre Schlussfolgerung freilich scheint Aristodemous Versuch zu legitimieren: „We seem to want law to be a place, a discrete place of rules. We need to know why, but no one is asking. The question-begging seems particularly obvious in the case of ‘law and literature’. The movement has defined out of the category ‘law’ almost everything worth having; beauty, sensitivity, emotions, moral lessons - all theses and so much more are the province of literature. The province of law is barren of everything but rules, an empty domain of raw power. Is this what law must be? Interdisciplinary explorations such as law and literature can be occasions for considering how we categorize knowledge, and why.” (45) Vgl. auch von Jane B. Baron, “Law, Literature, and the Problems of Interdisciplinarity”, in: The Yale Law Journal 108 (1999): 1059-1085. 32 - Gert Hofmann Studien, welche beispielhaft das Reflektionspotential literarischer Texte und Formen im Hinblick auf historisch geltendes Recht analysieren. Gert Hofmann Introduction Juris-diction, in German: Rechtsprechung 1 . How literally can we take this word? How does law “speak”? According to the semantics of German, it can’t - though it is possible to switch to the impersonal passive mood and say that law is spoken 2 . But is it spoken as a language is spoken in the land of its provenance? What is this land, and who are the speakers of law; where does it come from, who can talk it? Very soon it becomes apparent that this game with words - with language and with law, with law as a language and with the language of our interaction with law - cannot be pushed too far. Of course the law-courts are the habitat of law; it is primarily judges and jurors who are, in the narrower sense, its ‘speakers’ there. In the wider sense these ‘speakers’ include anyone who participates in legal discourse as a cultural practice, a practice which generally uses acts of juridical sentencing (Rechtsprechung) only as an ultimate resort; that is, all those who take responsibility for some part of it, critics who adopt intellectual and ethical as well as professional responsibility in the name of society and humanity, philosophers and men of letters, all these are speakers. 3 But law is not spoken as other languages are. When a language is spoken, the language also always transmits itself, as the truly linguistic act of self-definition and self-assertion, recapitulated and varied in every speech act, an endlessly repeated and incomplete movement towards a realisation that remains unrealisable, the inexhaustible emergence of langue from parole. In this sense it is possible to speak of a language ‘speaking itself’ when I speak. Language is what carries my speech out from itself into open conversation and across to the other, to writing, to the future, through 1 Taken in the sense intended here, the German word means “Passing judgement”. 2 “Recht wird gesprochen”. 3 Cf. Ian McLean, “Responsibility and the act of interpretation: the case of law”, in: The political responsibility of intellectuals, ed. by Ian MacLean/ Alan Montefiore/ Peter Winch, Cambridge University Press: 161-187. 34 - Gert Hofmann cascades of representation to the symbolic, conferring on my sentence the authority of law. It is when speaking becomes impossible, “before the law”, that is, in the face of law’s categorical, aprioristic and hence extra-linguistic claims that Rechtsprechung, juris-diction, begins. Law never speaks (it “is spoken”), and language, which must speak, remains separate from its transcendental, categorical rationality. Language does not carry law, it serves it and must cede to it. In purely performative juridical acts, language dissociates itself from its content, law, by transforming it 4 into pure action, making law’s sheer, other, discriminative power (a power which claims its decisions over life and death are categorical) tangible while leaving it uncontaminated by its own inherent incompletedness. Language initiates and presents law idealiter, without interpreting it. The act of passing judgement aims to convert the linguistic representation of law into actual presence. It goes without saying that this is a fiction which law can only indulge in by virtue of a linguistic gesture, language’s utterly rhetorical claim to realise law by uttering it. Law needs judgement to be passed if it is to constitute itself as a normative judging power in its relationhip to reality. 5 But judgement acts can also remain not understood, as acts of a purely normative performance - in which case they would simply be acts of transformation, the unproblematic conversion of a silent, cold categorical semantics of transcendental power into a differentiated reality - a reality which, without using language, would separate right and wrong unquestioningly, and which could never do justice to the contingencies of individual cases. Insofar as it is the deliberate product of a practice of jurisdiction 6 , the absolute, categorically meant performance of acts of judgement is of necessity tied to a linguistic performance of the act of sentencing, rooted in the pre-formed semantic, narrative, hermeneutic and pragmatic conventions of discourse events and procedures of decision- 4 Cf. Costas Douzinas/ Lynda Neat (eds.), Law and the Image. The Authority of Art and the Aesthetics of Law, London Chicago 1999: “throughout history law has been the performative language par excellence, a language whose success is measured by its consequences, its ability to act on the world.” (10) 5 To this extent, then, we can revise Petra Gehring’s objection that Derrida’s deconstructive approach to an “order of law” is too closely modelled on the “order of a language designed with truth in mind”. It is precisely as the “normative phenomenon” within a “technology of power” - in the act of passing judgement, at the heart of legal performance - that law remains contaminated by language: Petra Gehring, „Gesetzeskraft und mystischer Grund. Die Dekonstruktion nähert sich dem Recht”, in: Einsätze des Denkens: Zur Philosophie von Jacques Derrida, ed. by Hans-Dieter Gondek/ Bernhard Waldenfels, Frankfurt a. M. 1997. Cornelia Vismann’s appeal for a pre-deconstructive analysis of the historicity of legal force (in which Petra Gehring concurs) thus appears more understandable. Cornelia Vismann, „Das Gesetz der Dekonstruktion”, in: Rechtshistorisches Journal 11 (1992): 250-264. For a study of the complex historical genesis of the interminglings of law and literature see Cornelia Vismann’s contribution in the present volume: Files, not Literature (163-174). 6 In principle, this is a characteristic of democratic societies. Introduction - 35 making. This is still true where, endowed with the attribute of legality, they appear to have been absolved of their links with language. In the light of such indissoluble intertwinings of language and law, word and category, Lyotard proposed a kind of “meta-law”, the “law of all laws” which simply states “be just” and has no choice but to pursue this justice steadfastly from individual case to individual case, following an unavoidably linguistic logic. 7 Following Lyotard, Derrida went on to detect traces of this language-dependency at the very heart of law’s rationality, in the categorical imperative: the Kantian formulation of the “law of laws” as the formulation of moral legality, despite its categorical intentions: in linking maxim and act 8 together by an “as if” it subjects all moral action to the linguistic conditions of metaphorical shift and historical undeterminedness: I tried to show how it almost introduces narrativity and fiction into the very core of legal thought, at the moment when the latter begins to speak and to question the moral subject. Though the authority of the law seems to exclude all historicity and empirical narrativity, and this at the moment when its rationality seems alien to all fiction and imagination - even the transcendental imagination - it still seems a priori to shelter these parasites. 9 In other words, legal pronouncements - even though, armed with the power of real force, they can exert real influence that decides over life and death - cannot simply dictate to reality; beneath the mantle of their rhetorical absolution they are forced to interpret reality and to be interpreted by the language of reality with its fictions, figments and transferences. In the “annals” of law, even legally binding sentences can be marked with the stigma of dubiousness and ultimately rejected: in the name of “justice”, as a tribute to the dimension of “undecideableness” which Derrida´s Force de loi rightly identified as being inherent in all just decisions. 10 If we follow Derrida and, beyond him, Giorgio 7 Jean-François Lyotard/ Jean-Loup Thebaud, Au juste, Paris 1979: 101-102. 8 The “second formulation” states: “handle so, als ob die Maxime deiner Handlung durch deinen Willen zum allgemeinen Naturgesetze werden sollte.” Immanuel Kant, „Grundlegung zur Metaphysik der Sitten”, in: Kant’s gesammelte Schriften, ed. by the Königlich Preußische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Bd. 4, Berlin 1911: 421. (“Act as if the maxim of your action were by your will to turn into a universal law of nature”, trans. Derek Attridge, in: Jacques Derrida, Acts of Literature, London 1992: 190.) 9 Jacques Derrida, “Before the Law”, in: Jacques Derrida (ed. Derek Attridge), Acts of Literature, London 1992: 190 (French title: Préjugés. Devant la loi). 10 Compare the “second aporia”, the “ghost of the undecidable”: “That is why the ordeal of the undecidable that I just said must be gone through by any decision worthy of the name is never past or passed, it is not a surmounted or sublated (aufgehoben) moment in the decision. The undecidable remains caught, lodged, at least as a ghost - but an essential ghost - in every decision, in every event of decision. Its ghostliness deconstructs from within any assurance of presence, any certitude or any supposed criteriology that would assure us of the justice of a decision, in truth of the very event of a decision.” 36 - Gert Hofmann Agamben, justice turns out to be the potential of any law in force to deconstruct itself, law’s ultimate potential to suspend all judgements and to reveal this potential as the source of its sovereignty and its “force”. This can only take place in a sphere of “exception” from all laws and their discriminating meanings, in the name of the unique dignity of the individual and his survival beyond laws, where the status of the sovereign becomes indistinguishable from that of the outlaw. Perhaps the danger of the deconstructive process lies in the fact that the categorical undecideableness of law, which is revealed from case to case in the service of individual justice, results in a situation where infringement of laws is no longer distinguishable from law enforcement? The prestige of deconstruction in our time lies precisely in its having conceived of the entire text of tradition as being in force without significance, a being in force whose strength lies essentially in its undecidability and in having shown that such a being in force is, like the door of the law in Kafka’s parable, absolutely impassable. […] What threatens thinking here is the possibility that thinking might find itself condemned to infinite negotiations with the doorkeeper or, even worse, that it might end by itself assuming the role of the doorkeeper who, without really blocking the entry, shelters the Nothing onto which the door opens. 11 Agamben hints at the consequences that this has for the relationship between law and language: But insofar as law is maintained as pure form in a state of virtual exception, it lets bare life (K.’s life, or the life lived in the village at the foot of the castle) subsist before it. Law that becomes indistinguishable from life in a real state of exception is confronted by life that, in a symmetrical but inverse gesture, is entirely transformed into law. The absolute intelligibility of a life wholly resolved into writing corresponds to the impenetrability of a writing that, having become indecipherable, now appears as life. 12 Derrida could have reacted to this, again prompted by a reading of Kafka, by reiterating his conviction of the undecideableness as to what law (the “law of laws”) is, with his declared intention to persist, despite all the answers given “before the law”, in asking whether Kafka’s story doesn’t simply contain “a powerful, philosophic ellipsis” - in other words giving a categorical answer that transcends the language of the story - “or whether pure, practical reason [the moral base law articulated in the categorical imperative; G.H.] contains Jacques Derrida, “Force of Law: The ‘Mystical Foundation of Authority’”, in: Deconstruction and the Possibility of Justice, ed. Drucilla Cornell/ Michel Rosenfeld/ David Gray Carlson, New York/ London 1992: 24f. 11 Giorgio Agamben, Homo Sacer, Stanford University Press 1998: 54. (Original title: Homo sacer: il potere sovrano et la nuda vida, 1995.) 12 Ibid.: 55. Introduction - 37 within it an element of the fantastic or of narrative fiction.” Deferring the answer leads to ever-new questions. “One of the questions could be phrased as follows; what if the law, without being transfixed by literature, shared the conditions of its possibility with the literary object? ” 13 The resulting relationship between law and literature, or between law and language, would certainly not leave them indistinguishable - perhaps mutually contingent, external, so that despite everything both are defined by a common border? Can the “other”, defined in its absolute otherness and beyondness by a border of this kind, one which is not in the slightest relativised by any shared higher principle, can this “other” not become a possible way of defining the self? Many of the questions addressed in this volume lead back to such questions. After all, could one not say something very similar about law, which is self-defined in the assertion of its categories’ separateness from language yet can only be constituted through the language of judgement, Rechtsprechung? The legal-philosophical discourse initiated by Lyotard, Derrida, Agamben and others in recent decades leads towards a central point: it is only by exceeding itself, 14 by crossing the appointed boundaries and entering language, that law can find the well-head of its sovereignty and its categorical sovereignty in justice, its source of renewal and validity. It is only by exceeding itself that law can establish its categorical nature, by leaving the territory of laws and entering the illegal hunting-grounds of language “before the law”. This is the key to its sovereignty, its power and its ability to locate itself in sentences of language which can be legitimized as law. But: “is there a legitimacy that would derive from yet overcome the illegitimacy that takes place when the law founds itself in the space before the law? ” 15 If its excursion into the excesses of language is the true precondition for law, if its realisation depends on the very lack of authenticity of its dependency on language, this is something law has in common with literature, as Derrida supposed. Literature, in these terms, is essentially a product of the excesses of language, based on acts of deviation from existing norms and boundaries. Such acts can undermine language altogether, subjecting it to the absolute immanence of playful mastery and erratic fantasy - but they can also prod the language on to new heights. Law and literature meet and make contact in the sphere of this intrinsic tendency to excess - exchanges in which the categorical boundary between “inside” and “outside” law, or the boundary between law and literature, only become manifest in the moment of their being broken or moved. The border is 13 Jacques Derrida, “Before the Law” (ftn. 9): 191. 14 Jacques Derrida describes this as “the excessiveness of justice”: justice is present only if it is possible for events to occur which go beyond calculations, rules, programmes, assumptions etc.: “Force of Law” (ftn. 10): 24f. 15 Caitríona Leahy, (Un)precedented texts: what comes and goes ‘before the law’; in this volume (133-146, at 136). 38 - Gert Hofmann only visible as something dynamic, as a sequence of futile border-crossings, like the apparently endless series of receding thresholds in the doors and chambers guarded by watchmen protecting the inner law. “If you are so drawn to it, just try to go in despite my veto. But take note: I am powerful. And I am only the least of the doorkeepers. From hall to hall there is one doorkeeper after another, each more powerful than the last. The third doorkeeper is already so terrible that even I cannot bear to look at him” 16 This receding border is both open and closed. In one direction it seals off the law in its unassailable categorical dignity, in the other it opens the possibility of a pragmatics of law, the possibility of negotiations with the watchman and of futilely persistent approaches to the law by the “man from the country” or by “K”. These last are not prescribed by the law and can come close to anti-categorical reality, to the unique, erratic, ad-hoc dimensions of human dignity that are not subject to law but ultimately lay the foundation for law’s sovereignty in a legal no man’s land, a state of exception 17 before the law. A pragmatics of law that is this excessive is based per se on the excesses of language; figured in literature, this “absolutely asymmetrical” 18 relationship destabilises the boundaries between law and justice, law and life, in an ongoing process of narration. Giorgio Agamben has shown how the isolated, “sacred”, categorical dignity of law can be subjected to a process of “profanation” by the application of a pragmatics of justice and of linguistic “magic” - in the children’s game that subjects every category to its correct “use”, 19 and in the “childish truth” which states that there is a “just” connection between magic and good fortune and that good fortune is not something that can be deserved: That the bond linking magic and good fortune is not simply immoral, but rather that it can bear witness to a higher ethic, is revealed in the old maxim: 16 Franz Kafka, “Before the Law”, in: Wedding Preparations in the Country and Other Stories, trans. Willa and Edwin Muir, Harmondsworth: Penguin 1978. 17 Cf. Giorgio Agamben, Homo Sacer (ftn. 11): 27; “Life […] can in the last instance be implicated in the sphere of law only through the presupposition of its inclusive exclusion, only in an exceptio. There is a limit-figure, a threshold in which life is both inside and outside the juridical order, and this threshold is the place of sovereignty.” Cf. also Giorgio Agamben, Ausnahmezustand, trans. by Ulrich Müller-Schöll, Frankfurt a. M. 2004; Giorgio Agamben, Was von Auschwitz bleibt. Das Archiv und der Zeuge, trans. Stefan Mohnhardt, Frankfurt a. M. 2003. (Original title: Quel que resta di Auschwitz. L’archivio e il testimone, Torino 1998.) 18 Echoing Lévinas, Jacques Derrida describes the relationship between the realm of justice and the Other as an “absolute asymmetry”, cf. “Force of Law” (ftn. 10). 19 Giorgio Agamben, Profanierungen, German trans. by Marianne Schneider, Frankfurt a. M. 2005: 79f. (original title: Profanazioni, Roma 2005). Introduction - 39 anybody who realizes that he is happy has already stopped being happy. [trans. MS] 20 The source of good fortune is magic, which surprises us with its effusiveness and its excesses; not law, which allocates us what we are entitled to. 21 By the same token, for Agamben magic as “the science of secret names” is “the source of justice”. The secret name is an abbreviation for the “sovereign power over life and death” which is lost with the assumption of a clearly identifying social name. The “secret name” is “in reality the gesture with which the creature is returned to the realm of the unexpressed”, surrendered to the powerless dignity of a naked life before naming and before all legitimacy, a life which slips, in its powerlessness and anonymity, from the grasp of all juridically discriminating power and the authority of laws - because Justice is as nameless as Magic. [trans. MS] 22 What can be observed here is an inversion between sovereignty and powerlessness, law and literature, which can only happen through linguistic excesses, through the proper (ie playful) use of language, that is, within literature, as that space which is entered through excesses in language and hence provides a condition of the possibility for realising excursions of law, of judgement, in the direction of justice. 23 What the “Land of Toys”, literature, the magic of “secret names”, and justice have in common is that they represent a form of transcendental and cultural forgetting 24 : they deconstruct whatever is categorical, discrediting the transcendental norm of law and the cultural authority of the “sacred” and returning them to human use. At the same time they place the human in a kind of state of exception in relation to the force of law. They offer 20 Giorgio Agamben, Profanierungen, German trans. by Marianne Schneider, Frankfurt a. M. 2005 (original title: Profanazioni, Roma 2005): 48. 21 Cf. Jacques Derrida, who describes justice as a mad logic of “excess” starting out from an economy of “equivalence” (exchange): Jacques Derrida, Donner le temps I: La fausse monnaie, 1991; English trans.: Given time: I. Counterfeit money, trans. Peggy Kamuf, London/ Chicago 1992. 22 Giorgio Agamben, Profanierungen (ftn. 19): 50. 23 For an aesthetic of non-power cf. Gert Hofmann, Schweigende Tropen. Studien zu einer Ästhetik der Ohnmacht, Tübingen/ Basel 2003. 24 Cf. Giorgio Agamben, Kindheit und Geschichte. Zerstörung der Erfahrung und Ursprung der Geschichte, aus dem Italienischen v. Davide Giuriato, Frankfurt a. M. 2004: 103f. (Original title: Infanzia e storia. Distruzione dell’esperienza e origine della storia, Torino 1978): “The land of toys is a land whose occupants are occupied with celebrating rites and handling objects and sacred words whose meaning they have forgotten [...] In the game, the participant is liberated from “sacred time” and forgets it in “human time” - the person playing is dissociated from the constant norm of every form of ritualised action (including law in the juridical sense) and becomes the unique origin of his own story (stories), that is of the narrations of himself and the world.” [trans.: MS.] 40 - Gert Hofmann him survival outside the sphere of law - “before the law” - enabling him to do justice to the unique constellation, the “uniqueness” of his life, by treading the line between law and life, between justification and rejection, protection and outlawry, like Zarathustra’s erratically independent tightrope-walker (the “most contemptible” of men, who makes a profession of the abyss) 25 testing and creating the path a thousand times rather than definitively transgressing or, by so doing, succumbing to the categorical judgement of law. Such liminal figures of law - epiphanies; representatives and advocates of the “most contemptible of men”, powerless against the force of law yet sovereigns of life, hence themselves “asymmetrical”, supplementary reflections of the sovereignty on which law is based rather than its complements; addressees and underlings - bear witness to the transiency of law’s boundaries and populate the territory of narration “before the law”. Much of this book is devoted to such figures, configurations, constellations of law, and to their theoretical extrapollations. They reflect the nature of human powerlessness, weakness, and mortality, but they also manifest essential literary and rhetorical qualities of the phenomenon law. Although they only become visible outside the range of law proper, they appeal to the authority of law in challenging and provocative ways: privileged as outcasts by their eccentric perspective, they reveal and elucidate the complexes and limitations of law as a human reality. It would appear that in its transports beyond itself the “law of all laws” displays an essential literary or aesthetic quality which has the function of allowing law to become human and just. In this sense this book tries to open up discourse on the conditio humana of law - a discourse that can only be entertained as discourse about the literature of law, its intrinsic literariness and its aesthetic. A discourse of the conditio humana demands - insists upon - a consciousness of mortality. In the case of law, it was mastery over the line between life and death that set the seal of authenticity upon its categorical authority. Deconstruction of this mastery, and dissipation of this boundary in the name of human powerlessness and justice, is the task of literature and literary theory. In the moment of death human subjectivity stops being subject to law - in literature, in the excesses of language, on the other hand, it lives on. As a result, it is precisely in death, which ought to confirm law’s mastery in its extremest form, that law’s authority slips from its grasp. For law as for everything else, the moment of death can only be attested by the other, the witness who is not himself dead, in an act of linguistic representation, of replication and transference - an act of literature in the widest sense - by means of which the dead person (and death as an event, an act, a speech act, a writing process) re-enters the realm of the living and the reality of the living 26 : after all, the reality of death is 25 Friedrich Nietzsche, Also sprach Zarathustra I, ch. 3-6. 26 Compare Paul Hegarty’s contribution in this volume, The Near-dead and the Non-dying Body (63-76): “In this thinking it is not death as otherness, but death as otherness Introduction - 41 the fiction, an assertion, of the living. This reveals the possibility that “that the question of ‘literature’ belongs […] at the heart of law and jurisprudence”, and articulates a longing “to locate ‚the literary’ […] within the very essence of law itself, beyond the kind of general cultural resemblances that have previously been identified.” 27 In this way the dead person, having been excluded from law, returns in literature to a spot before the gates of the law as an indissoluble residue, an indefinable linguistic sediment of all successive acts of judgement, a kind of judicial revenant who, in life, persistently undermines 28 the discriminations of law and irrefutably pleads the case for the sovereignty of those dying (who always die themselves, and never stop dying) in opposition to the sovereignty of the person sitting in judgement over life and death. In this book Adam Thurschwell shows how the (individual, civic) right to death, which no court sentence and execution can ever prevent from being exercised, shakes the very foundations of law’s political sovereignty: “Death and its impossibility, hidden in language and exposed by literature, would thus be both the foundation of sovereignty and the condition of its downfall, and between these (non-)beginnings and (non-)endings, would constitute the impossibility of sovereignty’s ever attaining its claim to totality or stasis.” 29 What needs to be considered is a pragmatics of law that does not define the boundary between law and life, categorical authority and “living” sovereignty by means of judgements and exclusions but rather draws it afresh, again and again, narrates it in an open-ended literary process of playful transgression. That a literary pragmatics of law of this kind is central to the phenomenology of law, if not to its theory, has been stated with increasing clarity by a number of recent contributions to law and literature discourse. Peter Goodrich was one of the first to point out the deficiencies of traditional legal science in this area: “Law is literature which denies its literary qualities […]; it is a language which permeating our living that is essential” (64). He concludes “that writing and ‘literature’ in the widest sense are the location where the relation to death is played out” (64). 27 Adam Thurschwell, Law and Literature and the Right to Death, in this volume (45- 62). An extensive portrayal of the origins and development of “law and literature discourse” can be found in the contribution by Tim Murphy und Gerard Staunton, The Envelope and the Letter: Reflections on Law’s Ambience (77-100). 28 That the boundaries of the discriminations between law and literature have a pronounced gender dimension becomes clear in Christine Künzel’s contribution: „Aus einem Bette aufgestanden”. Anmerkungen zum ‚Verhältnis’ zwischen Recht und Literatur (115-132). Cf. also the contribution of Hans-Joachim Jürgens, for whom law in Fontane’s novel Effi Briest is grounded in the specific “bipolarity” of 19th-century gender discourse and in the resulting construction of “hegemonial masculinity”: „Alle Gesetzlichkeiten sind langweilig.” Ungeschriebene Gesetze in Theodor Fontanes Roman Effi Briest (231-244). 29 Adam Thurschwell (ftn. 27). 42 - Gert Hofmann hides its indeterminacy in the justificatory discourse of judgement […]; it is a narrative which assumes the epic proportions of truth; it is, in short, a speech or writing which forgets the violence of the word and the terror or jurisdiction of the text.” 30 Taking Goodrich’s provocation further, Maria Aristodemou insisted: “we need an approach that is sensitive both to the literary qualities of law and to the law-making qualities of literature” 31 At the same time she identified the failure of legal science to recognize the wealth of its own “artificial” nature: “It aims to preserve the illusion of order, consistency and inevitability, to obscure the fact, that its history, decisions, and stories could have developed in a different manner, taking in other experiences, other views, other voices.” 32 The present book elaborates a discourse which by now has become indispensable, on the aethetic transgressiveness of law and on its unavoidable literary excursions into the varied case law of living reality. It does so on three levels. On the level of theory and philosophy it examines the common ground posited by Derrida between certain preconditions for law and literature; then, on a metaliterary level, a series of studies illustrate how the categorical boundaries between law and life, law and reality, are dependent on literary and medial representational processes; finally, historical-cultural literary and legal analyses examine some examples of the potential of literary texts and forms to critically reflect upon, and interact with, law currently in force. (Translated by Michael Shields) 30 Peter Goodrich, Law in the Courts of Love: Literature and other minor jurisprudences, London/ New York 1996: 112. Cf. also Costas Douzinas/ Lynda Nead, l. c. (ftn. 4): “indeed, in modernity, law has become a literature that represses its literariness and an aesthetic practice, that denies its art.” (5) 31 Maria Aristodemou, Law and Literature. Journeys from Her to Eternity, Oxford/ New York 2000: 9. 32 Ibid.: 26. The problem of interdisciplinarity in the treatment of the relationship between law and literature, which Maria Aristodemou’s radical approach tries to circumvent by assuming a mutual “phenomenological” infiltration of each by the other, has been examined in detail by Jane Baron: Jane B. Baron, “Interdisciplinary Legal Scholarship as Guilty Pleasure: The Case of Law and Literature”, in: Law and Literature [=Current Legal Issues 1999, vol. 2], ed. by Michael Freeman/ Andrew D. E. Lewis, Oxford/ New York 1999. Admittedly, her conclusion seems to confirm Aristodemou’s thesis: “We seem to want law to be a place, a discrete place of rules. We need to know why, but no one is asking. The question-begging seems particularly obvious in the case of ‘law and literature’. The movement has defined out of the category ‘law’ almost everything worth having; beauty, sensitivity, emotions, moral lessons - all these and so much more are the province of literature. The province of law is barren of everything but rules, an empty domain of raw power. Is this what law must be? Interdisciplinary explorations such as law and literature can be occasions for considering how we categorize knowledge, and why.” (45) Compare also Jane B. Baron, “Law, Literature, and the Problems of Interdisciplinarity”, in: The Yale Law Journal 108 (1999): 1059-1085. THEORY AND PHILOSOPHY Adam Thurschwell 1 Law and Literature and the Right to Death Whatever its intellectual frisson, I take it that most would agree that “Law & Literature” as a subdiscipline is at best secondary within the general study of law. The reasons for that marginal status are familiar and I will not belabor them here, although I will come back to what I take to be the most essential of these reasons shortly. My goal is rather to indicate a theoretical road less taken that suggests the possibility that the question of “literature” belongs instead at the heart of law and jurisprudence. That road will eventually take me through a reading of the French literary critic Maurice Blanchot’s 1948 essay “Literature and the Right to Death”. 2 This is a “road less taken” not only in the sense that Blanchot has had almost no presence as a figure in the Anglo-American study of Law & Literature, but also because most attempts to de-marginalize the study of Law & Literature have begun with what is indisputably common to the law and to literature - their shared status as linguistic or cultural constructs, repositories of humanistic values, and so on. What I would like to try to do here, by contrast, is to begin at the very center of the concept of law itself (or at least its Western concept) - with law qua expression of political sovereignty. That is to say, I will begin with what is generally held to distinguish law most funda- 1 Associate Professor of Law, Cleveland State University/ Cleveland-Marshall College of Law. This paper has gestated over a long period: earlier versions were presented at American University’s Washington College of Law symposium “Legitimating Fictions” in March 2002, the 2002 British Critical Legal Conference, the symposium on “Sovereignty and the Right to Death” held at Cleveland-Marshall College of Law in October 2003 and the 2005 Law & Society Association Annual Meeting, as well as the “Figures of Law” symposium held at University College Cork in June 2005. I am grateful for the feedback I received in those venues, for superb research and translation assistance provided by Laurent Gloerfelt, and to the Cleveland-Marshall Fund for summer research grant support. 2 Maurice Blanchot, “Literature and the Right to Death”, in: The Work of Fire (Lydia Davis, trans.) 1995: 300 (further page references in the text). 46 - Adam Thurschwell mentally from other linguistic, cultural or social norms or constructs, including particularly those of the institution of literature. My goal is thus to locate “the literary” - in a sense that remains to be determined - within the very essence of law itself, beyond the kind of general cultural resemblances that have previously been identified. The major premise of my argument is that the law’s distinguishing characteristic is its sovereign right to death - its power, insofar as law expresses the will of the sovereign, to impose capital punishment for failure to abide by its decrees, on one hand, and, on the other, to demand that citizens sacrifice their lives in its defense in times of war. (And one should mention in the same context, although I will not focus on this here, the state’s right to proscribe the taking by citizens of their own lives, by criminalizing homicide, suicide and assisted suicide, sovereign prohibitions which together guarantee that the state is the sole arbiter of this power within the social whole.) The clearest contemporary statement of this thesis can probably be found in the later works of Michel Foucault, 3 but it is implicit in the canon of classical liberal political philosophy and liberal jurisprudence as well. Thus, in Leviathan, Hobbes defines the sovereign as he who alone retains the natural “right to everything, and to do whatsoever he thought necessary to his own preservation; subduing, hurting or killing any man in order thereunto”, after the subjects had forsworn their own similar natural rights in order to enter into the commonwealth. 4 Thus, Rousseau, in the section of The Social Contract titled “Of the Right of Life and Death”, states that under the social contract, the citizen’s “life is not now, as it once was, merely nature’s gift to him. It is something that he holds, on terms, from the State”. 5 And perhaps most clearly, John Locke, in Two Treatises of Government, defines “Political power” as “a Right of making Laws with Penalties of Death, and consequently all less Penalties, for the Regulating and Preserving of Property, and of employing the force of the Community, in the Execution of Such Laws, and in the defence of the Common-wealth from Foreign Injury [...]“. 6 These quotes seem to me to summarize a consensus view that characterizes political-philosophical thinking about sovereignty from the early modern period onward across a wide range of philosophical traditions, all of which 3 Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality: Vol. 1, trans. Robert Hurley, New York: Pantheon Books, 1978; Michel Foucault, “Society Must Be Defended”, trans. David Macey, New York: Picador, 2003 (1997). 4 Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan, or the Matter, Forme and Power of a Commonwealth, Ecclesiaticall and Civil, 1957, at 203 (“Of Punishments and Rewards”). 5 Jean-Jacques Rousseau, The Social Contract, in Social Contract: Essays by Locke, Hume, and Rousseau, trans. Gerard Hopkins, 1948: 199 (“Of the Right of Life and Death”). 6 John Locke, “An Essay Concerning the True Original, Extent, and End of Civil Government“, in P. Laslett (ed.), John Locke, Two Treatises of Government, 1988: 268 (emphasis in original). Law and Literature and the Right to Death - 47 emphasize the sovereign’s ultimately absolute power over the life and death of the citizen. 7 Although any claim this broad is obviously open to dispute, 8 I nevertheless take it as my starting point not only because of this philosophical consensus, but also because the law itself, through its own pronouncements, has consistently privileged its relationship to death. As the United States Supreme Court put it, “From the point of view of society, the action of the sovereign in taking the life of one of its citizens differs dramatically from any other legitimate state action.” 9 My further claim is that it is this “dramatically different” sovereign act - a “difference” that is “dramatic”, by the way, only because it is exemplary, insofar as it is both different and yet remains among the class of all other “legitimate state actions” - that lies at the base of all the many arguments that have distinguished the “properly legal” from the “properly literary”. Legal words act, we are told repeatedly in many different ways by many different theorists, and insofar as they act they are “serious”, while literary words do not act and in that sense they are not serious. As J.L. Austin put it, in literature there is “no attempt to make you do anything, as Walt Whitman does not seriously incite the eagle of liberty to soar”, 10 whereas law (at least according to another Aus- 7 Giorgio Agamben is the most prominent but hardly the only contemporary expositor of this view.See Giorgio Agamben, Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life, trans. Daniel Heller-Roazen, Stanford U. Press, 1998 (1995); see also e.g. Achille Mbembe, “Necropolitics “, in: Public Culture 15,1: 11-40 (Winter 2003). 8 Foucault himself famously claimed that the juridical, death-based paradigm of sovereign power has been supplanted in the modern period by a disciplinary model in which the sovereign appears as the cultivator of the life of the society and the individual. See, e.g., Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison, trans. Alan Sheridan, New York: Pantheon Books, 1977 (1975). I agree with Agamben that the biopolitical model of political power is in fact entirely consistent with the juridical model, but cannot expand on the question here. 9 Gardner v. Florida, 430 U.S: 349, 357-58 (1977). 10 J.L. Austin, How to Do Things With Words, 2 nd ed., Cambridge: Harvard U. Press, 1975: 104-5.There is a wonderful example of this sentiment in a dissenting opinion from a United States Supreme Court decision. In the space of a single short paragraph, Justice Scalia mentions Kafka, Lewis Carroll, George Orwell’s Animal Farm and Kurt Vonnegut. All are ostensibly cited for different purposes, but Justice Scalia’s intended rhetorical effect is plainly to send the message that although the majority’s (in his view) irresponsible interpretation of the Americans with Disabilities Act (“ADA”) statute might be fine in the sphere of literature, it has no place in the serious sphere of legal interpretation: Complaints about this case are not “properly directed to Congress”, ante, at 1896-1897, n. 51. They are properly directed to this Court’s Kafkaesque determination that professional sports organizations, and the fields they rent for their exhibitions, are “places of public accommodation” to the competing athletes, and the athletes themselves “customers” of the organization that pays them; its Alice in Wonderland determination that there are such things as judicially determinable “essential” and “nonessential” rules of a made-up game; and its 48 - Adam Thurschwell tin), constitutes nothing other than an “attempt to make you do something”, insofar as it is essentially a sovereign command. Of course, James Boyd White and many others have argued that literary texts are “performative”, too, in that they are “constitutive […] in a sense of the culture in which they work”. 11 But that sense of “action” seems pretty trivial when put up against the “action” of law qua sovereign act. For in Robert Cover’s now-canonical statement of this distinction, unlike literature or literary interpretation, “[l]egal interpretation takes place on a field of pain and death”. 12 Or as Cover put it even more directly, “judges deal pain and death […]. In this they are different from poets, from critics, from artists”. And he goes on to note that “[e]ven the violence of weak judges is utterly real - a naive but immediate reality, in need of no interpretation, no critic to reveal it”. 13 Thus the classic distinction: whatever their superficial similarities in the spheres of culture, interpretation and language, law claims the right to death, while literature does not and cannot. And it would be the “naive but immediate reality, in need of no interpretation” by virtue of this relationship to violence and pain - ultimately, to death itself - that distinguishes law from the interpretable fictionality of literature. On the other hand, Cover himself recognized that the meaning of the legal act of violence is internally divided between the perspectives of the judge (the actor), who provides an interpretive justification for the act without suffering its (immediate) effects, and the acted-upon party, upon whom the violence of law directly falls and for whom any such interpretive justifications are beside the point. “For as the judge interprets, […] she also acts […] [t]hus, any commonality of interpretation that may be achieved is one that has its common meaning destroyed by the divergent experiences that constitute it.” 14 Indeed I think that it would not distort Cover’s argument, despite his intentions, to say that the “naive and immediate reality” that he ascribes to the legal act is already divided into two “realities“, each appearing as “unreal” - or fictional - from the perspective of the other, from the very moment the act is struck. “Between the idea and the reality of common meaning falls the shadow of the violence of Animal Farm determination that fairness and the ADA mean that everyone gets to play by individualized rules which will assure that no one’s lack of ability (or at least no one’s lack of ability so pronounced that it amounts to a disability) will be a handicap. The year was 2001, and “everybody was finally equal.” K. Vonnegut, “Harrison Bergeron“, in: Animal Farm and Related Readings, 1997: 129; PGA Tour, Inc. v. Martin, 121 S.Ct. 1879, 1905 (2001) (Scalia, J., dissenting). 11 James Boyd White, “What Can a Lawyer Learn From Literature? ”, 102 Harv. L. Rev., 1989: 2014, 2018 (reviewing Richard Posner, Law and Literature: A Misunderstood Relation, 1988). 12 Robert Cover, “Violence and the Word”, in: Minow, Ryan & Sarat (eds.), Narrative, Violence, and the Law: The Essays of Robert Cover, U. of Michigan Press, 1993: 203. 13 Ibid.: at 213. 14 Ibid. Law and Literature and the Right to Death - 49 law, itself”, as he says (echoing, in this very phrasing, T.S. Eliot’s own poetic meditation on the modern difficulty in ascribing a meaning to death). 15 If I am right about this, then there is an implicit re-emergence of a moment of fiction on the inside, so to speak, of the “naive and immediate reality” of the legal act in Cover’s discourse. But this is not the only example of overlap that would seem to complicate the asserted non-relation between law’s fatal violence and the literary. There is also the fact that philosophical accounts of the founding and/ or justification of the political state have found it difficult to avoid relying on fictionalized narratives of origin, whether stories of an ascent from a pre-historical state of nature, Freud’s myth of the primal horde, or Rawls’s meeting of the disembodied and de-historicized minds behind the “veil of ignorance” (to cite only three examples). In extremis - which is to say, both at the extremity of the sovereign state (its founding or its ending) and in its most extreme circumstance (revolutionary violence) - something resembling literature seems to emerge as an unavoidable moment of any attempt to explain, describe or understand the essence of politico-legal sovereignty. At least in these moments, sovereignty would seem to demand representation as a fiction, and not as the sort of “naive and immediate reality” of violence with which Cover and others identify it. Moreover, many of these “legitimating fictions” of origin are themselves tales of death - sacrificial death, to be specific, as in the Freudian paternal sacrifice and the sacrifice of natural freedoms, including the right to one’s own life, for the benefits of a “civilized” life under the social contract. On the other hand, not all such origin myths seem to be tales of death and sacrifice: Rawls’s “veil of ignorance” scenario, for example, and Kant’s rationalist social-contractarian schema (which Rawls’s scenario narratizes), at least on their face appear to be tales of reason rather than violence. I will return to the question of whether even Kant and Rawls’s ostensibly rationalist accounts are nevertheless ultimately best understood as stories of human sacrifice. Let me quickly acknowledge that the preceding examples are neither original nor sufficiently specific even to amount to a start on the project I have suggested here. In particular, unless and until some kind of answer is given to the question of the meaning of “literature” or “the literary” comparable to the identification of a distinguishing essence of law with the sovereign right to death, none of the above observations can have more than vaguely suggestive and scene-setting value. Fortunately, that very question is the one addressed by Maurice Blanchot’s essay. My thesis is that it is in Blanchot’s answer to that question that the most fundamental point of contact between literature, law and sovereignty can be discerned. “Literature”, Blanchot says, “contemplates itself 15 Cover, “Violence and the Word”: 238 (see ftn. 12); see T. S. Eliot, “The Hollow Men”, in: Collected Poems: 1909-1962, New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, Inc., 1970: 81-82 (“Between the idea/ And the reality/ Between the motion/ And the act/ Falls the Shadow”). 50 - Adam Thurschwell in revolution, it finds its justification in revolution”, and revolution itself is that moment in which “[e]very citizen has a right to death, so to speak: death is not a sentence passed on him, it is his most essential right; he is not suppressed as a guilty person - he needs death so that he can proclaim himself a citizen and it is in the disappearance of death that freedom causes him to be born”. (321). In what follows, I hope to show that that point of contact with literature constitutes the simultaneous possibility and impossibility of law as sovereignty, its motivating essence and its most implacable and insurmountable obstacle, precisely insofar as law is understood as the sovereign power over death. And that because, as Blanchot argues, literature itself is nothing more than the simultaneous demand for death inscribed in every act of linguistic meaning and the exposure of its impossibility - the impossible condition of possibility at the limit of literature, of linguistic meaning, of death itself; and (I will argue) of law as well. But at the same time, and by the same token, the possibility of politics, also. Reflections on the fundamental meaning of mortality are common in 20 th Century Continental philosophy (work which, alas, has had virtually no impact on American legal philosophers’ attempts to understand the many contemporary issues that cluster around the questions of mortality, life and death). “Literature and the Right to Death” is an exemplary work in that tradition, distilling and relating Hegel, Heidegger and Emmanuel Levinas’s theses on the relation of death to meaning by refracting them first through the phenomenology of the individual writer and then through an analysis of the signifying power of language (all condensed into 45 pages of prose that - to use a Blanchotian notion - is virtually opaque in its stylistic transparency). It is also, however, almost as an aside, a commentary on the relationships among language, literature and politics (the essay is in part an oblique response to Sartre’s theses on “littérature engagée [committed literature]” in his influential book What is Literature? ). 16 It is this commentary, which is most explicit in a brief passage that brings the themes of literary production and literary meaning together with the French Revolution and its Terror, that I hope to begin to elucidate in this essay. At the outset, however, I should emphasize two important caveats. First, lest the reader be misled, the political-juridical theme that I am interpreting here - although indisputably central to Blanchot’s essay in several respects 17 - is 16 Jean-Paul Sartre, What is Literature? , trans. Bernard Frechtman, New York: Harper & Row, 1965, (1948). 17 Apart from its appearance at the essay’s midpoint (a fact that itself is ambiguous since “Literature and the Right to Death” originally appeared as two distinct essays, the pages upon which I’m primarily commenting forming the conclusion of the first), Blanchot himself says that the connection with revolutionary terror most clearly reveals the answer to the question with which the essay begins (ibid. at 322).The passage is also closest to the bone of Blanchot’s oblique literary-political contestation of Sartre’s essay on “littérature engagée “, “What is Literature? ”. Finally, it introduces the theme of death- Law and Literature and the Right to Death - 51 hardly the only (or even the most important) point of this work, which is ultimately concerned with literature’s privileged role in revealing the relationships among language, death and meaning. Blanchot’s meditation on the revolutionary vocation of the writer is just one of several mediating figures for these relationships. Second, in focusing primarily on a close reading of this one passage from this single essay, I have almost entirely disregarded Blanchot’s many other works that also take up the themes of literature, death, terror and revolution. 18 Nevertheless, while no one should mistake what follows for a full account of Blanchot’s thinking on these themes, “Literature and the Right to Death” has a sufficiently central place in his oeuvre that I feel justified in lifting the passage out of the essay and the essay out of the lifework (to paraphrase Walter Benjamin) 19 for my present purposes. To return to the question left hanging above, then, if by “law” in “law and literature” we mean the sovereign power over death, what do we mean by “literature”? Blanchot begins “Literature and the Right to Death” with the supposition that this question itself is definitive of “literature”: “Let us suppose that literature begins at the moment that literature becomes a question” (300). Blanchot goes on to suggest that such an essentially self-questioning enterprise seems to carry within itself the seeds of its own illegitimacy and indeed an intrinsic deceitfulness, insofar as it “professes to be important while at the same time considering itself an object of doubt […] confirm[ing] itself as it disparages itself” (301). Blanchot notes, moreover, that this peculiarly self-defeating character of literature exports itself, so to speak, by exerting an irresistible fascination for literature’s ostensible opposite, “reflection” - that is, “serious” philosophical thought. While it seems possible to reflect seriously and philosophically on such questions as “what is poetry? ” and “what is the novel? ”, he claims, the same cannot be said of the question “what is literature? ” - “the literature which is both poem and novel seems to be the element of emptiness in-language that constitutes the theme of the remainder of the essay (and indeed of much of Blanchot’s subsequent work as well). For a discussion of the essay’s publication history, background, and sources, see James Swenson, “Revolutionary Sentences”, in: Thomas Pepper (ed.), The Place of Maurice Blanchot, Yale Literary Studies 93, 1998: 11-29. 18 This other work stretches from his early engagement with right-wing nationalist politics in pre-War France, in which connection he authored at least one article that advocated the use of terrorism against the government (“Le Terrorisme, Méthode de Salut Public”, in: Combat 1,7 (July 1936)), to his last critical and literary writings. For an excellent discussion of “Literature and the Right to Death” that incorporates a great deal more of this context, see Swenson, “Revolutionary Sentences”, in: supra (ftn. 17): especially at 15-16 n.11; see also Hent de Vries, “‘Lapsus Absolu’: Notes on Maurice Blanchot’s The Instant of My Death”, in: Pepper, supra (ftn. 17): 30-59. 19 Walter Benjamin, “On the Concept of History”, in: Howard Eiland & Michael Jennings, Walter Benjamin: Selected Writings, Volume 4: 1938-1940, Harvard/ Belknap Press, 2003: 396. 52 - Adam Thurschwell present in all these serious things, and to which reflection, with its own gravity, cannot direct itself without losing its seriousness.” He goes on to describe a comic dialectic in which reflection, drawn to literature’s apparent status as “something important, essential, more important than philosophy”, finds only that literature is a “caustic force”, one that destroys reflection’s very capacity to be imposing. But when reflection thereupon withdraws, “scorn[ing] a Thing so vain, so vague, and so impure”, literature once again looms larger than reflection itself, and reflection cannot but return to it, only to be burned again and once again find itself having to disdain literature’s lack of seriousness. 20 (302). In the remainder of the essay, Blanchot attempts to answer the question posed by literature’s fundamentally divided and ambiguous status - as the most and least serious of things, the fullest expression of life’s meaning and an empty unreality that ultimately refers to nothing, a work written for the writer alone whose meaning only comes to fruition in the imaginations of its readers, and a whole series of other contradictory yet equally valid characterizations, among and between which literature seems to slide effortlessly from one pole to another. In the first half he approaches these antinomies from the perspective of the writer, and in the second half from the perspective of language. Blanchot thus begins with a phenomenology of the literary work from the perspective of its creator. The structure of this first part is borrowed from a chapter of Hegel’s Phenomenology of Mind that deals with the nature of “work”. As is typically the case with Blanchot, he takes this borrowed structure in an oblique direction that neither conforms with Hegel’s intentions nor constitutes a critique of them. In any event, for my purposes I want to highlight two aspects of the writer’s dilemma: the relation between literature’s “bad faith” and the writer’s political commitments, and the status of the literary work as an “action”, a “concrete initiative in the world” - that is, as “work” in the more mundane sense. First, Blanchot says, there is a fundamental contradiction between a writer’s status as a writer and any political commitments she may hold or express. Blanchot gives the example of the writer who writes a novel that “implies a certain political statement, so that he seems to side with a Cause”. It may follow, Blanchot says, that others who “directly” support the Cause - that is, in a non-literary way - see in the writer a fellow-traveler. But, just insofar as the writer was genuinely a littérateur, these non-literary supporters will soon learn that they are mistaken, because what interests the writer about the Cause is not the Cause but “the operation he himself has carried out” - that is, his use of the Cause as an element of his fiction. Why should this be so? It is because, Blan- 20 Coming from an American context, is it difficult to recognize in this dialectic something of Richard Posner’s book Law and Literature: A Misunderstood Relation, which similarly exhibits a simultaneous fascination with literature and need to damn its “seriousness” with faint praise, and which to date has required a second edition to re-make these points and who knows how many more to come? Law and Literature and the Right to Death - 53 chot explains, writers who have committed to a Cause have also “committed themselves to literature, and in the final analysis literature, by its very activity, denies the substance of what it represents”. This is literature’s “law and its truth”, and the “law and truth” of its deceitfulness. (309-10). But why should this negation of its own truth be literature’s “law”? This negating function of literature is inherent in its status as fictional representation; as fiction, it indeed simultaneously declares the untruth of what it represents. Blanchot, however, approaches this question from another direction, by turning to the same distinction between “literature” and serious (worldly) “action” that organizes Robert Cover’s canonical analysis of the difference between literature and law. “[P]eople who are in favor of action reject literature, which does not act, and those in search of passion becomes writers so as not to act”, he says. (313). But this view of literature is mistaken, because literature is no less action - “a concrete initiative in the world” - than any other form of productive work. In a discussion again lifted from Hegel (by way of Kojéve 21 ), Blanchot analyzes work as thought realizing itself in the world through concrete acts of negation. The idea of a stove, he says by way of example, will not keep me warm, but in building a stove, I produce something new in the world - the stove - that realizes this idea in actuality, while at the same time, and necessarily, negating other things in the world - the stones and cast iron from which the stove was built. But this is what the writer does also, Blanchot (at least initially) insists. A writer takes an ideal conception, and then realizes it, creating something new in the world (the literary work) while negating other elements. “In order to write, he must destroy language in its present form, denying books as he forms a book out of what other books are not”, Blanchot writes. Yet at the same time the writer remains haunted by the sense that his work remains a “pure passivity which remains in the margins of history” - a “work” too abstract and ethereal to “act” in more than name only. And, Blanchot adds (in a quasi-dialectical reversal that is characteristic of this essay), that feeling is justified, because the negation carried out by the writer differs fundamentally from the negation of the stove-builder: “[the writer’s] negation is global”. (314-5). In creating a fiction, the writer creates ex nihilo a new, unreal world-asa-whole. 22 But the writer’s act of negation is fundamentally illusory just insofar as it is total. The negation of concrete elements of reality - like the stones and cast iron that are destroyed in their existent form in order to create a stove - re- 21 See Alexandre Kojéve, “The Idea of Death in the Philosophy of Hegel”, in: Dennis Keenan, Hegel and Contemporary Continental Philosophy, SUNY Press, 2004: 27-74. 22 This is so, Blanchot further (and I think rightly) insists, even if the fiction is realistic (or even “historical”) and many of its elements replicate elements of reality. Those realistic elements are still not “reality”; to the extent that they appear in the writer’s work they have their existence only in that work, and they exist qua fiction only insofar as their reality has been negated, along with the rest of the world, to make the space for the writer’s imaginary world. 54 - Adam Thurschwell sults in something new and concrete in reality (the stove). The result of the writer’s negation, however, is something more abstract and elusive. As Blanchot points out, a prisoner who steals a few moments to write of freedom may obtain a substantial and admirable achievement, obtaining, in one sense, a genuine form of freedom for himself in the process. Nevertheless, at the same time, “[i]nsofar as he immediately gives himself the freedom he does not have, he is neglecting the actual conditions for his emancipation, he is neglecting to do the real thing that must be done so that the abstract idea of freedom can be realized”. (315). Thus the writer’s “work” is real work and her influence in the world is real as well, in one sense, but in another both her “work” and her “influence” only seem to confirm the distinction between “real” action and literary (in)action with which we began. “This is why”, Blanchot explains, “[the writer’s] negation negates nothing, in the end, why the work in which it is realized is not a truly negative, destructive act of transformation, but rather the realization of the inability to negate anything, the refusal to take part in the world.” (315). If we pause here for a moment to assess where we are on the path I suggested at the outset, it may appear that we have not come very far. The empty literary negation identified by Blanchot - empty precisely because it is total, “global” - only seems to confirm that, unlike concrete political action, literature does not act but only gives the appearance of acting. Nevertheless, I think that there is already at this stage a curious structural homology between law and Blanchot’s “literature” coming to light, one that the remainder of his essay will deepen and complicate. The writer’s negation is “workless” because it is total. In negating the world all at once and immediately, substituting in a single stroke her reconstituted world of meaning for the one abstractly negated in toto, the writer is, Blanchot says, “discrediting all action by this action”. Yet law qua sovereign act also seems to resemble this description of the writer’s literary act. Leaving aside for the moment its essential linkage to sovereign violence, law also takes the form of a totalizing imposition of meaning on social life, immediately constitutive both as mandatory prescription of certain kinds of social relations and behaviors and as a normative framework for evaluating social actions. Blanchot says that the literary work is the antithesis of the “world of determined things and defined work” because in it “everything is instantly given and there is nothing left to do but read it and enjoy it”. But is it not the case that in the world of the nomos, everything is instantly proscribed, prescribed or permitted, and there is nothing left to do but listen and obey? The writer, says Blanchot, “has the privilege of being the master of everything” (316), a description more aptly applied to the law, since it would seem to be without the irony that attaches to the writer’s fictional “mastery”. And finally, doesn’t the law, like literature in Blanchot’s account, discredit political action in a certain real sense as Law and Literature and the Right to Death - 55 well? That, at least, was among the fundamental charges leveled at law by the American Critical Legal Studies movement in its heyday. In any event, what distinguishes the law’s totalizing power of negation from the writer’s, of course, is its literality - the power to negate by taking life. But it should not be lost sight of that the power of death is no less abstract for all its being literal: there is nothing determinate about the negation achieved by death. So even at this relatively early moment in Blanchot’s essay, one can begin to see a portrayal of literature that binds it to the figure of law in a manner that includes elements of both identity and opposition. But to return to Blanchot and the perspective of the writer, in yet another of the reversals so characteristic of this essay it turns out that there is one moment of worldly political action for which the writer’s totalizing and abstract negation of the world can serve as a model: revolution. As we have seen, for Blanchot the writer is both omnipotent - she in one real sense creates an entire world ex nihilo in her work - and at the same time comically impotent, insofar as that created world is as unreal as it is total. Because of this contradiction, the writer has a frustrated desire to “negate something real, more real than words”, that “keeps urging him toward a worldly life and a public existence”. This impulse - driven as it is by the writer’s experience of a total literary negation of reality in the service of her fictional creations - leads her inexorably in the direction of a political act of total negation, that is, revolution. In Blanchot’s words, the writer is drawn to, and into, “those decisive moments in history when everything seems put in question, when law, faith, the State, the world above, the world of the past - everything sinks effortlessly, without work, into nothingness”. These are, Blanchot says, “fabulous moments: in them fable speaks, in them the speech of fable becomes action” (318), “the time during which literature becomes history” (321). It is thus “completely appropriate” that the writer should be “tempted” by these moments, since “[r]evolutionary action is in every respect analogous to action as embodied in literature”. 23 (319). 23 The phenomenon that Blanchot depicts in these passages - the littérateur drawn into the world of political conflict, often as a spokesperson or advocate for one extreme element or another (one thinks of Sartre and the Communists, Ezra Pound and the Fascists, Blanchot himself and extreme right-nationalist movements in France - the list of examples is long) - has also been a theme of contemporary literary works. In Don DeLillo’s Mao II, for example, the protagonist is a famous writer (Bill Gray) who is inexorably pulled out of his Pynchon-esque seclusion and anonymity and into the world of Middle Eastern political terrorism. While DeLillo’s focus in Mao II is on the post-1960s phenomenon of politics and political violence as spectacle and image at the expense of the written word, the Blanchotian motifs are apparent as well. “There’s a curious knot that binds novelists and terrorists “, Gray says at one point. “Years ago I used to think it was possible for a novelist to alter the inner life of the culture. Now bomb-makers and gunmen have taken that territory. They make raids on human consciousness. What writers used to do before we were all incorporated.” Don DeLillo, Mao II, New York: Viking, 1991: 41. 56 - Adam Thurschwell It is at this point that Blanchot’s essay proposes some of its strangest propositions, not only about literature but about revolutionary politics as well. Revolution, says Blanchot, in a manner akin to literature’s totalized act of world-destruction-and-creation, sees itself as “absolute“, not an action in the service of some worthwhile political end but as itself the “Last Act” that is its own end. This Last Act, he goes on to say, is “freedom” - the absolute, if abstract, freedom also embodied in the writer’s act of literary creation. As such, its only motto can be “freedom or death”, and thus, he says, is born the Reign of Terror. (This why he says that with regard to these relationships among literature, revolution, and death, “the French Revolution has a clearer meaning than any other”.) (319). In the Revolution, he continues, people cease to be individuals realizing their individual goals and performing their individual tasks; rather, “each person is universal freedom”. There is thus no longer any private life as such; all is public and a matter of public debate and decision. So far it seems to me that Blanchot’s account, if extreme, captures a sense of the experience of revolutionary fervor (and the Reign of Terror in particular) that is familiar, if not exactly conventional. Moreover, he seems at this point in the text to be moving toward a meaning of revolutionary action that corresponds to a mainstream notion: revolution as the founding act of an incipient sovereign, at least if sovereignty is defined, per the philosophical tradition with which I began, as the sovereign’s right to its citizens’ deaths. Thus, he concludes - or rather, seems to conclude - “[i]n the end no one has a right to his life any longer, to his actually separate and physically distinct existence.” (319). Blanchot, however, does not stop with this “in the end”, but immediately continues in a manner that turns the sovereignty/ right to death thesis on its head: This is the meaning of the Reign of Terror. Every citizen has a right to death, so to speak: death is not a sentence passed on him, it is his most essential right; he is not suppressed as a guilty person - he needs death so that he can proclaim himself a citizen, and it is in the disappearance of death that freedom causes him to be born. (319). Here then is an enigmatic paradox: In the revolutionary moment - the moment that is perfectly analogous to literature, the “fabulous moment” in which fiction realizes itself (for the first time) in the reality of the world - the citizen does not simply overturn the sovereign’s right to her death, but claims it for herself. And let us be clear - according to Blanchot, it’s not the right to kill that the citizen claims, but the right to be killed. 24 Death, Blanchot writes, “becomes the 24 The expression “right to death” is borrowed from Kojéve’s lectures on Hegel. See Kojéve, supra (ftn. 21), at 54: “It is therefore indeed in and through the Terror that this freedom is spread in society, and it cannot be attained in a ‘tolerant’ State, which does Law and Literature and the Right to Death - 57 unavoidable, in some sense the desired lot of everyone, it appears as the very operation of freedom in free men”. (319). What can this mean? His example is the Terrorists themselves. Even before they become the victims of their own guillotines, they are already, in the most important sense, “dead”. Their revolutionary status - through which they not only become the spokesmen but the exemplars of “the very operation of freedom in free men” - stems from their having already claimed for themselves their “right to death”. When the blade falls on Saint-Just and Robespierre, in a sense it executes no one. Robespierre’s virtue, Saint-Just’s relentlessness, are simply their existences already suppressed, the anticipated presence of their deaths, the decision to allow freedom to assert itself completely in them and through its universality negate the particular reality of their own lives. (319-20). Thus “the Terror they personify”, says Blanchot, “does not come from the deaths they inflict on others but from the deaths they inflict on themselves”. Theirs is the cold, implacable “freedom of a decapitated head”; and they behave during their lifetimes, as the leaders of a revolution and the founders of a new state, “not like people living among other living people, but like beings deprived of being, like universal thoughts, pure abstractions beyond history, judging and deciding in the name of all history”. (320). “Beings deprived of being, universal thoughts, pure abstractions beyond history” - can this not recall those hypothetical founders of our own liberal welfare state, the ghostly representatives who meet to “judge and decide in the name of all history” behind the veil of ignorance in Rawls’s rationalist (and ostensibly non-violent) tale? 25 Or Kant’s “rational beings”, stripped of every empirical attribute so as to become the self-legislating subjects of the only true moral law? Although certainly not his aim, Blanchot’s essay provides an unexpected window onto the dependence of even these most rationalist of “narratives of sovereignty” on forms of (self-) sacrificial violence (and thus anticipates those critics of Rawls, feminist and otherwise, who have perceived in his rational abstract actors the sacrifice of a crucial element of our concrete humanity without which politics loses its meaning). Of course the philosophical conjunction of reason, death and freedom has a long history. What Blanchot proposes in these brief passages is the distinctively literary quality of this conjunction, or more specifically, the literary not take its citizens seriously enough to guarantee their political right to death.” Whatever interpretation Kojéve intended to give these words (they appear in his highly influential lecture series devoted to developing his Marx-influenced reading of Hegel), the fact that he was an apologist for Stalin at the time (1933-1934) gives them a rather sinister cast in retrospect. In any event, Blanchot, characteristically, gives them a meaning that is entirely his own. 25 See John Rawls, A Theory of Justice, Harvard/ Belknap Press, 1971: 18-19. 58 - Adam Thurschwell quality of the moment of violence that mediates the relation between freedom and citizenship in the liberal state. From the side of the writer, at least (and it must be recalled that this is an essay about literature and language, and only tangentially and fleetingly about politics), Blanchot seems to celebrate that moment as the very essence of the creative act: “Any writer who is not induced by the very fact of writing to think, ‘I am the revolution, only freedom allows me to write,’ is not really writing.” (321). From the side of politics, however, the situation is far more ambiguous. Thus, if it is the case that the citizen “needs death so that he can proclaim himself a citizen, and it is in the disappearance of death that freedom causes him to be born”, Blanchot also asserts that “such a freedom is still abstract, ideal (literary), that it is only poverty and platitude”. (320.) In what sense is this abstract freedom “literary”? Before answering that question, it will help to begin with Blanchot’s related claim that this freedom is “ideal”, a term which Blanchot here seems to identify with the “literary” (an identification that is itself brought into doubt in the second half of the essay, as I discuss below). That claim is easier to decipher because it has a clear, if surprising, philosophical predecessor: the young Marx’s analysis of the “abstraction”, “poverty” and “platitudes” of bourgeois citizenship and right. According to Marx’s left-Hegelian analysis, the bourgeois revolutions of the late 19 th Century resulted in a legal order that granted new freedoms, but freedoms that remained abstract, separated from the lived life of the community (which was itself relegated to the self-interested, economic relations of civil society in the new order). The new bourgeois law divided “the living individual [from] the citizen”, “authentic man […] man in his sensuous, individual and immediate existence” from “political man […] abstract, artificial man, man as an allegorical, moral person”. 26 Thus the bourgeois revolutions negated natural, sensuous human life only to achieve an abstract - but free - political person in place of the “authentic”, living individual, and - for Marx as for Blanchot - the result is a fiction: the political person as “artificial” as well as abstract, an allegory of personhood rather than a person in the living flesh. The fictional character of bourgeois right, which leaves freedom as an abstraction rather than a lived reality, is what, for Marx, ultimately made the bourgeois revolutions an impotent endeavor that could not live up to their own slogans. And it is this same counter-factuality that Blanchot identifies with “the literary”. The legal regime of rights of the citoyen in the new republic is like the fictional world created by the writer - real and yet unreal, a grant of freedom that is total in principle and yet abstract to the point of impotence with respect to the concrete existence of each living individual. Thus, as Blanchot suggests, the literary act of creation stands in a relation of absolute analogy to the revolutionary act of creation. 26 Karl Marx, “On the Jewish Question”, in: Robert Tucker (ed.), The Marx-Engels Reader 32, trans. T.B. Bottomore, W.W. Norton & Co., 1972: 44. Law and Literature and the Right to Death - 59 Blanchot’s analysis is more radical - and in one sense, at least, more pessimistic - than Marx’s. If Marx believed that the bourgeois revolutions were incomplete, he also believed in a true revolution, one that would “only be complete when the real, individual man has absorbed into himself the abstract citizen […] when he has recognized and organized his own powers (forces propres) as social powers so that he no longer separates this social power from himself as political power”. 27 Blanchot, whose own implicit analysis of the relationship of citizenship to negation is rooted in language rather than in social relations, is not so sanguine about this possibility. By the same token, however, it may yet be more optimistic about the ineradicable possibility of political change than classical Marxism could ever be. By way of making good on this suggestion, in concluding I will briefly sketch the remainder of Blanchot’s argument and, at the same time, try to show how it reveals something even more fundamental, and more disruptive, than is generally recognized about the linkage of “Law & Literature” as well. In the second half of the essay, following the passage on the French Revolution that we have just read, Blanchot takes up the “question of literature” again, this time from the side of language rather than the writer. In brief, he shows that even nonliterary language has an intimate relationship with “death “, understood as “nonexistence”. To use a word - for example, “cat” - to refer to something (a cat), is to simultaneously grant that thing a being it previously lacked and at the same time, to presuppose its nonexistence - that is to say, in a sense, to presuppose its death. Before it enters language as the word “cat”, a cat is a meaningless, nameless thing, about which nothing can be said and no quality can be predicated. Once named, however, it possesses a meaning that brings this thing “into the daylight” (to use Blanchot’s expression, in which the echoes of Heidegger are deliberate), the light of discourse, reason, representation, and so on. But at the same time, this “bringing into the light” kills the cat itself, by presupposing its nonexistence, because the word “cat” can be, and indeed must be able to be, used meaningfully whether a cat is present or not, and even after the last cat on Earth has died off. In this sense the word “cat” requires the death of the cat to function as a word. To put this in more technical terms, the semantic and grammatical functions of a word are and must be radically divorced from its referential functions. 28 The specificity of literary language in this schema is as a self-conscious dialectic of negation and affirmation, in which its relationship to death (as nonexistence, the absence of being) turns out to be a far more complex struggle than nonliterary language is content to suppose. First, literary language selfconsciously assumes the negative function of linguistic meaning and takes it to 27 Karl Marx, “On the Jewish Question” (ftn. 26): 44-5. 28 On this point, see also Paul de Man, “Social Contract: Promises”, in: Allegories of Reading 69, Yale University Press, 1979 (“the logic of grammar generates texts only in the absence of referential meaning”). 60 - Adam Thurschwell its extreme, as we have already mentioned, by negating (“killing”) the world in toto in the course of its fictional narrations. It must be recalled, however, that this negation of the world is carried out in the name of preserving the world, of endowing it with a meaning that can outlast it (just as the word “cat” preserves the cat while destroying it). This is the truth-claim of literature, its claim to being more than just an escapist distraction from the real. What literature discovers, however, is that this affirmation of the world is on one hand merely abstract - both its total negation and its total re-creation of the world ex nihilo lack that substantial reality that it seeks (this is the moment, in the first half of the essay, in which the writer turns to revolution as the most appropriate vehicle for the writer’s frustrated totalizing ambitions). On the other hand, this affirmative, totalizing negation always turns out to be imperfect as well. There remains something of the world’s material reality after its negation in language, a remainder that continues to resist the meaning-giving function of language: the material reality of the linguistic signifier itself, in the form of the sounds, marks on paper, and so on, of which the literary work is composed. And so, attempting to turn this failure to its own purposes, literature finally takes up and makes its own the signifier’s material reality, employing it - most obviously in poetry - as an alternative means of achieving the concrete reality that the negative semantic function of language otherwise denies it. As Blanchot puts it, “Literature says: ‘I no longer represent, I am; I do not signify, I present.” (328). But, Blanchot points out, “[t]his is a tragic endeavor”, because even this final gesture fails: the failure to signify, still signifies, because literature now simply manifests that failure, and what that sheer manifestation continues to signify is the “very possibility of signifying, the empty power of bestowing meaning - a strange impersonal light”. (329). Or, to put this point in the language of death that Blanchot privileges, what literature discovers is the impossibility of death as absolute nonexistence, absolute negativity. What persists in every negation, no matter how total, is an “inexorable affirmation, without beginning or end - death as the impossibility of dying”. (328). I cannot elaborate here on the theme of death’s impossibility, although it is the keystone of Blanchot’s entire career following “Literature and the Right to Death”. Allow me instead to conclude by attempting to return this notion to the political realm of revolutionary violence (something that Blanchot does not do, by the way). What then would the citizen’s “right to death” be in the “strange impersonal light” of the discovery that death is its own impossibility? First, a la the preceding discussion of Marx, a right to be elevated into that spiritualized state of existence known as “citizenship”, an elevation that endows the mundane material existence of the human person with a political meaning and status. Just as the negating function of language lifts material reality into the realm of meaning, the negating function of the sovereign - its right to kill - serves its subjects by lifting them into political significance: the subject “needs death so that he can proclaim himself a citizen, and it is in the disappearance of death that freedom causes him to be born”. (319) Blanchot would thus have Law and Literature and the Right to Death - 61 identified a dialectical counterpart to the sovereign’s right to death that I discussed at the outset, one that links the sovereign’s right to kill to the individual’s formal political status as a citizen under the sovereign’s jurisdiction. (Those familiar with Giorgio Agamben’s Homo Sacer, by the way, may recognize in Blanchot’s essay an original source for Agamben’s identification of political sovereignty with the negative structure of linguistic signification.) 29 However ingeniously put, this point seems to me to be less unique and significant a contribution than a further lesson that we can draw from the essay. It is the lesson that it is literature’s distinctive task to undergo and expose - the discovery of “death as the impossibility of dying”. For if death - understood as the moment of non-being required to lift bare existence into the realm of (linguistic and political) meaning - is impossible, then neither the sovereign’s nor the citizen’s “right to death” can be taken literally. Or, to use the language of Blanchot’s conclusion, neither of these two “rights to death” can be freed from an “ultimate ambiguity” that the negative power of death installs in every linguistic utterance. (342) That ambiguity, which arises from the impossibility of language’s attempts to anchor its meaning in the “thing itself” (since it necessarily negates the thing in order to produce its meaning), would open the door to a permanent contestation of both “sovereignty” and “citizenship”, a contestation that we see all around us everyday, despite the inherently totalizing claims of sovereignty - for example, in the questions of the political status of non-European immigrants and “guest workers” and the political status of “Europe”, to name just two issues of particular contemporary relevance. (And in the American context, one could point to the question of constitutional interpretation: no constitution, just to the extent that it is written in language, is or could be written in stone.) Death and its impossibility, hidden in language and exposed by literature, would thus be both the foundation of sovereignty and the condition of its downfall, and between these (non-)beginnings and (non-)endings, would constitute the impossibility of sovereignty’s ever attaining its claim to totality or stasis. Which is to say, the impossibility of death as the possibility of politics. Let me end by noting the path that Blanchot’s references to revolutionary violence took after “Literature and the Right to Death”, which seem to me to both bring his pronouncements on politics closer to the interpretation that I’ve advanced here, and to add a new dimension - the relation of the political, and revolution in particular, to the ethical. The significance of death and its impossibility remain omnipresent in all of his subsequent works, of course. But as is well known, by the 1960s another notion, that of “the Other”, becomes prevalent as well - the “Jewish turn” that seemed to bring him much closer to his friend Emmanuel Levinas’s thinking. One can trace the growing influence of that notion on Blanchot’s understanding of the thematics of “Literature and 29 Giorgio Agamben, Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life, trans. Daniel Heller- Roazen, Stanford U. Press, 1998: 20-21. 62 - Adam Thurschwell the Right to Death” in, for example, “The Limit-Experience” from 1969, in which notions of “perpetual perturbation” and “permanent insurrection” within the sovereign Republic take the rhetorical place of totalizing revolutionary violence that overturns sovereignty. 30 The movement toward Levinasian ethics is even more pronounced in The Writing of the Disaster (1983), in which he discusses the “ethics of revolt” by distinguishing “rebellion” - which “only reintroduces war, which is to say the struggle for mastery and domination” - from “revolt”, defined as “the demand of a turning point where time changes, where the extreme of patience is linked in a relation with the extreme of possibility”. 31 The rhetorical distance between these formulations of revolution in terms of the Other of ethics and “Literature and the Right to Death”’s references to (violent) death seem significant to me (although it is not clear that Blanchot would agree - “the Other is death already”, he says in the same work 32 ). I cite these formulations here because it seems to me that they might form a starting point for extracting a somewhat different notion of revolutionary - or perhaps even nonrevolutionary - politics from Blanchot’s later work, one that, as I’ve suggested, would shed a great deal of light on the relationship between the political and the ethical (a problem that motivates, for example, both Derrida and Agamben’s later political writings). That, however, is fodder for another paper. 30 Maurice Blanchot, “The Limit-Experience”, in: The Infinite Conversation, trans. Susan Hanson, U. of Minn. Press, 1993: 222. 31 Maurice Blanchot, The Writing of the Disaster, trans. Ann Smock, U. of Nebraska Press, 1995: 138; see also ibid. at 131 (fragment on sovereignty). 32 Ibid.: 19. Paul Hegarty The Near-dead and the Non-dying Body In applying the ideas of Derrida, as I aim to do here with his thoughts on death, we have to ask whether this thought should be applied. The question of their application has been raised by Derrida himself - deconstruction is already an application - it never exists by or for itself. This question does not go away, but is implicit in the possible connections between Derrida’s thought of death, the near-death condition of the “persistent vegetative state”, and how this is thought juridically and medically. 1 Derrida’s thought will not give us a better answer, but maybe offers (via Maurice Blanchot) a better place to start the questioning of the limits of life. In La Force de loi, for example, Derrida claims that justice works deconstructively and deconstruction is a movement of justness and justice. 2 Within this, the moment a judgement has to be made illustrates that the impossibility of judging is what drives judgement, justice and the need for judging. The judgement of death involves more than a yes/ no answer, as it now seems to us that some people are effectively dead, even if matching some of the criteria for being alive, and for being human. The case of persistent vegetative ‘patients’ offers a way of reminding us that the judgement of death, especially the ‘when’ of death, has always been layered, awkward, paradoxical and possibly threatening. The notion of a ‘living will’ unwittingly raises the same issue of the impossibility of death, of ‘my’ death that occurs in Derrida and Blanchot. The witnessing of death can occur before or after (in the case of the survivor), but never in the moment. Finally, although I do not go into this in any depth, if the moment of death is in suspension, not present, capable of being witnessed, but as if by someone else (as the witness is not dead), and death permeates ways of thinking and living life, then no other moment is present ei- 1 This is not meant as a complete survey or analysis of this problem - partly at least because I wish to reframe the problem itself, which has largely been dealt with through socalled analytical philosophical conceptions. 2 Jacques Derrida, La Force de loi, Paris: Galilée, 1994. See in particular 14-16, 34-7. 64 - Paul Hegarty ther. Not for the ‘I’, who can only witness, outside the presence that seems to have gone away. I My Own As the Subject was increasingly decentred in Western philosophy (since the late 19 th century), so death came in to the absence left in its place. For Martin Heidegger, for example, our being is determined by our mortality, and the sense of living as a relation to death. Living is also an accommodating of death (as Blanchot would have it) such that the authenticity of our living depends on knowing our relation to death. This is more than accepting the inevitable, or the living of a worthwhile life: we have to be aware that death is where we are not, that there will never be ‘my death’ for me to be in. Death is the absence of living (obviously) to the point where this absence cannot be lived, understood, endured. For Blanchot, there is a distinction between death and dying, with the latter being a form of being-toward-death. 3 In this thinking, it is not death as otherness, but death as otherness permeating our living, that is essential. The impossibility of death is my impossibility - I am the only one who can own it, but it is the thing that cannot be owned, can never become proper, my property. Heidegger puts it like this: As potentiality-for-Being, Dasein cannot outstrip the possibility of death. Death is the possibility of the absolute impossibility of Dasein. Thus death reveals itself as that possibility which is one’s ownmost, which is non-relational and which is not to be outstripped [unüberholbare]. As such, death is something that is distinctively impending. Its existential possibility is based on the fact that Dasein is essentially disclosed to itself, and disclosed as ahead-of-itself. 4 Being or living exist only as impossible reflections of the impossibility of being there for ‘my’ death. So, death, everyone’s relationship to death, and the thought of death inform everything - nothing can be simply known, identified, understood, as all is inflected by absence, non-existence, disappearance and the end of truth and values. For Heidegger (as it does for Hegel), this is what provides the impetus for creative thinking and culture, for Emmanuel Levinas it brings ethics into being: the other becomes intimately related to me precisely because, like my death, it is not mine, but I exist in relation to it. Blanchot adds that writing and “literature” in the widest sense are the location where the relation to death is played out. Derrida’s thought on death is the combination of these, completed by the reiteration that death is fundamentally linked to life and being, precisely 3 On this, and for a detailed analysis of Blanchot and death in wider terms, see Simon Critchley, Very Little, Almost Nothing: Death, Philosophy and Literature, London: Routledge, 1997: 65-72 and passim. 4 Martin Heidegger, Being and Time, Oxford: Blackwell, 1962: 294. The Near-dead and the Non-dying Body - 65 through being the privileged other of those terms. Also, death is a perfect figure of différance: death is what is always deferred - in the most literal sense, but also because each moment of being is infinite, existing as if there were no end, and also what differs: the other of life. These two separations are what ensure that death infiltrates life, or, maybe, that the thought of death infiltrates the thought of life (or being). To generalise somewhat, Derrida’s thought on death (and thought on the thought of death) remains constant, even if often implicit, for much of his writing career. But in the 1990s, I think we can see some impatience with this idea. In the texts Apories and Demeure, Derrida starts to explore other ways that death can be thought (even if primarily still in Heidegger’s or Blanchot’s terms). 5 Death is explicitly caught up in the experience of death, which never quite arrives, and in how this not-arriving, coupled with a sense of awaiting (attente, s’attendre) is what is “proper” to death, what it “is”, (even though “it” cannot be). He is also interested in how we might communicate this thought, this odd and exemplary experience. Here, like Agamben, the possibility of witnessing, of testifying, or of testimony in general are raised as necessary supplements, supplements that are all the experience of death can be. Add to these a third, unexpected link to actual death, and we have a new, unsettling, multiple view of death, one which I will claim also arises in the ‘neardead body’, kept alive (or not) in technology. In Apories, death (and life) is being in anticipation of death. Death is not simply not being (Apories: 33), but the impossibility of being there when the not-being comes. 6 The waiting does not culminate in truth (or constitute truth in itself), but just heads to a “pas encore” - both “not yet” and “no longer”. Blanchot’s L’instant de ma mort [The moment of my death] - a text of about 800 words - is subject to book-length analysis by Derrida, and extends this thought of awaiting and the impossibility of death arriving. In the text, the narrator talks of a young man about to be shot by a small troop of German soldiers (who, it transpires, are Russians fighting in the German army), in 1944. 7 By the end, the narrator seems to have been the central character as well. The text raises the question of autobiography, of how life and writing combine. It does this through the deferral of death (the young man is let off, and he walks away), which comes to constitute a perpetual living-on in death (the only possible awareness of death, or the only awareness, we might have). In Demeure, Derrida cannot resist tying “meure” (homonym for much of the present tense of the verb mourir, to die) into death, and link dwelling with its other (100-2), but he moves on to discuss the other that is maintained as 5 Derrida, Apories: Mourir - s’attendre aux limites de la vérité: Paris: Galilée, 1996; Demeure: Maurice Blanchot, Paris: Galilée, 1998. Translations will be my own. 6 He uses the reflexive “s’attendre” - to wait for oneself, and alters it to “s’attendre à” - to await oneself in or through, whilst awaiting something else - death, of course… (Apories (ftn. 5): 117-8). 7 Maurice Blanchot, L’instant de ma mort, Paris: Fata Morgana, 1994. 66 - Paul Hegarty remnant (as in the survivors of the camps, who according to Agamben, in Remnants of Auschwitz, live on as witnesses, even without speaking, because they have had their humanity removed). 8 Any witness, Derrida claims is some sort of survivor, their experience determined to some extent through their relation to the event witnessed (Demeure: 54). The “instant” of death becomes perpetual, even though it is the non-experience of something that would not be experienced anyway: “il avait donc quitté le monde, mourant avant de mourir, non pas pour un autre monde, mais pour un non-monde au-delà de la vie” [“he had left the world, dying (mourant) before the moment of death (mourir), not for some other world, but for a nonworld beyond life”] (Demeure: 91). The telling of the moment is not simple either - without it the ‘real’ moment has no existence: like any origin, it comes to be, comes to have been, as it is recounted, written. This notion already marks Derrida’s move from Heidegger’s take on death, but it is when he talks of the link between authentic, lived relations to death compared to actual biological death, in outlining Heidegger’s argument for why his idea of death was the more fundamental one, that Derrida shows his reticence in continuing to hold with Heidegger’s idea of death. According to Heidegger, ontological conceptions of death - its relation to how to we live in awaiting it - precede biological ones, and existentialism offers the best form of ontological questioning, he claims. 9 Historically, this is truer than we might imagine - it is only in recent times that biology has been seen as the fundamental truth of even the human body, let alone the ‘human’ in wider terms. He argues that biology itself operates in the light of a presumption about what death is - and whatever its specific presumption, it will always include a sense that death can be known, will turn out to be one readily identifiable thing, once we understand it well enough. Is another biology or another medicine possible? Recent technology already suggests this (and bearing in mind Heidegger’s sense that technology is not about machines, but about human working and knowing of the world, this would seem relevant), and many competing notions of death, even at the most material level, are currently being played out across medicine in its relation to law. For Heidegger, humans are mortal in a way animals are not - in being aware of death (Derrida, Apories: 69-73). Derrida notes this, but there is none of the exploration and paradoxical thinking we might expect - a sure sign that Derrida does not really think it is worth pursuing a point, not that it is right. When he does return to the point, it is an unstated but total rejection of Heideg- 8 Giorgio Agamben, Remnants of Auschwitz: The Witness and the Archive, New York: Zone, 1999. 9 “The existential Interpretation of death takes precedence over any biology and ontology of life. But it is also the foundation for any investigation of death which is biographical or historiological, ethnological or psychological” (Being and Time (ftn. 4): 291). The Near-dead and the Non-dying Body - 67 ger: “qui nous assurera que le nom, le pouvoir de nommer la mort (comme l’autre, et c’est le même) ne participe pas autant à la dissimulation du “comme tel” de la mort qu’à sa révélation, et que le langage ne s’est pas justement l’origine de la non-vérité de la mort? ” [“who can guarantee that the name, the power of naming death […] is not as much part of the dissimulation of the ‘it just is/ as is’ of death, as of its revealing, and that language is not precisely the origin of the non-truth of death? ”] (Apories: 132-3). What if there is only the “vulgar” conception of death? (34). What if, in other words, phenomenology is the ultimate turning away, a total “thrownness” that seeks to exclude death even more than those who ignore its implications for being? If Blanchot is exempt from this criticism, it is because the moment of death being talked about occurs through a witnessing, an aporetic experiencing of death. What we have then, as Derrida's final aporia, is the return of real, simple death, along with ‘human’ ontological death, and where we live is in how those two deaths connect in their difference (i.e. as they are absolutely other, but in a way that is other to each other). Blanchot’s idea of “dying without death occurring”, or dying before coming to die, is not just a figure, part of writing, but in the interaction of an actual non-dying with the more textual or abstract one, Derrida asserts (Demeure: 119-20). II Persistence Technology has altered the definition of death - but the fact that what was terminal before is now less likely to be so is not the full truth of technology and death. Instead of a progress to where death can be known or even eliminated, technology is a mediation of death. Technology is, in this respect, more than the machine element: technologies of death also include legal, political and medical interventions or strategies. It should include the philosophising of death, whether in ‘analytical’ or in ‘deconstructive’ terms; the growth of bioethics and bioethics bodies; the growth of regulation of medicine and also of medicine as regulation. But it is through machine technology that the other technologies acquire new or greater relevance and practical import. Ever since electrical resuscitation saved people who had had cardiac arrests (and the possibility of heart transplants (1967)), the definition of death became strange: now the point of death would be where the body no longer responded to artificial intervention. You would be alive only if a machine could save you… This point (of no response) would also be a subtly different moment from actual death - it being the point where the lack of response would lead to death. Death has become its own prediction or pre-emption - which in the phenomenological model outlined earlier, it always has been. 68 - Paul Hegarty 1968 saw the formalisation of a new concept of death - brain death coming from Harvard Medical School. 10 It is important not to see this as a result of technology, but to see the gradual development of the concept of brain death as a parallel technology, arriving alongside machinic technologies for keeping people alive, for removing organs, for resuscitation. As more people survived head trauma, but without recovering consciousness, clearly something else was going on (or not). Brain death offers a way of conceiving of a more or less functioning human body as dead. Within the concept are different competing versions: firstly - total brain death - where a high enough proportion of brain cells are literally dead for the brain not to work, and physical functions simply shut down, even if sometimes only gradually; secondly the loss of ‘higher functions’ (neocortical, cerebral) - i.e. a body would be breathing (sometimes with the help of a ventilator), maintaining bodily consistency etc. - i.e. not decaying, but there would be no mental activity or none that is measurable (another area of debate); thirdly loss of ‘lower functions’, like breathing. The latter two categories are both strange. With the loss of ‘higher functions’ we might have someone who is in a persistent vegetative state (PVS) - where as long as they are fed, they will survive indefinitely. 11 In the last case, the loss of lower functions implies ‘brain stem death’, and although it is feasible to carry on consciousness in that case, this can only occur when the connection to the lower brain is intact (for blood). So in the case of ‘locked-in syndrome’, where the person is conscious but almost entirely paralysed, the brain stem is not fully dead. Brain death is a judgement about the humanness of the human body in that state. Tom Russell, in Brain Death, argues that this means we should be wary of the concept altogether - the quality of living should not determine (logically, let alone morally) whether a particular body is alive or dead. We might agree that a breathing human body is alive, but is it necessarily human? Can we take the opposite direction, and assert that it is human, even if not humanly alive? Whether we do or not, both questions haunt each other. Aside from the medico-legal implications (although no full separation is possible), what is the concept of brain death doing in terms of our understanding of what it is to be human. Clearly being identified as a human biologically, and being alive, are no longer enough. Instead mental activity becomes a determinant of human life. This creates a humanism that unravels itself: to be human is to 10 For a survey of the implications of the different senses and types of ‘brain death’, and what underpins those definitions in anatomical terms, see Tom Russell, Brain Death: Philosophical Conceptions and Problems, Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000, or David Lamb, Death, Brain Death and Ethics, London and Sydney: Croom Helm, 1985. The report is reprinted in Helga Kuhse and Peter Singer (eds.), Bioethics: An Anthology, Oxford: Blackwell, 1999: 287-91. 11 That some of these cases have woken up, and seemed mentally unimpaired despite total apparent absence of brain activity for years has challenged the concept of PVS and (‘cerebral death’) altogether. The Near-dead and the Non-dying Body - 69 think, or register experience, emotions etc.; BUT the medical humanism of today is dedicated to life at all costs (hence the ‘right to die’ movements around the world). Organs will not be harvested from a PVS body until they are about to have treatment/ support removed, but there will be a moment where a live, ‘mentally inactive’ human body will become a simple utility. The point at which someone is dead is increasingly far from a biological judgement. The concept of brain death coincides with transplant technology, and means that the organs are significantly more likely to be retainable/ functional. Furthermore, it encourages a distinction between conscious humanity and utterly unconscious human animals or, more accurately, human machines. Without wishing to be flippant, what is striking is that the PVS body is much more authentically being toward death (in Blanchot’s sense anyway, and possibly Derrida’s). It is the medical profession and the medicalised (including people who have now become ‘family of the patient or deceased’) that are wrong to ascribe superiority to mental functioning - when all that is is just one organic function, and therefore only partially to do with being alive or not. Where this is going is toward the distinction (différance) between being and being alive - is the living but mentally inert body human, a person? What does it mean to make this distinction law? In Agamben’s writings on sovereignty, he argues that homo sacer is not the one to be sacrificed heroically, but the one who can be killed, the one who is brought into the realm of the legally dead, with the common outcome of being biologically dead too: “homo sacer belongs to God in the form of unsacrificeability and is included in the community in the form of being able to be killed” (Homo Sacer: 82). 12 This situation has always already been generalised as the non-foundation of law: Once brought back to his proper place beyond both penal law and sacrifice, homo sacer presents the originary figure of life taken into the sovereign ban and preserves the memory of the originary exclusion through which the political dimension was first constituted (Homo Sacer: 83) This figure is the exception at the base of sovereignty, just as the sovereign power can act out outside of the law and so found (paradoxically) a legal and political system. Agamben goes to discuss the concentration camps of World War Two, where the exception becomes the norm, the object of regulation and the normalisation of this limit condition - sovereignty as the total power to reduce humans to “bare life”. 13 This “bare life” though, is close to the truth of humanity, and brings witnessing, witnessing to that which cannot be lived, but is. We might be familiar with buildings “bearing mute witness”, but this is also 12 Agamben, Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life, Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1998. 13 “Auschwitz is precisely the place in which the state of exception coincides perfectly with the rule and the extreme situation becomes the very paradigm of daily life” (Agamben, Remnants of Auschwitz (ftn. 8): 49). 70 - Paul Hegarty what the human in the category of “bare life” does, or more accurately “is”. They live in the imminence of death, but in the awareness that the imminence is withheld. The survivor lives on in this imminence, says Derrida, ostensibly of Blanchot (Demeure: 118). But the limit of this limit condition is the living on as a testimony of living on 14 - not in the full consciousness of so doing, but in the absence of thought, or to those who monitor, the absence of the appearance of thought (which is the actuality of judgements of brain death or of irreversible PVS - a judgement based on the visual representation of brain activity, informed by philosophical presumption about what constitutes human life, built from legal interpretations of medical speculation). This is not to say how false or terrible the medical view of a PVS ‘survivor’ is, but to emphasize how much they play out Derrida’s “logic of the supplement”, only becoming true or factual via external support - in an uncanny replaying of the relation between life and death. Is PVS then a sort of privileged example of Derrida’s thought of death? Yes, but not just by or in itself, but in how it plays out, how it is conceived, acted upon, and how it offers a perpetual example (in the shape of a PVS patient) of the exception, of the human as not human - or the question, the possibility of that, at least. In Being and Time, Heidegger claims that although we cannot have our own deaths, cannot be there for them, we are there for the death of others, and even though to think of others’ death is “inauthentic”, an evasion of “my” being-towards-death, it is never separate from the possibility of authentic awareness of death, such that we come to understand that our most authentic being is toward death (see Being and Time: 302-5). In the case of judgements of brain death and PVS, we see the limits of living and living on as that which we are not supposed to be. Is it because of a simple humanist fear that we categorise the ‘brain dead’? - that this is what the human must not be - simply itself as a machine that lives, that resists entropy if assisted? Is it recognition that humans do not exist except in relation to what is other to human, in this case survival technology? Or that we exist despite this technology? The brain dead and/ or PVS body is not the pre-existing object of sets of discourses, but is produced in them; this body is also not the simple product of them either. It has become instead the location where discourses can work through the limits of being human, where competing medical, legal, philosophical, religious and political discourses compete and/ or combine to bring the 14 Or, as Agamben writes: “the human being is the one who can survive the human being […] the human being is the inhuman; the one whose humanity is completely destroyed is the one who is truly human […]”, but, because, and not despite, this, “the identity between human and inhuman is never perfect and [that] it is not truly possible to destroy the human, [that] something always remains. The witness is this remnant” (Remnants of Auschwitz (ftn. 8): 133-4). The Near-dead and the Non-dying Body - 71 human to be. Is the human to be separate from the body structured in this particular set of discourses/ technologies? 15 The non-human human body (in all its varieties) provides material for experimentation and is the site of discursive experiment, a new domain for power to work in and structure, and this has also entailed counter-discourses such as the ‘right to die’ and living wills. This body has always, if in different forms, been operated on, operated through, in the form of the exception - the place all political power (however benign) grounds itself. The PVS body is exemplary of “homo sacer”, who cannot be sacrificed but can be killed, unlike all who have human “worth”. For Agamben, sacredness is [instead] the originary form of the inclusion of bare life in the juridical order, and the syntagm homo sacer names something like the originary ‘political’ relation, which is to say, bare life insofar as it operates in an inclusive exclusion as the referent of the sovereign decision (Homo Sacer: 85). The new technology of transplantation encourages State definitions of life that reiterate the medicalised body as “bare life” (163), and the body is, if anything, more entrapped than ever: “the ‘body’ is always already a biopolitical body and bare life” (187). III Reason of Your Death Since the mid 1970s, as awareness of technologically maintained ‘bare life’ spreads, there has been increasing moral and legal recognition of ‘advance directives’ indicating the degree and the kinds of treatment a putative patient will consent to receive. The extreme version of this is the pre-emptive testimony of/ in the ‘living will’, where a person adjudged mentally competent pre-empts the time of their incompetence - the time when, for Ronald Dworkin, you may not even be a person, and therefore not humanly alive - when you estimate that this putative vegetative life would not be worth living (Life’s Dominion: 230). 16 15 Antonin Artaud, and Deleuze and Guattari after him, dreamt of a body without organs, but what about one missing the organising centre we imagine the brain to be? What about a body emptied of its organs? (of course you barely need to be unconscious to have a kidney removed…). Either Artaud was medically more accurate than anyone else, and the brain dead live pure unlimited but still embodied existences, or slightly more likely, what they show is that Artaud, and Deleuze and Guattari after him never meant for the brain, consciousness or the most obvious and basic bits of living to disappear. 16 Ronald Dworkin, Life’s Dominion: An Argument about Abortion and Euthanasia, London: HarperCollins, 1993. Dworkin’s use of language builds a picture of this unfortunate state, even if the exact words a “life not worth living” rarely feature, as, for example, when he refers to someone in a vegetative condition as a “manicured vegetable” (192). 72 - Paul Hegarty This ties in to the question of the ‘right to die’, but I am not really interested in the euthanasia debate here. The living will actualises the question of ‘my death’ and also the living of that death to come. The discourse around the living will is one of patient autonomy, and significantly, I imagine, not of choice, or control. There is considerable doubt as to how far even a ‘competent’ person is allowed to decide their ‘own’ fate (although not for Dworkin), as their competence has consequences for other - such as those who have the responsibility for withdrawing ‘treatment’, switching life-support systems off: Under American law, except in special circumstances, people in full command of their mental faculties can refuse medical treatment even though they will die without it. But it does not follow that once they have been connected to lifesustaining equipment they have a legal right to have the equipment disconnected when they request, because that involves the assistance of others in their death and the law of most states and most Western countries prohibits people to assist in another’s suicide. (Dworkin, Life’s Dominion: 183-4) Competence is far from clear-cut, and cannot be adjudged to sit neatly inside a self-sufficient subject - in the bioethical world, you can only assume your death according to conditions and guidelines previously laid out, and essentially, according to whether your wishes are rational, and the judgement on this is significantly mediated by the administrative medical guidelines a jurisdiction has in place. Rationality itself is morally compromised within pre-determined beliefs about the ‘what’ of rationality rather than the ‘how’. The living will emphasizes the ‘how’, i.e. the person, being rational, can rationally choose their fate, but it remains caught within a struggles with competing ‘rationalities’ which declare that it would never be rational to wish to die, or to let someone die (the rationality attributed to the person signing the living will also relies on presumptions about individual sovereignty, presence, integrity, self-sufficiency). The living will purports to reduce mental and physical suffering (including that of relatives etc.) for those with ‘terminal’ conditions, with the principal intervention being that of the patient, who typically will refuse, in advance, care maintenance (e.g. tubefeeding, ventilation) in the event of irreversible PVS, for example. The living will is all about improving the quality of remaining life and is not to consist of pro-active intervention (e.g. morphine overdoses). It also seeks to ‘improve’ the ‘family’s quality of life, representing a gift of death that traverses machine technology and the law, rather than the older forms of the sacred indicated by Derrida in his Donner la mort. 17 The living will operates in a realm of restriction, and the restrictions placed upon it feed back into discourses about valuing life in general, away from extreme conditions, and the question of competence is crucial here, as it 17 Derrida, Donner la mort, in: Jean-Michel Rabaté and Michael Wetzel (eds.), L’éthique du don. Jacques Derrida et la pensée du don, Paris: Métailié-Transition, 1992. The Near-dead and the Non-dying Body - 73 unwittingly undermines what it sets out to achieve: that of being an assertion of human dignity, control etc. If competence is so important, doesn’t that suggest that the incompetent person is less human? Less of a moral person (i.e. not endowed with the same rights). In practical terms, the absence of a living will usually entails the continuance of indefinite care, but the implication is that the now incompetent person has lost a key element of humanity, and therefore is not subject to the same level of moral care. The assertion of the loss of humanity paradoxically reminds us that we are most human as ‘bare life’ - when least, when construed as least. That, after all, is the buried origin of law and culture. The rejection of the now ‘empty’ human as a person implies a dualism which aims to heighten the rights and value of the competent human. Peter Singer has argued that we are now moving away from the belief that life or death is the issue, and we can begin to judge whether the quality of life has dropped to a point where death is the appropriate “treatment”. 18 Either the brain dead are dead or not - if they are, there is no issue, he argues. As with Dworkin, there is no-one there to even have a “quality of life”. Both the living will and removal of treatment hinge on utilitarian considerations, and rationalist measures of the human. But in so doing, the moment of death returns, as that which cannot be fixed (as direct killing is still largely not allowed), and, at an arbitrary point, ironically echoing non-medicalised deaths, death will arrive. Dworkin claims that the logical outcome of the insistence on competence is that the competent person’s decision about not being maintained after a certain point is that the now incompetent version of that person must respect the wishes of the earlier competent one and be refused treatment, no matter how content they now seem (his example is of an advanced Alzheimer’s patient) (Life’s Dominion: 218-29). Whether a person is conscious or not, they and others should be made to respect the rights of the sane competent person - the only one fit to judge. In this way, we are not just interested in the autonomy of a patient, but in the integrity of the person, such that the latter part of their life does not diminish the total history of that being: If we refuse to respect [Alzheimer sufferer] Margo’s precedent autonomy - if we refuse to respect her past decisions, though made when she was competent, because they do not match her present, incompetent wishes - then we are violating her autonomy on the integrity view. […] Someone anxious to ensure his life is not then prolonged by medical treatment is worried precisely because he thinks the character of his whole life would be compromised if it were. (Life’s Dominion, 228). This could be conceived of as a playing out of Heidegger’s authentic being toward death, but it also highlights the limit of that approach, in that a metaphysical belief in the self as something attainable in itself (even if via non-existence) 18 Peter Singer, “Is the Sanctity of Life Ethic Terminally Ill? ”, in: Helga Kuhse and Peter Singer (eds.), Bioethics: An Anthology (ftn.10): 292-301. 74 - Paul Hegarty remains. The case of PVS, and, for Dworkin, of advanced Alzheimer’s, is nearer to Derrida and Agamben, in acknowledging that any truth of being, living, dying, is wrapped up in the witnessing through law, through writing, through regulation, of that truth - a truth that is always supplemental. Precedent autonomy frames current “experiential interest” by one’s “critical interest” (Life’s Dominion: 231), where the latter is to be favoured, as the more significant, life-defining interest, where dignity (itself requiring a witnessing of which the ‘patient’ will be unaware) plays a crucial part. Just as with Blanchot’s “instant” of death, which never arrives, for him, and never arrives for any “I”, PVS or dementia give force to a witnessing, this time that precedes the event (but is only activated after the event of loss of competence), and then brings the event - but still to someone other than the one who signed for when they would not be there for their absence and/ or death. There are many ways other than competence, by which we could define ‘the human’, but however we define it, it is haunted by its borders, and the legal, ethical, medical, political systems that draw up these borders. As these play the game of Order, of rationalism, it cannot simply be asserted that ‘the person’ is somehow separate. The case of death, the moment of death or when death can be brought are all subject to a negotiation of rationalism, just as it is a negotiation of living or being. Of course, other factors, beliefs, morals, politics, financial considerations come in, but what is curious in the debate where ultra-rationalisms and apparent rationalisms battle with various sets of moral prejudice, is that the different notions of living endlessly deconstruct each other in the face of the idea of controlling ‘my death’, the death to come, and somehow to live this impossible moment long before it arrives (even if never arriving ‘for me’). Is the living will the ultimate statement of authentic life? Or is it the most ‘thrown’ moment where death is most repressed? Yes and yes. This is the aporia of death Derrida is interested in his writings of the 1990s, where the enduring of this moment is the experience of death as that which will never quite occur, but is always close to occurring. And this aporia is brought by another, indicated in La Force de loi: the moment of the decision, where justice is always withheld and undermined by the moment of judging, of deciding an outcome, and is most close by at that point (p52-5, 58). So, imagining a PVS patient, who has specified at some earlier stage that they do not wish to be maintained; and that death is a moment that will not be lived, where, in theory, there is no-one to die, and the person that consented to die was not dying (in this case they would no longer be competent to agree a living will once ‘dying’): the decision to suspend treatment brings something that did not have to be brought, and only echoes a decision it cannot refer to afresh (“are you sure” cannot legitimately be asked). The aporia of decision is driven by a strange concept of witnessing, where competence allows you to witness, but only in the case of impending incompetence, of moving from any of the notions of a full and/ or human life to another ‘bare’ life, which in turn, and only because of the first witnessing, or testament, becomes a witnessing now and in the past. Like Blanchot’s “in- The Near-dead and the Non-dying Body - 75 stant”, the witnessing is not only not present, it defines non-presence. The living will is designed to pre-empt death, to bring it near. It exists to prevent excessive medical intervention, but also to supplant the medico-legal (Agamben would say biopolitical) decision of death - the ‘choosing’ of a moment or state when death can be allowed to occur is ostensibly taken out of the hands of the medical profession, who are not, in any case, acting purely scientifically, but in accordance with legal definitions of death - but it cannot work without those very presumptions. At the same time, treatment is routinely withdrawn after long periods of being in PVS - the existence of living wills is only secondary to the operation of law based on notions of brain death that bring ‘bare life’ into being, as opposed to human life. The law, or death-in-law, is what attributes consent to you - superseding ‘my’ notion of agreeing to ‘my’ death. This consent has always already occurred. And not occurred. Agamben claims that this extends out from the limit cases, writing that “bare life […] dwells in the biological being of every living being” (Homo Sacer: 140). The near-dead body is, and turns out always to have been, the privileged origin of political, legal power - an origin that only becomes clear in retrospect, precisely where and when we manufacture more and more bare life. Tim Murphy and Gerard Staunton The Envelope and the Letter: Reflections on Law’s Ambience * Law and literature are usually perceived as mutually exclusive realms, both as social practices and as academic disciplines. Whereas law tends to suggest restriction, authority and the exercise of power, literature signals the realm of the creative, the imaginative, and very often, the anti-authoritarian. The American legal realist, Jerome Frank, believed that the traditional formalist desire for legal certainty arose from a desire for the stability and safety that is often associated with the image of the family. Frank drew on his experience and knowledge of psychiatry to suggest that legal certainty was an illusion, a concept used by lawyers as a “father-substitute figure” 1 . By contrast, Howard Jacobson argued in a lecture delivered in 2003 that while the family has always preoccupied writers, reading and writing are solitary activities and great literature reflects a timeless desire to escape domestic ties: [L]iterature […] celebrates our attempts to flee family, finding its heroes not in the parents who buck you up or fuck you up, and not in the offspring they enrich or damage, but in the solitary or would-be-solitary, the principled vagabond, anxious, in the language of Jung, to remove himself from ‘his original participation mystique with the mass of men’. In the end, isn’t it imaginings of escape rather than belonging that we seek to stimulate when we read? 2 * This chapter is a revised version of T. Murphy and G. Staunton, “Law and Literature” in Western Jurisprudence, ed. T. Murphy, Dublin: Thomson Round Hall, 2004. 1 See J. Frank, Law and the Modern Mind, New York: Brentano’s, 1930. See also G. Quinn, “The Judging Process and the Personality of the Judge - The Contribution of Jerome Frank”, in: (2002) 2 Judicial Studies Institute Journal: 141, at 158-159. 2 H. Jacobson, “Strained Relations”, The Guardian Review, December 20, 2003 (edited version of the 2003 Robin Skynner Memorial Lecture delivered at the Institute of Family Therapy, London). 78 - Tim Murphy and Gerard Staunton The contrast in perspectives is extremely stark, reinforcing the suggestion that law and literature appear to occupy domains that do not - and perhaps should not - intersect: they appear to be worlds apart. 3 But there is common ground between law and literature. Firstly there is the fact that both law and literature “involve complex written texts and address all human beings as their audience.” 4 The importance of language, meaning and interpretation to both legal and literary texts means that very similar issues and questions are raised in both domains. As Stanley Fish has remarked, the central question in either case is, “What is the source of interpretative authority? ” 5 Secondly, although, as Richard Posner has written, the themes of law, legal systems, and justice are proportionately “dwarfed” by more exciting themes such as love, religion, and war, the former themes can claim nevertheless considerable representation in literature. 6 Thus there remains the opportunity of gaining jurisprudential insights through reading literature. Accordingly many lawyers and literary theorists are prepared to accept that various aspects of literature and literary scholarship may be considered additionally as pertaining to jurisprudential scholarship. Over the last two decades in particular, law-literature scholarship has developed to the extent that there is now a clearly identifiable field of inquiry denoted variously as “law and literature”, or the “law and literature movement”, or the “law-literature enterprise”. The current recognition of an interrelation between the two areas can be traced back to the writings of two early twentieth century legal figures: John Wigmore and Benjamin Cardozo. Wigmore’s lists of “legal” novels and Cardozo’s 1925 essay entitled “Law and Literature” recognised law and literature as in some sense (albeit different senses) connected: Wigmore highlighted representations of law and lawyers in literary works and Cardozo empha- 3 Costas Douzinas, in a review of Ian Ward’s Law and Literature: Possibilities and Perspectives, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1995, observes that the relationship between law and literature, “two of the most important but radically divergent types of textual interpretation, is not immediately apparent. The separation between the austere legal institution and the beautiful texts of the literary canon has a long history and an honourable philosophical pedigree. From Plato to most contemporary jurisprudence, law is presented as following a principle of textual parsimony. Law is somber, prosaic and authoritative, its style is to suppress stylishness. Literature, on the other hand, involves flourishes of imagination and playfulness, experimentations with form and style which either have no immediate political or moral purpose or are critical of authority and power.” (1996) 59 Modern Law Review 318, at 318. 4 D. K. Pacher, “Aesthetics vs. Ideology: The Motives Behind ‘Law and Literature’”, in: (1990) 14 Columbia-VLA Journal of Law and the Arts: 587, at 587. 5 S. Fish, “Working on the Chain Gang: Interpretation in Law and Literature”, in: (1982) 60 Texas Law Review: 551, at 551. 6 See R. Posner, Law and Literature: A Misunderstood Relation, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1988: 5-8. The Envelope and the Letter: Reflections on Law’s Ambience - 79 sised the literary characteristics of constitutions, statutes and judicial opinions. 7 The publication of James Boyd White’s The Legal Imagination in 1973, a discussion of literary and legal language and style, provided an important bridge between the work of Wigmore and Cardozo and the present scholarship. 8 The recent concerted discourse became “an identifiable fledgling” by 1980 and has continued to mature ever since. 9 This is not to say, however, that “law and literature” has been accepted with open arms into the jurisprudential fold. Like the perspectives brought to bear on legal theory by psychoanalysis, law-literature scholarship is regarded with suspicion by many jurisprudents and as a mere “minor jurisprudence” by many others. Moreover, there is no obvious thematic bond between the scholars engaged in law-literature scholarship, nor is there any thematic commonality in the work considered as a whole. “Law and literature” scholarship is therefore not usually considered as a discrete topic in jurisprudence and is only rarely afforded separate treatment in jurisprudence textbooks. But a significant body of law-literature scholarship does exist, and a clear distinction is now usually made between two branches of this scholarship - the “law-in-literature” branch and the “law-as-literature” branch. Although there is some overlap between the two branches, this distinction reflects the different concerns of Wigmore and Cardozo. Law-in-literature looks to literary works for assistance in analysing aspects of law and legal systems as well as concepts of justice generally. Law-as-literature has two subdivisions: the application of literary theories to the law and methods of legal reasoning and the study of rhetoric in the context of legal writing. Writing in the law-literature field therefore contains work on very disparate areas of law, legal theory, literature and literary theory. This chapter will proceed with a discussion of the law-in-literature branch of this scholarship, after which the law-as-literature approach will be considered. 1 . Law in Literature As has been said, law-in-literature examines literary works for assistance in analysing aspects of law, legal systems, and legal theory. In terms of the choice of texts in law-in-literature scholarship, there is often an emphasis on the way certain literature can work to expand the sympathies - legal or otherwise - of the reader. On this subject, James Boyd White observes: 7 See J.H. Wigmore, “A List of One Hundred Legal Novels”, in: (1907) 2 Illinois Law Review: 574 and B. Cardozo, Law and Literature and Other Essays, New York: Harcourt Brace, 1931. 8 J.B. White, The Legal Imagination: Studies in the Nature of Legal Thought and Expression, Boston: Little Brown, 1973. 9 See Richard Weisberg, “Coming of Age Some More: ‘Law and Literature’ Beyond the Cradle”, in: (1988) 13 Nova Law Review: 107. 80 - Tim Murphy and Gerard Staunton The heart of the teaching of literature lies in the stimulation of our capacity to imagine other people, not only as they suffer or enjoy what we do not, but more deeply as they inhabit different universes of meaning, different spheres of language. For this is what is most ineradicably different about us: that we see and construct the world through different languages, so that what seems wholly natural to me is unseen by you, what moves you leaves me cold, and vice versa. 10 One writer suggests, for example, that after a reading of Dickens’ Bleak House, with its satire of the legal system and those who work within the system, a lawyer or law student “can never again be completely indifferent or ‘objective’ towards the client across the desk” 11 . Another has gone so far as to remark that literature generally, “as an aid for the ‘sentimental education’ of future lawyers, […] cannot be surpassed in its ability to highlight the petty injustices and the violence of law and the world” 12 . An elaborate example of work that perceives a role for literature in expanding readers’ sympathies and perspectives is John Denvir’s use of James Joyce’s short story The Dead in his discussion of “progressive” American constitutional theory, in particular when considering the arguments of Cass Sunstein for “liberal republicanism” or “deliberative democracy” as a viable alternative to “pluralism”. Denvir agrees with Sunstein in his condemnation of pluralism, on the normative level, since it “legitimises a system under which the powerful can manipulate the democratic process to force their selfish interests on their fellow citizens”. 13 Sunstein’s alternative gives primacy of place to social “dialogue” or “deliberation” where political actors achieve a measure of critical distance from prevailing desires and practices so that these practices can be subject to scrutiny and review: “political outcomes will be supported by reference to a consensus (or at least broad agreement) among political equals”. 14 10 J. B. White, “What can a Lawyer Learn from Literature? ”, in: (1989) 102 Harvard Law Review: 2014 (reviewing R. Posner, Law and Literature: A Misunderstood Relation), at 2036. See also R. West, “Economic Man and Literary Woman: One Contrast”, in: (1988) 39 Mercer Law Review: 867. West argues that through reading, hearing, and telling stories, we reach an empathic understanding of “the subjectivity, the pain, the pleasure” of others; “[This is] essential to any meaningful quest for justice, legal or otherwise. It is the knowledge that facilitates community [...] Without it, we would not crave, much less attain justice! ” (at 872, 877). 11 C. Dunlop, “Literature Studies in Law Schools”, in: (1991) 3 Cardozo Studies in Law and Literature: 63, at 70. 12 C. Douzinas, op. cit (ftn. 3): 321. 13 J. Denvir, “‘Deep Dialogue’ - James Joyce’s Contribution to American Constitutional Theory”, in: (1991) 3 Cardozo Studies in Law and Literature: 1, at 2. 14 C. Sunstein, “Beyond the Republican Revival”, in: (1988) 97 Yale Law Journal: 1539, at 1550. The Envelope and the Letter: Reflections on Law’s Ambience - 81 Denvir claims, however, that Sunstein’s theory suffers “from an impoverished conception of human psychology”: it fails to take into account that “reason must compete with love and hate” and it focuses “only on the abstract and the rational [and neglects] too much of the basic social reality confronting the law”. For Denvir, Joyce’s story of a party given by three spinsters in Dublin provides “insight about the emotional dynamic of human interaction that Sunstein’s theory neglects”. Noting the relative heterogeneity of the party community, and also that “small informal groups are more ‘rule-oriented’ in their behaviour than we might expect”, Denvir examines the discursive interaction in The Dead to find that it is “seldom rational” and that “controversial issues are studiously ignored, not explored”. Ambiguity and ambivalence, as portrayed by Joyce, are “two facets of social life we hear too little of in constitutional discourse”. 15 Turning to Gabriel’s final vision or “recognition” in the story - “Gabriel’s ultimate reaction to the discovery of his wife’s [Gretta’s] inaccessibility and hence his own profound isolation sounds not in irony, but in sympathy” 16 - Denvir argues for “deep dialogue” as the appropriate model for constitutional practice: Sunstein’s normative dialogue requires a similar ‘recognition’. Its emphasis on rationality not only blinds it to the darker passions that undermine dialogue but also allows it to overlook the sense of communal sympathy that provides the only sound psychological base on which to build a republican politics [...] Just as Gabriel learns from Gretta’s story, we are schooled both in intellect and sentiment by Joyce’s. [The story] support’s Sunstein’s theory only by transforming it; communal sympathy, not rational discourse, is the cement binding a community. We engage in dialogue as equals because of this common bond, not the reverse. 17 The impact of Denvir’s analysis will, like most law-literature discussions that try to use literature to enhance empathy or understanding, vary from reader to reader. The same will apply on those occasions when the insights of literature into law are of a more direct kind, with chapters or passages or even just sentences that challenge us to reflect jurisprudentially. Consider, for example, Paulo Coelho’s novel, Veronica Decides to Die. The main themes of this book are not related to law, legal systems or justice. It is principally the story of a woman, Veronika, who attempts but fails to commit suicide by taking an overdose of sleeping pills. When she wakes up in Villette, a local hospital, Veronika is told that she has only days to live because of irreparable heart damage. Coelho’s narrative follows Veronika through the subsequent days at Villette, and includes her relationship with another patient, Mari. We learn that Mari had spent forty years working as a lawyer prior to her hospitalization and we read her reflections on life outside hospital, “which was becoming unbearably difficult for everyone”. In Mari’s view, writes Coelho, 15 J. Denvir, op. cit (ftn. 13): 3-7. 16 Ibid.: at 10. 17 Ibid.: at 10-13. 82 - Tim Murphy and Gerard Staunton […] this difficulty was due not to chaos or disorganization or anarchy, but to an excess of order. Society had more and more rules, and laws that contradicted the rules, and new rules that contradicted the laws. People felt too frightened to take even a step outside the invisible regulations that guided everyone’s lives. Mari knew what she was talking about […] She had lost her innocent vision of Justice early on in her career, and had come to understand that the laws had not been created to resolve problems, but in order to prolong quarrels indefinitely. Mari begins thinking about the expulsion of Adam and Eve from Paradise, how God had devised an arbitrary rule with no foundation in law - “Of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil thou shalt not eat” - and then found a way of persuading someone to break it, merely in order to invent Punishment. Eventually, Mari reasons, God expelled the couple, and their children paid for the crime too (as still happens with the children of criminals) and thus the judiciary system was invented: the law, the transgressions of the law (no matter how illogical or absurd), judgement (in which the more experienced triumphs over the ingenuous) and punishment. When God “had a change of heart and sent His Son to save the world”, the Son fell into the “tangle of clauses, jurisprudence and contradictory texts that no one could quite understand” and was crucified. Mari concludes that, if she were to leave Villette, she would not go back to the law, she would not spend her time “with mad people who think they’re normal and important, but whose sole function in life is to make everything more difficult for others”. She will, she says, be “a seamstress, an embroiderer, I’ll sell fruit outside the Municipal Theatre.” Although Mari does acknowledge that “justice” and “law” have one vital function - the protection of the innocent - she also believes that “they [do] not always work to everyone’s liking”. Mari’s views are radically anti-law and anti-lawyers; indeed they may even cause offence in some quarters, or draw ridicule from others. Yet this is precisely the kind of writing that fits, in a loose but highly provocative way, with Costas Douzinas’ suggestion regarding the reading of literature generally, that it can offer “a wealth of cultural values and understandings which enlarge our vision of the world and creatively expose us to ideas, principles and histories unknown or alien to our community or tradition, but indispensable in developing a culturally pluralistic, morally responsive and personally sensitive view of law and culture.” 18 Mari’s views may be radically anti-law, and they may not be current in traditional legal education or among legal professionals, but the legal reader of Coelho’s narrative may well 18 C. Douzinas, op. cit. (ftn. 3): 320. The Envelope and the Letter: Reflections on Law’s Ambience - 83 find him or herself asking whether they are altogether eccentric in terms of the realities often experienced by clients. Coelho’s reference to the Bible might also remind us that several texts that have been influential as Scripture have been regarded also as superlative works of literature. This is certainly true of the parable of the Good Samaritan. One fine example of literary analysis that seeks to emphasise how literature can work to expand our sympathies and challenge our perspectives on law is found in Andrew McKenna’s discussion of this story. 19 The text of the parable of the Good Samaritan may first be set out. And behold, a lawyer stood up to put him to the test, saying, ‘Teacher, what shall I do to inherit eternal life? ’ He said to him, ‘What is written in the law? How do you read? ’ And he answered, ‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbour as yourself.’ And he said to him, ‘You have answered right; do this, and you will live.’ But he, desiring to justify himself, said to Jesus, ‘And who is my neighbour? ’ Jesus replied, ‘A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho and he fell among robbers who stripped him and beat him and departed, leaving him half dead. Now by chance a priest was going down that road; and when he saw him he passed by on the other side. So likewise a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed on the other side. But a Samaritan, as he journeyed, came to where he was; and when he saw him, he had compassion, and went to him and bound up his wounds, pouring on oil and wine, and took care of him. And the next day he took out two denarii and gave them to the innkeeper, saying, “Take care of him and whatever more you spend, I will repay you when I come back.” Which of these three, do you think, proved neighbour to the man who fell among the robbers? ’ He said, ‘The one who showed mercy to him’. And Jesus said to him, ‘go and do likewise’. 20 McKenna first draws our attention to the significance of the fact that it is a lawyer who poses the question at the outset of the story - “The lawyer is a man charged with knowledge of the law, which for Jesus’ hearers is knowledge as such, all that is worth knowing, all that passes for knowledge.” 21 In the story the lawyer is testing Jesus - he wishes not so much to know how to inherit eternal life as to know whether or what Jesus knows. Jesus realizes he is being tested and asks another question, imitating the lawyer. The lawyer answers and 19 A. McKenna, Violence and Difference: Girard, Derrida, and Deconstruction, Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1991: 211-221. 20 Luke 10: 25-37. 21 “One need not be an archeologist or biblical ethnographer to know that; one need only recall what the Law is from the time of its revelation through Moses, to recall the Law as the foundation of Israel and therefore as representing to the Hebrews, to Jesus’ hearers ‘the only ethnological encyclopedia available or even conceivable’.” A. McKenna, op. cit. (ftn. 19): 212, quoting R. Girard, Things Hidden since the Foundation of the World, trans. S. Bann and M. Metteer, Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1987: 160. 84 - Tim Murphy and Gerard Staunton Jesus confirms this answer as correct: “You have answered right; do this, and you will live.” McKenna notes that Jesus’ answer confirms the lawyer in his knowledge of the law (as stated in Leviticus 19: 18 and Deuteronomy 6: 5), but in this particular narrative, it is the lawyer, not Jesus, who is made to answer his own question. Then, the lawyer, desiring to “justify” himself, seeks clarification; “And who is my neighbour? ” McKenna refers us to the contextualised explanation of the word justify: Justification as lawfulness, righteousness, or acceptability to God bears on the limits, the boundaries, the confines of the law - literally on the definition of the law. What is the content of the law, what is its referent; what is the relation of words to things? So the questioning, the testing, the contest goes on, and Jesus […] retorts with a story […] [F]or the second time Jesus does not answer the question put to him [...] The structural unity of question, counterquestion, answer, and counteranswer thematizes interpretation as a matter of questions and answers while rendering the difference between question and answer problematic. Jesus answers a question about the law, about its reference, with a story that ends with a question. 22 Jesus, in other words, refuses resolutely to be propositionally reductive, and insists instead on being discursive. In the story, the man travelling the notoriously dangerous road between Jerusalem and Jericho was likely to be a Jew, like one of Jesus’ hearers. 23 It is therefore expected by the hearers that the priest and the Levite would help the man, their fellow-countryman; what is not expected is that a Samaritan - who were considered as abject by Jews 24 - would help; but the Samaritan does help, and in so doing he performs a double reversal of expectations. Relying on the insight of the French philosopher, René Girard, that the theoretical voice of Scripture is that of the victim, McKenna argues that the differences between the attitudes of the priest and the Levite on the one hand, and the Samaritan on the other, make the wounded man the center of the story. The victim, in a word, serves to deconstruct the differences informing the culture of Jesus’ hearers [...] The good Samaritan, who for contemporary auditors 22 A. McKenna, op. cit. (ftn. 19): 215. 23 “The man traveling is one of them”, writes McKenna, “that is, one of us, one of our own as we listen to the story. He is also one of use as we interrogate the law in its relation to life. The performative dimension of Scripture is essential”; ibid. 24 McKenna quotes Robert Funk on this point: “A Jew proud of his bloodline and chauvinist about traditions would not allow a Samaritan to touch him, much less minister to him. In going from Galilee to Judea, he would cross and then recross the Jordan to avoid going through Samaria. To the question of who among you will permit himself to be served by a Samaritan, the answer is only those who have nothing left to lose by so doing can afford to do so.” “The Good Samaritan as Metaphor” in Semeia 2: The Parable of the Good Samaritan, ed. J.D. Crossan, Missoula: Scholars Press, 1974: 79. The Envelope and the Letter: Reflections on Law’s Ambience - 85 is a cipher for concerned care, mercy and charity, is an oxymoron to Jesus’ hearers, who are nonetheless placed by this story in the ditch awaiting succor. That is the governing strategy of the story, to put the hearer in the place of the victim, to interpret the law from the place of the victim, to interpret the law as the perspective of the victim […] Jesus’ question closes the narrative, consistent with the strategy of answering a question with another question […] We do not test the law; it tests us. 25 In sum, McKenna’s analysis emphasises that the questioner is made to answer his own question, “made to see and hear the law as what one grasps with eyes and ears that see and hear, not with a mind bent on questions”; the parable can have but one meaning for the hearer-victim: “It asks only that we listen to what we say, that we take that word literally, telling us that to interpret the law, to know the truth, we have to look around, but especially look from under, as from underfoot, from where the downtrodden are.” 26 Another example of law-in-literature scholarship is the debate initiated by Robin West when she used the fiction of Franz Kafka to criticise Richard Posner’s economic analysis of law. 27 The particular subject of West’s criticism is Posner’s contention that wealth-maximising consensual transactions are morally desirable because they promote well-being and autonomy and that this therefore supports wealth-maximization as a rule of judicial decisionmaking. 28 West invokes scenarios in Kafka’s fiction - from works such as The Trial, A Hunger Artist and The Judgment - to suggest that individuals often consent to transactions for the same reasons some of Kafka’s characters do: because of a desire to submit to authority. In The Trial, for example, Joseph K. meets a woman who works in the court in which he is being tried. The woman allows herself to be sexually used by her husband, by “a student of the Law Court”, and by the Examining Magistrate. For West, such depictions of consensual sex provide a stark contrast to Posner’s world: In Posner’s world, consensual sex, like any other consensual transaction, should strengthen the parties’ sense of autonomy, increase well-being, and render the world more moral. Yet in Kafka’s fiction, consensual relinquishment of control over one’s sexuality rarely promotes autonomy or well-being. Instead, sexual 25 A. McKenna, op. cit (ftn. 19): 218-219. 26 Ibid.: 221. 27 See R. West, “Authority, Autonomy, and Choice: The Role of Consent in the Moral and Political Visions of Franz Kafka and Richard Posner”, in: (1985) 99 Harvard Law Review: 384; R. Posner, “The Ethical Significance of Free Choice: A Reply to Professor West”, in: (1986) 99 Harvard Law Review: 1431; R. West, “Submission, Choice, and Ethics: A Rejoinder to Judge Posner”, in: (1986) 99 Harvard Law Review: 1449. 28 The significance of the role of autonomy to Posner’s views and to liberal theory generally is emphasised strongly by West: “Authority, Autonomy, and Choice” (ftn. 27): 384. 86 - Tim Murphy and Gerard Staunton actors are often driven by an urge to obey a person of the opposite sex who is perceived as powerful. 29 According to West, then, Kafka’s literature helps to demonstrate that Posner’s attempt to defend wealth maximisation on principles of consent “rests on a simplistic and false psychological theory of human motivation”. 30 This is an example of the use of literature to investigate aspects of human nature and, in so doing, to undermine one of the leading schools of contemporary Western jurisprudence. 31 Often in fact literature demonstrates precisely the limitations of any purely economic analysis. Consider the dilemma faced by Jean Valjean at a pivotal moment in the narrative of Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables. He is a successful and well-respected businessman employing numerous workers who appreciate his genuine concern for their welfare. Nobody knows that he is an escaped convict. His crisis of conscience is provoked by the arrest of another man who is mistaken by the authorities for Valjean. This other man is, unlike Valjean, still pursuing a life of crime. So it might be argued that society will benefit from this man’s imprisonment. On the other hand if Valjean intervenes by confessing his identity, a great many men, women and children will suffer, since many of his workers will be unlikely to find alternative employment. So Valjean considers. He ultimately decides to confess because he cannot accept being responsible for another man’s wrongful conviction. During Valjean’s vacillations, Hugo skillfully draws the reader into an uneasy identification with the protagonist. The reader therefore finds him or herself forming an opinion as to justice based on economic criteria. But Valjean ultimately concedes that he simply cannot allow another man to be held responsible for his crime, thus upholding the principle of equality before the law as sacrosanct. This implies that evaluating the likely economic conse- 29 R. West, “Authority, Autonomy, and Choice” (ftn. 27): 397. For example, the woman explains her involvement with the student to K: “The man you saw embracing me has been persecuting me for a long time. I may not be a temptation to most men, but I am to him. There’s no way of keeping him off, even my husband has grown reconciled to it now; if he isn’t to lose his job he must put up with it, for that man you saw is one of the students and will probably rise to great power yet. He’s always after me, he was here today, just before you came.” 30 R. West, “Authority, Autonomy and Choice” (ftn. 27): 385. 31 Whereas West reads Kafka as making manifest the meaning of a bureaucratized world in which no one is really free, Posner’s counter-argument is based largely on what he considers the misuse of Kafka’s writings: “If you do not read Kafka tendentiously, looking for support for one ethical or political position or another - if you abandon yourself to the fiction - you will not, I think, be inclined to draw inferences about the proper organization of society.” “The Ethical Significance of Free Choice”, at 1435. West herself recognises that “literature, like politics, may be endlessly contested [and that] the use of literature may have merely shifted the battleground”. “Submission, Choice and Ethics”, at 1456. The Envelope and the Letter: Reflections on Law’s Ambience - 87 quences of judgments as a guide to arriving at such judgments may seduce and distract us from essential principles of law. One might indeed suggest that the practice of subjecting decisions to an economic analysis represents an insidious intrusion of received ideas into the far more complex and intricate domain of human values that the law needs to engage with. If one of the partners in a “palimony” suit submits that they have been given an envelope on their partner’s departure which, it transpired, contained not money but only a love letter, one might be readily inclined to sympathise with the recipient’s disappointment. Consider however the situation of the character Tralala in Hubert Selby Jnr’s Last Exit to Brooklyn. Selby depicts a society without the least intimation of deep or subtle human values where individuals are driven almost invariably by self-interest, the adrenalin of the moment and the most basic kinds of sensation seeking and self-abandonment, involving exploitation and violence on a frequent and casual basis. In an incident, almost unique in involving some authentic empathic sentiment, Tralala enjoys a relationship with a military man on leave, prior to his returning to duty. His love letter offers therefore an unprecedented opportunity for Tralala to recognize herself as personally valued (whereas she has previously experienced herself only as being sexually desired). She opens an envelope given her by her lover at his departure. (He is returning to military duties). Seeing that it contains no money, she throws it away, not bothering to read the love letter enclosed. She returns to her habitual way of life with disastrous consequences. It is not uncommon for those who enjoy positions of wealth, power and influence to be tempted, as Valjean was, to trace an intimate relation between what advantages or disadvantages themselves and what advantages and disadvantages society in general. Nor is it uncommon for those of the disempowered who are without significant access to culture and who are driven largely by desperation to assume, as Tralala does, that only material acquisitions are of value. It might be argued that a legal system directed by essentially economic concerns would mirror back to both such constituencies a confirmation of their assumptions and prejudices. Much of the attraction of economic analyses derives from their relative accessibility. Such analyses speak perhaps to concerns of self-interest, fears regarding security, calculations of grievances familiar to most of us. The economic argument shouts loudly but it is not the only argument. Literature allows the other arguments to be heard. 2 . Law as Literature As mentioned at the outset, there are two subdivisions of law-as-literature scholarship: the application of forms of literary theory to studies of the law and jurisprudence, and the study of rhetoric as a means of enhancing various forms of legal writing. In relation to the former, to begin with a notable example, Ronald Dworkin has referred to literature as a kind of model for law. In Law’s Empire 88 - Tim Murphy and Gerard Staunton (1986), Dworkin equated the process of judicial decision-making with writing chapters in a “chain novel”. 32 As Brian Bix explains: The subsequent authors are constrained by what has been written before, but still retain a significant level of freedom. However, within that freedom the authors have an obligation to make the text the best it can be. Similarly for judges who are constrained - to a point - by precedent, and who are to make the law the best it can be. 33 Dworkin’s approach is of course supportive of his general theory of law and judicial decision making, which considers law as a branch of modern political philosophy. Richard Posner, among others, has dismissed Dworkin’s literary allusions, suggesting that the standards that Dworkin would use in interpreting legal enactments are not literary, but philosophical: “[H]e would read the enactment in a way that would make it the best possible statement of political philosophy”. 34 Posner also rejects any general similarity between legal and literary interpretation. His view of judicial interpretation and decision making emphasises the significance of the intentions of the legislature, and he juxtaposes this with literary interpretation, which “can be purely pragmatic and utilitarian - does it make the work of literature richer, more instructive, more beautiful? ” 35 Notwithstanding views such as Posner’s, one particular form of non-legal interpretation - deconstruction - has had a huge impact on jurisprudence. Deconstruction originated in the philosophy of Jacques Derrida (1930-2004) as a series of philosophical practices regarding the interpretation of texts, including literary texts, and has been employed in a variety of legal fields. In a highly influential article, Jack Balkin argued that two deconstructive practices in particular - the inversion of hierarchies and the liberation of text from author - have relevance “to what legal thinkers do when they analyse legal texts [... and] to the study of ideology and the social and political theories underlying our legal system”. 36 Described in its simplest form, the inversion of hierarchies involves the identification of hierarchical oppositions, followed by a temporary reversal of the hierarchy and an investigation of what happens when the given, “common sense” arrangement is reversed. This approach was developed by Derrida to expose the bias in Western thought that he calls the “metaphysics of presence”, a hidden 32 R. Dworkin, Law’s Empire, London: Fontana, 1986: 228-232. 33 B. Bix, Jurisprudence: Theory and Context, 2 nd ed., London: Sweet and Maxwell, 1999: 222. 34 R. Posner, Law and Literature: A Misunderstood Relation (ftn. 6): 227. 35 Ibid.: 245. 36 J. Balkin, “Deconstructive Practice and Legal Theory”, in: (1987) 96 Yale Law Journal: 743, at 746. Derrida has also addressed questions of law and justice directly. See “Force of Law: The ‘Mystical Foundation of Authority’”, in: Deconstruction and the Possibility of Justice, eds. D. Cornell, M. Rosenfeld and D.G. Carson, London: Routledge, 1992. The Envelope and the Letter: Reflections on Law’s Ambience - 89 premise that what is most apparent to our consciousness - what is most basic or immediate - is most true or foundational. 37 For example, Balkin offers a deconstruction of the notion of identity: Philosophers have regarded identity as a basic ground for metaphysical thought: Anything that exists is identical to itself. Difference is a derivative concept based upon identity: Two things are different if they are not identical. The deconstructionist wants to show that the notion of identity, which so basic, so ‘present’, actually depends upon the notion of difference. Self-identity depends upon difference because a thing cannot be identical to something unless it can be different from something else. Identity is comprehensible only in terms of difference, just as difference can only be understood in terms of identity […]. [We see] that what was thought to be foundational (identity) is itself dependent upon the concept it was privileged over (difference). 38 Another important deconstruction involves the distinction drawn by the Swiss linguist, Ferdinand de Saussure (1857-1913), between langue (language) and parole (everyday speech), where “langue” is used to refer to how a system is formally coded and “parole” to how the system is more informally articulated, generally in a looser, more ambiguous fashion. Saussure argued that langue was the more important element in the understanding of language because the system of relations among various signs is what constitutes a language: “Specific examples of parole, that is specific speech acts by speakers in a linguistic community are only possible because of the preexisting langue that speakers unconsciously rely upon to understand each other.” 39 Language, then, is a system of differences, with words given meaning because they carry “traces” of other words from which they are distinguished. But Saussure’s privileging of langue over parole is challenged by Derrida, who suggests that neither of the two concepts can be regarded as foundational in a theory of language because each is mutually dependent upon the existence of the other; again, each carries traces of the other. 40 No matter how far back we go in history, Balkin observes, “each speech act seems to require a pre-existing linguistic and semantic structure in order to be intelligible, but any such structure could not come into being without a history of pre-existing speech acts by past speakers”. 41 Derrida’s proposal that texts be considered without reference to any particulars of authorship challenges the traditional legal assumption that interpretation should focus on the identification of an inherent meaning placed in 37 See J. Derrida, Of Grammatology, trans. G. Spivak, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1976. 38 J. Balkin, op. cit. (ftn. 36): 748. 39 Ibid.: 750. For example, the word “cat” is possible in English because English speakers can distinguish it from “mat”, “cot”, and “cad”. 40 See J. Derrida, “Semiology and Grammatology”, in: J. Derrida, Positions, trans. A. Bass, London: Athlone, 1981. 41 J. Balkin, op. cit. (ftn. 36): at 751. 90 - Tim Murphy and Gerard Staunton the text by the author(s). Balkin considers, as an example, a published opinion of a judge appearing in a case reporter, and asks what is the legal effect of this opinion on subsequent cases: The simple theory of interpretation would suggest that (if the precedent is binding) what the judge/ author intended is the principle that controls succeeding cases. However, this will not do. The intent of the author does not control, but rather the interpretation of the author’s intent as derived by subsequent readers of the text controls. It is the text as read, and not the text as written, that becomes the law. 42 The meaning of texts is dependent on the context in which they are read and interpreted. It is in this sense, as James Boyd White has remarked, that lawyers and judges live “at the edge of languages where they can and do break down and where new formulations must be made”; indeed White goes to the extent of suggesting a sense of the lawyer’s life as one of art, an art of invention and imagination, “constrained, as art always is”, by one’s responsibilities to one’s materials and to one’s world. 43 Another example of work by law-as-literature scholars involves the application of Harold Bloom’s theory of poetry - the “anxiety of influence” - to law. Like the idea of “liberating” the text from the author, Bloom’s theory, formulated in a series of books written during the 1970s, has been discussed in terms of its relation to the traditional formalist idea of adherence to precedent in the law. 44 The “anxiety of influence” is a reference to the anxiety that writers undergo in trying to break free from the influence of their predecessors. Bloom claims that it is by subverting the meaning of previous texts through “misreadings” that writers achieve originality and poems achieve meaning. Bloom’s work identifies six separate types of relationship that may obtain between a text and its precedents. These “revisionary ratios” are summarised by Kenji Yoshino: clinamen, or swerving, where the poet seeks to correct an error in the preceding text; tessara, or completion, where the successor fills out lacunae in the predecessor’s work; kenosis, or emptying out, where the iconoclastic son demystifies the godlike father by showing him to be as fallible as the son; daemonization, where the successor adopts the antithesis of the precursor; askesis, where the poet curtails his gift to truncate the precursor’s achievement in a milder form of kenosis; and apo- 42 J. Balkin, op. cit. (ftn. 36): 782. 43 J.B. White, “What can a Lawyer Learn from Literature? ” (ftn. 10): 2022-2023. 44 For Bloom’s theory, see H. Bloom, The Anxiety of Influence: A Theory of Poetry, New York: Oxford University Press, 1973; A Map of Misreading, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1975; and Poetry and Repression: Revisionism from Blake to Stevens, New Haven: Yale University Press, 1976. The Envelope and the Letter: Reflections on Law’s Ambience - 91 phrades, where the successor so overwhelms the predecessor that he reverses the father-son relationship. 45 David Cole has characterised the struggle that judges face in dealing with legal precedents in terms of Bloom’s theory of poetry. Cole argued that judges are more bound by precedent than poets; that great judges must, however, break from precedent in the manner of poets; and finally that great judges cannot overtly break from precedent because they must appear to cleave to it. 46 Yoshino’s lawliterature analysis is somewhat subtler: rather than simply stating that the anxiety of influence applies in both law and literature, Yoshino shows how two of Bloom’s ratios - apophrades and clinamen - are similarly employed in two literary texts and in two legal texts. He suggests that such an analysis demonstrates that the consequences of the use of “Bloomian” strategies in law and literature are different: “Greatness in the law is not necessarily the same as greatness in literature, in that restraint in the face of precedent may have value in the former field that it does not have in the latter one.” 47 More generally Yoshino proposes that the taxonomy of rhetorical strategies developed by Bloom can provide a useful way of speaking about legal opinions: Because the law has not developed such a vocabulary on its own, these terms can usefully be employed to identify and discuss rhetorical strategies in the law ... While certain convergences between law and literature may be little more than adventitious, the rhetorical and theoretical concerns developed by Bloom can help readers identify how cases subvert precedent to achieve meaning. Through such a process, a text - whether literary or legal - conducts and invites strong misreadings. 48 While it might be harsh to describe Yoshino’s discussion as “adventitious” he exaggerates somewhat with the suggestion that law has not developed a such a taxonomy - or “vocabulary” - on its own. One might suggest, for example, that judgments, to the extent that they discuss cases that might be relevant precedent, are replete with such “vocabulary”. This may primarily be an attempt - as the 45 K. Yoshino, “What’s Past is Precedent: Precedent in Literature and Law”, in: (1994) 104 Yale Law Journal: 471, at 474. See also P. Gewirtz, “Remedies and Resistance”, in: (1983) 92 Yale Law Journal: 585. 46 D. Cole, “Agon at Agora: Creative Misreadings in the First Amendment Tradition”, in: (1986) 95 Yale Law Journal: 857. 47 K. Yoshino, op. cit. (ftn. 45): 481. Yoshino’s case-study illustrates how Tom Stoppard’s Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead exemplifies apophrades (in relation to Hamlet) whereas Aimé Césaire’s Une Tempête exemplifies clinamen (in relation to The Tempest), and how, in the United States Supreme Court decision, Planned Parenthood v. Casey, 112 S.Ct. 2791 (1992), where the relevant precedent was Roe v. Wade, 410 U.S. 113 (1973), the joint opinion of O’Connor, Kennedy, and Souter JJ. exemplifies apophrades, and the opinion of Chief Justice Rehnquist clinamen. 48 K. Yoshino, op. cit. (ftn. 45): 509-510. 92 - Tim Murphy and Gerard Staunton critical schools suggest - to mystify the indeterminate workings of the law, but it nonetheless constitutes a particular form of classifying what has gone before. The standard introductory text on law and the legal system in any common law jurisdiction introduces students to a taxonomy consisting of terms such as “binding authority” and “persuasive authority”, ratio decidendi and obiter dicta, etc. From another perspective, Karl Llewellyn’s The Common Law Tradition (1960), although it was written at a time when its author had retreated from his earlier, more radical realist position, contains a taxonomy of approaches to precedent far more extensive than Bloom’s or the standard introductions. In a discussion of what he calls the “leeways of precedent” Llewellyn offers an “incomplete” selection of sixty-four “available impeccable precedent techniques”. 49 Llewellyn argues that these techniques are “in current, accepted, unchallenged use” and that the multiplicity “disposes of all questions of ‘control’ or dictation by precedent”. One’s view of Llewellyn’s account will depend on one’s jurisprudential perspective, but his taxonomy does suggest the inadequacy of Bloom’s theory for law (and perhaps also hints at its limitations in relation to literature). Those who entertain doubts as to the relevance of literary criticism to law often assert that any so-inspired analysis can have little effect on legal procedure in practice and provide moreover scant insights towards an understanding of the law as it is applied in the real world. Posner, for example, in his review of Guyora Binder and Robert Weisberg’s Literary Criticism of Law argues that the authors “in more than 500 pages of tightly packed print dense with learning” discuss “a set of scholarly literatures that have no practical significance for law”, and moreover that modern literary theory has “nothing” to offer law. 50 Given that Posner notes the selectivity of many of the legal cases chosen for discussion by the authors, complaining that such cases are highly atypical of routine legal procedure, it might be useful to attempt an application of the law-as-literature approach with reference to a routine contemporary case - and to outline clearly what hypothesis is being tested. The hypothesis ventured here is that appropriate literary approaches can assist in revealing to one the deep structure of specific legal contests and resolutions in such a way that correspondences may be discovered to other legal contests that, on the surface, appear altogether distinct. The case selected as an example is that of Sadek v Medical Protection Society. 51 The main purpose of the Medical Protection Society was to provide advice and representation to individual members who had professional problems. The society was open to medical practitioners, dental practitioners and others 49 K. Llewellyn, The Common Law Tradition, Boston: Little Brown, 1960. 50 R. Posner, “What has Modern Literary Theory to Offer Law? ”, in: (2000) 53 Stanford Law Review: 195 (reviewing G. Binder and Robert Weisberg, Literary Criticisms of Law, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000). 51 Sadek v. Medical Protection Society [2004] England and Wales Court of Appeal (Civil Division) Decision (EWCA Civ) 865. The Envelope and the Letter: Reflections on Law’s Ambience - 93 connected with the medical and dental professions. Dr Sadek, a member of the society, had been provided by the society with advice and representation in relation to disciplinary proceedings brought by his employer, a National Health Service trust. When the disciplinary proceedings were resolved adversely to Dr Sadek, he sought further advice from the society about possible proceedings against the trust in an employment tribunal. Ultimately, when the society decided to dissociate itself from Dr Sadek’s situation, Dr Sadek commenced proceedings in an employment tribunal against the society, alleging race discrimination and victimisation. (The second category referred to a union of employers). One of the preliminary matters under consideration for the tribunal was whether it had jurisdiction in respect of Dr Sadek’s complaint under section 11 of the Race Relations Act 1976. The tribunal held that it did have jurisdiction, since the society came within both “an organisation of workers” (the first category in s.11(1)) and “any other organisation whose members carry on a particular profession or trade for the purposes of which the organisation exists” (the third category). The society appealed to the Employment Appeal Tribunal who, deeming that the society belonged within the third category, dismissed the appeal - but without expressing an opinion as to whether the society belonged within the first category. The Medical Protection Society appealed to the Court of Appeal, including in its submissions the claim that most of its members could not adequately be referred to as workers since they practised professions, and a further issue arose on appeal as to the relationship between the first and third categories in s.11(1). Lord Justice Kay decided that the words “any other organisation” applying to the third category implied that an organisation could not belong both to the first and to the third category, and that one might not properly assign an organisation to the third category unless one had first excluded it from the first and second categories. He judged that the society did in fact belong to the first category, being consequentially “an organisation of workers” within the meaning of s.11(1). Although both the employment tribunal and the appeal tribunal had erred to some extent, the tribunal of first instance had been correct in its designation of the society as an organisation of workers. The judge commented that the society’s submissions had invested the concept of profession with an aura and exclusivity that, notwithstanding its historical validity, was inconsistent with the language of the Act (in which “profession” was defined in section 78 (l) as including “any vocation or occupation”). The case summarised above appears a relatively representative example of the legal process in practice. As has been said, the present intention is to study this case in reference to the hypothesis that a deep structure underlying the deliberations may be revealed, which might prove relevant to a dissimilar 94 - Tim Murphy and Gerard Staunton and apparently unrelated legal issue. 52 As we have already mentioned (in the discussion of deconstruction), literary theory observes a basic distinction between langue (language) and parole (everyday speech), where “langue” is used to refer to how a system is formally coded and “parole” to how the system is more informally articulated. Analysing the above case in the light of such a distinction might suggest that whereas the Medical Protection Society contended that the paired terms “worker” and “professional” were oppositional elements inherent in the code (langue), the Lord Justice determined that such mutual exclusivity as was suggested pertained rather to parole. In other words, the distinction between workers and professionals was not a structuring principle in law but a convention of usage lacking in any formal grounding. Cultural theorists also distinguish between syntagmatic chains and paradigmatic relations. 53 Syntagmatic elements are such as can be permutated variously within a common set comprising them. The terms “goalkeeper”, “midfielder”, “forward” and “defender”, for instance belong to a syntagmatic chain, as do also the terms: “singer”, “lead guitarist”, “bass guitarist” and “drummer”. One might intelligently enquire as to whether someone is playing as a forward or as a defender. Or one might enquire as to whether one is playing lead or bass guitar. But it violates the code to ask whether someone is playing in midfield or on drums. The two separate sets, the former relating to footballers and the latter relating to a group of musicians, are in paradigmatic relation to each other. They occupy alternate universes of discourse. The Employment Appeal Tribunal expressed more confidence in the society’s belonging to the third category in the legislation - “any other organisation whose members carry on a particular profession or trade for the purposes of which the organisation exists” - than they did in it representing “an organisation of workers”. It would therefore appear that they interpreted the phrase “profession or trade” paradigmatically, being of the opinion that the said phrase involved two significantly distinct varieties of occupation: they presume “trade” to refer to non-professional workers. The Lord Justice however viewed the terms profession and trade as syntagmatically related - interchangeable as far as the law was concerned. The initial tribunal had regarded the first and third categories as syntagmatic, accepting that an organisation could belong to both categories at the same time. The Lord Justice decreed that the words “any other organisation” rendered the two categories mutually exclusive, so deeming the first and third categories as standing in paradigmatic relation to each other. 52 Such is a fairly standard expectation relating to a mode of analysis. For example in science one seeks to excavate from specific instances formulae of more general application and in medicine one seeks to apply findings in regard to lower organisms to the investigation of higher organisms. 53 The employment of these terms varies significantly, however, from one theorist to another. For present purposes, we follow Claude Lévi-Strauss´s usage in The Savage Mind, London: Wiedenfeld and Nicolson, 1966: 204-208. The Envelope and the Letter: Reflections on Law’s Ambience - 95 He glossed his decision with the significant suggestion that distinctions based on an aura enjoying historical validity were paradigmatic in relation to more specifically statute or code-centred distinctions. Therefore one could not substitute a perception based on history or tradition for one based on law. Now, it can be argued that the deep structure delineated above has relevance for child custody cases in family law. Consider the criticism often made (by both women and men) of court procedures in such cases, where it is alleged that parents are frequently not perceived or treated equally under the law but are regarded differently, depending on whether they are male or are female. This criticism is often supplemented by the claim that womanhood can tend to be invested with an exclusivity and aura - a feminine as against professional mystique - with likewise little beyond historical custom and the relics of traditional prejudice to recommend it. This argument in favour of parents being treated equally implies that the terms “father” and “mother” represent for legal purposes interchangeable elements in a syntagmatic chain, the gender of the parent being considered arbitrary, as long as one’s parenting is deemed appropriate. The argument that womanhood (in reference to legal practice) is invested with an aura dependant upon traditional associations involves additionally an appeal that the law demonstrates its more usual preference for langue over parole. Consider now a separate criticism frequently made of the family law courts, and frequently by the same persons as suggest the criticisms outlined above. It is often argued that the courts do not adequately recognise that the child is likely to suffer through failing to have access to both parents. This criticism is often accompanied by the assertion that access to both parents is important as both parents fulfil contrasting (or even complementary) functions. To claim that both parents fulfil contrasting or complementary functions implies that the terms “father” and “mother” are in paradigmatic relation to each other and thereby lends some potential support to treating them differently. The valorisation of the two-parent over the single-parent family appears no less dependent on parole than the alleged idealisation of womanhood referred to earlier. Family law tends, due to the particular sensitivity of many of the issues it encounters, to allow parole more influence over langue than is usual with law. This modus operandi would perhaps benefit from being articulated in a properly systematic fashion so that it may be clarified precisely where the law is making appeal to its code and where it is drawing upon extraneous considerations. The distinction between syntagmatic and paradigmatic associations (the presumption of legal equivalence or difference applying to parents of separate gender) might also be clarified more precisely. Though here again the courts perhaps tend to prefer to pick and mix perspectives, there seems in this instance less obvious justification for so doing. Put plainly, legal equivalence and legal difference appear, even allowing for context, to be mutually exclusive options. One might suspect that, as in the Sadek case, much unnecessary 96 - Tim Murphy and Gerard Staunton confusion might be avoided by an unequivocal declaration as to which supposition is to be upheld. But the argument ventured here does not depend on the virtue or otherwise of the speculations entered into immediately above. Even assuming the judgment in the Sadek case to be sound, it is not hypothesised that a law-as-literature analysis will necessarily guide us towards a similarly correct decision in some other connection (in this instance, in regard to family law). It is hypothesised only that it may reveal a similarity in the way of deep structuring that might not otherwise have become apparent. It may not necessarily help us in making interpretations but perhaps it may help us in understanding more thoroughly what it is we are interpreting. As regards the other subdivision of law-as-literature, the study of rhetoric as a means of enhancing various forms of legal writing, both legal and literary texts are studied. As Marijane Camilleri observes, skills and lessons in argumentation, advocacy, persuasion, and communication are of value to lawyers and are available in literature: Precision and eloquence in language can help to shed the ‘masks’ of inaccessible and stilted legal terminology [...] Critical probing of judicial opinions, legal arguments, and political debates may be easily handicapped if the lawyer lacks the language sophistication needed to penetrate deceptive language devices [...] Literature could provide the law professor with many memorable illustrations of clear and persuasive language and could be an enormously effective teaching tool for developing written and oral legal advocacy skills. 54 There are also several studies of law as rhetoric. Many of these focus on judgments because “a major contention of some scholars is that the judicial opinion is the law’s most literary form”. 55 Richard Posner has in fact suggested that the only way in which lawyers and judges can learn from literature is by studying and developing “craft values” of meticulousness, attention to detail, impartiality and “tricks” of rhetoric. 56 James Boyd White again rejects Posner’s view on this matter: For [Posner] there is no moral or ethical significance to style; one decides what one wants to decide on the merits, then dresses it up as persuasively as possible; the text that persuades the most is the one that is most to be admired, and this is 54 M. Camilleri, “Lessons in Law from Literature: A Look at the Movement and A Peer at Her Jury”, in: (1990) 39 Catholic University Law Review: 557, at 581. 55 Simon Petch, “Borderline Judgements: Law or Literature? ”, in: (1991) 7 Australian Journal of Law and Society: 3. See also S. Levinson, “The Rhetoric of the Judicial Opinion”, in: Law’s Stories: Narrative and Rhetoric in Law, eds. P. Brooks and P. Gewirtz, New Haven: Yale University Press, 1996, and Richard Weisberg, “How Judges Speak: Some Lessons on Adjudication in Billy Budd, Sailor with an Application to Justice Rehnquist”, in: (1982) 57 New York University Law Review: 1. 56 See R. Posner, Law and Literature: A Misunderstood Relation (ftn. 6), chap. 6. The Envelope and the Letter: Reflections on Law’s Ambience - 97 as true of judicial opinions as of other forms of literature. The decision a judge reaches can be criticized on the merits, as right or wrong, just or unjust. But what he says in defense or explanation of his judgment has meaning only insofar as it succeeds or fails to persuade. Except for the very limited ‘craft values’, one cannot, in Judge Posner’s view, criticize a text in ethical or political or moral terms. 57 This position is completely unacceptable to White, who suggests that what Posner misses is that in our speech, just as in our other conduct, we engage in ethically and politically meaningful action. The contribution of rhetoric, from Aristotle onwards, according to White, is to help us see that “in all our talk we define ourselves, our audience, and a relation between us”. 58 Rhetoric, then, is constitutive of a social and ethical reality: In judging political figures, including judges, we properly ask ourselves what relation they establish with us: is it at heart manipulative, authoritarian, deceptive? Or is it based upon respect and mutuality? In other words is it a community that seeks to make democracy possible? Rhetoric is a way of pursuing such questions … [I]t is a mode of criticism, in which we can engage only if we recognize that our talk is as real, as substantive, as our other action. 59 3 . Conclusion Perhaps the most outstanding feature of law-literature scholarship in the context of jurisprudence generally is the absence of any common ideological bond between the scholars involved. James Boyd White has remarked that “[the movement is not inherently left-wing] unless a general opposition to bureaucratic forms of life and speech be thought to deserve that characterisation”, 60 but even such opposition is not shared by all law-literature scholars. Those who choose to study literary rhetoric to enhance legal rhetoric, for example, combine an interest in the law-literature field with some dedication to the bureaucracy of law. Similar ideological divisions are evident elsewhere. For example, one writer has suggested that there are essentially two kinds of literary texts which are employed by the law-in-literature branch - those that describe the alien nature of the legal process (e.g. Dickens’ Bleak House) and those which use law itself as a metaphor for what is often termed the exclusion or alienation of the human condition (e.g. Kafka’s The Trial; Dostoevski’s Crime and Punishment), 61 - another has written 57 J.B. White, “What can a Lawyer Learn from Literature? ” (ftn. 10): 2037. 58 Ibid.: 2037. 59 Ibid.: 2038. An example of talk being as real and substantive as any other action might be the reference made earlier to the love-letter received and rejected by Tralala in Last Exit to Brooklyn. 60 J. White, “What Can a Lawyer Learn from Literature? ” (ftn. 10): 2027 (n.40). 61 I. Ward, “The Educative Ambition of Law and Literature”, in: (1993) 13 Legal Studies: 323, at 329-330. 98 - Tim Murphy and Gerard Staunton that literature can provide law students with “a vehicle for articulating, and a source for discerning, a public commitment to a shared moral value system”. 62 The contrast between these two perspectives is just an indication of the different political agendas with which it is possible to approach “legal” interpretations of literature. There has also been intense political disagreement over the question of the law-literature canon. Judith Resnik observes that it is a crucial question what (and who) is given voice; who privileged, repeated, and invoked; who silenced, ignored, submerged, and marginalized. Law and literature have shared traditions - of silencing, of pushing certain stories to the margin and of privileging others. An obvious example in literature is the exclusion of certain books from the canon of the ‘great books’. 63 Although the definition of literature in law-literature scholarship has broadened to include both films and television productions, 64 most of the scholarship continues to deal with work from the more conventional literary canon. In a 1990 article Resnik and Caroline Heilburn challenged what they saw as the overwhelmingly masculinist bias of the law and literature movement, 65 and more recently work has emerged that seeks “to engage in the active de-canonization of the field of law and literature, and to show through example how the inclusion of literature emerging from a wide variety of ethnic experiences in America would challenge the settled assumptions of the field”. 66 62 M. Camilleri, op. cit. (ftn. 54): 594. 63 J. Resnik, “Constructing the Canon”, in: (1990) 2 Yale Journal of Law and the Humanities: 221. Costas Douzinas also raises this important general issue: “[L]aw and literature treats as authoritative literary and legal texts which are already part of their respective canons. The process through which particular texts are selected and authorized is not examined. Might it be that they are selected because they fit particular patterns of power, property and hierarchy? What about the lost texts, the suppressed texts, the ignored texts? ” Op. cit (ftn. 3): 321. 64 See, for example, P.N. Meyer, “Law Students go to the Movies”, in: (1992) 24 Connecticut Law Review: 893 and S. Gillers, “Taking ‘L.A. Law’ More Seriously”, in: (1989) 98 Yale Law Journal: 1607. 65 C. Heilburn and J. Resnik, “Convergences: Law, Literature and Feminism”, in: (1990) 99 Yale Law Journal: 1912. 66 G. Desai, F. Smith and S. Nair, “Introduction: Law, Literature, and Ethnic Subjects - Critical Essay”, in: (2003) 28 MELUS: 3. Milner Ball observes: “Literature was urged upon the law school with creative pluck. After the agenda made room for Homer and Melville, however, the audacity and openness stalled. For the most part, studies in Law and Literature still do not venture outside a narrow range of standard, Harvard-and-itssisters approved literature. Where are the new, more difficult translations, the equivalents in our practice to the topics [Stanley] Fish refers to in English studies: ‘The Trickster Figure in Chicano and Black Literature’ or ‘Lesbian Feminist Poetry in Texas’? ” “Confessions”, in: (1989) 1 Cardozo Studies in Law and Literature: 185. The Envelope and the Letter: Reflections on Law’s Ambience - 99 It is hoped that the account of “law and literature” given here, and the selection of examples, will demonstrate the huge diversity in this field and also highlight some possible and potential roles for this scholarship in legal education. As Ian Ward has argued, the ambition of law-literature studies is primarily educative. 67 In a broad sense, the scholarship is a battle against what Edward Said has identified as one of the main pressures “that challenge the intellectual’s ingenuity and will” - specialisation. In his 1993 Reith lectures, Said stated: The higher one goes in the education system today the more one is limited to a relatively narrow area of knowledge [...] In the study of literature, for example, [...] specialisation has meant an increasing technical formalism, and less and less of a historical sense of what real experiences actually went into the making of a work of literature. Specialisation loses you sight of the raw effort of constructing either art or knowledge; as a result you cannot view knowledge and art as choices and decisions, commitments and alignments, but only in terms of impersonal theories or methodologies. 68 The role of law-literature scholarship in this battle against specialisation should not be underestimated. It is important to remember that the sociology of academic law, in the common law world and in many other types of legal system also, has traditionally been dominated by formalist ideology - the view “that law is a selfcontained body of rules which operates by means of a distinctive system of conceptual thought”. 69 However, the many and varied challenges to formalism are well documented, and there is little doubt that law has declined as an autonomous discipline, albeit more in the United States than, say, in Ireland or the United Kingdom. 70 The growth of interdisciplinarity in the American legal academy has encouraged the development of law-literature scholarship and courses are now offered in Law and Literature at several United States law schools. 71 The idea behind such developments is not only to expand legal education beyond the intellectualism of legal formalism but also beyond the social sciences in general and towards the humanities. 67 I. Ward, “The Educative Ambition of Law and Literature” (ftn. 61): 323. See also A. Bradney, “An Educational Ambition for ´Law and Literature´”, in: (2000) 7 International Journal of the Legal Profession: 343. 68 E. Said, Representations of the Intellectual: The 1993 Reith Lectures, New York: Vintage, 1996: 6-77. 7 69 M. Loughlin, Public Law and Political Theory, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992: 22. 70 See R. Posner, “The Decline of Law as an Autonomous Discipline: 1962-1987”, in: (1987) 100 Harvard Law Review: 761. See also C. Collier, op. cit. 71 See, for example, Elizabeth Villiers Gemette’s empirical surveys of law and literature courses: “Law and Literature: Joining the Class Action”, in: (1995) 19 Valparaiso University Law Review: 665 and “Law and Literature: An Unnecessarily Suspect Class in the Liberal Arts Component of Law School Curriculum”, in: (1989) 23 Valparaiso University Law Review: 267. 100 - Tim Murphy and Gerard Staunton In conclusion, the scholars engaged in this field of inquiry have collectively made a powerful case for law-literature discourse and any attempt to entirely dissociate law and literature would now appear ill-considered. 72 The scholarship often aims to convert a course of study which is often “complex, inaccessible or downright dull” into something the students “might better enjoy and thus, inevitably, better understand”. 73 Jack Balkin, in his study of deconstruction and legal theory, compares deconstruction to psychoanalysis to answer the charge of “nihilism” on the part of the former, that is, the charge that if the results of a deconstructive reading can themselves be deconstructed, deconstruction threatens to become an endless series of reversals and counter-reversals, without any logical stopping point. Balkin points out that the psychoanalyst reverses the privileging of the conscious over the unconscious as the motivation for human behaviour; and that there is also a focus in psychoanalysis on the marginal, the everyday events and free associations of ideas, the dream material. Furthermore, he says, both deconstruction and psychoanalysis offer critical theories, and part of what this involves is that their goal is not to develop a series of true factual propositions, but to achieve enlightenment and emancipation, and also that they are confirmed not by a process of experimentation and empirical verification, but through a more complicated process of self-reflection: “The critical theorist determines whether she has achieved enlightenment and emancipation in terms of knowledge and beliefs she has developed in the course of applying the critical theory.” 74 In response to that old chestnut, “Quid custodit ipsos custodies? ”, we might like to be able to answer: The guardians will be guarded by the law. But for this to be viable, lawyers and law students must have access to self-reflection. One of law-literature scholarship’s great merits is that it emphasises so comprehensively this imperative. 72 Summarising the essential interconnectedness of law and literature, Marijane Camilleri has written: “[T]he law and literature movement has a triangular dimension. Literature offers law its substance, its interpretive devices, and its rhetorical excellence. Each point of congruence between law and literature provides a source of limitless possibilities and alone would justify the reference to literature in legal education. Literature reflects knowledge about true human nature; law governs societal activity upon a formulation of true human nature. Ideally, human action should comport with the fullness of human knowledge. It is natural, therefore, not strange, for lawyers to take lessons from literature.” Op. cit. (ftn. 54): 594. 73 I. Ward, Law and Literature: Possibilities and Perspectives (ftn. 3): ix. 74 J. Balkin, op. cit. (ftn. 36): 765. Graham Allen Spilling the Beans: Teaching and Contract Law The law of teaching currently models itself on contract law. The student contracts into the university, the department and the individual module. The lecturer/ teacher contracts with the student via the legal, judicial apparatus of the university, to deliver pre-announced, pre-advertised modules as part of a department’s syllabus. In this age of transparency and performativity, of modularization and quality-audit, a whole range of contractual obligations are set out for the signature of the student and the signature (implied by their employment status within the semi-judicial body of the university) of the teacher. Of course, the model of contract law immediately comes crashing up against the traditional university principle of academic freedom. A huge question about how academic freedom (which is supposed to be unconditional) relates to the contract law model of teaching and course delivery immediately threatens to generate a host of irresolvable problems. If the module elected by a student, for example, is one in English literature and states in its advertised course content that it will cover six novels by Charles Dickens, then has there been a breach in the contract if the lecturer responsible for delivering the module only covers four novels by Dickens? The answer is unquestionably yes. The students are unlikely to, but they could legitimately complain that a contract has been broken by the teacher in this instance. What are the limits of this kind of contract? this legal imperative which makes us all, as teachers, figures of contract law? Say a module states that it will introduce students to the origins of literary theory and it is delivered by a lecturer who favours the deconstructive school of philosophy and literary theory and thus teaches that the very idea of origins is logocentric and irresolvably problematic and so must be placed under erasure, and so does not in this sense teach “the origins of literary theory” but in stead teaches that there are in fact no origins for literary theory. Has a contract been broken in this instance? Or has the principle of academic freedom drawn invisible quotation marks around the word “origins” in the course description, thus allowing (juridically) for the 102 - Graham Allen kinds of ironies typically indulged in by teachers of a deconstructive bent? If our answer is the latter option, then where do these invisible, ironizing, liberating quotation marks end? When does academic freedom (the principle that the teacher can say, rationally, in reason, in the name of reason, anything about anything) meet the contract law model of module delivery (which states that the teacher is limited in what he or she can do within specific modules and syllabi)? In the context of the apparent need to legislate over the creative work of faculty staff, we have recently been discussing the concept of contractual obligations in the Research Committee of the Faculty of Arts, University College Cork. I refer to the Faculty of Arts, although in the restructuring process University College Cork has entered into since 2004 the Faculty is, as I write, destined to become a College and to be renamed the College of Arts, Celtic Civilization and Social Sciences; significantly, this new College, replacing the traditional Faculty of Arts, is to be separated from the Law Faculty, with which it formerly enjoined a twinned Faculty status. Under the new College structure, already adopted in similar restructuring processes by many universities in other countries, the former Law Faculty is to be joined, in a College of Business and Law, with Commerce, Economics and Education. Law, apparently, is no longer cognate with the Arts and the Humanities, or even the Social Sciences, but is in fact, or apparently, most directly identifiable and, as they say, “bed-able” with Commerce, Economics and, this particular example of contemporary bed-ability is most striking, Education. In our discussions in the Research Committee about creativity and contractual obligations one of my responsibilities, as a theorist, was to suggest to my colleagues that the concept of “contractual obligations” with regard to research is a minefield. I think I succeeded, to a point. But the same goes for teaching, in the Humanities and the university generally. If Derrida is right and the university is unconditional, in both senses of the term, then how as it must, or rather as it will, does the university (considered as a judicial, legislative and executive body) specify, locate and enforce contractual obligations, the law of contract for teachers and researchers? Derrida states: the modern university should be without condition. By “modern university,” let us understand the one whose European model, after a rich and complex medieval history, has become prevalent, which is to say “classic,” over the last two centuries in states of a democratic type. This university claims and ought to be granted in principle, besides what is called academic freedom, an unconditional freedom to question and to assert, or even, going still further, the right to say publicly all that is required by research, knowledge, and thought concerning the truth. 1 1 Jacques Derrida, “The future of the profession or the university without condition (thanks to the ‘Humanities’, what could take place tomorrow)”, in: Jacques Derrida and the Humanities: A Critical Reader, ed. Tom Cohen, Cambridge: Cambridge University Spilling the Beans: Teaching and Contract Law - 103 This passage from Derrida is the basis upon which I would ask a question, or a set of questions about contractual obligations and the law of contract which today comes before teaching. I want to quote one other brief section of the Derrida essay I have been referring to: Here then is what I will call the unconditional university or the university without condition: the principal right to say everything, whether it be under the heading of fiction and the experimentation of knowledge, and the right to say it publicly, to publish it. (26) If a university is a place in which anything, in the name of reason, can, potentially, be said about anything, where people have a right to say “everything,” then where is the point, the border, the line at which contractual obligations, especially in teaching, locates itself? We tend, in a kind of extension and revision of the Kantian model, to locate that border, the point of contact and conflict, between “us” as academic men and women “of” the university and what Gregg Lambert, returning to the conflict of the faculties in the post-modern age, calls the “fifth” faculty, the new faculty of administrative and bureaucratic agency which now appears to run the institution. 2 But one does not have to be an avid reader of Derrida’s work on the university to realise that a series of folds, of inversions perpetually undermine such a neat architectonics, such clean topology. It may well be that the border-line, the point of contact, conflict, of force between the principle of academic freedom and the law of contractual obligation occurs much closer to home, within our own faculty, our own departments, our own teaching, within us. 3 Press, 2001: 24-57 (24). The other side of “unconditionality,” for Derrida, concerns the lack of any literal, permanent and reasonable foundation for the idea of the university itself. As he puts it: “if this unconditionality, in principle and de jure, makes for the invincible force of the university, it has never been in effect […]. I also say ‘without condition’ to let one hear the connotation of ‘without power’ and ‘without defense.’ Because it is absolutely independent, the university is also an exposed, tendered citadel, to be taken, often destined to capitulate without condition, to surrender unconditionally. It gives itself up, it sometimes puts itself up for sale, it risks being simply something to occupy, take over, buy; it risks becoming a branch office of conglomerates and corporations. This is today, in the United States and throughout the world, a major political stake….” (27-8) 2 See Gregg Lambert, Report to the Faculty (Re: The NEW Conflict of the Faculties), Auroro, CO: The Davies Group, 2001. 3 The idea of belonging to a body and to a body with apperception (as in the faculty of sight or the faculty of reason) is, it would seem, currently being restructured out of the university’s own self-image and the university’s language about itself. Indeed, the entire Kantian “architectonics” which builds the modern idea of the university around a synecdochal “conflict of the faculties” seems destined (in the United Kingdom, in Ireland and no doubt elsewhere, one thinks here of the projection of a European Higher Educational 104 - Graham Allen My title is a reference to a rather characteristic episode in Rousseau’s Émile. It is a philosophical example and a literary one. Rousseau is discussing how we might inculcate an understanding of property in a pre-pubescent student. Rousseau’s teacher goes about this task by helping the child to plant beans in the family garden. This seems logical and unobjectionable. The child has observed the gardener working and obviously wants to copy him. Rousseau’s teacher wants to inculcate an understanding of property in the child and so he encourages Émile in the art of planting and patient nurturing. An eminently pedagogical scene, we might say. The only problem is that Rousseau’s teacher has made sure that they plant the beans in a patch of ground in which the gardener had already planted some rare Maltese melons. When the gardener sees that his work has been destroyed he is furious and verbally attacks Émile. The teacher brokers a peace between the two, but the point is, of course, that the child has been taught something about “the principle of property.” 4 The scene is typical of the teaching philosophy of Rousseau in Émile. Rousseau concludes the scene by summing up in this fashion: “Young teacher, pray consider this example, and remember that your lessons should always be in deeds rather than words, for children soon forget what they say or what is said to them, but not what they have done and what has been done to them.” (75) The Rousseauvian teacher is a double, an ironic agent, a figure who says one thing while he does another. Rousseau’s teacher is someone who manipulates appearances and words in order to impress the student through experience first. As Rousseau states: Let him [your pupil] always think he is master while you are really master. There is no subjection so complete as that which preserves the forms of freedom; it is thus that the will itself is taken captive. Is not this poor child, without knowledge, strength, or wisdom, entirely at your mercy? Are you not master of his whole environment so far as it affects him? Cannot you make of him what you please? His work and play, his pleasure and pain, are they not, unknown to him, under your control? No doubt he ought only to do what he wants, but he ought to want to do nothing but what you want him to do. He should never take a step you have not foreseen, nor utter a word you could not foretell. (100) It is difficult to imagine how Rousseau, if he were living now, would square his philosophy of teaching with current demands for transparency under the model of contract law. A modern Rousseauvian first year module description is perhaps a rather ludicrous thing to imagine and script, and if only in that sense, Area by the year 2010 in which all differences are simultaneously eradicated and preserved) to be replaced by an educationally sensible and yet in many ways uninhabitable (because lacking a faculty to see, to speak and to think and thus, in that sense, in-sensible) collegiate system. 4 Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Émile, trans. Barbara Foxley, London: J. M. Dent, 1993: 73. Spilling the Beans: Teaching and Contract Law - 105 then, worthwhile: You will be taught in an environment which gives you the impression that you are completely free to pursue your own inclinations, whilst in fact you will be manipulated at every turn by a teacher who appears to be simply your friend but in fact will be your master. Everything you believe you are learning will turn out merely to be the pretence for a programme of education never explicitly explained to you, or at least not until well after the event. You will be manipulated and even duped into learning in an excellent, qualitycontrolled fashion. It would never be allowed to come before Faculty (or, now, the College), never mind being submitted for approval to the Registrar or the Executive Dean. How could the university possibly audit for quality and excellence a teaching which methodically said one thing whilst it did another? How could you ever establish a pedagogical contract based on duplicity, deception, mastery disguised as friendship and freedom of choice? How could an institution legislate for a teaching practice which had built into it such a duplicitous, delayed unveiling of aims and objectives? Such a refusal to enter into any contract, save for an unspecified, contentless contract to teach? It could be argued, and in fact it has been argued many times before, that Rousseau’s philosophy of education is precisely pedagogical, a philosophy concerning the teaching of children, pre-pubescents, whereas what we are doing in universities is to teach adults, students who can legally vote, smoke, have sex, drive cars, purchase alcohol, vote in elections and referendums, and gamble on the stock-exchange. We can be transparent in our educational aims and objectives with our students in university settings, since they are adults not children, and we are educators not pedagogues. This objection to the Rousseauvian model is an historical objection: that is to say we can find it in numerous places, numerous texts. In fact it can be said to be part of an Enlightenment critique of pedagogical mastery and thus duplicity and irony which Rousseau’s seminal text did not originate but certainly ignited. This is a history which concerns questions about the limits and ends of childhood, the possibility of a faculty of reason outside of power structures and ideological formations, and questions concerning the very nature of teaching, or what we can call the figures of teaching: informing, conveyance, the inculcation of Erziehung or Bildung, the rendering of reason, vocational, technological and cultural instruction, enlightenment, remembering, animation, archival training, a certain burning of the archive, didactics, the institutional perpetuation of class distinctions through social reproduction, and so on. 5 5 I use the terms Erziehung and Bildung in the manner in which they feature in Friedrich Nietzsche’s On the Future of Our Educational Institutions, trans. Michael W. Grenke, Indiana: St. Augustine’s Press, 2004. Grenke writes: “Erziehung means most literally a ‘drawing out,’ and it is related to midwifing; in typical usage it applies to earlier education, and could be translated as ‘rearing’. Bildung means most literally ‘formation,’ and it is connected to having an image [Bild] or form. Sorting out the different meanings of these terms is one of the major tasks that faces the reader of these lectures.” (viii) 106 - Graham Allen One of the problems of legislating for teaching is that we are not at all clear what teaching is. In fact, we can go further and say that teaching is not and never has been identical to itself. There is a conflict over teaching which is far older than the modern university; as old, in fact, as philosophy itself. Derrida states in his “The Crisis in Teaching”: “the permanent, founding, instituting crisis of philosophy will always have been simultaneously a crisis of the pedagogical.” 6 One could philosophically consider whether teaching can ever be what a certain strand of the Enlightenment desires it to be: that is singular, rational, understanding reason in terms of a direct, unswerving, non-tropological communication; a direct and successful rendering of reason, to employ the phrase of Leibniz discussed by Derrida in his essay on the pupils of the university. 7 One could of course spend much time considering the manner in which a certain Enlightenment ideal of teaching, beyond the “magisterial voice”, coincides, in terms of an idea of transparency, with the modern, techno-scientific, performative culture of today’s third level educational institutions. One could also philosophically consider whether education, in its institutional settings, can ever escape from the kind of social reproduction of power and inequality analyzed in the work of Pierre Bourdieu. 8 Bourdieu’s vision of education as social reproduction is the dark, rather humourless, pessimistic (or perhaps inverted), irony-free extreme of a tradition throughout the Enlightenment which would argue that rational education requires, eventually, or in some cases immediately, the disappearance of the teacher. One could cite here Jacques Ranciére, an opponent of Bourdieu’s, and his work on the nineteenth-century radical pedagogue, Joseph Jacotot. 9 Joseph Jacotot became famous in the early decades of the nineteenth-century for developing a pedagogical practice in which he taught students subjects he knew nothing about. For Jacotot, all that was needed for education was verification: an illiterate peasant father could teach his son or daughter to read, simply by verifying that they had learnt something when they attempted to read. For Jacotot, as for Bourdieu, education in its institutional form is a kind of violent stultification and malforming (brutalization) of the young, since, at least for Ranciére via Jacotot, it begins by insisting that people cannot learn on their own. It does this by establishing “a temporal structure of delay” into all teaching, by demanding that all students contract into the idea that they do not know what they need to know and that only the teacher can, slowly, give them what 6 Jacques Derrida, “The Crisis in Teaching”, in: Who’s Afraid of Philosophy? Right to Philosophy 1, trans. Jan Plug, Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2002: 99-116 (107). 7 Jacques Derrida, “The Principle of Reason: The University in the Eyes of its Pupils”, in: Eyes of the University: Right to Philosophy 2, trans. Jan Plug and others, Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2004: 129-55. 8 See Pierre Bourdieu and Jean-Claude Passeron, Reproduction in Education, Society and Culture, 2 nd Ed., trans. Richard Nice, London: Sage Publications, 1990. 9 Jacques Ranciére, The Ignorant Schoolmaster: Five Lessons in Intellectual Emancipation, trans. Kristin Ross, Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1991. Spilling the Beans: Teaching and Contract Law - 107 they need. Institutional education, with its insistence on explication, that is to say, creates the very ignorance it promises to annul. As Ranciére puts it: The revelation that came to Joseph Jacotot amounts to this: the logic of the explicative system had to be overturned. Explication is not necessary to remedy an incapacity to understand. On the contrary, that very incapacity provides the structuring fiction of the explicative conception of the world. It is the explicator who needs the incapable and not the other way around; it is he who constitutes the incapable as such. To explain something to someone is first of all to show him he cannot understand it by himself. Before being the act of the pedagogue, explication is the myth of pedagogy, the parable of a world divided into knowing minds and ignorant ones, ripe minds and immature ones, the capable and the incapable, the intelligent and the stupid. The explicator’s special trick consists of this double inaugural gesture. On the one hand, he decrees the absolute beginning: it is only now that the act of learning will begin. On the other, having thrown a veil of ignorance over everything that is to be learned, he appoints himself to the task of lifting it. (6-7) Jacotot’s method of “universal emancipation” became hugely popular for a while in the early nineteenth century. Various institutions began to employ it as a method and thus to transform it into a professional teaching technique which, unsurprisingly, went directly against Jacotot’s own beliefs and practices. As an historical allegory the story of Jacotot’s method can speak to us, since, ironically, a certain modern version of the eradication of the educational delay could be said to emerge in the current contract model of teaching in our institutions of higher education. We are increasingly before the Law as teachers. We teach in institutions which increasingly lay down the law of teaching. And that law demands that we deliver, before the scene of instruction begins, what we say we will deliver, during the scene of instruction. This juridical imperative threatens to flatten out teaching into a process purely concerned with a successful, direct, undeviating delivery, by which I mean it threatens to eradicate from teaching the temporal structure of delay. To get into a debate over a certain Enlightenment ideal of the disappearance of the teacher is beyond my powers in this essay. I will say, however, that only the teacher can make himor herself disappear. You need teachers if the teacher is ever going to disappear. Which is perhaps equivalent to saying that you need the delay in educational practice if the delay is ever to be eradicated. 10 Teaching is a practice which, if it occurs, 10 The issue here, of course, returns to the institutional scene of teaching and how teachers position themselves within the inevitably double, divided, space of the university, the college (in its more traditional sense), the school. This point, about the divided, doubling nature of institutional spaces for the scene of teaching, is where Ranciére’s liberatory, Enlightenment account of the “Jacotot method” circles round to meet the vastly more pessimistic, sociological vision of Bourdieu. What I am suggesting here, admittedly in far too broad strokes, is that the ultimate question for teachers working before the Law of Teaching today, may well lie somewhere between these two dialectically related 108 - Graham Allen involves a deconstructive process which can look very much like an identity crisis. My title concerns the fact that it is increasingly difficult in transparent universities, universities which present themselves as see-through, as systematized and perpetually audited, to spill the beans about teaching’s perpetual identity crisis. It is increasingly difficult, nowadays, to speak about the irresolvable problems and aporias within the idea of teaching, now that teaching is so explicitly legislated for and so transparently contracted. Where, after all, would we nowadays spill the beans about teaching? A big part of the lesson over the beans and the melons concerns the fact that the young Émile did not know that people owned the land, did not know anything about the law of property. As the gardener explains: “there is no more waste ground. I dig what my father tilled; every one does the same, and all the land that you see has been occupied time out of mind.” (Émile: 75) The Rousseauvian preceptor then negotiates with the gardener in a kind of leasing contract, making an agreement that the boy will get a corner of the garden to sow his beans, if he gives away half the crop. The gardener’s reply is I think priceless: “You may have it free. But remember I shall dig up your beans if you touch my melons.” In today’s university it can often seem as if no similar negotiation is available to us. As teachers who would engage in the philosophy of education, where can we spill the beans about the non-identical dimensions of teaching, now that education exists before the law, now that our educational institutions have a philosophy of teaching modelled on, informed by, contract law? Teaching now, in the transparent university, is; teaching, now, will be. Contract law, the legal imperative of a successful delivery of pre-advertised outcomes, flattens teaching (or at least threatens to flatten teaching) into a mode of conveyance or delivery without delay. Spilling the beans about teaching, or, in other words, philosophically thinking and talking about teaching’s perpetual identity crisis, has become a very difficult thing to do nowadays, as I have suggested elsewhere, since teaching now is increasingly legislated for both in terms of contract law and the increasing influence (frequently enforced through legislative means) of “philosophies” of teaching which figure teaching in terms of service, reflexive selfauditing and a general ideology of accountable, systematized delivery. 11 In such an environment any philosophy of teaching which spills the beans about teaching’s non-identical nature will necessarily appear as a delay in delivery, positions (Ranciére’s and Bourdieu’s), in a space, that is, that neither purely liberatory nor purely sociological perspectives can in themselves locate, describe or question. For an excellent reading of Ranciére’s work on Jacotot, which takes a somewhat different line of approach than my own, see Forbes Morlock “The Story of the Ignorant Schoolmaster/ The Adventures of Telemachus, For Example”, in: OLR, Knowledge, Learning and Migration, ed. Caroline Rooney, 19.1-2, 1997: 105-132. 11 Graham Allen, “You are Here: The Time of Teaching”, in: Language - Text - Bildung, Sprache - Text - Bildung, Essays in Honour of Beate Dreike, eds. Gert Hofmann/ Andreas Stuhlmann/ Patrick Studer, Frankfurt a. M.: Peter Lang, 2005: 233-49. Spilling the Beans: Teaching and Contract Law - 109 and thus an attack on transparent, accountable, quality teaching. In such contexts, the teacher who believes (for whatever reason - and there are many, and they are in perpetual conflict) that teaching involves some kind of delay, a process in which outcomes cannot be specified or even, for some, guaranteed, or, for some, even imagined, might come to the conclusion that teaching itself is under threat. My title is also meant, as is evident from what I have just said, to alert us to the question of teaching itself, as opposed to its philosophy (and where the one ends and the other begins is a question I can only pose here). Despite Ranciére’s retelling of the Jacotot story, teaching can be considered as a spilling of the beans, in the sense of planting, scattering, disseminating. A delayed process. A process which, because it is delayed, necessarily delayed, contains the possibility and perhaps even the inevitability of chance, of the incalculable and the unpredictable, within it. A process of delayed in-forming (or Bildung), or drawing out (Erziehung), which also, as our example from Rousseau has suggested, and as both Bourdieu and Ranciére in their different ways would confirm, involves within it a form, or perhaps forms, of violence or force (Gewalt). 12 Teaching as spilling the beans, as a delayed process of drawing out or in-forming, a process which seems to open up the possibility of the incalculable, the random, a process lacking guarantee, and potentially involving violence and force, certainly duplicity, a doubleness within the teacher: can we do this any more? Can we teach in this sense, of spilling the beans, of drawing out and in-forming, of Erziehung and Bildung? If we look at our own institution’s literature, its proliferating number of self-descriptions, then the answer comes back to us as a resounding yes. Sometimes positivity is less than reassuring, however. We might look, for example, at the Student Charter, distributed to each new student of University College Cork (but no doubt replicated in universities throughout the world) on their entrance into the university. The Student’s Charter is a document which presents itself as a contract between the university (as a collective) and each individual student (addressed as “you”). It also begins by explaining that it is not a legal document and has no legal status, gives no rights nor establishes any legal obligations. A strange speech-act, in fact. It can be read as an astonishingly clear example of the eradication of the temporal structure of delay in teaching. Students, according to the Charter can expect, for example, “Courses which produce high quality graduates.” There is no possibility, apparently, that this expectation will not be realised. But who is performing the act of expectation 12 For the manner in which “Gewalt” involves notions of violence and of force see Derrida’s reading of Benjamin’s “Critique of Violence”, in: “Force of Law”, Acts of Religion, ed. Gil Anidjar, London and New York: Routledge, 2002: 228-98; for Benjamin’s text, see Walter Benjamin, Selected Writings, Volume I: 1913-1926, eds. Marcus Bullock and Michael W. Jennings, trans. Edmund Jephcott, Cambridge, Mass. And London: Harvard University Press, 1997: 236-52. 110 - Graham Allen here? The individual student who is being informed of a contract that is not legally binding? Or the student-body as a whole to which the individual student belongs? You do not make contracts with collective student-bodies. And yet an institution cannot afford to contract anything specific about results, about satisfaction, about quality with individual students. Or rather, it has to be seen to do that, whilst knowing that it is impossible to do so. There is an aporia at the heart of this legally redundant document - and there are a proliferating number of similar documents in this and every other university - an aporia which goes to the heart of the uneasy relation between contract law and teaching, and indeed the uneasy relation teaching has with itself. Teaching obviously depends upon a legal or non-legal contract to teach. A contract with each individual student. A contract which can only be realised by teaching a student body. There can be no teaching without an implied contract to teach. Without such a contract there would never be any students. And yet this contract seems to say to each and every student you will be taught, we promise to teach you, but in order to fulfil that contract, that promise, we cannot teach you, you as an individual. The contract to teach, the promise of quality teaching, must be addressed to each individual student (you cannot make a contract with a batch of students), and yet it is a contract, a promise, which in order to be made must include the possibility, for each individual student, of failure. It is a contract with an addressee who, if teaching does occur, will not be exactly the same addressee as the one who entered into the contract on registration. The university’s promise to teach is always addressed to an individual to whom the university cannot directly speak and cannot directly, individually, teach. Teaching, the drawing out and the drawing in of reason, technique, culture, formation, can only ever be an individual - teacher to student - process. Teaching, in educational institutions, can only ever be, as a contractual obligation, as a quality assured promise to teach, a delivery to a collective body addressed as if it were made up of individuals. The responsibility of educational institutions to teach is aporetic. We know this aporia of responsibility from Derrida; it is the aporia exemplified in “the paradox of Abraham” and the phrase “tout autre est tout autre (every other [one] is every [bit] other)”. 13 What I want to say is best said, here, in a series of statements. Teaching is and must be contractual; teaching, if it is to happen, must be a break with all contracts. Teaching must be and must not be legal, legislated for, before the Law. There must be and there must not be a law for teaching. Which is perhaps to say that teaching is, or is something like, deconstruction. Which is also perhaps to say something like the following: teaching is impossible, impossible and indispensable; impossible and a primary responsibility; impossibly possi- 13 See, for example, Derrida’s The Gift of Death, trans. David Willis, Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press, 1995. Spilling the Beans: Teaching and Contract Law - 111 ble, as Derrida would say. Or, to adapt what he says about translation: teaching is impossible and can happen every day. 14 14 Jacques Derrida, “Living On/ Border Lines”, in: Deconstruction and Criticism, ed. Harold Bloom, New York: Seabury Press, 1980: 75-176. META-LITERARY STUDIES Christine Künzel „Aus einem Bette aufgestanden“ Anmerkungen zum ‚Verhältnis‘ zwischen Recht und Literatur Abstract At first sight the law-and-literature enterprise appears to be just one of the many projects which pretend to be interdisciplinary by combining two disciplines that do not belong together in a categorical sense with the conjunction “and”. But there is something about the relation between law and literature which makes it seem more complex, and at the same time more problematic than other “law-ands.” In his essay “Von der Poesie im Recht” (“On the Poetry of Law”, published in 1816), Jacob Grimm becomes one of the first scholars to explore the relationship between law and literature in detail. Based on a discussion of Grimm’s essay in the context of other literary and philosophical texts (among them one of Ingeborg Bachmann’s early short stories: “Ein Wildermuth”) the following article suggests that the metaphorical subtexts reveal that the relationship between law and literature is conceptualized along the lines of gender difference. Furthermore, the analysis of the metaphorical subtexts shows that the feminine - and with it literature - is not only excluded from the field of law, but also from the law-and-literature debate. But it is through metaphor that the excluded aspects corrode the discourse and present themselves as contaminating the law by the very thing it wanted to keep out, i.e. literature and the feminine. Recht und Literatur - das klingt zunächst wie eines der zahllosen, unter dem Vorwand einer interdisziplinären Fragestellung entstandenen Forschungsprojekte, die, Ausdruck einer gewissen sprachlichen Einfallslosigkeit, disziplinübergreifende Studien unter Titeln zusammenfassen, die zwei Forschungsbereiche mittels der Konjunktion ‚und‘ miteinander verknüpfen, „die kategorial nicht zusammengehören“ 1 . Der inflationäre Gebrauch dieser, oft nur zum Schein mit dem Etikett „Interdisziplinarität“ versehenen Projekte sowie die Beliebigkeit der Kombinationen sind von verschiedenen Seiten bereits ausführlich 1 Jacques Derrida, Gesetzeskraft. Der „mystische Grund der Autorität“, Sonderausgabe, Frankfurt a. M. 1996: 7. 116 - Christine Künzel kritisiert worden. 2 So auch von Jacques Derrida, der davor warnte, Diskurse, Stile, diskursive Kontexte, die in hohem Maße heterogen und ungleich sind, einfach einander anzugleichen. 3 Zwar suggeriert die Konjunktion ‚und‘ in solchen Konstruktionen ein nebengeordnetes, sprich gleichberechtigtes Verhältnis zweier Bereiche, doch täuscht dieser Eindruck. In den meisten Fällen handelt es sich schlicht um eine Übertragung oder besser gesagt eine Einverleibung von Methoden und Erkenntnissen anderer Disziplinen bzw. um eine Übertragung von Methoden und Erkenntnissen der eigenen Disziplin auf eine fremde. Nicht nur, daß eine solche Verfahrensweise dem Konzept und der Struktur der Metapher entspricht, 4 da hier Kategorien eines bestimmten Bereiches auf einen anderen übertragen werden, um diesen entsprechend zu konzeptualisieren. 5 Jane B. Baron hat darauf hingewiesen, daß Konzepte interdisziplinärer Forschung grundsätzlich auf zwei Metaphern beruhen: Das ist zum einen die Metapher der Grenze, der Grenzüberschreitung bzw. -überwachung, die auch Kategorien des Eigenen und des Fremden umfaßt, und zum anderen das Bild einer Beziehung mit all ihren Aspekten von Verführung über Treue, Untreue, Ehe, Ehebruch bis hin zur Trennung bzw. Scheidung. 6 Vor diesem Hintergrund verbirgt sich hinter der arglos erscheinenden Kombination von Recht und Literatur also möglicherweise eine hierarchische Ordnung, in der die erstgenannte Disziplin als die übergeordnete erscheint, während die an zweiter Stelle genannte den nachbzw. untergeordneten Bereich darstellt. 7 Was zeichnet nun die Beziehung zwischen Recht und Literatur aus? Handelt es sich hier lediglich um ein interdisziplinäres Scheinverhältnis? Das sind die Fragen, denen ich im folgenden nachgehen möchte. Zum einen läßt sich feststellen, daß sich die Verknüpfung von Recht und Literatur nicht erst 2 In Bezug auf verschiedene Kombinationen mit dem Rechtsdiskurs vgl. Jane B. Baron, “Law, Literature, and the Problems of Interdisciplinarity”, in: The Yale Law Journal 108 (1999): 1059-1085, hier 1059f. 3 Derrida, Gesetzeskraft (Anm. 1): 20. 4 Guyora Binder spricht von Recht und Literatur als Trope im Sinne einer Analogie. Vgl. ders., “The Law-as-Literature Trope”, in: Michael Freeman/ Andrew D. E. Lewis (Hgg.), Law and Literature (= Current Legal Issues, Bd. 2), Oxford/ New York 1999: 63- 89. 5 Vgl. George Lakoff/ Mark Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, Chicago/ London 1980: 161. Dt. Ausgabe: dies., Leben in Metaphern: Konstruktion und Gebrauch von Sprachbildern, 1. Aufl., Heidelberg 1998 125ff. 6 Jane B. Baron, “Interdisciplinary Legal Scholarship as Guilty Pleasure: The Case of Law and Literature”, in: Michael Freeman/ Andrew D. E. Lewis (Hgg.), Law and Literature (= Current Legal Issues, Bd. 2), Oxford/ New York 1999: 21-45, hier 21. 7 Auch Derrida spricht in Bezug auf die Metapher von einem „Übergang eines Seienden zu einem andern, oder eines Signifikats zu einem andern, der durch die uranfängliche Unterordnung und durch die analogische Verschiebung des Seins unter dem Seienden gestiftet“ werde. Jacques Derrida, Die Schrift und die Differenz, 4. Aufl., Frankfurt a. M. 1989: 48, H.i.O. „Aus einem Bette aufgestanden ...“ - 117 einem Trend interdisziplinärer Forschung im späten 20. Jahrhundert verdankt, 8 sondern - nicht zuletzt im deutschsprachigen Kontext - einer langen Tradition. 9 Der Naturrechtler Christian Thomasius (1655-1728) hatte im 17. Jahrhundert bereits auf die „Nutzung der Poëterey im Studio Juris“ hingewiesen. 10 Während der Ansatz von Thomasius der Poesie jedoch eher eine sekundäre, zuliefernde Funktion im Kontext des Jura-Studiums zuweist, versucht sich Jacob Grimm etwa hundert Jahre später an einer genaueren Bestimmung des Verhältnisses zwischen Recht und Poesie in einem umfangreichen Aufsatz mit dem Titel Von der Poesie im Recht, der 1816 in der Zeitschrift für geschichtliche Rechtswissenschaft erschienen war. Während derartige Cross-over-Manöver heute Gang und Gäbe sind, scheint Grimm sich für ein solches Verfahren rechtfertigen zu müssen: „Es ist wohl auch einmal erlaubt, das Recht unter den Gesichtspunkt der Poesie zu faßen und aus der einen in das andere lebendiges Zeugnis geltend zu machen.“ 11 Auch wenn es auf den ersten Blick so aussehen mag, als argumentiere Grimm vom Standpunkt des Rechtes aus, in dem er Anteile von Poesie - Poesie im Recht - ausmacht und detailliert auflistet, so gestaltet sich das Verhältnis von Recht und Literatur hier doch komplexer. I. Denn wie man sich bettet, so liegt man ...: Recht und Poesie bei Jacob Grimm Da es in dem vorliegenden Band um ‚Figuren des Rechts‘ geht, möchte ich mich hier insbesondere der Bedeutung der figurativen Sprache in Grimms Text widmen, die einen Subtext vermittelt, der - wenn man Metaphern ernst nimmt, 12 und das tue ich - wesentliches über Grimms Verständnis des Verhältnisses von Recht und Literatur enthüllt. Es ist die eher beiläufige Bemerkung Grimms, es sei „nicht schwer zu glauben“, daß „Recht und Poesie mitein- 8 Vgl. Richard H. Weisberg, “Literature’s Twenty-Year Crossing into the Domain of Law: Continuing Trespass or Right by Adverse Possession? ”, in: Michael Freeman/ Andrew D. E. Lewis (Hgg.), Law and Literature (= Current Legal Issues, Bd. 2), Oxford/ New York 1999: 47-61. 9 In diesem Zusammenhang ist es verwunderlich, daß sich auch deutschsprachige Studien im wesentlichen auf die Entwicklung in den USA beziehen; vgl. Klaus Lüderssen, Genesis und Geltung in der Jurisprudenz, 1. Aufl., Frankfurt a. M. 1996. Zu den Zusammenhängen im deutschsprachigen Raum vgl. insbesondere den Band: Erzählte Kriminalität. Zur Typologie und Funktion von narrativen Darstellungen in Strafrechtspflege, Publizistik und Literatur zwischen 1770 und 1920, hg. v. Jörg Schönert, in Zusammenarbeit mit Konstantin Imm und Joachim Linder, Tübingen 1991. 10 Christian Thomasius, Summarischer Entwurff derer Grund=Lehren, die im Studioso Juris zu wissen, und auff Universitäten zu lernen nöthig, Halle 1699: 55. 11 Jacob Grimm, „Von der Poesie im Recht”, in: Zeitschrift für geschichtliche Rechtswissenschaft, Bd. 2 (1816): 25-99, hier 25f. 12 Vgl. Lakoff/ Johnson, Metaphors We Live By (Anm. 5). 118 - Christine Künzel ander aus einem Bette aufgestanden waren“ 13 , die in diesem Zusammenhang meine Aufmerksamkeit erregte. Warum legt Grimm Recht und Poesie zusammen in ein Bett? Wäre es ihm lediglich darum gegangen, auf einen gemeinsamen Ursprung hinzuweisen, so hätte er das mit weniger verfänglichen Metaphern tun können, etwa mit den Begriffen Ursprung, Quelle oder Wurzel. Doch die Anspielung auf das Bett verleiht dem Verhältnis zwischen Recht und Poesie eine besondere Qualität, die sich von dem Verfahren der Konjunktion unterscheidet. Zunächst stellt sich natürlich die Frage, an welche Art von Bett Grimm gedacht haben mag: an ein Ehebett oder gar an ein Lotterbett? In jedem Fall suggeriert die Metapher des Bettes eine Beziehung, die über eine neutrale Verbindung im Sinne einer schlichten Konjunktion hinausgeht, der etwas Geschlechtliches, etwas Sexuelles anhaftet. 14 Jenseits der Forderung nach political correctness, die hier sicherlich auch auf die Möglichkeit einer homoerotischen Beziehung pochen würde, erscheint es mit Blick auf den historischen Kontext, in dem Grimms Text entsteht, plausibel zu sein, von einem - wie auch immer gearteten - heterosexuellen Verhältnis auszugehen, das sich in dem Bild des gemeinsamen Bettes vermittelt. Mit Bezug auf die Edda weist Grimm im selben Aufsatz darauf hin, daß die Formulierung „‚ein Bett sich zusammenmachen‘ für vermählen“ 15 stehe. Dem Einfluß der Gender-Studies haben wir die Einsicht zu verdanken, daß sich Prägemuster des Weiblichen und Männlichen allenthalben in religiösen, mythischen, natur- und sozialwissenschaftlichen oder juristischen Diskursen entfalten, deren eigentliche Differenzierung und Problematisierung jedoch nicht nur in literarischen Texten erfolgt, sondern auch in der Weise des Sprechens, in der Wahl konzeptioneller Metaphern, die einen Subtext herstellen, der bestimmte kulturelle Denkmuster erst offenbart. 16 Wem kommt in dieser Geschlechterkonstellation nun welche Rolle zu? Wer ist Mann, wer Weib? Ich meine, es gibt mehrere Indikatoren dafür, das Recht als den männlichen und die Poesie als den weiblichen Part in dieser Beziehung zu betrachten. Zunächst kommt dem Recht - wie übrigens auch im gleichnamigen Forschungsbereich „Recht und Literatur“ - das Privileg der Erstnennung zu, was, auf die Geschlechterhierarchie bezogen, der Erstnennung des Mannes gleichkommt: Mann und Frau. Der Mann ist in jeder Hinsicht das erste Geschlecht: als Erstgeschaffener, Erstgeborener und Erstgenannter. Die Frau dagegen ist 13 Grimm, „Von der Poesie im Recht” (Anm. 11): 27 (§ 2). 14 Vgl. Baron, “Interdisciplinary Legal Scholarship” (Anm. 6): 23: “The border and fidelity metaphors tell a disconcerting, sexualized story (…).” 15 Grimm, „Von der Poesie im Recht“ (Anm. 11): 49 (Fn. 30): Ein Ehepaar teilt Tisch und Bett, wobei „Bett und Tisch [...] für den Inbegriff der ganzen Hausgewalt“ stehen; vgl. Grimm, ebd.: 49. 16 Vgl. das Vorwort von Gerhard Neumann und Ina Schabert zu den Publikationen des Münchner Graduiertenkollegs „Geschlechterdifferenz & Literatur“ in: Elfi Bettinger/ Julika Funk (Hgg.), Maskeraden: Geschlechterdifferenz in der literarischen Inszenierung, Berlin 1995. „Aus einem Bette aufgestanden ...“ - 119 das zweite Geschlecht, das sekundäre, das immer mit Bezug auf den Mann definiert wird. 17 Es sieht also so aus, als hätte Grimm das Verhältnis zwischen Recht und Poesie in Analogie zu einem Geschlechterverhältnis konzipiert. Ich wähle hier bewußt den unbestimmten Artikel, da noch zu klären ist, um welche Art von Beziehung es sich hier handeln mag. Grimms Auffassung von der Verbindung zwischen Recht und Poesie geht zumindest über die einer einfachen Konjunktion hinaus. Der konnotative Gehalt der Bett-Metapher weist eher in die Richtung einer Konjugation, die im grammatischen Sinne eine Abwandlung bzw. Beugung eines Verbs nach Person, aber auch einen Akt der Begattung (coniugatio) bezeichnet, 18 der auf eine eheliche Verbindung oder ein außereheliches Verhältnis (coniugium) 19 hindeutet. Immerhin formuliert Grimm, daß Poesie und Recht „sich in allen ihren Gliedern berühren“ 20 . Sie fragen sich vielleicht, warum ich hier auf die grammatische Funktion der Konjugation hingewiesen habe, die hier oberflächlich betrachtet doch kaum ein Rolle zu spielen scheint. Nimmt man jedoch den metaphorischen Gehalt der Beugung eines Verbs, d.h. den Akt seiner Anpassung an ein Nomen ernst, dann ergibt sich ein Aspekt, der die These einer analogen Konstruktion der Beziehung der Geschlechter und der Bereiche Recht und Literatur stützt. Der Akt der Konjugation, der Beugung, ist ein Akt, der ein asymmetrisches Verhältnis beschreibt: der eine Teil (Verb) paßt sich einem anderen Teil (Nomen) an, beugt sich diesem entgegen. 21 Joachim Heinrich Campe hat das Verhältnis der Geschlechter Ende des 18. Jahrhunderts in diesem Sinne metaphorisch eindrücklich und nachhaltig beschrieben: Es ist also der übereinstimmende Wille der Natur und der menschlichen Gesellschaft, daß der Mann des Weibes Beschützer und Oberhaupt, das Weib hingegen die sich ihm anschmiegende, sich an ihm haltende und stützende treue, dankbare und folgsame Gefährtin und Gehülfinn seines Lebens sein sollte - er die Eiche, 17 Grimm stellt fest, daß das Recht in erster Linie auf den Mann zugeschnitten ist und die Frau nur sekundär betrifft: „Es gefällt mir daher, daß unsere Gesetze, indem sie dem Mann etwas zuweisen, auch seine Frau bedenken“, Grimm, „Von der Poesie im Recht“ (Anm. 11): 97. 18 Der Begriff „Konjugation“ steht laut Duden nicht nur für die Beugung eines Verbs, sondern im biologischen Kontext auch für die Vereinigung zweier Organismen, die mit einem Kernaustausch verbunden ist. 19 Auch Grimm erläutert den Begriff „conjugium“ in einer Fußnote. Vgl., ders., „Von der Poesie im Recht“ (Anm. 11): 30 (Fn. 5). 20 Ebd.: 34. 21 Zur Bedeutung einer entsprechenden biegsamen und schmiegsamen Haltung im Zusammenhang mit weiblicher Fügsamkeit vgl. auch Pierre Bourdieu, „Die männliche Herrschaft“, in: Irene Dölling/ Beate Krais (Hgg.), Ein alltägliches Spiel: Geschlechterkonstruktion in der sozialen Praxis, 1. Aufl., Frankfurt a. M. 1997: 153-216, hier 187. 120 - Christine Künzel sie der Efeu, der einen Theil seiner Lebenskraft aus den Lebenskräften der Eiche saugt […]. 22 Wie die Eiche in Campes Geschlechterkonzeption so stellt „Recht und Gesetz [...] das Feste, Gerade“ 23 , sprich das männliche Prinzip, in Grimms Recht-und- Poesie-Verbindung dar. Die Genealogie von Recht und Poesie ist ebenfalls geschlechtsspezifisch markiert: Während das Recht als väterliches Prinzip 24 überliefert wird, ist es die Poesie, die sich durch „mütterliche Rede“ 25 , sprich per Muttersprache vermittelt, vom „verdammten altväterlichen Canzleistil“ 26 absetzt. 27 Und auch die Symbole für Recht und Literatur, auf die Grimm Bezug nimmt, „Schwert und Spindel“, sind männlich bzw. weiblich konnotiert. In die Poesie sind die spinnenden, webenden Frauen ebenso verflochten und die wirkliche Gewohnheit legte beiden Geschlechtern Schwert und Spille ins Grab bei, damit sie dem Volksglauben zufolge in der anderen Welt gleich wieder an ihre Arbeit gehen könnten. 28 In der Tatsache, daß das Weben - wie auch das Spinnen - stets als spezifisch weibliche Tätigkeit betrachtet wurde und Freud die Technik des „Flechtens und Webens“ als einen der wenigen, wenn nicht gar den einzigen weiblichen Beitrag zu den „Entdeckungen und Erfindungen der Kulturgeschichte“ 29 bezeichnet, deutet sich die kulturelle Verknüpfung von Poesie und Weiblichkeit an, auf die auch Grimm hier rekurriert. 30 Doch kehren wir zurück zu der Frage, um welche Art von Beziehung es sich zwischen Recht und Literatur handeln mag. Ich meine, die metaphorischen 22 Joachim Heinrich Campe, Väterlicher Rath für meine Tochter, Neudruck der Ausgabe Braunschweig 1796, Paderborn 1988: 23. 23 Grimm, „Von der Poesie im Recht“ (Anm. 11): 30. 24 Vgl. ebd.: 26. 25 Ebd.: 35. 26 Grimm, „Von der Poesie im Recht“ (Anm. 11): 45. 27 Johann Gottfried Herder spricht mit Bezug auf Samuel Richardsons Roman „Clarissa“ im kritischen Sinne von einer „Canzleisprache der Liebe“. Vgl. Herders Brief an Caroline Flachsland vom 4. Dezember 1771, in: Herders Briefwechsel mit Caroline Flachsland, Bd. I: 1770-1771, nach den Handschriften des Goethe- und Schiller-Archivs, hg. v. Hans Schauer, Weimar 1926: 393. 28 Grimm, „Von der Poesie im Recht“ (Anm. 11): 76. 29 Sigmund Freud, „Die Weiblichkeit“, in: Studienausgabe in 10 Bänden, Bd. I, hg. v. Alexander Mitscherlich/ Angela Richards/ James Strachey, limitierte Sonderausgabe, Frankfurt a. M. 2000: 562. 30 Vgl. Nancy K. Miller, “Arachnologies: The Woman, The Text and the Critic”, in: Nancy K. Miller (Hg.), The Poetics of Gender, New York 1986: 270-295, hier 271: “[...] the language of textiles tends to engender in the dominant discursive strategies of much contemporary literary criticism a metaphoric of femininity deeply marked by Freud’s account of women and weaving.” „Aus einem Bette aufgestanden ...“ - 121 Indizien sprechen dafür, daß Grimm das Verhältnis als Ehe konzipiert: 31 Da ist zum einen die Anspielung auf das gemeinsame Bett, die auf den Vollzug der Ehe schließen läßt; und zum zweiten ist es der Aspekt des Nebeneinanders, der scheinbaren Gleichberechtigung in einer streng hierarchischen Ordnung, der an Ehekonzepte von der Frühen Neuzeit bis ins 20. Jahrhundert hinein erinnert. Obwohl Martin Luther im Sermon von dem ehelichen Stand davon spricht, daß „Mann und Weib vereinigt im ehelichen Stand [...], zwei in einem Fleisch“ 32 sind, weist er in seiner Predigt vom Ehestand darauf hin, daß „des Weibes Wille [...] dem Manne unterworfen sein und der [...] ihr Herr sein“ 33 soll. Eindrucksvoll hat auch Shakespeare das Verhältnis von Mann und Frau im Schlußmonolog seines Dramas Der Widerspenstigen Zähmung (um 1593) zusammengefaßt, wenn er Katherina sagen läßt: „Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, / Thy head, thy sovereign“ 34 und Petruchio mit der Aufforderung „Come, Kate, we’ll to bed“ 35 schließt. Auch Johann Gottlieb Fichte (1762-1814) stellt in seinem Grundriß des Familienrechts (1796) in Bezug auf das Verhältnis der Geschlechter in der Ehe fest: „In dem Begriffe der Ehe liegt die unbegrenzte Unterwerfung der Frau unter den Willen des Mannes [...].“ 36 Ebenfalls als ‚Rat an eine Tochter‘ getarnt, begründete George Saville, Earl of Halifax, gut einhundert Jahre vor Campe die Unterwerfung der Frau unter den Willen des Ehemannes mit Bezug auf seine Position im Rechtsdiskurs: You must first lay it down for a foundation in generall, that there is inequality in the Sexes, and that for the better oeconomy of the World, the men, who were to bee the Law-givers, had the larger share of reason bestowed upon them; by which means your Sex is the better prepared for the complyance that is necessary. 37 31 Vgl. Baron, “Interdisciplinary Legal Scholarship” (Anm. 6): 21 und auch Mària Aristodemou, Law and Literature: Journeys from Her to Eternity, Oxford/ New York 2000: 28. 32 Martin Luther, „Ein Sermon von dem ehelichen Stand“, in: Vom ehelichen Leben und andere Schriften über die Ehe, hg. v. Dagmar C. G. Lorenz, Stuttgart 1997: 6. 33 Martin Luther, „Eine Predigt vom Ehestand“, in: Vom ehelichen Leben (Anm. 32): 70. 34 William Shakespeare, “The Taming of the Shrew”, in: The Arden Edition of the Works of Shakespeare, Bd. 34, hg. v. Brian Morris, London/ New York 1981: 295. 35 William Shakespeare, “The Taming of the Shrew” (Anm. 34): 297. 36 Johann Gottlieb Fichte, Werke, Bd. III: Zur Rechts- und Sittenlehre I, hg. v. Immanuel Hermann Fichte, Berlin 1971: 325 (§. 16). 37 George Saville, “Marquis of Halifax, The Lady’s New-year’s Gift; or, Advice to a Daughter” (1688), in: The Works of George Saville, Marquis of Halifax, Bd. 2, hg. v. Mark N. Brown, Oxford 1989: 369-370. Für eine Diskussion des Textes im Zusammenhang der Recht-und-Literatur-Debatte siehe Ann van Sant, “Satire and Law: The ‚Case‘ against Women”, in: Brook Thomas (Hg.), Law and Literature (= REAL: Yearbook of Research in English and American Literature, Bd. 18), Tübingen 2002: 39-64. 122 - Christine Künzel Falls Grimm also auf eine ‚Ehe‘ zwischen Recht und Poesie anspielt, dann verweist diese Metapher zugleich auf ein asymmetrisches, sprich hierarchisches Verhältnis zwischen beiden Bereichen, das sich im wesentlichen an der Ordnung der Geschlechter orientiert. 38 Auch dieser metaphorischen Hypothese möchte ich nachgehen und ihre Stichhaltigkeit in Bezug auf den Forschungsbereich ‚Recht und Literatur‘ untersuchen. 39 II. Herr Recht und Frau Literatur? Eine Zustandsbeschreibung der Recht-und-Literatur-Debatte aus der Geschlechterperspektive Wirft man einen Blick auf die inzwischen äußerst umfangreiche Liste der Publikationen im Bereich von Recht und Literatur, so fällt auf, daß diese - sowohl im deutschsprachigen als auch im englischsprachigen Raum - von Arbeiten aus rechtswissenschaftlicher Perspektive dominiert wird. Auch die jüngste umfassende Studie zur Entstehung und zu den verschiedenen Aspekten der Rechtund-Literatur-Forschung verdankt sich nicht etwa der Zusammenarbeit von WissenschaftlerInnen beider Bereiche, sondern der Initiative zweier Rechtswissenschaftler - ich beziehe mich hier auf den Band Literary Criticisms of Law von Guyora Binder und Robert Weisberg. 40 Über den Daumen gepeilt dürften die Arbeiten zum Thema Recht und Literatur etwa zu 70 Prozent aus dem Bereich der Rechtswissenschaft stammen, dagegen etwa nur zu einem Viertel aus dem Bereich der Literaturwissenschaft. Da stellt sich natürlich die Frage nach möglichen Ursachen für dieses Mißverhältnis. Selbstverständlich kann ich im Hinblick auf die genaue Verteilung der Publikationen nur spekulieren, doch führen mich meine Überlegungen wieder zu den geschlechtsspezifischen Konnotationen von Recht und Literatur zurück und knüpfen an die oben entworfenen Thesen an. Unter den gegebenen Voraussetzungen scheint es nicht verwunderlich, daß die Zahl von Forschungen und Publikationen von weiblichen Wissenschaftlern im Bereich Recht und Literatur geringer ist, als in den jeweiligen Einzeldisziplinen. 41 Obwohl inzwischen zahlreiche Publikationen und Forschungsprojekte aus dem Bereich der feministischen Rechtswissenschaft 38 Zur Legitimation männlicher Vorherrschaft in der Ehe vgl. Esther Goody, „Warum die Macht rechthaben muß: Bemerkungen zur Herrschaft des einen Geschlechts über das andere“, in: Alf Lüdtke (Hg.), Herrschaft als soziale Praxis: Historische und sozial-anthropologische Studien, Göttingen 1991: 68-112. 39 Eine Diskussion der Recht-und-Literatur-Debatte vor dem Hintergrund metaphorischer Konzeptionen bieten auch Baron, “Interdisciplinary Legal Scholarship“ (Anm. 6), und Aristodemou, Law and Literature (Anm. 31). 40 Guyora Binder/ Robert Weisberg, Literary Criticisms of Law, Princeton 2000. 41 Während sich im englischsprachigen Raum inzwischen eine Reihe von Wissenschaftlerinnen in der Recht-und-Literatur-Debatte etabliert haben, gibt es im deutschsprachigen Raum kaum weibliche Wissenschaftler, die sich in der männlich dominierten Debatte behaupten können. „Aus einem Bette aufgestanden ...“ - 123 (Feminism & Law) vorliegen 42 - von der inzwischen etablierten Tradition einer feministischen Literaturwissenschaft ganz zu schweigen -, haben die Forschungsergebnisse und Anregungen aus diesem Bereich bisher kaum Eingang in die Recht-und-Literatur-Debatte gefunden. 43 Dabei ist Recht - wie Susanne Baer konstatiert - nicht nur „eine wesentliche Ressource, die zur Konstruktion von Geschlechterverhältnissen dient“, sondern Recht kann wiederum „zur Dekonstruktion der Geschlechterverhältnisse genutzt werden“ 44 . Das Interesse der Rechtswissenschaft an literarischen Texten verdankt sich nicht allein der Tatsache, daß viele Autoren zugleich Juristen waren oder zumindest einmal Jura studiert hatten, 45 sondern auch dem Umstand, daß unzählige literarische Werke auf Aspekte des jeweiligen zeitgenössischen Rechtsdiskurses - zumeist in kritischer Weise - Bezug nehmen. Aus diesem Interesse hat sich der traditionelle Strang der Recht-und-Literatur-Debatte herausgebildet, der sich für die Darstellung von Recht in literarischen Texten (Law in Literature) interessiert. 46 Ironischerweise ergibt sich vor dem Hintergrund einer Nicht(be)achtung der Erkenntnisse aus den Bereichen der Gender-Studien, der feministischen Literatur- und Rechtswissenschaft auf dem Feld der Recht-und-Literatur-Debatte eine von Ignoranz und wissenschaftlicher Naivität geprägte Neuauflage einer „Verdoppelung des männlichen Blicks“ 47 auf wissenschaftlichem Gebiet, die sich unter anderem dadurch anzeigt, daß die 42 Siehe u.a. Ann C. Scales, “The Emergence of Feminist Jurisprudence”, in: Yale Law Review, vol. 95 (1986): 1373-1403 und den Band Feminist Legal Theory: Readings in Law and Gender, hg. v. Katharine T. Bartlett/ Rosanne Kennedy, Boulder/ San Francisco/ Oxford 1991. Für den deutschsprachigen Raum siehe Elisabeth Holzleithner, Recht Macht Geschlecht: Legal Gender Studies. Eine Einführung, Wien 2002. Einen Überblick bietet auch Susanne Baer, „Rechtswissenschaft“, in: Christina von Braun/ Inge Stephan (Hgg.), Gender-Studien. Eine Einführung, Stuttgart/ Weimar 2000: 155-168. 43 Vgl. Judith Resnik, “Singular and Aggregate Voices: Audiences and Authority in Law & Literature and in Law & Feminism”, in: Michael Freeman/ Andrew D. E. Lewis (Hgg.), Law and Literature (= Current Legal Issues, Bd. 2), Oxford/ New York 1999: 687-727, hier 722f. 44 Susanne Baer, „Verfassung und Geschlecht: Anmerkungen zu einem geschlechts-sensiblen deliberativen Konstitutionalismus“, in: Birgit Christensen (Hg.), Demokratie & Geschlecht (= Interdisziplinäres Symposium zum 150jährigen Jubiläum des Schweizerischen Bundesstaates), Zürich 1999: 101-122, hier 101. 45 Vgl. Hermann Weber (Hg.), Dichter als Juristen. Recht, Literatur und Kunst in der Neuen Juristischen Wochenschrift (6), Berlin 2004 und ders., (Hg.), Juristen als Dichter. Recht, Literatur und Kunst in der Neuen Juristischen Wochenschrift (2), 1. Aufl., Baden-Baden 2002. 46 Zum gegenseitigen Skeptizismus vgl. Binder/ Weisberg, Literary Criticisms of Law (Anm. 40): 3. 47 Sigrid Weigel, „Die Verdoppelung des männlichen Blicks und der Ausschluß von Frauen aus der Literaturwissenschaft“, in: Karin Hausen/ Helga Nowotny (Hgg.), Wie männlich ist die Wissenschaft? , 1. Aufl., Frankfurt a. M. 1986: 43-61. Zur Rechtswissenschaft vgl. Jutta Limbach, „Wie männlich ist die Rechtswissenschaft? “, ebd.: 87-107. 124 - Christine Künzel gängigen Textbeispiele, auf die in der Recht-und-Literatur-Debatte immer wieder Bezug genommen wird, einem traditionellen Kanon literaturwissenschaftlicher Provenienz entspricht; was bedeutet, daß Werke von weiblichen Autoren so gut wie gar nicht wahrgenommen, geschweige denn diskutiert werden. 48 Auf diesem Wege wird also nicht nur ein ‚traditioneller‘ Kanon zur Grundlage einer Lektüre im Forschungsbereich von Recht und Literatur, auch überholte Vorstellungen von Kanon und Kanonizität gehen unhinterfragt in die Debatte ein. 49 While some of the history of the domain “law and literature” has been told, relatively little attention has been paid to the question of the canon - of who is given voice, who cited, quoted, repeated, and who marginalized, ignored, submerged. In general, the choice of texts has been unquestioned. For the law in literature genre, Herman Melville’s Billy Budd, William Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice, and Franz Kafka’s The Trial are standards. “Our” great books, in which law plays an interesting part, appear as if by collective agreement on many reading lists. 50 Für die ‚Recht in der Literatur‘-Forschung fungieren literarische Texte somit in erster Linie als ein Reservoir 51 für juristische Fallanalysen. In einem solchen Forschungskontext beschränkt sich die Rolle der Literatur also im wesentlichen auf den Aspekt einer schönen Dekoration bzw. eines Ornaments. 52 So verwundert es auch nicht, daß auf bereits vorliegende literaturwissenschaftliche Analysen und Verfahren von rechtswissenschaftlicher Seite kaum Bezug genommen wird. Brian Leitner hat in diesem Zusammenhang den Begriff des „intellektuellen Voyeurismus“ geprägt, der ein Forum für den Mißbrauch von Wissen und Wissenschaft schaffe, indem in interdisziplinären Kontexten zuweilen grundlegende philosophische Konzepte mißverstanden oder gar fehlinterpretiert wür- 48 Damit fällt die Recht-und-Literatur-Debatte, die Ende der 1980er-Jahre begonnen hatte, insgesamt auf einen Erkenntnisstand der 1970er-Jahre zurück. Vgl. Resnik, “Singular and Aggregate Voices” (Anm. 43): 688. 49 Vgl. Renate von Heydebrand/ Simone Winko, „Arbeit am Kanon: Geschlechterdifferenz in Rezeption und Wertung von Literatur“, in: Hadumod Bußmann/ Renate Hof (Hgg.), Genus. Zur Geschlechterdifferenz in den Kulturwissenschaften, Stuttgart 1995: 206-261. 50 Carolyn Heilbrun/ Judith Resnik, “Convergences: Law, Literature, and Feminism”, in: Jacqueline St. Joan/ Annette Bennington McElhiney (Hgg.), Beyond Portia: Women, Law, and Literature in the United States, Boston 1997: 11-52, hier 27, H.i.O. 51 Auch die Metapher des ‚Behälters‘ ist ein signifikanter Bestandteil der Konzeption von Weiblichkeit, vgl. Luce Irigaray, Speculum: Spiegel des anderen Geschlechts, 1. Aufl., Frankfurt a. M. 1980: 19. 52 Vgl. Baron, “Interdisciplinary Legal Scholarship” (Anm. 6): 35. Zur Funktion des Ornaments in der Gerichtsarchitektur vgl. Piyel Haldar, “The Function of the Ornament in Quintilian, Alberti, and Court Architecture”, in: Costas Douzinas/ Lynda Nead (Hgg.), Law and the Image: The Authority of Art and the Aesthetics of Law, Chicago/ London 1999: 117-136. „Aus einem Bette aufgestanden ...“ - 125 den und es an Interesse mangele, sich in kritischer Weise mit der Sekundärliteratur in der betreffenden anderen Disziplin auseinanderzusetzen. 53 Die Brisanz dieser Bestandsaufnahme wird augenfällig, wenn man die geschlechtsspezifischen Konnotationen betrachtet, die sich dahinter verbergen. 54 Die Literatur wird hier Konzepten von Weiblichkeit aus dem 18. Jahrhundert entsprechend als Objekt, als Materie oder Stoff begriffen, das seine Bedeutung bzw. Form erst durch eine Interpretation von Seiten eines Mannes, hier der Rechtswissenschaft, erhält. 55 In Fichtes Abhandlung zur Ehe heißt es, daß das „zweite Geschlecht“, sprich das weibliche, „Object einer Kraft des ersteren“ 56 , sprich des männlichen, sei. In der Übertragung entspricht das Verhältnis zwischen Recht und Literatur hier der „geschlechtsspezifisch konstruierten Distanz zwischen dem männlichen Erkennenden und dem weiblichen Erkannten“ 57 bzw. der „Hierarchie von Signifikat über Signifikant“ 58 . Die Vorurteile, die zwischen den Bereichen der Rechtswissenschaft und der Literaturwissenschaft bestehen, decken sich zu einem großen Teil mit den Aspekten eines dichotomisierenden Geschlechtermodells: Recht und Rechtswissenschaft werden demnach mit Ordnung, Vernunft, Rationalität, Objektivität, Wahrheit und Autorität verbunden, während Literatur und Literaturwissenschaft, dem Konzept von Weiblichkeit entsprechend, mit Unordnung, Gefühl, Emotionalität, Subjektivität, Lüge und Subversivität identifiziert werden. 59 [...] the fact that literature (and in particular, I suggest, the ‘feminine’ qualities associated with literature) has served philosophy (and law) as the repository onto which any untameable aspects of language could be projected, thus enabling philosophy and law to guard their claim as guardians of the truth. The same can 53 Vgl. Brian Leitner, “Intellectual Voyeurism in Legal Scholarship”, in: Yale Journal of Law and Humanities, 4,1 (1992): 79-104; zitiert nach Baron, “Interdisciplinary Legal Scholarship” (Anm. 6): 31. 54 Bettine Menke, „Verstellt - der Ort der ‚Frau‘“, in: Barbara Vinken (Hg.), Dekonstruktiver Feminismus: Literaturwissenschaft in Amerika, 1. Aufl., Frankfurt a. M. 1992: 436-476, hier 442: „Die Asymmetrie der Opposition Männlich/ Weiblich ist also die der männlichen metaphorischen und insofern hierarchisierenden Lektüre der Frau. Die Konstitution der Geschlechtsidentitäten zu lesen heißt darum, die metaphorische Fehllektüre der Frau zu lesen und insofern die Interventionen der sexuellen Differenz in der Lektüre selbst zu lesen.“ 55 Vgl. Judith Still, “Rousseau’s Lévite d’Ephraïm: The Imposition of Meaning (on Women)”, in: French Studies, Jg. 43, H. 1 (1989): 12-30, hier 25: “This brings to mind the frequent associations of femininity with matter and masculinity with form: the ‘feminine’ is shaped and moulded - meaning is given to it by the masculine.” 56 Fichte, Werke, Bd. III: Zur Rechts- und Sittenlehre I (Anm36): 308 (§. 3). 57 Toril Moi, „Patriarchales Denken und der Wißtrieb“, in: Barbara Vinken (Hg.), Dekonstruktiver Feminismus: Literaturwissenschaft in Amerika, 1. Aufl., Frankfurt a. M. 1992: 412-435, hier 413. 58 Menke, „Verstellt - der Ort der ‚Frau‘“ (Anm. 54): 441. 59 Vgl. Binder/ Weisberg, Literary Criticisms of Law (Anm. 40): 18, und auch Aristodemou, Law and Literature (Anm. 31): 15. 126 - Christine Künzel be said not only of poetry but of art in general with law simultaneously rejecting and relying on images (often on images of dead women) in order to create and sustain its foundations. 60 Vor diesem Hintergrund gewinnen auch die Vorbehalte der Rechtwissenschaft gegen den Versuch, Recht als Literatur zu lesen, eine neue Dimension. Auch die Bestrebungen des Rechtsdiskurses, das Angewiesensein auf Bilder und andere ästhetische Konzepte zu leugnen, sind keineswegs geschlechtsneutral: [...] it is an attempt to deny and repress the presence of ‘a feminine genealogy within the ancient constitution, a feminine unconscious to the doctrines of common law’; to undress the legal text is therefore to expose its reliance on images and on woman to secure its foundations and to threaten its alleged unity and coherence by reminding it that it ‘was never one’. 61 Derartige Zuspitzungen und Abgrenzungen zwischen den Disziplinen scheinen die Recht-und-Literatur-Debatte bis heute zu beherrschen. Doch gleicht das stereotype Bild des Rechts, das hier entworfen und reproduziert wird, eher einer Karikatur, 62 die der Komplexität des Rechtsdiskurses in keiner Weise gerecht werden kann. Ein Text, der all diese Aspekte der Recht-und-Literatur-Debatte thematisiert, ist Ingeborg Bachmanns Erzählung Ein Wildermuth (1961). Es ist schon erstaunlich, daß diese frühe Erzählung Bachmanns, der von Seiten der Literaturwissenschaft insgesamt wenig Aufmerksamkeit geschenkt wurde, 63 auch in der Recht-und-Literatur-Forschung bisher kaum beachtet wird, 64 handelt es 60 Aristodemou, Law and Literature (Anm. 31): 18. 61 Ebd.: 8f. 62 Vgl. Baron, “Interdisciplinary Legal Scholarship” (Anm. 6): 23. 63 Das konstatiert auch Imke Meyer, Jenseits der Spiegel kein Land: Ich-Fiktionen in Texten von Franz Kafka und Ingeborg Bachmann, Würzburg 2001: 167. Das ist wohl zum Teil darauf zurückzuführen, daß sich die feministische Literaturwissenschaft, die sich des Werkes von Ingeborg Bachmann in besonderem Maße zugewendet hat, für diese Erzählung bisher kaum interessiert hat. Das mag wiederum mit gewissen Vorbehalten gegenüber dem Rechtsdiskurs zu tun haben. In den wenigen Arbeiten, die sich einer Analyse der Erzählung widmen, steht zumeist die Auseinandersetzung mit Ludwig Wittgensteins Sprachphilosophie im Vordergrund, oder die Erzählung wird vor dem Hintergrund der Themen Kafkas gelesen. Vgl. dazu kritisch Sigrid Weigel, Ingeborg Bachmann: Hinterlassenschaften unter Wahrung des Briefgeheimnisses, Wien 1999: 114f. 64 Die wenigen Aufsätze von Juristen zu Bachmanns Erzählung widmen sich lediglich dem Problem der Wahrheit. Vgl. Heinz Müller-Dietz, „Der Richter und die Wahrheit: Eine Reminiszenz an Ingeborg Bachmanns Erzählung ‚Ein Wildermuth‘“, in: ders., Recht und Kriminalität im literarischen Widerschein, (= Juristische Zeitgeschichte, Abt. 6: Recht in der Kunst, Bd. 1), Baden-Baden 1999: 176-189, zuerst erschienen in: Neue Juristische Wochenschrift, 47. Jg. (1994): 1921-1925; und auch Wolfgang Ohler, „Wahrheit als Geschichte: Eine prozessuale Alternative zum Aufschrei des Richters „Aus einem Bette aufgestanden ...“ - 127 sich hier doch gewissermaßen um einen Schlüsseltext für die Recht-und- Literatur-Debatte - und das nicht nur weil Rechtsdiskurs und literarischer Diskurs in dieser Erzählung miteinander konfrontiert werden, sondern auch, weil der Konflikt zwischen beiden Bereichen hier als Ehekonflikt dargestellt wird. Möglicherweise deutet sich in der bisherigen Absenz des Textes in der Recht-und-Literatur-Debatte die Wirkung eines oben beschriebenen Textkanons an, aus dem Texte von weiblichen Autoren weitgehend ausgeschlossen sind bzw. gar nicht erst ins Blickfeld gelangen. 65 III. Ingeborg Bachmann: „Ein Wildermuth“ (1961) „Ein Wildermuth wählt immer die Wahrheit“ 66 - mit diesem Satz beginnt Bachmanns Erzählung über einen Richter, der in der Beurteilung eines scheinbaren „Routinefall(s)“ 67 schließlich an seinen Wahrheitsansprüchen scheitert. Den Willen zur Wahrheit verdankt der Oberlandesgerichtsrat Anton Wildermuth seinem Vater - auch hier entspringt das Recht einer männlichen Genealogie. 68 Er war der Erfinder des Wortes ‚wahr‘ in allen seinen Bereitschaften, mit allen seinen Verbindungs- und Verknüpfungsmöglichkeiten. ‚Wahrhaftig‘, ‚das Wahre‘, ‚wahrheitsgetreu‘, ‚Wahrheitsliebe‘ und ‚wahrheitsliebend‘ [...]. 69 Während sich die Wahrheitsliebe genealogisch in der männlichen Linie der Wildermuths fortzusetzen scheint, so werden die weiblichen Figuren, insbesondere die Mutter und die Ehefrau Gerda, als Wesen entworfen, die von der Wahrheit „ausgeschlossen“ 70 sind. Die Welt der Mutter wird von dem jungen Wildermuth als „sündig, farbig und reich“ 71 empfunden. Irgendwann heiratet Anton Wildermuth, nicht aus Liebe, sondern weil es sich gehört. Doch heiratet er eine Frau, die mit der Wahrheit - zumindest mit der Wahrheit, wie Wildermuth sie versteht - scheinbar überhaupt nichts am Hut hat. Ich kenne keinen Menschen, der mir nahe steht und der so wenig auf die Wahrheit gibt wie meine Frau. Viele mögen sie gern, in ihrer Familie wird sie vergöttert, meine Freunde suchen ihre Gesellschaft lieber als die meine. Sie muß ei- Wildermuth“, in: Heike Jung (Hg.), Das Recht und die schönen Künste: Heinz Müller- Dietz zum 65. Geburtstag, Baden-Baden 1998: 63-75. 65 Vgl. Heilbrun/ Resnik, “Convergences” (Anm. 50): 27. 66 Ingeborg Bachmann, „Ein Wildermuth“, in: Werke, Bd. 2: Erzählungen, hg. v. Christine Koschel/ Inge von Weidenbaum/ Clemens Münster, München/ Zürich 1978: 214-252, hier 214. 67 Ebd.: 217. 68 Grimm spricht im Hinblick auf die Entwicklung des Rechtsdiskurses von einer „Anhänglichkeit an dem Väterlichen“. Vgl. ders., „Von der Poesie im Recht“ (Anm. 11): 26. 69 Bachmann, „Ein Wildermuth“ (Anm. 66): 227. 70 Ebd.: 232. 71 Ebd.: 231. 128 - Christine Künzel nen Zauber haben. Denn alle bewundern sie, weil sie aus der geringfügigsten Begebenheit, aus dem nebensächlichsten Erlebnis eine Geschichte machen kann. Sie unterhält sich und die anderen ununterbrochen auf Kosten der Wahrheit. [...] Sie lügt, und ich weiß nicht einmal, ob sie, von wenigen Ausnahmen abgesehen, sich darüber im klaren ist. 72 Niemand außer Wildermuth würde jedoch „auf die Idee kommen, sie einer Lüge zu zeihen“. Sie habe eben, wie der Dichter Edmund Kaltenbrunner meint, „eine ganz persönliche Art, die Welt zu sehen.“ 73 Die Ehe zwischen Anton Wildermuth und seiner Frau Gerda veranschaulicht, wie ich meine, sehr treffend die Verbindung zwischen Recht und Literatur, die sich hier als Konkurrenz zweier Wahrheitsdiskurse darstellt. Während der Oberlandesgerichtsrat Wildermuth als „nüchterne(r) Jurist“, als „Rechthaber und Zyniker mit einer trockenen dürren Wahrheit“ 74 gezeigt wird, ist seine Ehefrau Gerda mit den Merkmalen einer Dichterin ausgestattet, deren Sprache im Sinne einer traditionellen Rhetorikfeindlichkeit 75 als „Blumensprache“ 76 bezeichnet wird und deren Wahrheit aus einer Vielzahl von „Fassungen und Interpretationen“ 77 besteht. Es sei an dieser Stelle erwähnt, daß es eine zweite Frau und damit auch ein zweites Konzept von Weiblichkeit in Wildermuths Leben gibt, eines, das seiner Ehefrau diametral entgegensteht. Während er mit Gerda noch verlobt ist, hat er eine leidenschaftliche Affäre mit Wanda, einer Kellnerin, die aufgrund ihrer ausländischen Herkunft Schwierigkeiten mit der deutschen Sprache hat. Es ist eben diese „Sprachlosigkeit“ 78 , die Suche nach der Wahrheit im Körper, im Fleisch, einer Wahrheit, die ohne Worte auskommt, quasi eine vorsprachliche Wahrheit, die Wildermuth fasziniert - doch er heiratet schließlich die andere Frau, Gerda. Wanda und Gerda, beide Frauenfiguren repräsentieren Stereotype von Weiblichkeit, die sowohl im Hinblick auf die Abgrenzung von Wahrheitsdiskursen als auch in der Markierung einer Geschlechterdifferenz hinsichtlich des Umgangs mit Sprache eine zentrale Rolle spielen. 79 Traditionell wird weibliche Sprache mit Lüge und Geschwätz assozi- 72 Bachmann, „Ein Wildermuth“ (Anm. 66): 235. 73 Ebd.: 237. 74 Bachmann, „Ein Wildermuth“ (Anm. 66): 247. 75 Vgl. etwa das entsprechende Kapitel mit dem Titel „Von verblümten Redensarten“ in Johann Christoph Gottscheds „Critischer Dichtkunst“, in: ders.: Ausgewählte Werke, Bd. VI,1, hg. v. Joachim Birke/ Brigitte Birke, Berlin/ New York 1973: 319. 76 Bachmann, „Ein Wildermuth“ (Anm. 66): 245. 77 Ebd.: 236. 78 Ebd.: 243. 79 Eine der wenigen Arbeiten, die den Aspekt der Geschlechterdifferenz in der Diskussion der Erzählung „Ein Wildermuth“ berücksichtigt - wenn auch einem psychoanalytischen Ansatz verpflichtet -, ist Ingeborg Dusar, Choreographien der Differenz: Ingeborg Bachmanns Prosaband „Simultan“, Köln/ Weimar/ Wien 1994: 177-188. Vgl. auch Weigel, Ingeborg Bachmann (Anm. 63): 132. „Aus einem Bette aufgestanden ...“ - 129 iert; 80 aber auch die sogenannte ‚wahre Sprache‘, deren Sinn sich gleichsam unmittelbar offenbart, ist in der Figur des Schweigens traditionell weiblich konnotiert. 81 Uns interessiert im Kontext der Betrachtung des Verhältnisses von Recht und Literatur das Konzept von Weiblichkeit, das Gerda repräsentiert, da es mit Dichtung, Poesie und Literatur assoziiert wird. Um an den oben angeführten Ehediskurs zwischen Recht und Literatur anzuknüpfen, mag es interessant sein, sich anzuschauen, wie Anton Wildermuth seine Ehe beschreibt. Es handelt sich um eine Ehe, an der es nichts „herumzurätseln (gibt), die so ohne Geheimnis ist, so gut, gleichförmig und vertrauensvoll verläuft. [...] Und doch gibt es Momente, in denen mir unsere Gespräche und Umarmungen wie etwas Entsetzliches vorkommen, etwas Schandbares, Unrechtmäßiges, weil ihnen etwas fehlt, ja also doch die Wahrheit. Weil wir unser System von Zärtlichkeiten haben, nicht weiter suchen, nichts darüber hinaus, weil alles tot und gestorben ist, für immer gestorben. [...] diese gute glückliche Verbindung, in der unsere Körper abstumpfen, verdorren [...]. Die wenigen vereinzelten Fälle und Anfälle von Leidenschaft werden wie zur Strafe von uns ironisch abgetan, aufgelaugt in einem bezeichnenden Schweigen oder zerstört von einem verleumderischen Geschwätz.“ 82 IV. Die Recht-und-Literatur-Debatte in einer (Ehe-)Krise? In ihrer eher kritischen Bestandsaufnahme der Recht-und-Literatur-Debatte zieht die amerikanische Rechtswissenschaftlerin Jane B. Baron eine ähnlich nüchterne Bilanz im Hinblick auf das Verhältnis der beiden Disziplinen Recht und Literatur zueinander, indem sie konstatiert, dem interdisziplinären Projekt mangele es an kreativer - man könnte auch sagen ‚erotischer‘ - Spannung. My principle argument in this Essay is that the law-and-literature movement has failed to generate the excitement that it is capable of generating within the American legal academy because it has not been sufficiently interdisciplinary, or - to be more precise - it has not been very thoughtful about interdisciplinarity. 83 80 Vgl. Christine Künzel, „Die Lügenhaftigkeit des Weibes und die Weiblichkeit der Rhetorik“, in: dies., Vergewaltigungslektüren: Zur Codierung sexueller Gewalt in Literatur und Recht, Frankfurt a. M./ New York 2003: 228-237 und Sigrid Weigel, „‚Weiblich-Gewesenes‘ und der ‚männliche Erstgeborene seines Werkes‘: Zur Bedeutung der Geschlechterdifferenz in Benjamins Schriften“, in: Nathalie Amstutz/ Martina Kuoni (Hgg.), Theorie - Geschlecht - Fiktion, Basel 1994: 89-104, hier 92. 81 Vgl. Weigel, „Weiblich Gewesenes“ (Anm. 80): 92 und 97 und auch Adrienne Munich, „Bekannt, allzubekannt: Feministische Kritik und literarische Tradition“, in: Barbara Vinken (Hg.), Dekonstruktiver Feminismus: Literaturwissenschaft in Amerika, 1. Aufl., Frankfurt a. M. 1992: 360- 385, hier 361. 82 Bachmann, „Ein Wildermuth“ (Anm. 66): 241. 83 Baron, “Law, Literature, and the Problems of Interdisciplinarity” (Anm. 2): 1060f. 130 - Christine Künzel Wenn man Barons Argumentation folgt, dann hat sich die anfängliche Begeisterung und Neugier in der Recht-und-Literatur-Debatte verflüchtigt, der Anspruch auf Interdisziplinarität ist dem Zustand eines mehr oder weniger leidenschaftslosen Nebeneinanderherforschens in beiden Bereichen gewichen. In der Ehe-Metapher gesprochen befindet sich die Recht-und-Literatur-Debatte also möglicherweise in einer Krise und wäre reif für eine Eheberatung, um ihrer Beziehung neue Impulse zu geben, damit sich das gemeinsame Projekt nicht wie im Falle der Ehe der Wildermuths in Bachmanns Erzählung als unfruchtbares Unternehmen, eine „gute glückliche Verbindung, in der unsere Körper abstumpfen, verdorren“ 84 , letztendlich nicht als „Totgeburt“ 85 darstellt. 86 Ich möchte Barons Kritikpunkt, das Recht-und-Literatur-Projekt habe die Tragweite des Konzeptes von Interdisziplinarität nicht hinreichend ausgelotet, bzw. es habe bisher gar keine interdisziplinäre Forschung im strengen Sinne stattgefunden, 87 aufgreifen und diesen mit den geschlechtsspezifischen Konnotationen der beiden Bereiche verknüpfen. Wenn der Anspruch auf Interdisziplinarität ernst gemeint ist, dann müßten beide Disziplinen - Literatur und Recht - gleichberechtigt an der Debatte beteiligt sein. Jeder der Bereiche sollte das Recht und die Möglichkeit haben, die Grundlagen und Methoden des jeweils anderen grundsätzlich in Frage zu stellen. Auch die Abgrenzung der beiden Disziplinen gegeneinander müßte kritisch hinterfragt werden - zumal, wenn sie von Abgrenzungsmerkmalen getragen wird, die einer Dichotomie der Geschlechter folgt. The border and fidelity metaphors tell a disconcerting, sexualized, story [...]. Ideally, the couplings of law and other disciplines are healthy and natural, satisfying on both sides. But, like border crossings, the couplings of ‘law and’ can be dangerous, involving compromises - of standards, of integrity - demeaning to each partner. 88 In diesem Sinne würde Interdisziplinarität nicht nur eine schlichte Ergänzung der jeweils anderen Disziplin bedeuten, sondern vielmehr eine Bereicherung und eine echte wissenschaftliche Herausforderung darstellen. Der Blick auf die metaphorischen Subtexte hat deutlich gemacht, daß das Weibliche - und damit auch die Literatur - zwar aus dem „Umkreis des erhabensten sozialen Diskurs der Moderne, des Rechtes, am stärksten ausgeschlossen“ ist, daß es jedoch als Metapher in die Texte einbricht und in diesem Sinne als „Analogie für die gefürchtete Kontamination des Rechts durch das, was es ausschließen soll“ steht: nämlich für „Unrecht, Schwäche, Zweideutig- 84 Bachmann, „Ein Wildermuth“ (Anm. 66): 241. 85 Ebd.: 236. 86 Auch Mària Aristodemou beschreibt die Beziehung zwischen Recht und Literatur in der Ehe-Metapher und spekuliert über die Qualitäten und das Geschlecht eines möglichen Nachwuchses. Vgl. dies., Law and Literature (Anm. 31): 28. 87 Baron, “Interdisciplinary Legal Scholarship” (Anm. 6): 36. 88 Ebd.: 23. „Aus einem Bette aufgestanden ...“ - 131 keit, Gewalt“ 89 . Der Mangel der Frau wird zur Figur des Mangels im Recht, 90 damit wird die Frau zur Figur des Rechts schlechthin - sowohl als Verkörperung des Rechts in der Figur der Justitia 91 als auch als Urbild und Inbegriff des Rechtsbrechers 92 - in dem Sinne, wie sie zugleich das Problem der Wahrheit und die Wahrheit selbst repräsentiert. 93 Derrida stellt in seiner Nietzsche-Lektüre fest, daß die Fragen der Wahrheit sich nicht von der Frage (nach) der Frau trennen lassen. 94 Die Paradoxien der Wahrheit/ Frau - die zugleich die wesentlichen Paradoxien bzw. Aporien des Rechts darstellen - versucht Derrida folgendermaßen zu beschreiben: Es gibt keine Wahrheit der Frau; dies aber deshalb, weil dieser abgründige Abstand der Wahrheit, diese Nicht-Wahrheit die „Wahrheit“ ist. Frau ist ein Name dieser Nicht-Wahrheit der Wahrheit. 95 Solange der Mangel, der sich darin äußert, daß die Autorität des Rechts einer legitimen Fiktion bedarf, mit dem zentralen Aspekt von Literatur, der Fiktionalität, identifiziert wird, d.h. solange der Rechtsdiskurs seine ästhetischen Qualitäten verleugnet, 96 wird es kaum möglich sein, das hierarchische Ehe- Verhältnis zwischen Recht und Literatur in eine aufregende Affäre zu verwandeln, 97 die auf der Gleichberechtigung beider Partner beruht. Es muß ein Modus gefunden werden, der beiden Seiten gerecht werden kann: den ästhetisch-literarischen Qualitäten des Rechts und der Fähigkeit der Literatur, so etwas wie Gesetz(mäßigkeiten) und Urteile hervorzubringen. 98 Wenn die interdisziplinären Bemühungen im Bereich der Recht-und-Literatur-Forschung nicht - wie Baron es in ihrer Kritik formuliert - als „guilty pleasure“ 99 , also im Sinne einer Leidenschaft mit Schuldgefühlen weiter betrieben werden sollen, 89 Helga Geyer-Ryan, „Recht, Literatur und Dekonstruktion“, in: Wolfgang Klein/ Waltraud Naumann-Beyer (Hgg.), Nach der Aufklärung? Beiträge zum Diskurs der Kulturwissenschaften, Berlin 1995: 247-261, hier 253. 90 Vgl. Geyer-Ryan, ebd.: 254. 91 Vgl. Marina Warner, In weiblicher Gestalt: Die Verkörperung des Wahren, Guten und Schönen, 1. Aufl., Reinbek bei Hamburg 1989, Kapitel 8: „Das Schwert der Justitia“, 210-249. 92 Vgl. van Sant, “Satire and Law” (Anm. 37): 43: “Woman is thus a conventional figure for the original law-breaker.” 93 In Bezug auf Bachmanns Erzählung „Ein Wildermuth“ vgl. Dusar, Choreographien der Differenz (Anm. 79): 184 und 186. 94 Jacques Derrida, „Sporen - Die Stile Nietzsches“, in: Werner Hamacher (Hg.), Nietzsche aus Frankreich, Frankfurt a. M./ Berlin 1986: 129-168, hier 142. 95 Ebd.: 135f. 96 Vgl. Peter Goodrich, Law in the Courts of Love: Literature and other minor jurisprudences, London/ New York 1996: 112: “Law is a literature which denies its literary qualities.” Zitiert nach Aristodemou, Law and Literature (Anm. 31): 8. 97 Ebd.: 4. 98 Vgl. ebd.: 9. 99 Baron, “Interdisciplinary Legal Scholarship” (Anm. 6): 23. 132 - Christine Künzel dann ist eine Re-Vision der Recht-und-Literatur-Debatte - gerade auch im Hinblick auf die Einbeziehung neuerer und neuester Erkenntnisse und Methoden in beiden Bereichen, insbesondere der Gender-Studien - mehr als überfällig. Mit Derrida sei daran erinnert, daß in der Zusammenarbeit zweier Disziplinen nicht nur der „Konsens im Gedächtnis zurückbehalten werden (sollte), sondern ebenfalls die Differenzen und (der) Widerstreit“ 100 . 100 Derrida, Gesetzeskraft (Anm. 1): 20. Caitríona Leahy (Un)precedented texts: what comes and goes ‘before the law’ Beforehand The Irish Constitution is enacted in 1937 in a glorious performance of what today’s opinion-shapers might term ‘the spirit of partnership’. Speaking in the first person plural, in what is known as the ‘Preamble’ to the articles of the Constitution “We the people of Éire” 1 summon the spirits of “the Most Holy Trinity” calling upon them to bear witness as the people give themselves the gift of law. For the ceremony the people will borrow the authority of the Trinity but afterwards will return it with dividend to its rightful owner; thus they speak: “In the Name of the Most Holy Trinity, from Whom is all authority and to Whom, as our final end, all actions both of men and States must be referred […]”. The people take authority, speaking instead of and with the voice of divinity. But they give that authority back twice over: once in acknowledging the debt to God, and once in increasing his capital, by shaping the future of the country now being constituted in the image of his values - Humbly acknowledging all our obligations to our Divine Lord, Jesus Christ, Who sustained our fathers through centuries of trial, Gratefully remembering their heroic and unremitting struggle to regain the rightful independence of our Nation, And seeking to promote the common good, with due observance of Prudence, Justice and Charity, so that the dignity and freedom of the individual may be assured, true social order attained, the unity of our country restored, and concord established with other nations, Do hereby adopt, enact, and give to ourselves this Constitution. 2 Recognising the debt of gratitude that is owed to previous generations, the people here pledge to honour that debt by furthering the interests of God and 1 Bunreacht na hÉireann. Constitution of Ireland. 2 Ibid. 134 - Caitríona Leahy the dead generations through the pursuit of Justice, Prudence, Charity and the true social order. These goals and the Constitution they govern are thus moulded in putative reflection of an authority that is both higher than the speaker, and yet entirely dependent on that speaker for its realisation. The distribution of power between the parties - living, dead and divine - to this legal ‘Ur-szene’ is thus as carefully orchestrated as it is problematic. The Preamble to the Constitution - a beginning before the beginning, if you will - is designed to authorise and legitimise the principles of law that follow, but also to limit the scope of the power it confers on the people. This it does by subjecting the actions of man to a higher test than can be achieved by the vagaries of man-made law. In so doing, however, the Preamble situates itself in a position that is deeply ambiguous. Straddling the space between divine inheritance and human invention, between divine right and human power, it prompts questions regarding the nature of a voice that narrates its own beginning in a borrowed idiom; and more importantly, that enshrines within the Constitution a space that is - on one reading, at least - outside of and not subject to the basic law, the ‘Bun-reacht’ which the Constitution lays down. This is the (compromised) starting point for a series of questions that present themselves, not just in relation to the founding scenes of states, but across a range of contexts, from the legal to the literary to the philosophical. They are questions that, regardless of context, are consistently concerned with elucidating the relationship between what is always already present - that which preambles, precedes, predates - and what is only now in the process of being presented, or constituted. In other words, in looking at the performance that begins legal, literary, philosophical authority I want to ask about the impact of what goes and comes ‘before’ that authority. As we take leave of the Preamble to the Irish Constitution the form of our questions is as follows: what does it mean to inhabit this legal, philosophical, fictional space before the law - simultaneously apart from and part of the law - in which the authority of our speaking is both inherited and invented? In what condition does law begin? And, finally, in what idiom, and with what faculty does one ask questions about its beginning? This question of ‘faculty’ includes issues of capacity or power, of language and discourse, and of institutional affiliation. In respect of such affiliation, it might be suggested that Derrida’s enquiry about the faculty affiliation of the ‘yes’ to philosophy that emerges from the space ‘before’ philosophy becomes more acute in relation to the space before the law, where the answer does not merely serve to tell us more about the nature of the question, but also has a critical role in shaping the real world. Hence the importance of the question: does the law itself articulate a position on the matter of its own foundations in this space before the law? Or are the questions that emerge from it only thinkable in/ with the philosophical or aesthetic faculties? 3 3 See Jacques Derrida, Who’s afraid of philosophy? Right to Philosophy I, trans. Jan Plug. Stanford 2002: 1-67. Also important in this regard is Kant’s distinction between (Un)precedented texts - 135 In the space ‘before the law’, one is in the company of Kafka, perhaps even imitating the inertia of his Countryman, drawn towards and repelled from the interior of the law. Before the law too is the Doorkeeper who famously denies the Countryman permission to enter, and who will subsequently describe what lies beyond the door he guards as a further series of doors, and a further series of doorkeepers. The geography of this description keeps out the Countryman, but lets in the interpretation that, in fact, the law bears the shape of a postponement or a deferral. In other words, there is no inside to the law that does not look like what is previous to, outside of, before the law. Thus the space before the law appears to ‘belong’ to the law in having the same structure; but that structure itself suspends and calls into question the demarcation that the law might be thought to name. Bolstering this reading, in which the space before the law has its borders dissolved, is the double positioning of the text within Kafka’s work; Vor dem Gesetz (Before the Law) both stands alone, and forms part of the novel Der Proceß (The Trial) 4 , in which it is recounted to the arrested Josef K. as an allegory that throws light on his own position vis à vis the law. Before K can understand his own situation ‘after the law’, that is to say, now that he has come to the attention of the law, he must learn to understand the text Before the Law. But here too, it is suggested that this is only one in a series of introductory texts to the law. Taking literally its introductory nature, its status as a text that is situated ‘before’ the law, and that acts as a metaphorical doorkeeper guarding its point of access, the Orson Welles film version of the novel places the parable at the beginning - ‘before the film’, so to speak. The fact that this is possible suggests that the text, ‘properly speaking’, is not grounded in the trajectory of Der Proceß, the story of Josef K’s path to the law, but rather that it repeats or mirrors that path. Thus the scene ‘before the law’ is not born of a discrete space and does not tell a singular story, but rather tells us something about the nature of law and its borders, that is to say, about law of the law - the rule that underpins its application. This, too, is the paradoxical theme of the story. In exploring what happens when one man comes ‘before the law’, the story is in fact pursuing the question: of what rule is this story an illustration? The answer to this question, if it is contained within the story at all, is withheld from view, or deferred, and must rather be sought in the wisdom of other readers - in those who have read Before the Law before. Foremost among these - before Derrida even - is Josef K. himself; but his reading is, it seems, a misreading, since his conclusions regarding the case of the man before the law are refuted by the Priest. Thus the the higher and lower faculties in: Immanuel Kant, The Conflict of the Faculties, trans. Mary J. Gregor, Lincoln/ London 1992. 4 Vor dem Gesetz was first published in 1920 as part of the collection Ein Landarzt (A Country Doctor) and subsequently formed part of the posthumously published Der Proceß in 1925. 136 - Caitríona Leahy initial suggestion by the Priest that the story throws light on K’s ‘misapprehension’ („Täuschung“ 5 ) of the law, is simply re-enacted in his reading of the story: because K does not understand the law before which he stands, he does not understand Before the Law. And importantly: to be before the law is to be asked to interpret a text called Before the Law, while the attempt to interpret the text Before the Law is to be placed within its confines, and to find oneself, really, before the law. Thus the space before the law is the indeterminate space of a reading that happens both inside and outside the text and that blurs the boundaries between the territory of parable/ fiction and the territory of the actual reader. It is from this space that one might approach the law or the text, but then by definition, already belong to the law or the text. If that is so, is there a value attaching to any given approach that exceeds its exposition of its own aporetic nature, that is to say, that it was always already in the contemplation of the law? Let us look again at the approach. Arriving What is already there when one arrives in the space ‘before the law’? Not the law, it seems, if ‘before’ is to have a temporal aspect and if we are to take Kafka or the Irish Constitution seriously. In Bunreacht na hÉireann, the law is only constituted at the end of the Preamble; in Kafka the law is deferred, and if the law is what it does, it is a deferral, both as process and as the rule governing that process. The rule, in other words, is simultaneously in operation and suspended. There are two points at issue here: firstly, that of the nature of an authority that exists before the law and that legitimises that which comes afterwards; and secondly, the manner in which the distinction between the founding and founded / authorising and authorised appears to be elided in the above examples. It is a deconstruction that brings down with it the distinction between the grounding (or law) of the law and its singular articulation. It is also, we might say, philosophical rather than juridical in its orientation, on the grounds that self-foundation must in the first instance be philosophical rather than actual. 6 It is philosophy and not law that poses the Derridean question ‘before’ the law: is there a legitimacy that would derive from but overcome the illegitimacy that takes place when the law founds itself in the space before the law? In Who’s afraid of Philosophy? , he explores the notion that philosophical utterances might inaugurate the “right to philosophy”, in other words, that it is philosophy itself that says ‘yes’ to philosophy before philosophy can begin. The structural similarity to the space ‘before the law’ and to the questions that 5 Franz Kafka, „Der Proceß“, in: Franz Kafka, Gesammelte Werke in zwölf Bänden, Band 4, hg. von Hans-Gerd Koch, Frankfurt a. M. 1994. 6 Giorgio Agamben’s State of Exception explores what it actually looks like when the law is simultaneously in force but suspended. See G. A., State of Exception, trans. Kevin Attell, Chicago/ London 2005. (Un)precedented texts - 137 take shape within it and arising out of it will underpin the ideas pursued in this paper. Derrida’s outline of the key issue regarding the legitimacy and value of a speaking ‘before the law’ is as follows: […] if no foundation has ever been able to authorize itself rigorously in the inaugural moment of being installed, in the present of some originary event, does that exclude all fundamental autonomy? Can an autonomy not be conceived that, without being purely given in an initial present, remains an experience, a work, and a crossing, in short, an impure process that, while never presenting itself as such, would however not be heteronomous and subjugated? […] a self-foundation could not be a present event. It could not exist, in the strong sense of this word that implies presence, at the moment of installation or institution. Individuals, subjects, in the strong sense of this word that implies presence, or the community of subjects apparently responsible for foundation, rely directly or indirectly on a network of powers, on legitimating forces and “interests” of all kinds, on a state of things and on a thing the state. […] If, however, across the obvious limits of hetero-foundation, the idea of an absolute self-foundation takes shape (without literally presenting itself), this promise is not nothing. In certain conditions the promise constitutes a “performative” event whose “probability” remains irreducible - even if the promise is never kept in a presently certain, assured, demonstrable fashion. […] To this extent, the affirmation of a certain independence, autonomy, and self-legitimation is not necessarily and in anyone’s mouth, a “mere word”, even if no institutional reality is or can be adequate to it. The self, the autos of legitimating and legitimated self-foundation, is still to come, not as a future reality but as that which will always retain the essential structure of a promise and as that which can only arrive as such, as to come. 7 The philosophical question - what is the value of a text or an authority that ‘undoes’ itself as it constructs itself? - is of acute importance here in this space ‘before the law’, where the answer comes equipped with the legitimating violence of the ‘force of law’. In the world of law itself, however, the question of legitimacy is more often left behind than lying in wait when one arrives in the space ‘before the law’, seeking the application of the rule to the singularity of one’s case. Here, what lies in wait is called precedence, according to which, preceding the law is the precedence of the law itself. In the doctrine (or law) of precedence, what goes before is what must come after; the law must repeat itself in order to constitute itself as rule, and not - insofar as these may be construed as its opposites - as exception or arbitrariness. Coming before the law, one must lose one’s singularity, become like other cases, be treated like other cases, and become the occasion for the emergence of a notion of justice that like so many of Kafka’s 7 Derrida, Who’s afraid of Philosophy? (ftn. 3): 21-2. 138 - Caitríona Leahy truth-seeking characters is unable to see differences. 8 What drives the law from its own end, if the outcome of law is justice, is a blindness that is directed towards and protects from not just the differences that should make no difference, but also the differences that threaten the legitimacy of the rule by seeming to fall to be judged outside of its remit, seeming to be outside the law or demanding new law. In the doctrine of precedence - particularly important in a legal system where the law is not codified - one follows the example of higher authorities, by knowing the texts that have gone ‘before’, repeating the decisions that have been made ‘before’, and by judging in accordance with what has already been adjudicated, pre-judiciously, so to speak. Precedence as it operates thus serves to limit the threatening potential of singularity - that ‘potent’ aspect of itself in which it cedes to newness and precedence is ‘set’ - inclining rather towards inheritance and that which must be followed. Bridging these two aspects of precedence, Derrida makes the point that ‘just’ law in fact requires what Stanley Fish terms a “fresh judgement”, in which the rule is reaffirmed and freshly invented in the context of a singular case: […] for a decision to be just and responsible, it must, in its proper moment if there is one, be both regulated and without regulation: it must conserve the law and also destroy it or suspend it enough to have to reinvent it in each case, rejustify it, at least reinvent it in the reaffirmation and the new and free confirmation of its principle. 9 In this condition, blindfolded and unprejudiced, the law reinvents for the present what was already there before, and reaffirms the fact that the present presents no difference with respect to the past, and can justly be judged in accordance with its insight. But this condition in which the rule is simultaneously suspended and invented is itself exceptional. As a rule, preceding the law, precedence allows glimpses of the possibility of a radical singularity that might - if it had ‘might’ - overthrow inheritance, set new precedent and make new law, but holds that threat in sway by the force of its own self-preservation. Being judged The ‘stale’ judgement is, therefore, an integral part of what goes, or comes before the law. It is intimately linked to questions of coming before and after as they arise in relation to the space before the law and the operation of prece- 8 Characters with bad eyes feature, for example in Vor dem Gesetz, as well as in very many of the fragments that make up the collection Zur Frage der Gesetze und andere Schriften aus dem Nachlaß in: Franz Kafka, Gesammelte Werke, op. cit. (ftn. 5), Band 7. 9 Jacques Derrida, “Force of Law: The ‘Mystical Foundation of Authority’”, in: Deconstruction and the Possibility of Justice, eds. Drucilla Cornell/ Michael Rosenfeld/ David Gray Carlson: 1-67, here 23. (Un)precedented texts - 139 dence; and on one reading, we can say that the judgement must already stand in order for the case to be justiciable, or ‘decidable’ in the first place. The judgement, de-cision, Ur-teil, Ent-scheidung is deeply problematic, therefore, not just because Kafka shows us so, but also because while justice demands that there is no pre-judice, there can only be a decision where there is already, beforehand, prejudice. 10 Thus the law must already be in operation ‘before the law’. Or: there can only be judicial insight where there is already judicial blindness and, therefore, no sight. The site of Kafka’s most famous judgement is, of course, the short story of the same name, Das Urteil, in which decisions must be made regarding the truth and falsity of conflicting versions of events. 11 Undermining attempts to make those decisions is the fact that the conflicting versions are linked to one another by the suggestion that the various characters from whom these stories emerge are alter egos of one another, are themselves just different off-shoots of one common origin. What stands now to be de-cided (cut up) therefore, is in fact, properly speaking, undecidable, or indecisive. The judgement that is ultimately passed, when a father condemns his son to death by drowning and the obedient son carries out the sentence, is certainly decisive in its effect, however. It separates father from son, cuts through the ill-defined space of shared identities, and distinguishes guilt from innocence. But it does not solve the problem of the relationship of the part to the whole, and of the legitimacy of the ‘cut’. The word Ur-teil itself encapsulates the difficulty inherent in Kafka’s decision-making and in decision-making per se. It designates both the ‘cision’, cutting-up, the separation that makes the weighing-up of the law possible, and the original thing from which the parts are cut. 12 Thus Kafka’s decisions, when they are made, are fundamentally unsatisfactory, as they appear to lack any proper basis for the differences they postulate; and Kafka’s world remains one in which there is no conclusive separation between masters and slaves, father and sons, beetles and humans, the law and sexuality, power and impotence, inside and outside the law, and so on. Even at the end of Der Proceß as it lurches towards its decision, the death sentence is delayed while the executioners try to decide who should carry it out, and K’s only sign of resistance is consciously not to relieve them of their decision by doing the deed himself. Curiously, the last thing that K sees with his „brechenden Augen“ (literally: breaking eyes) is the eyes of his two indistinguishable guards looking at their „Entscheidung“ (decision). 13 What Kafka sees, what K sees, and by extension, 10 Derrida describes the “aporia of the undecidable” in: J. D., “Force of Law”, op. cit. (ftn. 9): 24. 11 Franz Kafka, „Das Urteil“, in: F. K., Gesammelte Werke, op. cit. (ftn. 5), Band 1: 37- 52. 12 The German prefix ‚Ur’ means original; ‚Teil’ designates either a thing that is part of something greater, or an entire but unnameable independent thing. The verb ‚teilen’ means to separate. 13 Kafka, „Der Proceß“, op. cit. (ftn. 5): 241. 140 - Caitríona Leahy what the reader sees, is the indecision of people, identities, situations through which the law will cut in the form of a judgement. The last thing one sees before the law is that one’s approach was always already within its sights, one’s challenge always already contemplated. So the law and the defeat of a challenge to the law are closely linked, and even the radical newness of what has not been ‘before’ the law before can be deemed decidable. The law thus operating undoes the idea that there are exceptions to the rule, or places it does not govern. But it does so in the face of radical questioning of the justice of its operation. This questioning takes shape in a space constituted and contested by the opposing forces of decision and indecision. Back in the field of philosophy, in the interplay between these forces of constitution and contestation as it takes shape in deconstructive thought and practice, Derrida will claim to recoup something of the notion of justice. 14 Being recognised But to be fair, my account of the law here is unjustified. For in court, and in truth, it is not the whole truth to say that the law of precedence, or the law as precedence only ever sanctions decisions that are prejudged and prejudiced. In fact, the law, even as it follows and repeats the decisions of the past does know exceptions to the rule, and can account for singularity or newness. Precedence, we remember, can be ‘set’ rather than ‘followed’; and a judgement may legitimately depart from precedence if, on the facts of an individual case, it can be shown to be ‘different’ to ‘similar’ past cases, requiring a different basis, and therefore a different decision. Here, however, the very process of differentiating the fundamentally similar restricts the grounds of a case’s difference in a very circumscribed manner, and the basis of any ‘new’ decision must rest then on those narrowly defined terms. A court may also (and this is much more unusual) simply overturn the decision of a court of equal status finding it to have erred in a point of law, or it may suggest that the precedence set by an earlier court was reached per incuriam, that is to say, in ignorance of the authority by which it should have been bound. This sketch doesn’t, of course, do justice to the operation of precedence, but it does offer some juristic (as opposed to philosophical) basis on which to suggest that the law has difficulty, firstly, in recognising newness or singularity on its own terms, and secondly, in accounting for that newness in its judgements. Even disregarding the philosophical ambivalence of the act of self-foundation, in the eyes of the law itself the space ‘before the law’ is problematic. Kafka, we may conjecture, would understand the difficulties surrounding a beginning that attempts the act of self-foundation. 15 As indeed would the 14 Cf. Derrida, “Force of Law”, op. cit. (ftn. 9). 15 If Kafka’s texts reenact these problems philosophically and aesthetically, there is also a specifically juridical backdrop to the attempt of legal authority to map new territory (Un)precedented texts - 141 founding fathers of the Irish Constitution, who, we remember, were torn between independence (newness) and inheritance (what goes before and comes before), who borrowed authority from the Holy Trinity and the Law from Unholy England in order to get themselves as far as their first independent judicial and linguistic sentence. The problem we have seen is in deciding what that first independent sentence is - the first line of the constitution, or the first line of the Preamble that stands before the law. At what point, and in whose voice, does independence begin, does newness happen? Kafka’s first sentences are also notoriously difficult to judge: Josef K. wakes into a radically new life that clearly has a long history; Gregor Samsa of Die Verwandlung is incapable of recognising his animal newness, because his reason distorts that to which it is applied. In Kafka, beginnings are cluttered and hampered by what precedes, while endings and final decisions are left owing much to truth. What do these singularly Kafkaesque cases teach us about? Are they exceptions that cannot be accommodated under inherited rules and discourses? Or are they the very performance of rules, patterns, repetitions and laws at work? Does the sudden event befall and befuddle inexplicably, unaccounted for by law, or does the law itself operate as a series of inherently lawless events? Walter Benjamin, himself an avid reader of Kafka’s work distinguishes in another context between the power/ violence that conserves the existing law - law-preserving violence, „rechtsetzende Gewalt“ - and the power/ violence that creates new law - lawmaking violence, „rechtserhaltende Gewalt“. 16 It seems to me that the distinction might be of use here, because it speaks to the capacity of the law to account for what happens ‘before the law’, to account for singularity, the exception, the Kafkaesque disjunction between the case and the rule. And in doing so, it also speaks to the broader philosophical problem that lurks behind the peculiarity of the Kafkaesque: namely, the problem of selffoundation and newness as it demands recognition from that which it in turn recognises - in other words, the problem of the modern. 17 Applying that derives from his own legal work. See on this: Franz Kafka, Amtliche Schriften. Mit einem Essay von Klaus Hermsdorf, Berlin 1984; and Arnold Heidsieck, The Intellectual Contexts of Kafka’s Fiction: Philosophy, Law, Religion, Columbia 1994, esp. chapter 6: Constitutional and Criminal Law. 16 Walter Benjamin, “Critique of Violence”, in: W. B., Selected Writings, Vol. 1: 1913- 1926, eds. Marcus Bullock/ Michael W. Jennings, Cambridge, Mass./ London 1996: 236- 252. 17 The question of recognition is a very broad one and well beyond the capacity of this paper to deal with properly. It would incorporate the very many modernist attempts to found an aesthetic and a subjectivity that could articulate and contain newness without denying the challenge it presents to the ‘eyes’; but it would also incorporate the more straightforwardly ‘legal’ questions of citizenship and rights. Further removed from that legal zone, at the interface between psychoanalysis, aesthetics and the law the question is posed how that which is unrecognisable might nonetheless leave traces of itself within the space before the law. These are issues that are explored, for example, by Shoshana 142 - Caitríona Leahy Benjamin’s terms to Kafka, however, the question of their mutual compatibility is raised: is it appropriate to think of lawmaking violence (such as in the founding of states) as the rebellion of the case against the rule, the event of newness overthrowing precedence, inheritance, tradition? Or vice versa: where we speak of the emergence (or ‘sudden’ appearance 18 ) of radical newness, are we also necessarily invoking the Benjaminian distinction between two types of power? And are we also, always, speaking of the law? Benjamin doesn’t seek to make the link between the juridical and the aesthetic, because these are not the terms of his analysis, but the analogy, I suggest, is productive, in pursuit of the question - with what power does newness come into being? According to Benjamin, lawmaking violence is not in the hands of anyone who is not already recognised by the law, which will always operate to preserve itself. Furthermore, he argues, what is at stake in the founding of states and the writing of constitutions is not the nature of the law, but rather where it operates. There are two points of note here: firstly, that lawmaking violence even in the radical moment of ‘stating’ its own territory operates in recognition of and recognised by those from whom it has usurped power. And secondly, the two parties share not just a common recognition of the line that separates them, but also a common failure to address the nature - according to Benjamin, the “mythic ambiguity” in which law is founded. He then continues: The act of establishing frontiers, however, is also significant for an understanding of the law in another respect. Laws and circumscribed frontiers remain, at least in primeval times, unwritten laws. A man can unwittingly infringe upon them and thus incur retribution. […] Even the modern principle that ignorance of a law is not protection against punishment testifies to this spirit of law […]. 19 This last point might also be expressed in terms of the problems of recognition that arise in the context of the law and those who come before it. It suggests that the power required to place a self recognisably ‘before the law’ is simultaneously hiding the nature of its own operation. The resultant creation of layers of recognition and non-recognition is related, I would argue, to Kafka’s interest in the mechanics of ignorance. Variously in his texts, forms of ignorance are ground through the justice system: sometimes his characters are ignorant of the law, sometimes the law is unknown, sometimes it is unknown if there is law, and sometimes, the ignorance appears to emanate from the side of the law itself Felman in: S. F., The Juridical Unconscious. Trials and Traumas in the 20 th Century, Cambridge, Mass./ London 2002. 18 Kafka’s texts frequently foreground the fundamentally modernist struggle between suddenness and emergence, exploring the question as to whether events such as arrest (Der Proceß) or metamorphosis (Die Verwandlung) arise consequentially - by virtue of reason - out of something else or are groundless (unbegründet, without reason) examples of newness? 19 Benjamin, “Critique of Violence”, op. cit. (ftn. 16): 249. (Un)precedented texts - 143 when it is ill-equipped to know itself or those who approach it. Throughout the texts in which the law is invoked, however, it seems to me that Kafka succeeds in constituting the space before the law as the site of a self-exposure of the mythic nature of power; that is to say, the fact that power hides its own mythic ambiguity is revealed. Here, the failure to know and to recognise can be known and recognised, without it being posited as a basis for an alternative conception of the force of law. The constitutive aspects of the law - recognition, power, demarcation - are held in check by the (im)possible, (un)precedented exposure of their enabling conditions. The exposure is impossible and unprecedented because it arises out of the recognition that only the possible and the precedented can take shape before the law, and because the state(ment) it imagines would be unrealisable before the law. It would be a state(ment) that would ponder outwardly what it might mean to be so radically new as to be unrecognisable before the law and ponder inwardly its own incapacity. But in what language is this spoken? When Kafka ‘passes sentence’, with what language and with what faculty is he speaking? Sentencing “Let’s make some sentences”, suggests Derrida, as he initiates an attempt to think through the right of philosophy to exist, the conditions under which it is possible to say ‘yes’ to philosophy. 20 For my purposes here, this is a thinking that is analogous to Kafka’s efforts to chart the space before the law, and to my own efforts to think about the status of the thinking or critique of the law that might emerge from such a space. I wonder: is there an equivalent of this ‘yes’ that is uttered ‘before the law’ establishing its right, and that bypasses, or overcomes, the illegitimacy of mythical beginnings? So, let us indeed make some sentences. Sentences that establish their own right, we describe as ‘performative’ - they make facts as they go. And the law is particularly fond of performative language - giving itself constitutions, finding guilt and innocence, arresting, passing sentence, enacting, contracting, play-acting … - theatre at every turn. Performative language performs and produces law, converting rule into event, event into rule, potentiality into actuality, Satz (sentence) into Gesetz (law, or ‘sentenced’). The performance of law in these instances is, however, subject to the rules of play, in turn subject (we like to think) to principles and values. Similarly, in the space ‘before philosophy’, the sentences that ‘justify’ philosophy must at least contain the promise (if not the presence - which would be impossible) of self-foundation 21 ; that is to say, they must be both self-asserting and self-critical in one instance. And they must be not just doing that, they must 20 Jacques Derrida, Who’s Afraid of Philosophy? , op. cit. (ftn. 3): 2. 21 On the promise and the future-orientation in Derrida’s philosophy, see Drucilla Cornell, “The Thinker of the Future”, in: German Law Journal, Vol. 6,1 (2005). 144 - Caitríona Leahy also be suggesting this activity as a value in itself, as a right, a fundamental (because foundational) right, a bun-reacht, a self-constituting constitution. This is where the sentences that ‘justify’ philosophy resemble deconstructions that point towards the undecidable and yet underwrite the ‘legality’ of that undecidability. It is also where our philosophical sentences, in establishing their ‘right’ to be uttered (as a Recht, this corresponds to the ‘law’ according to which they may or can be uttered), are thrown back onto the rather more legalistic question of their justification and their power, or Gewalt. How fare Kafka’s sentences ‘before the law’ in the light of Derrida’s sentences ‘before philosophy’? Certainly Kafka’s sentences include a ‘yes’ to the law. They acknowledge, pay homage, seek admittance to it; they recognise its dictates, submit to its judgements. But they do so in radical ignorance of the principle governing law’s application. In Kafka, there appears to be neither precedence nor any other law of the law. In Der Proceß the decisions of the court are not recorded, so that neither judge nor accused can be directed by what has gone ‘before’. In another text, Zur Frage der Gesetze (The Question of our Laws), a similar circumstance is described. Here, the laws are unknown except to a small elite; the people study decisions handed down and attempt to discern the laws from which these might be derived. But it is also uncertain whether such laws exist at all. If they do, then over time and with careful study of decisions, the ‘Ur-teil’ - the original division that the law makes between ‘lawful’ and ‘unlawful’ - will become known and the law will pass into the possession of the people. If the laws do not exist, then the deeds of the elite are self-constituting laws; what they say is law, their sentences are performative. As those who decide on the law, the elite are themselves above the law, subject neither to precedence nor to consistency. But it may also be the case, that the law - if it exists and if it is being applied - is so constituted as to include within its (blind) sight, both the event of its application and the event of its suspension; when the elite make sentences and pass sentence, the suspension of law, or its non-application simply becomes part of the law. This, I think, would be something like sovereignty at work. And it would also correspond to what the law calls ‘the state of exception’. 22 The state of exception marks the place within law when, moving to preserve itself, law suspends itself, creating a space within itself in which the law, legally, does not apply. Here, where the difference between exception and inclusion, outside and inside, before and after the law, is elided, Kafka’s spaces ‘before the law’ appear as spaces in which no decisions / separations are possible, and the original ambivalence of the ‘Urteil’ becomes part of the sentence that is passed. When the spaces before and after, inside and outside the law are indistinguishable, the difference between a rule and its application is suspended; all applications of the law are self-legitimising, and as Kafka’s Countryman learns, everyone’s access to the law applies 22 See generally: Giorgio Agamben, State of Exception, op. cit. (ftn. 6). (Un)precedented texts - 145 only to them. Here, it does not matter what the law says, it matters only that it is the law. One of the reasons why this all matters, is that living in a state of exception, 23 it would appear that no critique is possible, for the state of exception marks the place in which the totalising tendency of law is realised. In the real (Kafkaesque) world it is not possible to take exception to the state of exception; it is not possible to be an exception to the rule that there is no exception. And yet nonetheless - standing opposed to this state is the Kafkaesque exposure of its foundations, an exposure that does not found an alternative oppositional authority, but whose ‘yes’ to the law points to a need for a space beyond the law in which new sentences would found an impossible justice, in which the radically unrecognisable and unprecedented could be accounted for before the law. This would be a law in contemplation of its own foundations and sentences. The unfounded, the impossible and the dreamt of are the stuff of philosophy and aesthetics, and it is in this arena that we find precedence for the kind of thinking that law must aspire to. In the 1920s Walter Benjamin was telling us that the exceptions, the shocks, the breaks in tradition that constituted modernity were not exceptional, but had become the rule, and he suggested in the face of a collapsed temporality taking hold of a view of ourselves from the position of judgement day. If the day of judgement has already arrived over and over again, as it has in Benjamin, and as it has for so many of Kafka’s characters, then it remains to find a juridical expression of what has always already been ‘before the law’ in the shape of the unprecedented, the unthinkable, the singular and the unrecognisable, in short, the Kafkaesque. Is law itself capable of finding such a perspective? Or will it only be possible to say ‘yes’ to law philosophically, even aesthetically but not juridically, not from within law’s own idiom and with its own sentences? The condition of the law in the space before the law depends on the answers to those questions. 23 Agamben’s contention in State of Exception that it has become a ‘normalised’ operation of government, certainly holds true of the Irish State where - to return briefly to our point of departure - the Emergency Powers that designate the state of exception have been in operation for much of it the lifetime of the state. Carola Erbertz Die schwierige Freiheit der Postmoderne Zum Verhältnis von Gesetz und Buch bei Edmond Jabès Abstract Franz Kafka’s modern vision of the law presents us with an all-powerful structure whose previous validity is no longer applicable. The law remains nonetheless ineluctable and condemns the subject to search for answers. In the literary universe of Edmond Jabès this function of the law is significantly modified to become consistent with the Jewish tradition commencing with the delivery of divine law to man. The breaking of the tablets on which the original Decalogue was inscribed becomes both a foil to and the impetus for the fragmentary structure and immanent deconstruction of Jabès’ work. The Law is no longer representative of authority; it hands over power and responsibility to human beings, who are dismissed into a difficult liberty. Thus, the law becomes the cipher of absence and the source of most diverse interpretations. Following the Talmudic tradition of comment, Jabès develops a culture of subversion, a culture of self-questioning of writing, which he links with the never-ending search for identity. The correspondences between the old Jewish writing tradition and the post-modern theoretical questions that are elucidated in Jabès secularised return to Hebrew culture become the source of poetic inspiration. Where Kafka’s law remains beyond reach, the novels of Edmond Jabès open themselves to the one who takes on the challenging freedom of self-questioning. Im Kontext der Moderne lässt die Frage nach dem Gesetz sogleich an Franz Kafkas düsteren Entwurf eines menschlichen Daseins denken, welches in Strukturen verfangen ist, die vormals noch Sinn verbürgten. Das Gesetz ist eine solche mächtige Struktur, die Antworten schuldig bleibt, der aber gleichzeitig nicht entkommen werden kann und innerhalb derer sich das Scheitern menschlicher Sinnsuche notwendigerweise vollzieht. Dies ist die Grundkonstellation von Kafkas Romanfragment Der Proceß, dessen Protagonist Josef K. an seiner unmöglichen Suche nach Wahrheit zugrunde geht, oder besser gesagt daran, dass das Gesetz vorgibt, Wahrheit zu verkörpern ohne sie jedoch vermitteln zu können. Unüberwindbar erscheint die Spannung zwischen einem (vermeintlich) 148 - Carola Erbertz objektiven und sich doch willkürlich-autoritär darbietendem Wahrheitsanspruch und K.s subjektivem Empfinden von Wahrhaftigkeit. Die Auseinandersetzung mit dem Gesetz gestaltet sich als ein Herumirren durch Türen und Gänge, die nur auf neue, unendliche Wege führen, welche im Leben niemals durchmessen werden können. Die Fatalität der Zeit, die den Menschen verdammt, beendet die Sinnsuche, der Prozess geht ins Urteil über. Inwieweit dieser Entwurf des Gesetzes als fatale condition humaine für die literarische Produktion der zweiten Hälfte des vergangenen Jahrhunderts prägend gewesen ist, soll im Folgenden anhand der Texte von Edmond Jabès illustriert werden, welche sich, ausgehend von der oben beschriebenen Antwortlosigkeit, der Suche nach den Fragen verschreiben. So entwickelt Jabès in Form seiner écriture nomade Zyklen von Büchern, die sich jeder Gattungszuweisung entziehen. Ihre Nicht-Zugehörigkeit spiegelt auch das existentielle Grundgefühl ihres im Pariser Exil lebenden Autors wider: Bis zu seinem Tod im Jahre 1991 hatte Jabès Ägypten, das Land, in welchem er 1912 geboren worden war, nie wiedergesehen, nachdem er es nach der Sueskrise verlassen musste, weil er Jude war. Im Jahre 1963 erschien Le Livre des Questions. Aus diesem Buch sollte sich ein gleichnamiger, siebenbändiger Zyklus entwickeln, der im Jahre 1973 mit dem Band El, ou le dernier livre abgeschlossen sein würde. Die fragmentarische und dialogische Grundstruktur der Werke setzt die einzelnen Bücher zueinander in Beziehung: Sie erweitern und ergänzen sich durch Weiteraufnahmen ihrer spezifischen Fragestellungen und Motive sowie durch Kommentare, die zum Teil durch imaginäre Rabbinerfiguren erfolgen, wodurch der Aufbau des Jabèsschen Werkes auch an die Tradition der Textexegese des Judentums erinnert. Sowohl bei Kafka als auch bei Jabès befindet sich das Individuum - als Leser, als Schriftsteller oder als Protagonist - auf der Suche nach etwas. Dieses Etwas wird chiffriert als Gesetz, als Schloss, als Buch, welches allesamt Chiffren von Abwesenheit sind, die zu den verschiedensten Interpretationen einladen. Besonders in Bezug auf Kafka hat dies zu vielen Deutungsversuchen, meist religiöser Prägung, geführt. Zum Beispiel wurde der Versuch unternommen, Kafkas Texte in eine Beziehung zum Judentum zu setzen. Was seine Person angeht, hat Kafka sich in seinem Tagebuch ausdrücklich gegen diese Vereinnahmung ausgesprochen: „Was habe ich mit Juden gemeinsam? Ich habe kaum etwas mit mir gemeinsam [...].“ 1 Diese auf die Spitze getriebene Selbstentfremdung wird ein halbes Jahrhundert später bei Edmond Jabès in einem Verständnis der conditio iudaica als conditio humana münden, die sich in der Situation des Schriftstellers herauskristallisiert. Dieser konzeptionelle Status, den das Judesein im ‚Jabèstext‘ innehat, reflektiert die Interdependenz von Sprache und Differenz, die hier im Kontext der Nicht-Zugehörigkeit gedacht wird. Der Schriftsteller muss sich, um überhaupt schreiben zu können, der Er- 1 Franz Kafka, Tagebücher, Band II: 1912-1914 in der Fassung der Handschrift. Nach der kritischen Ausgabe hg. v. Hans-Gerd Koch, Frankfurt a. M. 1994: 225. Die schwierige Freiheit der Postmoderne - 149 fahrung seiner eigenen Fremdheit stellen. Der Status, den das Judentum bei Jabès einnimmt, hängt also aufs Engste mit dem individuellen Prozess der literarischen Produktion zusammen. Der ästhetische Brückenschlag zu dieser Idee findet sich bei Kafka, welcher in einer Tagebucheintragung vom 16.1.1922 eine Verbindung des literarischen Schaffens zur jüdischen Mystik herstellt: Diese ganze Litteratur ist Ansturm gegen die Grenze und sie hätte sich, wenn nicht der Zionismus dazwischen gekommen wäre, leicht zu einer neuen Geheimlehre, einer Kabbala entwickeln können. Ansätze dazu bestehn. Allerdings ein wie unbegreifliches Genie wird hier verlangt, das neu seine Wurzeln in die alten Jahrhunderte treibt oder die alten Jahrhunderte neu erschafft und mit dem allem sich nicht ausgibt, sondern jetzt erst sich auszugeben beginnt. 2 Kafka verweist hier auf die der Tradition des Judentums innewohnende Kraft der Erneuerung. Ausgehend von dieser wird Edmond Jabès später versuchen, die jüdische Tradition in einer subversiven Anverwandlung zu aktualisieren. Kafka aber betont, dass er an dieser Aufgabe gescheitert sei. Dieses Scheitern stellt Walter Benjamin in den Mittelpunkt seines großen Essays zu Kafkas zehntem Todestag. Schon anlässlich seiner Kritik an Max Brods Kafkabuch hatte er mit der oberflächlich-religiösen Vereinnahmung von Kafkas Werk abgerechnet. Doch schiebt Benjamin nun selbst, besonders in der zweiten Phase seiner Kafka-Exegese, eine Verknüpfung von Mystik und Gesellschaftstheorie an die in seiner Kritik geschaffene inhaltliche Leerstelle. Indes geht es bei Kafka gerade darum, diese offen zu halten, was auch die wohl differenzierteste Interpretation Kafkas im Lichte des Judentums, die von Gershom Scholem, gezeigt hat. Scholem weist, ausgehend von der zentralen Rolle, die das Gesetz bei Kafka spielt, auf strukturelle Analogien hin, die zwischen Kafkas Texten und dem Judentum bestehen, ohne diese Strukturen inhaltlich zu besetzen: „Die Welt Kafkas ist die Welt der Offenbarung, freilich in jener Perspektive, in der sie auf ihr Nichts zurückgeführt wird.“ 3 Diese Einschränkung ist wesentlich, denn die metaphysische Leerstelle bei Kafka ist der Abgrund, um den seine Texte kreisen, das Nichts ist, was sie hervorbringt. Obgleich Jabès diese metaphysische Leerstelle nicht neu besetzt, begibt er sich doch in ein Spannungsverhältnis von jüdischer Tradition und ästhetischer Moderne, welches sich in den drei Bänden des Livre des Ressemblances in deutlich von Kafkas Proceß inspirierten Anschnitten niederschlägt, wodurch die Frage der Bedeutung des Gesetzes erneut aufgeworfen wird. Durch die Beschreibung eines Gerichtsprozesses am Ende jedes Bandes der Trilogie wird 2 Franz Kafka, Tagebücher, Band III: 1914-1923 in der Fassung der Handschrift. Nach der kritischen Ausgabe hg. v. Hans-Gerd Koch, Frankfurt a. M. 1994: 199. 3 Aus Scholems Brief an Benjamin vom 17.7.1934. In: Benjamin über Kafka. Texte, Briefzeugnisse, Aufzeichnungen, hg. v. Hermann Schweppenhäuser, Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp Taschenbuch Wissenschaft 341, 1981: 74. 150 - Carola Erbertz das Verhältnis der Orthodoxie zu dem nicht-religiösen Schreibenden diskutiert. Der Prozess enthält eine absurde Dimension durch den Umstand, dass alle Teilnehmer Tote sind. Die Seele eines Schriftstellers, der wegen der Veröffentlichung eines störenden Buches inhaftiert worden war, wird angeklagt. Er soll zum Tode verurteilt werden und damit zu einer Seele ohne Kopf werden. 4 Die Anklage lautet: Verrat am Judaismus. Ein Zeuge - die Seele eines Juden - beschuldigt den Schriftsteller: Tu as dit que tout homme était juif au seuil du livre. [...] Tu as écrit que l’écrivain et le juif n’étaient qu’une même parole, celle de l’exil. [...] Tu as remis en question le livre. [..] Tu as discrédité nos sages et nos rabbins dont tu as inventé les sentences et parodié les noms. 5 Seine Rede enthält die Summa dessen, wofür die Texte von Jabès stehen. Was hier als Abweichen vom Judentum dargestellt wird, ist gerade das, was dort als Essenz des Judentums erscheint. Die Verteidigung der angeklagten Seele gipfelt in der Behauptung, Jude zu sein bedeute auch, für die anderen Juden nicht Jude zu sein. Als solcher könne man sich nicht in den anderen auflösen. Es gebe ein kollektives, aber kein individuelles Judesein. Die weitere Entwicklung dieses Gerichtsverfahrens in den beiden folgenden Bänden ist entscheidend: Im „SECOND PROCÈS“ treten die Richter ganz allein in der Wüste auf. Sie stellen plötzlich die Maßstäbe - sogar den des Judeseins - ihrer Verurteilung in Frage und widerrufen diese - zu spät. Der dritte Teil des ‚Buches der Ähnlichkeiten‘, L’ineffaçable L’inaperçu, schließt mit der Partie „L’IMPOSSIBLE PROCÈS“, die gekennzeichnet ist von dem Bedauern der Richterseelen, ihre Entscheidung nicht revidieren zu können. Sie stellen die Möglichkeit der Erkenntnis von Wahrheit an sich in Frage. Das Gesetz stellt somit nun keine Autorität mehr dar, es entmachtet sich gewissermaßen selbst und übergibt damit die Verantwortlichkeit an den Menschen. Zwar wird damit im textuellen Universum von Edmond Jabès die Funktion des Gesetzes entscheidend modifiziert, doch geschieht dies in einer konsequenten Weiterentwicklung der jüdischen Tradition, da die Übergabe von Gottes Gesetz an den Menschen hier als Vorbild fungiert. Als Moses vom Berg Sinai mit den beiden steinernen Gesetzestafeln, die Gott selbst mit seinem Finger beschrieben hatte, herabstieg, erkannte er in dem goldenen Kalb und dem ausgelassenen Treiben, das ihn erwartete, den Abfall seines Volkes. In Edmond Jabès’ Buch der Fragen berichtet ein Reb Lima von diesem Vorfall: 4 Edmond Jabès, Le Livre des Ressemblances. Collection L’Imaginaire, Paris 1991: 139. 5 Ebd.: 141f. Die schwierige Freiheit der Postmoderne - 151 La liberté fut, à l’origine, gravée dix fois dans les tables de la Loi, mais nous la méritions si peu que le Prophète les brisa dans sa colère. 6 Die Inspiration, die Gesetzesvorschriften als Angebot der Freiheit zu interpretieren, leitet sich aus der hebräischen Sprache her, da dort harut ‚eingraviert‘ und herut ‚Freiheit‘ bedeutet. 7 Die gemeinsame Wurzel dieser Begriffe trägt in sich den Hinweis, dass die schriftliche Fixierung eben keine statische Festlegung ist. Interpretation und Lektüre bringen die schwierige Aufgabe der Freiheit mit sich. In dieser Hinsicht beurteilt Jabès im Interview mit Paul Auster das Zerbrechen der Tafeln als ein vom Volk in der Wüste bewusst herbeigeführtes Ereignis, da ihm Freiheit im Angesicht des Absoluten nicht möglich schien: the Hebrew people gave Moses a crucial lesson in reading when they forced him to break the tablets of the law. Because they were not able to accept a word without origins, the word of God. It was necessary for Moses to break the book in order for the book to become human. [..] This is exactly what we do as well. We destroy the book when we read it in order to make it into another book. 8 Die Destruktion des Textes im Lesen wäre somit ein Echo vom Akt Mose, genauso wie das Schreiben des Buches selbst. «Le livre», disait-il, «n’est, tout au long de ses pages, que brisures répétées. [...]» «Les tables brisées demeurent le modèle incontesté du livre», écrivait reb Ezri; «car chaque ligne d’écriture est brisure promise à la lisibilité.» Le livre est toujours brisures du livre imité, inimitable. 9 Die gebrochene Struktur der Jabèsschen Bücher spielt also auf diese Unerreichbarkeit des idealen Buches wie auf die Fragmente der ersten Gesetzestafeln an. Diese können im übrigen auch als eine Präfiguration der Zerstreuung des 6 Edmond Jabès, Le Livre des Questions, 2 vol., Collection L’Imaginaire, Paris: Gallimard, 1991, hier vol. I: 128. 7 Vgl. auch Susan A. Handelman, Fragments of Redemption. Jewish Thought and Literary Theory in Benjamin, Scholem and Levinas, Bloomington u. Indianapolis 1991: 317. Emmanuel Lévinas stellt ebenfalls seiner im gleichen Jahr wie Le Livre des Questions veröffentlichten Difficile Liberté folgendes Motto aus dem Traité des principes voran: «Liberté sur les tables de pierre...», Paris 1963 u. 1976: 3. Marc-Alain Ouaknin schreibt hierzu: «Transmettre la liberté passe par la possibilité d’une lecture subversive des textes fondateurs. La liberté passe par la possibilité de sortir de la «gravure» de la Loi sur les Tables de pierre: Al Tiqra Harout éla Hérout - «ne lis pas ‘gravées’ mais ‘liberté’.»» Le Livre brûlé. Philosophie du Talmud, Paris 1994: 395. 8 Paul Auster, “Book of the Dead: An Interview with Edmond Jabès”, in: Eric Gould (Hg.), The Sin of the Book: Edmond Jabès, Lincoln 1985: 23. 9 Edmond Jabès, Le Livre des Ressemblances. Collection L’Imaginaire, Paris: Gallimard 1991: 103. 152 - Carola Erbertz jüdischen Volkes in der Diaspora gelesen werden. David Mendelson weist darauf hin, dass das Wort ‚Mosaik‘ seinen Ursprung eben hier habe. Für ihn beschreibt das Jabèssche Projekt das Schicksal des Judentums in seinem Zerbrechen und die unendliche Arbeit der Wiederherstellung. 10 Entscheidend dabei ist jedoch, dass bei Jabès nicht der Inhalt der Gesetzgebung aufgenommen wird, sondern dass es ihm um die Struktur des Vorgangs geht. „L’œuvre de Jabès devient un écho moderne, désacralisé du décalogue originel“, 11 stellt Helena Shillony fest. Die metaphysische Leerstelle, um welche bereits die Texte Kafkas kreisten, wird hier durch das Zerbrechen der Gesetzestafeln ins Werk gesetzt. Jabès hebt hervor, dass eben die Abwesenheit des zerstörten ersten Wortes Gottes Antrieb der immanenten Dekonstruktion seiner Bücher sei: Le livre ne se construit pas, mais se déconstruit. Dieu est mort par le livre. Livre, tombe abyssale de Dieu? Cette déconstruction est retour à la parole initiale. 12 Denn der Schriftsteller gestaltet die Rückkehr zum Ursprung als unabschließbare Bewegung. In eben dieser Struktur nähert sich Jabès’ poetologische Vorstellung des idealen Buches den ersten Gesetzestafeln an, denn genauso wenig, wie ersteres in seiner Abwesenheit von den geschriebenen Werken eingeholt werden kann, können die zweiten Tafeln als identischer Ersatz für die ersten gelten. In ihrer Ähnlichkeit markieren die zweiten Tafeln für Jabès beständig die unüberwindbare Differenz und somit auch die Übergabe des Göttlichen an das Menschliche: Ainsi la loi est bâtie sur la ressemblance, devenue humaine d’avoir été confrontée avec la mort; par conséquent avec l’éternelle répétition. Et le livre, sur l’espérance d’une ressemblance avec le Livre caché, dis-tu. 13 Diese Menschlichwerdung bestehe eben in der Fragmentierung, präzisiert Jabès in seinem abschließenden Beitrag zu The Sin of the Book. Dort führt er aus, dass uns nur durch diese eine Vorstellung von Totalität überhaupt erst möglich sei. 14 Daher folgert Richard Stamelman: „Jabès humanism is predicated on the 10 David Mendelson, «Tables / livres / noms (judéo-égytiens) jabésiens», in: ders., Jabès. Le Livre lu en Israël, Paris 1987: 23. 11 Helena Shillony, «Répétitions, resemblances», in: David Mendelson, l. c. (Anm. 10): 110. 12 Edmond Jabès, «Aely», in: Le Livre des Questions II, Collection L’Imaginaire, Paris: Gallimard, 1991: 312. 13 Ebd.: 91. 14 Edmond Jabès, “The Question of Displacement into the Lawfullness of the Book”, in: Gould, The Sin of the Book (Anm. 8): 229. Die schwierige Freiheit der Postmoderne - 153 inevitability of deconstruction.“ 15 Stamelman sieht im Zerbrechen der Tafeln die Geburt der menschlichen Sprache, wobei er allerdings das Notwendigkeitsverhältnis umkehrt: Die Entfaltung der menschlichen Sprache korrespondiere mit dem Moment des Exils, da sie fortan die Lücke habe füllen müssen, die der verärgerte Rückzug von Gottes Wort hinterlassen habe. Und in der Tat ist es der Mensch Moses, der nun die neuen Gesetzestafeln eigenhändig zurechthauen muss. Dies bedeutet, dass sie nicht mehr, wie die ersten Steintafeln, rein göttlichen Ursprungs sind. Wieder auf dem Sinai, schreibt diesmal Moses im Auftrag Gottes die zehn Worte des Bundes selbst. Für Stamelman sind die zweiten Tafeln mit einer ‚gefallenen‘ Sprache beschrieben. Sie repräsentierten die Distanz, die Gott zwischen sich und den Menschen geschaffen habe. Jedes Schreiben reflektiere diese ursprüngliche Katastrophe: 16 „the breaking of the tablets of the law [...] initiated the Jew’s exile from divine language and is a metaphor for the writer’s perpetual separation from the power of pure and total expression.“ 17 Moses war somit der erste Schriftsteller, der zwischen dem Absoluten und dem Menschlichen stand. Jabès sieht ihn als den ersten Interpreten des göttlichen Wortes, dessen Erscheinen somit von ihm abhing. In dem Werk L’ineffaçable L’inaperçu wird Moses daher mit dem Attribut ‚Autor‘ belegt: „Ébloui par le Livre de Dieu, Moïse avait-il oublié qu’il en était l’auteur? “ 18 In einem Interview mit Richard Stamelman bekräftigt Jabès die zentrale Stellung, die er ihm zumisst: „It was with commentary and with Moses that Jews first became Jews. [...] With him a Judaism of the Book developed. Moses gave the Jew over to the text.“ 19 Denn in der Schrift sieht Jabès die eigentliche Bestimmung jüdischer Identität: L’univers juif repose sur la loi écrite, sur une logique des mots que l’on ne peut pas démentir. Ainsi le pays des Juifs est à la taille de leur univers, car il est un livre. Chaque Juif habite dans un mot personnalisé qui lui permet d’entrer dans tous les mots écrits. Chaque Juif habite un mot-clé, un mot de douleur, un mot de passe que les rabbins commentent. La patrie des Juifs est un texte sacré au milieu des commentaires qu’il a suscités. Ainsi chaque Juif est dans la Loi. Ainsi chaque Juif fait la Loi. Ainsi la Loi est juive. 20 15 Richard Stamelman, “Nomadic Writing: The Poetics of Exile”, in: Gould, The Sin of the Book (Anm. 8): 101. 16 Ebd.: 98f. 17 Ebd.: 94. 18 Edmond Jabès, Le Livre des Ressemblances (Anm. 4): 361. 19 Richard Stamelman: “On Dialogue and the Other: An Interview with Edmond Jabès”, in: Studies in Twentieth Century Literature 12, 1 (Herbst 1987): 39. 20 Edmond Jabès, Le Livre des Questions I (Anm. 6): 112f. 154 - Carola Erbertz Die hier formulierte Interdependenz von Judentum und Gesetz akzentuiert, dass sowohl Identität als auch Schrift als dynamische Bereiche aufgefasst werden. Auch wenn Jabès das Buch dem heiligen Text gleichsetzt, auch wenn die autonomen Worte an die Stelle Gottes treten, dessen Name nur noch als solcher steht, so entspringt der Gedanke der fortwährenden Veränderung der Schrift - und mit ihr der menschlichen Identität - doch der jüdischen Tradition. Diese versteht die ‚Tora‘ als Beginn und nicht als Resultat. Strenggenommen umfasst die Tora den Pentateuch, sie ist Gottes Wille und Gesetz. Seit dem ersten Jahrhundert n. Chr. jedoch bezeichnet man nicht mehr nur die mosaische Offenbarung, sondern auch die gesamten Lehren und Schriften des Judentums als ‚Tora‘. In seinem wörtlichen Sinn erinnert der Begriff, der ‚Lehre‘ und ‚Unterweisung‘ bedeutet, an die Offenbarung durch Gott am Sinai. Sie beschreibt den Weg der Entstehung des Judentums sowie die Bahnen für seine zukünftige Entwicklung. Da das Gesetz im Laufe der Zeit und der durch sie hervorgerufenen Veränderungen jedoch immer wieder der Ausdeutung und Erweiterung bedarf, muss auch die Tora unendlich sein. Doch ist das Textkorpus der fünf Bücher Mose heilig und unveränderlich, wodurch dem jeweiligen Kopisten von Gottes Wort eine ungemein große Verantwortung zukam. Denn nach jüdischer Auffassung kann ein Fehler bei der Abschrift der Tora die ganze Welt verändern. In dem posthum veröffentlichten Entwurf zum dritten Band des Livre des Marges schreibt Jabès: On sait que le rouleau de la Torah ne doit compter aucune erreur. Une seule lettre mal dessinée fait perdre au Texte son caractère sacré. Il faut le détruire aussitôt, dans son intégralité. Écriture qui maîtrise le tremblement, assurée de sa justesse, de la plénitude du dire. 21 Wenn also die Schrift unveränderlich ist, wie kann Gottes Gesetz, die Grundlage des Judentums, aktualisiert werden, um sich durch diese Öffnung lebendig zu erhalten? Dies scheint nur durch beständige Interpretation und Erweiterung im Kommentar möglich, weshalb das schriftliche Gesetz durch ein mündliches ergänzt werden muss, wie Maurice Blanchot erläutert: la loi écrite, ce texte non original de l’origine, doit être toujours reprise par la voix qui commente - réaffirmée par le commentaire oral qui ne lui est pas postérieur, mais contemporain -, reprise et cependant non pas rejointe, dans cette dis-jonction qui est la mesure de son infinité. Ainsi la simultanéité du texte premier de l’écriture et du contexte de la parole seconde qui interprète, introduitelle, sous une nouvelle forme, un nouvel intervalle par lequel cette fois c’est le sacré lui-même, dans sa puissance trop immédiate, qui est tenu à distance et, si l’on ose dire, ex-écré. 22 21 Edmond Jabès, Bâtir au quotidien. Le Livre des Marges III, Paris: esquisse, 1997: 79. 22 Maurice Blanchot, L’Amitié, Paris 1971: 254f. Die schwierige Freiheit der Postmoderne - 155 Auch für Marc-Alain Ouaknin ist diese Distanzierung vom Heiligen, welches nach orthodoxer Auffassung in der Tora seinen unmittelbaren Niederschlag findet, eine wesentliche Funktion des Kommentars: „Le système d’interprétation - en dehors de sa nécessité pour le phénomène de la compréhension - a pour fondement la volonté de se refuser à l’idolâtrie. Le Texte, premier rapport à Dieu, ne doit pas se transformer en idole.“ 23 Unter Idolatrie versteht Ouaknin dabei die Illusion, Sinn zu besitzen. Um dieser zu entgehen, habe die hebräische Tradition die Vorstellung verschiedener Sinnschichten entwickelt. 24 Die Notwendigkeit der fortwährenden Ausdeutung ist somit dem biblischen Text bereits eingeschrieben, 25 weshalb der talmudische Kommentar die eigentliche Entfaltung der Tora darstellt. Der Talmud ist die Niederschrift des mündlichen Gesetzes. Seine Redaktion erstreckte sich über mehr als 700 Jahre, d.h. vom zweiten Jahrhundert vor der Zeitrechnung bis in das sechste Jahrhundert hinein. Der Talmud setzt sich aus der Mischna und der Gemara zusammen, wobei letztere den beständigen Kommentar des ersteren, eigentlichen Textes darstellt. 26 ‚Mischna‘ bedeutet ‚Wiederholung‘ und ‚Lehre‘. Sie umfasst das gesamte Religionsgesetz der mündlichen Tradition in einer verbindlichen Auswahl von 63 Traktaten in sechs Hauptabteilungen. Nach ihrer Veröffentlichung zu Beginn des dritten Jahrhunderts wurde die Mischna zum bindenden Recht für das Rabbinat und zum Ausgangspunkt der Auslegungen, die im Laufe der Zeit den Palästinischen und den Babylonischen Talmud formen sollten. Besonders der spätere Babylonische Talmud dokumentiert die evolutive Kapazität des Gesetzes, die sich in seiner inneren Dynamik widerspiegelt. In der Gemara vermittelt er dabei stark die Atmosphäre mündlicher Diskussion: 27 La Mahloquèt signifie la discussion polémique entre deux Maîtres à propos d’une même chose. Elle est possible parce que la loi est Halakha: le terme signifie étymologiquement «marche», «démarche». Elle s’instaure parce que la loi n’est pas un produit, mais une production. 28 Dabei kann eine einzelne Talmudseite verschiedene zeitliche Stadien der Auseinandersetzung zeigen, die in der Form von Randkommentaren, welche um die zentrale Mischna gruppiert sind, nebeneinander stehen. „In the world of the Talmud, rigid temporal and spatial distinctions collapse.“ 29 Diese Schichtung macht schon rein optisch den zentralen Anspruch des Talmud begreifbar, keine 23 Marc-Alain Ouaknin, Le Livre brûlé (Anm. 7): 107. 24 Ebd.: 108. 25 Ebd.: 28. 26 Marc-Alain Ouaknin, Le Livre brûlé (Anm. 7): 49f. 27 Ebd.: 58. 28 Ebd.: 42f. 29 Susan Handelman, “‘Torments of an Ancient Word’: Edmond Jabès and the Rabbinic Tradition”, in: Gould: The Sin of the Book (Anm. 8): 59. 156 - Carola Erbertz Interpretation zu privilegieren und zu jeder Meinung auch der Gegenmeinung einen Platz einzuräumen. So ist durchaus denkbar, dass verschiedene Interpretationen eines Einzigartigen nebeneinander stehen können. Diese permanente Infragestellung des Heiligen Textes stellt einen wichtigen Unterschied zur christlichen Tradition dar. Das jüdische Denken bricht aus der binären Logik des ‚wahr‘ und ‚falsch‘ aus. 30 Deshalb erstaunt es nicht, dass der Frage innerhalb des Talmud eine zentrale Stellung zugewiesen wird, wo sie die Funktion der Öffnung des Möglichen einnehmen kann. 31 Denn Selbstgenügsamkeit ist das Gegenteil des talmudischen Denkens. In der bisher beschriebenen Ausrichtung zeigt der Talmud also die zentralen Komponenten desjenigen interrogativen Grundstocks, auf dem Le Livre des Questions aufbaut. Shlomo Elbaz merkt an, dass der moderne ‚caractère éclaté‘ des Jabèstextes schon in den talmudischen Verfahren vorweggenommen worden sei. 32 Die Kapitel in den verschiedenen Abteilungen des ‚Buches der Fragen‘ sind in der Tat so aufgebaut, dass ihnen in Kursivschrift eine Art Motto oder Zitat - ähnlich der Mischna - vorangestellt ist, dessen Thematik dann im weiteren Verlauf diskutiert wird. Das Oszillieren zwischen kursiver und normaler Schrift erinnert an die verschiedenen Schriftcharaktere der talmudischen Kolonnen. Auch die zahlreichen Einschübe in Klammern nehmen bei Jabès diese Randkommentare und damit das Schriftbild des Talmud auf. 33 Jabès zufolge ist diese Ähnlichkeit seiner Textgestaltung nicht beabsichtigt. Dennoch habe er den Bezug, den einige Kritiker herstellten, begreifen können: „Ce n’est pas du tout la même chose, mais en fait c’est un esprit talmudique, c’est une façon d’interroger qui est totalement talmudique.“ 34 So scheint es also die gemeinsame fragende Grundeinstellung zu sein, welche die Gestaltung des Geschriebenen bestimmt. La structure particulière du texte talmudique, sa modalité originale selon laquelle s’expose la pensée talmudique, est ce qui rend possible la signification pérenne du Livre. Ainsi, le Livre, plutôt que dans la Bible serait à chercher dans le Talmud. 35 30 Marc-Alain Ouaknin, Le Livre brûlé (Anm. 7): 137. 31 Ebd.: 139. Dahinter steht natürlich auch die Vorstellung, dass Gottes Wort solange präsent ist, wie es befragt wird. 32 Shlomo Elbaz, «Jabès en question», in: Mendelson, Jabès. Le Livre lu en Israël, Paris 1987: 145. 33 Deutlicher noch wird das Echo des talmudischen Schriftbildes in der postmodernen Textgestaltung bei Jacques Derrida, der in seiner Kollage mit dem Titel Glas Texte von Genet und Hegel samt Kommentaren in Kolonnen nebeneinander stellt (Paris 1974). 34 Philippe de Saint Cheron, «Entretien avec Edmond Jabès», in: La Nouvelle Revue Française 464 (September 1991): 71. 35 Marc-Alain Ouaknin, Le Livre brûlé (Anm. 7): 229. Die schwierige Freiheit der Postmoderne - 157 Und eben als Modell des Buches interessiert Edmond Jabès dieses Kommentarwerk: „Les talmudistes comparent volontiers le Talmud à un océan. Les dimensions mêmes de l’ouvrage rejoignaient l’idée que je me faisais du livre.“ 36 Der Talmud ist gewissermaßen das ideale Buch, da er aufgrund der unendlichen Ausdeutungsmöglichkeiten auch selbst niemals vollständig ergründet werden kann. Daher beginnt, so Susan Handelman, jeder der zwanzig Bände des Talmud mit der Seitennummer zwei: „to teach [...] that no matter how much one has learned, one hasn’t begun to fathom its depths.“ 37 Jabès sieht also die Interpretationstiefe des Talmud als seinem literarischen Unternehmen durchaus verwandt an. Durch die Befreiung von der religiösen Ausrichtung jedoch kann er als Autor in seinen Büchern in anderen Bereichen verstärkt weiterwirken. Deshalb, so François Laruelle, verleiht Jabès der talmudischen und rabbinischen Literatur die Kraft der Erneuerung: il la libère de ses formes et de ses contraintes dogmatiques et stylistiques, de ses limitations religieuses et linguistiques. Il a su prélever sur cette «littérature» un procédé auquel il donne une extension et une puissance nouvelle, comme s’il le portait dans l’absolu ou le généralisait: talmudisme généralisé, talmudisme pour notre temps - une manière de le rendre universel. 38 Christoph Dröge sieht dagegen durchaus strukturelle Analogien zwischen dem Aufbau der Jabèsschen Bücher und den Traktaten des Talmud. Die inhaltliche Verschiebung jedoch ist auch für ihn der zentrale Aspekt: „so wie im Talmud das Gesetz Mosis und seine Auslegung das Zentrum der Überlegung bildet, so steht hier in der Mitte der Betrachtungen das »Buch an sich« , die Schrift, das Wort, der Buchstabe.“ 39 Das hebräische Schriftverständnis liefert Jabès hier gleichwohl den Ausgangspunkt: La question jabésienne trouve l’une de ses sources dans la plurivocité des mots, base de la lecture talmudique et midrashique. Le mot jabésien a ce caractère du mot biblique qu’il faut le lire comme consonantisme pur, comme écriture silencieuse, lisible seulement à celui qui le reconnaît. L’homographie de l’hébreu permet son hétérophonie et donc la découverte d’un autre sens. Telle est l’une des qualités du mot pour Jabès. Ecrire consistera, comme lire l’écrit, à tirer le texte de son mutisme, du vide. 40 36 Edmond Jabès, Du Désert au livre suivi de L’Etranger. Entretiens avec Marcel Cohen, Paris 1990: 107. 37 Susan Handelman, The Slayers of Moses (Anm. 7): 46. 38 François Laruelle, «Edmond Jabès ou le devenir-juif», in: Critique 35: 385. (Juni/ Juli 1979): 575. 39 Christoph Dröge, „Edmond Jabès. Das lyrische Werk“, in: Kindlers Neues Literaturlexikon Bd. 8, 1990: 512. 40 Roland G. Bonnel, «Identité et subversion chez Edmond Jabès», in: Dalhousie French Studies 17 (1989): 81. 158 - Carola Erbertz Das immanente Interpretationsangebot des Jabèstextes ist ideell durch die hebräische, nur aus Konsonanten bestehende Sprache vorstrukturiert. Denn sie lässt bei zahlreichen Worten verschiedene mögliche Formen der Vokalisation zu. Diese können bedeutungsverändernd sein. Bestehen bleibt jedoch immer die kanonische Form der Tora. Bei der Festlegung des Bibeltextes um 100 n. Chr. wurden viele Vokalzeichen als nicht zur Vollkommenheit des göttlichen Textes passende menschliche Zutat ausgemerzt. Lange Zeit wurde die Schrift also nur in der rein konsonantischen Form überliefert, da ihre Heiligkeit Unveränderlichkeit gebietet. Dies führte dazu, dass, als es seit dem 2. Jh. n. Chr. keine hebräischen Muttersprachler mehr gab, allein die mündliche Tradition der rabbinischen Familien die Aussprache bewahren musste. 41 Um die Weitergabe einer traditionellen Lektüre der Heiligen Schrift zu gewährleisten, bestand die Notwendigkeit, den Text zu punktieren und ihn mit graphischen Leseanweisungen, den sogenannten mater lectionis, zu versehen. Diese Aufgabe wurde von den Masoreten in dem Zeitraum vom 7.-10 Jahrhundert geleistet. Die heiligen Torarollen jedoch werden auch heute noch sorgfältig ohne jeden Zusatz abgeschrieben. Es gibt weder Vokalisierung noch Interpunktion. Doch sind die Schriften durch viele weiße Stellen, die sogenannten paracha oder ‚Übergänge‘, welche den Text durchbrechen, gegliedert. Auch dies gemahnt an die zentrale Bedeutung, welche die weißen Stellen im Jabèstext und seit Mallarmé in der modernen Literatur überhaupt einnehmen. Der Kommentar lebt von dem, was abwesend ist und nicht direkt im Text steht, sondern von diesem bedeutsam verschwiegen wird. Die Korrespondenzen zwischen dem altjüdischen Schriftverständnis und den dichtungstheoretischen Anliegen besonders des 20. Jahrhunderts lassen die säkularisierte Rückbewegung auf die hebräische Religionskultur zur Quelle poetologischer Inspiration werden. Winfried Wehle hält daher auch die Jabèssche - hier müsste man hinzufügen: ‚nachträgliche‘- Vertauschung, „das Verfahren der mündlichen Thora als Anleitung für Dichtung zu nehmen“, für gerechtfertigt: An den Modernisten Max Jacob, Eluard, Bataille, Blanchot, Leiris, Celan, für ihn Text- und Gesprächspartner, muß ihm aufgegangen sein, daß die talmudistische und kabbalistische Kunst der Zeichen ein Schriftverständnis praktiziert, das mit der avantgardistischen Poetik des Machens in avantgardistischer Dichtung verblüffend übereinstimmt. 42 Edmond Jabès wendet das Prinzip der jüdischen Textexegese, dessen subversives Element seinem Anliegen, jegliche Festlegung zu vermeiden, entgegen- 41 Johannes Kramer u. Sabine Kowallik, Einführung in die hebräische Schrift, Hamburg 1994: XI. 42 Winfried Wehle, „Im Zeichen des Schweigens. Durch die Sprachwüste von Edmond Jabès - Mit einem Ausblick auf Jacques Derrida“, in: Text und Tradition. Gedenkschrift Eberhard Lenke, hg. v. Klaus Ley et al., Frankfurt a. M. 1996: 448. Die schwierige Freiheit der Postmoderne - 159 kommt, an und verweist damit den Leser auf sich selbst. Die menschliche Suche nach Sinn wird im Rückgriff auf die jüdische Tradition in den dynamischen Bereich des Buches verlagert. Tritt dieses nun an die Leerstelle, zu welchem das Gesetz wird, sobald man jede Autorität in Frage stellt? Hier gibt wieder der Vergleich mit Kafka Aufschluss, da Jabès den Eintritt in sein Werk, die Aufnahme in das Buch in Anlehnung an Kafkas der Parabel Vor dem Gesetz, die dieser in seinen Roman Der Proceß als Binnenerzählung integriert hat, 43 gestaltet hat. Schon der Eintritt in den ersten Band des gleichnamigen Zyklus Le Livre des Questions wird durch die Kapitelüberschriften als unabschließbare Bewegung beschrieben. Der zweite Abschnitt des vierfach untergliederten Kapitels „Au seuil du livre“ illustriert mit einem Dialog zwischen Personen, die sich vor einer Tür befinden, die durch den Titel angezeigte Situation. 44 Einem jüdischen „gardien de la maison“ werden von einer Person, die Einlass in das Buch begehrt, Fragen gestellt. Die Antworten des Hauswächters münden jeweils in eine Differenzierung der gestellten Frage. In diesem einleitenden Gespräch wird die Genese des Buches verbildlicht: Einige Rabbiner, privilegierte Leser also, sind durch die Tür in das Buch hineingegangen, um es zu lesen. Und diese Aktivität ist dann im weiteren Verlauf tatsächlich das, was wir als ‚Handlung‘ des Livre des Questions erfahren. Hinter der Tür, so der Wächter, werde gerade ein Buch ‚entblättert‘ 45 In dem französischen Verb „effeuiller“ klingt dabei die fortwährende Destruktion des Buches mit an. Die Aufgabe des Hauswächters besteht seiner eigenen Aussage nach darin, das Buch zu öffnen, also nicht, es zu bewachen und den Zutritt zu verbieten. Damit wäre seine Funktion eher einseitig bestimmt. Der Wächter erschiene fast überflüssig, könnte man ihn nicht auch als Alter Ego des Schriftstellers erkennen, dessen Aufgabe darin besteht, das Buch für die Worte zu öffnen, wobei er selbst als Medium agiert, das außerhalb seines vermeintlich eigenen Werkes bleiben muss und dessen Platz, wie der des Hüters, daher auf der Schwelle ist. Spätestens hier tritt der intertextuelle Bezug deutlich hervor: Auch Kafkas Türhüter verstrickt sich mit einer Person, die Einlass begehrt, in eine Diskussion. Anfangs wird er selbst jedoch weniger befragt, sondern unterzieht den ‚Mann vom Lande‘ mehreren kleinen Verhören. Die Verfehlung des letzteren liegt möglicherweise gerade darin, zu wenig gefragt zu haben. Eine weitere Umkehrung der Kafkaschen Vorlage bei Jabès kann man in dem Umstand sehen, dass hier keine Rangunterschiede zwischen den Sprechenden existieren, die, losgelöst von äußerlichen Qualitäten, nur als Stimmen auftreten. Darüber hinaus wird im ‚Buch der Fragen‘ kein Eintrittsverbot ausgesprochen, jedoch auch keine Erlaubnis. Was sich bei Kafka gegen Ende der Parabel andeutet, als es für den Mann vom 43 Franz Kafka, Der Proceß, Frankfurt a. M. 1994: 226f. 44 Edmond Jabès, Le Livre des Questions I (Anm. 6): 18-22. 45 Ebd.: 18. 160 - Carola Erbertz Lande schon zu spät ist, als ihm scheint, es werde dunkel um ihn, 46 das bietet der Jabèssche „gardien“ als Antwort auf die Frage, was er denn für seinen, übrigens ebenfalls von seelischer Dunkelheit überfallen werdenden Gesprächspartner vermöge, an: „Ta part de chance est en toi.“ 47 Jabès führt in dieser szenischen Unterweisung den Leser zu der Tür, deren Schlüssel dieser selbst besitzt. Entsprechend der Diskontinuität des postmodernen Ichs werden auch die Bedingungen des Eintritts beständig aktualisiert. Man erhält nur Zugang zum Text, wenn man den Veränderungen der Worte nachspürt. Bei Kafka hingegen scheint der Zugang verstellt und somit bleibt das Gefühl einer verpassten Gelegenheit und einer unmöglichen Chance. Hartmut Binder weist darauf hin, dass man dies notwendige Scheitern auch als Ziel begreifen könnte: Nun heißt es aber im Text nicht, der Eingang zum Gesetz sei dazu bestimmt gewesen, den Mann vom Lande einzulassen, sondern nur, er sei für ihn bestimmt gewesen. Diese viel allgemeiner gehaltene Ausdrucksweise läßt es zu, die Art der Bestimmung auch in anderer Weise aufzufassen, nämlich in dem Sinn, der Lebensweg des Mannes vom Lande habe sich gerade darin erfüllen sollen, am Tor zuschanden zu werden [...]. 48 Wirklich interessant wird diese Bemerkung, wenn man sie auf den Leser, der Kafkas Texten nicht selten ratlos gegenübersteht, überträgt. Das Scheitern der Interpretation im Angesicht des Möglichen wird somit zu einer lebensnahen Leseerfahrung. Bei Kafka wie bei Jabès liegt der literarischen Umsetzung des Einlassbegehrens also eine existenzielle Dimension zugrunde: die scheinbare Inkompatibilität von Anspruch und Erreichbarem. Das Gesetz wird zur Chiffre von Abwesenheit. Die hieraus zu ziehenden Konsequenzen wären entweder, die Begegnung mit der Außenseite des Textes einem vermeintlichen Eindringen vorzuziehen oder aber ein Ändern der Erwartungshaltung. Die Vermittlung der Erfahrung eines Unbekannten und rational Nicht-Auflösbaren wäre unter diesem Blickwinkel eine mögliche Intention von Kafkas Vor dem Gesetz. Auch Hartmut Binder schreibt: Es ist nicht von der Hand zu weisen, daß die beobachteten Widersprüchlichkeiten, Vieldeutigkeiten, Auslassungen und Leerformeln verhindern wollen, daß sich das Verständnis des Lesers im Wiederfinden ihm bereits bekannter Sachverhalte erschöpft. 49 46 Franz Kafka, Der Proceß (Anm. 43): 227. 47 Edmond Jabès, Le Livre des Questions I (Anm. 6): 21 48 Hartmut Binder, „Vor dem Gesetz“. Einführung in Kafkas Welt, Stuttgart/ Weimar 1993: 183. 49 Hartmut Binder (Anm. 43): 94. Die schwierige Freiheit der Postmoderne - 161 Gerade diese unabsehbare Offenheit scheint eine Hemmschwelle für den Leser wie für den Mann vom Lande darzustellen, weil sie ihn auf sein unbekanntes, instabiles Selbst verweist. Bei Jabès gibt es aufgrund der Struktur des unendlichen Buches ebenfalls keine Chance, gänzlich in sein Inneres vorzudringen, einen Mittelpunkt zu finden. Die Schwelle wird jedoch als wirklicher Anfang präsentiert, denn als Ort des immer wieder neuen Beginnens ist sie das eigentliche ‚Zentrum.‘ 50 Kafka dagegen beschreibt in Vor dem Gesetz die verpasste Möglichkeit eines Anfangs, die für den Mann vom Lande das Ende ist. Der Jabèssche Dialog ist nicht nur thematisch und strukturell, sondern auch in Bezug auf die visuelle-metaphorische Gestaltung an Kafkas Text angelehnt. Der Glanz, der dort „unverlöschlich aus der Türe des Gesetzes bricht“, 51 wird hier durch das Bild einer Lampe aufgegriffen, die auf dem Tisch im Hause des Wächters steht. Dieses Licht ist nötig für die Lektüre, die hier schließlich den Eintritt ermöglicht. Dennoch differenziert der Wärter die optimistische Schlussfolgerung seines Gegenübers „J’habiterai enfin la maison“ indem er erwidert: „Tu suivras le livre dont chaque page est un abîme où l’aile luit avec le nom.“ 52 Jabès liegt hier viel daran, gleich zu Beginn des Livre des Questions die Option des persönlichen Eintritts in das Buch herauszustellen, wie aber auch den Hinweis darauf zu geben, dass hier kein heimischer Bereich zu finden ist, sondern nur die existentielle Erfahrung der Fremdheit, auf welche die Flügel als Emblem der Erdungebundenheit verweisen. Die gleichzeitig in obiger kryptischer Prophezeiung angesprochene Abgründigkeit des Buches gestaltet sich komplementär zu der Bewegung des Lesens, in welcher von Seite zu Seite der Aufbruch wiederholt wird. Dem Leser wird keine dauerhafte Bleibe gewährt, doch dafür wird er immer wieder aufs Neue empfangen: „Le livre est toujours ouvert.“ 53 Wo Kafkas Gesetz verschlossen blieb, öffnet sich unter den Bedingungen der Postmoderne das Jabèssche Buch demjenigen, der die schwierige Freiheit der Selbstbefragung auf sich nimmt. 50 Edmond Jabès, «Le Retour au Livre», in: Le Livre des Questions I (Anm. 6): 396. 51 Kafka, Der Proceß (Anm. 43): 227. 52 Jabès, Le Livre des Questions I (Anm. 6): 22. 53 Jabès, «Elya», in: Le Livre des Questions II (Anm. 6): 234. Cornelia Vismann Files, not Literature It is no secret that law and literature maintain more than a metaphorical relationship with each other. Law can be found in literature and not only, as some movements would have us believe, on the motif level. Law writes literature to the extent that the ‘and’ between the two sorts of texts becomes questionable altogether. How can law be differentiated from literature? And when did this differentiation become effective first? There were times, after all, when the term “law and literature” would not have made sense, times when a literary production was commissioned by a sovereign. A poet was an office which coincided with that of a secretary, who cared for the written output of a certain political body, in reference to which one could not have distinguished a literary from a legal textual production. A Petrus de Vinea is chancellor indistinguishable from a poet who created artistic prologues for the laws of the famous King of Sicily in Medieval Times. He was certainly not forced to lead a double life as a file worker and as a poet, as for example, Franz Kafka who wrote juristic texts by day and novels by night, or as Herman Melville who worked as a New York customs inspector and who produced literature or literary lucubrations in the dark night by lamp light, such as his thousand verses for a Jerusalem epos. So it is not by accident that a Law and Literature Movement focuses on the literature of a time when both spheres were indeed separated, though this precondition of its own existence has hardly ever been expressed by any of its protagonists. Rather, it remains hidden under the mode of treating literature as a corpus of trans-historical texts which are spread over the various book-cultures in all times among all peoples, as if not the law itself makes all the difference. The literature suitable for the movement’s favourite activities, namely comparing legal and literary styles, and searching for justice in prose (why is it hardly ever, the other way round: searching for poetry in statutes, as will be the subject of this paper? ), is the literature of a time when it became a closed system, and this did not happen before the 18th century. Michel Foucault observed that around this time “literary discourses came to be accepted only when endowed with the author-function. We now ask 164 - Cornelia Vismann of each poetic or fictional text: from where does it come, who wrote it, when, under what circumstances, or beginning with what design? ”. 1 These questions, which, paradoxically, are not far apart from what a literary critic would ask when he interprets a text, are legal questions. They are posed in order to put literature under its protection, mainly by its then effective means of copyright with all its problems. The autonomy that literature has gained around 1800, has its price in exactly this protection by law. Autonomous literary production depends on it, simply in order to make a living by writing fiction professionally. Charles Baudelaire has become the prototype for writing as a profession, Walter Benjamin’s essay has pointed that out. When the law acknowledges literature it must have a counterpart in what is not acknowledged as literature. 1. The Truth Dimension of Files It was a Prussian Historian who had an encounter with this Other of literature, that is files. Heinrich von Sybel learned, during the year of the so called Marchrevolution in 1848, that legal texts had to be sharply divided from literature. A French archivist had taught him this lesson. Von Sybel went to Paris in order to do some research for a history of the French Revolution he was planning to write. After various unsuccessful attempts to get access to the archive of the ministry for foreign affairs by letters of recommendation and other means, he finally received an invitation, which in his memoirs Sybel calls a summons, to go to see the director. His hopes that this meant the desired key to the archive were utterly destroyed the moment he arrived. Instead of a warm reception and wide-open stockrooms, he was informed about the impertinence of his desire for files. The head of the archive made unmistakably clear that archives store legal products and nothing else. “We are often haunted”, the master of the files said in reply to the quest for access, “by such unreasonable demands; scholars seem to believe that archives have been writing: no, monsieur, no, that is by far not so; what we accumulate here, is not, [...] material for literature, but files”. „Was wir hier ansammeln, [...] sind nicht Litteralien, sondern Akten; Akten sind es, mein Herr.“ 2 These words, uttered by the anonymous director of a Parisian archive, were as polite in tone as they were harsh in matter. They refer to a distinction whose effects reach as far as the existence of a law and literature movement. Official files do not count as literature, not even as a pre-product, as potential material for it, at least not in the eyes of the infamous archivist. They are not literature, simply because files lack an author. With this simple distinction be- 1 Michel Foucault, “What is an author? ”, trans. Joseph V. Harari (1979), in: Modern Criticism and theory. A Reader, 2 nd edition, ed. David Lodge with Nigel Wood, New York: Pearson Education, 2000: 174-187, at 180. 2 Heinrich von Sybel, „Pariser Studien“ (1886), in: Sybel, Vorträge und Abhandlungen, München/ Leipzig 1897: 368. Files, not Literature - 165 tween author-created literary texts and authorless archival ones that this scene illuminates, storage is likewise distinct from prose, archives from aesthetics and accordingly laws from narratives. Moreover, an archive is not meant to supply a data base for novelists - with the ironic side effect in Sybel’s case, that the refusal of access into the files produced nothing less than literature, namely his memoirs. When drawing this distinction the unknown French archivist was clearly in favour of files. His words insinuated a superiority of records over novels - which he slightly disparagingly called „Litteralien“. Letter, litter, the classic pun fits even more in the spelling of Sybel’s time, and thus dooms literature to being what the archives are not: trash as opposed to treasure. The jewels lie in the archives, the veritable thesaurii. The rest may well be called ‘litterature’. What was a misuse of files in the eyes of full-blooded archivists became a genre of literature on its own: literature based on records. 19th century historiographers formed the heterogeneous pile of stored files into a coherent corpus of texts, according to the quest of Gustav Droysen, another Prussian historian, to transpose files into history, Akten „in Geschichte zu transponieren“. History written on the basis of files became a special type of literature. Historians thought of themselves as writers - writers who processed files. The historiographer Theodor Mommsen received after all the Nobel Prize for literature, not history, in 1902. The historiographic sort of literature was far from being suspected to present mere fiction. On the contrary, historiography was considered to tell the true story of the past. It profited from the truth accredited to records. The expression ‘source‘, which historians of the historiographic 19 th century like to use as a synonym for records, betrays the notion that files contain a truth, a truth which has not been contaminated by tradition or by oral accounts of the past. Thus, history tells the pure truth, when it narrates what is in the files. As the Aktengläubigkeit, the faith in files or the fetishism of the archive spread out among Prussian historians, novels not based on the archive were simultaneously discharged from any burden of proving the truth of their stories. One can also tell this short-story of the law and literature separation from the novel’s point of view, in which the truth base of non fictional historiographical writings stirs envy on the part of the expelled genre of texts. Belles lettres do not reach out for the truth dimension of the legal. According to the clear distinction, facts were claimed for files, and fiction, mere fiction, was left for literature. Fiction became a label for literary inventions with a rather depriving connotation. Next began - as one can easily imagine - the battle over credibility of novels. A literature detached from the juridical sphere of truth fights to be taken seriously. And one of its devices was the application of the rhetoric of records, borrowing the truth allegedly deposited in the archives. Writers of fiction did indeed make use of the code of authenticity of juridical records, mimicking the practices of historiographers. In prologues to novels occur forgotten manuscripts, old records or papers that came to the au- 166 - Cornelia Vismann thor under obscure circumstances. These literary preambles of files found and retold introduced a new type of literature 3 which emerged simultaneously with the record-based literature of historiography. The name of Walter Scott is always inserted here as the founder of such file-fictions. Writers of fiction did of course not really go into archives, they neither begged for access nor did they scroll in dusty papers, they rather claimed to retell a recorded plot. They fabricated a truth dimension out of imaginary files. How that works, how this rhetorical figure of quoting files becomes performative, can well be seen in a story by an author, who was a file-worker himself, a customs inspector, as was the law-and-literature-movement’s favourite Herman Melville. His colleague Nathaniel Hawthorne worked at the port authority in Salem and wrote a novel after he was dismissed from that office in 1849 for being a member of the Democratic Party. He let his famous story about the Scarlet Letter begin, not very surprisingly, in exactly the surroundings he himself had been forced to leave: the custom-house at the port of Salem. 4 Looking back to his past as an inspector, the author and narrator throws a glance at a “number of barrels, piled one upon another, containing bundles of official documents” (40) in the recess of a room in the custom-house. To look at the “rubbish” overwhelms the narrator with sheer melancholy. “It was sorrowful to think how many days, and weeks, and months, and years of toil, had been wasted on these musty papers.” (40) The inspector then compares the textproduction of the clerks in the Custom-House with that of a literary writer and comes to the conclusion that at least the old records are good for something, whereas texts of prose are “without purchasing for their writers the comfortable livelihood which the clerks of the Custom-House had gained by these worthless scratchings of the pen. Yet not altogether worthless, perhaps, as the materials of local history.” (41) After the narrator had emphasised the source-value and thus the truthvalue of the records in the customs-house for historians, he picked one packet out of the whole pile of records, which attracted for some reason his attention. “Poking and burrowing into the heaped-up rubbish in the corner; unfolding one and another document, and reading the names of vessels that had long ago foundered at sea or rotted at the wharves, […] I chanced to lay my hand on a 3 Of course, references to records in novels can be found before. The famous novels of the 17 th and 18 th century such as Don Quixote applied with pleasure the topos of files and other authentic documents, the more exotic the better, such as an Arabian manuscript found and retold in the subsequent story. And Cervantes would not be Cervantes if he did not parody a literary strategy that wants to settle its tale in a past long, long ago. According to Norbert Miller the affiliation with a found file was used to create more credibility, but also to introduce the institution of an up to then unheard-of fictitious and distanced story teller who is not the author. Norbert Miller, Der empfindsame Erzähler. Untersuchungen an Romananfängen des 18. Jahrhunderts, München 1968: 93, at 101. 4 Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter, ed. Ross Murfin, Boston 1991: at 40 (further references in the text). Files, not Literature - 167 small package, carefully done up in a piece of ancient yellow parchment. This envelope had the air of an official record of some period long last, when clerks engrossed their stiff and formal chirography on more substantial material than at present. There was something about it that quickened an instinctive curiosity, and made me undo the faded red tape, that died up the package, with the sense that a treasure would here be brought to light. Unbending the rigid folds of the parchment cover”, drafts appeared, which were not of any official character, “but of private nature.” (42) “But the object that most drew my attention, in the mysterious package, was a certain affair of fine red cloth, much worn and faded. There were traces about it of gold embroidery, which, however was greatly frayed and defaced; so that none, or very little, of the glitter was left […] It was the capital letter A.” (42 f.) As Hester Prynne had to attach the scarlet letter to her clothes as a stigma of adultery in the Puritan days of Boston, the author attaches his story to this “most curious relic” and thus embodies a past and connects it physically with the present of the author. The narrator of the prologue had considered the various possibilities of reporting the content of the files and had decided to transpose them into a story, instead of reproducing them literally. “On the contrary, I have allowed myself, as to such points, nearly altogether as much license as if the facts had been entirely my own invention.” (44) - Can novelists be more sophisticated in contending the truth of their fables than by admitting their invented additions to the fact-basis in files? Half a dozen sheets of paper found in a legal environment seal the truth of Hawthorne’s novel. Under the protection of these files, fictions dissolve into alleged fictions. And what should they be if not the truth itself? After this hyperbolic rhetoric of files the author would not even have needed to contend “for the authenticity of the outline”. (44) The details of the story may be as defaced as gold embroidery on a letter, but the letter and the letters suffice as the “groundwork of a tale” (44) as it reads in the prologue. The Oxford English Dictionary defines groundwork: “The body or foundation on which parts are overlaid, as in embroidery work”. 5 So Hawthorne can begin his textual embroidery on the new ground he has broken under the auspices of a truth unquestionable at its core. He builds an imaginary fate on a file found accidentally and grounds it in the material letter - in the form of a letter. His readers are by then already set on the right track so that they will expect from the story that follows a previously unheard true incident from past times. These file-found fictions have their precise counterpart in a literature that processes existing files such as Friedrich Schiller’s novel “Der Verbrecher aus Infamie” from 1786. Georg Büchner followed that tradition to find plots in 5 Cf. Charles Swann, “The Role of the Custom House”, in: Harold Bloom (ed.), Nathanial Hawthorne’s The Scarlett letter, Broomall PA, 2004: 104-111, at 108. 168 - Cornelia Vismann legal records 6 as later writers found them in newspapers. If the files were processed, they dissolved completely into the novel and are therefore not mentioned in the novel itself. Whereas existing files disappear behind the prose that is founded on them, non-existing files initiate a type of prose that deliberately mentions them as the seal for truth. This type has a great stage in the preambles such as at the Custom House in Salem. Against this background of fictions made from existing files and of fictions quoting fictitious files it was quite a lapsus when at the end of the 20th century for a certain historical moment a sort of literature emerged, that confounded the two contrary modes, referred explicitly to existing files, and processed them into literature or at least into some sort of texts. The records of the former GDR’s secret service initiated these writings, after they had been made accessible. At that time there was only one question: do the records contain a truth or even the truth? Can files lie? Können Akten lügen? Those who believed in the documentary force of files, such as the Ex- GDR poet Wolf Biermann, published the dossiers the secret service, Stasi, had fabricated, because they speak for themselves, „denn die Dokumente sprechen für sich“. 7 This belief in the self-evidence of official records was shared by other writers as if they had inherited the 19th century Aktengläubigkeit. Wolfgang Templin edited his „Stasi-Akte Verräter/ Stasi-file Betrayer“ also without any comment, simply as a documentation of his being chased around. 8 In his book Die Stasi war mein Eckermann/ The Stasi was my Eckermann, the writer Erich Loest publishes excerpts, under the title of „Aus meiner Stasi-Akte“, from the records kept by the secret service with an introduction but without any further comment or explanations. Others, and perhaps not accidentally a historiographer who is used to working with records processed “his” Stasi-files into a book. Timothy Garton Ash wrote The file. A personal history (1997) as a kind of corrected version to the official file of his life. 9 6 Cf. Rüdiger Campe „Johann Franz Woyzeck. Der Fall im Drama“, in: Hans-Walter Schmidt-Hanissa/ Michael Niehaus (eds.), Unzurechnungsfähigkeiten. Diskursivierungen unfreier Bewußtseinszustände seit dem 18. Jahruhundert, Frankfurt a. M./ etc.: Lang 1998: esp. 213-217. 7 Wolf Biermann, „Aktenkundig”, in: Hans Joachim Schädlich (ed.), Aktenkundig, Berlin 1992: 51-60, at 54. 8 Published in: Spiegel Spezial January 1993. 9 For more details see Cornelia Vismann, „Autobiographie und Akteneinsicht“, in: Dagmar Unverhau (ed.), Hatte Janus eine Chance? Das Ende der DDR und die Sicherung einer Zukunft der Vergangenheit (Archiv zur DDR-Staatssicherheit, Band 6), Münster: LITVerlag 2003: 173-189. Files, not Literature - 169 2. The Poetic Dimension This rather peculiar coda of file-literature as a literature based on one’s own file should give an end to my little tale about the separation of law and literature as a prerequisite for the movement by that name, in order to turn from the writer’s perspective to the reader’s perspective. How to read files or rather: what consequences does the split have for literary criticism? The modes of treating texts are rather limited if literary critics submit to that split. Literature based on files then activates a search for the facts behind the fiction 10 and when the files are fictitious themselves, this only opens up the field for interpretations of legal metaphors in literature. Another model for reading “law and literature” is connected with the name of Foucault who freed literature from its metaphorical bracketing. He took literature as literal as other kinds of legal institutions, such as prisons or asylums and searched for the conditions and circumstances that accompany the production of texts. As a result literature is not reduced to the other side of law. It includes the literature of the law, that is: files. Here files are taken as such. Foucault is referring to files that are neither transformed into prose, nor fictive files that legitimise the telling of a story, but mere files stored in archives. When Foucault planned to edit official records from 1660 to 1760 11 he therefore did not consider even the most minor petitions and applications stored in those records not to be literature. They are even of higher rank than the so called high literature which bears the name of an author. Collected in files, these little pieces of prose written by so called ‘infamous people’, “constituent ainsi à travers le temps comme la mémoire sans cesse croissante de tous les maux du monde”, as Foucault has put it in his preamble to the anthology of “the infamous people’s” writings. 12 The petitions “contain so much misery and violence”, as Foucault writes in the introduction to the project that he never realised: “toute une misère et une violence, toute une ‘bassesse’ comme on disait, qu’aucune littérature à cette époque n’aurait pu accueillir”. 13 The advocate for the infamous people sets the infinitely absorptive archive in contrast to a literature that is domesticated by rhetorical forms, literary conventions and legal regulations of copyright, not least the agency of an author. The denotation infamous bears the word fama. The reality of the infamous people’s lives leads to everything but fame, it is a fama, rumour, or, as the closest connotation, a fable. The question is not whether they are true, but 10 For example Hans Mayer, Georg Büchner, Woyzeck. Vollständiger Text und Paralipomena, Dokumentation, Dichtung und Wirklichkeit, Berlin 1963 (14. Auflage 1993). 11 Michel Foucault, «La vie des hommes infâmes», in: Dits et Écrits, vol. 3, Paris 1999: 237-253. German translation: Das Leben der infamen Menschen, Berlin: Merve Verlag 2001. 12 Foucault, «La vie» (Anm. 11): at 246. 13 Ibid. 170 - Cornelia Vismann what conditions forced them to tell those stories. Foucault defines a fable, without any truth criteria, as that which deserves to be told. And this is what differentiates him from his colleague in the file-believing 19th century: His belief in files that contain the world is all but file-fetishism. It does not mean that the stories they contain are true, as in a one to one description of a past reality. It means that even the most improbable and fantastic fable collected in records bears witness to a historical reality of a much higher degree than prose is ever capable of delivering. And here literature can struggle as much as it wants to be taken seriously. The fables of the infamous are always ahead in terms of an existential or literal truth, comparable in effect to a cloth of linen, stored in a file, as a mute witness of past misery. A colleague of Foucault, Arlette Farge, with whom he had co-edited a collection of excerpts from records (the lettre de cachet from the Bastille in the 18 th century), was quite aware of those material signs of a past reality in the archive. She describes one of these encounters in her book Le gôut de l’archive: “Between the fingers scraps of cloth, a sweet and unknown comfort for hands, that are used to the coldness always present in the archive. It is a white strong fabric, which is pressed between two pages; on the backside something is written in a fine and stable handwriting. It is a letter.” 14 The correspondence kept in the file reveals that the piece of cloth is smuggled out of the prison together with the letter and should have been sent back embroidered with a blue cross as a sign that the letter had reached its destination. That the cloth is still without a blue cross must be deciphered as the failure of this smuggling attempt. Evidently the secret message had been detected and taken to the records. The girlfriend of the prisoner never received it. Readers of files who are trained in discourse analysis won’t be carried away, at this point of an encounter with a curious relic, by a fantasy of a desperate prison love. They do not spin a melodrama of shame and guilt in the past grounded on a linen cloth with a missing letter, even if it were a scarlet one. Rather they are observers and describe what is in the files. That does not mean of course that Arlette Farge is not susceptible to the aesthetic of files. On the contrary, the poetry is not attached to dull and dusty papers, they contain it. In another dossier, only loosely tied, “Un dossier légèrement renflé”, she asks herself whether she should open it. A needle is put through a piece of paper. Underneath, held together with the same needle, is a very small cloth bag, filled with something not recognizable at first glance. A letter is attached, written by a country doctor, and addressed to the Royal Society of Medicine. He writes that he knows a strong young woman, with whom one finds a little bag filled with seed instead of her monthly blood. The little bag attached to the piece of paper is supposed to prove that right. Should one open what has not been opened in 200 years? “Ouvrir ou non ce qui n’a jamais été ouvert depuis deux siècles.” If one opens it really carefully, … grains of seed fall out, as golden as 14 Arlette Farge, Le gôut de l’archive, Paris 1989: at 16. Files, not Literature - 171 on the first day. They spread out like rain on the yellow archive paper. “Quelques graines s’enfuient, dorées comme au premier jour; elles se distribuent en pluie sur l’archive jaunie”. 15 Files locked away in archives write their own poetry. Once they have lost their bureaucratic function, they overwhelm their readers, or at least can do so, with a poetry of their own. Farge admits that the two encounters she had had with things in dossiers were among the rarest and most surprising events when reading old files. “Usually the monotony of the series prevails over the records.” 16 The monotony of the series: the unspeakable drudgery of reading and copying from files under quite user-unfriendly circumstances in archives (times have not really changed since Sybel) gives access to the file-literature. Its poetry changes according to the administrative conditions for this kind of literature generated by bureaucracies. Where petitioner’s of the 17 th and 18 th century had only a chance to gain the attention of the king by telling most unique stories, the ones told in the 19 th century and from then onwards had to fit in a questionnaire. The file-literature therefore undergoes a passage from fable to form. And it is even more difficult to admit the “literariness” of the latter as it is for the records of pre-modern times. Texts that are the product of endless copying are by definition not a novel. Compared with its novelty and singularity, stereotype texts have therefore the smallest chance to be acknowledged as literature. They fall into none of the categories generated by the law and literature split, in which literature is the original, an act of creation - as it is still the crucial criterion in the German copyright law (Urhebergesetz) protecting a text against being copied. And although nowadays it is not difficult to admit that the categories by which this literature is identified - creative, unique and fictive - are anachronistic, this does not lead to the conclusion that forms, copies and non-fictive writings are also literature. To recognise the literary character of stereotype files a reading is required that is unimpressed by these legal distinctions between texts, which fall under the protection of copyright and those, which do not. In order to detect the generating principle in the formulaic literature of industrial times special techniques of reading a file are required since no unique events, such as the poetic encounters in files, as Farge describes them, attract the attention. Whoever has experience in working with records, lawyers and historians alike, knows about the dull repetitions in records. Usually they are handled with a certain reading strategy. In order to economise attention, redundancies are skipped over. Only untrained readers of files will notice these stereotypes - probably them more then anything else - and recognise their poetry. 15 Arlette Farge (Anm. 14): at 17. 16 Ibid. 172 - Cornelia Vismann The historian Gérard Noiriel made a virtue out of this unskilled view. His social history of the European asylum law 17 focuses its attention on the repetitive elements of the biographies reported in files, in this case of the refugees from Algeria when they sought asylum in France. With the focus on the monotony of the series, he discovered that certain details of torture-practices were hardly ever missing in these stories. Noiriel explained the canonised format of the fables by a flourishing trade in paper sheets, on which a story, which had been successful for a previous petitioner, was written down. Asylum seekers, as illiterate as they often were, copied fantastic tales in clumsy handwriting, sometimes with odd letters and with the same mistakes as were in the original sheet. Though the media of transmission of those tales changed after the First World War, when refugees for the first time received legal status as asylum seekers, the logic of these stories remained the same. They were told in order to be heard by the law. From 1919 on the letters were mostly typed (no longer handwritten), their tone was more official. The description of the motives for escaping adhered closely to what they imagined the officials wanted to hear. And this generating principle of the file-literature of the 19 th and 20 th century is what makes them comparable with the petitions of the 17th and 18th century that were studied by Foucault and Farge. Their format and style is also due to the purpose that they should appeal to the legal authorities. And as the attention of the monarch is supposedly gained with extraordinary, exciting details, the petitioners tell exaggerated stories, whereas asylum seekers of the 19th and 20th century adapt to the anonymous bureaucratic style (and even the media) of a state apparatus in charge of deciding over their cases. The aesthetic of the series originates from the tradition of stories which had once been successful before the law and are thus repeated by others. Whether these stories are articulated with eloquence or in clumsy words, cleverly or naïvely, spectacularly and fantastically or modestly and monosyllabically, in all constellations it is the law that shapes the fables of life. The generating principle of file literature is therefore nothing but the law. Whenever the law assumes the role of an agency which grants rights, it provokes storytelling. The law itself is the author of those fables. The individual seeking rights - the hurt, wounded, repressed, impoverished or unjustly treated - turns under legal premises into a storyteller. These stories are not invented or retold for their own sake. They are told in order to save one’s own skin. Whether or not they are true is not the question. They are told. They are kept in files. They are literature. Of course, those who distinguish literature from other sorts of texts will fail to notice this. They will treat those other texts, such as stories of asylum 17 Gérard Noiriel, Le tyranie du national. Le droit d’asile en Europe, 1793-1993, Paris Calmann-Lévy, 1991; German: Die Tyrannei des Nationalen: Sozialgeschichte des Asylrechts in Europa, Lüneburg 1994. Files, not Literature - 173 seekers kept in files, at the most as literature. Law is literature; it produces texts, fables, statutes and even legal texts about literature. ‘Files, not literature’ this admonition of an infamous Prussian archivist does not express an eternal truth. It does not refer to a categorical division rather it invites to trace the distinction between files and literature back to that time, when a type of authorised literature emerges under legal protection. In its shadow resides from then on literature that lacks an author, files which contain the fables of life. Catherine O’Sullivan Madonna and Whore: The Perplexing Media and Legal Response to a Female Child Molester Part I - Introduction Paedophilia is a crime that generates intense emotion. The media and the public respond viscerally to those accused of the offence. The language of horror and otherness is invoked to expel such offenders from human society. 1 This expulsion is facilitated by the fact that the majority of those who come to media attention are men who have sexually abused young or adolescent boys. Such offenders have transgressed not only adult-child boundaries, but they have also transgressed the bounds of normative heterosexuality. However neither the law nor society seems able to engage with the (statistically limited) reality of female sexual offenders. In this article I will review the case of a female child molester, Mary Kay LeTourneau, who entered into a sexual relationship with a 13-year old boy, and examine how the media and the law struggled to position her into pre-existing female criminality narratives. I will focus in particular on her representation in a made-for-TV movie, Mary Kay Letourneau: All-American Girl. 2 However I will also refer to a doctoral thesis on the media coverage of her trial, her (now defunct) official web-site which campaigned for her re- 1 Philip Jenkins, Moral Panic: Changing Concepts of the Child Molester in Modern America, New Haven/ London: Yale University Press, 1998 [hereinafter Jenkins]; Neil Websdale, “Predators: The Social Construction of ‘Stranger-Danger’ in Washington State as a Form of Patriarchal Ideology”, in: Jeff Ferrell/ Neil Websdale (eds.), Making Trouble: Cultural Constructions of Crime, Deviance, and Control, New York: Aldine de Gruyter, 1999: 91 [hereinafter Websdale]; and Joseph E. Kennedy, “Monstrous Offenders and the Search for Solidarity Through Modern Punishment”, in: (2000) 51 Hastings Law Journal: 829. 2 The movie was aired on North American television on January 18, 2000. 176 - Catherine O’Sullivan lease, and the Washington State Appeal Court’s decision in a case she took challenging post-release restrictions that limited her access to her children. In Part II of this article I will introduce the facts of the LeTourneau case. In Part III I will talk about female sexual abusers generally and the cultural representation of sexually abusive older women in particular. This will be followed in Part IV with a discussion of the representations of LeTourneau in the made-for-TV movie as well as the above cited materials. In Part V I will explain why feminists should offer critical commentary on cases involving female sexual abusers. By drawing attention of such offenders I am contributing to two aims of the law-in-literature movement. First, I aim to use non-legal literature to help law and lawyers better respond to sexually violent female offenders. Second, I am using literature to add the voices of those who have been excluded by the law or from legal recognition to the legal community. 3 In particular, the exclusion of sexually violent women from feminist legal analysis. Part II - The LeTourneau Case In 1998, Mary Kay LeTourneau, a 6th grade teacher in Shorewood Elementary School in Seattle, Washington, was sentenced to 7 ½ years on two counts of rape of a child. The minor, Vili Fualaau, was 13-years old when the “affair” began in June 1996. He was near in age to the eldest of LeTourneau’s four children, Steven. LeTourneau’s husband, Steve, discovered diaries and love letters she wrote to Fualaau in February 1997. A relative of his reported her relationship, and LeTourneau was arrested for and charged with the rape of a child in the second degree 4 while pregnant with Fualaau’s child. She gave birth to a daughter, Audrey, in the spring of 1997. In November 14, 1998, she was sentenced under the Special Sexual Offender Sentencing Alternative [hereinaf- 3 Meyer discussing the educative potential of literature; Philip N. Meyer, “Convicts, Criminals, Prisoners, and Outlaws: A Course in Popular Storytelling”, in: (1992) Journal of Legal Education: 129 at 131. 4 Rape of a child in the second degree is defined in section 9A.44.076 of the Revised Code of Washington as: (1) A person is guilty of rape of a child in the second degree when the person has sexual intercourse with another who is at least twelve years old but less than fourteen years old and not married to the perpetrator and the perpetrator is at least thirty-six months older than the victim. (2) Rape of a child in the second degree is a class A felony. The difference between rape of a child in the first, second, and third degrees is dependant on the age of the child, and the extent of the age difference between said child and the perpetrator. To be accused of rape of a child in the first degree, sexual intercourse must have occurred when the child was younger than 12-years and the perpetrator was twenty-four months older than the victim. RCW 9A.44.073. In the case of rape of a child in the third degree, the child is aged between 14 and 16 years of age, and the perpetrator is forty-eight months older than the victim. RCW 9A.44.079. Madonna and Whore - 177 ter SSOSA]. SSOSA allows for community release programmes for offenders who are declared “non-predatory.” Eligibility for this programme depends on a number of factors, including the factor that the offending behaviour is the result of a treatable mental condition, and that the offender is remorseful and desires treatment. Her 89 months sentence was suspended, and various conditions were imposed in its place. These included the requirements that she remain under community supervision for 3 years, that she attend out-patient sex-offender treatment sessions, that she continue taking medication for her recently diagnosed bi-polar disorder, and that she stay away from her victim. Instrumental in this decision was the Fualaau family’s support of LeTourneau, based on their desire to save Fualaau and his child from unnecessary pain. In February 1998, less than two weeks after her release from jail, LeTourneau was found in a parked car with Fualaau together with $6,200 in cash, men’s and infant’s clothing, and her passport. On the basis of the violation of the no-contact condition of her parole, the SSOSA order was revoked. In her re-sentencing, the condition that she would not be allowed to have unsupervised in-person contact with any minors, was clarified to include her own children. LeTourneau successfully appealed the application of this condition to her future post-incarceration life. 5 She was returned to prison to serve the remainder of the original sentence. During the brief period of her release, LeTourneau became pregnant by Fualaau again, and she gave birth to a second daughter, Georgia, in October 1998. Steve LeTourneau divorced her, and has taken their four children with him to Alaska. Le- Tourneau was released from prison in 2004, and on the 20th of May 2005, she married Fualaau. Part III - Female Child Molesters At first glance the LeTourneau case might seem unusual. While the media has drawn attention to the problem of child sexual abuse, the child sexual abuser has been presented almost exclusively as a male predatory stranger. 6 Not only is this an inaccurate depiction of the reality of child sexual abuse - children are far more likely to be sexually abused by a male relative or family friend - but it also ignores the fact that women can and do sexually abuse children. Social science has been aware of the existence of individual female molesters for some time, but it was not until the late 1980s and early 1990s that more concrete research was done into the phenomenon. Estimates as to the prevalence of female child molesters vary considerably. American researchers David Finkelhor and Diana Russell reviewed the American Humane Association and the National Incidence of Studies results on sexual abuse victims. They found that approxi- 5 Washington v. LeTourneau, 100 Wn. App. 424 (2000): at 437-38 [hereinafter Washington v. LeTourneau]. 6 Jenkins, supra (ftn.1); Websdale, supra (ftn. 1). 178 - Catherine O’Sullivan mately 24% of sexually abused males and 13% of sexually abused females had been assaulted by women, acting either alone or with a partner. 7 One literature review estimated that in cases where a sexually abusive mother is the sole offender, she is responsible for 5% of female abuse, and for 12% of male abuse. 8 Both in Canada and the U.K. it is estimated that women are responsible for or are involved in 10% of the child sexual abuse cases. 9 Although the literature on female sexual abusers is relatively recent, and as such limited, it has identified three categories of female molester. These categories are the male-coerced female offender, the intergenerationally predisposed female offender, and female offenders who predominantly abuse males. This latter category is broken down into two sub-groups - the experimenter/ exploiter and the teacher/ lover. 10 The final category tends to choose younger males who are under their care in some capacity but not related to them. In this article we are concerned with the social and legal reaction to a case involving a teacher/ lover. An integral part of this reaction is the fact that the teacher/ lover is regarded culturally as being less deviant than the other two types of female offenders. 11 Sexual encounters similar to the teacher/ lover subtype have been glorified and eroticised in pop culture. Not only does this affect the offender’s perception of her actions (she regards her exploitation of the victim as a “love affair” 12 ) it also affects the victim’s. He may deny that the abuse affected him negatively or even deny that it was abuse. Other societal factors also contribute to this denial on the part of the male victim. The traditional construction of (hetero-)sexuality implies certain relationships between gender and victimhood. The construction of aggressive male sexuality predetermines the gender of the victim. Male victimhood is an impossibility in a heterosexual sex crime dynamic. Accordingly, the terminology used to describe the activity is gendered male. Molesters are described as predators, hunters, and violators. 7 Ruth Matthews/ Jane Matthews/ Kate Speltz, “Female Sexual Offenders”: in Mic Hunter (ed.), The Sexually Abused Male: Prevalence, Impact, and Treatment, vol. 1, Lexington, Mass.: Lexington Books, 1990: 275 at 276 [hereinafter Matthews/ Matthews/ Speltz). 8 Julia Hislop, Female Child Molesters (Ph.D. Thesis), California School of Professional Psychology, 1994 [Ann Arbor, Mich: UMI Dissertation Services, 1997]: at 35 [hereinafter Hislop]. 9 For the U.K. statistic read Hereward Harrison, “Female abusers - what children and young people have told ChildLine”, in: Female sexual abuse of children: The Ultimate Taboo, ed. Michele Elliott, Harlow: Longman, 1993: at 98. For the Canadian statistic, see Kathryn T. Jennings, “Female Child Molesters: A Review of the Literature”, in: Female sexual abuse of children: The Ultimate Taboo, ed. Michele Elliott, Harlow: Longman, 1993: at 242 [hereinafter Jennings]. 10 Matthews/ Matthews/ Speltz, supra (ftn. 7). 11 Ibid.: at 290. This obviously excludes cases where the teacher/ lover progresses to the sexual abuse of her own children. 12 Ibid.: at 284. Madonna and Whore - 179 These are active, aggressive, traditionally masculine words, and consequently not readily culturally applicable to women. 13 The belief that sexual violence is exclusively male is also partly because of the androcentric conflation of active sexuality with penile penetration and because of the statistical prevalence of male offenders. This masculinisation of the offence/ offender, allied with the cultural pressure on little boys to grow up quickly - exhortations to act like a man, not a cry-baby - encourages boys to see themselves as the initiators of or co-participants in the abuse. 14 Even more detrimentally, those whose job it is to support the victim - the criminal justice system, medical professionals, family, friends - may also minimise the effects or existence of the abuse because of this cultural scripting. 15 Part IV - Representations of LeTourneau In this section I will look at the competing constructions of LeTourneau as Madonna and whore and situate these representations in the dominant cultural and criminological representations of female criminality. One of the foundational concerns at the inception of feminist criminology in the 1970s, and the various feminist criminologies that followed in the 1980s, was the construction of female criminality as masculinised/ hormonal/ insane/ over-sexed behaviour and its attendant inference that criminal women were aberrations from an essentialist conception of “real” women. The work of early feminist criminologists, in particular Susan Edwards and Carol Smart, noted that although criminological theories on male crime underwent dramatic shifts and changes from the 1890s to the 1970s, 16 there was little development in criminology where female offenders were concerned. Both found that studies on female criminality 13 Young writes that such language is part of the reason female sexual abuse is “inexpressable”. Val Young, “Women abusers - a feminist view”, in: Michele Elliott, ed., Female Sexual Abuse of Children: The Ultimate Taboo, Harlow: Longman Group UK Ltd., 1993: 107 at 118 [hereinafter Young]. 14 Charolotte Davis-Kasl, “Female Perpetrators of Sexual Abuse: A Feminist View”, in: Michele Elliott, ed., Female Sexual Abuse of Children: The Ultimate Taboo, Harlow: Longman Group UK Ltd., 1993: at 262. See also the discussion of two American studies that indicate this in Hislop, supra (ftn. 8): at 45. The most interesting of these studies focused on a group of convicted sex offenders who claimed to have been sexually abused by women. Sixty-six percent declared the experience to have been good, 6% described it as bad, and 25% reported mixed feelings. As Hislop notes, the fact that men who had gone on to commit sexual offences themselves found that the experience did not affect them negatively, demonstrates that men disavow the emotional damage of sexual abuse. 15 Matthews/ Matthews/ Speltz, supra (ftn. 7): at 290; James W. Trivelpiece, “Adjusting the Frame: Cinematic Treatment of Sexual Abuse and Rape of Men and Boys”, in: Mic Hunter, ed., The Sexually Abused Male: Prevalence, Impact, and Treatment, vol. 1, Lexington, Mass.: Lexington Books, 1990: 47. 16 Including, but not limited to subculture theory, role theory, labelling theory, and interactionism. 180 - Catherine O’Sullivan remained arrested at positivist understandings of women based primarily on sex-based understandings of female biology and psychology. 17 In her analysis of the seminal text on female criminality, Cesare Lombroso and William Ferrero’s The Female Offender, Frances Heidensohn noted that the attributes Lombroso and Ferrero chose to assign female born criminals were not chanced upon. Their study of female criminality was clearly influenced by stereotypical conceptions of appropriate femininity of their time. Their work “[…] was [an] attempt to rationalise and justify the status quo, the existing position of women and the double standard of morals of their day.” 18 Once given the gloss of science these gendered stereotypes assumed greater cultural currency and force. They still inform media analysis of female offenders today. Bronwyn Naylor, in her study of the images used to explain female criminality in British newspapers, found that if the female offender’s crime was not represented as being the result of her inferred masculinity, then it was presented, almost by default, as being the result of her defective femininity. Accordingly, her criminality is represented as either being caused by her duplicitous feminine wiles (bad) or by her fragile hormonally over-run female body (mad). 19 The other main narratives Naylor found in her study were the traditional Madonna/ whore dichotomy, the love/ sex dichotomy (if the woman committed the crime for love her criminality could be romanticised and thereby excused, but if she was motivated by sexual passion she is liable), and the image of the witch/ evil-woman/ monster. The dominant stereotype used to explicate (and exonerate to the extent that she received parole) LeTourneau’s criminality was the mental illness narrative. She was diagnosed as suffering from bipolar disorder. However in this article my focus will be on the Madonna/ whore dichotomy, although I will implicitly reference the love/ sex dichotomy. This is 17 For a critique of this stasis see, e.g., Susan Edwards, Women on Trial, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1984: at 3; Carol Smart, Women, Crime and Criminology: A Feminist Critique: London, Boston: Routledge Paul, 1978: at 4; Wayne Morrison, Theoretical Criminology: From Modernity to Post-modernism, London: Cavendish Publishing, 1995: 5 at 398. 18 Frances Heidensohn, Women and Crime, 2nd ed., Washington Square, N.Y.: New York University Press, 1995: at 114 [hereinafter Heidensohn], discussing Cesare Lombroso/ W. Ferrero, The Female Offender, New York, London: D. Appleton & Co., 1900. 19 Her madness may also be represented as one of passion or love - emotionality is an acceptable female failing. Bronwyn Naylor, “Women’s Crime and Media Coverage: Making Explanations”, in: R. Emerson Dobash/ Russell Dobash/ Lesley Noaks (eds.), Gender and Crime, Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 1995: 77 at 81 [hereinafter Naylor]. Linked to the conception of the female body as being predisposed to madness is the notion of the female mind being predisposed to surrender to a superior (male) intellect, the Pygmalion frame. Deborah Cameron/ Elizabeth Frazer, The Lust to Kill: A Feminist Investigation of Sexual Murder, Cambridge: Polity Press, 1987: at 145-46; Christine Bell/ Marie Fox, “Telling Stories of Women who Kill”, in: (1996) 5 Social and Legal Studies: 471 at 473. Madonna and Whore - 181 because, as Naylor acknowledged, these images are not mutually exclusive. 20 LeTourneau was represented as a Madonna in two key ways in the media and legal response to her case. The first was in the social construction of her as a good mother. The second was in the implicit referencing of Christian imagery of the Virgin Mary. LeTourneau’s visible pregnancy during the stages leading to the original sentencing hearing clearly contributed to the media’s use of the maternal frame. Dressed in fashionable maternity clothes, she looked like an average expectant mother, and average mothers do not, according to dominant social understandings of maternity and femininity, harm children sexually or otherwise. 21 One month before the sentencing she gave birth and American Journal dedicated a segment to the case. They interviewed LeTourneau as she tended to Audrey’s needs. 22 People magazine used a photograph of LeTourneau holding her newborn on the cover. 23 News coverage also focused on her anguish at being separated from her children, where her ex-husband is subtly blamed for unreasonableness when it is revealed that “she has not always been allowed to talk to [her older four children].” 24 However, even he asserted her merits as a mother during hearings to determine whether she should be allowed access to her minor children on her release. His only concern was that she could psychologically damage her children because she denied that she had done anything wrong. He feared that this could teach them that adult-minor involvements are appropriate. 25 One month after her arrest it was revealed that she was pregnant again by Fualaau. Although her second child was evidence of her recidivism, media coverage anticipating the birth was equivalent to coverage of a star’s imminent delivery. Her friend was interviewed on American Journal and disclosed that “pregnancy is the only thing keeping her going in prison.” 26 The reportage that she hoped to breast-feed the child once it was born served to legitimise her status as mother and to obscure the criminal context of the conception. 27 The 20 Naylor, supra (ftn. 19): at 93. 21 Sean Barker, Gender, Crime, and Culture: Media Coverage of the Mary Kay LeTourneau Child Rape Case (Ph.D. Thesis), School of Communications, University of Washington, 2000 [unpublished]: at 70 [hereinafter Barker]. 22 Ibid.: at 71. 23 Bill Hewitt, “Out of Control” People (March 30, 1998). Time magazine also used a photograph of Mary Kay holding her baby; John Cloud, “A Matter of Hearts”, in: Time (May 4, 1998). See Barker, ibid.: at 112-13. 24 Nancy Bartley, “LeTourneau will not be allowed to keep next baby in prison cell according to the State”, in: The Seattle Times (17 March 1998), quoted in Barker, ibid.: at 42. 25 The marykayletourneau website helpfully provided a transcript of the proceedings before the Appeal Court [hereinafter Appeal of Conditions of Sentence Transcript]. 26 American Journal (Oct 24, 1998), quoted in Sean Barker, supra (ftn. 21): at 77. 27 Ibid.: at 45-46. 182 - Catherine O’Sullivan powerful image of a breast-feeding mother was also used in All-American Girl. LeTourneau is shown in one scene pumping her breast, so Audrey, her first daughter with Fualaau, can have breast milk. Soona Vili, Fualaau’s mother collects it. LeTourneau is also shown breast-feeding Audrey with a beatific smile on her face. Barker notes near the close of his thesis: “[u]sing LeTourneau as an example, television content told audiences what it is to be a woman. […] LeTourneau’s actions broke up one family and the media domesticated her by substituting her new family for the old.” 28 Fualaau was consequently referred to as a parent, or a father, ignoring the criminal offence that placed him that position. 29 The result was the creation of an alternative family, televisually accomplished through mixing footage of LeTourneau caring for Audrey with Fualaau doing the same. 30 The end result of this coverage was that women’s roles were once again rigidly prescribed. 31 However LeTourneau was not forced into this box. She embraced her construction as good mother. LeTourneau asserted that her presence as biological mother was necessary for the emotional and physical well-being of her children. A mere maternal substitute was not sufficient. She is quoted as saying: “[my children] will be fine when they are released back to their mother. I am their sanctuary, their lifeline, their only mother.” 32 After the birth of her second child with Fualaau she fretted that her two new daughters were growing up without pictures of their mother in their minds. 33 When asked difficult questions on the live CourtTV.com on-line chat while she was still incarcerated, she was careful to always situate herself as a mother. Her critique of statutory rape laws was circumspect. She argued that there should not be an automatic presumption of abuse and that the individual circumstances of each case should be analysed. However, in keeping with her image as the good mother, she noted: “I like the fact that our laws have a general protection there […].” 34 An earlier e-mailer asked her how she would respond if her 12-year old son became involved with an older woman. LeTourneau again argued that each situation should be analysed individually, but positioned herself as caring mother first and foremost: “I’m not saying that I would not have emotions as a mother. […] It’s a grieving period for parents to get through [our children’s adolescence and adulthood]. I’m not saying I wouldn’t be emotional, I would look for abuse, but 28 American Journal (Oct 24, 1998), quoted in Sean Barker, supra (ftn. 21): at 130. 29 Ibid.: at 49. 30 Ibid.: at 89. Barker notes: “[e]ven though these [images] were recorded months apart, the effect was a presentation that resembles video from a traditional nuclear family.” Ibid. 31 Ibid.: at 134. 32 Ibid.: at 41, quoting Staff, “LeTourneau’s past life included boy”, in: The Seattle Times (21 April 1998). 33 Ibid.: at 86. 34 A transcript of this chat is available at <http: / / courttv.com/ talk/ chat_transcripts / 2001/ 1113 letourneau.html> [hereinafter Court TV Transcript]. Madonna and Whore - 183 if there wasn’t any, I would make sure I was there for them as a resource to help keep the relationship healthy.” 35 When asked if she would not have commenced the affair if she could turn back the clock, although she ended the discussion with an affirmation of the healthiness and wonder of her involvement with Fualaau, her first impulse was to position herself as mother: “Of course I believe that my children from him are a blessing, so I would never turn back the clock to take them away.” 36 However she acknowledged that if she had known the legal consequences of the engagement, it might have provided her with the strength to reject Fualaau’s advances at an earlier stage: “[b]y the time I found out that there was a very serious legal, criminal side to our relationship, I was already pregnant. At that point you can’t turn back the clock.” 37 She discussed her impending release, with the possibility of an early release due to an error in her sentencing, from the perspective of the benefits it would bring her children: “If I do get an early release, it would be maybe six months earlier that I expect. Six months is a long time in a child’s life, and I have six children that would definitely benefit from it, so even if it’s six months earlier, it would be worth it.” 38 In the movie, LeTourneau is also asked if she would change things. Her reply is a mixture of motherly self-sacrifice and selfishness: “If I turned away from Vili, I would die. Then what good would I be to my children? They need me. I know what it’s like to need a parent. My father’s love got me through my childhood.” LeTourneau also tried to recast her breach of her suspended sentence conditions - her meeting of Fualaau on parole - as a reasoned legal strategy: If coming to prison was the only possibility I had to at least see my children or talk to them or write to them, and to get back my First Amendment rights […] Then how can anyone say that defying the treatment program and coming to prison to do time and defend my legal rights was a ‘squandering’ of my freedom? 39 However this representation, however imaginative, of herself as a self-sacrificing mother who prioritises her children’s needs over her own is at odds with her behaviour. LeTourneau was interviewed in prison for the Sunday Times Maga- 35 A transcript of this chat is available at <http: / / courttv.com/ talk/ chat_transcripts / 2001/ 1113 letourneau.html> [hereinafter Court TV Transcript]. 36 Ibid. Of her involvement with Fualaau, she writes: “I wish for everybody in life that they would be blessed with such a mutually loving and respectful relationship.” Ibid. 37 Ibid. 38 Ibid. 39 Mary Kay LeTourneau, Point 12, “If … Then Why? ”, online: marykayletourneau.com <www.marykayletourneau.com/ 27points.html > (date accessed: December 3, 2001). This rhetorical question appears as one of twenty-seven LeTourneau poses on the website. The ellipses here do not represent an omission of words, a phrase, or a sentence, but appear in the original document. 184 - Catherine O’Sullivan zine. The journalist noted that when she was questioned about her neglect of her “little angels” during the course of her involvement with Fualaau, her demeanour shifted from coy yet flirtatious girlishness to argumentative and defensive adult. 40 Indeed her presentation of herself as a good mother, which in part hinges on her assertion that her four eldest children were not hurt by her behaviour, is contradicted by a statement of a mental health evaluator: “[…] she believes that she has not harmed her children, despite the fact that the children are being seen in mental health treatment or that the notoriety around her case (which she has not discouraged) is cause for considerable stress and embarrassment for them.” 41 This evaluation was undertaken to determine LeTourneau’s suitability for the SSOSA programme. The same evaluator was concerned that the intense media interest in her case was undermining her treatment and concerned that LeTourneau had exploited Audrey as a prop on a television programme. 42 An obvious reason for the intense media interest in LeTourneau’s case was that she was a woman, and that only seven percent of convicted sex offenders in Washington State are women. 43 However, this interest was fanned not only by LeTourneau’s defence who knew how important it was to humanise LeTourneau and remove her from the category of child rapist and so courted media attention, 44 but also by LeTourneau herself. The evaluator was worried that: “[b]y [LeTourneau’s] dramatic and seductive [media] interviews she elicited the help of thousands to assist in undermining her treatment. Being the center of attention feeds into her narcissism and undermines her treatment. If treatment is undermined it increases the likelihood of reoffense.” 45 The Washington State Appeal Court noted in revoking the condition prohibiting her from profiting from her crime that LeTourneau’s courting of the media was not related to a desire to financially profit, but out of a need for media attention. 46 I am not arguing that a mother cannot have desires 40 Bob Graham, “Lessons in Love”, in: The Sunday Times Magazine (3 January, 1999): 18 at 20. Part of this neglect was lavishing gifts on Fualaau while her heavily in debt family lived in poverty. Ibid.: at 23. 41 Washington v. LeTourneau, supra (ftn. 5): at 440. 42 Ibid. 43 Jack Broom/ Carol M. Ostrom, “LeTourneau’s gender drew attention to case”, in: Seattle Times (February 4, 1998), online: Seattle Times: <www.seattletimes.nwsource.com/ news/ local/ html98/ doub020498.html> date accessed: December 3, 2001). 44 Mathew Stadler, “Statutory Rape, a Love Story”, in: Spin Magazine (July 26, 1998), online: FreeRepublic.com <www.freerepublic.com/ forum/ a442644.htm (date accessed: August 19, 2001) [hereinafter Stadler]. 45 State of Washington v. LeTourneau, supra (ftn. 5): at 435. Evaluator quoted ibid.: at 434. 46 Ibid.: at 435. The Court did not find sufficient nexus between the crime (molesting a child) and writing about it. Justice Kennedy asks the State representative: “If the crime had been selling obscenity, or trafficking in sexually explicit material to minors, then there would arguably be a nexus between preventing her from profiting again in similar Madonna and Whore - 185 and pursue them independently of the needs of her children, but if LeTourneau chooses to represent herself as a self-sacrificing mother to gain an advantage, then her desires, both normal and/ or selfish, become an issue. In her appeal to the Washington State Appeal Court, LeTourneau sought the repeal of two conditions of her re-sentencing. The first was the condition that she not profit from her crime; the second concerned her visitation rights with her children upon her release. As the judicial order stood, she was prohibited from unsupervised contact with all children, and with her own children until they turned 18. At the time of her release, five of her six children would be younger than 18. 47 The reason for not allowing LeTourneau unsupervised access to her children was to protect them from sexual advances by her. Given LeTourneau’s express interest in her representation as good mother, it was unsurprising that this condition would be construed by her, and her lawyer, Seattle based constitutional expert, James Loebsenz, as the most important of the two appeal grounds. In the Appeal Court’s decision, one unidentified psychologist was noted as expressing the concern that although LeTourneau showed no evidence of a desire to abuse her own children, she may abuse her oldest son’s friends. 48 It was noted in the judgment that one evaluator was particularly concerned with LeTourneau’s propensity not only to re-offend, but to do so on her own children: [m]any sex offenders have offended a victim other than their biological child and later offend their own child of the same or opposite sex. I have seen nothing in my evaluation/ treatment of Ms. LeTourneau that would indicate to me that she is different than the other sex offenders who have been successfully treated in the community. 49 However, Mr. Justice Grosse noted that foundation was necessary for such conclusions, and there did not seem to be sufficient evidence in LeTourneau’s case. 50 Ann Summers, representing the State of Washington, argued before the Court that it should not be necessary to wait for a sex offender to abuse his/ her children before taking action to protect those children. She accepted that Le- Tourneau had not been found to be a paedophile, but contended that paedophilia was not the only condition that would cause an offender to abuse his or her own children. Therefore, just because LeTourneau did not initially abuse her children, it did not preclude her from abusing them in the future: “[s]he has traffic. But her prior crime has nothing to do with speech.” Appeal of Conditions Sentence Transcript, supra (ftn. 25). 47 Her eldest son, Steven, would be of age. Mary would be 17, Nicholas would be 13, and Jacqueline would be 12. Her two children with Vili, Audrey and Georgia, would be 8 and 7 respectively. Ibid. 48 Washington v. LeTourneau, supra (ftn. 5): at 439. 49 Ibid.: at 440. 50 Appeal of Conditions of Sentence Transcript, supra (ftn. 25). 186 - Catherine O’Sullivan deeply embedded personality disorders that in this particular case caused her to completely ignore social norms. And who’s to say that she won’t ignore other social norms? ” 51 The Court accepted that it was not necessary to wait for abuse to occur, but that a high degree of likelihood was required before the State can and should intervene. This is because a fundamental constitutional right is the right of a parent to raise his/ her children without State interference. 52 To justify an infringement of such a right, any measure taken has to pass the Strict Scrutiny Test - the measure taken must be both necessary and the least restrictive method with which to accomplish a compelling government interest. Therefore, the only time a Court can interfere with a parent’s rights to his/ her children is when it can prove that the child is or will be severely endangered by this parent. In this case the Court rejected the opinion of the evaluator because the evaluator’s main concern appeared to be LeTourneau’s lack of insight into her wrongdoing, and not her propensity to offend against her own children. The Court appeared to define this propensity according to the presence or absence of certain medical conditions. Because LeTourneau had not been labelled a paedophile or identified as suffering from any other form of paraphilia, she was therefore not a danger to her children. 53 The Court held: [t]he general observation that many offenders who molest children unrelated to them later molest their own biological children, without more, is an insufficient basis for State interference with fundamental parenting rights. There must be an affirmative showing that the offender is a pedophile or that the offender otherwise possesses a danger of sexual molestation of his or her own […] children […]. 54 Although this ground of appeal was decided on the gender neutral principle of parental rights to children, any reading of the suitability of a parent is determined according to gender appropriate constructions of their performance of maternity or paternity. The virtual consensus that LeTourneau was a good mother certainly must have impacted on the judges’ rejection of various psychologists’ reports that expressed concern about her potential to offend against 51 Appeal of Conditions of Sentence Transcript, supra (ftn. 25). 52 Washington v. LeTourneau, supra (ftn. 5): at 438. 53 Ibid.: at 440. Although the Court held that LeTourneau could have unsupervised contact with her minor children upon release, it did note that her children may require protection from her unrelated to the question of whether she might sexually abuse them. Madam Justice Faye C. Kennedy wrote: “[…] LeTourneau has little insight into the needs of her children or as to the damage she has done to them, first by committing her crimes and then by aggressively exposing herself and her children to media notoriety.” However questions of the best interests of the children are best dealt with under by family and juvenile courts. Ibid.: at 442. 54 Ibid.: at 442. Madonna and Whore - 187 her own children. Although one of the psychologists expressly noted that Le- Tourneau seemed no different to him/ her than any other (read male) sexual offender that s/ he treated, LeTourneau clearly was. Her social and legal construction as a good mother trumped that of statutory rapist. In his doctoral thesis Barker traced LeTourneau’s transformation from criminal to icon over the period from her original arrest to the making of a made-for-TV movie about her. One of the consequences of iconising a criminal is to individualise him/ her and his/ her actions, while ignoring societal factors that may have contributed to the crime. 55 There is however a marked difference in the type of icon a female criminal can become. Barker writes: [m]en are treated as career criminals with no morals or values allowing them to commit random acts of violence at will. They have power, intelligence, and stamina to live as definitive lawbreakers. In LeTourneau’s case the media framed her without power, emotionally unstable, and fragile. Thus, it is evident that a different standard applies to male and female criminals who become icons where each is embedded within sex-bases biased regarding social identity. 56 However, Barker ignores the more literal and traditional level on which Le- Tourneau was transformed into an icon. She was cast as a religious-style icon in her presentation as a Madonna. This occurred not only on her web-site, where a doe-eyed LeTourneau clasps her hands in silent anguish or prayer and gazes submissively upwards, but also in the predominance of the Madonna image in the general media. Barker noted the media preference for photos of Le- Tourneau in civilian clothes (her original sentencing) as opposed to photos of her in prison attire (sentence revocation). While the pastel/ baby blue sweater was clearly more flattering than orange prison overalls, the religious connotation of Marian blue went unremarked. On a more calculating level, the blue sweater was very becoming, and wearing it and a skirt she looked the image of a young, pretty, conservatively dressed schoolteacher - the antithesis of a rapist. The reason for LeTourneau’s embrace of the maternal/ Madonna frame was a simple one - it was to make her one of us. A criminal act separates an individual from the community. The criminal consequently becomes depersonalised Other. However, by emphasising their links to and support of the values of the community, the criminal can re-establish him/ her-self as a member of the community. The dominant reading of their criminal act determines how the community responds to them. Barker notes that news coverage in the Seattle Times, “emphasized personal aspects of her case through dramatic characterizations and portrayals of LeTourneau and her actions.” 57 Part of LeTourneau’s re-personalisation project entailed emphasising her difference from other sexual 55 Barker, supra (ftn. 21): at 20. 56 Ibid.: at 133. 57 Ibid.: at 38. 188 - Catherine O’Sullivan offenders. LeTourneau’s status as devoted mother and, to a lesser extent, beloved teacher were particularly relevant in constructing her in a positive manner. In an Investigative Reports documentary entitled “Boy Crazy: The Mary Kay LeTourneau Story”, LeTourneau was portrayed as a dedicated and devoted teacher. 58 Her devotion to teaching was cited as proof by one colleague that she must have been in love with Fualaau to jeopardise her career. 59 On Dateline LeTourneau was described as “the teacher that everybody loved”. 60 Her status as teacher even offered her protection in jail despite her designation as child molester. She explained that she had not encountered any bias against her from other inmates, and noted that she enjoyed working with the other inmates and helping them get their GEDs. 61 Towards the end of the interview, she again mentioned her role within the prison, not only as teacher, but also as spiritual advisor. 62 LeTourneau’s positioning of herself as mentor within the prison community was a tactical means of differentiating herself from the other women with whom she was imprisoned. In her online chat while she was incarcerated, she drew a distinct line between them (criminals) and us (law-abiding public and herself). She wrote: “[…] there is a certain percentage who are violent here. […] I don’t want to say that it’s all attributed to abuse in their past life. I try to understand them, to reach out and give compassion to those women.” 63 This division is emphasised in the movie: Mary: I should never have plead guilty. Those women hurt little children. Their own little girls! Dr. Newhall: I know. Mary: I’m not like them. Dr. Newhall: I know. The fictionalised portrayal of her interactions with the other women in the mandatory sex-offender counselling programme also reveals this difference. The opening scene of the movie is of a group of women in red prison overalls undergoing a counselling session. These women are all sex-offenders, at least two of whom molested their own children. When one details her offence - “I 58 Barker, supra (ftn. 21): at 98. 59 “Mother and Child”, 48 Hours (date aired: 16 April 1998), cited ibid.: at 108. 60 “Lessons Learned”, Dateline (date aired: 30 September 1997), quoted in Barker, ibid.: at 110. All-American Girl also stresses her excellence as a teacher. In a scene where Dr. Newhall and Charles Dunfey (a characterisation of her lawyer) are trying to convince the public prosecutor not to look for the maximum sentence: “Charles: Mary was my neighbour. I know her. She’s a good mom. She - she was a great teacher. Parents used to fight to get their kids into her class.” 61 Court TV Transcript, supra (ftn. 34). 62 Ibid. 63 Ibid. Madonna and Whore - 189 burned them with cigarettes, and I penetrated them with objects” - the viewer is introduced to LeTourneau who looks stricken and covers her mouth in horror. Her reactions become a stand-in for our indignation. Her difference from her fellow female molesters marks her as one of us and them as Other. Her difference is acknowledged by one of the women in the group, albeit sarcastically. ChaCha - a mother who molested her 5-year old daughter, probably annoyed at LeTourneau’s visible horror - taunts LeTourneau with the fact that she will have to tell her children that she is a child molester. LeTourneau leaves the session upset, to the parting farewell of “Welcome to the programme, Mary Poppins.” The movie flashes to a distressed LeTourneau talking with Dr. Newhall, a fictionalisation of Dr. Moore, the psychiatrist appointed by her defence: Mary Kay: I am not going back there. They’re telling me that I have to tell my own children that I am a child molester and that I might be a danger to them. I am not a child molester. Dr. Newhall: Legally - you are. Regardless of how he looks. Regardless of how he sounds. Vili is 13, and the law doesn’t care - that it was consensual. 64 Dr. Newhall’s hesitations can be read two ways. She is either temporarily agreeing with LeTourneau to try to calm her down or she does agree with her, even though she knows that she should not. The sum of Dr. Newhall’s statements and actions throughout the movie suggests that it is a combination of both. Although Dr. Newhall is shown to believe that LeTourneau behaved inappropriately with Fualaau, and she tries to convince LeTourneau of the blameworthiness of her actions, she does not seem to consider those actions akin to rape, and therefore questions the strict application of the law in LeTourneau’s case. LeTourneau acknowledges only that committing adultery was wrong. However while the end response to LeTourneau was ultimately a positive one, the alternative less favourable half of the Madonna/ whore dichotomy was also evident in the various portrayals of LeTourneau and her actions. The whore stereotype derives its force from a societal distaste for autonomous and active female sexuality. The construction of female criminality as sexually based originates in cultural fears that active female sexuality demonstrates a disregard for societal mores, and consequently signals a woman’s susceptibility to a life of crime. It is perhaps for this reason that the only real (and consistent) studies into female criminality within traditional criminology have been the study of sexually delinquent girls. 65 Although one of the dominant frames used 64 The Mary Poppins remark comes considerably later in the movie. 65 Criminology began as a science in the 1890s. It was not really until the 1970s that female offenders generated any significant research in their own right. Up until feminist criminology turned the focus on female offenders, the traditional areas of study in female criminality were in prostitution, teenage promiscuity and lesbianism; Margaret L. Anderson, “Women, Crime and Deviance”, in: Thinking About Women: Sociological 190 - Catherine O’Sullivan to exonerate LeTourneau of her criminality was her maternity, this maternity co-existed uneasily against suggestions that she gave vent to her own active sexual desires. Four months after the birth of her second daughter with Fualaau it was revealed on Inside Edition that LeTourneau had sent Fualaau sexually suggestive letters that also admonished him to remain faithful to her. This report was one of the few occasions when the visual of LeTourneau in the orange overalls was utilised, emphasising her criminal status. 66 Two months before All-American Girl was aired, Christina Dress, a prisoner who had served time with LeTourneau, made allegations that LeTourneau was involved in a lesbian relationship with a young female prisoner who resembled Fualaau. 67 The allegation of lesbianism is typically applied to female criminals. It is a means of imputing masculinity to them and so hinting at their defective femininity. While evidence has been found of a high level of lesbian adult relationships among the imprisoned female sexual offenders, Julia Hislop conjectured that this could represent a question of opportunity and access rather than true sexual preference. However she does note that her finding did raise the possibility that female sexual offenders are omni-sexual - “unable to establish or enforce their sexual identities or boundaries.” 68 This insight is supported by testimony from one psychiatrist Colin Crawford’s patients who admitted to molestation. She revealed that her own experiences of a sexualised childhood at the hands of her father and his friends taught her that it was acceptable for adults to use children for sexual gratification. 69 Yet LeTourneau’s alleged choice of partner as someone who resembled Fualaau marked this accusation out of the ordinary. This resemblance, if the allegation is true, can be read in two ways. The first is that LeTourneau was missing Fualaau so she sought comfort in the arms of someone who reminded her of him and thereby reaffirmed (in an unusual way) her intense love for him. The second is that she has a voracious sexual appetite and that she will find satisfaction irrespective of the gender of the prey. The emphasised youthfulness Perspectives on Sex and Gender, 3rd ed., New York: Macmillan Publishing Co., 1993: 243 at 248. However, even when women were the supposed focus of study, they were not the subjects. Analysis of prostitution examined the phenomenon instead of the prostitutes. Alternatively, women were seen through the eyes of male subjects. Heidensohn, supra (ftn. 18): at 131, 149-50. 66 Barker, supra (ftn. 21): at 85-86. 67 Ibid.: at 87. This young prisoner was stated to be “Vili’s identical twin”. Extra (date aired: 17 November 1999). LeTourneau’s cell-mate, Carol Edwards, angrily wrote a letter dismissing Dress’s claims as spurious. Her letter can be accessed by hyperlink on LeTourneau’s web-site. Jim Sturgeon, “Lesbian Lover? ”, online: marykayletourneau. com <www.marykayletourneau.com/ roommate.html> (date accessed: December 3, 2001). 68 Hislop, supra (ftn. 8): at 206-7. 69 Colin Crawford, Forbidden Femininity: Child Sexual Abuse and Female Sexuality, Aldershot: Ashgate, 1997: at 32. Madonna and Whore - 191 of her alleged female lover - “young girl” 70 - slots her into the prey status. Le- Tourneau’s inappropriate sexual appetites were also hinted at in an interview she gave to journalist Mathew Stadler. Although she maintained that Fualaau pursued and seduced her - a position echoed in movie throughout which Fualaau was represented as the dominant party in the “relationship” - she admitted that when she eventually allowed him to have sex with her she was also aroused. 71 Part V - The Problem of Representing a Female Sexual Offender From the beginning LeTourneau posed problems for the authorities, the media, and the public. Although the initial sentence LeTourneau received was harsh, she obtained leniency through availing of the SSOSA programme. She did so by situating herself as “non-predatory.” This was accomplished through the apparent heartfelt remorse she expressed at her sentencing, by the glowing testimonials as to her status as good mother and teacher, with the support of her victim and his family, and by her diagnosis with the treatable bi-polar disorder. Stadler noted the importance of remorse in obtaining a SSOSA order: “[r]emorse, an ability to describe the crime and the victim in appropriate terms, and a self-image that is in keeping with the court or treatment provider’s image of the perpetrator, are important ingredients in establishing an offender’s eligibility.” 72 Obviously, constructions of masculinity and femininity impact on how remorse is read from an offender. Not only was the law more favourable to her than would be typical in a case involving child sexual abuse but so too was the media and public. Instead of the universal public and media condemnation that is usually accorded to a child sexual abuser, LeTourneau received public sympathy and even occasional support. The LeTourneau case therefore raises a number of interesting questions about how female sexual offenders are understood and represented. In particular, why was the favourable construction of LeTourneau successful (at law) and why did it survive (socially and culturally) her re-arrest following her egregious parole violation? From a legal perspective it is remarkable that her application for the SSOSA programme was accepted. In essence, by suspending her sentence subject to a variety of conditions the law appeared to accede to the media analysis that LeTourneau was not a criminal. However the facts did not support this conclusion. The focus on her remorseful plea was misplaced. Throughout her questioning by police, lawyers, and psychologists she insisted that she and Fualaau were in love and was singularly unrepentant. 73 Her subsequent re-of- 70 Extra (date aired: 17 November 1999), quoted in Barker, supra (ftn. 21): at 87. 71 Stadler, supra (ftn. 44). 72 Ibid. 73 Bob Graham, “Lessons in Love”, in: The Sunday Times Magazine (3 January, 1999): 18 at 18. 192 - Catherine O’Sullivan fending proved that her apparent remorse during the initial sentencing was a sham. The law was able to respond to this breach by returning her to prison to serve the balance of her original sentence. The media however were in a quandary. After she received her suspended sentence they had proclaimed her to be non-criminal. This neat resolution of the case was thrown into disarray by her re-arrest. 74 The repetition of her offence clearly marked her as criminal, particularly having regard to the circumstances in which she and Fualaau were discovered (with her passport and money). The media coverage for the period immediately following her arrest was initially more critical of LeTourneau. She was constructed as a manipulative criminal. But even though newspaper articles in the Seattle Times, for example, were found to be twice as likely to characterise the entanglement as a rape or sexual assault than as a loving relationship, the force of the relationship rhetoric eventually overpowered the statistical prevalence of the clinical/ criminal description of the crime. 75 The slippage from LeTourneau as criminal to LeTourneau as involved in an adulterous relationship emphasised the social norms she had violated at the expense of the legal contravention. Her actions were therefore constructed as a lapse in judgement or a character flaw as opposed to a conscious decision to commit a crime. 76 In addition, the media continued to focus on her maternal qualities. 77 This was aided in no small measure by the revelation that she was pregnant by Fualaau a second time. In the end then, despite a brief period of disapproval, LeTourneau’s construction as good mother ultimately trumped that of manipulative criminal. This duality in coverage in all the more confusing when one considers that LeTourneau appeared to slot quite neatly into traditional understandings of female criminality - in particular the images of the female criminal as either over-sexed or mad. However there was one significant problem with this fit - her embrace of traditional feminine roles contradicted the supposed prophylactic effect of femininity. Various legal and criminological researchers have found that trials involving women often turn into character assessments, with the degree of the offender’s performance of appropriate femininity being a deciding influence in determining her guilt and/ or sentence. 78 The importance ac- 74 Barker, supra (ftn. 21): at 120. 75 Ibid.: at 49. Barker writes: “[t]he factual descriptions of LeTourneau’s criminal actions were diminished by the articulated commentary about the ‘romance’ within many of the articles.” Ibid.: at 50. 76 Ibid.: at 51. 77 Ibid.: at 101. 78 Marie Fox, “Feminist Perspectives on Theories of Punishment”, in: Donald Nicolson/ Lois Bibbings (eds.), Feminist Perspectives on Criminal Law, London: Cavendish Publishing, 2000: 49 at 65 citing C. Hedderman/ L. Gelsthorpe, Understanding the Setencing of Women, London: Home Office Research Study, 1997; Donald Nicolson, “What the Law Giveth, It Also Taketh Away: Female Specific Defences to Criminal Liability”, in: Donald Nicolson/ Lois Bibbings (eds.), Feminist Perspectives on Madonna and Whore - 193 corded to normative femininity does not cease if the offender is incarcerated. Feminine pursuits are imposed on female offenders when they are imprisoned. This suggests that femininity is seen as the cure for or at least antithetical to criminality. 79 Women incarcerated at the Broadmoor Special Hospital in England were pressured as part of their “treatment” to wear make-up and attend dances at the male wing. The guiding ideological premise again is that if the women recovered their femininity they would be cured of their criminality. 80 Given the suspect stereotypes that underlie the presumption that “real” women can never be sexual offenders with the attendant inference that those women who commit sexual offences are non-women, one would assume that feminists would draw attention to the reality of female sexual offenders for two reasons. First, one of the foundational concerns of feminism was the Madonna/ whore dichotomy. Feminism argues that that female sexual passivity is a patriarchal fiction. If that is true then we should also accept that female sexual aggression is a reality, albeit a statistically limited one. 81 Second, in referring to the prevalence of female sexual offenders, feminists would be able to show that female sexual offenders are not one-off aberrations but that they belong to an identifiable, although statistically limited, class of offender. If women who commit such crimes are recognised as belonging to a class of female offender this means that they can not be dismissed as exceptions or nonwomen. Paradoxically however, feminism has been generally reluctant to acknowledge the existence of (sexually) violent female offenders. 82 This is not to say that feminists have not attempted to engage with such offenders. However the generalised “deafening silence from feminists” 83 where (sexually) violent female offenders are concerned has been commented upon. Various feminist Criminal Law, London: Cavendish Publishing, 2000: 159 at 172; Caroline Keenan, “The Same Old Story: Examining Women’s Involvement in the Initial Stages of the Criminal Justice System”, in: Feminist Perspectives on Criminal Law, Donald Nicolson/ Lois Bibbings (eds.), London: Cavendish Publishing, 2000: 29 at 37-44. 79 Heidensohn, supra (ftn. 18): at 152. 80 Ann Lloyd, Doubly Deviant, Doubly Damned: Society’s Treatment of Violent Women, London: Penguin, 1995: at 156. 81 As noted by Alix Kirsta, Deadlier than the Male: Violence and Aggression in Women, London: Harper Collins, 1994: at 285. 82 The primary fear of feminists who are opposed to any discussion on female perpetrators is that the information would be used as part of a feminist backlash. Acceptance of the existence of female abusers challenges deeply held feminist notions that men are abusers, and women are their victims. To admit that women can also be aggressors potentially minimises not only the damage child sexual abuse causes, but also the offences of male sexual abusers. Speculation discussed in Hislop, supra (ftn. 8): at 14. There is also the fear that male rapists will utilise the eroticisation of anger theory - mother abused me - as a defence; Young, supra (ftn. 13): at 113. 83 Helen Birch, “If looks could kill: Myra Hindley and the Iconography of evil”, in: Helen Birch (ed.), Moving Targets: Women, Murder and Representation, Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1993: 32 at 34. 194 - Catherine O’Sullivan authors have suggested that it seems to be permissible to talk about (sexually) violent female offenders only if the blame for their violence can be lain at the hands of a man (battered women cases or male-female co-offending couples) or if their offending can be medicalised in some way (Battered Woman’s Syndrome, Pre-menstrual Syndrome, or in LeTourneau’s case bi-polar disorder). For example, an attempt to hold a conference on female sexual abusers for social work professionals in 1992 in London was decried as a betrayal of feminism. The holders of the conference were berated for bringing the matter to the attention of the public who would be distracted from the fact that the vast majority of abusers are male. 84 These fears are legitimate but it is important that feminism be proactive in the analysis of female child molesters. As primary claims-makers on child abuse in general, the feminist movement should also undertake the educative and advisory role on female child abusers. 85 A denial of female sexual abusers means that their victims - usually children - are denied adequate protection and/ or support. 86 It is also important because of the reciprocal relationship between law and society. As law-in-literature scholars have pointed out the law does not operate in a vacuum. Legal discourse shapes and is shaped by the culture within which it operates. Kieran McEvoy observed that the sensational aspect of crime and its representation as a discourse reveals how a society defines itself and the expectations it sets for its citizens. 87 Not only does the citizen learn what is acceptable behaviour (through the clear marking of what is not), but s/ he also learns the appropriate channels of punishment (and therefore his/ her place in society). 88 Crime as a discourse also impacts on constructions of masculinity and femininity. The mediated images disseminated by popular culture and reiterated in criminology provide tacit and explicit interpretative resources by which the actions of men and women are understood. As noted by Donald Nicolson in his introduction to a collection of articles on criminal law written from a feminist perspective, “[g]iven law’s authoritative social status, criminal law […] acts as a powerful ideological tool in the process of educating society as to norms of appropriate femininity and masculinity. It may even help shape the thoughts and actions of women and men, if not construct their very beings.” 89 The lessons that can be learned from the LeTourneau case are clear. 84 Young, ibid.: at 110. 85 Ibid.: at 108-9. 86 Most self-help books for survivors of sexual abuse are written for those who were abused by men. Jennings, supra (ftn. 9): at 242. 87 Kieran McEvoy, Newspapers and Crime: Narrative and the Construction of Identity”, in: John Morison/ Christine Bell (eds.), Tall Stories? Reading Law and Literature, Brookfield: Dartmouth Publishing Co, 1996: 179 at 179. 88 Ibid.: at 190. 89 Nicolson made this observation in his analysis of the impact of gender stereotypes on the law; Donald Nicolson, “Criminal Law and Feminism”, in: Donald Nicolson/ Lois Madonna and Whore - 195 Women accused of criminal acts who can represent themselves as otherwise appropriately feminine will be treated leniently by the law and by society. The problem however is what becomes of the female offender who is unable to position herself within the bounds of normative femininity, either by virtue of her class, her age, her race or her sexuality? Where is the justice in punishing her for what feminist criminologists label “double deviance” - her failure to uphold the law and to achieve normative femininity? Part VI - Conclusion In conclusion I argue that it is important for feminism and feminists to draw attention not only to cases of female sexual offenders but also to the stereotypes that underlie representations of them and what these stereotypes hope to achieve, namely the promotion of normative femininity. If theorists predisposed to challenge limiting gender stereotypes cannot fathom the many forms of violence women can commit how can the law, which is traditionally hostile to women/ Others, be expected to? 90 By contextualising such women as belonging to a class of offender rather than as one-off aberrations, the challenges that their existence pose to normative conceptions of femininity cannot be swept under the carpet. The strictures of the current model - either (feminine) woman or sexual offender/ monstrous non-woman - allows for no middle ground. It presumes that both categories are mutually exclusive. However, as the LeTourneau case demonstrates, this either/ or model does not resolve inconsistencies. It ignores them. The goal of this article therefore is to draw attention to the many failures of the either/ or model. The either/ or dichotomy does not allow for a realistic appraisal of the reality of female child molesters. It forecloses discussion about the motivations of such offenders. It requires female offenders who have been charged with “male” offences to deliberately or implicitly invoke limiting gender stereotypes in order to reduce their potential criminal liability, and ultimately, it condemns non-feminine women to harsher penalties, both legally and socially. In other words, not only is the application of a strict either/ or reductive, it is also unhelpful. It does not do justice to the complexity of the dynamics that can arise in these cases. If feminists are serious about removing gender bias from the legal system and from society, the time has come to examine the issues raised by and the problematic resolutions given in the LeTourneau case. While there is no denying that individual female offenders can access lenient social and legal treatment by referencing gender stereotypes, the Bibbings (eds.), Feminist Perspectives on Criminal Law, London: Cavendish Publishing, 2000: 1 at 14. 90 Marie Fox, “Crime and Punishment: Representations of Female Killers in Law and Literature”, in: John Morison and Christine Bell (eds.), Tall Stories? Reading Law and Literature, Brookfield: Dartmouth Publishing Co, 1996: 145, at 167-68. 196 - Catherine O’Sullivan question that should always be brought to the forefront is at what price for other women? LITERARY STUDIES Andreas Stuhlmann Heinrich Heine’s Figure of Justice In June 1824 the young poet Heinrich Heine embarked on a journey through the valleys, glens and peaks of the Harz. These mountains lie somewhat hidden in the heartland of Northern Germany. It is a rather secluded area of rough hills, dark woods, step, winding roads, scattered villages and picturesque medieval towns like Goslar, Clausthal, or Osterode. Mainly on foot, he travelled from Göttingen eventually to Weimar in Thüringen, hoping to be received by Goethe and obtain some recognition and support from the greatest living writer. Heine was 26 years old, and had just returned to Göttingen from Berlin, to resume his law course at the prestigious Georg-August University, from which he had been relegated in January 1821 after getting involved in a duel with his fellow student Wilhelm Wibel. 1 Originally born as Harry Heine on the 13 December 1797 in Düsseldorf at the Rhine, the son of Jewish parents, the merchant Samson and his wife Betty, he had started university in Bonn in 1819. He had mostly neglected his law lectures 2 and instead had studied with August Wilhelm Schlegel who taught history of language and literature, aesthetics and poetry and who had contributed to the most influential translation of Shakespeare into German. Under his influence Heine developed his own poetic skills, and started to write poetry extensively. Two collections of poems had been published in Berlin, his „Gedichte“ in 1821, and another 1823, the „Lyrische Intermezzo“, that had also included his two dramas „William Ratcliff“ and „Almansor“. Heine, who was definitely drawn to the practical use of language, didn’t see “Law” and “Lit- 1 Heine suggested that Wibel had had made anti-Semitic remarks. Excerpts from the minutes of the trial held by the university are published in Edda Ziegler, Heinrich Heine Leben - Werk - Wirkung, Zürich 1993: 41. Heine’s biographer Hädecke claimed these minutes made for the reading of a bad piece of absurd theatre. Cf. Wolfgang Hädecke, Heinrich Heine - Eine Biographie, Reinbeck 1989: 124. 2 His „Testierbogen“, his university transcript, documents only one law lecture for the first semester: „Enzyklopädie und Methodologie des römischen Rechts” with Prof Karl Theodor Welcker. 200 - Andreas Stuhlmann erature” as two interesting alternative “linguistic practices” 3 , but rather as two very distinct vocational trainings as lawyer or poet. Though he later claimed to have wasted on Law, “this most illiberal science” 4 , three “beautiful, blooming years” out of the seven years he had been allowed to spend on his academic formation, it is probably safe to say that the inherent philosophical and political dimensions of the academic law course developed his political consciousness also as a poet. Though later excluded because of his Jewish descent, Heine had got involved in the student movement of the so-called „Burschenschaften“ in 1819, a hotbed for democratic ideals and other anarchic thought, but of increasingly chauvinistic and nationalistic views. 5 In June 1820 Heine decided to change university and move on to Göttingen, which was compared to Bonn, a dull and lifeless town dominated by military and bureaucracy at the gates of the Harz, an traditional stronghold of ‘Bildung’ and intellectual enterprise. The university had been renowned for its liberal climate and its academic reputation, but it was situated far away from the cultural centres of the time. Conversing with an lawyer from Bologna Heine’s alter ego later in a travelogue on his journeys in Italy ridicules his alma mater’s reputation as the “German Bologona” and points out that the main difference between the two cities was that Bologna had the most minute dogs and the greatest scholars, while Göttingen on the contrary was home to the most minute scholars and the biggest dogs. 6 In Berlin he had continued his studies at the Wilhelms-Universität, with outstanding scholars such as Georg F.W. Hegel, Friedrich D.E. Schleiermacher or Friedrich Karl v. Savigny. Here he received much of the intellectual armour he subsequently used in numerous polemical confrontations especially with other writers such as August von Platen, Wolfgang Menzel and Ludwig Börne, 3 Cf. Introduction by Gert Hofmann. 4 „Von den sieben Jahren, die ich auf deutschen Universitäten zubrachte, vergeudete ich drei schöne blühende Lebensjahre durch das Studium der römischen Kasuistik, der Jurisprudenz, dieser illiberalsten Wissenschaft.“ Heinrich Heine, „Memoiren“, in: Sämtliche Schriften in 12 Bänden, ed. Klaus Briegleb (= B), München 1976, B 11, 561. The English quotation of Heine’s works follow: The Works of Heinrich Heine, 8 vols, Charles Godfrey Leland (transl.), London 1891-1893 (= Leland). CF. Stefan Söhn, „Diese „illiberalste Wissenschaft“ - Heinrich Heine und die Juristerei“, in: Dichter als Juristen Recht, Literatur und Kunst in der Neuen Juristischen Wochenschrift (6), Hermann Weber (ed.), Berlin 2004: 102-116. 5 Cf. Eberhard Galley, „Heine und die Burschenschaft. Ein Kapitel aus Heines politischem Werdegang zwischen 1819 und 1830“, in: Heine-Jahrbuch 11 (1972): 66-95. Heine’s feelings and stance towards the Burschenschaften remained ambivalent, as his relations with Gustav Kolb and Wolfgang Menzel show. Cf. also Manfred Windfuhr, Heine zwischen den progressiven Gruppen seiner Zeit. Von den Altliberalen zu den Kommunisten. Ein Arbeitspapier, in: ZfdPh 91 (1972): 1-23, here: 2. 6 „Auf jeden Fall aber unterscheiden sich beide Universitäten durch den einfachen Unterschied, daß in Bologna die kleinsten Hunde und die größten Gelehrten, in Göttingen hingegen die kleinsten Gelehrten und die größten Hunde zu finden sind.“ Heine, „Die Bäder von Lucca“, B 3: 391-470, here 412. Heinrich Heine’s Figure of Justice - 201 to mark and defend his position in both the literary world and the wider public sphere. He also had become friendly with Alexander von Humboldt, Friedrich von Gentz, Moses Mendelssohn, Rahel and Karl August Varnhagen von Ense. In their salon he met romantic authors like Ludwig Tieck, Christian Dietrich Grabbe or E. T. A. Hoffmann, who was one of the few to whom he remained loyal even after he had publicly renounced his affiliation with the „Romantische Schule“, the Romantic School, in 1835. In his quest to come to terms with his identity as a writer, a German and a Jew, Heine had also joined the „Verein für Kultur und Wissenschaften der Juden“ (Society for Jewish Culture and Scholarship) 7 , a private society which aimed to promote and enhance Jewish culture by advancing modern scholarship into its history and thereby endorsing Jewish self-esteem. Furthermore he had started journalistic work as a correspondent for the „Rheinisch-Westfälischen Anzeiger“ in Hamm which published his „Briefe aus Berlin“ (“Letters from Berlin”). 8 For these letters he chose the traditional form of the epistolary travelogue, a hybrid form that gave him plenty of room for satirical and political commentary on the fashions and feasts, customs and costumes, traditions, trends and turbulences of the ultra-modern and simultaneously thoroughly conservative Prussian capital. These letters from 1822 became the nucleus of a new larger literary project. He intended to combine, as he wrote to his friend Moses Moser in 1825, older and newer poems, prose pieces and correspondence articles into a new synthesising form of writing, which also gave him the freedom to react to „neue Zeitereignisse“ (latestes events of the times.) 9 A role model for this new style he believed to have found in Ludwig Börnes’ sketch „Mein Wanderbuch am Rhein“ which had appeared in Cottas „Morgenblatt für die gebildeten Stände“ earlier in 1822, the most prestigious forum for current literature. 10 7 The agenda of the Verein is described in Michael Graetz, „Judentum als Religion - Judentum als Wissenschaft. Kontinuität oder Bruch? “ in: Karlfried Gründer/ Nathan Rothenstreich (eds.), Aufklärung und Haskala in jüdischer und nichtjüdischer Sicht, Heidelberg 1990: 123-130. Jean Pierre Lefebvre has portrayed two of its leading figures, Moses Moser and Eduard Gans, in: Der gute Trommler. Heines Beziehung zu Hegel, Hamburg 1986: 66-75. 8 The letters appeared between 8 February and 19 July 1822 in No. 6 and 7, 16-19 and 27-30 in the “Kunst- und Wissenschaftsblatt” of the Rheinisch-Westfälischen Anzeiger, they were signed “...e”. 9 Heinrich Heine, Säkularausgabe. Werke, Briefwechsel, Lebenszeugnisse, ed. Stiftung Weimarer Klassik and the Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique, Paris (= HSA). vol. 20, Briefe 1815-1831, ed. Fritz H. Eisner, Berlin 1970. HSA 20: 226-227. The translations from Heine’s letters into English are my own. Cf. Fritz Mende, Heinrich Heine. Chronik seines Lebens und Werks, 2. ed., Stuttgart 1981: 51. 10 Ludwig Börne, „Mein Wanderbuch am Rhein“, in: Sämtliche Schriften, ed. Inge and Peter Rippmann, Düsseldorf 1964, vol. 1: 1195-1196. 202 - Andreas Stuhlmann Heine developed this project that he labelled „Reisebilder“, “Images”, or “Pictures from Travel”, successively from 1824 until 1831. The project makes up the bulk of his oeuvre before he went into exile to Paris in as an outlaw 1831. He wrote it as a four-part series of travelogues and cycles of poems, reporting not only from the Harz and the North Sea, from Berlin and Munich, but also from England and Italy. Furthermore these texts reflect his struggle to determine his position as a writer, and a Jew, in times of a political and aesthetic sea change, though he gradually arrived at the conviction that the way to reconcile the two would be trough literature. Heine found himself on a ridge walk in a restorative climate between the Viennese Congress in 1815 and the Paris Revolution in Juli 1830. Artistically he was walking a tight rope between the poetic licence granted to the mostly a-political art of German Classicism and Romanticism, the „Kunstperiode“, and the limitations imposed by the massive amount of new regulations on rigorous censorship prompted associated with the so-called „Karlsbader Beschlüsse“. His writings were seen as seismographic readings from places far away from the political and cultural epicentres. Nonetheless I read these texts as a venture to create a new means of operative intervention into social and political processes. 11 These travel reports found a wide audience. This success was to some extent due to the traditional popularity of the genre, but also in part to Heine’s highly subjective and entertaining perspective of a travelling observer on a variety of topics and issues, from nature and culture, history and presence, to social and political issues. The fact that they became more and more a platform for Heine’s poetic rivalries and polemical exchanges secured additional attention. 12 The first volume of the „Reisebilder“, published in May 1826 by Hoffmann & Campe in Hamburg, contained the account of the Harz-journey, „Die Harzreise“, the eighty-eight poems of the cycle „Die Heimkehr“ and the first instalment of a series of poems entitled „Die Nordsee“. 11 They first have been seen as such by Karl Emmerich. This remains his merit, in spite of all the ideological burden his dissertation carries. Cf. Karl Emmerich, Heinrich Heines „Reisebilder“, Berlin: Humboldt-Univ., 1965: 4. An overview over the latest scholarship into the „Reisebilder“ give Olaf Hildebrand, Emanzipation und Versöhnung. Aspekte des Sensualismus im Werk Heinrich Heines unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der Reisebilder, Tübingen 2001, and Bernd Kortländer, Heinrich Heine, Stuttgart 2003: 145-188. 12 The critical reception of the „Reisebilder“ is documented in Heinrich Heine, Sämtliche Werke. Düsseldorfer Ausgabe (= DHA), ed. Manfred Windfuhr, vol. 6, „Reisebilder I/ II“, ed. Jost Hermand, Hamburg 1973 and vol. 7/ 2, „Reisebilder III/ IV“, ed. Alfred Opitz, Hamburg 1986 and Eberhard Galley/ Alfred Estermann (eds.), Heinrich Heines Werk im Urteil seiner Zeitgenossen, vol. 1, „Rezensionen und Notizen zu Heines Werk von 1821 bis 1831“, ed. Eberhard Galley, Hamburg 1981. Heinrich Heine’s Figure of Justice - 203 For Heine, the project of the Reisebilder serves as a “prototype”, as he confidently called it, of a new mode of thinking and writing. 13 This new mode of writing was awash “with lyrical fire and critical cruelty” 14 and is based on a set of four dialectical structures: the dialectic of continuity and change in literature and politics, of poetry and prose, of book and journal, of the plan of a career for life and the uncertainty of a literary oeuvre to develop. 15 In the process of collecting his literary material and through constant revision, editing, and montage he created a complex, elaborately structured texture with many polyphonically orchestrated narrative voices, and an I-narrator with changing narrative masks. 16 In a letter to Karl August Varnhagen von Ense Heine himself called these texts mere „Lappen“, “tatters”, which he patched together piece by piece. 17 The complex imagery, the hybrid structure, the subversive multi-layered encoding, the incorporation of history, landscape, and portraits from the viewpoint of a traveller became a paradigm for Heine’s literary development. 18 Travelling for Heine was not only a necessity, due to changes in places of work and study, but also, as it was seen in his day, a therapy against several nervous conditions 19 and it became quickly an essential motivation for his writing: „Vielleicht“, he wrote to his friend Friederike 13 „Prototyp einer Denk- und Schreibweise“, Heinrich Heine, „Pariser Vorrede zu den Reisebildern“, in: B 3: 683. 14 „Lyrische Lust und kritische Grausamkeit“, Heinrich Heine, „Die Romantische Schule“, B 5: 421 and Leland V: 341. The phrase refers initially to Ludwig Tieck whom Heine praises in „Die Romantische Schule“ to be a true „Poet“, since he combined in his work poetic virtuosity and the severity of enlightenment’s rigour. But the formula characterises equally Heine’s own style and establishes a connection to Tieck’s that is still not fully examined by Heine-scholarship. Cf. Peter Uwe Hohendahl, „Geschichte und Modernität. Heines Kritik an der Romantik“, in: Jahrbuch der deutschen Schillergesellschaft 17 (1973): 318-361 and Herbert Clasen, Heinrich Heines Romantikkritik. Tradition, Produktion, Rezeption, Hamburg 1979. 15 Peter Stein, „“Prototyp einer neuen Denk- und Schreibweise“. Heinrich Heines Reisebilder als Auftakt zur „Julirevolution der deutschen Literatur““, in: Gerhard Höhn (ed.), Heinrich Heine. Ästhetisch-politische Profile, Frankfurt a. M. 1991: 50-65. 16 Among the various masks of the narrators in the „Reisebilder“ are a harlequin in „Die Harzreise“, a certain Dr. jur. Johann Heine in the Italian „Reisebilder“, the Graf vom Ganges in „Ideen“, Don Quixote in „Die Stadt Lucca“, and Kunz von der Rosen, the jester at Emperor Karl V’s court, in the „Englische Fragmente“. 17 Heine’s letter to Varnhagen, 24 October 1826, HSA 20: 269-273, here: 271. 18 Cf. Erhard Weidl, Heinrich Heines Arbeitsweise. Kreativität der Veränderung, Hamburg 1974. 19 Michel Foucault, Madness and Civilisation. A History of Insanity in the Age of Reason, New York, 1988: 157-158. 204 - Andreas Stuhlmann Robert 20 in October 1825, „besuche ich Sie nächstes Jahr; ich will viel reisen und viel sehen. Diese befördert auch meine Poeterey.“ 21 But returning to Göttingen from Berlin, he seemed determined to devote himself now to the law. He had decided, he informed Moser, to eat his lunch now from the pan of Themis’ scales, instead of the “bowl of mercy” of his uncle Salomon, who had mainly financed his nephew’s academic adventures. 22 He even vowed to muzzle his lyrical muse, so her tunes would not interfere with him busily threshing legal straw. 23 Seven month later, though, he set out on his poetic journey through the Harz. To this day the area is still steeped in a tradition of myth and fairytales like the Grimm’s of witches, giants and dwarfs. The legend of the sleeping medieval Emperor Barbarossa inside the Kyffhäuser Mountain, who will one day return to restore German greatness and unity, was very much alive in the post- Napoleon era, and to this very day in folklore the annual witches’ gathering features on the highest peak of the mountain ridge, the Brocken. Goethe had visited it during a three week journey in December 1777 through the Harz and it features so prominently in his „Faust“. 24 The walking narrator discovers this world, leaving behind the uninspired rationalism of his law studies and the mundane philistine world of the Göttingen bourgeoisie. In pechdunkler Nacht kam ich an zu Osterode. Es fehlte mir der Appetit zum Essen und ich legte mich gleich zu Bette. Ich war müde wie ein Hund und schlief wie ein Gott. 20 Friederike Robert was the wife of Rahel Varnhagen’s brother Ludwig Robert. 21 “Maybe I will visit you next year; I want to travel and see a lot. That will also benefit my poetry“. Heine’s letter to Friederike Robert, 12 October 1825, HSA 20: 217-220, here: 220. 22 „Ich will aus der Waagschale der Themis mein Mittagsbrod essen und nicht mehr aus der Gnadenschüssel meines Oheims.“ Heine’s letter to Moses Moser, 2 February 1824, in: HSA 20: 142-143, here: 142. 23 „Meine Muse trägt einen Maulkorb, damit sie mich beym juristischen Strohdreschen mit Ihren Melodien nicht störe.“ Letter Heine’s to Charlotte Embden, 30 March 1824, in: HSA 20: 154-155. 24 Goethe’s perception of the Harz, captured in his famous poem „Harzreise im Winter“, had defined the literary perception of that region for decades. It was Heine’s intention to create a new view of this remote but highly symbolism-charged landscape. Cf. Klaus Weimar/ David E. Wellbery, Johann Wolfgang Goethe. Harzreise im Winter. Eine Deutungskontroverse, Paderborn/ Munich/ Vienna/ Zurich 1984: 15-44, 87-92 and 45-81, 92- 96; a comparison of both poetical accounts of the Harz is given in Rudolf Drux, „Des Dichters Winterreise. Bemerkungen zu ihrer Gestaltung bei Martin Opitz und in Gedichten von Goethe, W. Müller und Heine/ Biermann“, in: Hans Esselborn and Werner Keller (eds.), Geschichtlichkeit und Gegenwart, Köln/ Weimar/ Wien 1994: 229-241 and Alfred Riemen, „Harzreisen“, in: Aurora 56 (1996): 1-16. Heinrich Heine’s Figure of Justice - 205 The night was dark as pitch as I entered Osterode. I had no appetite for dinner and at once went to bed. I was as tired as a dog and slept like a god. 25 As such reads the introduction to one of the most prominent passages of the „Harzreise“, only a few pages into the book. What follows is the colourful and detailed depiction of a dream the narrator claimed to have had that night in that old and scenic small town. In fact this is just the first in a sequence of dream narratives that appear as a form of commentary, of critical reflections at night of the daily events of the journey. The actuality that the narrator had retired that night without a proper dinner might contribute to the nature of the dream, since bad dreams, as the poet Günter Eich observed after World War II, come from a stomach that is either too empty or too full. 26 The narrative consists of two parts. In the first part Heine describes a scene in the impressive old hall of the law library at the University of Göttingen, a place most familiar to him from endless days of study. Hence he is sleeping “like a god”, he is now able to observe a visit to the library by Themis, the Greek goddess of Justice and (legal) Order according to Hesiod’s “Theogony” 27 . At first glance the dream seems only like a satirical re-invocation of the people and circumstances surrounding his untimely and shameful expulsion from the University three years earlier, 28 but the disturbing appearance of the Titan amongst the now ridiculous scholars and lawyers of Göttingen marks a shift towards a general reflection of the state of justice in Germany at a time of political restoration. With this outline I have indicated the two layers of meaning, I want to follow in this short text: an autobiographical reading dealing with Heine’s own experiences as a figure of law and literature (including their artistic rewriting) and a literary-political reading on Heine’s aesthetic-political stance, examining his philosophical schooling through Hegel. 25 Heinrich Heine, „Die Harzreise“, B 3: 108 and Leland II: 68. 26 „Schlechte Träume kommen aus dem Magen, der entweder zu voll oder zu leer ist“, in: Günter Eich, Träume. Vier Spiele, Frankfurt a. M. 1953: 146. 27 Hesiod, Theogony, ed. M. L. West, Oxford 1966: 510-616, 901-904. Regarding Heine’s general usage of mythological material cf. Robert C. Holub, „Heine als Mythologe“, in: Heinrich Heine, Ästhetisch-politische Profile (ftn 15): 314-326. 28 In a letter to his friend Friedrich Steinmann Heine describes the relegation: „Staune! staune! staune! - Ich habe hier das Consilium abeundi erhalten! Ich […] wurde endlich vorige Woche / wegen Uebertretung der Duellgesetze / auf ein halb Jahr consiliirt. […] Papiere aufräumend, gezwungen das Zimmer zu hüten, so sitze ich schon den ganzen Morgen und schrieb so eben Jemand ins Stammbuch: / Selig dämmernd, sonder Harm, / Liegt der Mensch in Freundes Arm, / Da kommt plötzlich wie’s Verhängniß / Des Consiliums Bedrängsniß / Und weit fort von seinen Lieben / Muß der Mensch sich weiter schieben.“ HSA 20: 35-38, here: 35. 206 - Andreas Stuhlmann The scene, for which Heine actually borrowed heavily from the pretext of Washington Irving’s “Sketch Book” 29 , begins in a serene tone: the gigantic goddess, quite negligently carrying around her sword and her scale, is guided by a cavalier servante and is greeted like a royalty by the local dignitaries of the legal profession. A polite and witty conversation unfolds, with Themis making ironic but gracious comments to each of the professors introduced to her. It would be indeed quite tempting to follow the various satirical remarks Heine is weaving into the text, concerning his professors and prominent representatives of the so-called Göttingen ‘Historical School’ of law, Anton Bauer and Gustav Hugo. These comments reflect Heine’s fundamental critique of the historicalpositivist enterprise in science of his times. 30 But I rather would like to focus on the contrast he is creating between these humorous and mildly critical comments, and the more radical political insinuations he makes towards the end of this first part. As more and more lawyers, some of them only ghost of long deceased notables, push into the room, the authority of the Titan goddess is undermined by the self-important prattle of the legal profession: the conversation drowns in their „Geschwätz“ (blether) that turns into a tumultuous „Rauschen“ (a white noise) and eventually reaching the crescendo of a „Tollhauslärm“ (a madhouse turmoil). But Themis at least momentarily manages to restore her control over the situation with a thunderous outburst of anger: Schweigt! schweigt! ich höre die Stimme des teuren Prometheus, die höhnende Kraft und die stumme Gewalt schmieden den Schuldlosen an den Marterfelsen, und all euer Geschwätz und Gezänke kann nicht seine Wunden kühlen und seine Fesseln zerbrechen! Silence! Silence! I hear the voice of the loved Prometheus. Mocking cunning and brute force (sic! ) are chaining the Innocent One to the rock of martyrdom, and all your prattling and quarrelling will not allay his wounds or break his fetters! 31 She reminds the champions of Justice that Prometheus, the educator of mankind who had brought men not only fire as the source of all technical civilization, and the light of reason, but also culture and legal order, was innocent, but yet still forged to a rock by „höhnende Kraft“, (Jeering Force), and „stumme Gewalt“, (Silent Violence). These two forces appear as the characters Kratos 29 Washington Irving, “The Mutability of Literature. A Colloquy in Westminster Abbey”, in: The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Susan Manning (ed.), Gent/ Oxford 1996, and “Bracebridge Hall” that had just been translated into German in 1823. Cf. Washington Irving, Bracebridge Hall. A Medley by Geoffrey Crayon, Gent/ Boston 1977. 30 In his commentary in the DHA, Jost Hermand has comprised the relevant background material on Bauer and Hugo and their work. See DHA 6: 196-197. 31 B 3: 109-110. Leland II: 70. Heinrich Heine’s Figure of Justice - 207 and Bia 32 in Aeschylus’ “Prometheus Bound”, a favourite book both of Heine’s and George Gordon Lord Byron’s. It is Byron’s Ode “Prometheus” that seems to be the most important pretext for Heine’s dream narrative. Byron (1788- 1824) had followed the rise and fall of Napoleon with increasing fascination since 1803 and had written an ode to the French Emperor lamenting his abdication in April 1814, in which he links the Corsican to a long genealogy of martyred or fallen heroes from Lucifer and Prometheus to Sylla and Timour. Two years later he revisited some of the themes and motifs in his ode to Prometheus. Heine had grown up under Napoleonic rule in Düsseldorf, which had for the first time brought basic civil rights for the Jewish citizens of the Rhineland. Though Heine’s attitude towards Napoleon became more ambivalent later, he still hailed him as the champion of Justice and legal equality for many of Germany’s Jews. Heine had studied Byron’s works since 1818, especially the “Manfred” that Byron had intended as his companion piece to Goethe’s „Faust“. He had translated some of his poems into German and used some of their themes in his own works. Later, in the third part of the „Reisebilder“, in the „Reise von München nach Genua“ (“Journey from Munich to Genoa”), he declared openly that the figure of Prometheus signified no other than the defeated hero Napoleon, now bound by the forces of the Holy Alliance. Vielleicht, nach Jahrtausenden, wird ein spitzfindiger Schulmeister, in einer grundgelehrten Dissertation, unumstößlich beweisen, daß der Napoleon Bonaparte ganz identisch sei mit jenem andern Titanen, der den Göttern das Licht raubte und für dieses Vergehen an einem einsamen Felsen, mitten im Meere, angeschmiedet wurde, preisgegeben einem Geyer, der täglich sein Herz zerfleischte. Perhaps after thousands of years some wonderfully shrewd schoolmaster in a fearfully profound dissertation will prove beyond cavil that Napoleon Bonaparte is indeed identical with that other Titan who stole the fire from the gods and for his trespass was chained to a solitary rock in the midst of the sea, as a prey to a vulture, which day by day gnawed away at his heart. 33 The Titans and Prometheus in particular, had become popular in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century as symbols of revolution or resistance to tyranny and usurpation. Headed by Saturn, they were the older, the “original” lineage of gods. Though they were defeated and dethroned in a coup by the Olympian gods led by Saturn’s son Zeus, they remained unsubmissive. Goethe’s Prometheus-ode from his „Sturm und Drang“-years is a document of this 32 In the light of the meaning of the original Greek names I prefer my suggested translations to Leland’s. 33 Heinrich Heine, Reise von München nach Genua XXVIII, B 3: 372-374, here: 374. Leland III: 101. 208 - Andreas Stuhlmann spirit. 34 Byron reminds his readers of the secret knowledge Prometheus keeps about the fate of Zeus and his kin that has learnt from his mother. It is this knowledge that prevents the “Thunderer” from killing him. This notion, and the detail that both in Byron’s and in Heine’s account a vulture, instead of Hesiod’s eagle, is eating the Titan’s heart instead of his liver, seemed to me to indicate a reverence for Byron, who had died on 19 May 1824, just weeks before Heine’s voyage. 35 Both Byron’s and Heine’s popularity as poets is partly based on the notion of “Weltschmerz”, a romantic inner rapture of the heart that isolates the poet from the pleasure as well as the ennui of the mundane bourgeois life and fuels a deeply sad poetry of unrequited love. Byron’s ‘dark Romanticism’ fits well with Heine’s post-romantic dream stories. The dreams Heine reports in the „Harzreise“ are polyphonic poetic and political constructs. The events of the day return somewhat disfigured and displaced at night and in this way Heine allows the songs of his muse he had unsuccessfully and unconvincingly tried to muzzle during the day, to return at night. 36 Twenty years later, writing on the current political circumstances in France, particularly on iron grip of the reinstated “intellectual monopoly” (Geistesmonopol) by the monarchy and the Jesuit clergy on the academic freedom at French universities, Heine recalled in a critical review of Jules Michelets project “Histoire de France” a remark he claimed Hegel had once made to him in Berlin: Mein großer Lehrer, der selige Hegel, sagte mir einst: „Wenn man die Träume aufgeschrieben hätte, welche die Menschen während einer bestimmten Periode geträumt haben, so würde einem aus der Lektüre dieser gesammelten Träume ein ganz richtiges Bild vom Geiste jener Periode aufsteigen! “ My great teacher, the late Hegel, said to me once: “If anyone had ever written down the dreams which men had dreamed during a certain period of time, one might gather from those dreams a very accurate picture of the spirit of that time.” 37 34 In his book-length study Arbeit am Mythos, Hans Blumenberg traces the Prometheusmotif in Goethe’s works from the early rebellious ode to the ambivalent equation of the Titan with Napoleon that reappears in Heine’s work. Cf. Hans Blumenberg, Arbeit am Mythos. 2nd ed., Frankfurt a. M. 1981: 326-604. 35 Regarding Byron’s general influence on Heine cf. Wilhelm Ochsenbein, Die Aufnahme Lord Byrons in Deutschland und sein Einfluss auf den jungen Heine, Bern 1905, and Michael Perraudin, “Heine, the German Byron”, in: Colloquia Germanica 19 1986: 242-273. 36 Norbert Altenhofer, „Harzreise in die Zeit. Zum Funktionszusammenhang von Traum, Witz und Zensur in Heines früher Prosa“, in: Die verlorene Augensprache. Über Heinrich Heine, ed. Volker Bohn, Frankfurt a. M. 1993: 7-57, and Martina Wagner- Egelhaaf, „“Ein Traum, gar seltsam schauerlich...“. Heines Traumbilder als Medium poetischer Selbstreflexion“, in: Heine-Jahrbuch 22 (1983): 179-187. 37 Heinrich Heine, „Lutetia“ LX, in: B 485-492, here 490. Michelets “Histoire de France” appeared between 1833 and 1866 in 18 volumes. Heine sees it as prime exam- Heinrich Heine’s Figure of Justice - 209 In 1806 Hegel, Heine’s philosophical and historical mastermind, had still envisioned Napoleon as the incorporation of the “Weltgeist on horseback.” 38 For the philosopher the Corsican remained the greatest modernizer of Europe in his time. Hegel’s political stance until 1816 was characterized by his support for the French: he rejoiced in the Prussian defeat at Jena and was clearly opposed to the German nationalist anti-French upsurge in 1813. These political views were more than a mere infatuation with Napoleon, which was quite common among intellectuals at the time 39 ; they were related to a fundamental theory about the significance of Napoleon’s role in the history of mankind. For Heine Napoleon’s politics, but even more so Hegel’s conception of history, promoted the idea of deeply desired progress. 40 In this way Heine remains heir to t he modern enlightened ideology of progress that promised all mankind, including the Jews of Europe, an increased progression towards freedom. Hegel remained a life-long source for Heine’s own philosophical reflections on poetry, music, law and history and the catalyst for a reconciliation between his Jewish and messianic ideas on history. Also he drew on him as source for his own political ideas of a revolutionary progress of history and for inspiration in creating his self-image as a German citizen and a German poet. 41 ple of writing history through a compilation of dreams, „Kollektion von Träumen“, a „Traumbuch“. 38 Hegel’s had seen Napoleon in 1806 in Jena where his completion of the Phänomenologie des Geistes coincided with the fiercest battles between the French army and the various coalitions of German states, that ended with the disastrous defeat of the Prussian army. In a letter to his friend Niethammer Hegel wrote: „Jena. Montags, den 13 Octbr. 1806, am Tage, da Jena von den Franzosen besetzt wurde, und der Kaiser Napoleon in seinen Mauern eintraf. [D]en Kaiser - diese Weltseele - sah ich durch die Stadt zum Rekognoszieren hinausreiten; - es ist in der Tat eine wunderbare Empfindung, ein solches Individuum zu sehen, das hier auf einen Punkt konzentriert, auf einem Pferde sitzend, über die Welt übergreift und sie beherrscht. Es ist unmöglich, ihn nicht zu bewundern“. (Jena. Monday, Oct. 13, 1806, on the day Jena was occupied by the French, and the Emperor Napoleon arrived at its walls. … I saw the Emperor - this world soul - riding through the city on reconnaissance; - it is in fact an amazing feeling to see such an individual concentrated here in one point, sitting on a horse, encroaching on the world and dominating it. It is impossible, not to admire him). Letter from Hegel to Friedrich Immanuel Niethammer, in: Briefe von und an Hegel, ed. Johannes Hoffmeister, vol. 1, Hamburg 1952: 120. 39 “The extraordinary power of the [Napoleonic] myth over post-Waterloo Europe can be adequately explained neither by Napoleonic victories nor by Napoleonic propaganda, nor even by Napoleon's own undoubted genius”, E. J. Hobsbawm, The Age of Revolution, 1789-1848, London 1962: 97. 40 Helmut Brandt, „Heinrich Heine. Umbruch der Literatur aus dem Geiste einer neu verstandenen Geschichte“, in: ZfdPh 123 (2004): 77-88. 41 Cf. Ritchie Robertson, Heine, London s. a.: 29-49. 210 - Andreas Stuhlmann In both Byron’s and Heine’s works, Prometheus was only one of many poetic manifestations of the Napoleon-myth. Heine followed the associative connection Goethe had already established between the iconic figure of this chained Titan to Napoleon, but also linked the two larger-than-life personae of the day. But Napoleon remained Heine’s true hero, not only because of the rather cold reception Heine received in Weimar, but also because Goethe refrained from direct action to avert injustice. 42 If Napoleon was, as Prometheus, chained unjustly but lawfully on St Helena, his fate served as a warning that law and justice can come out eventually on opposite sides of an aporetic rift in the human condition. For Heine as a Jew this divide is even more alarming than for a non-Jewish German, because it leaves him always at risk to fall prey to arbitrary changes in law which are no longer justified by principles like Justice. Based on the experience of the Holocaust, the political theorist Hannah Arendt warned in her renowned acceptance speech of the Hamburg Lessing-Prize that the Jews should never have trusted the promise of legal equality without the delivery of interpersonal respect and friendship, in which she sees the basis for true justice. 43 Even more than Byron, Heine derives his authorization as a writer from the rift than runs through his time and right across his heart. The historical story of the suffering of mankind 42 Heine reflects on both men’s influence on his life and career in his „Ideen. Das Buch Le Grand“, also a part of the „Reisebilder“. Cf. Hermann J. Weigand, “The Double Love-Tragedy in Heine’s Buch Le Grand. A Literary Myth”, in: Germanic Review 13, (1938): 121-126. In his diary Goethe merely wrote „Heine von Göttingen“. Cf. Johann Wolfgang v. Goethe, „Tagebuch vom 2. Oktober 1824“, in: Goethes Werke, ed. under the commission of Großherzogin Sophie von Sachsen, compartment III, vol. 9, Weimar 1899: 277. Heine gave several, not fully congruent accounts of his meeting with Goethe he always tailored towards the respective audience. The most detailed one appeared in „Die Romantische Schule“. „Wahrlich, als ich ihn in Weimar besuchte und ihm gegenüberstand, blickte ich unwillkürlich zur Seite, ob ich nicht auch neben ihm den Adler sähe mit den Blitzen im Schnabel. Ich war nahe daran, ihn griechisch anzureden; da ich aber merkte, daß er Deutsch verstand, so erzählte ich ihm auf deutsch, daß die Pflaumen auf dem Wege zwischen Jena und Weimar sehr gut schmeckten. Ich hatte in so manchen langen Winternächten darüber nachgedacht, wieviel Erhabenes und Tiefsinniges ich dem Goethe sagen würde, wenn ich ihn mal sähe. Und als ich ihn endlich sah, sagte ich ihm, daß die sächsischen Pflaumen sehr gut schmeckten. Und Goethe lächelte. Er lächelte mit denselben Lippen, womit er einst die schöne Leda, die Europa, die Danae, die Semele und so manche andere Prinzessinnen oder auch gewöhnliche Nymphen geküßt hatte - - Les dieux s’en vont. Goethe ist tot“. In: B 5: 405-406. Cf. Jost Hermand, „Der Blick von unten. H. Heine und Johann Wolfgang v. Goethe“, in: im . zu , ed. / Heidemarie Vahl, / Weimar 1999: 3-24, hier: 7-8. Blumenberg has pointed out, how much Goethe saw Napoleon as a threat to his life and home, but how much he equally felt to confront a congenial mind of equal greatness. Cf. Blumenberg, l. c. (ftn. 34): 505-566. Grosser Mann seidenen Rock Heines Verhältnis Goethe Ursula Roth Stuttgart 43 Hannah Arendt, “On Humanity in Dark Times. Thoughts about Lessing”, in: Men in Dark Times, New York 1968: 3-31. Heinrich Heine’s Figure of Justice - 211 which is symbolized in figures as Christ or Napoleon, is mirrored and therefore tangible in his own life story. 44 As Klaus Briegleb has reminded us, Heine’s alliance with Hegel and the ideology of progress ended at then point where the victims are usually written out of Hegelian history. This was especially true, if they, like the Jews, resisted a full absorption in the historical synthesis. 45 It can be argued that he uses the image of the chained Titan to fight for a history of the persecuted, those protected neither by the restorative forces of law nor by the most progressive philosophy of law, art and history. Crying out horrifyingly loud and releasing floods of tears, Themis again looses the authority over the situation and the whole congregation breaks out in a “howl as if in the agonies of death.” 46 The roof of the law-library collapses, the books come tumbling down, and the portrait of the Freiherr Gerlach Adolf von Münchhausen, the first curator of the University, springs to life in a futile attempt to stop the demolition. With this development Heine of course ridicules the brutal but historically futile efforts of the forces of restoration to revert the devastation of order, i.e. the catastrophic, revolutionary development of the times. Eventually, and understandingly for an artist, the narrator leaves the godforsaken domain of the law the battlefield of legal argument that is intrinsically linked to political disorder and injustice of the time, he flees the scene of turmoil and chaos to find peace and comfort in the arms of art and beauty. He resorts to another room of the university, the „Historische Saal“, a hall in the converted former church of St Peter of the old Dominican monastery, where in Heine’s days the plaster collection of the university was housed. The narrator visits the, as he blasphemously calls them, “holy” plasters of the Apollo Belvedere and the Venus di Medici. As if he were a true believer, the narrator keels down before Venus, his eyes drinking in the intoxicating beauty of the perfectly proportioned piece of art and his soul is swept with “Hellenic calm”. Heine’s claim, at first glance at least, seems to be that in the field of aesthetics and love one might find laws of poetic justice and truth which are not contaminated by social disorder. Hence, only the poetic dream narrative provides the poetic license for the disguised utterance of political critique. Yet the dream is also in a Hegelian sense only a preliminary state of the mind before it reaches absolute self-consciousness and hence a new historical level. But neither in his poetry nor in his legal-historical philosophy had Heine yet fully woken up to a new era. But the escape proves impossible as neither art, nor beauty, not poetry can be imagined outside the political sphere. They remain 44 Cf. Jeffrey L. Sammons, Heinrich Heine. The Elusive Poet, New Haven 1969: 142, and Michel Espagne, Federstriche. Zur Konstruktion des Pantheismus in Heines Arbeitshandschriften, Hamburg 1991: 65-68. 45 Klaus Briegleb, Bei den Wassern Babels. Heinrich Heine, jüdischer Schriftsteller in der Moderne, München 1997: 124-125. 46 Heinrich Heine, „Die Harzreise“, B 3: 109, and Leland II: 69. 212 - Andreas Stuhlmann intrinsically linked to the figure of justice. This link is already evoked through the two plasters, since the originals of the two statues, the Apollo Belvedere and the Venus di Medici, were amongst the prime masterpieces of art looted by Napoleon from Italy, i.e. from the Vatican and the Uffici in Florence. 47 Both artworks had been returned from Paris with great political pomp after his defeat. 48 As the narrator wakes up, however, the reader learns that although he had claimed to have been soothed by Apollo’s lyre, this “pleasant musical ringing” might just have been the “tinkling bells” of cattle herds being driven out to their meadows. 49 The notion of “Hellenic calm”, as comforting as it may have appeared at first glance, is employed here in a highly ironical sense, as it was for Heine intrinsically linked to a spiritualistic delusion from reality. 50 The „Reisebilder“ are in that sense a sensualist approach to a poetic experience of the world. The golden sunlight of morning illuminates the pictures on the walls depicting scenes „aus der Revolutionszeit“ (from the time of revolution) until the time of the „Befreiungskriege“ (War of Independence). The scenes span the career of Napoleon from the decapitation of Louis XVI, the culmination and turning point of the French Revolution that eventually promoted his career, to the “War of Independence”, the struggle of Germany against the Napoleonic occupation, that eventually lead to his downfall. Thus these prints bring the 47 The history of Göttingen’s cast collection is described in Christof Boehringer, „Über die Göttinger Sammlung von Gipsabgüssen antiker Skulpturen“, in: Dietrich Hoffmann, Kathrin Maack-Rheinländer (eds.), „Ganz für das Studium angelegt“: Die Museen, Sammlungen und Gärten der Universität Göttingen, Göttingen 2001: 64-72. 48 Casts like this were of crucial importance in the teaching of Art, History of Art and Aesthetics at university. The Italian artist Antonio Canova who was actually a protégé of Napoleon’s volunteered to oversee the return of artworks to Rome, because he despised the looting that had taken place. He had also previously directed the making of a group of casts made from number of the most important pieces of the Vatican collection. Pope Pius presented these castes to Henry of England who in turn eventually was persuaded by the Viscount of Listowel to donate them to the city of Cork, where they became the nucleus of the city’s art collection and art school. Cf. Christopher M.S. Johns, Antonio Canova and the Politics of Patronage in Revolutionary and Napoleonic Europe, Berkeley 1998. 49 In his poem Gespräch auf der Paderborner Heide Heine had used similar imagery. In this conversation between a „Phantast“, a dreamer or visionary, and his very realistic friend the former pretends to hear the sound of music coming from a far, only for the latter to persuade him that theses noises are not the sounds of fiddles, horns, singers and bells but the squeaking of piglets, grunting of sows, croaking of geese and the ringing of cattle-bells. But in the end as the Phantast acknowledges his foolishness, but he also asks his friend, whether he was also ready to ridicule the (political) believes for the future he was carrying firmly in his chest. Cf. Heinrich Heine, „Gespräch auf der Paderborner Heide“, in: Buch der Lieder, Romanzen, B 1: 62-63. 50 Cf. Hildebrand, Emanzipation und Versöhnung (ftn. 11). Heinrich Heine’s Figure of Justice - 213 political actuality of the times to the fore. The historical reference points are carefully chosen, since they allow Heine to read these common nationalist propaganda prints in a subversive Hegelian way. Following Norbert Altenhofer’s claim that Heine constructed his narrative as „Harzreise in die Zeit“ (A Harz journey in time) and a historical discovery, the dream allows the collapse of time, so the three mentioned stages of time, mythological eternity, historical past and presence, coincide. The progressive time of History and the circular time of Myth collide and this collision creates an opportunity for poetic timekeeping to emerge. The ancient, pre-classical goddess Themis has survived in cultural memory as an allegorical figure of Justice. 51 Heine brings Themis back to life in the same way as he allows the ghosts of the legal authorities of Göttingen to appear to haunt Themis and the portrait of Münchhausen to spring to life. „Nachdem ich Kaffee getrunken, mich angezogen, die Inschriften auf den Fensterscheiben gelesen, und alles im Wirtshause berichtigt hatte, verließ ich Osterode“ 52 - he ends his account on his stay in the town enigmatically. In June of the following year the already acclaimed poet Heine finished his doctorate in law at the University of Göttingen. On June 21 st he received his christening from Gottlob Christian Grimm, the local parish priest of Heiligenstadt, a small village just outside of Göttingen. But this attempt to purchase his ‘entrée ticket to society’ by converting from a Jewish writer to a Protestant lawyer was doomed to failure. “Now I am hated by Christians and Jews alike,” he reported to Moser. “I regret deeply that I was christened; […] isn’t it crazy, as soon as I am baptized, I am made notorious as a Jew.” 53 The reference to the Titans in the dream narrative can also be read as a gesture of resistance by a Marrano, a baptized Jew, who defends the rule of his “old” god against the usurpation of divine power through Christianity. Heine turns the traditional allegory of Justice into a deeply dialectical figure of authority and powerlessness. As a symbol of the deeply “illiberal” legal profession which Heine was about to enter into, she points towards the political blindness, morally insolvency and incapability of the vocation to es- 51 As L. Fallon Duncan has observed also with regard to „Ideen. Das Buch Le Grand“, Heine places quite often allegorical figures into the centre of his stories. In these characters he ties the diverging dichotomical or dialectical movements of the texts together. L. Fallon Duncan, “Allegory and Ambiguity, Heine’s „Ideen. Das Buch Le Grand“ in the Light of Schlegel’s „Lucinde“”, in: Heine-Jahrbuch 32 (1993): 48-73. 52 Heine, B 3: 110. “After I had drunk my coffee, dressed myself, read then inscriptions on the window panes, and set everything straight in the Inn, I left Osterode”, Leland II: 71. 53 „Ich bin jetzt bey Christ und Jude verhaßt. Ich bereue sehr, daß ich mich getauft habe; […] Ist es nicht närrisch, kaum bin ich getauft, so werde ich als Jude verschrieen.“ Letter Heine’s to Moser 9 January 1826, in: HSA 20: 233-235, here: 234-235. Cf. Anne Maximiliane Jäger, „„Ich bin jetzt nur ein armer todtkranker Jude…“ - Zu Heines Judentum“, in: Heine-Jahrbuch 44 (2005): 67-80. 214 - Andreas Stuhlmann tablish binding legal norms. All of its short-comings are also covered up by habits of a pompous tradition and ridiculous self-importance leaving Heine no other alternative but to flee the scene. Three years later, in 1827, travelling in Italy and passing the infamous battleground of Marengo, the scene of one of Napoleon’s most important victories, Heine drew up a new agenda for his times but also for himself: [D]ie Zeit drängt mit ihrer großen Aufgabe. Was aber ist diese große Aufgabe unserer Zeit? Es ist die Emanzipation. Nicht bloß die der Irländer, Griechen, Frankfurter Juden, westindischen Schwarzen und dergleichen gedrückten Volkes, sondern es ist die Emanzipation der ganzen Welt, absonderlich Europas, das mündig geworden ist und sich jetzt losreißt von dem eisernen Gängelbande der Bevorrechtigten, der Aristokratie. Time presses on with her great question. But what is the great question of the age? It is that of emancipation. Not simply that of the Irish, Greeks, Frankfort Jews, West Indian Negroes, and other oppressed races, but the emancipation of the whole world, and especially that of Europe, which has attained its majority and now tears itself loose from the iron leading-strings of a privileged aristocracy. 54 The dialectical opposition between the political fight against legal injustice based on „Vor-recht“ and the autonomy of the poetic creation is resolved in this poetic-philosophical quest for emancipation. But emancipation would for Heine eventually lead to a large scale revolution that could wash away the regime of the pretenders, free the chained Titans, honour the old gods and establish a new order of justice. In a postscript to the final volume of the „Reisebilder“, written later in Paris in November 1830 in the aftermath of the July-Revolution, Heine reveals himself as a Titan, a member of the persecuted race, seeking revenge: Man tut uns armen Titanen sehr Unrecht, als man die düstre Wildheit tadelt, womit wir, bei jenem düstren Himmelssturm, herauftobten - ach, da unten im Tartaros, da war es grauenhaft und dunkel, da hörten wir nur Cerberusgeheul und Kettengeklirr, und es ist verzeihlich, wenn wir etwas ungeschlacht erscheinen, in Vergleichung mit jenen Götter comme il faut, die fein und gesittet in den heiteren Salons des Olymps, soviel lieblichen Nektar und süße Musenkonzerte genossen. Ich kann nicht weiter schreiben, denn die Musik unter meinem Fenster berauscht mir den Kopf, und immer gewaltiger greift herauf der Refrain: Aux armes citoyens! They did great injustice to us poor Titans when thy blamed the dark ferocity with which we raged upwards in that storming of heaven. Ah! There in Tartarus it was terrible and dark; we heard there only the howls of Cerberus and the rat- 54 Heinrich Heine, „Reise von München nach Genua“, XXIX in B 3: 344-378, here: 376- 377, and Italy XXIX in: Leland III: 104-105. Heinrich Heine’s Figure of Justice - 215 tling of chains; and its pardonable if we appear somewhat savage in comparison with those divinities, comme il faut, who, so refined and elegant in manners, enjoyed in the cheerful saloons of Olympus so much exquisite nectar and so many sweet concerts given by the Muses. I can write no more, for the music under my window intoxicates my head, and still more forcibly I am moved by the refrain -“Aux armes citoyens! ” 55 The writer’s weapons of choice in this revolution would be satirical. Hence he calls on the goddess Satyra, daughter of Themis and goat-legged Pan: Leih mir das Schwert deiner Mutter, damit ich sie richte, die verhaßte Brut, [die Feinde deiner Sippe, die schwächlichen Usurpatoren des Olymp] und gib mir die Pickelflöte deines Vaters, damit ich sie zu Tode pfeife - Lend me the sword of thy mother that I executed the hated brood [the enemies of thy kin, the weak usurpers of Olympus] and give me the pipes of thy father that I therewith may pipe them to death - 56 55 Heinrich Heine, „Die Stadt Lucca, Spätere Nachschrift“, in: B3: 527-529, here: 529, and “The City of Lucca. Postscript”, November 1830, in: Leland III: 331-333, here: 333. 56 L. c. (ftn. 51), B 3: 529 and Leland III: 332. Neil Buttimer Images of Law in Pre-Famine Gaelic Ireland The period between 1690 and 1850 is the last phase during which Irish was a widespread community language. 1 The age is set apart by pivotal political and demographic boundaries. Britain had gained control in Ireland towards the end of the seventeenth century following the Williamite Wars. Its position was further secured due to the collapse of the Gaelic and Gaelicised aristocracy. English authority would last in large part down to the beginning of the twentieth century, and remains influential. The Great Famine (1845-52) and its consquences, principally mortality and emigration, brought about the loss of much of the impoverished, largely non-urban, labouring classes. However, between both dates, Gaelic was a substantial vernacular, spoken by an estimated two-thirds of the island’s inhabitants in the 1730s and as many as half of a greatly expanded population in the early 1800s, with perhaps over three million people being users of Irish at that stage. While eclipse of the language was under way, it enjoyed a substantial written cultivation. 2 More manuscripts survive for this time horizon than for any other stage of the Irish past, possibly over three thousand sources out of approximately five thousand or so. The scribal culture which persisted in Irish-speaking Ireland has parallels in other societies marginalized on geographic, ideological or sociopolitical grounds. Ireland’s output at this juncture merits comparison with the handwritten production of writings in contemporary Iceland, the manuscript circulation of clandestine philosophical compositions in early eighteenth-century France or the sur- 1 Neil Buttimer, “Language and Literacy: Decline of Irish Language”, in: James S. Donnelly/ Karl S. Bottigheimer/ Mary E. Daly/ James E. Doan/ David W. Miller (eds.), Encyclopedia of Irish History and Culture, Vol. I, [New York]: Macmillan Reference, 2004: 372-75. 2 Neil Buttimer, “Literature in Irish: from the Williamite Wars to the Act of Union”, in: Margaret Kelleher and Philip O’Leary (eds), The Cambridge History of Irish Literature, Vol I, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006: 320-71. 218 - Neil Buttimer viving documentation of central European Judaica. 3 It may, arguably, have counterparts in the Islamic world. In countries like present-day Yemen, taking a domain of direct concern to this paper, interpretation (and subsequent enforcement) of law did not become print-enabled until well in to the nineteenth century. 4 Despite the abundance of the evidence, no up-to-date synthesis of the Gaelic material has been provided, the last such attempt having been issued over eighty years ago. 5 I take this occasion to offer some thoughts on a topic which must be key to the understanding of any social grouping under whatever circumstances. Irish Law: Relics and Realities The consolidation of the English position had adverse consequences for indigenous Irish law. Ireland has the third oldest documented European legal tradition after those of Greece and Rome. One scholar, Daniel A. Binchy, made it his life’s work to edit the relevant data. This collection, comprising almost two and a half thousand published pages of primary matter (without translation), provides the basic resource. 6 Upwards of eighty secular and religious text types dating to before the twelfth century mainly appear in the assemblage. Laws relating to persons, property and procedure are represented, showing the workings of a people Binchy cogently described as rural, tribal, hierarchical and familiar (although it must be emphasised that the community was not egalitarian). There is ongoing debate as to the origin and content of these legal compendia: whether they are an unmediated descendant of putative Indo-European forerunners, show specifically Irish manifestations, have been shaped by external forces, such as the canon law codes of western Christendom, constitute a blend of each of these three strands or comprise further, as yet undetected, admixtures. 7 Recent research is indicating the extent to which pre-twelfth century procedures survived the arrival of the Normans, functioning until the end of the middle ages towards approximately 1600 AD. It may be worth giving some opening consideration to a residual sense of them having endured even beyond that point and onwards into the era at issue here. 3 Neil Buttimer, “Literature: Gaelic Literature in the Nineteenth Century”, Donnelly et al., Encyclopedia, Vol. I: 399-401. 4 Brinkley Messick, The Calligraphic State: Textual Domination and History in a Muslim Society, Berkeley: University of California Press, ca 1993. 5 Daniel Corkery, The Hidden Ireland, Dublin: Gill and Macmillan, 1924. 6 Daniel A. Binchy (ed.), Corpus Iuris Hibernici, Vols I-VI, Dublin: Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, 1978. See also Liam Breatnach, A Companion to the Corpus Iuris Hibernici, Early Irish Law Series, Vol. 5, Dublin: Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, 2005. 7 Fergus Kelly, A Guide to Early Irish Law, Early Irish Law Series, Vol. 3, Dublin: School of Celtic Studies, Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, 1988. Images of Law in Pre-Famine Gaelic Ireland - 219 We can perhaps gain some initial impression of this possibility in the unexpected case of one Charles Vallancey (1725-1812). 8 Born in Flanders to an Anglo-French family, educated at Eton, he embarked on a career as an army engineer and cartographer, mapping Gibraltar in 1750. He subsequently came to Ireland where he began a military map in 1776, concluding a general map in 1787, as well as overseeing the completion of harbour defences in Cork where he was stationed in 1790-96. Familiarity with the country, which he gained from this work, in addition to his fascination both with antiquities and historical linguistics, led to enquiries into the Irish past. Such investigations reflect intellectual discussion of a similar kind taking place throughout the late eighteenth century. 9 Publications of his on Irish linguistics, 10 but particulary his anthologising of source material, 11 attest to these interests. In the case of the latter, Vallancey’s Collectanea contains editions of seventeenth-century historical documents, and, for our purposes, “A Dissertation concerning the Ancient Irish Laws”, Parts I and II, and especially elements of the ancient laws of Ireland regarding kingship and entitlements to high office. Gaelic legal treatises on those themes, with accompanying translations, are in this section. Vallancey was not sufficiently competent in the language to provide either. He must therefore have benefited from the assistance of Irish-language scribes and scholars, for instance copyists active in the capital throughout much of the 1700s. 12 Both text and adaptation into English are to a high standard of clarity and accuracy, suggesting familiarity with the material. To this phase, accordingly, rather than as commonly assumed to the mid-nineteenth century, belong the beginnings of modern reappraisal of Ireland’s native legal inheritance. Those who assisted this military officer could possibly have gained insights into earlier Irish legal traditions from the apparent survival among their contemporaries of practices whose roots are essentially medieval. This may be seen when recordings associated with an early twentieth-century exponent of Irish lore, Amhlaoibh Ó Luinse (1872-1947), are explored in a wider context. Texts were taken down from him in the 1930s and 1940s on his material culture, comprising information about dwellings and habitations, occupations, time, nature and community, which now comprise almost five hundred printed 8 H. C. Matthew/ Brian Harris (eds.), Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004 (henceforth DNB), s.n. 9 Clare O’Halloran, Golden Ages and Barbarous Nations: Antiquarian Debate and Cultural Politics in Ireland, c. 1750-1800, Cork: Cork University Press. 10 Charles Vallancey, A Grammar of the Iberno-Celtic, of Irish Language, Dublin: R. Marchbank for G. Faulkner, T. Ewing, and R. Moncrieff, 1773. 11 Charles Vallancey, Collectanea de Rebus Hibernicis, Vols I-VI, Dublin: Pat Wogan, 1770-1804. 12 Nessa Ní Shéaghdha, “Irish Scholars and Scribes in Eighteenth-Century Dublin”, in: Eighteenth-Century Ireland / Iris an Dá Chultúr Vol. IV (1989): 41-54. 220 - Neil Buttimer pages. 13 Data of this kind help illuminate the worldview of the type of traditional society to which he belonged. 14 One short account deals with arrangements to be observed in the case of straying or wandering animals. Two terms attested in the early language, foghail, of pre-Norman origin, and scot, apparently a borrowing from Middle English, 15 are used, in turn, to designate the “damage” done and the “payment” or compensation to be awarded. Adjudication in this regard is assigned to persons known as moltóirí, “arbitrators”, chosen both for their familiarity with the workings of the system but also for their impartiality. 16 Some direct analogues to the dispute resolution process in operation have also survived from the 1700s for alternative areas. 17 Identifiable links of this kind over time suggest that other elements of what was transcribed from Ó Luínse, for instance practices involving water rights, have a similar chronological depth, thus strengthening the feeling of an interdependence between otherwise ostensibly unrelated bands of time, the early past and phases closer to the present. English Law: Attitudes and Adaptation As has been stated, the legal context in eighteenth-century Ireland changed in light of transformed political circumstances as Britain gained control in this island. Many Gaelic writers dismissed the resulting new dispensation. This can be felt in the compositions of Seán Ó Tuama (1707/ 8-75), a versifier and innkeeper based in Croom, county Limerick. He engaged in a three-part exchange with some fellow poets, Seán Ó Briain and Seán Clárach Mac Domhnaill (1691-1754), the latter a resident of Charleville in north Cork, on the reduced condition in which Ireland found itself in the first half of the 1700s, a situation often denoted a tubaist “disaster”. In the verse reply to his colleagues (beginning Is tuirseach fá dhaor-smacht péine “Sad under painful harsh control”), he employs (at line 30) the term aindlighe (a compound of the negative prefix, an-, “non-”, “un-”, and the term dlighe, “law”), “unlawfulness” or “injustice”, to de- 13 Seán Ó Cróinín agus Donncha Ó Cróinín (eag.), Seanchas Amhlaoibh Í Luínse, Baile Átha Cliath: Comhairle Bhéaloideas Éireann, 1980. 14 Diarmuid Ó Giolláin, An Dúchas agus an Domhan, Corcaigh: Cló Ollscoile Chorcaí, 2005. 15 Dictionary of the Irish Language, based mainly on Old and Middle Irish Materials, Dublin: Royal Irish Academy, 1913-76: Fasciculus IV, fochratae-futhu, 228-9, s.v. fogal, and S, 104, s.v. 2 scot, respectively. 16 Ó Cróinín agus Ó Cróinín, Seanchas (ftn.13): 15-6. 17 Cornelius G. Buttimer, “Gaelic Literature and Contemporary Life in Cork”, in: Patrick O’Flanagan/ Cornelius G. Buttimer (eds.), Cork History and Society: Interdisciplinary Essays on the History of an Irish County, Dublin: Geography Publications, 1993: 585- 654. Images of Law in Pre-Famine Gaelic Ireland - 221 scribe English authority. 18 By extension, aindlighe may also denote “anarchy” or “tyranny”. A study of more than fifty attestations of the word in that form of its spelling to be found in a recently published dictionary of the modern language will faciliate additional exploration of the resonances implicit in Ó Tuama’s usage. 19 His pejorative impression of the altered constitutional state may be seen from a lament for a neighbour, one Seán Ó Ceallaigh, parish priest of the aforementioned Charleville, who died in 1738. The work (commencing Sin créacht-ghoin tárla is dámhna cathuighthe cliar “This painful wound which has occured is a source of regret to the poets”) recounts the clergyman’s many virtues, comprising piety and kindness, and concludes with the proposition that Ó Ceallaigh never accepted or acceded to dlighe namhad “the law of the enemy” (line 36). 20 Other learned friends also appeal to a legalistic vocabulary to contrast how matters stand at present with previous conduct. Many of Seán Ó Tuama’s acquaintances particpated in lamenting the death of a colleague’s horse. That the generosity of the upper classes might have made good this loss at an earlier date was envisaged when (in the poem commencing Mo mhallacht go dian diachrach do ghasra an chnuic “My harsh unremitting curse on the hill folk”) an dlighe bhí romhainn dá chomhad i measc na n-uaisle “the law which preceeded us was fulfilled among the nobility” (line 12) was recalled. 21 It would be interesting to determine what precisely Ó Tuama and his colleagues knew about the the social structures invoked in this nostalgic reference to hospitality and patronage available under the old regime. Their negative view of the new legal order can be sensed further from condemnation of those who chose to give allegiance to aspects of it or to arrangements flowing from it. Apostates were the subject of particularly censure. The north Cork and south Limerick poetic circle under review here grew quite vocal on the conversion of a former friar, Donnchadh Ó hÉadromain, to Protestantism, when he became a minister of the Established Church. Membership at this level had its privileges, such as entitlement to receipt of mandatory tithe payments levied on the public in general, regardless of denominational affiliation. He was accused (in the poem Tríom néallta is minic me ag déanamh chumhadh “In my sleep I am often mourning”) of having “abandoned his birthright” (d’imigh tar dúthchas (line 10)). 22 The word dúthchas here is of such resonance in the tradition that a full-length monograph has been devoted to exploring its semantic range. 23 Ó hÉadromáin had therefore sided with those 18 Risteard Ó Foghludha, Éigse na Máighe, Baile Átha Cliath: Oifig an tSoláthair, 1952: 98-9. 19 Corpas na Gaeilge 1600-1822 Foclóir na Nua-Ghaeilge. The Irish Language Corpus, Dublin: Royal Irish Academy, 2004. 20 Ó Foghludha, Éigse na Máighe (ftn. 18): 92-3. 21 Ibid.: 91-2. 22 Ibid.: 83. 23 Peter McQuillan, Native and Natural: Aspects of the Concepts of ‘Right’ and ‘Freedom’ in Irish, Field Day Monography 13, Cork: Cork University Press, 2004. 222 - Neil Buttimer who were perceived “to break laws and customs on a daily basis” (nóis is dlighthe gach ló dá mbriseadh (ibid. (line 19)). 24 His oath-taking was consequenly of no worth, as he now subscribed to a set of values “which only the ignorant practiced” (Do spalpadh leis na dearbhaithe bréige ar clár / Do cleachtadh le lucht ainbhfis go léir amháin (lines 9-10 of the poem commencing Ní tarcuisne dar n-eaglais ná céim do chach “No insult to our church or a degredation for all”)). 25 The final arbiter of his misdeeds was not to be found on this earth but in the hereafter, with his specific destination being “hell” (ifreann (line 16)). 26 This single reference will have to stand for those many occasions when eighteenth-century Gaelic composers invoked the afterlife as the forum wherein would be dispensed retributive justice ultimately redressing the inequities experienced under contemporary misrule. Despite such apparent dissaproval, the Irish-speaking community did begin to engage with the British legal system as it became the norm in this country from the late seventeenth century onwards. Some, like the versifier and scribe, Seán Ó Murchú na Ráithíneach (1700-62), from Carrignavar, county Cork, became minor functionaries in it (Ó Conchúir 1992, 167-72). 27 Unexpected creative literary consequences flowed from the interaction. One of these is the blossoming in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries of the genre known as barántas or “warrant”. This is an adaptation of the common law procedure which, briefly stated, seeks to bring a named individual before the authorities to account for his or her misdeeds. 28 A corpus of over seventy Irish-language barántas texts survives for the period. 29 Follow-up annotations and translations of the material are awaited (with citations translated here being mine). They are part prose and part verse, prosimetric combinations being a staple of Irish literary composition for over one thousand years. 30 Some barántas works appear to deal with trivial matters, like ones issued to bring thieves who have stolen geese, 31 coats, 32 or goats 33 to book. Even 24 Ó Foghludha, Éigse na Máighe (ftn.18): 19. 25 Ibid.: 84. 26 Ibid. 27 Breandán Ó Conchúir, Scríobhaithe Chorcaí 1700-1850, Baile Átha Cliath: An Clóchomhar, 1982: 167-72. 28 Damien Ó Muirí, “An Cúlra Dlithiúil leis an mBarántas”, in: Máirtín Ó Briain agus Pádraig Ó Héalaí (eag.), Téada Dúchais: Aistí in Ómós don Ollamh Breandán Ó Madagáin, Indreabhán: Cló Iar-Chonnachta, 2002): 423-44. 29 Pádraig Ó Fiannachta (eag.), An Barántas I Réamhrá Téacs Malairtí, Má Nuad: An Sagart, 1978. 30 Proinsias Mac Cana, “Notes on the Combination of Prose and Verse in Early Irish Narrative”, in: S. N. Tranter/ H. L. C. Tristram (eds.), Early Irish Literature: Media and Communication / Mündlichkeit und Schriftlichkeit in der frühen irischen Literatur, Tübingen: Narr, 1989): 125-47. 31 Ó Fiannachta, An Barántas (ftn.29): 58-9 (text 8). 32 Ibid.: 60-2 (text 10). Images of Law in Pre-Famine Gaelic Ireland - 223 here, however, it is possible to gain a sense both of composer’s insight into the administration of the law and how severe this might have been. The County Kerry writer, Eoghan Ruadh Ó Súilleabháin (1748-84), complained about the theft of his favourite hat. 34 It is depicted in exaggerated terms, as having once been a cap for classical and early Irish heroes, from Paris, Hercules and Jason to Cú Chulainn and even the unlikely Diarmuid (probably Mac Murchadha Caomhánach), traditionally held responsible for bringing the Normans to Ireland in the late 1100s. This fantastic item of apparel had greatly enhanced the poet’s own personal appearance and manner. Ó Súilleabháin’s warrant then issues instructions to search for the miscreant (lines 145-56): Cuardaíg póirsí poill is seomraí is féach i gcupardaibh. Ná fágaíg bácús lochta ná parlús, saor gan briseadh dhó. Siúl gach soiléir is cúinne simné ós é is sailithe. Scartáil airgí is comhraí daingne is réabaíg glaiseanna. Search porches holes and rooms look in cupboards. Do not leave a bakehouse a loft or parlour, free without being broken for him. Walk in every cellar and chimney corner since he’s a filthy one. Invade conveniences and firm presses, and break up locks. The measures the composer recommends to be taken against the malfeasor, when captured, may reflect contemporary arrest and punishment procedures with some degree of realism (lines 156-68): Ar fháil an tséithligh, d’fhág mé i ndaorbhruid, fé mar d’iniseas, 33 Ó Fiannachta, An Barántas (ftn.29): 95-7 (text 26). 34 Ibid.: 34-6 (text 1). 224 - Neil Buttimer Léithrigh righne, déanaíg d’fhí i gceart ar a chuisleanna. Tugtar an scrúile chum na cúirte ar adhastar chugamsa. Go stollad go prap an croiceann le hairc ó phlaosc go troithibh de. When you seize the wretch, who left me in difficulty, as I have stated, tight spancels, let you weave properly around his wrists. Bring the vagabond to the court tied up for me. So that I may flay fast his skin voraciously from his skull to his sole. Many warrants deal with far more weighty matters like the aforementioned theme of apostasy. 35 Others condemn named individuals for informing on neighbours to militias and the police for suspected seditious or treasonous conduct. 36 This strand endures into the early nineteenth century, as the case of a piece from Mallow in north County Cork shows. 37 This local barántas accuses one Donnchad Ua Muirriain of claiming that he could break as many stones when building a road as both Donnchadh Mac Giolla Phádraig and Muiris Ua Síocháin together would, probably for half the price. The text accuses him of seeking to undercut labourers’ wage rates at a time of high unemployment during the depressed conditions in the aftermath of the Napoleonic Wars, as poverty and disease became endemic in many parts of southern Ireland. 38 Consideration of this testimony therefore allows us to make the following observation. Poets in Irish society during earlier times often had recourse to satire as a means to criticise deviant behaviour, or what was estimated as such. The use 35 Ó Fiannachta, An Barántas (ftn.29): 46-50 (text 5). 36 Ibid.: 50-4 (text 6). 37 Ibid.: 159-60 (text 46). 38 James S. Donnelly, The Land and the People of Nineteenth-Century Cork: the Rural Economy and the Land Question, London and Boston: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1975, and idem, “Pastorini and Captain Rock: Millenarianism and Sectarianism in the Rockite Movement of 182104”, in: Samuel Clark/ James S. Donnelly (eds.), Irish Peasants: Violence and Political Unrest 1780-1914, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1983): 102-39. Images of Law in Pre-Famine Gaelic Ireland - 225 their counterparts in this later period made of the workings of English law to add renewed vigour and venom to their invective may be instructive. It suggests their keen awareness of the fact that the administration of law must often have had its sharper edges. Interaction with British rule as applied in Ireland could have had an ironic as well as a serious outturn. We sense this from another genre, not as well attested as the “warrant” but still recognisable as a distinct compositional type in its own right. This is the dearbhú, which, as the meaning of the term itself suggests, may well be an Irish adaptation of the “affidavit”. 39 A cluster of such texts survives for certain north-Munster counties like Tipperary, with some extension into Gaelic-speaking districts of south-east Ulster. Tomás Ó Míocháin, a teacher and land surveyor from Miltown Malbay, County Clare, the dates of whose birth and death are uncertain but who flourished in the last quarter of the 1700s, is the author of two works in this category. One of them comprises the assertions of a certain Dominic de Búrc that he did not have a relationship with Murainn Ní Aodha, wife of Siomón Mac Fhearghais. Reiteration in the de Búrc poem’s opening stanza, quoted here, of the preposition dar “by”, employed in asseverations (a syntagm which also recurs throughout the remainder of the work), and the extensive inventory of items sworn, form the structure which seems to mirror affidavit-related procedures. Places and persons (the latter often now unknown) from the composer’s district are represented in his list, apparently: Dar Droichead na Crannaí, dar Rúraí na gainmhe, Dar ar hoileadh de leanaí do Riocard Laighléis, Dar ar ceileadh de dhráití le Feidhlim na gcártaí, Dar Pádraig Ó hAilpín is dar ar bhailidh sé ’dhéirc, Dar iallaibh na mangaí bhí ag Brian bocht Mac Amhlaoibh, Dar ar diúgadh de channaí le Pilib Suipéal, Is millteach an mhailís do Shiomón Mac Fhearghais a thaibhreamh gur chneasaíos le Muirinn Ní Aodha. By the Bridge of Crannagh, by Rúraí the sandman, By all the children Riocard Laighléis reared, By the non-trump cards Feidhlim the card-player hid, By Pádraig Ó hAilpín and the amount of alms he collected, By the strings of the bags which poor Brian Mac Amhlaoibh had, By the cans which Pilib Suipéal drank to the dregs, It is destructively malicious of Siomón Mac Fhearghais to dream that I lay with Muirinn Ní Aodha. 40 39 Liam P. Ó Murchú, “The Literary Asseveration in Irish”, Études celtiques, Vol. 29 (1992): 322-32. 40 Diarmaid Ó Muirithe (eag.), Tomás Ó Míocháin: Filíocht, Baile Átha Cliath: An Clóchomhar, 1988): 56-7 (translation here mine). 226 - Neil Buttimer A complimentary composition attributed to the lady (commencing Mo bhreo’gus mo chumha-chreach mar pósadh ar dtús mé “My burning and my sorrowful torment that I was ever married”) seeks to confirm that Doiminic’s pleadings are true. 41 In each instance, the denial of an affair (doubtless extramarital) is clearly so exaggerated as to suggest that the opposite was in fact the case. On the basis of these texts, and going on to reflect about other situations, one may wonder what validity members of the Gaelic-speaking community could have asumed were to be accorded to sworn affirmations in a range of alternative settings, revealing a potentially ambivalent towards officialdom. The best-selling handbook of Irish-language preaching from the eighteenth century, that of Donegal-born James Gallagher (1648-1751), Roman Catholic bishop of the diocese of Raphoe in 1725 and later translated to the see of Kildare and Leighlin, a work he first issued in Dublin in 1736 and which was reprinted frequently down to the early 1800s, may be interesting in this connection. Among only a restricted handful of themes it addresses, this manual prominently offers instruction relating to both oath-taking and swearing in its Sermon Seventeen. 42 It is as though this type of guidance were thought specifically to be required, for instance in ordinary people’s interaction with the authorities. Gallagher subsequently issued regulations banning merriment and lewd games at wakes in 1748. In terms of both format and content, the barántas, and arguably also the dearbhú, suggest a growing understanding of the formal, British-derived legal system and its operations. A range of other evidence points to the underlying reality of this proposition, as well as to further patterns of increasing assimilation over time. Thus the County Roscommon-based Charles O’Conor (1710- 91), one of the last of the native aristocracy and supporter of Gaelic scribes, 43 mentions his attendance, during September 1765, at what appears to be an assizes or “great session” (sesiún mór) in a short handwritten account entered, as was his practice, in papers attached to a printed book. 44 The writings of Amhlaoibh Ó Súilleabháin (ob. 1838), a County Kilkenny resident, part-time farmer, teacher and shopkeeper, whose diary is more ample and continuous than O’Conor’s spasmodic journal-type annotations, records a case brought on his behalf against what seems to be a defaulting debtor. His account conveys the hot, constricted atmosphere of the courtroom as proceedings took place in 41 Diarmaid Ó Muirithe (eag.), Tomás Ó Míocháin: Filíocht, Baile Átha Cliath: An Clóchomhar, 1988): 58-60. 42 James Gallagher, Seventeen Irish Sermons, in an Easy and Familiar Stile, on Useful and Necessary Subjects, in English Characters ..., Dublin: P. Wogan, 1795 [a reissue of the 1736 original]. 43 See DNB, s.n. 44 Nessa Ní Shéaghdha, Catalogue of Irish Manuscripts in the National Library of Ireland, Fasciculus V, Dublin: Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, 1979: 42. Images of Law in Pre-Famine Gaelic Ireland - 227 mid-summer 1830. 45 The majority community may have interacted in greater measure with the courts in particular when impediments imposed on Catholics under early eighteenth-century “Penal” laws began to be lifted from the late 1700s onwards. 46 Such legislation had prevented them from becoming members of the legal profession, among a range of other occupations. Some evidence for the accommodation to this change is forthcoming from a consideration of the legacy of County Kerry-born Daniel O’Connell (1775-1847). He is now best known as the champion of Catholic Emancipation, the measure which gave his co-religionists the right to sit in the British parliament from 1829 onwards, as well as for his involvement in the campaign to repeal the Act of Union (a statute adopted in 1800 which linked Ireland to Britain in a single parliamentary system) and achieve what amounts to home rule for this country. 47 O’Connell came initially to public notice as a barrister rather than through politics. The Gaelic world was familiar with him, first and foremost, as a legal advocate or “Counsellor”, with the latter word becoming his enduring epithet. Many anecdotes about his acting in this capacity survived in oral tradition until the early decades of the twentieth century. They were recorded at that juncture as part of the newly created Irish Free State’s efforts to take down folklore still current among the final generations of (often monoglot) Gaelic speakers. 48 Analysis of these stories concentrates on determining the international folktale categories to which they may belong or seem analogous. 49 Their likes have been looked at from a legal point of view recently only, to determine what they reveal both of the knowledge of the law on the part either of the tellers of these tales or their forebears, not to mention how O’Connell (the Dónall Ó Conaill of the following Gaelic texts and my accompanying translations) or his counterparts come across in terms of their professions. 50 One well-attested episode in which he plays a key role relates how a fisherman saved the life of a drowning colleague by lifting him out of the sea, but in so doing damaged his eye with what looks like a metal grappling hook. The court failed to resolve the ensuing action taken by the rescued, but injured, party. Dónal heard about the dilemma, and proposed a solution: 45 Michael McGrath (ed.), Cinnlae Amhlaoibh Uí Shúilleabháin: the Diary of Humphrey O’Sullivan, Vol. II, London: Simpkin, Marshall Ltd, 1936): 306-09. 46 Thomas Bartlett, The Fall and Rise of the Irish Nation: the Catholic Question 1690- 183, Dublin: Gill and Macmillan, 1992. 47 Oliver MacDonagh, O’Connell: the Life of Daniel O’Connell 1775-1847, London: Wiedenfeld and Nicholson, 1991. 48 Diarmuid Ó Giolláin, Locating Irish Folklore: Tradition, Modernity, Identity, Cork: Cork University Press, 2000. 49 Ríonach Uí Ógáin, An Rí gan Choróin: Dónall Ó Conaill sa Bhéaloideas, Baile Átha Cliath: An Clóchomhar, 1984, and eadem, Immortal Dan: Daniel O’Connell in Irish Folk Tradition, Dublin: Geography Publications, 1995. 50 Éanna Hickey, Irish Law and Lawyers in Modern Folk Tradition, Dublin: Four Courts Press, in association with the Irish Legal History Society, 1999. 228 - Neil Buttimer ‘Tá sé éasca go leor an chúis sin a phlé,’ a deir Dónal, ‘Tugtar amach an fear sin arís san áit chéanna agus caitear amach thar bord ann é agus más féidir leis teacht isteach uaidh féin arís, tá an fear eile ciontach. [...]’ Cuireadh fios ar an toirt ar an mbeirt a raibh an dlí eatarthu agus tugadh an bhreith. [...] Bhí an fear a rinne an lot an-tsásta leis an bhreith ach ní thiocfadh an fear eile sa gcontúirt an bhreith a thriall. ‘It is fairly easy to debate that case,’ said Dónal, ‘Let the man be brought out again to the same place and throw him overboard there and if he can come back by himself again, the other man is guilty. [...]’ The two who had gone to law were sent for immediately and the judgement was given. The man who had done the damage was very satisfied with the verdict, but the other man would not risk contesting it. 51 This (internationally ubiquitous) issue may be construed as a problem in tort, but the incident and its broader setting could be genuinely revealing in another sense of relevance to the present discussion. Dónall offers his opinion when a mere youth, told the facts by his coevals as he returns one day from school, having had no education in law up to that point. The remainder of the tale relates how a passer-by overheard the conversation, and immediately arranged for Ó Conaill to be given a formal apprenticeship as an advocate. Apart altogether from what it states about procedures surrounding litigation in relation to harm, the short tale raises a question as to whether oral culture regards lawyerly ability as innate or imparted, with the preponderance in this instance appearing to come down on the side of the former rather than the latter option. Some broader topics seem also to emerge from a second short account, given here in full: Bhí Éireannach i Sasana fadó agus bhí coir mhór déanta aige. Bhí sé amuigh ansin lá agus casadh Dónall Ó Conaill leis. D’inis sé do Dhónall Ó Conaill an trioblóid do bhí air. Dúirt Dónall leis a dhul isteach sa siopa agus míle punt a chur le fear an tsiopa nach raibh an rud a d’iarr sé air ina shiopa. Agus seo é an rud a d’iarr sé, lán seoil de ghaoth anoir a sheolfadh a bhád abhaile go hÉirinn. Chuaigh sé isteach ansin agus chuir se an míle punt leis an siopadóir nach raibh an rud a d’iarr sé sa siopa, agus chuir an siopadóir míle punt leis go raibh. D’fhiafraigh an siopadóir de ansin cén rud é agus dúirt an fear gur lán an tseoil de ghaoth anoir a sheolfadh a bhád abhaile go hÉirinn. ‘Well, sin rud nach bhfuil agam,’ arsa an siopadíor. B’éigean don tsiopadóir míle punt a thabhairt don fhear. Tháinig sé abhaile go hÉirinn ansin agus an míle aige. Ní fhaca sé aon lá bocht ariamh ina dhiaidh sin de bharr Dhónaill Ó Conaill. There was an Irishman in England long ago who had committed a great crime. He was over there one day and met Dónall Ó Conaill. He spoke to Dónall Ó Conaill about the trouble he was in. Dónall said to him to go into a shop and bet 51 Uí Ógáin, An Rí gan Choróin (ftn. 49): 134-35 (translation mine). Images of Law in Pre-Famine Gaelic Ireland - 229 the shopkeeper a thousand pounds that what he was looking for was not in the shop. And this is what he asked him for, a sail full of wind which would sail his boat back to Ireland. He went in then and bet the shopkeeper a thousand pounds that what he was looking for was not in the shop, and the shopkeeper bet a thousand pounds that it was. The shopkeeper then asked him what it was, and the man said it was a sail full of wind which would sail his boat back to Ireland. ‘Well, that’s something I do not have,’ said the shopkeeper. The shopkeeper had to give the man one thousand pounds. He then returned to Ireland with the thousand. He never after saw a poor day because of Dónall Ó Conaill. 52 While possibly encompassing a conundrum in contract law, this piece might have other resonances as well, pointing towards a popular impression of the lawyer as trickster, recasting systems to the advantage of those not normally favoured within them. Such culture heroes are also attested elsewhere and in other guises in Irish tradition. 53 It may seem an excess of intellectualisation to construct larger-scale theorising on the basis of two such simple, even modest, episodes. However, the pair of events just summarily reviewed are among scores of similar accounts, pointing to a potentially broader and substantial pattern. O’Connell’s career coincides with a moment of historical shift, when members of a community hitherto distant from the law, or engaging with it obliquely, could again become meaningful actors in it. The extant folklore records might illuminate the process whereby this newly enfranchised public began to reflect once more in a different light on legal codes, their identity, operations and worth. Conclusion Gaelic revival writing from the late nineteenth century onwards to the present contains novels about the police, plays based on the courts (dealing with themes like communal attitudes to illegitimacy), memoirs of imprisonment, as well as crime fiction, in other words the full spectrum of interaction between literature and law one might expect to encounter in a modern, westernised civilisation. Even if it is the ambition of such literature to hold the workings of the legal system represented in it up to scrutiny, the fact that contemporary readers exist within the society in question means that its legalistic practices are largely taken either as a given or understood, at least in outline. It was stated at the beginning that much contemporary scholarly effort is being expended on explaining both the sources and the functioning of law in early and later medieval Ireland. The era primarily at issue in the present paper seems, by contrast, to have been largely overlooked. It has been the objective of this enquiry to suggest that such neglect is unmerited. The complex and contrasting allegiances, 52 Uí Ógáin, An Rí gan Choróin (ftn. 49): 138-39 (translation mine). 53 Alan Harrison, The Irish Trickster, Sheffield: Sheffield University Press, for the Folklore Society, ca 1989. 230 - Neil Buttimer perceptions and values of such an interstitial period are surely worthy of further investigation, and may even be of broader comparative interest. Hans-Joachim Jürgens „Alle Gesetzlichkeiten sind langweilig.“ Ungeschriebene Gesetze in Theodor Fontanes Roman Effi Briest Abstract The paper investigates the social codification of unwritten laws in the German Kaiserreich of 1871, focusing on Theodor Fontane’s novel „Effi Briest“. From the perspective of male and gender studies, and against the background of an explicit analysis of the bi-polar gender model of the 19 th century, it deals with questions such as, why Innstetten, Effi’s cuckolded husband, challenges Major Crampas for duel even without being driven by revenge, and why Effi’s parents, even though overtly showing their parental love, ostracise her. Recurring to Connell’s model of “hegemonial masculinity” the paper examines the counter play of legal foundations, unwritten laws, and moral principles in the patriarchal society of the Kaiserzeit. Bei einem ausgedehnten Spaziergang durch die sonnige Umgebung des Seebades Kessin kommt es in Theodor Fontanes Roman Effi Briest anlässlich des Gewahrwerdens einer Robbe zu einem bezeichnenden, auf den tragischen Verlauf des Romans vorausweisenden Wortduell zwischen dem Landgerichtsrat Baron Innstetten, und dem Bezirkskommandeur Major Crampas, bei dem Effi, die Ehefrau des Landrates, als Publikum für den in Worten ausgetragenen Wettbewerb beider Männer fungiert. Anlass des Gesprächs ist der Vorschlag des Offiziers, eine „Robbenjagd“ zu veranstalten, was Innstetten durch den Hinweis auf die „Hafenpolizei“ als ungesetzlich abtut. Aus dieser Argumentation erwächst ein längerer Disput über Gesetze, bei dem sich beide Männer an Schlagfertigkeit und Eloquenz ihrer Äußerungen, halb neckisch, halb ernst, zu überbieten suchen. So pariert Crampas Innstettens gesetzestreue Vorbehalte auf zweifache Weise ironisch. Einerseits verweist er jovial und Innstetten, den mustergültigen Vertreter einer Behörde, bewusst provozierend auf die durchaus kompromittie- 232 - Hans-Joachim Jürgens rende, in der letzten Konsequenz die Grundfesten eines Staates erschütternde Möglichkeit, Behörden drückten „untereinander die Augen“ zu. („,Wenn ich so was höre‘, lachte der Major. ‚Hafenpolizei! Die drei Behörden, die wir hier haben werden doch wohl untereinander die Augen zudrücken können.‘“) 1 Andererseits führt er nicht zuletzt an Effi gerichtet aus, dass Gesetztestreue fade und wenig attraktiv sei, wobei er implizit zugleich auch Innstetten gegenüber seiner Frau als einen langweiligen und daher unattraktiven Mann darstellt. („Muß denn alles so furchtbar gesetzlich sein? Alle Gesetzlichkeiten sind langweilig.“). Diese doppelte Demontage des Ehemannes, einerseits durch das Inzweifelziehen der Rechtschaffenheit von Beamten, andererseits durch die Suggestion, Innstetten sei ein langweiliger Mann, wird durch Effi in einer für ihre Ehe fatalen Weise belohnt. („Effi klatschte in die Hände.“) Dabei konstruiert Fontane seine weibliche Hauptfigur ganz im Sinne des eine Bipolarität der Geschlechter voraussetzenden und zugleich zementierenden Geschlechterdiskurses des 19. Jahrhunderts. Karin Hausen hat durch den Vergleich einschlägiger Konversationslexika herausgearbeitet, dass die zu dieser Zeit vorherrschende Männer-Ideologie im Vertrauen auf ihre „wissenschaftlich“ begründete Definitionsmacht Frauen als wechselhaft und immer nach Abwechslung strebend imaginierte. 2 Die in Fontanes Roman zur Darstellung gelangende Reaktion Effis auf die Rede des Majors erfolgt dementsprechend ganz im Sinne des im kaiserzeitlichen Diskurs allerorts zelebrierten Frauenbildes. Fraglos ist Innstetten von dieser Reaktion seiner Ehefrau alles andere als erfreut, kann er doch ihr Beifallklatschen als einen Punkt auf dem Konto seines Kontrahenten verbuchen. Gleichsam als Retourkutsche führt er ein zweischneidiges, ganz dem kaiserzeitlichen Geschlechterdiskurs verhaftetes Argument ins Feld, das erstens Effis Kompetenz als Gutachterin in dieser Diskussion in Frage stellt, indem es auf die „zwiespältige Natur des Weibes“ verweist und feminines Verhalten als unlogisch und ambivalent abqualifiziert, und das zweitens den Offizier durch den indirekten Hinweis auf dessen Neigung zu Maskenhaftigkeit und Modenorientierung als unmännlichen Mann diskreditiert: „Ja, Crampas, Sie kleidet das, und Effi, wie Sie sehen, klatscht Ihnen Beifall. Natürlich; die Weiber schreien sofort nach einem Schutzmann, aber vom Gesetz wollen sie nichts wissen.“ 3 Crampas übersieht den auf ihn bezogenen Hieb geflissentlich. Kampferprobt ignoriert er in diesem Sinne jene Beleidigung, die in der Verwendung der Vokabel „kleidet“ verborgen liegt, und vermeidet auf diese Weise geschickt die Einprägung des durch die Modekonnotation evozierten Eindrucks der Un- 1 Theodor Fontane, Romane und Erzählungen in acht Bänden, hg. v. Peter Goldammer/ Gotthard Erler/ Anita Goltz/ Jürgen Jahn, Berlin/ Weimar 1969: Bd. 7, 135. 2 Karin Hausen, „Die Polarisierung der „Geschlechtscharaktere“ - Eine Spiegelung der Dissoziation von Erwerbs- und Familienleben“, in: Sozialgeschichte der Familie in der Neuzeit Europas: neue Forschungen, hg. v. Werner Conze, Stuttgart 1976: 363-393. 3 Theodor Fontane, Romane und Erzählungen (Anm. 1): Bd. 7, 135. „Alle Gesetzlichkeiten sind langweilig.“ - 233 männlichkeit. Als Gegenstrategie hebt er ganz bewusst auf die von Innstetten vollzogene Ambivalenz zwischen Gesetzestreue und Schutzbedürfnis im weiblichen Denken ab und operiert mit einem essentialistischen Frauen- und Männerbild, das es ihm zur Entkräftung des Unmännlichkeitsverdachtes ermöglicht, eine unhintergehbare geschlechtliche Differenz zwischen sich und der Frau zu markieren: „Das ist so Frauenrecht von alter Zeit her, und wir werden's nicht ändern, Innstetten.“ 4 Auf diese essentialistisch verfahrende Weise gelingt es ihm - aus kaiserzeitlicher Sicht betrachtet - erstens sich von dem als spezifisch weiblich gedeuteten Verhalten Effis aus einer männlichen Perspektive zu distanzieren und zweitens durch die Verwendung des Pronomens „wir“ zu suggerieren, dass er sich genau wie Innstetten auf der Seite der staunend beobachtenden Männer befindet, die nichts an dem „naturgegeben“ Verhalten der Frauen ändern können. Innstetten selbst ist derartiger Essentialismus nicht fremd. Vielmehr bezeugt er seine Übereinstimmung mit dem Denken des Majors in diesem Punkt, indem er lachend ausführt, sich nicht auf eine „Mohrenwäsche“ einlassen zu wollen. 5 In diesem von Innstetten gebrauchten, altertümlich anmutenden und damit auch Traditionalität reklamierendem Terminus, dessen Verwendung an dieser Stelle des Gesprächs einen Vergleich zwischen Frauen und „Mohren“ zu suggerieren versucht, verschränken sich misogynes Denken und rassistische Vorurteile in besonders fataler Weise. Erstens wird derart nämlich die „Natur“ von Frauen und „Mohren“ gleichgesetzt und als unabänderlich klassifiziert, wodurch die Frauen aus kaiserzeitlicher Perspektive „kafferisiert“ und die „Mohren“ „verweiblicht“ erscheinen. 6 Da beide Zuschreibungen im deutschen Kaiserreich von 1871 ausgesprochen negativ konnotiert waren, evozierte der Identität suggerierende Vergleich für den kaiserzeitlichen Leser insofern eine doppelte Abwertung. Zweitens wird durch den Teilterminus „-wäsche“ unterstellt, das Frauen und Mohren „dreckig“ seien. Fraglos ist dies im Sinne des bürgerlichen Geschlechterdiskurses kaiserzeitlicher Prägung weniger in einem buchstäblichen sondern vielmehr in einem übertragenen Sinne zu verstehen. Die durch den Terminus „-wäsche“ hervorgerufene Assoziation „Schmutz“ steht im Denken des deutschen Kaiserreichs von 1871 für eine moralische Verwerflichkeit. Kraft dieses Ausdrucks wird in diesem Sinne durch Innstetten auf eine besondere Naturhaftigkeit und das heißt insbesondere Sexuallastigkeit von „Weibern“ und „Mohren“ zu verweisen versucht. 7 4 Theodor Fontane, Romane und Erzählungen (Anm. 1): Bd. 7, 135. 5 Ebd. 6 Hierbei handelt es sich um kaiserzeitliche Terminologie. 7 Vgl. Kilian Heck/ Andreas Hornemann, „Der Körper und sein Vorurteil. Das Bild von den Menschenrassen in Wissenschaft und Alltagswelt“, in: Annemarie Hürlimann/ Martin Roth/ Klaus Vogel (Hgg.), Fremdkörper - Fremde Körper. Von unvermeidlichen Kontakten und widerstreitenden Gefühlen. Katalog zur Ausstellung des Deutschen Hygiene-Museums vom 6. Oktober 1999 bis 27. Februar 2000, Ostfildern- Ruit 2000: 166-183. Vgl. ebenfalls: Christina Alonzo, „Ebenbild aus Ebenholz. 234 - Hans-Joachim Jürgens Nach dieser misogynen Verbaloffensive des Landrats, die ganz im Sinne von Crampas eine deutliche Differenz zwischen Männern und Frauen markieren soll und ein Ausgeliefertsein der Frau an die „Natur“ unterstellt, wendet sich Innstetten von der argumentativen Analyse der weiblichen „Natur“ gänzlich ab und nimmt ausschließlich den Major in den Blick. Ihn spricht er nun bewusst als Mann an: Aber einer wie Sie, Crampas, der unter der Fahne der Disziplin großgeworden ist und recht gut weiß, daß es ohne Zucht und Ordnung nicht geht, ein Mann wie Sie, der sollte doch eigentlich so was nicht reden, auch nicht einmal im Spaß. Indessen, ich weiß schon, Sie haben einen himmlischen Kehrmichnichtdran und denken, der Himmel wird nicht gleich einstürzen. Nein, gleich nicht. Aber mal kommt es. 8 In dieser Argumentation des Landrats, in der ein Mann zu einem Mann spricht, spiegelt sich der bürgerliche Geschlechterdiskurs des späten 19. Jahrhunderts auf geradezu klassische Weise. Sie rekurriert nämlich auf die misogyne Vorstellung, Frauen seien Repräsentantinnen der wilden und gefährlichen Natur, während Männer den zivilisierenden und Ordnung stiftenden Geist repräsentieren würden. In diesem Kontext wurde ferner zu suggerieren versucht, Frauen seien ihrer „inneren“ und „äußeren Natur“ ausgeliefert, wo hingegen Männer kraft ihres männlichen Geistes in der Lage wären, die unbändige Natur sowohl im Inneren als auch im Äußeren zu bändigen. 9 Vor diesem Hintergrund wendet sich Innstetten an Crampas in dessen Funktion als Repräsentant militärischer Männlichkeit. Eingedenk der Tatsache, dass das Militär im deutschen Kaiserreich von 1871 die „Spitze“ der männlichen „Institutionen“ markierte und gleichsam als „Hort“ und „Schule der Männlichkeit“ galt, 10 appelliert der Landrat an das als männlich imaginierte „Geistwesen“ in dem Offizier. Deutlich artikuliert er die Überzeugung, dass Crampas durch seine Zeit beim Militär, nicht zuletzt durch den rigiden Komment des Offizierkorps, eine männliche Sozialisation genossen haben müsste („einer wie Sie, Crampas, der Schwarze und weiße Figuren auf dem Schachbrett unseres Bewußtseins“, in: Annemarie Hürlimann/ Martin Roth/ Klaus Vogel (Hgg.), Fremdkörper - Fremde Körper. Von unvermeidlichen Kontakten und widerstreitenden Gefühlen. Katalog zur Ausstellung des Deutschen Hygiene-Museums vom 6. Oktober 1999 bis 27. Februar 2000, Ostfildern- Ruit 2000: 188-1999. Vgl. in diesem Kontext auch die misogynen Ausführungen von Otto Weininger zur Sexualität der Frau. Otto Weininger, Geschlecht und Charakter. Eine prinzipielle Untersuchung, Wien/ Leipzig 1920. 8 Theodor Fontane, Romane und Erzählungen (Anm. 1): Bd. 7, 135. 9 Inge Stephan, „Gender, Geschlecht und Theorie“, in: Gender Studien: eine Einführung, hg. v. Cristina von Braun/ Inge Stephan, Stuttgart/ Weimar 2000: 58-96. 10 Ute Frevert, „Das Militär als „Schule der Männlichkeit“. Erwartungen, Angebote, Erfahrungen im 19. Jahrhundert“, in: Militär und Gesellschaft im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert, hg. v. Ute Frevert, Stuttgart 1997: 145-173. „Alle Gesetzlichkeiten sind langweilig.“ - 235 unter der Fahne der Disziplin großgeworden ist“). 11 Innstetten versucht auf diese Weise einzuklagen, dass Crampas sich auf die männlichen Werte „Ordnung“, „Zucht“ und „Disziplin“ zu besinnen habe. In diesem Sinne stellen die Worte des Landrates gleichsam eine durch das Denken in Kategorien des polaren Geschlechtermodells geprägte und gestützte Aufforderung dar, sich als Mann zu erweisen. Insbesondere die letzten Zeilen dieser Männlichkeitsmahnung seitens Innstettens verweisen allerdings auch auf die Bedeutung der Gesetze für die Aufrechterhaltung der männlich geprägten gesellschaftlichen Ordnung insgesamt. […] ein Mann wie Sie, der sollte doch eigentlich so was nicht reden, auch nicht einmal im Spaß. Indessen, ich weiß schon, Sie haben einen himmlischen Kehrmichnichtdran und denken, der Himmel wird nicht gleich einstürzen. Nein, gleich nicht. Aber mal kommt es. 12 Deutlich zeigt sich in diesen Worten des Landrates, eines herausragenden Vertreters der kaiserzeitlichen Obrigkeit, dass die patriarchalische Gesellschaftsordnung auf die Mitwirkung aller Männer angewiesen ist, dass die Aufrechterhaltung der maskulinen Dominanz des Einsatzes sämtlicher Vertreter des männlichen Geschlechts bedarf. Sollte dies - wie das Verhalten des Majors aus der Perspektive Innstettens zu befürchten nahelegt - nicht der Fall sein, kann alles zusammenbrechen. Die Metaphernwahl ist hierbei bezeichnend. Der „Himmel“ steht ebenso für die als paradiesische Form gesellschaftlichen Seins gedachte kaiserzeitliche Ordnung wie für die religiöse Fundierung einer am „Gottvater“ orientierten Männergesellschaft. Innstetten klagt in diesem Sinne also „hegemoniale Männlichkeit“ ein, er mahnt die Mitwirkung von Crampas an der Stabilisierung des Patriarchats an. „Hegemoniale Männlichkeit“ ist, wie die Theorie des australischen Soziologen Bob Connell anschaulich erläutert, immer „gefährdet“, kann immer wieder von Frauen „herausgefordert“ werden. 13 Nach Ansicht Innstettens müsste sich Crampas dieser Gefahr und damit auch seiner Aufgabe bewusst sein. 11 Theodor Fontane, Romane und Erzählungen (Anm. 1): Bd. 7, 135. 12 Ebd. 13 Robert W. Connell, „‘The big Picture’ - Formen der Männlichkeit in der neueren Weltgeschichte“, in: Widersprüche, Heft 56/ 57 (1995): 23-45. Robert W. Connell, Der gemachte Mann. Konstruktion und Krise von Männlichkeiten, Opladen 1999. Robert W. Connell, Gender and Power. Society, the Person and Sexual Politics, Oxford 1987. Robert W. Connell, „Männer in der Welt: Männlichkeit und Globalisierung“, in: Widersprüche, Heft 67 (1998): 91-105. Robert W. Connell, Masculinities, Cambridge 1995. Robert W. Connell, „Neue Richtungen für Geschlechtertheorie, Männlichkeitsforschung und Geschlechterpolitik“, in: Erkenntnisprojekt Geschlecht. Feministische Perspektiven verwandeln Wissenschaft, hg. v. Bettina Dausien/ Martina Herrmann u. a., Opladen 1999: 61-83. Robert W. Connell, „Zur Theorie der Geschlechterverhältnisse“, in: Das 236 - Hans-Joachim Jürgens In für den kaiserzeitlichen Geschlechterdiskurs bezeichnender Weise ist dieser letzte Teil des Gesprächs zwischen Innstetten und Crampas nicht mehr an die als Publikum für den Männerwettbewerb funktionalisierte Effi gerichtet. Hier spricht ein Mann ausschließlich zu einem Mann, der spielerische Verbalabtausch ist aus kaiserzeitlicher Perspektive in eine Debatte von existentieller Bedeutung übergegangen. Gemäß der Ideologie des bipolaren Geschlechtermodells des späten 19. Jahrhunderts konnte sich eine Frau aufgrund ihrer „natürlichen“ Beschaffenheit, das heißt aufgrund ihres „Geschlechtscharakters“ für derartige Probleme ohnehin nicht interessieren. Als ihr naturgemäßes Agitationsfeld wurde das Haus und die Familie gesehen, nicht aber eine Beschäftigung mit Fragen von Politik und Gesellschaft. 14 „Effi hatte von diesem Gespräche wenig gehört“, heißt es in diesem Sinne in Fontanes Roman. „Sie war dicht an die Stelle getreten, wo die Robbe gelegen, und Rollo stand neben ihr. Dann sahen beide, von dem Stein weg, auf das Meer und warteten, ob die „Seejungfrau“ noch einmal sichtbar werden würde.“ 15 Kraft dieser Sätze versucht Fontane seine weibliche Hauptfigur „Effi“ noch einmal ganz in dem Bereich naturhaft-animalischer Weiblichkeit zu situieren. Dementsprechend lässt er sie sich von dem Gespräch der Männer über die Bedingungen der Aufrechterhaltung der Zivilisation abwenden und ihre Aufmerksamkeit auf das Naturhafte, auf die „Robbe“, auf die animalische Existenz richten. Dieses Interesse teilt sie mit Rollo, dem Hund. Diese von Fontane intendierte Deutung der Frau als naturhaft-animalisches Wesen spiegelt sich auch in dem Hinweis auf die „Seejungfrau“. Einerseits soll dieser in Anlehnung an den Undinemythos auf das bevorstehende Unglück Effis verweisen, andererseits soll er durch die Identifizierung von „Robbe“ und „Seejungfrau“ die Verortung von Weiblichkeit im Bereich des Animalischen evozieren und unterstreichen. 16 Die Aufrechterhaltung der durch Männer aufgestellten, durchgesetzten und bewahrten Gesetze ist einem Mann wie Innstetten heilige Pflicht. Hierin gründet seine Ehrenhaftigkeit als Beamter. Diese Gesetze sind für ihn festgeschrieben und in letzter Konsequenz unumstößlich. Er betrachtet sie gleichsam als den männlichen Gegenpol zur Wechselhaftigkeit und Launenhaftigkeit der als naturhaft gedachten Frau. Sie verbürgen und konstituieren für ihn in diesem Sinne sowohl göttliche als auch weltliche Ordnung. Argument, Nr. 157 (1986): 330-344. Robert W. Connell, „Die Wissenschaft von der Männlichkeit“, in: Männlichkeitsentwürfe. Wandlungen und Widerstände im Geschlechterverhältnis, hg. v. Hans Bosse / Vera King, Frankfurt a. M./ New York 2000: 17-28. 14 Vgl. Karin Hausen, „Die Polarisierung der ‚Geschlechtscharaktere‘ - Eine Spiegelung der Dissoziation von Erwerbs- und Familienleben“, in: Sozialgeschichte der Familie in der Neuzeit Europas: neue Forschungen, hg. v. Werner Conze, Stuttgart 1976: 363-393. Vgl. auch: Ute Frevert, „Mann und Weib und Weib und Mann“. Geschlechterdifferenz in der Moderne, München 1995. 15 Theodor Fontane, Romane und Erzählungen (Anm. 1): Bd. 7, 136. 16 Ebd.: 135 „Alle Gesetzlichkeiten sind langweilig.“ - 237 Fontane führt Innstetten somit als einen vorbildlichen Repräsentanten hegemonialer Männlichkeit kaiserzeitlicher Prägung vor. Von Adel und verbeamtet, gefördert durch Bismarck selbst, von dem nur ehrfürchtig als dem „Fürsten“ gesprochen wird, hat er eine große Karriere im preußisch geprägten zweiten deutschen Kaiserreich vor sich. Seine hochstrebenden Karriereoptionen erwachsen, neben seinen Qualitäten als geschickter Taktierer und Streber, vor allem auch daraus, dass er gleichsam mustergültig die Innenstruktur der im zweiten deutschen Kaiserreich vorherrschenden Männlichkeit personifiziert. In diesem Sinne berichtet Effi ihrer Mutter ehrfürchtig über ein Gespräch mit ihrem Pastor: Wir sprachen da von Innstetten, und mit einem Male zog der alte Niemeyer seine Stirn in Falten, aber in Respekts- und Bewunderungsfalten, und sagte: ,Ja, der Baron! Das ist ein Mann von Charakter, ein Mann von Prinzipien.‘ […] Und ich glaube, Niemeyer sagte nachher sogar, er sei auch ein Mann von Grundsätzen. Und das ist, glaub ich, noch etwas mehr. 17 In diesen durch den Mund Effis reproduzierten Äußerungen des alten Pastors wird zweierlei deutlich. Erstens offenbart sich durch die Tatsache, dass der Geistliche Innstetten Respekt zollt und Bewunderung entgegenbringt, eine männliche Geschlechterhierarchie, an deren Spitze Männer wie der Landrat stehen und die auch von inferior situierten Repräsentanten des männlichen Geschlechts erkannt und anerkannt wird. Zweitens zeigt sich, dass die Verortung des einzelnen Mannes in der Männlichkeitshierarchie davon abhängig ist, inwieweit er von den Werten der patriarchalischen Ordnung kaiserzeitlicher Prägung durchdrungen ist. Dies wird durch die Reihung „Mann von Charakter“, „Mann von Prinzipien“ und „Mann von Grundsätzen“ besonders deutlich. Ein wahrer Repräsentant hegemonialer Männlichkeit verfügt in diesem Sinne nach Ansicht Niemeyers über einen festen männlichen „Charakter“. Dieser Charakter wiederum wird durch die Übernahme von „Prinzipien“ konstituiert, die er in bestimmten staatstragenden Institutionen erlernt hat. Norbert Elias betont in diesem Sinne, dass die schlagenden Studentenverbindungen ebenso wie die einschlägigen Offizierskorps des deutschen Kaiserreichs von 1871 die „Funktion von Prägestätten eines gemeinsamen Verhaltens- und Empfindenskanons der deutschen Oberschichten“ eingenommen haben 18 . In das Vokabular Connells übersetzt, ließe sich dementsprechend sagen, dass diese Institutionen als Ausbildungsstätten „hegemonialer Männlichkeit“ fungierten. 19 17 Theodor Fontane, Romane und Erzählungen (Anm. 1): Bd. 7, 36. 18 Norbert Elias, Studien über die Deutschen: Machtkämpfe und Habitusentwicklung im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert, Frankfurt a. M. 1992: 69. 19 Vgl. auch Ute Frevert, Ehrenmänner. Das Duell in der bürgerlichen Gesellschaft, München 1991: 202-203. Elias, Studien (Anm. 18): 67. Frevert führt ferner aus, dass zum Beispiel die Armee in diesem Sinne als eine „Schule“ fungierte, die „jeder Mann höchstpersönlich“ zu durchlaufen und deren „militärisches und politisches Curriculum 238 - Hans-Joachim Jürgens Das Erlernen dieser in diversen Männer-Institutionen beheimateten und zelebrierten „Prinzipien“, die Verinnerlichung dieser Regeln im Verlauf der Studien- und Militärzeit schreibt sie dem zu formendem männlichen Charakter gleichsam ein. Auf diese Weise werden sie zu Grundsätzen. Diese Grundsätze, also jene Aussagen, die den Grund, quasi die solide Basis für alles darauf Aufzubauende bilden, sind die eigentlichen Konstitutionsbedingungen und Reproduktionsgaranten hegemonialer Männlichkeit kaiserzeitlicher Prägung. Diese Grundsätze sind der gesamten kaiserzeitlichen Gesellschaft eingeschrieben. In diesem Sinne kommt Ute Frevert in ihrer Analyse der kaiserzeitlichen Gesellschaft zu dem Schluss: „Der Staat ist männlichen Geschlechts.“ Vor diesem Hintergrund wird deutlich, dass die kodifizierten Gesetze des Staates insofern nur Ableitungen der wesentlich tiefer liegenden und wirkungsmächtigeren „Grundsätze“ sind. Sie fungieren in diesem Sinne als jederzeit nachvollziehbare und juristisch legitimierte Instrumentarien zur Aufrechterhaltung des männlichen Konstruktes „Staat“ und damit zur Stabilisierung männlicher Vorherrschaft. Die diese staatlichen Gesetze bedingenden, ja die gesamte patriarchalische Ordnung konstituierenden „Grundsätze“ werden hingegen ausschließlich sozial kodifiziert, sie stellen gleichsam die ungeschriebenen Gesetze der kaiserzeitlichen Gesellschaft dar. In Fontanes berühmtesten Roman Effi Briest werden insbesondere zwei ungeschriebene Gesetze thematisiert, die bezeichnenderweise beide mit dem sozialen Phänomen „Ehre“ zusammenhängen. Zum einen fühlt sich Baron von Innstetten nach dem Ehebruch seiner Frau entgegen seiner inneren Befindlichkeit durch ein ungeschriebenes Gesetz zum Duell mit seinem Nebenbuhler Major Crampas und zur Verstoßung seiner sich unehrenhaft verhaltenen Frau gezwungen, zum anderen nehmen auch Effis Eltern die von ihrem Mann verstoßene Tochter aufgrund ausschließlich sozial kodifizierter Ehrvorstellungen zunächst nicht auf ihrem Gut Hohen-Kremmen auf. Diese beiden ungeschriebenen Gesetze, die die gesamte tragische Handlung des Romans bestimmen und letztlich zum Tod zweier Menschen führen (Major Crampas stirbt im Duell mit Innstetten in Kessin; Effi erkrankt schwer in der gesellschaftlich verordneten Isolierung und stirbt schließlich an Kummer auf dem Gut ihrer Eltern), sollen im Folgenden vor der Folie sozialer Kodifikationen betrachtet werden. Zu diesem Zweck ist zunächst im Rekurs auf die Studien von Elias und Frevert darauf zu verweisen, dass Duelle im deutschen Kaiserreich von 1871 in sich“ aufzunehmen hatte. Der Körper jedes Mannes „mußte ebenso wie sein Verstand von jenem Lehrstoff durchdrungen werden. Da man erwartete, daß manche Körper und Köpfe schneller lernten als andere, brauchten Männer mit einem gewissen Bildungs- und Vermögensstand nur ein Jahr (anstatt zwei oder drei) zu dienen. Dienen aber mußten sie, ungeachtet ihrer anfänglichen, allmählich verebbenden Proteste.“ Ute Frevert, „Soldaten, Staatsbürger. Überlegungen zur historischen Konstruktion von Männlichkeit“, in: Männergeschichte - Geschlechtergeschichte. Männlichkeit im Wandel der Moderne, hg. v. Thomas Kühne, Frankfurt a. M./ New York 1996: 81. „Alle Gesetzlichkeiten sind langweilig.“ - 239 ausnahmslos gesetzlich verboten waren. Frevert hat in ihrem Buch Ehrenmänner. Das Duell im 19. Jahrhundert in einem detaillierten historischen Aufriss gezeigt, dass bereits der absolutistische Staat den Ehrenzweikampf streng untersagte. Norbert Elias stützt diesen Befund in dem Kapitel Die satisfaktionsfähige Gesellschaft aus dem Buch Studien über die Deutschen. So führt er aus, dass das Duellverbot aus einer Zeit stammt, als „die Zentralherren des Staates ihr Herrschaftsgebiet zu pazifisieren und das Recht zum Gebrauch von physischer Gewalt innerhalb dieses Gebietes sich selbst und ihren Beauftragten vorzubehalten suchten, in der sie, mit anderen Worten, ihr eigenes Monopol des Gewaltgebrauchs proklamierten“. 20 Ferner erläutert er, dass „[a]uch im kaiserlichen Deutschland […] der Waffengebrauch von Privatpersonen und dementsprechend Zweikämpfe, bei denen sich Menschen, sei es im Ernst, sei es im Spiel, körperlich oft recht erheblichen Schaden antaten, gesetzlich verboten“ waren. 21 Für den Zusammenhang von geschriebenen und ungeschriebenen Gesetzen ist nun insbesondere bemerkenswert, dass Innstetten sich mit Crampas duelliert, obwohl Duelle im deutschen Kaiserreich von 1871 gegen die bestehenden Gesetze verstießen, dass ausgerechnet jener überzeugte Repräsentant der kaiserzeitlichen Obrigkeit, der Crampas zurecht wies, als dieser ungesetzlicherweise Robben jagen wollte, nun das Gesetz bricht und seinen Kontrahenten zum Duell fordert. Fraglos steht Innstetten mit dieser überaus widerspruchsvollen Haltung im deutschen Kaiserreich von 1871 bei weitem nicht allein. Vielmehr teilt er diese Praxis mit dem überwiegenden Teil seiner Berufskollegen, die mehr oder weniger alle zu der sogenannten „Gesellschaft der Satisfaktionsfähigen“ gehören. Als satisfaktionsfähig haben, so Elias, all jene gegolten, „die das Privileg hatten, von jedem anderen Mitglied dieser Gesellschaft Genugtuung mit der Waffe in der Hand zu verlangen, falls sie sich von ihm beleidigt fühlten, und die umgekehrt auch ihrerseits verpflichtet waren, sich anderen Zugehörigen der satisfaktionsfähigen Gesellschaft zum Zweikampf zu stellen, wenn diese sich von ihnen in ihrer Ehre gekränkt fühlten“. 22 Interessanterweise vollzieht sich innerhalb der „Gesellschaft der Satisfaktionsfähigen“ genau das, was Crampas bei dem Gespräch über die Robbenjagd vorgeschlagen und Innstetten empört zurückgewiesen hatte, nämlich, dass die Behörden „untereinander die Augen zudrücken“. Elias führt hierzu aus, dass „da […] in Deutschland zwischen 1871 und 1918 die entscheidenden Machtpositionen des Staates von Mitgliedern der satisfaktionsfähigen Gesellschaft besetzt oder kontrolliert wurden, da die Hüter der Gesetze, die Verletzungen des Staatsmonopols der physischen Gewalt durch Privatleute mit Strafe bedrohten, selbst zu der die Gesetze verletzenden privilegierten Gesellschaft der Satisfaktionsfähigen gehörten, wurden die Exekutivorgane der Staatsge- 20 Elias, Studien (Anm. 18): 70. 21 Ebd.: 71. 22 Ebd.: 69. 240 - Hans-Joachim Jürgens walt, also etwa die Polizei, in den Fällen gegen die Rechtsbrecher [in der Regel] nicht mobilisiert. Um es den Behörden leichter zu machen, die Verletzung der Staatsgesetze durch die Zweikämpfe zu übersehen - und wohl auch, um den tolerierten Gewaltgebrauch den Augen der Volksmassen zu entziehen - wurden diese Veranstaltungen an Orte verlegt, die Nichtzugehörigen schwer zugänglich waren, also etwa in eine speziell hergerichtete Dorfscheune oder, bei Pistolenduellen, in eine Waldlichtung.“ 23 In diesem Sinne findet das Duell zwischen Innstetten und Crampas in der Einsamkeit und Abgeschiedenheit des Kessiner Strandes statt. Fraglos ließen sich Duelle, die wie in dem von Fontane imaginierten Fall tödlich endeten, nicht immer vor den Augen der Behörden und der Öffentlichkeit verbergen. Hier setzte nun eine besondere, auf die Bedürfnisse und Belange der Duellanten abgestimmte Rechtsprechung mit erträglichem Strafmaß (Festungshaft) ein, die nach einigen Wochen durch eine „großzügige Begnadigungspraxis“ seitens des Kaisers positiv zum Abschluss gebracht wurde. 24 Dementsprechend reagiert der Vorgesetzte Innstettens auf dessen „Meldung“ des „Vorgefallenen“ am Tag nach dem Duell auch „sehr gnädig“. ,Ja, Innstetten, wohl dem, der aus allem, was das Leben uns bringen kann, heil herauskommt; Sie hat's getroffen.‘ Er fand alles, was geschehen, in der Ordnung und überließ Innstetten das Weitere. 25 Dieses „Weitere“ wird in Fontanes Roman nicht eigens ausgeführt. Der Leser kann lediglich aus einem Gespräch zwischen der Dienerin Roswitha und Effi schließen, dass Innstetten auf der Festung Glatz eine Strafe abgesessen haben muss, aber recht schnell begnadigt wurde: Endlich aber fand sie sich und sagte, daß der gnädige Herr nun wieder aus Glatz zurück sei; der alte Kaiser habe gesagt, ,sechs Wochen in solchem Falle sei gerade genug‘ […]. 26 Warum aber vollzieht ein so rechtschaffender Mann wie Innstetten diesen Spagat, aus welchem Grund lässt sich dieser gesetzestreue Konservative auf einen derartigen Rechtsbruch ein, und weshalb fördern und erleichtern alle anderen Repräsentanten des Rechtsstaates diese Praxis auch noch? Elias sieht die Antwort auf diese Frage in der Geschichte des Duellwesens begründet. So führt er aus, dass diese diskrepante Haltung aus der Zeit der Ausbildung des staatlichen Gewaltmonopols stammt, und erläutert in diesem Sinne, dass die Zentralherren durch ihre Monopolisierung des Gewaltpotentials „den Kriegeradel ihres Landes seines vornehmsten Machtmittels sowohl im Verkehr mit sozial Schwächeren und daher Niedrigstehenderen wie auch bei Streitigkeiten mit ihresglei- 23 Elias, Studien (Anm. 18): 71. 24 Vgl. Frevert, Ehrenmänner (Anm. 19). 25 Theodor Fontane, Romane und Erzählungen (Anm. 1): Bd. 7, 256. 26 Ebd.: 275. „Alle Gesetzlichkeiten sind langweilig.“ - 241 chen“ beraubten, woraufhin sich „in der allmählich gezähmten Kriegerschicht des Adels“ als „eine Geste des Widerstandes und des Trotzes gegen die immer mächtigeren Zentralherren“ zusehends „die Sitte“ ausbreitete, „wenigstens Streitigkeiten untereinander, die die persönliche Ehre betrafen, statt auch sie, wie es das Gesetz des zentralisierten Fürstenstaates verlangte, den Gerichten des Zentralherren zu unterbreiten, vielmehr in der alten Form des nun staatlich verbotenen privaten Gebrauchs physischer Gewalt, in der Form des Zweikampfs auszufechten“ 27 . Auf diese historischen Entwicklung und Erfahrung gründete sich, so Elias, ein „Empfinden“ der deutschen Oberschichten, das er in der folgenden Rollenprosa anschaulich zur Darstellung bringt: „,Die Zwangsapparatur des Staates und die Gesetze des Staates‘, das war das Empfinden, ,sind nützlich, um die Ordnung unter der unruhigen Masse aufrechtzuerhalten. Aber wir, die Krieger und die Regierenden, sind diejenigen, die die Ordnung im Staate aufrechterhalten. Wir sind die Herren des Staates. Wir leben nach unseren eigenen Regeln, die wir uns selbst geben. Für uns gelten diese Staatsgesetze nicht.‘“ 28 Fontane analysiert die Bedingungen, die die „Hüter der Gesetze“ zu einem Bruch derselben zwingen, in dem berühmten Gespräch zwischen Innstetten und Wüllersdorf über die Notwendigkeit eines Duells mit Crampas noch genauer. So offenbart der betrogene Landrat zunächst gegenüber seinem Freund, dass er keine Rachelust verspüre, seine Frau noch liebe und durchaus auf ein Duell verzichten könnte, wenn es nur nach seiner persönlichen Meinung gehe: Es steht so, daß ich unendlich unglücklich bin: ich bin gekränkt, schändlich hintergangen, aber trotzdem, ich bin ohne jedes Gefühl von Haß oder gar vor Durst nach Rache. Und wenn ich mich frage, warum nicht? , so kann ich zunächst nichts anderes finden als die Jahre. Man spricht immer von unsühnbarer Schuld; vor Gott ist es gewiß falsch, aber vor den Menschen auch. Ich hätte nie geglaubt, daß die Zeit, rein als Zeit, so wirken könne. Und dann als zweites: ich liebe meine Frau, ja, seltsam zu sagen, ich liebe sie noch, und so furchtbar ich alles finde, was geschehen, ich bin so sehr im Bann ihrer Liebenswürdigkeit, eines ihr eignen heiteren Charmes, daß ich mich, mir selbst zum Trotz, in meinem letzten Herzenswinkel zum Verzeihen geneigt fühle. 29 Danach aber kommt er trotz dieser einer gewaltsamen Auseinandersetzung entgegenstehenden Gefühle und Regungen zu dem unumstößlichen Entschluss, seinen Kontrahenten, den ehemaligen Liebhaber seiner Frau, zum Duell zu fordern. Dies begründet er gegenüber seinem Freund Wüllersdorf wie folgt: 27 Elias, Studien (Anm. 18): 70. 28 Ebd.: 70-71. 29 Theodor Fontane, Romane und Erzählungen (Anm. 1): Bd. 7, 246 ff. 242 - Hans-Joachim Jürgens Ich habe mir's hin und her überlegt. Man ist nicht bloß ein einzelner Mensch, man gehört einem Ganzen an, und auf das Ganze haben wir beständig Rücksicht zu nehmen, wir sind durchaus abhängig von ihm. Ging' es, in Einsamkeit zu leben, so könnt ich es gehen lassen; ich trüge dann die mir aufgepackte Last, das rechte Glück wäre hin, aber es müssen so viele leben ohne dies ,rechte Glück‘, und ich würde es auch müssen und - auch können. Man braucht nicht glücklich zu sein, am allerwenigsten hat man einen Anspruch darauf, und den, der einem das Glück genommen hat, den braucht man nicht notwendig aus der Welt zu schaffen. Man kann ihn, wenn man weltabgewandt weiterexistieren will, auch laufenlassen. Aber im Zusammenleben mit den Menschen hat sich ein Etwas ausgebildet, das nunmal da ist und nach dessen Paragraphen wir uns gewöhnt haben alles zu beurteilen, die andern und uns selbst. Und dagegen zu verstoßen geht nicht: die Gesellschaft verachtet uns, und zuletzt tun wir es selbst und können es nicht aushalten und jagen uns die Kugel durch den Kopf. Verzeihen Sie, daß ich Ihnen solche Vorlesung halte, die schließlich doch nur sagt, was sich jeder selber hundertmal gesagt hat. Aber freilich, wer kann was Neues sagen! Also noch einmal, nichts von Haß oder dergleichen, und um eines Glückes willen, das mir genommen wurde, mag ich nicht Blut an den Händen haben: aber jenes, wenn Sie wollen, uns tyrannisierende Gesellschafts-Etwas, das fragt nicht nach Charme und nicht nach Liebe und nicht nach Verjährung. Ich habe keine Wahl. Ich muß. 30 In dieser Argumentation von bestechender und unnachgiebiger Schärfe, die im weiteren Verlauf des Gesprächs sogar mit einem geradezu erschreckenden psychologischen Feingefühl auch den letzten Zweifel Wüllersdorfs an der Notwendigkeit des Duells beseitigt und die soziale Kodifikation des Ehrbegriffs auf unnachahmliche Weise verdeutlicht, offenbart sich die Bedeutung ungeschriebener Gesetze für die Aufrechterhaltung der patriarchalischen Ordnung. Dieses „Ganze“ nimmt den einzelnen Mann rigoros in die Verantwortung; nicht seine persönlichen Wünsche, Sehnsüchte und Belange stehen im Vordergrund, sondern die Notwendigkeiten und Erfordernisse zur Aufrechterhaltung und Absicherung der männlichen Vorherrschaft kaiserzeitlicher Prägung. Fraglos erlebt Innstetten diese Forderungen hegemonialer Männlichkeit selbst als Gewaltherrschaft, er fühlt sich von den ungeschriebenen Gesetzen der satisfaktionsfähigen Gesellschaft „tyrannisiert“ („das uns tyrannisierende Gesellschaftsetwas“), und doch ist er so von diesen „Prinzipien“ durchdrungen, wirken sie so konstituierend für seine Männlichkeit, dass er nicht von ihnen lassen kann und sich sowohl gegen seine Gefühle als auch gegen seine Frau entscheidet. Selbst nach dem Duell, als Innstetten in eine schwere emotionale Krise gerät und die Richtigkeit seiner Entscheidung zu diesem Duell in begründete Zweifel zieht, kann er sich doch nicht von ihnen lösen: Ich bin jetzt fünfundvierzig. Wenn ich die Briefe fünfundzwanzig Jahre später gefunden hätte, so war ich siebzig. Dann hätte Wüllersdorf gesagt: ,Innstetten, 30 Theodor Fontane, Romane und Erzählungen (Anm. 1): Bd. 7, 247-248. „Alle Gesetzlichkeiten sind langweilig.“ - 243 seien Sie kein Narr.‘ Und wenn es Wüllersdorf nicht gesagt hätte, so hätt es Buddenbrook gesagt, und wenn auch der nicht, so ich selbst. Dies ist mir klar. Treibt man etwas auf die Spitze, so übertreibt man und hat die Lächerlichkeit. Kein Zweifel. Aber wo fängt es an? Wo liegt die Grenze? Zehn Jahre verlangen noch ein Duell, und da heißt es Ehre, und nach elf Jahren oder vielleicht schon bei zehnundeinhalb heißt es Unsinn. Die Grenze, die Grenze. Wo ist sie? War sie da? War sie schon überschritten? Wenn ich mir seinen letzten Blick vergegenwärtige, resigniert und in seinem Elend doch noch ein Lächeln, so hieß der Blick: ,Innstetten, Prinzipienreiterei [...] Sie konnten es mir ersparen und sich selber auch.‘ Und er hatte vielleicht recht. Mir klingt so was in der Seele. Ja, wenn ich voll tödlichem Haß gewesen wäre, wenn mir hier ein tiefes Rachegefühl gesessen hätte [...] Rache ist nichts Schönes, aber was Menschliches und hat ein natürlich menschliches Recht. So aber war alles einer Vorstellung, einem Begriff zuliebe, war eine gemachte Geschichte, halbe Komödie. Und diese Komödie muß ich nun fortsetzen und muß Effi wegschicken und sie ruinieren und mich mit [....] 31 In dieser aufgewühlten Stimmung infolge des vollzogenen Duells mit tödlichem Ausgang und in Erwartung der Auflösung seiner Ehe mit Effi sieht Innstetten die Angelegenheit aus einer etwas ver-rückten Perspektive, erkennt plötzlich in den von ihm anerkannten und praktizierten Ehrvorstellungen gänzlich unlebendige Begriffe, willkürliche Inszenierungen ohne Grundlage im realen Leben. Und dennoch entscheidet er sich auch in diesem menschliche Erkenntnis gegen „Prinzipienreiterei“ setzenden psychischen Ausnahmezustand dazu, ihnen entgegen dem eigenen Gefühl weiter zu folgen. Die eigentliche Ursache für dieses befremdliche Verhalten liegt in der stringenten sozialen Kodifikation desselben. Deutlich strich Innstetten dies bereits in jenem, dem Duell vorangehenden Gespräch mit Wüllersdorf heraus. Dort hatte er wiederholt darauf insistiert, dass die Prinzipien, denen er zu folgen sich gezwungen fühlt (Duell und Verstoßung Effis), ausschließlich aufgrund der Tatsache Macht über ihn haben, dass er nicht als Einzelner zu agieren und entscheiden vermag, sondern immer mitdenken muß, als soziales Wesen in die Gesellschaft und deren Bedingungen eingebunden zu sein („man ist nicht nur ein einzelner Mensch“, „im Zusammenleben der Menschen hat sich […]“). Mit aller Schärfe verweist Innstetten in diesem Kontext insofern auf einen sozial bedingten Zwang, dem er sich weder vor noch nach dem Duell entziehen kann. Ebenso gesellschaftlich ist auch das andere ungeschriebene Gesetz kodifiziert, dem Effis Eltern zunächst folgen, indem sie ihrer Tochter nicht nach deren Ehebruch nicht Schutz und Obdach auf dem heimatlichen Gut gewähren. So steht im Brief der Mutter zu lesen: [...] Und nun Deine Zukunft, meine liebe Effi. Du wirst Dich auf Dich selbst stellen müssen und darfst dabei, soweit äußere Mittel mitsprechen, unserer Unterstützung sicher sein. Du wirst am besten in Berlin leben (in einer großen Stadt 31 Theodor Fontane, Romane und Erzählungen (Anm. 1): Bd. 7, 255. 244 - Hans-Joachim Jürgens vertut sich dergleichen am besten) und wirst da zu den vielen gehören, die sich um freie Luft und lichte Sonne gebracht haben. Du wirst einsam leben und, wenn Du das nicht willst, wahrscheinlich aus Deiner Sphäre herabsteigen müssen. Die Welt, in der Du gelebt hast, wird Dir verschlossen sein. Und was das traurigste für uns und für Dich ist (auch für Dich, wie wir Dich zu kennen vermeinen) - auch das elterliche Haus wird Dir verschlossen sein: wir können Dir keinen stillen Platz in Hohen-Cremmen anbieten, keine Zuflucht in unserem Hause, denn es hieße das, dies Haus von aller Welt abschließen, und das zu tun, sind wir entschieden nicht geneigt. Nicht weil wir zu sehr an der Welt hingen und ein Abschiednehmen von dem, was sich ,Gesellschaft‘ nennt, uns als etwas unbedingt Unerträgliches erschiene; nein, nicht deshalb, sondern einfach, weil wir Farbe bekennen und vor aller Welt, ich kann Dir das Wort nicht ersparen, unsere Verurteilung Deines Tuns, des Tuns unseres einzigen und von uns so sehr geliebten Kindes, aussprechen wollen. 32 Mit fast suggestiver Schärfe wird in diesem Brief der Mutter deutlich, in welcher Form die ungeschriebenen Gesetze der sozialen Praxis der gehobenen Gesellschaftsschichten eingeschrieben waren. Das gesamte Verhalten wird ausschließlich an den Anderen orientiert. Effi werde in dieser Hinsicht „einsam“ sein, sie solle in Berlin wohnen, weil man in einer „großen Stadt“ besser untertauchen könne, sprich Effis Ehrverstoß nicht so sichtbar wäre; selbst für den zu diesem Zeitpunkt ausgeschlossenen Fall, dass die Eltern ihr eine „Zuflucht“ geben würden, ist ausschließlich von einem „stillen Zimmer“ die Rede, was nicht anderes heißen soll, als dass Effi auch hier kein Aufsehen erregen und die Blicke der anderen nicht auf sich ziehen dürfe. Das Verbergen ist in diesem Kontext dominant: Diejenige, die den Gesetzen der männerdominierten Gesellschaft zuwidergehandelt hat, muss sich verbergen vor den Blicken der anderen, der Schandfleck darf nicht sichtbar werden. Dieser „Dialektik“ von „Verbergen und Zeigen“ 33 entspricht, dass die Eltern öffentlich ein Zeichen setzen wollen, indem sie durch die Verweigerung der Zuflucht vor der ganzen Gesellschaft bekunden, sich an die ungeschriebenen Gesetze der satisfaktionsfähigen Gesellschaft halten. 32 Theodor Fontane, Romane und Erzählungen (Anm. 1): Bd. 7, 268. 33 Achatz von Müller, „Schauspiele der Gewalt. Vom Zweikampf zum Duell“, in: Uwe Schultz (Hg.), Das Duell. Der tödliche Kampf um die Ehre, Frankfurt a. M./ Leipzig 1996: 12-33.