eJournals

Arbeiten aus Anglistik und Amerikanistik Band 38 (2013) · Heft 1 Inhaltsverzeichnis Artikel: Steffen Hantke & Gabriele Buschmeier Going Medieval. Representations of Post-Nuclear Survival in Threads and The Tripods on the BBC (1984) .............................................................................. 3 Daniel Schäbler „… what dignity is there in that? “ Zum Zusammenhang erzählerischer Unzuverlässigkeit und ethischem Verhalten in Kazuo Ishiguros The Remains of the Day ......................................................................................... 19 Johannes Scherling Holistic loanword integration and loanword acceptance. A comparative study of anglicisms in German and Japanese ...................................................... 37 Bernhard Kettemann Semiotics of Advertising and the Discourse of Consumption ............................... 53 Rezensionen: Dorothee Birke Miriam Havemann, The Subject Rising Against its Author. A Poetics of Rebellion in Bryan Stanley Johnson’s Oeuvre ........................................................... 69 Christoph Bode Kurt Schlüter, Polyhymnia: Demokratische Heldenverehrung nach antikem Vorbild in Jugendgedichten von S.T. Coleridge ......................................................... 72 Andrew James Johnston Matthias Eitelmann, Beowulfes Beorh. Das altenglische Heldenepos als kultureller Gedächtnisspeicher ................................................................................. 76 Stephan Laqué Elke Mettinger, Margarete Rubik, Jörg Türschmann (eds.), Rive Gauche. Paris as a Site of Avant-Garde Art and Cultural Exchange in the 1920s.................... 79 Inhaltsverzeichnis 2 Martin Löschnigg Jutta Ernst and Brigitte Glaser (eds.), The Canadian Mosaic in the Age of Transnationalism .................................................................................................... 82 Doris Mader Christoph Bode, Der Roman. Eine Einführung ........................................................ 85 Katharina Rennhak Irene Gilsenan Nordin and Carmen Zamorano Llena (eds.), Redefinitions of Irish Identity. A Postnationalist Approach........................................ 90 Julia Sattler Petra Eckhard, Klaus Rieser und Silvia Schultermandl (eds.), Contact Spaces of American Culture. Globalizing Local Phenomena.......................... 94 Jeff Thoss Anne-Kathrin Hillenbach, Literatur und Fotografie. Analyse eines intermedialen Verhältnisses ..................................................................................... 96 Adi Wimmer Russell West-Pavlov, Jennifer Wawrzinek (eds), Frontier Skirmishes. Literary and Cultural Debates in Australia after 1992 .............................................. 99 Der gesamte Inhalt der AAA - Arbeiten aus Anglistik und Amerikanistik, Band 1, 1976 - Band 36, 2011 ist nach Autoren alphabetisch geordnet abrufbar unter http: / / www-gewi.unigraz.at/ staff/ kettemann This journal is abstracted in: ESSE (Norwich), MLA Bibliography (New York, NY), C doc du CNRS (Paris), CCL (Frankfurt), NCELL (Göttingen), JSJ (Philadelphia, PA), ERIC Clearinghouse on Lang and Ling (Washington, DC), LLBA (San Diego), ABELL (London). Gefördert von der Steiermärkischen Landesregierung und der Geisteswissenschaftlichen Fakultät der Karl-Franzens-Universität Graz. Anfragen, Kommentare, Kritik, Mitteilungen und Manuskripte werden an den Herausgeber erbeten (Adresse siehe Umschlaginnenseite). Erscheint halbjährlich. Bezugspreis jährlich € 84,- (Vorzugspreis für private Leser € 68,-) zuzügl. Postgebühren. Einzelheft € 52,-. Die Bezugsdauer verlängert sich jeweils um ein Jahr, wenn bis zum 15. November keine Abbestellung vorliegt. © 2013 · Narr Francke Attempto Verlag GmbH + Co. KG Dischingerweg 5, 72070 Tübingen E-mail: info@narr.de Internet: www.narr.de Die in der Zeitschrift veröffentlichten Beiträge sind urheberrechtlich geschützt. Alle Rechte, insbesondere das der Übersetzung in fremde Sprachen, sind vorbehalten: Kein Teil dieser Zeitschrift darf ohne schriftliche Genehmigung des Verlages in irgendeiner Form - durch Fotokopie, Mikrofilm oder andere Verfahren - reproduziert oder in eine von Maschinen, insbesondere von Datenverarbeitungsanlagen, verwendbare Sprache übertragen werden. Printed in Germany ISSN 0171-5410 Going Medieval Representations of Post-Nuclear Survival in Threads and The Tripods on the BBC (1984) 1 Steffen Hantke Cold War fears about nuclear war were not homogeneously focused on the military engagement that would end in physical annihilation but also included a wide variety of post-apocalyptic scenarios. What happened to the individual, physically and psychologically, and to society as a whole after nuclear war had ended were subjects of intense speculation and anxiety. Although the idea of surviving nuclear war was in itself a gesture of optimism, speculative exploration of the post-nuclear world tended to be predominantly dystopian. The entire subgenre of post-apocalyptic fiction, film, and television abounds with visions of scarcity, the dissolution of social coherence, the imposition of repressive political regimes, the collective abandoning of rationality and science in favor of superstition and magic, and the end of history per se - all of these persistently recurring themes cast as a return of 20 th century technological civilization to the Middle Ages. This nexus of themes comes into focus on British television in 1984, when the BBC broadcast both an adaptation of John Christopher’s trilogy The Tripods in the form of a miniseries, and a mockumentary entitled Threads, directed by Mick Jackson. Both programs conceptualize and visualize post-nuclear survival in terms of medieval imagery, especially in the visual iconographies they mobilize. Read alongside each other, both programs mark divergent positions within the political debate on the Cold War. The Tripods challenges the dystopian nightmare in Threads of a regression to the Middle Ages to the degree that its explicit diegetic content diverges from medieval iconography, subtly transforming the nightmare of historical regression. 1 Work on this essay was supported by a Sogang University Research Grant in 2011. I would also like to express my gratitude to the organizers of “Alien Nation: A Conference on British Science Fiction, Horror and Fantasy Television” at Northumbria University in July 2011, which provided the opportunity to present and discuss a shorter version of this essay. AAA - Arbeiten aus Anglistik und Amerikanistik Band 38 (2013) · Heft 1 Gunter Narr Verlag Tübingen Steffen Hantke 4 1. Post-Nuclear Survival: The Interpretive Paradigm Within the larger framework of Cold War discourse, fictional representations of nuclear war and survival in its aftermath function within relatively narrow interpretive parameters. “Some works,” as M. Keith Booker (2001: 65) argues, “can be taken as cautionary tales and seem genuinely designed as attempted interventions in contemporary debates concerning the Cold War arms race.” Driven by a clear political and ideological agenda, these texts - Booker cites John Hersey’s book Hiroshima (1946) as an example - draw on a dystopian tradition in which the aftermath of nuclear war is imagined as a nightmarish scenario in which the survivors have reason to envy the dead. Complementary to this tradition, Booker (2001: 65) points to texts which often operate in “a satirical vein” and “[use] their depictions of post-holocaust worlds as devices of cognitive estrangement that add critical force to the author’s commentary on the ills of his or her own contemporary society,” among which “routinization” and “alienation” stand out as the very curse of modernity swept away by a nuclear war that creates the opportunity to start over and get it right this time. Referring to George R. Stewart’s Earth Abides (1949) as an example of this second tradition - a novel with “an upbeat tone that makes the holocaust itself sometimes seem almost like a positive, quasi- Darwinian development” - Booker (2001: 67) makes it clear that there is an odd utopianism to these narratives, a sense that survivors are better off without the clutter and mess of modernity. 2 As accurate and useful as these distinctions between utopian and dystopian traditions within post-nuclear disaster narratives are - I myself will draw on these distinctions in my own analysis - what is striking about them is how literal their approach is to the representation of nuclear war itself. Underneath the interpretive framework is the tacit assumption that, as much as diegetic elements may serve as vehicles of ‘cognitive estrangement’, when these texts are talking about nuclear war, they really are talking about nuclear war. This assumption is perhaps more compelling in the dystopian cautionary tales, in which the taste and feel of the aftermath is ideologically and argumentatively wedded to the direct outcome of nuclear war itself, than in the utopian tradition that posits nucle- 2 This dichotomy controlling post-nuclear survival narrative aligns itself especially well with a broader view of the historical period to which both texts examined in this essay return in their conceptualization of a post-nuclear world - the Middle Ages. Even though the Middle Ages “became, almost from the very moment the Renaissance recognized they were past, synonymous with the barbaric, the violent, and the superstitious - ‘modernity’s common, rejected […] past,’ antithetical to the values of rational, humane, and democratic discourse” (Aronstein 2005: 11), they also inspired “two dominant [and complementary] views: the progressive vision of history, in which the Middle Ages figure as barbaric, and the nostalgic vision, in which the medieval past represents Utopia” (Aronstein 2005: 12). Going Medieval 5 ar war ‘merely’ as a radical historical caesura, a hyperbolic rhetorical gesture necessary to present the severing of historical continuity as a blessing (which, conversely, appears to be a curse in the dystopian tradition). If I have placed inverted commas around the word ‘merely’ in the previous sentence, it is to suggest that, as a device for ‘cognitive estrangement’, nuclear war would appear as too gravely serious to provide the metaphor enabling the representation and discussion of other issues closer to any given text’s heart; its literal reality should be serious enough to prevent its transformation into a rhetorical device. And yet, this is precisely its function, even in texts belonging to the dystopian tradition. To the extent that nuclear war figures as a multivalent metaphor, postnuclear narratives are merely a subcategory of post-apocalyptic discourse, in which all disasters are functionally alike: viral epidemics (Stephen King’s The Stand [1978]), uncontrollable plunges into alternative universes (Geoff Murphy’s film The Quiet Earth [1985]), alien invasion (H.G. Wells’ War of the Worlds [1898]), climate change (Kevin Reynold’s Waterworld [1995]), Malthusian population explosions and famine (Richard Fleischer’s Soylent Green [1973]), the zombie wars (Max Brooks’ World War Z [2006]), or simply unexplained catastrophic events that ring in the end of the world as we know it. Taken to its furthest extent, this means that, especially within the confines of the Cold War, any fictional catastrophe enabling the construction of a post-catastrophic world always represents nuclear war, and yet no such fictional catastrophic event is ever fully or exclusively a representation of nuclear war alone. Moreover, every post-nuclear survival decides, deliberately or simply by default, to which historical period post-apocalyptic humanity is going to ratchet back. Whether we bomb ourselves back to the Stone Age (Luc Besson’s The Last Battle [1983]), the 19 th century American Frontier (Leigh Brackett’s The Long Tomorrow [1955]), or the period with which this essay will be primarily concerned, the Middle Ages (Robert Altman’s Quintet [1979], Walter M. Miller’s A Canticle for Leibowitz [1960], or Russell Hoban’s Riddley Walker [1980]), the narrative always mobilizes a specific iconography of historical periodization. 3 The tool of cognitive estrangement, as Keith Booker puts it, is ultimately an eclectic historical 3 Choices within these scenarios are determined, among other things, by cultural predispositions. As Susan Aronstein (2005: 18f.) points out, “medievalism in general […] seems incompatible with the American myth and spirit. Not only does America have no medieval past, but also it sees itself as a forward-looking nation, committed to technology and progress; in addition, it is the very remnants of the medieval past, with its hierarchical social structures, that the early Americans saw themselves as having fled upon leaving Europe.” John Christopher agrees: “unfortunately the USA doesn’t have a past in the European sense. There’s no mediaeval background to relate to: transferring the Tripods across the Atlantic would be like setting Robin Hood in New England” (Brockhurst 2009a). Steffen Hantke 6 (and, to the extent that it is always in quotation marks, bracketed, or cited, and thus inevitably draws attention to itself, meta-historical) narrative that poses an uncanny historical other. In its contemplation, we confront neither the historical past, nor the extrapolated future, but an aesthetically and ideologically hyperbolic version of the present. Following exactly this idea of the assimilation of other contemporary concerns into the post-nuclear survival narrative, I would like to pinpoint such a present moment - in this case the year 1984 - by considering an issue articulated through, and existing independently of, the nuclear catastrophe and its aftermath depicted in two texts: Mick Jackson’s madefor-TV movie about a nuclear attack on Sheffield and its aftermath, Threads, and the miniseries based on a trilogy of novels by John Christopher about post-invasion Britain under alien rule, The Tripods. Beyond their common theme of post-nuclear survival, The Tripods and Threads appeal to different audiences (Threads is decidedly adult in its grimness, The Tripods is for an audience of teenagers and young adults), deploy different aesthetics (Threads is a mockumentary, The Tripods an adventure narrative), and progress at different speed (Threads is a tightly constructed 110 minutes feature film, The Tripods unfolds over two meandering, digressive seasons, with a total of 25 half-hour episodes). I hope that from these considerable differences, the sense of topical urgency both programs share with each other will emerge all the more clearly as the overriding issue of their day. Since both texts were made for and broadcast by the BBC in 1984, and since this urgent underlying issue shared by both Threads and The Tripods is economic austerity, the historical reference point of Thatcherism is unavoidable. 4 Less obvious, however, is the ideological interplay that emerges from both texts’ dialogue with each other, a dialogue which, on the one hand, illustrates the difficulty of mainstream entertainment to position itself in relationship to Thatcherite economic and social policies, and, on the other hand, complicates the dichotomy of dystopian and utopian traditions that constrains the critical discourse on post-nuclear survival narratives. 2. Onward to the Past: Britain in the New Dark Ages The Tripods imagines an England in 2089 AD that has been under the rule of alien invaders for longer than any of its inhabitants can remember. The original invasion was a cataclysmic event that, in effect, ended history. 4 The Tripods began airing on September 15, 1984, and concluded on November 16, 1985 (without having completed the narrative arc prescribed by its literary source material, John Christopher’s trilogy The White Mountains [1967], The City of Gold and Lead [1968], and The Pool of Fire [1968]), while Threads aired originally on September 23, 1984. Going Medieval 7 Though nuclear war is not explicitly a theme, the fact that the invasion has receded in collective memory frames it as an event with similar longterm effects. 5 Clearly, the invasion is a singular trauma; the fact that “an entire technologically advanced civilization […] has since been replaced by a reactionary feudal one” (Walsh 2003: 237) is something that figures as the central ontological and cosmological enigma of the fictional universe, which, as it escapes all attempts at describing, understanding, and coping with it, organizes the entire fictional universe around itself. Nobody in the series remembers the invasion clearly, no authoritative sources seem to exist, and yet all conversations inevitably return to it. As long-term effects of the invasion, the erasure of historical awareness and mental control are far more striking features of domination than the actual presence of the aliens themselves. Incompatible with Earth’s atmosphere, they remain encased in Wellsian war machines bestriding the landscape, or secluded within a handful of giant domed cities accessible only to them and an army of human slaves destined to end their lives in service. Most importantly, the invaders have ensured human collaboration by means of a device, the so-called cap, which, grafted onto the skull in a universal and compulsory coming-of-age ceremony conducted by the aliens with some help from the candidate’s family, robs every sixteenyear old of individuality, adventurousness, and rebelliousness. Capping, as this rite of passage is called, recapitulates on a personal level the collective global disaster of alien invasion. In its aftermath, young adults are possessed by the same docility and complacency that renders all human progress literally un-‘think’-able. 6 In strange contradiction to what may sound like a grim Orwellian nightmare, the BBC miniseries visualizes England in 2089 AD like a Breughel painting: a medieval pastoral of fields and woods, dotted with small villages and, every once in a while, a mid-size town devoted to trade or shipping; ox-carts and horse-drawn carriages, and wateror windpowered mills. As in the rest of Europe, across which the main characters 5 As a contextual consideration, it is interesting to note that Christopher, beyond the scope of the Tripods trilogy, rehearsed post-apocalyptic survival narrative in a series of novels for adults, most notably with The Death of Grass [1956], The World in Winter [1962], and A Wrinkle in the Skin [1965], placing him in the tradition of writers indulging in scenarios of ‘cosy catastrophe’, a term coined somewhat dismissively by Brian Aldiss in The Billion Year Spree (1973) in reference, specifically, to John Wyndham. Despite the dismissal of ‘cosy catastrophe’, Aldiss nonetheless acknowledges Christopher as an important British science fiction writer (Brockhurst 2009b). 6 Examining the etymological implications of the word ‘cap’, Clare Walsh (2003: 238) also discovers one that relates directly to the economic concept of austerity by way of imposed limitations: “It is a contraption which nonetheless renders the mind of the wearer ‘soft’, and malleable to the wishes of the Masters. This links it to another one of its senses as ‘setting a limit on expenditure’, in this case the limit being imposed on the expenditure of independent thought.” Steffen Hantke 8 will eventually travel as they search for organized resistance to alien occupation, society has settled down into a stable feudal order. The occasional anachronism - a clock, a steam-powered ship’s engine, or even the ruins of a destroyed metropolis like Paris - serves as a reminder that this is not literally the Middle Ages but a historically idiosyncratic and eclectic fictional space marking the decline of industrial modernity as a result of a catastrophic historical caesura. Threads, at first glance, could not be more different. Instead of John Christopher’s adventure story for young adults, Mick Jackson’s gritty mockumentary tells the story of a nuclear attack against the British Midlands. Unlike the more panoramic, distanced, and thus more properly ‘documentary’ approach to character and plot in Peter Watkins’ The War Game (1965), from which Jackson nonetheless takes his aesthetic and formal cues, Threads goes the way of The Tripods and narrativizes postnuclear survival by providing individualized protagonists, a young couple, Ruth and Jimmy, and their daughter Jane, born after the attack. 7 The film then traces Jane’s biography until, thirteen years after the attack, she gives birth to a stillborn infant daughter, which is where, abruptly, the film ends. Long before that, we witness the collapse of the social order, the introduction of repressive political measures, the loss of historical memory, literacy, and national identity. It is in the later phase of this historical trajectory that post-nuclear Britain begins to take on medieval features. If Breughel comes to mind again, it is not the rural utopianism of the “Wheat Harvest” (1568) or the “Peasant Wedding” (1565) paintings, but the apocalyptic chaos of “The Triumph of Death” (1562). The scene evoked by the painting begins with an intertitle that announces that the “darkness and cold” of nuclear winter weeks after the blast “reduces plant activity to very low levels.” Jackson illustrates the collection of this “diminished first harvest” with little available technology and under severe climatic conditions in a sequence that opens with a horizon shot, lining up the silhouettes of anonymous human shapes bent over against the wind, shuffling listlessly back and forth around a single primitive tractor. The sequence remains drained of all color, dialed down to muted grays and blues, when the film cuts from the long shot to a series of medium close-ups showing either the same figures in their tattered, dirty clothing moving forward with their eyes cast down, or point-of-view shots of the drab, wilted shrubs they are collecting from the muddy, ashen ground. Aside from the sound of the wind, we hear the panting and wheezing of individual figures, underlining the imagery of bloodencrusted mouths and mottled complexions as one character drops lifelessly to the ground from exhaustion and radiation poisoning. 7 A more direct influence may have been Nicholas Meyer’s The Day After (1983), produced for U.S. television, since The War Game, despite its notoriety, had been rendered virtually invisible by British censorship. Going Medieval 9 In reference to Booker’s earlier distinction between the utopian and dystopian traditions within post-nuclear survival narrative, it is clear that Threads and The Tripods represent diametrically opposed versions of the Middle Ages - the noble, bucolic Middle Ages of Arthurian legend on the one hand; the grotesque Rabelaisian Middle Ages, courtesy of Mikhail Bakhtin, on the other. Despite their differences, both operate alongside each other within the same cultural and historical paradigm: opposite connotations, same iconographic reservoir. And yet, what makes the comparison of these two versions so interesting is that their relationship is not exactly symmetrical. That is to say, Threads is obviously working from a dystopian tradition that sees the Middle Ages as a “dark age” in which human lives are, to paraphrase John Hobbes, “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short” (Leviathan, Chapter 13). Meanwhile, The Tripods envisions a medieval Britain of pastoral tranquility, with Nature largely intact and a functioning social order. Nonetheless, upon closer inspection, this latter vision is not exactly utopian either, which would make it the polar opposite of the dystopian hellscape in Threads. To see it as utopian, one would have to ignore alien panoptic surveillance, both on the level of British, or even global geography, and on that of the individual body. In trying to make sense of this notable departure from Booker’s neat utopian/ dystopian model, I would like to follow the observation that both texts propose opposite readings of human agency preand post-catastrophe. Like all adventure narratives, The Tripods rewrites geographic and social spaces to create opportunities for the enactment of a personal and political agency which, within industrial modernity, has been largely curtailed. 8 This is the same agency which Threads, in its own rewriting of the landscape and social relationships, increasingly denies its characters, not as a result of surveillance and repression but of hardship and scarcity. While agency in The Tripods is a matter of stepping outside the social order - i.e. evading the capping ritual and retreating to liminal or interstitial spaces (on the road, in the woods, in the mountains) - agency in Threads is an option rendered altogether unavailable by external conditions that leave no room for such individual choice. In other words, while The Tripods imagines agency as a product or condition of politics, Threads imagines it as a product or condition of economics. Hence, The Tripods is a political dystopia, while Threads is an economic one. And yet economics plays a central role in both texts. Threads imagines the regression to medieval conditions as a dramatic decline in the individual’s quality of life. Twentieth century industrial capitalism disintegrates almost instantly as a result of the nuclear attack, and immediate practical demands dictate that the production of food become an absolute 8 The concept I have in mind here is what Timothy Melley (2001) has called “agency panic,” against which 20 th century adventure narratives posit a fully empowered subject. For more detail, see Melley 2001. Steffen Hantke 10 priority. Exacerbated by external conditions - from climate change to loss of advanced agricultural technology like fertilizers and machinery - the film imagines agrarian society operating at the edge of subsistence. Economic scarcity is a universal condition for as long as a tenuous social stability can be achieved. Beyond that, the film chronicles a steady decline, an entropic winding down, toward complete human extinction; not by coincidence does the film end with a stillborn infant. The Tripods, meanwhile, visualizes a medieval Europe capable of maintaining an agrarian society which, albeit primitive by contemporary standards, operates reliably and produces sufficient food to sustain its numerically thinned-out but stable population. The process presupposes a historical period immediately succeeding the invasion which probably resembled post-attack conditions in Threads, but that period has long passed. The first novel in Christopher’s trilogy, The While Mountains, makes it clear that economics and politics are inseparable, explicitly affirming the political credo that “in the end we shall destroy the Tripods,” but, more importantly, “free men will enjoy the goodness of the earth” (214, italics added) - a concept radically alien to the post-apocalyptic scenario in Threads where the ‘goodness of the earth’ has been permanently despoiled. 9 To illustrate ‘the goodness of the earth’, the makers of the BBC miniseries provide frequent scenes of communal feasts and festivals, each of which comes with images of agricultural abundance. One critic, Lincoln Geraghty (2011: 112), compares the depictions of “the details of the English landscape seen in The Tripods” with “the rural poor and countryside [as painted] by such artists as George Morland,” who did not paint “an idealized version of rural life, like most of his contemporaries, but instead pictured life as hard and unsentimental.” However, I would disagree with Geraghty on this point. The geographical space mapped out in scenes that take place in British villages and towns, and scenes taking place during the travels of the characters from Britain to the Swiss Alps, may be a dystopian nightmare of surveillance and repression due to the omnipresent “threat of capping or arrest for noncompliance” (Geraghty 2011: 112). However, “the village scenes,” - unlike “life on the open road” - are hardly “unforgiving” (Geraghty 2011: 112). In fact, Europe under alien domination may have relapsed to medieval conditions, but it is a medieval Europe of agricultural plenitude, except for those who place themselves outside the social order by, for example, going on “the open 9 In the final instance, The Tripods is not altogether free of environmental anxieties, but the miniseries, following the novels, projects environmental disaster both onto the domed cities, where the aliens have created environmental enclosures containing their own poisonous atmosphere, and onto a none-too-distant yet indeterminate future in which the aliens will begin transforming Earth’s atmosphere to suit their own biological needs. In effect, this narrative projection brackets the environmental aspects of post-nuclear survival that plays such a central role in Threads. Going Medieval 11 road.” 10 In fact, The White Mountains revels in “the smell of roast beef mixing with the smells of beer and cider and lemonade, and all kinds of cakes and puddings” (17), reminding us that “the midday meal on a Saturday was always lavish” (10, italics added). The only exceptions from such abundance come when characters step outside the bounds of organized society, i.e. when they avoid capping and join the resistance movement, (a less crucial scenario is when the capping procedure does not ‘take’ properly), which is where Geraghty is exactly right. Outsider status, throughout the series, is associated with immediate physical discomfort, deprivation, and, most importantly, with hunger. Scarcity only enters the picture by way of a marginalized existence, which, in turn, means going hungry or scavenging for food. Translating the Tripods’ economic imagination back into the register of its political dystopia, we can see that it is, in fact, this abundance that poses the fundamental problem to humanity under alien domination. It is not the hardship and scarcity that alien domination is imposing upon humanity against which human resistance is forming - because there is no such hardship. It is against the state of mindless complacency produced by capping by which rebellion defines itself (to which the miniseries adds a police apparatus of human collaborators that, in its complexity and dimensions, is missing from the novels). Comfort is the enemy, choosing hardship is inherently ennobling. The makers of the BBC series understand that, if the threat to the protagonists is to be essentially an internal one - that, in other words, the alien threat is one of both domination and seduction - there must be the promise of economic security and stability that serves as the carrot to which capping and arrest are the complementary stick. This, of course, makes perfect sense considering the fact that Christopher’s original novels function within the genre of adventure - a form of cultural discourse that posits exactly that which bourgeois society tries to contain or even erase: unpredictability, physical exertion, danger, and risk. In this regard, The Tripods promises, like all adventure stories, either an escape to its audience from the strictures and monotony of bourgeois life, or a critique of bourgeois life as too safe, too smug, too contained, all the while encouraging and confirming ‘adventure’ as the aggressive expansionist spirit required by competitive capitalism inextricably intertwined with European imperialism. 10 The reason for this disagreement may stem from the fact that Geraghty (2011: 112) describes The Tripods “as a retrovision - not of the industrial Britain of the nineteenth and twentieth century but of the more pastoral eighteenth century when the English countryside was the living and breathing heart of the British economy,”, identifying pieces of technology like a watch or a steam-engine not as signifiers of deliberate ahistoricity but as germane to pinpointing the post-nuclear period. Steffen Hantke 12 Considering that Christopher’s trilogy, as well as the BBC miniseries, were specifically aimed at a young adult audience, this anti-bourgeois dynamic also functions more specifically as a generational theme. The metaphor of the cap forced upon all 16-year olds to turn them into carbon copies of their conformist parents is hardly a subtle one - an objective correlative, if you will, of Althusserian interpellation. It marks the estrangement of teenagers from each other on opposite sides of the divide of puberty, and, more dramatically, the absolute difference between adults and children, with all positive validation on the children’s side. Clearly, teenage rebellion against adult complacency and conformity has lost none of its urgency from Christopher’s late 1960s novels to the 1984 miniseries. 11 In contrast to the novels, however, the BBC miniseries foregrounds an anxiety that is not so much generational in nature as it is, at its root, economic. The miniseries is rife with the anxiety that rebellion against the social order means cutting yourself off from the economic abundance produced by that social order. The ethos of 1960s generational rebellion might consider it a matter of idealistic sacrifice to trade in the alienating comforts of the parents’ generation for higher, more ‘authentic’ spiritual ideals. But then, removed from the memories of post-war austerity measures by more than one generation, the BBC miniseries accepts British affluence by the early 1980s as a stable, permanent condition. There is little, if anything, in the series that suggests a questioning of the sources of this abundance. The fact that human labor should profit the alien oppressors more than humanity itself is clearly objectionable, but then nobody in the entire series ever seems to perform such labor under intolerable dystopian conditions. We see people work, just as we hear our characters fantasize about the labor-saving technologies of their lost forefather’s civilization, but except for the slave labor performed by humans inside the alien city in the second season of the series, labor itself appears to be neither exploitive nor destructive to the individual, the collective, or even the environment. The sacrifice to one’s comfort as a result of joining the political underground is thus uncoupled yet again from external conditions and relegated more strongly to the realm of abstract ideals. In fact, it seems as if The Tripods has difficulties imagining a world in which material conditions are anything but tolerable. The idyllic pastoral landscapes that dominate the series are the visual equivalent of this attitude. Threads, meanwhile, returns its audience to a much harsher emotional landscape evoking for it audience, which is comprised of a different generational cohort than the young adults expected to follow The Tripods, memories of the immediate post-war years. Not only is the visual and narrative immediacy of the nuclear attack on Sheffield a vivid reminder 11 For a full discussion of how generational experience shapes audience response in Threads, see Karen Anijar 2004. Going Medieval 13 of the blitz, as are the images of tattered survivors sifting through the rubble. The medieval economy establishing itself a decade after the attack might serve as a short-hand for the economic scarcity of the post-war years - what historian Tony Judt (2010: 162), among others, has called “the age of austerity.” 12 Focusing on main characters whose working-class background already places them in a rather precarious position regarding post-war British affluence, Jackson’s film illustrates a dramatic, though perhaps subliminal, insecurity when it comes to accepting this new affluence as a permanent condition. In the blink of an eye - the film suggests - we could all be back to the bad old days! 3. “There’s no such thing as society”: Responding to Creative Destruction My earlier reference to the release date of both Threads and The Tripods by the BBC as ‘Orwellian’ may have been misleading in the sense that it suggests an underlying theme of political repression common to both programs. Though this is not the case in Threads, where, ultimately, the catastrophic historical caesura produces not too much social coherence, or too much government, but too little, repression does play a role in The Tripods. Conversely, another Orwellian theme - the entropic state of persistent economic scarcity - does appear in Threads but not in The Tripods. Here it is again, that strange thematic asymmetry, as if both texts are trying to work through a problem which is all the more puzzling not because opposing critical approaches remain grounded in political partisanship, but because the problem itself is inherently oxymoronic. One and the same historical situation generates a response that insists, simultaneously, that there is both too much and too little social coherence, both economic abundance and economic scarcity. Without delving into the deep implications of economic theory, one might be able to find a thematically analogous oxymoron in the term which, coined by “Iain MacLeod, [a] British Tory MP, [and used] in a speech to Parliament in 1965,” haunts the debate about the economic slump Britain was undergoing during the late 1960s and 1970s - ‘stagflation’ (for a full discussion see MIA: Encyclopedia of Marxism n.d.). The neologism, suggesting a grim combination of the worst of two economic 12 Judt (2010: 163) points out that, beyond the more abstract expressions of economic depression, it was particularly the rationing of food, “never imposed during the war” yet “introduced in 1946 and not abandoned until July 1948 […], long after the rest of Western Europe,” which was to become the central emblematic aspect of future representations and artistic evocations of the period. Not surprisingly, much of the economic argument in Threads and The Tripods is articulated in exactly this register, argumentatively simplified and politically reductionist, yet charged with enormous historical significance. Steffen Hantke 14 worlds - i.e. high unemployment and rising prices, instead of one or the other - marks a shift away from the principles of the welfare state that had guided British post-war reconstruction, and toward neoliberal reforms that were to be implemented, with a vengeance, with the election in May of 1979 of Margaret Thatcher. Given how strongly both Threads and The Tripods are concerned with economics as a theme that runs through their historical, social, and visual imagination, we can align the narrative logic of both texts - i.e. the catastrophe followed by a radically altered/ historically regressed social and economic environment - with their immediate historical context. But working out this historical context is not as easy as it looks. What exactly constitutes the “catastrophic event” in Threads and The Tripods: was it, to quote David Harvey (2005: 57), the “serious crisis of capital accumulation” dragging down the British economy during the 1970s to which Thatcher’s neoliberal measures were to be the remedy? Or was it exactly those draconian neoliberal measures with which the Thatcher government responded to this crisis in the 1980s (Harvey [2005: 71] himself uses the term “shock therapy” as a side of effect of neoliberalization, anticipating rhetoric popularized by Naomi Klein in response to the same phenomena two decades later)? 13 Was Thatcher regressing Britain back - past the years of the postwar welfare state - to a neo-feudal society aggressively “attacking all forms of social solidarity that hindered competitive flexibility” (Harvey 2005: 23), a threat encapsulated in Thatcher’s much quoted dictum that there is “no such thing as society,” turning Britain from a Gemeinschaft into a Gesellschaft that was difficult to disagree with considering the economic abundance it so demonstrably produced? Or was it the bleak 1970s that constituted the regression, a bleak landscape of scarcity that required a decisive authoritarian intervention if slow decline toward ultimate extinction was to be halted and reversed? 14 13 One of the critics writing about The Tripods points out that the BBC itself was the target of austerity measures, insinuating that perhaps some of the series’ underlying anxiety about who was to participate in recent affluence and at what political price could have been a concern for the makers of the series. See Geraghty 2011: 105-107. 14 Judging by the standards of the immediate post-war years, 1970s stagflation may not have looked or felt like austerity. And yet the imperative of economic growth driving the discourse of stagflation may have caused a sense of uneasiness with what, on the level of felt affluence, could have been experienced as relative comfort and stability (the economic equivalent of a moral of social panic, raising the question of who exactly was driving, and profiting from, the rhetoric of crisis at the time). Hence, we see that same sense of unease about relative economic stability in The Tripods: stability without the growth imperative is the economic equivalent of personal contentment without full individual autonomy, of happiness without ambition. Economic unease switches registers and is, instead, expressed as a political issue (i.e. personal agency). Going Medieval 15 This ambiguity, which accounts not only for politically divergent readings of the Thatcher years but also for disagreement within the camps of her supporters and her detractors, respectively, is in itself significant enough to be factored into a reading of popular entertainment from the mid-1980s. Harvey (2005: 23), in his discussion of Thatcher’s neoliberal policies, has pointed out that, despite their controversial reception, her measures changed Britain “in ways that were in no way comprehensive and complete, let alone free of political cost”; and if Thatcherism’s incomplete, inconclusive effects were not enough, Harvey (2005: 3) reminds us, yet again somewhat oxymoronically, that the “process of neoliberalization [in general has always] entailed much ‘creative destruction’.” Just as the economic, social, and political changes from the 1970s to the 1980s remain difficult to assess, so the cultural responses to those changes in texts like Threads and The Tripods vacillate between clear-cut positions. Television series are, after all, not political pamphlets, and even if they were politically partisan, would have had a hard time resolving all troubling complexities of 1970s stagflation and 1980s neoliberalization. What they do provide, however, is a critical reflection on the larger paradigm within which a wide variety of possible responses are constrained. In this case, that narrative paradigm is defined by a discourse of catastrophic rupture followed by historical regression and, most of all, intense anxieties about sustained economic austerity and the permanence and the political price of economic recovery and efficiency. 4. Permanent Austerity or Crisis: The Afterlife of Post-Nuclear Survival Narratives Even though the end of the Cold War has relegated the actual threat of nuclear war and its aftermath to the fringes of popular consciousness - where it persists primarily as the specter of atomic weapons falling into the hand of terrorists, and, less urgently, as the faint awareness that little of the nuclear arsenal of the U.S. and the former Soviet Union has actually been taken off its rusty hair-triggers - the post-nuclear survival narrative has continued to thrive. From highbrow fiction (Cormac McCarthy’s The Road [2006], Colson Whitehead’s Zone One [2011]) to popular television (Jericho [CBS 2006-08], The Walking Dead [AMC 2010-]), its essential metaphoric conceit has proven sufficiently flexible to accommodate a variety of topical anxieties, proving my earlier point that no such fictional catastrophe is never fully or exclusively a representation of nuclear war alone. If one were to go in search of historical experiences beyond the pale of the Cold War alarming enough to sustain the surprising survival, or even revival, of this narrative, one might be well advised to remember the economic subtext in Threads and The Tripods, which suggests that, to one Steffen Hantke 16 degree or another, all post-apocalyptic survival narratives are about the experience - as memory or as projected anxiety of things to come - of economic austerity. As global capitalism moves its current downturn in the cycle of boom and bust around the planet, a process that began with the U.S. banking crisis in the fall of 2008 and, at the time of writing, is manifesting itself in a variety of European economies (with no immediate end in sight), the dominant accompanying rhetoric - which is that of a unique, unexpected, and unprecedented crisis - serves to obscure the predictably recurring nature of not so singular a ‘crisis’. With the imposition of austerity measures upon large segments of the affected national populations, coupled with an awareness that ‘austerity’ in industrialized nations looks different from one social class to another (not to mention when compared to that in what used to be called the ‘Third World’), postnuclear survival narratives may have become a major form of expressing a sustained historical experience of economic austerity rather than the short, sharp shock of a ‘crisis’. With their emphasis on the interminable ‘post-crisis’ period, they are perfectly poised to capture a sense that economic austerity may be a permanent fixture of what touts itself as the best economic system ever devised. In a May 21, 2011 article in Variety, Kathy Dunkley reports that “Australian-born director Gregor Jordan has signed on to rewrite and direct the adaptation of John Christopher's ‘The Tripods Trilogy’ for Walt Disney's Touchstone Pictures label.” Given that recent political discourse in the U.S. has revolved around Republican demands for austerity measures, especially from the so-called Tea Party on its extreme right wing, Disney’s adaptation comes across as well attuned to the urgent matters of the time. For those who remember its lineage, from Christopher’s novels to the BBC miniseries, as well as that series’ original historical context, the Disney release might even serve as a reminder that economic busts - like Hollywood remakes - are not unique crises but predictably and inevitably recurring periods in capitalism’s cyclical development. Whatever the political tenor of Disney’s adaptation might turn out to be, however - that is, if the project does not itself become a casualty of austerity measures within the film industry and ends up cancelled - it is important to remember that in order to grasp the complexities of 1970s British stagflation and Tory economic policy in the 1980s, The Tripods required the complementary representational labour performed by Threads, and vice versa. Unable to capture the economic historical experience in its entirety, each text considered in isolation from the other must appear either lopsided or internally inconsistent. Considering the sustained viability of the post-nuclear survival narrative, and Hollwood’s penchant for remakes, however, there is reason to hope that Disney’s version of The Tripods, just as its 1985 BBC precursor, will be in good textual company when it finally arrives. Going Medieval 17 References Anijar, Karen (2004). “The World Connected on a Tenuous String: Looking at the Movie Threads.” Journal of Curriculum and Pedagogy 1/ 2. 125-149. Aronstein, Susan (2005). Hollywood Knights: Arthurian Cinema and the Politics of Nostalgia. New York: Palgrave/ Macmillan. Booker, Keith M. (2001). Monsters, Mushroom Clouds, and the Cold War: American Science Fiction and the Roots of Postmodernism. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press. Brockhurst, Colin (2009a). “Interview with Tripods author Sam Youd (aka John Christopher).” April 10, 2009. [Online] http: / / www.colinbrockhurst.co.uk/ interview-with-tripods-author-sam-youd-aka-john-christopher/ 380 (May 2013). Brockhurst, Colin (2009b). “The shattered worlds of John Christopher.” April 11, 2009. [Online] http: / / www.colinbrockhurst.co.uk/ the-shattered-worlds-ofjohn-christopher/ 422/ (May 2013). Dunkley, Cathy (2005). “Jordan to control ‘Tripods Trilogy’.” Variety. January 4, 2005. [Online] http: / / variety.com/ 2005/ film/ news/ jordan-to-control-tripodstrilogy-1117915772/ (May 2013) Geraghty, Lincoln (2011). “Visions of an English Dystopia: History, Technology and the Rural Landscape in The Tripods.” In: Tobias Hochscherf/ James Leggott (eds.). British Science Fiction Film and Television: Critical Essays. Jefferson, NC: McFarland. 104-17. Harvey, David (2005). A Brief History of Neoliberalism. Oxford: OUP. Judt, Tony (2010). Postwar: A History of Europe since 1945. London: Vintage. Melley, Timothy (2001). “Agency Panic and the Culture of Conspiracy.” In: Peter Knight (ed.). Conspiracy Nation: The Politics of Paranoia in Post-war America. New York & London: New York University Press. 57-81. MIA: Encyclopedia of Marxism. Glossary of Terms (n.d.). “Stagflation.” [Online] http: / / www.marxists.org/ glossary/ terms/ s/ t.htm (May 2013). Walsh, Clare (2003). “From 'Capping' to Intercision: Metaphors/ Metonyms of Mind Control in the Young Adult Fiction of John Christopher and Philip Pullman.” Language and Literature: Journal of the Poetics and Linguistics Association 12/ 3. 233-251. Steffen Hantke Sogang University, Seoul South Korea „… what dignity is there in that? “ Zum Zusammenhang erzählerischer Unzuverlässigkeit und ethischem Verhalten in Kazuo Ishiguros The Remains of the Day Daniel Schäbler Kazuo Ishiguros Roman The Remains of the Day (1989) handelt vom Einfluss der Erinnerung beim Erzählen der eigenen Lebensgeschichte eines ‚kleinen Mannes‘ und positioniert sich im literarischen Genre des historischen Romans. 1 Der Roman führt vor, wie das Bemühen des Individuums um Wahrhaftigkeit mit dem Bedürfnis nach Selbstrechtfertigung in Konflikt gerät, ein Konflikt, der für den Erhalt der Selbstachtung nicht vor der Verdrehung von Fakten halt macht. Im Fall des Erzählers Stevens, der als Butler im Hause eines aristokratischen Nazi-Sympathisanten im England der 1930er Jahre am Vorabend des Zweiten Weltkriegs dient, gewinnt dessen retrospektive Verdrängungsleistung angesichts seiner apolitischen Passivität an ethischer Brisanz. Der Butler rechtfertigt in völliger Ergebenheit die Machenschaften seines Herrn und diese Selbsttäuschung praktiziert er ebenso in seiner harschen Zurückweisung der Haushälterin Miss Kenton, die sich in ihn verliebt. Für diese sorgsam gepflegte Lebenslüge zahlt er jedoch einen hohen Preis: Erst als es schon zu spät ist, sein Herr verbittert gestorben ist und keine realistische Möglichkeit für eine Beziehung mit Miss Kenton mehr besteht, muss er seine Selbsttäuschung eingestehen. Der Text wirft somit sowohl in seiner komplexen Erzählform wie auch auf der motivischen Ebene vielfältige Fragen zur Rolle von Erinnerung und Identität bei der Rekapitulation und Rekonstruktion von Vergangenem auf. Aber auch narratologisch relevante Fragen werden aufge- 1 Der Roman fügt sich somit in eine bereits vor einiger Zeit konstatierte Tendenz ein, der zufolge „the kinds of historical novels we are seeing these days, like their historiographical counterparts, reflect an interest in the ordinary and the dispossessed - those traditionally dispossessed by posterity, as well as those dispossessed materially and politically“ (Lang 2000: 148). AAA - Arbeiten aus Anglistik und Amerikanistik Band 38 (2013) · Heft 1 Gunter Narr Verlag Tübingen Daniel Schäbler 20 worfen: Ist ein Erzähler, der die eigene Unzuverlässigkeit bisweilen eingesteht, dann noch unzuverlässig? Welche Funktion erfüllt die Strategie des Erzählers Stevens, seine Erinnerungsepisoden immer wieder neu zu verknüpfen und so die Kausalzusammenhänge zu verschleiern? Wie hängt dies mit seiner Erinnerung und dem Bemühen um die Herstellung einer kohärenten Lebenserzählung zusammen? Im Folgenden soll auf diese Fragen eingegangen werden und dafür Ishiguros Text als ambivalente, sowohl ideologiekritische als auch wertkonservative, Auseinandersetzung mit der Rolle und Macht der Erinnerung bei der retrospektiven Sinnstiftung gelesen werden. Weder die Abwertung des Erzählers und seiner Erinnerung, noch die Illusionsförderung im Sinne eines ‚realistischen‘ Erzählens, so meine These, ist für Ishiguros Roman zentral. Vielmehr inszeniert er, basierend auf kognitionspsychologischen Erkenntnissen, die narrative ‚Zurichtung‘ der Erinnerung durch das Individuum auf die Bedürfnisse der Gegenwart hin. 2 Dies äußert sich in Stevens’ ‚Zurechtbiegen‘ seiner Erinnerungen, mit dem - freilich unbewussten - Ziel, sich eine für ihn befriedigende Identität zu konstruieren, wobei ihm der Leser dabei gleichsam über die Schulter blicken kann. Zudem soll The Remains of the Day auf Überschneidungspunkte mit dem in der neueren Forschung vieldiskutierten Konzept der narrativen Identität hin untersucht werden. Der vorliegende Aufsatz unternimmt in diesem Zusammenhang den Versuch, eine narratologische Analyse der diegetischen Ebene auch für weltanschaulich-moralisch-ideologische Fragen fruchtbar zu machen. Erzählstruktur und Ironie Stevens, ein alternder Butler, dessen Vornamen ungenannt bleibt, reist mit dem Automobil seines amerikanischen Arbeitgebers durch das England der 1950er Jahre, um die ehemalige Haushälterin des Herrenhauses, in dem er dient, aufgrund von Personalengpässen zur Rückkehr nach Darlington Hall zu bewegen. Unterwegs führt er ein Tagebuch, in dem er seine momentanen Reiseerlebnisse festhält und in das immer wieder Erinnerungen vergangener Jahrzehnte, vor allem aus den 1930er Jahren, einfließen. Als er an seinem Ziel ankommt, stellt sich heraus, dass die Haushälterin nicht so unglücklich mit ihrem Leben ist, wie er aus ihrem Brief herauszulesen glaubte, und lieber bei ihrem Mann bleiben will. Die Aufzeichnungen enden damit, dass der Butler weinend auf dem Pier eines südenglischen Badeortes sitzt und erkennt, dass er sein Leben verschwendet hat. 2 Erstmals finden sich diese Gedanken in den 1930er Jahren bei dem französischen Soziologen Maurice Halbwachs, vgl. hierzu Neumann 2005b: 159ff. Erzählerische Unzuverlässigkeit und Ethik in The Remains of the Day 21 Dies ist im Grunde alles, was sich über die Handlung in The Remains of the Day sagen lässt. Bereits die gewählte Erzählform problematisiert den Erzählinhalt. Die als Tagebuchnotizen ausgegebenen Binnenerzählungen sind nicht nur recht handlungsarm (Rushdie 1991: 244), ihr fiktionsinterner Wahrheitsgehalt wird durch die ständig in den Erzählfluss einbrechenden und ihn unterbrechenden Erinnerungen in Zweifel gezogen. Verstärkt wird dies durch Stevens’ andauernde Relativierung seines Erinnerungsvermögens. Die erinnerten vergangenen Episoden sind keineswegs chronologisch geordnet, sondern springen teils zwischen mehreren Jahrzehnten hin und her, was die Rekonstruktion erschwert. Viele Episoden lassen sich nur ungefähr in eine Abfolge bringen, genaue Zeitangaben sind selten und werden vom Erzähler meist sogleich wieder in Zweifel gezogen. Narratologisch gefasst handelt es sich demnach um die fiktive Autobiographie in Tagebuchform eines autodiegetischen Erzählers, der monoperspektivisch erzählt, die erinnerten Ereignissequenzen in anachronischer Reihenfolge präsentiert und die vergangenen Ereignisse analytisch rekonstruiert. Die paradigmatisch gewählte Form des chronologischen Tagebuchs kontrastiert mit der syntagmatisch achronologischen Anordnung der Handlung. Lorna Martens (1985: 192) weist in ihrer Studie zur Tagebuchliteratur darauf hin, dass die ursprünglich mimetische Form des Tagebuchs im Laufe der Literaturgeschichte poetisch und bedeutungstragend geworden sei: „Where the fiction of writing was no longer an obligatory convention in first-person fiction, it became a device that called attention to itself.“ Durch die charakteristische Hybridität und Fragmentarizität des Tagebuchs ist bereits die Form semantisiert: „The diary is a loose form. It is not cohesive; it consists of pieces. The only order implicit in it is the successiveness of narration itself“ (Martens 1985: 186). Durch die retrospektive Sinnstiftung des Butlers entsteht ein Spannungsverhältnis zwischen den Zeitebenen (vgl. Nünning 1995: 259f.). Zwei Zeitebenen innerhalb der erzählerischen Vermittlung sind zu unterscheiden: Die erste Ebene ist die in der erzählerischen Gegenwart angesiedelte Schilderung von Stevens’ Reiseeindrücken, die den Konventionen der Tagebuchliteratur folgend jeweils den aktuellen Stand des Bewusstseins des Erzählers wiedergibt und Zeitlücken offen lässt, während die Handlung weiterläuft. Diese muss der Leser aufgrund der nachträglich gegebenen Informationen rekonstruieren. Die Tagebucheinträge decken fiktionsintern Stevens’ sechstägige Reise nach Cornwall ab und sind in sieben Abschnitte unterteilt, wobei nicht jeder Tag einzeln, sondern bisweilen Vormittag und Abend als Zeitpunkte von Stevens’ Eintragungen benannt werden und der vorletzte Tag übersprungen wird. 3 3 Wolf (2005: 124-125) zeigt auf, dass diese Leerstelle bedeutungstragend ist, insofern die Lücke in Stevens‘ Aufzeichnungen genau mit dem Tag zusammenfällt, an dem er von Miss Kenton erfährt, dass sie - obwohl unglücklich - verheiratet ist. Daniel Schäbler 22 Die zweite Ebene besteht aus Stevens’ Erinnerungen, die anachronisch, tendenziell jedoch fortschreitend, angeordnet sind. Wie noch auszuführen sein wird, ist diese intradiegetische Ebene zentral, da sich auf ihr hauptsächlich die Handlung abspielt. Die erste Ebene ist jedoch insofern fundamental und für den Gesamttext konstitutiv, als sie auf prononcierte Weise eine Spannung zwischen Gegenwart und Vergangenheit hervorruft: In seiner Retrospektion rechtfertigt sich Stevens teils exzessiv für sein früheres Verhalten bzw. seine politischen und sozialen Einstellungen, kommt jedoch auch bisweilen zu Neubewertungen seiner Leitlinien und seines damaligen Verhaltens, vor allem zum Ende des Textes hin. 4 Die beiden Ebenen sind sowohl strukturell wie inhaltlich eng miteinander verzahnt: Stevens thematisiert auf der Ebene der Erzählgegenwart seine oft undeutliche Erinnerung, schildert die Erinnerung an vergangene Ereignisse auf der zweiten, intradiegetischen Ebene jedoch detailliert, so dass der Leser passagenweise in die Handlung eintauchen und vergessen kann, dass sie lediglich rückblickend erzählt wird. Somit wechseln aus wirkungsästhetischer Sicht primäre Geschehensillusion (showing) und sekundäre Erzählillusion (telling) einander ab, wobei die Erzählillusion stets als Grundierung und Rückhalt fungiert, wenn die Geschehensillusion aufgrund der vom Erzähler offen thematisierten fiktionsinternen Erinnerungslücken zusammenbricht und der Erzählinhalt dadurch relativiert wird. 5 Parkes (2001: 35) weist darauf hin, dass [t]he cumulative effect of several different entries is that they relativize each other; each one has the potential to cast the others in an ironic light. The diary form, moreover, is able to accommodate an unusually wide range of emotional and psychological states, and so permits novelists to indicate the breadth and depth of their characters in ways that open up large vistas of irony. Dramatische Ironie ist in der Tat ein zentrales Motiv des Textes. Die Sprache der männlichen Figuren, die äußerst formell ist, disqualifiziert sich wiederholt selbst bzw. bewirkt die für Ironie konstitutive Kluft zwischen Aussageabsicht des Sprechers und Wirkung auf den Rezipienten. Lord Darlington, für den Stevens arbeitet, liefert hierfür ein besonders prägnantes Beispiel, als er sich an sein ritterliches Verhältnis zu einem deutschen Offizier erinnert, der erst Kriegsgegner war und dann zum Freund wurde: „‚He was my enemy,‘ he [Darlington] was saying, ‚but he always Die Leerstelle verweist somit ikonisch auf Stevens’ unausgesprochene Emotionen angesichts dieser Nachricht. 4 Lang (2000: 155) charakterisiert diesen Handlungsstrang treffend: „A significant portion of Stevens’s narrative consists of his attempt to recreate, from his perspective as a private individual at the margins of power, the full historical context in which Lord Darlington made his ill-fated decisions.“ 5 Zu der verwendeten Typologie unterschiedlicher Illusionstypen vgl. Wolf 1993. Erzählerische Unzuverlässigkeit und Ethik in The Remains of the Day 23 behaved like a gentleman. We treated each other decently over six months of shelling each other‘“ (73). Unzulänglicher könnte der Kodex der Ehre angesichts der modernen Kriegsführung nicht sein. Auch der humorlose Stevens hat seine Erzählung bisweilen nicht im Griff. Sein beständiger Versuch, die eigene Würde aufrecht zu erhalten, kollabiert wiederholt, was in unbeabsichtigter Komik resultiert. So etwa als er vom prüden Lord Darlington den Auftrag erhält, den jungen Reginald Cardinal noch vor dessen Hochzeit über menschliche Fortpflanzung aufzuklären. Stevens bemüht sich zwar, dies pflichtgemäß auszuführen, drückt sich jedoch so lange und unbeholfen um das Thema herum, dass Cardinal zum Schluss glaubt, Stevens wolle ihn auf die Schönheit der Natur aufmerksam machen (90). Was hier und an einigen anderen Stellen auf äußerst komische Weise demontiert wird, ist nichts Geringeres als das Bild des ‚alten‘ und ehrwürdigen Englands der Vorkriegszeit. 6 Der Mythos des souveränen Butlers und des ‚anständigen‘ Adels wird durch Ironie dekonstruiert, aber zugleich auch nostalgisch verklärt. Die Sympathielenkung des Textes richtet sich wiederholt auf Stevens, der durchweg ‚sein Bestes‘ zu geben meint, dabei aber tragisch unbeholfen wirkt. Erzählerische Unzuverlässigkeit Darüber hinaus sind viele der Aussagen des Erzählers Stevens ohne große Schwierigkeiten als Selbstbetrug zu entlarven. Um dies deutlich zu machen, bedient sich der Text eines perspektivischen Kniffes: Die eigentlich streng monoperspektivische Sichtweise Stevens’ wird in entscheidenden Passagen aufgebrochen und um eine Fremdperspektive erweitert, was bisher in der Forschung kaum explizit bemerkt wurde. 7 So werden Stevens’ Reaktionen auf ihn persönlich betreffende Ereignisse - etwa den Tod seines Vaters - von ihm selbst ausgelassen, jedoch von anderen Figuren - etwa von Reginald Cardinal - kommentiert und somit für den Leser manifest: Kurz nachdem er die Nachricht vom Tod seines Vaters erhalten hat, fährt Stevens fort, die Gäste während einer internationalen Konferenz zu bedienen. Cardinal, der Sohn eines der Initiatoren der Konferenz, bemerkt ihm gegenüber: „‚Stevens, are you all right? ‘ ‚Yes sir. Perfectly.‘ ‚You look as though you’re crying.‘ I laughed and taking out a handkerchief, quickly wiped my face. ‚I’m very sorry, sir. The strains of a hard day.‘“ (105). Stevens ist stolz ob seiner Pflichterfüllung an diesem für ihn schweren Abend und scheint seine starke emotionale Reaktion gar nicht wahrzunehmen, beziehungsweise zu verdrängen, da er die Passage unkommentiert lässt. 6 Vgl. den Aufsatz von Anne Luyat (1994: bes. 190), sowie die humoristischen Romane von P. G. Wodehouse, die einen wichtigen Intertext darstellen. 7 Eine Ausnahme bilden hier Phelan/ Martin 1999. Daniel Schäbler 24 Hieraus ergibt sich die in der Forschung viel diskutierte Frage nach der Zuverlässigkeit des Erzählers Stevens. Eine gewisse Diskrepanz zwischen seiner expliziten Darstellung seiner Sichtweise von Ereignissen und impliziten Textsignalen ist offensichtlich, etwa den oben beschriebenen Reaktionen der anderen Figuren, die seiner Version widersprechen, sowie Stevens’ teils obsessives Bemühen um ‚Klarstellung‘ von Ereignissen, die seine Würde in den Augen des Adressaten herabsetzen könnten. Andererseits wird sich der Butler zunehmend bewusst, dass er sich die Vergangenheit bisweilen zurechtgebogen hat, was seine Unzuverlässigkeit mindert. 8 Dass ihm dieses Erzählprojekt letztlich nur unvollständig glückt, hängt eng mit Stevens’ rigider Lebensmaxime der dignity zusammen. Die Würde ist ein zentraler Bestandteil der ambivalenten nostalgischen Sehnsucht des Textes nach den verloren gegangenen stabilen Werten des ‚alten England‘, und trägt somit (auch) eine positive Valenz. Dieses Konzept zwingt Stevens’ Erinnerung jedoch wiederholt dazu, ihm gleichsam hinter seinem Rücken Streiche zu spielen. Dies ist fiktionsintern die Ursache für das vom Text aufgerufene Konzept des unzuverlässigen Erzählers. 9 Die eigene Glaubwürdigkeit als Erzähler ist jedoch die fundamentale Voraussetzung für Stevens’ um größtmögliche Verbindlichkeit bemühten Erzählakt: „Die intersubjektive Anerkennung der narrativ konstruierten und präsentierten Identität ist mithin untrennbar mit dem Entwurf von plausiblen Geschichten verwoben […]“ (Neumann 2005a: 66f.). David Lodge weist zudem auf den engen Zusammenhang zwischen Stevens’ Unglaubwürdigkeit und seiner doppelbödigen Sprache hin: Stevens speaks, or writes, in a fussily precise, stiffly formal style - butlerspeak, in a word. Viewed objectively, the style has no literary merit whatsoever. It is completely lacking in wit, sensuousness and originality. Its effectiveness as a medium for this novel resides precisely in our growing perception of its inadequacy for what it describes. (Lodge 1992: 155) Kathleen Wall (1994: 22) ordnet Stevens dem Typus des Erzählers zu, 8 Zur Frage der Unzuverlässigkeit von Stevens als Erzähler und den damit verbundenen Meta-Implikationen für die Theorie des unzuverlässigen Erzählens, vgl. ausführlich Wall 1994. 9 Zu einer konzisen Definition dieses Konzeptes und seiner Entstehungsgeschichte vgl. Zerweck 2004: 681. Das Konstrukt des unzuverlässigen Erzählers wird als ästhetischer Effekt in einem literarischen Text häufig eingesetzt. Jedoch ist aus der Alltagserfahrung bekannt, dass jeder Erzählakt ein und dasselbe Ereignis in ein anderes Licht taucht. Zudem stellt sich sogleich die Frage „Unreliable - compared to what? “ (Nünning 1999): In vielen Erzähltexten des 20. Jahrhunderts ist es beispielsweise aufgrund der Perspektivenstruktur meist nicht möglich, eine objektive Rekonstruktion der Fakten zu erlangen (vgl. auch Neumann 2005a: 165f.). Um nicht in eine ausführliche Diskussion der Theorie und des Für und Wider des Konzeptes des unzuverlässigen Erzähler abzugleiten, soll im Folgenden nur insofern auf die Probleme und Widersprüche dieses Konzeptes eingegangen werden, als der Text diese selbst aufwirft. Erzählerische Unzuverlässigkeit und Ethik in The Remains of the Day 25 [...] whose weakness is psychological, who lies to hide from himself, whose subjectivity is a sight of so much conflict that he or she finds is necessary to bracket off large portions of his or her experience, or who has a huge emotional investment in a certain view of things, else the metaphysical blocks of his world will come tumbling about his head. Es lassen sich somit zwei Ebenen ausmachen, auf denen sich die innovative narrative Inszenierung der Unzuverlässigkeit manifestiert: die Ebene der Sprache, die Stevens verwendet, und die Ebene der von ihm präsentierten und kommentierten Ereignisse und Normen, auf der etwa die oben bereits erwähnten Diskrepanzen auftreten zwischen Stevens’ Auslassung seiner emotionalen Reaktionen und den Äußerungen der ihn umgebenden Figuren, die bemerken, was er nicht wahrnimmt. Wall (1994: 28) führt vor, wie diese Diskrepanz zwischen Oberflächen- und Subtext den Leser geradezu dazu herausfordert, die Lücken selbst aufzufüllen: It seems to me at least possible that Stevens in some way acknowledges his grief precisely through the reports of others, largely because such reports will not violate his sense of dignity and decorum […]. We are finally left unsure of how aware he is of the contradictions between the explanations offered to others in scene and the allusions to sadness made in his summary to his narratee. Phelan und Martin (1999: 95f.) kommen zu einem ähnlichen Ergebnis, gehen jedoch einen Schritt weiter: „On those occasions [Stevens’ öffentliches Weinen], Stevens is underreporting his emotions, and this underreporting is a telling sign of the reticence of his character but it may not be an instance of unreliability - depending on whether we decide that he expects his narratee to infer from the scene that he is crying.“ Das zunächst sehr naheliegende Konzept des unzuverlässigen Erzählers gerät ins Wanken. Auf der ersten Ebene der Unzuverlässigkeit, der sprachlichen Eigenheiten des Butlers, die von ihm nicht intendierte Bedeutungen tragen, finden sich, neben den unpersönlichen und Objektivität simulierenden „one“ und „you“, häufige Beteuerungen der Wahrheit bzw. Objektivität seiner Betrachtungen sowie Stevens’ rekurrierende Rückversicherungen an seinen Adressaten, dass der ihn richtig verstehe: „In any case, to return to my thread, you will appreciate“ (147), „I must reiterate“ (147), „I feel I should explain“ (43) sowie: „Then let me make it clear that nothing could be further from the truth“ (125). Solche häufig auftretenden diskursstrukturierenden Markierungen sind kennzeichnend für Stevens’ Bemühen, den Anschein einer souveränen Kontrolle über seine Erzählung zu erwecken. In dieser Häufung wird jedoch gerade die affirmative Beteuerung zum Stolperstein für den Leser: Wer ständig seine Zuverlässigkeit betonen muss, kann sich seiner Sache nicht allzu sicher sein. 10 10 Zu Stevens’ ‚kodierter Sprache‘ (Petry 1999: 123) gehört etwa auch die Polisemantik seiner Phrase „a little tired,“ die er für diverse Situationen des Unwohlseins o- Daniel Schäbler 26 Weit signifikanter sind jedoch die Widersprüche auf der Inhaltsbzw. Handlungsebene. Stevens’ Versuch, im Einklang mit den damals gängigen Werte- und Normensystemen die eigene Würde zu wahren, wäre als Indiz für seine Unzuverlässigkeit, aber eben auch für seine durchaus als positiv zu bewertenden Bemühungen zu lesen, taktvollen Abstand zu seinen Mitmenschen zu halten. Ein in der Forschung inzwischen recht berühmtes Beispiel für die Kombination aus Stevens’ (vorgeblich) unzuverlässiger Erinnerung und der Diskrepanz zwischen seinen Gedanken und berichteten Taten soll hier aus Platzgründen stellvertretend für einige andere ausführlicher besprochen werden. Stevens erinnert sich an eine Episode, als Miss Kenton eines Morgens in seinem Beisein vom Tod ihrer Tante erfährt. Taktvoll lässt er sie in ihrem Schmerz allein, bemerkt vor der Tür jedoch, dass er vergessen hatte, ihr sein Beileid auszusprechen. I could well imagine the blow the news would be to her, her aunt having been, to all intents and purposes, like a mother to her, and I paused out in the corridor, wondering if I should go back, knock and make good my omission. But then it occurred to me that if I were to do so, I might easily intrude upon her private grief. Indeed, it was not impossible that Miss Kenton, at that very moment, and only a few feet away from me, was actually crying. (176f., meine Hervorhebungen) Er nimmt sich vor, ihr bei nächster Gelegenheit sein Beileid auszusprechen (176f.). Was jedoch folgt, als der Butler ihr am Nachmittag wieder begegnet, ist das genaue Gegenteil von Stevens’ Vorhaben: In szenischer Wiedergabe rügt er Miss Kenton bezüglich der ihr unterstehenden Dienstmädchen, diese hätten Geschirr nachlässig einsortiert (177ff.). Warum sagt Stevens, er wolle das eine, tut jedoch das andere? Zwei divergierende Lesarten bieten sich an. Die ‚naturalisierende‘ wäre die, dass Stevens, getreu seinem bisher zur Schau gestellten Charakter Schwierigkeiten hat, über persönliche Dinge mit anderen Menschen zu reden und daher auf irgendwelche unpersönlichen beruflichen Angelegenheiten ausweicht. Denkbar wäre auch, dass Stevens Miss Kenton - auf ungeschickte Weise - von ihrer Trauer ablenken will, wie Wall (1994: 26) vermutet. Diese Lektüre stößt jedoch schnell auf das Problem, dass sie notwendigerweise psychologisch-spekulativ bleiben muss, da der Text den Widerspruch kommentarlos offen lässt. Die andere Lesart, die näher an den vom Text bereitgestellten Informationen bleibt, ist die, dass der Butler die Aporie, die sich für seinen Adressaten (und auch den Leser) auftut, schlicht nicht wahrnimmt und er als Erzähler somit unzuverlässig ist. Diese beiden Lesarten schließen sich jedoch bei näherem Hinsehen der der Trauer verwendet (105, 220, 243). Zu der diskursiven Ebene gehören ebenfalls die teils stereotypen Wendungen, mit denen Stevens sich eines unangenehmen Themas entledigt, sowie die mitunter abrupten Themenwechsel mit dem gleichen Effekt (67, 138, 139, 180). Erzählerische Unzuverlässigkeit und Ethik in The Remains of the Day 27 nicht gegenseitig aus: Die ursprünglich gute Intention verlagert sich in eine Verdrängungsleistung. Der vermeintlich einfache und logisch erschließbare Sachverhalt dieser Szene (Stevens steht vor Miss Kentons Tür und hat den Eindruck, dass sie weint) wird jedoch im Folgenden destabilisiert. Da ist zum einen die ungläubige Rhetorik des Butlers - die in der ihm eigentümlichen elaborierten Sprache formulierte Erkenntnis der Möglichkeit, dass Miss Kenton tatsächlich weinen könnte - in Kombination mit dem gar nicht mehr so elaborierten, vagen „strange feeling“, das Stevens vor der Tür verspürt. Die Relevanz dieser Schlüsselszene entfaltet sich erst rund 40 Seiten später durch Stevens’ Versuch, sie chronologisch einzuordnen: In einer später notierten Erinnerungspassage wiederholt er fast wörtlich die Situation, dass er vor Miss Kentons Tür steht und nicht weiß, ob er eintreten solle, mit einer entscheidenden Wendung: „However, I am not at all certain now as to the actual circumstances which had led to me standing thus in the back corridor“ (212). Stevens revidiert daraufhin seine vorige Zuordnung auf Seite 176: But now, having thought further, I believe I may have been a little confused about this matter; that in fact this fragment of memory derives from events that took place on an evening at least a few months after the death of Miss Kenton’s aunt - the evening, in fact, when the young Mr Cardinal turned up at Darlington Hall rather unexpectedly. (212) Er fährt fort mit der Schilderung der Ankunft des Journalisten Reginald Cardinal, der an dem geheimen Treffen des Lords mit führenden Nationalsozialisten interessiert ist. Was Stevens jedoch geflissentlich ignoriert bzw. nicht wahrnimmt, ist die Verbindung zwischen den zwei Szenen, die er mit dieser Korrektur implizit aufbaut. An jenem ereignisreichen Abend, als Cardinal eintrifft und Darlington sich zum Geheimgespräch mit dem deutschen Botschafter Joachim von Ribbentrop trifft, sucht Stevens Miss Kenton auf, um ihr eine dienstliche Mitteilung zu machen. Bei dieser Gelegenheit erinnert sie ihn daran, dass sie gleich zu ihrem freien Abend aufbrechen wird und versucht, Stevens zu provozieren, indem sie ihm unterstellt, er gönne ihr diesen Ausflug nicht. Als dieser Versuch scheitert, eröffnet sie Stevens, dass sie darüber nachdenkt, den Mann, mit dem sie sich trifft, zu heiraten. Stevens bedankt sich höflich für diese Information und entschuldigt sich mit seinen Pflichten (214f.). Auch ein späterer Versuch, ihn aus der Reserve zu locken, scheitert (215f.). Daraufhin geht sie aus, während Stevens die Gäste bewirtet und sich mit Cardinal über das Geheimtreffen unterhält. Später am Abend begegnen sich der Butler und die Haushälterin wiederum scheinbar zufällig, wobei sie sich für ihre frühere Emotionalität entschuldigt. Stevens pariert auf eine für ihn typische Art: „I have not taken anything you have said to heart, Miss Kenton. In fact, I cannot recall what it is you might be referring to. Events of great importance are unfolding upstairs and I can hardly stop to exchange Daniel Schäbler 28 pleasantries with you“ (226). Kurz darauf geht Stevens an ihrer Tür vorbei und ruft die Szene mit dem vermeintlichen Weinen ein drittes Mal auf: „And that was the moment, I am now sure, that has remained so persistently lodged in my memory […]“ (226). Durch die Montage und Remontage der zentralen Erinnerungssequenz mit anderen Erinnerungen wird die Rekonstruktion eines Kausalzusammenhanges erschwert, jedoch nicht unmöglich gemacht: Miss Kenton weint - aber weint sie wirklich? -, nicht weil ihre Tante gestorben ist, sondern weil es Stevens scheinbar egal ist, dass sie jemanden anderes heiraten will, er gar vorgibt, sich an ihre doch bedeutende Ankündigung nicht mehr zu erinnern. 11 Dieser Sachverhalt wird jedoch durch die Montagestruktur von Stevens Erinnerungen verschleiert und zunächst einer ‚harmloseren‘ Szene (der Trauer um die Tante) angeheftet. Der Leser wird notgedrungen zum Psychologen, der sich aus den sich widersprechenden und korrigierenden Erinnerungen die plausibelste Version der Ereignisse zurechtsucht. Aufgrund der oben geschilderten Diskrepanzen gerät die Primärillusion der Verbindlichkeit von Stevens’ Erzählung ins Wanken; die Möglichkeit der verbindlichen Darstellung zurückliegender Ereignisse wird in Frage gestellt. Die offensichtlichen Widersprüche in Stevens’ Version der Ereignisse sind eng verzahnt mit der Rolle der Erinnerung sowie der Perspektivenstruktur: Als homodiegetischer intern-fokalisierter Erzähler sind alle seine Aussagen subjektiv gebrochen. Kein allwissender Erzähler garantiert eine letztgültige Wahrheit. Der Text versucht dieses ‚Manko‘ des Erzählers jedoch nicht zu kaschieren, sondern stellt es wiederholt in den Vordergrund. Dies wirft einige epistemologische Fragen auf: Kann man überhaupt eine ‚wahre‘ Version der Ereignisse rekonstruieren? Ein Konzept wie das des unzuverlässigen Erzählers wäre lediglich eines von vielen, das dieser Erkenntnis zum Opfer fallen würde: Finally, Ishiguro’s novel, by both facilitating and frustrating the process of figuring out ‚what really happened‘ not only refocuses the reader’s attention on the narrator’s mental processes, but deconstructs the notion of truth, and consequently questions both ‚reliable‘ and ‚unreliable‘ narration and the distinctions we make between them. (Wall 1994: 23) Trotz der Tendenz des Textes zur Relativierung darf jedoch nicht vergessen werden, dass einige Ereignisse, etwa Darlingtons Paktieren mit den Nationalsozialisten und seine Nähe zu Mosleys Braunhemden, als deutlich negativ bewertet werden. Hierin liegen die ethischen Fix- und Ankerpunkte der Diegese, deren Bewertung nicht der dekonstruierenden Relativierung unterliegt. 11 Bei ihrem Treffen an Stevens’ Reiseziel, Weymouth, bestätigt Miss Kenton auf distanzierte Weise, dass sie Stevens mit ihrem Weggang zu einer emotionalen Reaktion provozieren wollte: „[…] simply another ruse, Mr Stevens, to annoy you“ (239). Erzählerische Unzuverlässigkeit und Ethik in The Remains of the Day 29 Wie gezeigt, ist das Geflecht aus Perspektive, Erinnerung und unterdrückten psychologischen Motiven komplex. Diese Komplexität wird erhöht durch die häufige Thematisierung der Unzuverlässigkeit der eigenen Erinnerung durch den Erzähler: Ist ein Erzähler, der sich der eigenen Unzuverlässigkeit bewusst ist, überhaupt noch unzuverlässig? 12 Wall ist jedoch prinzipiell zuzustimmen, dass der Roman auf dem Konzept des unzuverlässigen Erzählers basiert und es einer kritischen Betrachtung unterzieht. Zudem wird durch diese Betrachtung der Prozess der retrospektiven Sinnstiftung implizit kommentiert: Zum einen wird die Unmöglichkeit einer objektiv rekonstruierbaren Vergangenheit betont. Zum anderen wird die Selektivität der Erinnerung bei jeder Rekonstruktion in den Vordergrund gerückt: Das […] Spannungsverhältnis zwischen erinnerndem und erinnertem Ich stellt den potentiell kontinuitätsstiftenden Charakter von Erinnerungsprozessen heraus und lenkt den Blick auf die konstruktiven, prinzipiell wandelbaren (d.h. anders deutbaren) Dimensionen der individuellen Identität. Explizite Reflexionen und unreliable narration können schließlich den ephemeren, prinzipiell unzuverlässigen Charakter von Erinnerungen und die grundlegende Offenheit der Vergangenheit für alternative Deutungen unterstreichen und damit die Bedingungen erfolgreicher Sinnstiftung problematisieren. (Neumann 2005a: 166) Erinnern, verdrängen und vergessen sind demnach untrennbar untereinander und mit dem Prozess der retrospektiven Sinnstiftung bzw. der Rekonstruktion von persönlichen Erlebnissen auf die Bedürfnisse der Gegenwart hin verwoben. „How could you not have seen it? “ - Würde abseits der Moral Das Schadenspotential von Stevens’ vorgeblichen Erinnerungslücken und anderen Retuschierungsstrategien ist nicht auf sein Privatleben begrenzt, sondern weitet sich auf seine persönliche Verantwortung angesichts der fragwürdigen politischen Einstellung seines Dienstherren aus. Stevens führt aus: And let me now posit this: ‚dignity‘ has to do crucially with a butler’s ability not to abandon the professional being he inhabits. [...]. The great butlers are great by virtue of their ability to inhabit their professional role and inhabit it to the utmost; they will not be shaken out by external events, however surprising, alarming or vexing. (42f.) 12 Vgl. die treffende Frage von Basseler und Birke (2005: 141): „Kann man einen Erzähler McEwanscher oder Ishiguroscher Prägung tatsächlich als unzuverlässig bezeichnen, nur weil er sich der Funktionsweisen seines Gedächtnisses bewusst ist, bzw. implizit einen guten Teil der aktuellen Gedächtnisforschung artikuliert? “ Daniel Schäbler 30 An dem Ideal der Würde wird Stevens bis zuletzt festhalten. Er wird keinen Aufwand scheuen, sich selbst zu rechtfertigen; seine ganze Erzählung setzt sich zum Ziel, das oben entworfene Bild dieser eigenen Würde aufrecht zu erhalten. Was er dann jedoch erzählt, lässt ernsthafte Zweifel aufkommen, ob es sich bei diesem Verständnis von Würde nicht eher um blinden Gehorsam handelt. Stevens erfährt während seiner Jahre als Butler Lord Darlingtons recht genau von dessen - durchaus von guten Intentionen geleiteten - Bemühungen um eine Linderung der Folgen des Versailler Vertrages für Deutschland. Der Text führt hier auf differenzierte Weise vor, wie positive Absichten zu ethisch ambivalenten Taten führen, die vom Butler in seiner Erzählung retrospektiv gerechtfertigt werden. Im Zuge dieser Bemühungen verstrickt Darlington sich immer tiefer in die so genannte Appeasement-Bewegung und gerät dabei auch ideologisch unter den Einfluss der britischen Faschisten und der deutschen Nationalsozialisten, für die er die offiziellen Diplomatiekanäle umgeht und Geheimtreffen mit britischen Politikern organisiert. Da sich diese Diskrepanz zwischen Stevens’ damaligen Normen und seinen Taten durch den gesamten Text zieht, kann im Folgenden aus Platzgründen nur auf wenige Schlüsselepisoden eingegangen werden: Erstens, Stevens’ nachträgliche Kritik an Harry Smiths Freiheitsverständnis; zweitens, die von Stevens geteilten antidemokratischen Ansichten Lord Darlingtons; und drittens, das Gespräch mit Reginald Cardinal über die Verstrickung des Lords mit den Nationalsozialisten. Stevens’ eigene Verstrickung in die autokratische Ideologie seines Herren und der Aufwand, mit dem er dieses moralische Dilemma in sein Selbstbild integrieren muss, wird an einer Episode, die in der Erzählgegenwart spielt, sichtbar. Während seiner Reise nach Weymouth strandet Stevens wegen Benzinmangels im fiktiven Örtchen Moscombe. Aufgrund seiner feinen Kleidung, die er von Lord Darlington geschenkt bekam, ist er eine Attraktion, da ihn alle für einen bedeutenden Adeligen halten. Stevens entkräftet diesen Eindruck nicht, als er zugibt, Churchill, Halifax und Eden begegnet zu sein, und zu allem Überfluss verkündet: „‚In fact, I tended to concern myself with international affairs more than domestic ones. Foreign policy, that is to say.‘ [...] ‚And when you think that it was my good fortune to have had their ear on many great issues of the day, yes, when I think back, I do feel a certain gratitude. [...].‘“ (187f.). Im Laufe des Abends gerät Stevens ideologisch mit Harry Smith, einem der Dorfbewohner, aneinander. Stevens benennt in altbekannter Manier „dignity“ als das, was einen wahren Gentleman wie ihn ausmache. Smith vertritt als Stammtischpolitiker die Ansicht, dass „‚[d]ignity’s something every man and woman in this country can strive for and get.‘“ (186). „‚This is a democratic country we’re living in. We fought for it. We’ve all got to play our part.‘“ (190). Aus Höflichkeit und Unsicherheit widerspricht Stevens nicht, notiert jedoch anschließend seine Sicht der Dinge: Erzählerische Unzuverlässigkeit und Ethik in The Remains of the Day 31 Up to a point, no doubt, there is some truth in what he says: in a country such as ours, people may indeed have a certain duty to think about great affairs and form their opinions. But life being what it is, how can ordinary people truly be expected to have ‚strong opinions‘ on all manner of things - as Mr Harry Smith rather fancifully claims the villagers here do? And not only are these expectations unrealistic; I rather doubt if they are even desirable. There is, after all, a real limit to how much ordinary people can learn and know, and to demand that each and every one of them contribute ‚strong opinions‘ to the great debates of the nation cannot, surely, be wise. (194) Woher Stevens diese antidemokratischen Ansichten hat, wird unmittelbar klar, als er sich in diesem Zusammenhang an eine Situation um 1935 erinnert, in der Lord Darlington ihn zu einer kleinen Gesprächsrunde bat. Einer der Herren wollte beweisen, dass der ‚einfache Mann‘ aufgrund mangelnder Bildung nicht in der Lage sei, wichtige Entscheidungen von nationaler Bedeutung zu treffen und stellt Stevens diverse hochspezielle politische Fragen, auf die dieser keine Antwort geben kann. Aus der Szene kann ohne Schwierigkeiten gefolgert werden, dass Stevens als eine Art Zirkuspferd gebraucht wird. Stevens jedoch beteuert: „I was by this point well on top of the situation, but the gentlemen went on laughing“ (195). Er gibt vor, nur das zu erfüllen, was von ihm erwartet wird, und sieht diese Erniedrigung als Teil seines Berufes. Lord Darlington entschuldigt sich am nächsten Morgen für die peinliche Situation, rechtfertigt sie jedoch sogleich als eine notwendige Lehre für den anwesenden Demokraten in der Runde, Sir Leonard (197). Somit ließ der Butler sich pflichtbewusst als antidemokratisches Fallbeispiel benutzen. Lord Darlington erklärt seinem Diener bei dieser Gelegenheit, was er von Demokratie hält: Democracy is something for a bygone era. The world’s far too complicated a place now for universal suffrage and such like. For endless members of parliament debating things to a standstill. [...] Germany and Italy have set their houses in order by acting. [...] See what strong leadership can do if it’s allowed to act. None of this universal suffrage nonsense there. If your house is on fire, you don’t call the household into the drawing room and debate the various options of escape for an hour, do you? (198f.) Diesem autokratischen Standpunkt kann Stevens nur beipflichten: „Let us establish this quite clearly: a butler’s duty is to provide good service. It is not to meddle in the great affairs of the nation“ (199). 13 Die Einschätzung erfolgt, wohlgemerkt, zum Erzählzeitpunkt 1956. Dabei ist sich Stevens durchaus bewusst: „[…] of course, many of Lord Darlington’s ideas will seem today rather odd - even, at times, unattractive.“ Gleichwohl beharrt 13 Der Plural ist an dieser Stelle doppeldeutig: Vordergründig verweist es auf die Erzählsituation, in der Stevens seinen Zuhörer von seinen Ansichten zu überzeugen versucht. Zugleich ist das „us“ aber auch so zu lesen, dass der Butler gleichsam metonymisch mit dem verstorbenen Darlington im Rücken spricht, dessen Stimme für ihn noch absolute Autorität besitzt. Daniel Schäbler 32 er auf der Richtigkeit dieser Ansichten: „But surely it cannot be denied that there is an important element of truth in these things he said to me that morning in the billiard room“ (199). Folglich bleibt Stevens der Linie seines verstorbenen Dienstherren auch nach dem Krieg treu. Die vehemente Bekundung seiner vermeintlichen Überzeugungen kann nicht darüber hinwegtäuschen, dass er noch in der Erzählgegenwart der selbst gewählten Unmündigkeit verhaftet bleibt. Das Gespräch Mitte der 1930er Jahre mit Reginald Cardinal, an das sich Stevens erinnert und das er ohne Kommentar szenisch wiedergibt, ist ebenfalls aufschlussreich, beleuchtet es doch schlaglichtartig Stevens’ Strategie des Verleugnens. Cardinal, der als Journalist arbeitet, hatte erfahren, dass der Lord ein Geheimtreffen zwischen Joachim von Ribbentrop, damals deutscher Botschafter in London, und führenden englischen Politikern abhält, und möchte Stevens zunächst Details entlocken. Als dieser jedoch aus professioneller Verschwiegenheit nichts preisgibt, wandelt sich das Gespräch. Cardinal versucht in angetrunkenem Zustand Stevens ins Gewissen zu reden. ‚His lordship is a dear, dear man. But the fact is, he is out of his depth. He is being manoeuvred. The Nazis are manoeuvering him like a pawn. Have you noticed this, Stevens? Have you noticed this is what has been happening for the last three or four years at least? ‘ ‚I’m sorry, sir, I have failed to notice any such development.‘ ‚Haven’t you even had a suspicion? The smallest suspicion that Herr Hitler, through our dear friend Herr Ribbentrop, has been manoeuvering his lordship like a pawn [...]? ‘ ‚I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid I have not noticed any such development.‘ ‚But I suppose you wouldn’t, Stevens, because you’re not curious. You just let all this go on before you and you never think to look at it for what it is.‘ (223) Interessant ist vor allem die Art, wie sich Stevens verteidigt: Mechanisch wiederholt er stets die gleiche Ausrede. Cardinals emotionale Beschwörung ist für Stevens nicht nur unangenehm, weil sie seinem Herren kritisiert, sie bedroht auch sein eigenes Ideal des moralisch erhabenen Gentleman. Stevens’ finales Schweigen signalisiert, dass ihm das Gesagte zwar nahe geht. Der Butler ist jedoch an einem entscheidenden Punkt: Wenn er jetzt zugäbe, dass Darlington unrecht handelte, würde sein ganzes Gebäude der Würde und Moral zusammenbrechen, und sein Dienen über die Jahre wäre in Frage gestellt, da es moralisch unsaubere Taten unterstützte. Mit den Konzepten der Würde und des Gentleman steht und fällt Stevens’ Lebenserzählung, ein Projekt das einem durchaus positiven Bemühen um Ausgeglichenheit entspringt: „Stevens attempts to construct a narrative of Lord Darlington’s life which can encompass both poles of the man’s persona - the publicly reviled Nazi sympathizer and the privately Erzählerische Unzuverlässigkeit und Ethik in The Remains of the Day 33 kind and generous employer“ (Lang 2000: 156). Er gesteht zwar ein: „‚I would not say I am not curious, sir. However, it is not my position to display curiosity about such matters.‘“ (222). Wieder ist es das Berufsethos, das ihn vermeintlich daran hindert, hinter die Kulissen zu blicken. Bei der ersten Gelegenheit entschuldigt der Butler sich und begegnet daraufhin der aufgewühlten Miss Kenton, vor deren Tür er kurz darauf steht und vermutet, dass sie weint. Der Text führt an dieser Stelle die beiden Erzählstränge, den in einem früheren Kapitel um Miss Kenton entfalteten Strang und den aktuellen Strang um Reginald Cardinal, zusammen. Damit wird strukturell eine Verbindung hergestellt zwischen der offensichtlich unzuverlässig erzählten Kenton-Episode und der impliziten ‚ethischen Unzuverlässigkeit‘ des Butlers gegenüber Cardinal. Die enge Verbindung zwischen Stevens’ ‚privatem‘ Drama mit der Haushälterin und Cardinals versuchter Destruktion seines moralischen Rechtfertigungsgebäudes, machen diesen Abend zum dramatischen Höhepunkt des Romans. Zwar wird diese doppelte emotionale Belastung fiktionsintern von Stevens wahrgenommen. Ihm gelingt jedoch ein weiteres Mal eine bemerkenswerte Volte, als er in der Dunkelheit der Eingangshalle auf die Wünsche Darlingtons wartet: At first, my mood was - I do not mind admitting it - somewhat downcast. But then as I continued to stand there, a curious thing began to take place; that is to say, a deep feeling of triumph started to well up within me. [...]. I had, after all, just come through an extremely trying evening, throughout which I had managed to preserve a ‚dignity in keeping with my position‘ - and had done so, moreover, in a manner even my father might have been proud of. And there across the hall, behind the very doors upon which my gaze was then resting, within the very room where I had just executed my duties, the most powerful gentlemen of Europe were conferring over the fate of our continent. Who would doubt at that moment that I had indeed come as close to the great hub of things as any butler could wish? (227) Durch diesen Gedankengang schafft es Stevens, die turbulenten Ereignisse des Abends wieder mit seiner sorgsam gepflegten kohärenten Lebenserzählung in Einklang zu bringen. Die Angriffe Cardinals auf seine moralische Integrität und der Verlust Miss Kentons an einen anderen Mann sind für ihn nur mehr Prüfungen auf dem Weg zur beruflichen Perfektion. Doch der Preis der emotionalen Selbstverleugnung, den er für diese Integrationsleistung erbringen muss, ist hoch. Erst lange nach Kriegsende, am Pier von Weymouth, wird er weinend zusammenbrechen und in einem epiphanischen Moment der Intimität einem Fremden gegenüber Trauer angesichts seines Lebens offenbaren: ‚His lordship was a courageous man. He chose a certain path in life, it proved to be a misguided one, but there, he chose it, he can say that at least. As for my self, I cannot even claim that. You see, I trusted. I trusted in his lordship’s wisdom. All those years I served him, I trusted I was do- Daniel Schäbler 34 ing something worthwhile. I can’t even say I made my own mistakes. Really - one has to ask oneself - what dignity is there in that? ‘ (243, Hervorhebung im Original) Erstmals gesteht der Butler ein, dass sein Erzählprojekt der Integration des erinnerten Ich in das erinnernde Ich fehlgeschlagen ist, da im Lichte der nicht mehr zu leugnenden Umstände die Diskrepanz nicht länger zu kitten, ein stabiles und befriedigendes Selbstbild auf dieser Basis folglich unmöglich ist. Diese Passage markiert somit einen eindeutigen Bruch in der narrativen Autobiographie (vgl. Neumann 2005b: 166). 14 Es sollte und kann hier nicht darum gehen, die literarische Figur Stevens moralisch zu verurteilen - etwas das die Perspektiven- und Wertestruktur des Textes auch nur verhalten und ansatzweise tut. Vielmehr macht der Text selbst durch Hinweise auf die Erziehung und den Werdegang deutlich, dass die Figur Stevens ein Produkt sowohl ihrer Zeit als auch ihres Berufes ist, wodurch sie eine gewisse tragische Größe erlangt: Hätte er anders handeln können? Wie lange wäre er im Falle eines kritischen Aufbegehrens der Butler von Darlington Hall geblieben? Dies kann jedoch keine Absolution sein: Durch den Kontrast mit der kritischen Miss Kenton wird aufgezeigt, dass selbständiges Denken auch im Dienerberuf möglich ist. 15 Der Text erzeugt somit ethische Ambivalenz, indem er sich auf dem schmalen Grat zwischen Anklage und Erklärung der Schuld des Wegsehens bewegt. Er wirft somit eine zentrale ethische Frage der Historiographie auf. Für den heutigen Leser, mit seinem benefit of hindsight, ist es nur allzu einfach, den leichtgläubigen Darlington mitsamt seinem Butler zu verurteilen. 16 Der Text thematisiert jedoch wiederholt, dass die Figuren dieses temporale und epistemische Privileg damals nicht hatten und nur mit ihrem damals aktuellen Wissen im Rahmen ihrer gesellschaftlichen Position operieren konnten, zumal weite Teile der Appeasement-Bewegung in Großbritannien nicht aus Sympathie mit den Nationalsozialisten und Deutschland, sondern aus Angst vor einem zweiten verheerenden Krieg handelte: In Darlington’s case, these tendencies reflect a common underlying idealist conviction in the interwar period: that Wold War I should have con- 14 In der Forschung wird die Frage, ob Stevens aus dieser Erkenntnis ‚geläutert‘ hervorgeht, sehr disparat beantwortet. Es ist sicher richtig, dass er objektiv nichts hinzugelernt hat, da er sich weiterhin tapfer vornimmt, die ‚Banteringwünsche‘ seines neuen Dienstherren pflichtgemäß zu erfüllen (245). Das Eingeständnis des gescheiterten Identitätsentwurfs markiert jedoch eine erhebliche Veränderung seiner Einsicht in das ihm so fremde Konzept des „human warmth“ (245). 15 Aber auch Miss Kenton hat nicht den Mut, ihren Dienst zu quittieren als sie von der Abschiebung der jüdischen Dienstmädchen erfährt. Ihre spontane Empörung äußert sie nur Stevens gegenüber. 16 Beinahe die gesamte Forschung fällt ein eindeutig negatives Urteil über Stevens’ Bemühen um Verständnis für seinen Dienstherren, einzig Lang (2000) bildet hier eine Ausnahme. Erzählerische Unzuverlässigkeit und Ethik in The Remains of the Day 35 vinced the world that war is pointless. […] Stevens historicizes Darlington’s political views and actions within the larger trajectory of the eclipse of idealism as a viable political philosophy, and in doing so elicits some narrative sympathy for his employer. (Lang 2000: 158-159) Dies wiederum wirft die Fragen der Leser auf sie selbst zurück - wie hätten sie selbst damals gehandelt? Diese Problematik spiegelt sich auch auf der Ebene der Erzählstruktur wider: Stevens, mit einem diffusen Wissen um die grauenhaften Folgen des nationalsozialistischen Regimes ausgestattet, jedoch sichtlich unwillig, die Aporie, die aus dem Wissen um diese Folgen und seinen damaligen Ansichten entsteht, wahrzunehmen und in sein Selbstkonzept zu integrieren, befindet sich ungefähr auf demselben Kenntnisstand wie der heutige Leser. Zugleich verharrt er jedoch unentschlossen zwischen den beiden ideologischen Welten und Diskursen - zwischen der verblendeten Ideologie des Adels vor, und der des vermeintlich aufgeklärten diskursiven ‚Mainstreams‘ nach dem Krieg. Der Text thematisiert somit das problematische Verhältnis zwischen den Generationen, indem er auf implizite Weise die Frage aufwirft, wie der Einzelne sich damals an ethisch fragwürdigen Entwicklungen beteiligen konnte oder sich zumindest passiv verhielt. 17 Literaturverzeichnis Ishiguro, Kazuo (1989). The Remains of the Day. London: Faber and Faber. Basseler, Michael/ Dorothee Birke (2005). „Mimesis des Erinnerns.“ In: Astrid & Ansgar Nünning (Hrsg.). Gedächtniskonzepte der Literaturwissenschaft. Theoretische Grundlagen und Anwendungsperpektiven. Berlin: de Gruyter. 123-147. Lang, James (2000). „Public Memory, Private History: Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day.“ CLIO: A Journal of Literature, History, and the Philosophy of History 29/ 2. 143-165. Lodge, David (1992). The Art of Fiction. London: Secker & Warburg. Luyat, Anne (1994). „Myth and Metafiction: Is peaceful Co-Existence possible? Destruction of the Myth of the English Butler in Kazuo Ishiguro’s ‚The Remains of the Day‘.“ In: Max Duperray (Hrsg.). Historicité et métafiction dans le roman contemporain des îles britanniques. Aix-en-Provence: Publications de l’Université de Provence. 183-196. Martens, Lorna (1985). The Diary Novel. Cambridge: CUP. Neumann, Birgit (2005a). Erinnerung - Identität - Narration. Gattungstyplogie und Funktionen kanadischer „Fictions of Memory“. Berlin: de Gruyter. Neumann, Birgit (2005b). „Literatur, Erinnerung, Identität.“ In: Astrid & Ansgar Nünning (Hrsg.). Gedächtniskonzepte der Literaturwissenschaft. Theoretische Grundlagen und Anwendungsperpektiven. Berlin: de Gruyter. 149-178. 17 Zur ethischen Dimension in The Remains of the Day vgl. Luyat 1994. Daniel Schäbler 36 Nünning, Ansgar (1995). Von historischer Fiktion zu historiographischer Metafiktion. Bd. 2: Erscheinungsformen und Entwicklungstendenzen des historischen Romans in England seit 1950. Trier: WVT. Nünning, Ansgar (1999). „Unreliable, Compared to What? Towards a Cognitive Theory of Unreliable Narration: Prolegomena and Hypotheses.“ In: Walter Grünzweig/ Andreas Solbach (Hrsg.). Grenzüberschreitungen: Narratologie im Kontext/ Transcending Boundaries: Narratology in Context. Tübingen: Narr. 53- 73. Parkes, Adam (2001). Kazuo Ishiguro's The Remains of the Day: A Reader's Guide. New York: Continuum, Petry, Mike (1999). Narratives of Memory and Identity. The Novels of Kazuo Ishiguro. Frankfurt a.M.: Peter Lang. Phelan, James/ Mary Patricia Martin (1999). „The Lessons of Weymouth’: Homodiegesis, Unreliability, Ethics, and ‚The Remains of the Day‘.“ In: David Herman (Hrsg.). Narratologies: New Perspectives on Narrative Analysis. Columbus: Ohio State UP. 88-109. Rushdie, Salman (1991). „What the Butler didn’t see.“ In: Imaginary Homelands: Essays and Criticism, 1981-1991. London: Granta Books/ Penguin. 244-246. Wall, Kathleen (1994). „The Remains of the Day and Its Challenges to Theories of Unreliable Narration.“ Journal of Narrative Technique 24/ 1. 18-42. Wolf, Werner (1993). Ästhetische Illusion und Illusionsdurchbrechung in der Erzählkunst. Theorie und Geschichte mit Schwerpunkt auf englischem illusionsstörenden Erzählen. Tübingen: Niemeyer. Wolf, Werner (2005). „Non-supplemented blanks in works of literature as forms of ‚iconicity of absence‘.“ In: Costantino Maeder, et al. (Hrsg.). Outside-In and Inside-Out. Amsterdam: Benjamins. 115-132. Zerweck, Bruno (2004). „Unzuverlässiger Erzähler“. In: Metzler Lexikon Literatur- und Kulturtheorie: Ansätze - Personen - Grundbegriffe. Hg, von Ansgar Nünning. Stuttgart: Metzlersche Verlagsbuchhandlung. 681-682. Daniel Schäbler Institut für Anglistik Karl-Franzens-Universität Graz Holistic loanword integration and loanword acceptance A comparative study of anglicisms in German and Japanese Johannes Scherling Anglicisms, i.e. English-based loanwords, are a much discussed topic in many language communities. Their rise in number over the past few decades has led to anxieties about their perceived lexical dominance gradually ousting ‘native’ words and about the ‘corruption’ of the language. These fears can be seen as relating, at least partly, to the degree of integration a loanword has undergone. Words that retain both their English spelling and pronunciation are much more salient than words that have become assimilated to the receiver language’s phonological and morphological system. This paper compares the different graphemic, phonological and morphological processes of integration in two languages, viz. German and Japanese. German, by and large, borrows anglicisms in their original spelling, with their pronunciation being relatively close to the original. Japanese, in contrast, due to its particular syllabic structure and different writing system, immediately assimilates loanwords into its system, making it much more difficult to perceive them as ‘foreign’ and thus foregrounding their function rather than their etymology. 1. Introduction Loanwords are a natural phenomenon of language. These lexical items are so-called contact phenomena (cf. Muhr 2002: 11f.), emerging through language contact in what Loveday (1996: 17) terms a “distant or dominant non-bilingual setting”, where “the community maintains no community-wide relations with speakers of the donor language and […] does not require the acquisition of that language” and where contact “is usually limited to lexical borrowing.” Loanwords may fulfill various functions, AAA - Arbeiten aus Anglistik und Amerikanistik Band 38 (2013) · Heft 1 Gunter Narr Verlag Tübingen Johannes Scherling 38 including the filling of lexical gaps “economically through donor transfer rather than recipient resources,” the drawing on the - often stereotypical - prestige that a certain language has (e.g. Italian as the language of (classical) music, French as the language of love, or nowadays English with its popular associations of modernity, freedom and internationality), or the obfuscating of unwanted content, e.g. in the context of taboo words of a sexual nature (cf. Loveday 1996: 190; Stanlaw 2005: 16ff.). Loanwords are by no means an entirely new phenomenon, but have always been a by-product of language and culture contact. However, due to the emergence of new media, most notably the Internet, and the accelerating process of globalization, language contact has dramatically increased over the past few decades, which has led to the adoption and creation of loanwords, particularly English-based loanwords, on a much larger scale. This has caused considerable uproar in some language communities, who fear for their linguistic and cultural identities (cf. Pfalzgraf 2006: 59ff.). For the purpose of this paper, German and Japanese have been chosen as objects of comparison because their speech communities maintain a purist notion of their respective languages to the effect that foreign ‘intrusions’ into the lexicon tend to be evaluated negatively (treated extensively in Befu 1991; Pfalzgraf 2006; Watanabe 1974). Besides, as members of the Axis-powers in WWII Japan and Germany (and Austria) share a common history in their relationships to English-speaking countries. German is exemplary of a language community in which the discussion of the influence of English-based lexical items, so-called anglicisms, has been led on a rather emotional level. This is for example demonstrated by numerous letters to the editor in various local newspapers, whose authors generally deplore the use and extent of such loanwords, as well as by many public and private societies whose purpose it is to guarantee that the German language remains ‘German’ (cf. Muhr 2002: 20ff; Kettemann 2002: 64ff.; Pfalzgraf 2006). Loanwords, and particularly anglicisms, are in such discourses usually seen as a sign of degradation and decay, as instances of a ‘sloppy’ use of German, as well as proof of a lack of pride, or self-confidence, of German native speakers, respectively (cf. Kurzmann 2002). Contrary to the predominantly negative attitude towards anglicisms in society, recent research (e.g. Kettemann 2002) has put things in perspective by showing how small their numbers actually are.In Japanese and its language community, on the other hand, anglicisms do not seem to have caused any major commotion or indignation. The main proponents of a purist stance in Japan are scholars, who engage in a discourse that mystifies Japanese words as an entity “pulling at [the] heart strings” (Watanabe 1974: 18), while the general population - though sometimes critical of the amount of borrowing - does not believe that eliminating them from the lexicon is a desirable option (cf. Scherling Loanword integration and loanword acceptance 39 2012: 140ff.; Olah 2007: 183f.). What is more, there appears to be a “general lack of concern with the current level of [English-based loanword] use” (Tomoda 2005: 142). The different popular and academic perceptions of, and attitudes towards, anglicisms in the Japanese and German language communities are surprising if we take a look at the actual proportions of anglicisms in these two languages: Kettemann (2002: 60) estimates that only 1% of all words in the German language are anglicisms, while in the Japanese language, their numbers are thought to be as high as 10% (cf. Scherling 2012: 54ff.; Stanlaw 2005: 12f.). Nevertheless, anglicisms seem to be much more accepted and used with more ease in the latter. I propose that one major reason for the different degrees of acceptance and adoption of anglicisms in the two languages is the extent of linguistic integration, which greatly differs in these two cases. While in Japanese, this integration happens on all levels - orthography, phonology, morphology, syntax, and semantics - and affects all loanwords on arrival, in the German case, English-based loanwords are imported or created with a high degree of similarity both on an orthographic and on a phonological level. It is these differences in integration that this paper is concerned with and that will be investigated more closely in the following, and it is this ease of loanword adoption that I argue is a major reason for why loanwords are treated as a much more natural phenomenon in Japanese than in German. 2. Orthography and phonology 2.1. Phonological integration in Japanese Japanese uses a complex orthography based on four distinct writing systems - Chinese characters (or Kanji), two phonetically-based syllabaries known as Hiragana and Katakana, and the Latin alphabet. The writing system used for the representation of non-Chinese loanwords is the Katakana syllabary and any loanword entering the language must be represented in Katakana. Along with this orthographic adaptation goes the phonological change that is required by Japanese phonotactic rules so that these new words can actually be represented through the syllabic writing system (cf. Stanlaw 2005: 73ff.). When this adaptation is complete, it “makes [loanwords] phonologically indistinguishable from native Japanese words” (Nian 2011: 100). Two major processes that this adaptation entails are the insertion of vowels to break up consonant clusters and the substitution of sounds that are non-phonemic in Japanese. Johannes Scherling 40 2.1.1. Vowel epenthesis Japanese phonotactics are based on a syllabic structure which does neither permit consonant clusters - i.e. every consonant has to be followed by a vowel - nor syllables ending in a consonant - i.e. closed syllables (with the exception of syllables ending in / n/ ) (cf. Nian 2011: 100; Stanlaw 2005: 73). The only syllables permitted are therefore V and CV. Any foreign-based lexeme that does not correspond to this particular phonological structure is thus immediately modified by the insertion of vowels (mostly / u/ , less frequently / i/ , / a/ , / o/ ) dissolving consonant clusters or preventing a consonant ending. The choice of the epenthetic vowel here depends on the phonological environment, i.e. it is “influenced by the vowel placed before or after it” (Nian 2011: 100). / u/ is inserted after most final consonants, / o/ after final stops / t/ and / d/ (e.g. Engl. hot  Jap. hotto; Engl. target  Jap. ta-getto), and / i/ after / dʒ/ or / tʃ/ (e.g. Engl. bridge  Jap. burijji; Engl. sponge  Jap. suponji) (cf. Stanlaw 2005: 74). Therefore, a word like Christmas - with its consonant clusters and its consonant ending - is rendered as kurisumasu in order to comply with the phonotactic requirements of Japanese. The processes modifying this loanword phonologically and orthographically can be summarized as follows: Engl. Christmas / krɪsməs/  breaking up of consonant clusters, insertion of vowels  k(+u)ris(+u)mas(+u)  ku-ri-su-ma-su  rendition into Katakana syllabary  クリスマス Other examples include: Engl. crystal  k(+u)ris(+u)tar(+u)  Jap. kurisutaru Engl. friendly  h(+u)-re-n-d(o)-ri-  Jap. hurendori- Engl. damage  da-me-j(+i)  Jap. dame-ji (the hyphen indicates a long vowel). Phonological integration happens automatically when a loanword is used as such, orthographic integration as soon as the new term is first represented in writing, but both happen instantaneously, i.e. there is no period in time where English-based loanwords retain their original pronunciation or spelling, but they are immediately assimilated to the phonological structure of Japanese. Their origins thus become imperceptible to native speakers of English. So perfect is the integration into the language that studies have shown that sometimes not even Japanese native speakers are aware of the fact that they are using an English-based lexical item (cf. Gabrielli 2005). Loanword integration and loanword acceptance 41 2.1.2. Sound substitution Given the differences between the Japanese and the English phonemic repertoires, there is the question of how to deal with sounds and sound combinations in loanwords that are not permitted in Japanese, for example, / θ/ , / tɪ/ , / dɪ/ , the distinction between / l/ and / r/ or between voiced / z/ and voiceless / s/ etc. These sounds are subjected to a process of replacement with approximate sounds in Japanese. An example of sound substitution is the phrase thank you, which has been imported into Japanese and is pronounced as sankyu-, i.e. / θ/ is replaced by / s/ . (there is no epenthetic vowel between k and the ensuing palatal glide y (/ j/ ); usually, it should be sanku yu-, but in Japanese ku and yu are merged into kyu). Other renderings of / θ/ are / ʃ/ (as in shinku tanku, ‘think tank’), / t/ (tema, ‘theme’), / ts/ (tsuriumu, ‘thulium’) (cf. Stanlaw 2005: 74). Another sound that is not phonemic in Japanese is / v/ , which is realized as / b/ , as in Engl. volunteer  borantia. Non-phonemic vowels are equally affected by sound substitutions. English vowels like / æ/ or / ə/ are replaced by similar, phonemic sounds in Japanese, e.g. Engl. bat  Jap. batto, Engl. personal  Jap. pa-sonaru, Engl. private  Jap. puraibe-to (cf. Nian 2011: 101). Recently, however, the influence of English-based loanwords has resulted in new phonemes like syllabary-intial v (e.g. ve, ヴぇ ) or f (before a, e, i, o, e.g. fo, フォ ) being added to the Japanese phonetic inventory, enabling previously impossible sound sequences like / ti, di, fa, fi, fe, fo/ for Western loanwords (cf. Nian 2011: 101), e.g. Engl. party  Jap. pa-ti-; Engl. fence  Jap. fensu; Engl. diesel  Jap. di-zeru. The use of these new phonemes, however, is strictly limited to loanwords (cf. Stanlaw 2005: 83ff.). The assimilation of unfamiliar sounds to the phonemic system is another major step towards the naturalization of a loanword in Japanese, and another step that occurs at the time of its first use. 2.1.3. Borrowing by visual or auditory channel According to Stanlaw (2005: 91f.), borrowing of English loanwords in Japanese happens by eye or by ear. Borrowing by eye means that loanwords are adopted on the basis of their spelling in the donor language. One reason for this, Stanlaw argues, is that much of the Japanese contact with English was - and in some ways still is - based on the written word, a fact that is epitomized by the grammar-translation method’s unbroken popularity in Japan (cf. Seargeant 2009: 45ff.). As a consequence, some new words are adopted based on their writing instead of their pronunciation (the two can sometimes differ greatly in English). Examples of borrowing by eye are: nyu-su ( ニュース ), ‘news’, in which the voiced / z/ in the final position of the English word is realized as a voiceless / s/ (and Johannes Scherling 42 complemented by a vowel to fulfill the requirements of Japanese phonotactics), therefore following its spelling. And motto- ( モットー ), ‘motto’, where the Japanese realization corresponds to the double (i.e. geminated) consonant in the spelling, which is realized in a way similar to a glottal stop - even though there is no glottal stop present in the actual articulation of the English word (cf. Stanlaw 2005: 92). Other examples of borrowing by eye (cf. Nian 2011: 102) are words that end in -age (image, damage), where the pronunciation in Japanese resembles the English pronunciation of the word age, even though the syllable -age in these words is unstressed, and the resemblance merely orthographic. Hence, Engl. image becomes Jap. ime-ji, and Engl. damage is realized as dame-ji. Such - at least partly - orthography-based pronunciation can be regarded as yet another step away from the original source word and therefore another step towards its integration into a different language system. Borrowing by ear, on the other hand, happens through aural exposure to a word and was particular prominent in the Meiji-Period (1868-1912), i.e. in the first stages of language contact between English and Japanese, and during the American occupation of Japan (1945-1952). Contact in these periods took place on a very personal level and “Japanese able to travel and study abroad, Japanese servants working in European households, Japanese teachers of English […], translators of European literature, and innovatory Japanese novelists transferring English into their work, contributed to the dissemination of English to varying degrees” (Loveday 1996: 69), which was in part based on the aural medium. Hence, in such cases, the pronunciation of a word by individuals serves as the source on which to base the phonetic realization of the respective loanword in Japanese. These loanwords frequently bear little resemblance to the original because their realization depends on the subjective perceptions by Japanese speakers. Examples in this category are: purin ( プリン ), ‘pudding’, where the alveolar stop / d/ was obviously perceived as a postalveolar flap, / ɽ / ; yu-ta-n ( ユーターン ), ‘u-turn’; mishin ( ミシン ), ‘machine’ (meaning ‘sewing machine’); suka-to ( スカート ), ‘skirt’, all of which were clearly borrowed by ear based on their perceived pronunciation (cf. Stanlaw 2005: 92). The same applies for the example presented above: kurisumasu, where the t from Christmas is elided, as it would be in English. 2.2. Phonological integration in German The aforementioned two phenomena do not seem to feature in anglicisms in the German language, where they are usually both orthographically and phonologically based on the English model, e.g. Engl. teen is adopted orthographically as teen, and phonologically as / ti: n/ , which is largely identical to its realization in the English language. While the phonological integration of loanwords in Japanese is self-evident (due to the need Loanword integration and loanword acceptance 43 to adapt them to the syllabic writing system and the restraints of Japanese phonotactics), in German the case is not so clear. Hausmann (2006: 41) argues that the question of whether English-based loanwords in German are actually phonologically integrated into the German sound system is still a matter of debate. But even those who propose that such integration takes place limit this claim only to single phonemes in individual cases. For the English word upload, for example, which is realized in German as uploaden, the diphthong is sometimes replaced in German by the monophthong / o/ . On the other hand, English phonemes formerly not a part of the German phonetic system have been added to it in order to prevent the emergence of homophones, as in Leser and Laser, the latter of which is sometimes realized as a diphthong not normally part of German, i.e. / eɪ/ (Hausmann 2006: 41). Some German speakers even choose to maintain the English pronunciation to indicate to others that they have a command of the English language or that they are aware of the word’s origin (Pittner 2001: 4). Of course, in cases where the function of the loanword is its association with the donor language (English, in this case), the retaining of the original pronunciation is to keep these associations alive. Pittner demonstrates that, by and large, English-based loanwords have adapted to German phonology, as in words like Multimedia or Mikrochip. However, she also maintains that more recently, there has been an increasing tendency to pronounce such words based on their original pronunciation, e.g. Jazz or Curry. As far as orthographic adaptation is concerned, a general trend towards a complete remodeling to conform to phonological orthography - e.g. to render comeback as Kammbeck, or hitch-hike as Hitschhaik - does not seem to be happening, whereas small adaptations are being made to bring orthography and pronunciation closer together, as in antörnen instead of anturnen or recyceln instead of recyclen (cf. Pittner 2001: 5). Generally speaking, English orthography seems to be retained for a longer period of time than it used to be the case (cf. Schippan 1992: 265, cited in Hausmann 2006: 40). Graphemic integration, if it occurs at all, takes the form of an ad-hoc replacement of graphemes by individual speakers (cf. Hausmann 2006: 40), meaning that it does not become the accepted form of the speech community. The standard argument for this is that a change in orthography cannot be achieved by individuals, but has to be established by the respective authorities (cf. Hausmann 2006: 41). It is evident that there is a clear difference in the way of integrating English-based loanwords on the graphemic and phonological levels. While Japanese assimilates these terms immediately into Japanese orthography and phonology, in German they retain their original form much longer - if not indefinitely - and are only adjusted to the German orthographic system if a speaker consciously decides to do so. Such efforts, however, remain idiosyncratic and do not normally become estab- Johannes Scherling 44 lished choices (cf. Hausmann 2006: 40). Hausmann (2006: 42) concludes that “die lautliche Anpassung von Anglizismen inzwischen vor allem von der sprachlichen Kompetenz und der Absicht der einzelnen Sprecher abhängt und offenbar keine allgemeingültige Aussage zur Aussprache getroffen werden kann.” Phonological and orthographical integration of English-based loanwords therefore seems to be occurring in a much more systematic way in Japanese than in German, where the time frame for these adaptations is much longer, and where these adaptations do not seem to be following any visible pattern. While in Japanese, this integration happens automatically, in German - because of its similar orthography and basic phonological structure - it requires - with regards to orthography - a conscious act, and therefore entails unfavorable notions of prescriptivism. 3. Morphology New loanwords are also normally adapted to the morphological system of the recipient language. The extent of this integration can vary greatly, resulting in a more or less deep integration. 3.1. Morphological integration in Japanese Following an established morpho-syntactic pattern for integrating loanwords in Japanese (described in Loveday 1996: 40ff.), the latter are treated “as uninflected nouns or bound bases that do not belong to a word class, but which are potentially convertible to any class by means of suffixation” (Loveday 1996: 138), even though there tends to be a correlation with the syntactic features a word has in English. This use of foreign language material regardless of their original morphological class distinction, Loveday maintains (1996: 140), is based on the centuries-old model of the adoption of morphologically unmarked and flexible Chinese bases. Examples are Engl. happy  Jap. happina (na-adjective); Engl. enjoy  Jap. enjoi suru (verbal noun, i.e. enjoi serves as a noun, verbalized through the auxiliary suru, ‘to do’); Engl. bride  buraido (noun). There are, however, also exceptions to this traditional pattern, most notably that of nouns or adjectives used as verbs (Engl. cunning  Jap. kanningu suru), of adjectives used as nouns (Engl. young  Jap. yangu, ‘young people’), and that of the compounding of noun and preposition resulting in a pseudo-loanword (Engl. goal + in  Jap. go-ru in, ‘to score a goal’) (cf. Loveday 1996: 139). Other major processes of morphological integration include compounding, clipping and the formation of hybrids. Loanword integration and loanword acceptance 45 3.1.1. Compounding and blending These two processes in Japanese are closely linked because blending usually immediately follows compounding for longer lexemes. Therefore, word processor was imported into Japanese as wa-do purosessa-, then blended into wa-puro. Due to the morphosyntactic pattern of loanword integration mentioned above, a great variety of compounds is possible in Japanese (cf. Loveday 1996: 142ff.): ‣ Noun + noun: image + change = ime-ji chenji ‣ Noun + preposition: image + up/ down = ime-ji appu/ daun ‣ Preposition + noun: over + doctor = o-badokuta- ‣ Noun + verb: engine + stop = enjin sutoppu (often blended to ensuto) ‣ (Clipped) verb + noun: fry[ing] + pan = furaipan ‣ Adjective + noun: my + car = maika- ‣ Affixation: mis + copy = misukopi- ‣ Adjective + noun + noun: one + man + car = wanmanka- As can be seen, all of the above compounds are not actually English words to begin with, but rather so-called Made-in-Japan-English, i.e. pseudo-anglicisms only exploiting English language material on the surface. Since compounding is thought to be involved in the creation or import of about two thirds of all loanwords (cf. Stanlaw 2005: 75), the number of pseudo-anglicisms can be assumed to be similarly high. 3.1.2. Clipping Loanwords are frequently clipped, a process of shortening morphologically complex words by omitting the parts that are thought to be of secondary importance to the overall meaning. Like compounding and blending, clipping is often encountered in the Japanese language. It can be interpreted as a sign of a certain linguistic economy in Japanese (cf. Scherling 2012: 110). In compound words, sometimes only one part of a compound is clipped, as in Engl. mass communication  Jap. masukomi. Other examples (cf. Loveday 1996: 143) include: ‣ Clipping of single words: illustration  irasuto, building  biru, cash register  reji ‣ Compound with one clipped element: om[elette] + rice  omuraisu; body + con[scious]  bodikon Through clipping, loanwords are even further removed from the English ‘source’ and are therefore less likely to be identified as loanwords in the first place. Johannes Scherling 46 3.1.3. Hybrids Another productive word formation process for loanwords is hybridization. Hybrids are compounds consisting of Japanese elements combined with foreign elements. Hybridization is also frequently encountered in Chinese ‘loanwords’ (which have been in the language for more than 1,000 years already). Examples of this process are: shirobai (Jap. shiro ‘white’ + Engl. bi[ke], denoting the white motorbikes used by the Japanese police), kuchikomi (Jap. kuchi ‘mouth’ + Engl. com[munication], denoting oral face-to-face communication), tonkatsu (Jap. ton, ‘pork’ + Engl. cut[let], a pork cutlet fried in bread crumbs), or karaoke (Jap. kara, ‘empty’ + Engl. orche[stra]). As is demonstrated here, hybridization in most cases goes hand in hand with the clipping of the loanword, which adds to its naturalization in Japanese and to the backgrounding of any marked ‘foreign’ associations. What all of these processes share is that on the one hand they integrate loanwords into the morphological structure of Japanese, and on the other hand - due to the nature of the major word formation processes, namely clipping, blending and hybridization - they remodel foreign language material drastically and to such an extent that many of those - like in the examples above - are no longer discernible as loanwords. 3.2. Morphological integration in German The German language requires certain morphological adaptations as well, especially for verbs and nouns, since German has more inflections than English. Nouns, for example, need to be marked for number and case (marking on the lexeme itself is mostly limited to plural and genitive forms, though) and has to be assigned a grammatical gender (masculine, feminine, neuter). Therefore, one major integrational process concerns the addition of inflectional suffixes. 3.2.1. Inflectional adaptation Nouns, adjectives and verbs that are ‘borrowed’ from English need to be morphologically adapted so that they can be inflected according to German morpho-syntactic rules. Nouns Nouns, as mentioned, have to be assigned to a grammatical gender, which becomes visible in various linguistic elements grammatically agreeing with the noun, most notable the article. The allocation of gender in German usually uses analogy to formally or semantically similar existing words (cf. Burmasova 2010: 106f.), e.g. der Drink  der Trank, das Girl  das Mädchen, die SMS  die Nachricht, der Fight  der Kampf, etc. Loanword integration and loanword acceptance 47 As for plural forms, there is a tendency to apply an -s plural suffix, e.g. Drink - Drinks, Skateboard - Skateboards, Fan - Fans, which, as some linguists (cf. Zifonun 2002: 5 cited in Burmasova 2010: 104) claim, is an indication that such nouns are not yet established in the German language. However, others (e.g. Wegener 2003, cited in Burmasova 2010: 104; Lewtschenko 2005: 8) maintain that the -s plural form is already an established German plural form, as can be seen in cases like Opa - Opas, Oma - Omas, Mutti - Muttis, or Uhu - Uhus. Other plural forms, e.g. the zero-morphemic plural, are applied to nouns that end in a weakened [ɐ] sound (Computer, Designer, Entertainer), and in cases where the noun ends in -s, the plural form no longer follows the English example, but is realized according to native German plural rules by suffixation of -e or -en (e.g. der Boss - die Bosse vs. bosses in English; die Box - die Boxen vs. boxes in English) (cf. Burmasova 2010: 105). Adjectives Lewtschenko (2005: 9f.) maintains that English adjectives are often imported unchanged (e.g. happy, funny, overdressed). In predicative position (e.g. Sie war ganz happy), inflection for agreement can be avoided, which is why many ‘borrowed’ adjectives tend to be used this way. If used attributively, however, agreement becomes mandatory, which is particularly difficult if the adjective ends in -y. In this case, the adjective (e.g. happy) would have to be inflected by (at least) adding the suffix -e (as in hell - die helle Farbe), resulting in an impermissible syllable structure, the socalled hiatus (cf. Lewtschenko 2005: 10, citing Zifonum 2002: 5), i.e. *der happye Mann. Therefore, such adjectives are used almost exclusively in a predicative position, with the exception of certain adjectives like easy, which have also come to be used in an attributive position without inflectional ending, e.g. eine ganz easy Sache. In yet other cases, both English nouns turned into German adjectives as well as adjectives ending in -y have become morphologically adapted by adding the adjectival suffix -ig, e.g. freak - freakig, rock - rockig; funky - funkig, groovy - groovig (cf. Lewtschenko 2005: 10). Thus, there appear to be different levels of integration for different adjectives. Verbs The morphological integration of verbs is even more complex. The imported element functions as a bound base to which inflectional suffixes are added. Preterite and past participle forms of the verb then follow the pattern of weak verbs, as in ich skate, ich skatete, ich habe/ bin geskatet (cf. Lewtschenko 2005: 10f.). However, for some loan verbs, the formation of the participle is problematic as strictly following the German pattern results in a visible gap between spelling and pronunciation. One example for this is the verb timen, where the formation of the participle varies Johannes Scherling 48 orthographically: getimt, getimet, getimed are all possible past participle forms of the same verb. According to Abresch (2007: 71), this variation points to a certain insecurity in the morphological integration of some English verbs. But while there is some problem with a strict adherence to grapheme-phoneme correspondence rules with the example, the real issue is just one of orthographical integration because there is no actual problem with pronunciation itself as all three versions will be pronounced the same. In this particular case, getimt follows the German formational pattern for the participle, but its orthography suggests a different pronunciation (the long monophthong / i: / instead of a diphthong / aɪ/ ), while getimed combines German geand English -ed (both forms used for the past participle), but indicates - due to its closeness to English orthography - a diphthong as the intended pronunciation. Other problems include the inflection of verbs like updaten or downloaden, where it is not clear whether up or down should be treated as prefixes or whether the whole verb should be seen as monomorphemic, i.e. whether the participle should be gedownloaded or downgeloaded. And while such insecurities are not restricted to loan verbs - similar issues surface with German compound verbs like bauchlanden or bausparen - the morphological structure of loan verbs should be less transparent than that of German words because the English morphemes up or down are more difficult to interpret as having morphematic same in the German language (cf. also Kettemann 2006: 51f; Lewtschenko 2005: 11). 3.2.2. Other loanword-integration processes We can also witness some other integrative processes like clipping or hybrids, i.e. such that can also be encountered in Japanese. Clipping Like Japanese, German, too, has a tendency of shortening certain loanwords. This process of clipping produces results that are no longer understood in the donor language, e.g. professional  Profi, pullover  Pulli, fashionable  fesch (here we also see the rare instance of a orthographically marked phonological adaptation); teenager  Teen (cf. Carstensen: 156f.). Clipping also covers compounds in which one part is clipped or omitted completely. Examples include smoking-jacket  Smoking, discount store  Discounter, happy ending  happy end, or jigsaw puzzle  Puzzle (cf. Carstensen: 159f.). Hybridization Combining English-based words with original German words is a frequent process in German. In hybrids, the English-based lexeme is more likely to be the determiner (e.g. Dumpingpreise, Imageschaden, Teamgeist) than the Loanword integration and loanword acceptance 49 head (e.g. Bankenpool, Krisenmanagement, Kultursponsoring). According to Burmasova (2010: 108), one reason for this can be seen in a certain uncertainty when it comes to inflections of non-indigenous words. Lewtschenko (2005: 9) describes different types of hybrids: those that are based on English compounds, with one part being translated into German (e.g. Heimcomputer < home computer), those without an English equivalent, which therefore are German creations (e.g. Gelegenheitsjob, Heimtrainer), and those where an English lexeme is combined with another non-German lexeme (e.g. Managerniveau, Teamchef). Derivation In derivational processes, German affixes are added to an English lexical base, thus integrating the loanword into the German morphological system. The most common case is the addition of a suffix to indicate gender, e.g. der Stalker - die Stalkerin, der Designer - die Designerin, der Manager - die Managerin. Prefixation occurs in cases like Vorstopper or Besprayung. Another area of derivation is that of English affixes that with time become independent from the words they were originally imported with and are then used productively with ‘native’ lexemes, e.g. super and top as in superklug, Superwahljahr or Topverdienst, topmotiviert (cf. Burmasova 2010: 109). This is somehow similar to the Japanese productive use of the English pronoun my, which has lost its first person pronominal status and is used as a prefix indicating ownership with the referent depending on the context, e.g. mai bu-mu (my+boom, someone’s current fashion/ interest), mai ka- (my+car, someone’s own car), mai ho-mu (my+home, someone’s own home), etc. (cf. Scherling 2012: 112). Loanwords that were subjected to processes such as clipping, hybridization or derivation show a high degree of morphological integration, which sets them apart from words that did not undergo any adaptive processes, but were ‘borrowed’ in their original form, retaining - to a large extent - phonology and morphology of the donor language English. 4. Conclusion What this comparison shows is that the integration processes for anglicisms in Japanese are much more comprehensive than those found in German. While integration in German is focused mainly on adapting the loanwords to its inflectional system, integration in Japanese starts on the phonological and graphemic levels and also affects the morphological level, where one major process at work is the clipping and blending of these lexemes. Through this holistic integration affecting words on all levels, anglicisms in Japanese naturally ‘blend in’ with the language, and thus lose - at least in spoken form - the markedness that is characteristic of anglicisms in German. It can be assumed that such factors are critical Johannes Scherling 50 in accepting loanwords as part of the language, as can also be seen in the case of graphemically and phonologically integrated loans in German (e.g. fesch), which are no longer perceived as foreign language material, but as an intrinsic part of the German lexicon. It is clear that Japanese has a ‘head start’ as far as integration is concerned, because its phonological structure necessitates immediate adaptation of non-permissible sound structures. It is also obvious that Japanese has a lot more experience in the large-scale adoption of foreign language material, having itself absorbed the Chinese writing system wholesale along with a huge number of vocabulary between the 5 th and the 10 th centuries A.D. to the effect that almost 50% of the contemporary lexicon are derived from Chinese (cf. Loveday 1996: 26ff.). In this sense, the extensive borrowing and integration of English-based loanwords nowadays is only a natural continuation of a “contact tradition” (Loveday 1996: 27). Nevertheless, despite the lack of such comprehensive borrowing and despite the phonological similarities with the English language, German has shown the same power of integration for long-lived loanwords in the language. This means that it is well possible that a gradual progression towards a more holistic integration of anglicisms will also take place in German in the long run and, thus, that negative/ preconceived attitudes towards loanwords reflected in recent debates on the issue will change. After all, loanwords are motivated, valuable and meaningful additions to the lexicon, and a natural part of language evolution. References Abresch, Julia (2007). Englisches in gesprochenem Deutsch - Eine empirische Analyse der Aussprache und Beurteilung englischer Laute im Deutschen. Dissertation an der Rheinischen Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität Bonn. Befu, Harumi/ Kazufumi Manabe (1991). “Nihonjinron: The Discursive Manifestation of Cultural Nationalism.” Kwansei Gakuin University Annual Studies 40. 101-115. Burmasova, Svetlana (2010). Empirische Untersuchung der Anglizismen im Deutschen am Material der Zeitung Die WELT (Jahrgänge 1994 und 2004). Bamberg: University of Bamberg Press. Carstensen, Broder (1979). “Morphologische Eigenwege des Deutschen bei der Übernahme englischen Wortmaterials“. Arbeiten aus Anglistik und Amerikanistik 4/ 1. 155-170. Gabbrielli, Richard (2005). A Sociolinguistic Analysis of English Loanwords in Japanese Television Commercials - A Case Study. Hiroshima: Keisuisha. Hausmann, Dagmar (2006). “downgeloaded“ und “geforwardet” - Sprecherverhalten in morphologischen Zweifelsfällen am Beispiel des Sprachgebrauchs im Internet. Arbeitspapiere (N.F.) 50. Köln: Institut für Sprachwissenschaft. Kettemann, Bernhard (2002). “Anglizismen allgemein und konkret: Zahlen und Fakten.” In: Muhr/ Kettemann (2002). 55-86. Loanword integration and loanword acceptance 51 Kettemann, Bernhard (2006). “Morphologische Integration von und semantische Differenzierung durch Anglizismen im Deutschen.” In: Christian Mair et al., (eds.). Corpora and the History of English. Heidelberg: Winter. 169-182. Kurzmann, Gerhard (2002). “Sprachkultur oder Sprachverfall? Überlegungen zum Einfluss des Englischen und Amerikanischen auf unsere Sprache.” In: Muhr/ Kettemann (2002). 223-226. Lewtschenko, Tatjana (2005). Morphologische Integration der Anglizismen im heutigen Deutsch. München: Grin. Loveday, Leo (1996). Language Contact in Japan - A Socio-linguistic History. New York: OUP. Miller, Roy Andrew (1967). The Japanese Language. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Muhr, Rudolf (2002). “Anglizismen als Problem der Linguistik und Sprachpflege in Österreich und Deutschland zu Beginn des 21. Jahrhunderts.” In: Muhr/ Kettemann (2002). 9-54. Muhr, Rudolf/ Bernhard Kettemann (eds.) (2002). Eurospeak. Frankfurt a.M.: Peter Lang. Nian, Ong Shyi/ R.C. Jubilado (2011). “The Linguistic Integration of English Borrowings in Modern Japanese.” Polyglossia 21. 99-107. Olah, Ben (2007). “English Loanwords in Japanese: Effects, Attitudes and Usage as a Means of Improving Spoken English Ability.” 文京学院大学人間学部研究 紀要 9/ 1. 177-188. Pfalzgraf, Falco (2006). Neopurismus in Deutschland nach der Wende. Frankfurt a.M.: Peter Lang. Pittner, Karin (2001). “Deutsch - eine sterbende Sprache? ” In: K. Pittner/ R.J. Pittner (eds.). Beiträge zu Sprache und Sprachen 3. Vorträge der 6. Münchner Linguistik-Tage. München: lincom europa. 229-237. Scherling, Johannes (2012). Japanizing English - Anglicisms and their impact on Japanese. Tübingen: Narr. Schippan, Thea (1992). Lexikologie der deutschen Gegenwartssprache. Tübingen: Niemeyer. Seargent, Philip (2009). The idea of English in Japan - Ideology and the Evolution of a Global Language. Bristol: Multilingual Matters. Stanlaw, James (2005). Japanese English - Language and Culture Contact. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. Tomoda, Takako (2005). The Loanword (Gairaigo) Influx into the Japanese Language: Contemporary Perceptions and Responses. Dissertation at the University of New South Wales. Watanabe, Shoichi (1974). “On the Japanese Language.” Japan Echo 1/ 2. 9-20. Wegener, Heide (2003). “Normprobleme bei der Pluralbildung fremder und nativer Substantive.” Linguistik online 16. [Online] http: / / www.linguistikonline.com/ 16_03/ wegener.pdf. (28 Feb 2013). Zifonun, Gisela (2002).“Überfremdung des Deutschen: Panikmache oder echte Gefahr? ” Sprachreport 3. 2-9. Semiotics of Advertising and the Discourse of Consumption 1 Bernhard Kettemann I will discuss possible approaches to the use of semiotics, semantics and pragmatics in the analysis of advertising discourses in English language media. I will discuss the rhetoric of the image and the stylistics of consumption. The aim of this article is twofold: by analysing advertising discourse, I want to gain insight into the construction of advertisements and at the same time provide a means for a de-manipulative look at the discursive construction of social and cultural identities through consumption. This leads into the linguistic and semiotic analysis of advertising texts and images using a constructionist approach, combined with the analytical framework of social semiotics, visual design, rhetoric, stylistics, text linguistics, and critical discourse analysis. What is my point? It is the following: that actually the consumption of meanings is important and not the consumption of goods. Of course, you buy goods as items, but what you need is their meanings and not the items as such. You could very well do with other, similar goods, not necessarily the ones you bought. What I am saying is that the purchase, the possession and the use of goods, i.e. the consumption of goods in a broad sense, have become prime signifiers in our lives and are thus instrumental in the discursive construction of identity. As a social constructionist I do not believe in essentialism, which means things do not mean anything by themselves. They may or may not exist, ontologically speaking, but they are senseless before we assign meanings to them, mostly meanings shared within a society. So in a sense, we make them, produce them. Facts - facts derives from Latin factum which means ‘the produced’ and this is exactly what we are dealing 1 This is a slightly altered version of a paper previously published under the same title in Flath/ Klein (2013). I thank the publisher, transcript Verlag, Bielefeld, and the editors of this book for the kind permission to reprint this paper here. AAA - Arbeiten aus Anglistik und Amerikanistik Band 38 (2013) · Heft 1 Gunter Narr Verlag Tübingen Bernhard Kettemann 54 with: ‘the produced’ constructed in our own representation of reality. We as societies make things mean, create facts. We are constructing reality, in its interpretations and representations in our minds. So everything we know is constructed. I am not denying that there is a wall. I notice that there is a wall when I walk into it. But I am not concerned with the ontological reality of the thing out there. I am concerned with the representation of this outside reality in our minds. In this sense this wall is not a wall. It is a wall only because we interpret it as such. It is not solid because there is no solid matter. It is actually that strong that I cannot walk through it because inside it is highly unstable. It is ‘full’ of electrons, neutrons, anions, positrons and all these other particles, moving around incredibly fast and that is why I cannot go through. It is a wall because I say it is a wall or because you say it is a wall or because we all say it is a wall, and because we all agree, it is a wall and not because it is a wall. (Cf. von Foerster, von Glasersfeld 1999, von Foerster, von Glasersfeld, Watzlawick, Schmidt et al. 1997, von Glasersfeld 1997, Watzlawick 1981). If reality is a construction, truth as a monolithic, unquestionable epistemic category does not exist. There are only different truths at different times. If we here in our society agree on something, then this is true for us here and now. If we don’t agree, it is not true. There is no truth independent of our current interpretations which in turn depend on our cultures. Martyrs and believers have died because of this, scientists and dissidents went to prison because of this (this is what drives innovation and change), racism, xenophobia, populists and dictators thrive on this. Their own truth. It does not exist. Consumption of goods has become a symbolic activity and thus meaningful for the social construction of identity. Now I am not talking about the wall any more, now I am talking about us as persons, the construction of the meanings of our selves, i.e. our identities, and about the social communication of interpretations of our selves to others, which seems to be one of the most central activities in our lives. We are not careless in our projections of our identities, instead trying to present meanings to others that we assume they consider desirable. We are therefore constantly presenting signifiers of our sociability, our competence, our intelligence, and our beauty irrespective of whether the signifiers point to any signifieds at all. But who cares? Consumption, i.e. the purchase, possession and use of goods and services, as already mentioned has become the major signifier in today’s society. We consume something in order to project an identity of ourselves to others. We live in a consumer society; this is what we participate in. As we live in a consumer society we have to consume in order to belong. And we want to belong. You sign up to the consumer society’s ethos by consuming; you are the pouvoir constituant of the consumer society and you give it its consumerist ethos and subject yourself to it at the Semiotics of Advertising and the Discourse of Consumption 55 same time. You produce the society’s consumer ethos and reify it by consuming. And what do we consume? Well, I have given it away already: not goods, but meanings (cf. Benjamin 1982, Weber 1972). Assume it is winter in the Northern hemisphere. You buy a coat because it is cold and you wear this coat because it is cold. But you buy the specific coat because you want to project an image of yourself to the coat-wearers and non-coat-wearers around you, and not because it is a warm coat, but because it is an Yves-Saint-Laurent-coat or a Barbourjacket. Why are you wearing Barbour? It means you are an upper class person (e.g. aristocrat hunter). There are additional meanings. Why do I buy Nike shoes? Because I want to project cool sportiveness, because I am a second Messi or a third Beckham. Why do I drink Red Bull? Because I think Felix Baumgartner is cool. Because I like the Red Bull Air Race. Because I’ve heard of Hangar Five. I do not consume Red Bull, I consume Red Bull Media. There is nothing less important to Red Bull than the sugary liquid in the can. What is important is cliff divers, daredevil pilots, extreme runners, base jumpers and stratospheric “I am going home”-guys. May I repeat: It is not the product, but the meanings of the product that we consume for the construction of our selves. Now, how do we consume meanings? We do this by a transfer, a transfer of meanings of something in the advertisement through an objective correlative. In the print advertisement, the scenario presented in the text and the image constitute an objective correlative for the quality and value of the emotional satisfaction of a need or desire. The scenario usually represents desirable social circumstances - usually, but not necessarily including the product to be promoted and the consumer - circumstances that emphasize social attraction and integration associated with beauty and happiness. Such an objective correlative is tightly linked to the consumption of the product advertised so that eventually product, scenario and desired social identity features become merged in people's minds. In other words, the consumption of the product is supposed to conceptually transfer this quality and value to the consumer. So we have bought a signifier after we have followed the advertisement to the point of action, we have bought a meaning, not a function. The most important social desire is that we want to belong to a group and to be loved by others. And we believe that we need to consume what we think makes us loved because we want to be loved. This is why advertising works. The idea of the objective correlate is taken from T.S. Eliot’s essay “Hamlet and his problems” (1919), where he says that you need the objective correlative to express emotions in art. Art touches you through the objective correlative. Art does something to you, changes something in you, and makes you feel something. Bernhard Kettemann 56 The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an ‘objective correlative’: in other words a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion; such that when the external facts which must terminate in sensory experience are given the emotion is immediately evoked. What Hamlet is for Eliot, Dove, Heads and Shoulders, and Chanel No 5 are for me. It is my claim that advertising is actually a form of art, by finding an objective correlative, in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which is the formula for that particular emotion, such that when the external facts terminate (this means you don’t look at the advertisement any more), you can still bring the emotion back by remembering the ad. How and why do we consume meaning? We can sum this up with references to important social theoretical concepts: ‣ The regime of representation (the discursive construction of reality, cf. Foucault 1980, 1988) ‣ talks you into existence in order to consume a sign (the commodification of meaning, cf. Baudrillard 2005) ‣ with the aim of taking part in (look and be seen, cf. Benjamin 1982) ‣ or being part of something (through e.g. shared tastes, cf. Bourdieu 2001) ‣ in order to be someone (in order to have someone (in order to be someone…)) (cf. Freud 1948) ‣ to create your own regime of truth in the endless construction of myths (cf. Barthes 1957). Let me explain. The regime of representation produces the discursive construction of reality. This also means you are discursively constructing yourself, primarily by the meanings of the things you consume. This is what Jean Baudrillard (2005) calls the commodification of meaning: you buy meaning by consuming commodities endowed with meaning. We consume a sign with the aim of taking part in something, this means to look at other people and to be seen by other people. While doing so, there is a certain voyeuristic pleasure for all of us. Why do we have reality TV, why do we enjoy watching ordinary or non-ordinary people doing ugly stuff, eating ugly stuff and why are they taking part in these modern-day circenses? Because we are voyeuristic and exhibitionist, i.e. we want to look and be seen. This is a major idea in Walter Benjamin’s Passagenwerk (1982). The idea of fashion is the immediate result of the aim of taking part in or being part of something through shared tastes. None of us is dressed as in 1850. Why not? Because it would be funny. People would laugh at us. This is why we don’t do it. There is nothing wrong with it as such. Per- Semiotics of Advertising and the Discourse of Consumption 57 haps a bit stiff and heavy. Today we have to be relaxed and cool. This is nothing but an attitude that we have to have in order to be able to share with other people, in order to belong. If you are not a relaxed and cool follower of fashion, you don’t belong. Shared tastes: in order to be someone, and why do we want to be someone? Because we want to have someone. And why do we want to have someone? Because we want to be someone. And so on and so forth, and therefore it never ends. And why do we do all that? In order to create our own regime of truth in the endless construction of myths. A regime of truth is constructed through discourse. We are embedded in discourse. We read newspapers, we listen to the radio, we watch TV, we talk to people, everything we get is discourse about something. Here in Austria at the end of 2012, for example, we have a discourse of corruption in the media, Grasser, Meischberger, Hochegger, Birnbacher, Martinz, Mensdorff-Pouilly, Strasser, Scheuch and twenty other names. We did not know about them before, but now and for some time to come they will be part of our discourse. We are constructing reality through discourse. For example think of something like hysteria. This illness started around 1860 and it ended more or less around 1960. Before and after there was no hysteria. It was constructed through the discourse, through institutions, through academics, through people like me teaching about hysteria to people like you at the time. We consume these meanings by way of consuming - i.e. buying, possessing, using - the product, so that the latter is gradually losing its importance as a level in its own right, turning into a signifier instead. This makes it possible for us in our construction of our own selves to take part in or be part of something in order to be someone in order to have someone, in order to belong to an imagined community, whatever it is. Our question is now: How do we construct a sign? How do we mean? How does it happen that we mean? What do we do in order to mean? And the next question is: How do we construct a myth? How do we unmean? First we mean something, and then we unmean something. How do we mean? We mean by using linguistic signs, and the most famous example of a model of the linguistic sign is Ferdinand de Saussure’s (1916: 33) model, which was later modified by Ogden and Richards (1923: 11). C ONCEPT (the signified, mental images and representations) Sign, sense, meaning Bedeutung Signification, reference Bezeichnung F ORM (the signifier, physical form of sign) T HING (physical, psychological, socially, constructed realitities) Bernhard Kettemann 58 De Saussure starts here with the form, which he calls in French le signifiant, and this evokes the le signifié, the concept. The signifier is the physical form of the sign, this means what you hear when I, for example, utter the word desk. You hear desk. And this invokes in your mind the signified, the idea, the concept of a desk. This connection is arbitrary. We do not know why we call something desk or table. We do not know why we call these things by these words. Once the connection between form and meaning has been established, you have to use the form to evoke the meaning. You cannot walk around and call this table horse. Well, I could, but if I persist, I will be institutionalized. So society does not accept horses for tables. The linguistic sign is arbitrary but conventional. This means you have to follow the rules of society in order to communicate. Not all signs are arbitrary, though. According to Charles Sanders Peirce (1982-89), an American philosopher, we can distinguish between three types of signs based on the relationship between signifier and signified (besides other distinctions he introduced): first, there is an icon. An icon is a sign where there is a relationship of similarity between the signifier and the signified. This means this relationship is motivated. This is why you have your picture in your passport. It identifies you, assuming that the picture is sufficiently similar to your current appearance. Second, an index is a sign where there is a contiguity or causality relationship between the signifier and the signified. For example, when you see smoke, what is this an index of? Fire, because we know that fire produces smoke. Or when you see clouds, then you will say or think something like “It’s going to rain,” because rain comes from clouds. The third type is the symbol, which is a sign where there is an arbitrary relationship between the signifier and the signified. So all of language (or most of it) is symbolic. All the words in language are symbols because there is an arbitrary relationship between the signifier and the signified. So language is the symbolic system in human communication. Having discussed the sign, let us now move on to myths. This is a term coined by Roland Barthes (2001 [originally 1957]: 187-188) in his book Mythologies, where he claims that in myth there are two semiological systems operating on top of each other, the second system emptying the first one of its meaning and changing the sign into a myth, meaning something else. This is where my unmean from above comes in. The myth changes the meaning. The first system is the normal linguistic system; you have a signifier and a signified, a word and then a concept that is evoked. And this means something. On the level of myth, this sign now enters into a second system of meaning as a new signifier. The linguistic sign becomes a signifier again and is related to a signified that creates another meaning, a second meaning, which empties the first sign of its meaning. Here is Barthes’ example from advertising. Semiotics of Advertising and the Discourse of Consumption 59 Fig. 1: Panzani Pasta ad: Roland Barthes (1964). Picture credit: Maryvonne Longeart, Interprétation d’une publicité Panzani http: / / johnnyholland.org/ wp-content/ uploads/ panzani2.jpg [15 Jan 2013]. This is an advertisement for spaghetti. Why is there a net? What does this mean? Perhaps daily shopping at the local market. Why is the background color red? What does red mean here? Perhaps tomato sauce. We have the fresh vegetables, there are onions, there is a tomato, and there is mushroom. What do they mean? What does this advertisement do to us? We get fresh market produce, Panzani spaghetti and sauce, this is Italian (the name and the colors of the Italian flag on the product), and natural freshness. But the problem is that we have all this in the shape of an industrial French product. The sauce comes in a tin, pâte, sauce, parmesan, à l’italienne de luxe. It’s an industrial French product and it produces in us the idea of natural fresh Italianness! This is a myth. The French meaning is gone. So how do you turn an industrial French copy into a natural Italian original? Here are the two steps: Myth First level of signification: Signifier: Panzani (plus pictorial elements) Signified: French Pasta and sauce Sign: French pasta and sauce with an Italian name Second level of signification: Signifier: French pasta and sauce with an Italian name Signified: Italianness Sign: Italian pasta and sauce (original, real, fresh, natural, good, home-made, etc.) Bernhard Kettemann 60 Look at my next example: Fig. 2. Christian Dior Hypnotic Poison. http: / / www.polyvore.com/ dior_hypnotic_poison_ad/ thing? id=1884343 2 [15 Jan 2013]. This is an advertisement for a perfume by Christian Dior with the name Hypnotic Poison. We see a woman. The background is red. What does red mean here? Perhaps passion and love. She also wears a string (or necklace) of red pearls. What do strings do to people? They keep people in place. There is an element of danger, action, dynamics, temptation. There is something dangerous about her. Her eyes look like a cat’s eyes. What about her finger nails? What is she going to do with these finger nails? Perhaps scratch your back in ecstasy. The name of the product: Hypnotic poison. She is going to kill you, and you will love every minute of it. What about the bottle? Sort of roundish and bloodish, perhaps something inside you? Perhaps a womb, for example. She is going to hold on to you, after she has scratched you. And all this is going to happen because of Christian Dior. Another myth. This is an advertisement for a man’s fragrance, a ‘real’ man’s fragrance. Semiotics of Advertising and the Discourse of Consumption 61 Fig. 3: Extreme Sport Polo Ralph Lauren. http: / / www.advertisingarchives.co.uk/ assets/ thumbnails/ 82/ 3/ eee228f cdaf9c85b8b3c2afec56a5da8.jpg [15 Jan 2013]. The ‘real’ man is doing something dangerous. He is sky boarding, an extreme sport connoting freedom, power, pleasure, coolness, courage. What about the colors? Black, silver, grey, red and blue. Compared to the Dior advertisement above with its hot colors, the colors here are cool. And coolness is what men need. Remember: Women are passionate, men are cool. What about the shape of the bottle? Probably a phallic symbol. And you can unscrew the top. Just Extreme Polo Sport by Ralph Lauren. Let us have a look at some other perfume advertisement: Fig. 4: Paco Rabanne Ultraviolet Man. http: / / lambre.by/ gallery/ pics/ paco_rabanne_ultraviolet_man_1.jpg [15 Jan 2013]. Bernhard Kettemann 62 This is Paco Rabanne Ultraviolet Man. The product suggests that for a modern man it cannot just be a perfume, it has to be a new perfume system. How can there be anything such as a perfume system? Inconceivable, it’s just a perfume. But this perfume is a system because men are systematic, logical, rational, clear, cool, and not emotional. Men don’t cry… What about the color? What about the background? What about the picture? What about his hair? What about the man? What does he look like? From outer space with a demanding look. Perhaps someone borrowed from Startrek or Matrix, he is in outer space. This is cool because of the cool color, blue, which is connected to space. You have the Milky Way behind him, and he is floating in space - we know that he is floating rather than standing on the earth because of the bottle of perfume is not connected to any surface. Can we now predict the advertisement for the woman fragrance? Let us say Paco Rabanne Ultraviolet, it will not say system because it doesn’t do anything for women, remember, they are unsystematic. What is our prediction about the color? Pinkish, reddish, probably. That’s the color, and there will be the milky way again, and so on, pretty similar probably, and the dress? The hair? What kind of hair will she have? Alright, straight or short hair, basically. What about the dress? Probably pretty tightly fitting, nothing loose and airy. What is our prediction for the shape of the perfume bottle? Not phallic and blue, but round and red. Here is the advertisement. Please check our predictions. Fig. 5: Paco Rabanne Ultraviolet Woman. http: / / 2.bp.blogspot.com/ _7yqWRHRaihk/ SqON7dg3TeI/ AAAAAAAADW w/ q8EtZ77EWmU/ s400/ paco_rabanne_ultraviolet_advertising_fragranc e.jpeg [15 Jan 2013]. Semiotics of Advertising and the Discourse of Consumption 63 Let’s now look at the structure of an advertisement. I analyze advertisements on three different levels, on a pragmatic level, on a semantic level and on a semiotic 2 level. On the pragmatic level, what you get is an appeal to buy, to buy the product, and normally this appeal to buy is put into words and expressions like enjoy, try, use, new, better, now, just for you and so on. And remember, when an advertisement says you, it does not mean you. The advertisement has no idea about you. On the semantic level, this means on the level of meaning production, we have a proposition that consists of an argument and a predicate. The argument is about product identity, the product itself, whatever it is, and the predicate is about some quality that is ascribed to the product. In a car advertisement it’s Vorsprung durch Technik or it’s Freude am Fahren or whatever. In an advertisement for a perfume or shower gel it is If you smell like that, you will have hundreds of men or women running after you (e.g. Axe). The product is good for you and advertisers use metaphors, connotation, myth, as we have seen for example, and what it suggests is things like happiness, love, beauty, peace, power, eternal youth, a perfect life and so on. Fig. 6: Breguet Classique 7787 model chronometer. TIME , 21 January 2013. 2 I use the term semiotics here for what actually is limited to visual analysis, i.e. the analysis of the semiotic potentials of still images. Bernhard Kettemann 64 Here we have a watch, a Breguet Classique 7787 model chronometer, which will be interpreted as beautiful as a result of the aesthetically pleasing visual composition of shapes and colors in the ad. It represents a fantasy about combining beauty, function, professionalism with the mystery of the moon. So this is just beautiful, this is iconically beautiful, sort of a perfect instrument that puts a man in control of day and night. So we also have the beauty of professionalism in time management. Fig. 7: Calvin Klein Eternity. http: / / www.missparfum.be/ PubDoubles/ KleinCalvin/ index.html [10 May 2013] Here is an example of a contiguity relationship to beauty. This is a fragrance again, a perfume. Which bottle is for men, which is for women? By now you should be ready to answer this question. The bigger one is for men. Do you realize that you are exposed to these concepts through the discourse every single day for about 16 hours? The bigger one is for men. This is natural. He is beautiful, she is beautiful. The little boy is beautiful. And this man has a beautiful wife, and they have a beautiful son. We have the product in combination with beauty and happiness in a family. This is what will happen to you if you use this product. Semiotics of Advertising and the Discourse of Consumption 65 Fig. 8: Galleria Vittorio Emanuele in Milano: Photo by Bernhard Kettemann 2006. And then you go shopping in this beautiful place in order to look and be seen, in order to fulfil your voyeuristic and exhibitionist dreams. We all have these to variable degrees. So you go shopping in this beautiful mall, Galleria Vittorio Emanuele in Milano. Milano is famous for its style, fashion and opera. It is named after Vittorio Emanuele, the first king of the United Italy (1861). This shopping mall was built in 1867. And you go there in order to buy things because you have got money, because you are a consumer and you want to be seen consuming if you want to belong to this society, this new Italian society. We consume because we want to be happy. And this is not an interpretation, but this is actually expressed in the following advertisement: Bernhard Kettemann 66 Fig. 9: Media Markt Graz, “Kauf dich glücklich”: Scan from print advertisement in a flyer by Bernhard Kettemann 2012. Kauf dich glücklich! It’s no longer fulfilment in personal relationships, it’s no longer fulfilment in jobs, fulfilling moral and ethical standards, idealism, social work, or the like that make you happy. It is consumption, buy and consume in order to be happy! Buy, buy! References Barthes, Roland (1957/ 2001). Mythologies. Paris: Editions du Seuil. Barthes, Roland (1964). “Rhétorique de l'image.” Communication 4. 41-42. Baudrillard, Jean. (2005). The System of Objects. London: Verso. Benjamin, Walter. (1982). Das Passagen - Werk. 2 Bde. Hrsg. Rolf Tiedemann. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp. Bourdieu, Pierre (2001 [originally 1991]). Langage et pouvoir symbolique. Paris: Editions du Seuil. de Saussure, Ferdinand (1916). Cours de linguistique générale. Lausanne, Paris: Payot. Eliot, T.S. (1919). “Hamlet and His Problems.”. In: Adams, H. (ed.) Critical Theory Since Plato. New York 1971. 788-790. Flath, Beate/ Eva Klein (eds.) (2013). Advertising and Design. Interdisciplinary Perspectives on a Cultural Field. Bielefeld: transcript. Foucault, Michel (1980). Power/ Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Other Writings 1972-7. Hemel Hempstead: Harvester. Foucault, Michel (1988). “Technologies of the self.” In: Luther H. Martin/ Huck Gutman/ Patrick Hutton (eds). Technologies of the Self: A Seminar with Michel Foucault. Amherst, MA: University of Massachusetts Press. 16-49. Freud, Sigmund (1948ff.). Gesammelte Werke. (18 vols.) Frankfurt: S. Fischer. Semiotics of Advertising and the Discourse of Consumption 67 Ogden, Charles/ Ivor Richards (1923). The Meaning of Meaning. New York: Harcourt. Peirce, Charles Sanders (1982-89). Writings of Charles S. Peirce (4 vols.). Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. von Foerster, Heinz/ Ernst v. Glasersfeld (1999). Wie wir uns erfinden. Eine Autobiographie des radikalen Konstruktivismus. Heidelberg: Carl Auer. von Foerster, Heinz/ Ernst v. Glasersfeld/ Paul Watzlawick/ Siegfried J. Schmidt et al. (1997). Einführung in den Konstruktivismus. München: Piper. von Glasersfeld, Ernst (1997). Radikaler Konstruktivismus. Ideen, Ergebnisse, Probleme. Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp. Watzlawick, Paul, ed. (1981). Die erfundene Wirklichkeit. Wie wissen wir, was wir zu wissen glauben? Beiträge zum Konstruktivismus. München: Piper. Weber, Max (1972). Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft: Grundriss der verstehenden Soziologie. Tübingen: Mohr. Bernhard Kettemann Department of English Studies University of Graz AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 Rezensionen Miriam Havemann, The Subject Rising Against its Author. A Poetics of Rebellion in Bryan Stanley Johnson’s Œuvre. (Echo: Literaturwissenschaft im interdisziplinären Dialog 13). Hildesheim: Olms, 2011. Dorothee Birke Few British novelists have tested the limits of form like B.S. Johnson (1933- 1973). Among his works are a novel with a hole cut into its pages (Albert Angelo, 1964) and a collection of loose pages in a box, to be assembled into any sequence by the reader (The Unfortunates, 1969). Then there is House Mother Normal (1971), written from the point of view of nine different protagonists, which features synchronized page numbers that allow the reader to locate descriptions of the same event from the perspectives of these characters, inmates of a retirement home in various stages of dementia. Johnson’s insistence on going where few or no writers had gone before did not make him exactly popular with publishers and printers. Neither did it endear him to a large readership. One might think that the one group of people it would be sure to appeal to would be scholars of literature. However, although literary histories commonly mention Johnson as a pathbreaking experimentalist in British fiction, books devoted to his œuvre are few and far between. Only since the turn of the millennium have there been any monographs on Johnson at all: so far, the count is up to three studies on his novels, one volume of articles, and Jonathan Coe’s biography Like a Fiery Elephant, published in 2005. Miriam Havemann’s book is a welcome addition to this body of research. On more than 400 pages, she has left no stone unturned: her study, originally written as a PhD thesis, covers the whole range of Johnson’s writings. It contains not only a long chapter with sections on each of his seven novels (or maybe rather ‘novels’), but also shorter ones dedicated to his short stories, poems, plays, and films. For anyone interested in Johnson’s work, the book is a valuable resource, as it provides a detailed account of this author’s versatili- AAA - Arbeiten aus Anglistik und Amerikanistik Band 38 (2013) · Heft 1 Gunter Narr Verlag Tübingen Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 70 ty and brings together a wealth of materials from other critics. Havemann traces the means by which Johnson, in each of the genres and media in which he worked, tried to achieve his self-avowed goal of ‘telling truth’. This endeavour always meant breaking with conventions and expectations, and Havemann successfully conveys how finely attuned Johnson was to the specific traditions of various genres and media. Her decision to sum up and analyse each work in turn, without the narrative thread that thematic clusters might have provided, is informed and justified by this interest in genre as a main structuring principle. For readers interested in particular works, this arrangement is very convenient, but it comes at the price of a somewhat repetitious structure. The theoretical framework connecting all chapters is a narratological model designed to refine ‘the author’ as a conceptual category. As such, this seems like a good idea - a study centred on one author and putting forward the thesis that his work constitutes a ‘rebellion’ of some kind does well to deal with some of the possible challenges from anti-intentionalists. Studies pleading for a ‘return of the author’ (or rather, studies showing how the concept of the author still underlies most scholarly practice) provide a sound basis for a well-informed use of the author concept. 1 Havemann, however, goes a few steps further and develops a complex system of different ‘author figurations’, based on theoretical contributions by Michel Foucault and Fotis Jannidis. These ‘figurations’ are then used as central concepts in all her interpretations. This ambitious model is also the most debatable feature of the study. It reflects a certain confusion about Jannidis’ concept of the author figuration, which refers to the sum of the different functions assigned to the position of ‘author’ in a particular discourse (Jannidis 1999: 359). In Jannidis’ article, identifying different author figurations in secondary literature at various stages in history helps to make visible the shifting roles that have been ascribed to ‘the author’. How exactly Havemann conceptualizes her own author figurations, in turn, is hard to pinpoint, as she does not furnish a clear definition. She seems to waver between conceiving of them as concepts of authorship that can be extrapolated from the text, and as agents in a model of literary communication. In her interpretations, she usually veers towards the second option, giving the impression that her main objective is a further subdivision of the narratological concept of the ‘implied author’. Typical passages read like this: “  T  he author as composer, together with the text strategist, the narrator figuration and the poetological figuration, attempts at first to imitate as best as possible the neutrality of the historical discourse (it is well possible that Johnson indeed copied them  extracts  from guide books and only modified them slightly)” (220); “The one who chooses the content and the poetological figuration here sum up what the text strategist and the 1 In particular, see the volume by Jannidis/ Lauer/ Martínez/ Winko (1999). Havemann mainly refers to one article in this collection, namely Jannidis’ (1999) “Der nützliche Autor. Möglichkeiten eines Begriffs zwischen Text und historischem Kontext.” Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 71 composer in their function as scriptwriter, director and editor of the film practice: a poetics of accidents and randomness” (374). The preoccupation with labelling ‘author figurations’ makes the study hard to read, and it ultimately stands in the way of exploring Johnson’s ‘poetics of rebellion’. That is a pity because the question is intriguing: how does Johnson’s ‘poetological’ rebellion against “the literary industry and Neo- Dickensian literature” relate to the works’ political criticism “directed against Britain’s two-class society”? (53) Havemann is of course right to question the notion that Johnson’s experiments should be regarded (and possibly dismissed) as unpolitical l’art pour l’art. Her argument that the experimental is always political in the sense that it subverts customary reading practices is in tune with Johnson’s own views on his work, but it seems to me that this insight should have been the starting point for further analysis. Socio-political and aesthetic ‘rebellion’ may well be connected, but this study too often makes it sound as if they were the same thing. For instance, I would have liked to read a more sustained critical discussion of pros and cons for the notion that the ‘novel in a box’ The Unfortunates constitutes a ‘democratic’ experiment. In sum, the study brings together an impressive range of materials. It also offers some very complex discussions of authorship and intentionalism - discussions that show a high degree of reflection and that engage with ongoing theoretical debates. The preoccupation with narratological labels, however, in this case proves to be a stumbling stone, as it tends to obscure rather than clarify the interesting questions the study raises about the functions of form in Johnson’s work. References Jannidis, Fotis/ Gerhard Lauer/ Matías Martínez/ Simone Winko (eds.) (1999). Rückkehr des Autors. Zur Erneuerung eines umstrittenen Begriffs. Tübingen: Niemeyer. Jannidis, Fotis (1999). “Der nützliche Autor. Möglichkeiten eines Begriffs zwischen Text und historischem Kontext.” In: Jannidis/ Lauer/ Martinez/ Winko (1999). 353-389. Dorothee Birke Englisches Seminar/ FRIAS Universität Freiburg i.Br. Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 72 Kurt Schlüter, Polyhymnia: Demokratische Heldenverehrung nach antikem Vorbild in Jugendgedichten von S.T. Coleridge. (Paradeigmata 16). Freiburg: Rombach, 2011. Christoph Bode Auf den ersten Blick scheint diese kleine Abhandlung des verdienten Freiburger Anglisten Kurt Schlüter wie seltsam aus der Zeit gefallen: Mit seinen etwa 71 Seiten (zu denen freilich noch einmal sieben Seiten back matter kommen) hat der Text einen Umfang, der ihn für die Herausgeber wissenschaftlicher Fachzeitschriften als Aufsatz zu lang, für Verlagslektoren als Monographie aber viel zu kurz scheinen lässt. Schön, so denkt man, dass sich hier ein Autor geweigert hat, das, was er zu sagen hat, auf das Prokrustes-Bett solcher formalen Sachzwänge schnallen zu lassen, und der dazu einen Verleger fand, der einsah, dass nicht immer der Schwanz des etablierten Formats mit dem Hund des wissenschaftlich Angemessenen, das doch sein eigenes Maß ist, wedeln darf. Gegenstand von Schlüters Untersuchung ist eine Serie von Sonnets on Eminent Contemporaries, die der junge Samuel Taylor Coleridge “vor mehr als 200 Jahren” (7) in der Morning Chronicle publizierte. Diese Sonette, so Schlüter, seien Beispiele des sogenannten Heroischen Sonetts (vgl. dazu Schlüter 2007), Preisgedichte auf herausragende, vorbildliche Menschen ihrer Zeit, deren Verherrlichung im jeweiligen Gedicht in ihrer Vergöttlichung gipfele. Dazu verwende, so Schlüter, das Heroische Sonett die rhetorische Gestalt der antiken Gebetshymne, mit der typischen Abfolge von invocatio (feierliche Anrufung einer Gottheit), dynamis (preisende Beschreibung ihrer Macht und ihrer Kräfte) und preces (an die Gottheit gerichtete Bitte). Dem jungen Coleridge sei diese Form von den Oden Thomas Grays und William Collins’ bekannt gewesen, wesentlich für diese seine Sonett-Folge sei aber das Vorbild Miltons mit den Sonetten der Fairfax, Cromwell, Vane-Gruppe gewesen - nur habe das bislang merkwürdigerweise noch keiner erkannt. Nach den hinleitenden Teilen “Vorrede” (7-9) und “Antiker Heroenkult und neuzeitliches Heroisches Sonett” (11-16) wendet sich Schlüter der Analyse von sechsen dieser Folge zu und zwar den Sonetten an, auf oder über (diese Präpositionen scheinen mir nicht unwichtig) Joseph Priestley, Richard B. Sheridan, Edmund Burke, William Pitt jr., La Fayette und Tadeusz Kosciuszko (wozu man noch das auf die Himmelfahrt des Grafen Stanhope zählen kann, das im zweiten Teil behandelt wird). Des Verfassers Ausführungen sind immer sehr informativ und gelehrt. Man erfährt viel über textliche und mythische Anspielungen, formale Vorläufer, auch Zeitgeschichtliches und Biographisches zu diesen Persönlichkeiten. Anderes dagegen bleibt auffällig vage: Wann genau erschienen diese Sonette? Von Dezember 1794 bis Januar 1795. Das wird aber bei Schlüter nirgends klar gesagt, man muss es dem Band 16 der Collected Works (sog. Bollingen Edition) entnehmen - oder der vorzüglich annotierten Norton Critical Edition von Coleridge’s Poetry and Prose (eds. Nicholas Halmi, Paul Magnuson, Raimonda Modiano). Wie viele Sonette Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 73 waren es denn insgesamt? Elf. Bei Schlüter steht das nicht, ebenso wenig wie er darlegt, warum er diejenigen auswählte, die er auswählte, und andere beiseiteließ, wie etwa das an die Schauspielerin Sarah Siddons oder das an William Godwin, den Autor von Political Justice. Nun sollte man meinen, wenn einer schon so selektiv vorgeht (was ihm ja unbenommen ist! ), dann müssten wenigstens die ausgewählten Gedichte besonders deutliche Beispiele für das “Paradigma Heroisches Sonett” (59) sein, für “diese kleine Unterart der lyrischen Dichtung” (27), zumal ja auch eingeräumt wird, dass “[n]icht alle Texte der Serie auf den ersten Blick dem Paradigma des Heroischen Sonetts zuzuordnen” sind (32). Doch weit gefehlt! Coleridges “Sonnet: To Burke” ist - wie man sich leicht denken kann - gar nicht der Versuch, diese Galionsfigur der Reaktion zu vergöttlichen: Es ist vielmehr eine bittere Abrechnung (der allegorischen Figur der Freiheit in den Mund gelegt) mit dem verblendeten Kritiker der Französischen Revolution, den die Freiheit noch nicht wieder an ihre Mutterbrust drücken kann, solange sein Auge noch von Irrtum verunklart ist (“That error’s mist had left thy purged eye: / So might I clasp thee with a Mother’s joy! ”). Anfangs wollte Coleridge Burke noch zugutehalten, wenigstens bestechlich sei er nicht gewesen (vgl. Z. 9) - wenig später aber annotierte er in einem Nachdruck, diese Annahme sei leider falsch gewesen, Burke sei für seinen politischen Lagerwechsel mit Pensionen in Höhe von £ 3.700 pro Jahr belohnt worden. Von Schlüter ist dieses Detail von Coleridges abermals gesteigerter Enttäuschung jedoch nicht zu erfahren. Zwar weiche der Text in seinem dynamis-Teil von der Konvention eindeutig ab (44) - es werden nicht lobenswerte Taten geschildert, sondern “ziemlich klägliche[s] Versagen” (44) - , aber man könne sich “vorstellen, dass Coleridge aus dem Heroischen Sonett, einem rhetorischen Instrument für den Ausdruck höchster Bewunderung, nicht sogleich [sic! ] ein Werkzeug leidenschaftlichen Verdammens machen wollte” (47). Weil dem Sonett das typische happy ending fehle, werde “das Geschehen aber nicht entschieden abgeschlossen” (47). Das ist schon ein merkwürdiges Heroisches Sonett, das vor allem von den Irrtümern des Gepriesenen handelt und ihm Versöhnung verweigert, solange er im Irrtum verharrt. Ende offen? Bei dem Sonett auf den verhassten Premierminister William Pitt jr. ist es aber nicht anders: Selbstverständlich fällt hier auch Schlüter auf, dass die Abneigung gegen Pitt, ja seine Verteufelung so weit geht, dass man von einem “Anti-Heroischen Sonett” sprechen müsse (49-58). Aber auch das mit den “Bauelementen” (57) der Gebetshymne will hier (wie anderswo) nicht so recht aufgehen: Die preces richtet sich ja nicht etwa an den Heroen, sondern an die Figur Mercy, sie möge, da ja ihrer strengeren Schwester Justice die Hände gebunden sind (durch Pitt! ), ihre Donnerkeile umso kräftiger gegen den Elenden schleudern. Wahrlich eine interessante Transformation des Heroischen Sonetts! Nun war aber ja nur zu erwarten, dass, wenn ein junger Parteigänger der Revolution und Anhänger republikanischer Ideen wie Coleridge sich dichterisch mit den Gegnern der Revolution befasst, das Modell ‘Heroisches Sonett’ so weit nicht würde tragen können. Wie aber nun, wenn er sich seinen verehrten Vorbildern zuwendet? Im Priestley-Sonett fehlt mindestens ein wesent- Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 74 liches Element des Heroischen Sonetts, nämlich die Anrede des Protagonisten - sein Name wird lediglich genannt. Zum Sheridan-Sonett bemerkt Schlüter gleich zu Anfang, es schiene sich am weitesten vom Paradigma zu entfernen (31) - “dieses Gedicht [kommt] ohne den Versuch der Andeutung oder gar der Darstellung einer Apotheose aus” (32). (Aber die fehlte auch schon beim Priestley-Gedicht.) Wenngleich: “Analytiker, die von der These ausgehen, dass beide Texte [das Sonett auf Priestley und das auf Sheridan] der gleichen Art angehören, werden [...] auch in letzterem noch formale Relikte dieser Gattung sowie Reste einer mythologisch-informierten Phantasie erkennen können” (32). Mit diesem Trick werden schließlich auch die beiden noch ausstehenden Sonette (auf La Fayette und Koscuiszko) ins Corpus zurückgeholt: “Wenn ihre Zugehörigkeit zum Paradigma Heroisches Sonett nicht sogleich [wieder diese Formulierung! ] erkannt wird, so mag das dem Erfindungsreichtum des Verfassers zuzuschreiben sein, seiner Freude an kreativer Verwandlung und Weiterentwicklung” (59). Selbst wenn im Gedicht auf den polnischen Freiheitskämpfer die “entscheidenden strukturbildenden Merkmale” (61) so rigoros reduziert sind, “dass die Gattung kaum wiederzuerkennen ist” (66)? Das scheint mir die entscheidende Frage zu sein: Wie weit muss sich eigentlich ein Gedicht vom Modell des Heroischen Sonetts entfernen, um nicht mehr ‘Heroisches Sonett’ genannt werden zu können? Nach Schlüter sehr weit. Das könnte auch erklären, weshalb niemand außer Schlüter diese Sonette bislang als Heroische Sonette begriffen und weshalb nur Carl Woodring anno 1961 sie überhaupt als eine Gruppe behandelt hat (aber auch nur in politisch-inhaltlicher Hinsicht). Das ist des Pudels Kern: Auch die Herausgeber der Standard-Werkausgabe betrachten diese Sonette nicht einmal als “ein Gesamtwerk” (geschweige denn eine Folge von Heroischen Sonetten), wie Schlüter auf Seite 52 einräumt (obwohl diese Herausgeber an der Verweisstelle sagen, Coleridge “did not think of them as a group” - was ja schon etwas anderes ist). Coleridge selbst fasste sie 1796 mit einer Reihe anderer Gedichte unter “Effusions” zusammen und publizierte sie auch unter diesem Titel neu. Voran stellte Coleridge dieser neuen Sammlung ein Zitat aus den Fourteen Sonnets (1789) des von ihm hochverehrten William Lisle Bowles - er war sein Vorbild in formaler wie in inhaltlicher Hinsicht für all diese Sonette. Bei Schlüter aber fehlt jeder Hinweis auf Bowles (wie auch das Sonett “To Bowles” selbst) und die Information über das Aufgehen der Sonnets on Eminent Contemporaries (und das sind eben heroes and villains) in der Sammlung Effusions (die zarten, höchst verhaltenen Andeutungen oben auf Seite 50 und in Fußnote 34 können da wohl nicht ernsthaft zählen). In den abschließenden Teilen “Das Motiv der Apotheose in der propagandistischen Kunst des Absolutismus” (69-73), “Nachwirkungen des antiken Heroenkults in der modernen Demokratie” (75-78) und dem angehängten Exkurs “Über den Versuch, eine neue literarische Mythologie zu erschaffen” (79-85) geht es um Rubens’ Gemälde der Himmelfahrt James’ I., um die Freiheitsstatue in New York und das Lincoln Memorial in Washington sowie, überraschenderweise, nicht etwa um Byron, Shelley und Keats, sondern um Milton, Gray und Collins. Thematisiert wird also leider nicht der funktionalisie- Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 75 rende Hellenismus der zweiten Generation der englischen Romantiker und ihre - wie T.S. Eliot ein ähnliches Vorgehen bei sich und James Joyce nannte - mythologisierende Methode (was vielleicht nahegelegen hätte), sondern abermals ein Vorläufertum, dessen mögliche Bedeutung mir jedoch eher behauptet als bewiesen zu sein scheint. Gerade weil diese letzten drei Teile nicht zwingend zu Schlüters Abhandlung gehören, muss man wohl das Eingangsurteil auf den zweiten Blick revidieren: Dieser Text hätte sich durchaus kürzen lassen, ohne dass Wesentliches verlorengegangen wäre, zumal sich auch bestimmte Informationen und Einschätzungen wiederholen (was wiederum auffällig mit der Vagheit oder dem Verschweigen anderer Punkte kontrastiert). Bisweilen stolperte der Rezensent über Ausdrücke wie “Kunstwille” (7) oder “Gestaltungswille des jungen Genies” (67). Das Apodiktische der Aussage, der pädagogische Wert dieser Gedichte sei “unvergänglich” (8), ließ ihn genauso perplex zurück wie die Mitteilung, “[a]ls Ambiguität wird in der englischen Sprache die Fähigkeit bezeichnet, einen Kuchen zu essen, aber ihn dennoch zu behalten” (33). Doch da liegt nicht das Hauptproblem dieser Studie, scheint mir. Es besteht vielmehr in der konkreten, praktischen Beantwortung der alten hermeneutischen Frage, bis zu welchem Punkt ein Begriff (wie etwa ‘Heroisches Sonett’) eigentlich noch eine den Text aufschließende Wirkung haben kann und von welchem Punkt an er den Zugang eher verstellt. Dass man sich diesem Punkte nähert, merkt man in der Regel an der Zunahme von Selektion, von Ausblendungen und an der Dehnung und Streckung von Konzepten, bis sie ihr ursprüngliches Gegenteil bedeuten. Prokrustes eben - zwar nicht in der Form, aber im Inhalt. References Schlüter, Kurt (2007). “Politik und Mythos: Das Heroische Sonett.” Anglia 125. 411-429. Christoph Bode Institut für Englische Philologie LMU München Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 76 Matthias Eitelmann, Beowulfes Beorh. Das altenglische Heldenepos als kultureller Gedächtnisspeicher. (Anglistische Forschungen 410). Heidelberg: Winter, 2010. Andrew James Johnston In Beowulfes Beorh, a doctoral dissertation written in a fairly readable variety of German academic prose, Matthias Eitelmann analyses Beowulf as a literary artefact engaged not merely in transmitting but actually in creating and establishing cultural memory. Within this specific context, it is the author’s ultimate aim to prove the text’s ‘originality’. One might ask whether, given the poem’s uniqueness in Anglo-Saxon literature and the hyper-canonical status it has achieved, it is really necessary to prove its originality, but Eitelmann is certainly correct in seeking to come to a more thorough understanding of that originality. According to Eitelmann, Beowulf is the product of a transitional historical phase in which orally transmitted texts of pagan origin were committed to writing and thus preserved as a part of the Christian Middle Ages’ cultural memory. Eitelmann sees Beowulf as especially typical of this cultural situation and hence champions a kulturwissenschaftlichen approach to the epic. His concept of Kulturwissenschaft is a specifically German one, as developed in German literary studies, and must not be confused with what would be called a ‘cultural studies’ perspective in the English-speaking world. Eitelmann argues that we should read the text not only within a particular discursive context but also analyze it in terms of the audience it catered for and the cultural work it was expected to do. But for all his emphasis on the text as a cultural artefact, Eitelmann also insists on the epic’s literariness (41), not least because it is in a text’s literariness that we may find its particular counterdiscursive potential. The author’s discussion of these issues is both lucid and precise and shows him to be a learned and intelligent scholar. When he moves on to describe the link between culture and memory things begin, however, to look more problematic: Eitelmann consciously conflates culture and memory to a degree that renders the terms synonymous (46). Eitelmann’s actual interpretation of the epic proceeds in three steps. First he considers Beowulf in terms of its orality/ aurality and embeds this discussion within a larger literary context of intertextuality which he sees as particularly relevant within his own concept of literature as cultural memory. Eitelmann strategically expands the notion of intertextuality so that it covers motifs from myth, legend and folktale. He goes on to scrutinize the extent to which Beowulf selects time-honoured motifs from the oral tradition - i.e. from supposedly popular (volkstümliche) myths and legends - and combines them in original ways. According to Eitelmann, it is through this process of selection and re-combination of traditional elements that the poem realizes its capacity for innovation and originality in terms acceptable to an early medieval audience. Moreover, Eitelmann claims that his way of reading the poem constitutes a specifically literaturästhetische procedure, one that pays attention Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 77 to the text’s formal qualities and respects its literariness. The final step of Eitelmann’s analysis attempts to integrate the different levels just described in order to sketch what one might call the poem’s individual functional profile, namely the role it was meant to play within the literary system it originated in. Eitelmann’s monograph betrays a lively mind with a keen interest in methodological issues. The study contains many praiseworthy observations which for reasons of time and space I cannot discuss in detail. A few examples will, therefore, have to suffice. The things Eitelmann has to say, for instance, about the fictionalizing tendencies in feigned orality, ideas he derives from Ursula Schaefer amongst others, are very important and deserve to reach a wider, i.e. English-speaking, scholarly audience. Similarly, Eitelmann’s views on the counter-discursive potential of literature must be commended for their conceptual clarity. And in his sensitive analysis of the different narrative perspectives employed in the description of Grendel’s approach to Heorot we witness a competent close reader at work. At the same time there are a number of issues in this book which are bound to raise objections. Once again I shall present only a few important examples. The monograph’s opening chapter provides a lot of information on Beowulf’s transmission and early reception in the nineteenth century that does not really contribute to answering the questions Eitelmann raises - and as his study progresses, the author more than once succumbs to seduction by unnecessary antiquarian detail. More importantly, Eitelmann’s application of the concept of intertextuality to traditional narrative motifs, interesting as the notion certainly is, ultimately does not seem to yield any kind of deeper critical insight than the ones generally offered by the motif histories provided in traditional folklore studies. Nor does an analysis of the way that the Beowulfpoet selected and combined traditional motifs seem even remotely to exhaust the poem’s aesthetic complexities. Precisely because of Eitelmann’s earlier insistence on the importance of a text’s literariness, would one have wished him to take a more inclusive look at the text’s aesthetic structures. After all, one would expect Beowulf’s originality (“origineller Eigenanteil”, 165) to become manifest not merely in the poem’s choice of narrative material but rather in the way that material is rendered. Eitelmann is right in pointing out the importance of Tolkien’s famous British Academy lecture for all subsequent generations of Beowulf-readers, but I am not sure whether Tolkien’s beautiful metaphor of the tower providing a view out over the sea really refers only to a text’s ability to describe the cultural status quo (“den Jetzt-Zustand besser überblicken zu können”, 166). On the contrary, Tolkien’s complex allegory seems to suggest something very different, namely a poem’s ability to let us look beyond the status quo, to gaze towards the horizon, i.e. into the potentially unlimited spaces of imagination and perhaps even transcendence offered by poetry. Eitelmann rightly makes much of Tolkien’s contribution to Beowulf-studies but oddly ignores what is arguably Tolkien’s lasting stroke of genius, his brilliant analysis of the poem’s undeniably Christian viewpoint and what this means for the poem’s sophisticated perspective on history. Hence we witness Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 78 Eitelmann trying to pick apart the anachronistic “Song of Creation” in an attempt to distinguish an original pagan level later covered with a Christian gloss. In Tolkien’s eyes, this would probably look like yet another instance of pushing over the tower instead of gazing out to sea. Any scholar who sets himself the task of saying something meaningful about Beowulf as a whole incurs great risks, if only in bibliographical terms. There is a vast secondary literature to wade through to which a single scholar can hardly do justice anymore. Thus it is no surprise that Eitelmann’s impressive bibliography is marked by a number of unfortunate omissions. Neither do we find Roberta Frank’s recent Speculum-article on dating Beowulf (2007), nor is there any reference to her brilliant essay on the myth of the Anglo- Saxon oral poet (1993). Both texts might have helped Eitelmann to evade some of the positivist pitfalls he so rightly criticizes himself. And a look at John M. Hill’s (1995) The Cultural World in ‘Beowulf’ might have been helpful in some instances, too. But given the enormous problems lying by the wayside for any scholar trying to come to grips with Beowulf’s larger issues - and Eitelmann seems to be addressing them all - one must admit that Eitelmann has acquitted himself in an altogether creditable fashion. His book is a courageous attempt to bring sophisticated literary theory back to Beowulf studies and to open up Beowulf studies to some of the fascinating things that have been happening in German medieval studies during the last three decades, things that are consistently being ignored in the English-speaking world. Eitelmann is blessed both with an eye for detail and an interest in general issues. And even though it is frequently hard to accept his sweeping claims and his intricate structures of argument, it is rarely difficult to take him seriously and it is often easy to find him interesting. References Frank, Roberta (1993). “The Search for the Anglo-Saxon Oral Poet.” Bulletin of the John Rylands University Library of Manchester 75. 11-36. Frank, Roberta (2007). “A Scandal in Toronto: The Dating of ‘Beowulf’ a Quarter- Century On.” Speculum 82. 843-864. Hill, John M. (1995). The Cultural World in ‘Beowulf’. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Andrew James Johnston Freie Universität Berlin Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 79 Elke Mettinger, Margarete Rubik, Jörg Türschmann (eds.), Rive Gauche. Paris as a Site of Avant-Garde Art and Cultural Exchange in the 1920s. (Internationale Forschungen zur Allgemeinen und Vergleichenden Literaturwissenschaft 144). Amsterdam & New York: Rodopi, 2010. Stephan Laqué Die Anziehungskraft von Paris ist ungebrochen. Innerhalb der hochzentralisierten grande nation ist die Hauptstadt ein Dreh- und Angelpunkt der Macht, der Waren- und Verkehrsströme, des kulturellen Lebens und des nationalen Selbstverständnisses, der alle Ambitionen von Lyon, Marseille und Bordeaux zu hilflosen provinziellen Gesten reduziert. Bekanntlich bezieht in diesem Frankreich auch Verleihnix, der Fischhändler eines legendär unbeugsamen gallischen Dorfes, das in der Normandie direkt am Meer liegt, seinen Fisch nicht aus den Fanggründen vor seiner Haustür, sondern aus les halles in Paris - nicht immer frisch, aber dafür aus Lutetia, jenem Ort am Mittellauf der Seine, der trotz seiner erheblichen Distanz zum Meer natürlich auch der Mittelpunkt der französischen Seefischerei ist. Paris behauptet seine gleichsam zentripetale Anziehungskraft weit über die Grenzen Frankreichs hinaus. Die Stadt ist eine willige Projektionsfläche für Kulturfreunde, Teilzeitbohémiens, Gourmets und Verliebte aus allen Teilen der Welt, die Paris erleben wollen, die Stadt zugleich aber zuallererst konstruieren und das Konstrukt in Textform (als Photographie, Brief, Zeichnung, Film, Reisebericht oder Erzählung - in touristisch-gelegentlicher oder in künstlerisch-kanonfähiger Form) verbreiten und für weitere Zuschreibung und Bearbeitung öffnen. Im Mittelpunkt eines solchen kulturellen Städtebaus steht zumeist eine besonders bedeutsame Epoche der betreffenden Stadt: London unter Königin Elisabeth I., das Venedig der Serenissima, München zur Zeit König Ludwigs II., das Wien der K u. K-Monarchie und eben das Paris der années folles der 20er Jahre des letzten Jahrhunderts. Dieser Zeitraum im Paris des frühen 20. Jahrhundert, „an unequalled decade of artistic and creative achievements“ (7), steht im Mittelpunkt des vorliegenden Sammelbandes, der es, so der Klappentext, unternimmt, „to do justice to the polyphony of voices and point up the synergies that existed between the creative activities.“ Innerhalb der kulturwissenschaftlichen Forschungsliteratur zu Paris ist dies ein ebenso naheliegendes wie lohnendes Unterfangen und in fünfzehn eigenständigen Kapiteln tritt der Band den Beweis an, dass zu dieser vielbetrachteten Epoche in der ebenso vielbetrachteten Metropole Paris längst noch nicht alles Wichtige gesagt ist. Die Einleitung präsentiert den Gegenstand des Bandes mit Michail Bachtin - und zwar nicht nur als Chronotop (7), sondern auch als Karneval, wobei die rive gauche als „carnivalesque collectivity bound together by ‚unofficial‘ ways of living and of creativity“ erscheint und Raum bietet für „carnivalesque renewal, spring, transition or even a turning of things upside down“ (8). Auf den folgenden Seiten führt die Einleitung diesen Reigen als ein Panorama der unterschiedlichen Künste vor: Malerei, Mode, Musik, Tanz, Photographie, Film und natürlich Literatur, der die bei weitem größte Aufmerksamkeit in Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 80 diesem Band geschenkt wird. Zu Beginn werden hier jene wohlbekannten Namen zusammengeführt, die man mit Paris und dem Modernismus in Verbindung bringt: Ernest Hemingway, Josephine Baker, Coco Chanel, André Kertész, Igor Stravinsky, Max Ernst, Gertrude Stein, Marc Chagall und viele andere, die dem Sog des Paris der 20er Jahre folgten. Allerdings will der Band seine Aufmerksamkeit gerade nicht auf diese Größen des Kanons richten, sondern auf „the less-known artists and their works“ (11). Angesichts solcher Namen wie James Joyce, Jean Rhys, Georges Simenon und Thomas Wolfe, denen allen hier Kapitel gewidmet sind, darf man festhalten, dass dieses Ziel wohl nicht eingehalten werden konnte. Ein konsequenter Ausschluss der bekanntesten und damit oftmals eben auch der zentralsten und bedeutendsten Akteure der Pariser Avant-Garde wäre dem titelgebenden Projekt des Bandes, Paris umfassend als „a site of avant-garde art and cultural exchange in the 1920s“ zu betrachten, sicher auch nicht zuträglich gewesen. Paris zog in den 20er Jahren Künstler aus allen Teilen der Welt an, und Rive Gauche trägt der Breite der vertretenen Nationalitäten Rechnung, indem hier neben französischen Autoren Iren, Briten, Amerikaner, Kanadier, Belgier, Polen, Holländer, Lateinamerikaner und Deutsche mit ihren Reaktionen und mit ihrem Einfluss auf das Paris der années folles in den Blick genommen werden. Dieter Fuchs und Elke Mettinger eröffnen den Band mit Untersuchungen zu angloamerikanischen Künstlern in Paris, der größten Gruppe der Zuwanderer. Paris benennt neben der französischen Hauptstadt auch den mythischen Sohn des trojanischen Königs, und der Beitrag von Dieter Fuchs nimmt diese eher zufällige Übereinstimmung als Ausgangspunkt für Lesweisen von James Joyces Ulysses und F. Scott Fitzgeralds Babylon Revisited, in denen gezeigt wird, wie der homerische Text in den zwei Romanen einmal satirisch und einmal tragisch-apokalyptisch strukturbestimmend wird. Elke Mettinger würdigt in ihrem Kapitel mit Natalie Barney, Sylvia Beach und Jane Heap drei amerikanische Frauen, deren Bedeutung für die Verbreitung und Wirkung der Arbeit der Pariser Modernisten für gewöhnlich (zu) wenig Aufmerksamkeit erfährt. Der Beitrag von Margarete Rubik und jener von Eva Müller-Zettelmann und Rudolf Weiss betrachten Jean Rhys als Vorreiterin des literarischen Impressionismus. Beide Kapitel legen ihren analytischen Fokus auf Rhys’ Erzählkunst, wobei die Erzählsammlung The Left Bank and Other Tales als verfremdendes und entromantisierendes Bild der Pariser Subkulturen gelesen und der Roman Quartet auf seine strukturelle Bezogenheit auf den Impressionismus in der Malerei untersucht wird. Rhys’ Texte erweisen sich als intermedial angelegt und von einer „‚painterly‘ quality“ bestimmt (67). Die folgenden zwei Kapitel von Elke Frietsch und Petra Löffler betrachten die bildende Kunst ohne eine Vermittlung durch die Literatur: Die Maler des Surrealismus und ihr Sensorium für den sinnlichen und weiblichen Körper von Paris sowie den Film und die Photographie der 20er Jahre, die nach den großen Panoramen des 19. Jahrhunderts eine eher ephemere Schnappschussästhetik verfolgt. Paris ist hier „a mediated space seen through the eye of the camera“ (125). Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 81 Stereotypen werden entworfen, geschaffen, gestützt und leben natürlich auch von der Kritik und der Korrektur. Eine Gruppe von drei Arbeiten untersucht im Anschluss an die Kapitel zur bildenden Kunst solche Texte, die etablierte Parisbilder unterwandern. Birgit Wagner liest René Crevels surrealistischen Roman La mort difficile als Korrektiv für das von amerikanischen Künstlern propagierte Frankreich- und Parisbild; Sylvia Schreiber wendet sich Georges Simenons Romanen um die Figur des Inspektor Maigret zu, die einen Blick unter ihre glänzende Oberfläche auf die düsteren Aspekte der années folles werfen; Manuel Chemineau betrachtet René Marans Roman Batouala als eine Zurückweisung der Stereotypen des Schwarzen, die im Rahmen der „vogue nègre“ (186) verbreitet und gefeiert wurden. Die folgenden sechs Kapitel beschäftigen sich mit Fallstudien zum kritischen Umgang mit dem mythischen Paris der 20er Jahre im Ausland. Friedrich Frosch betrachtet eine Fülle lateinamerikanischer Autoren, die sich von einem verbreiteten „Paris complex“ (204), der sich dem tonangebenden ästhetischen Trend unterordnet, emanzipieren und eine Haltung einnehmen „between irony, persiflage, carnivalization (in the Bakhtinian sense), cultural cannibalism and simple nonchalant disrespect“ (209). Martina Stemberger untersucht Bruno Jasieńskis geradezu aggressive Auseinandersetzung mit der blinden Parisbegeisterung seiner Zeit, die er in seinem Roman Je brûle Paris in ein Feiern einer kommunistischen Utopie ummünzt. Jörg Türschmann betrachtet die Probleme, die aus Prozessen des kulturellen Austauschs erwachsen, anhand von Claire Golls Eine Deutsche in Paris, dessen Protagonistin Paris zum Inbegriff eines verklärten Frankreichs erhebt. Herbert Van Uffelen breitet mit dem niederländischen Autor Edgar Du Perron das Leben und Werk eines Skeptikers und Kritikers der Avant-Garde aus. Du Perron benötigte die selbstgewählte Rolle des Außenseiters, um seine Umgebung genau betrachten zu können, und besetzte diese Rolle auch konsequent topographisch, indem er in Paris stets außerhalb der üblichen quartiers der Modernisten residierte. Bettina Thurner zeigt mit Thomas Wolfe einen weiteren Autor, der eine spannungsvolle Beziehung zu den Pariser Modernisten wählte. Der Amerikaner Wolfe widersetzte sich der Vereinnahmung in die Gruppe der amerikanischen Künstler in Paris, während er zugleich deren Nähe suchte. Paris blieb ihm so letztlich fremd: „What Paris taught Wolfe was that he would never belong“ (307). In dem Beitrag, der den Band beschließt, setzt sich Astrid Fellner mit der kanadischen Autorin Gail Scott auseinander, die zwar am Ende des 20. Jahrhunderts schreibt, sich aber in ihrem Roman My Paris mit den expatriates an der Seine befasst. Hier wird nicht nur das Paris der 20er Jahre konstruiert, sondern zugleich auch der französische Einfluss in Kanada, das New-World Paris in Québec, verhandelt: „This text […] self-consciously performs and produces the image of avant-garde Paris in order to reflect back to Canada a fractured and critical image of the many diversities of Montreal“ (313). Die Beiträge in diesem Band bieten Einblicke in ein breites Spektrum an Medien, Gattungen und Autoren - sowohl kanonische als auch weniger beachtete, die sich mit dem Paris der 20er Jahre auseinandersetzen. Mit dem Begriff des Kulturaustausches, unter dem die vorgelegten Betrachtungen zusammengefasst sind, ist der gewählte Titel des Bandes allerdings unnötig Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 82 generell, da es in den Ausführungen zumeist deutlich spezifischer um Prozesse des Widerstands, der Subversion und der Abgrenzung geht. Diese Kritik trifft allerdings lediglich die Einführung, die hier durchaus programmatisch deutlicher hätte ausfallen können. Rive Gauche ist ein Blick auf viele Facetten und Winkel der spannungsreichen Konstruktion des Paris der années folles. Von seiner Anlage her ist der Band damit zwar innerhalb der kulturwissenschaftlichen Städtestudien sicher nicht Teil der Avant-Garde, doch ist das Ergebnis ausgesprochen lesenswert. Jeder, der ein Interesse an Paris hat (und wer hätte das nicht? ), findet in den perzeptiven Lektüren dieses wichtigen Bands viele Anstöße zum Lesen, Betrachten und Revidieren. Stephan Laqué Institut für Englische Philologie Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität München Jutta Ernst and Brigitte Glaser (eds.), The Canadian Mosaic in the Age of Transnationalism. (Anglistische Forschungen 406). Heidelberg: Winter 2010. Martin Löschnigg Since the late 1920s, the multi-ethnic make-up of Canadian society has been rendered through the model of a mosaic, in contrast to that of a ‘salad bowl’ or ‘melting pot’. In particular, the institutionalizing of multiculturalism since the 1970s has made this model, together with its associations of antiassimilationism and the peaceful co-existence of ethno-cultural groups within the national framework, part of Canada’s collective consciousness. Under the impact of cultural and economic globalization (or ‘transnationalism’), however, the contours of the mosaic’s individual pieces have been blurring. This process of transformation is investigated, from various perspectives, in the present volume. The editors’ introduction provides a lucid and balanced review of historical aspects of Canadian multiculturalism and of pertinent theoretical positions. With great critical acumen, Ernst and Glaser outline the cornerstones in the ongoing debate on multiculturalism as a socio-cultural policy, an ideology and discursive phenomenon, and a model for the structure of a diversified society like the Canadian. As they note, however, “[d]iaspora connections and other cross-border structures, which can all the more easily be sustained by advanced media technology, ultimately challenge older models such as the Canadian mosaic” (13). Indeed, as many of the essays collected in this vol- Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 83 ume demonstrate, the transnationalism and trans-cultural concepts of identity which increasingly apply in a globalized world would call for more dynamic models. Thus, for instance, Canadian writer and critic Janice Kulyk Keefer (1991) (unfortunately not mentioned in either the introduction or any of the essays) has proposed the more flexible model of a kaleidoscope, which renders a dynamized version of the mosaic by emphasizing the changing of shapes of the individual components through their interaction within the overall frame that is Canada. The essays in the volume draw on various disciplines such as history, sociology and political science, but mostly pertain to the fields of literature and cultural studies. A sociological and cultural-historical focus is most prominent in the three essays by George Elliot Clarke, Patrick Forbes and Patrick Imbert at the beginning. Clarke (“Canada: The Invisible Empire”) puts present-day Canada in an unorthodox historical perspective by emphasizing the imperialist associations of the Dominion as a “deputy empire” (29) or “shadow Empire, a sub-Empire, to the British parent” (20), whose raison d’être, as Clarke argues, was to prove a bastion against US-expansion. In addition, Anglo- Canada’s internal colonization of indigenous peoples in the West and North, and the Dominion’s political and economic relations with Africa and the Caribbean, must surely be regarded, according to Clarke, as imperialist, too. Patrick Forbes (“Authenticity/ Recognition: Charles Taylor in Theory and Practice”) compares philosopher Charles Taylor’s seminal discussion of Canadian multiculturalism in his essay “The Politics of Recognition” with the report of a commission on multiculturalism in Quebec co-headed by Taylor. As Forbes shows on the example of this report, French-Canadian positions on multiculturalism have always been sceptical, to say the least, since the original intention of multicultural policies “to subordinat[e] [the] dualism [of French and English in Canada] to a broader pluralism” (41) has amounted, in the eyes of the Quebecois, to a reduction of their political and cultural status. As the commission’s report further indicates, this scepticism has remained in spite of the damper which French-Canadian nationalism received through the unsuccessful referenda on Quebec separation. On the other hand, Forbes’s statement that in the case of the dominant group, i.e. English-speaking Canadians of European origin, multiculturalism is part of their social imaginary (cf. 47), needs to be qualified. Indeed, it seems that the Anglo-Saxon ‘mainstream’, if one may still use that term, tend to set themselves apart as they associate multiculturalism with recent immigrants especially from non- English-speaking countries. While Clarke and Forbes concentrate on the two ‘charter groups’, English and French Canadians, Patrick Imbert (“The Valorization of Geographic, Cultural, and Economic Displacements in the Literary World of Canada”) deals with broader issues as he discusses contemporary Canadian writing with a view to the way in which it reflects the transition from multito transculturalism, thereby undermining notions of the homogeneity of cultures. There are clearly many connections here to other essays dealing with writers who have been critical about the tendency of multiculturalism to ascribe ethno-cultural identities and to view individuals primarily as representatives Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 84 of their respective groups (Till Kinzel on Neil Bissoondath, whose Selling Illusions, published in 1994, has become the classic critique of The Cult of Multiculturalism in Canada, thus the subtitle; Dagmar Dreyer on Bharati Mukherjee; Sabine Kim on Fred Wah, whose poetic autofictions, according to Kim, transcend essentializing conceptions of ‘origins’ and of ‘heritage’ as does his redefinition of the hyphen in the context of trans-cultural transformations). As the essays deal with the identity-related consequences of the “movement of people between countries, cultures, and languages” (151), however, they sometimes tend to neglect the class factor as emphasized most prominently by sociologist John Porter’s early critique of the Vertical Mosaic (1965). In particular, Elisabeth Damböck’s concept of ‘transmigration’, which is to denote the empowering rather than traumatic aspects of migration and which she illustrates on the example of South Asian Canadian writers, would seem to depend very much on class. Throughout the volume, essays intersect and overlap in a fruitful manner as they deal with groups within the Canadian national spectrum, like First Nations and Chinese Canadian writers, with narrative technique, or with renderings of cultural spaces (Maria Moss on Richard Wagamese’s way of reaching back to indigenous culture; Renate Eigenbrod on simulations of oral story-telling in the writing of Dionne Brand, Thomas King, and Rohinton Mistry, whose backgrounds are Caribbean, First Nations/ European, and South Asian respectively). Reingard Nischik analyses Vancouver stories by First Nations and Chinese Canadian writers, emphasizing aspects of compartmentalizing vs. the rendering of open spaces, the latter being illustrated for instance by the “rooted cosmopolitanism” (149) of the protagonist in Madeleine Thien’s “A Map of the City.” Some of the same ground is covered by Eleanor Ty’s essay on ‘settler narratives’ in Chinese Canadian writing, which uses the term in a provocative manner to point to different conceptions of space with regard to immigrants of European and of Chinese origin. Spatial and cultural correspondences are highlighted by the juxtaposition of contemporary Scottish novels dealing with Canada (Frauke Reitemeier) and of the portrayal of Nova Scotia’s Cape Breton, a region profoundly shaped by its Scottish heritage, under the auspices of ‘transformation’ in Ann-Marie Mac- Donald’s novel Fall on Your Knees (1997) (Kirsten Sandrock). The concluding three essays deal with the rendering of transnational, open spaces by different authors, genres and media: Michael Ondaatje, Canada’s ‘international’ writer par excellence, and his novel Divisadero (2007) (Anca Raluca Radu), cyberspace in the works of science fiction writer William Gibson (Markus Reisenleitner), and popular television (Susan Ingram). The present volume assembles contributions by established and emerging scholars. Without exception, the essays maintain a very high academic standard, and disregarding a few minor errors (“west Indies”, 26; “lead” [recte: led], 51, 52; “May [recte: My] dear” in the quotation on p. 70; “prophesized” [recte: prophesied], 123; “works” to be deleted in opening sentence on p. 169), editorial work has been painstakingly careful. As it is, there is a very wide range of topics and of literary examples, all of them well chosen as reflecting current developments in Canadian multicultural literature. If one Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 85 feels at times that the volume would have profited from more systematic cross-references, there is an index in compensation. All in all, the editors are to be congratulated on having compiled an impressive collection which clearly represents the ‘state of the art’ in the scholarly analysis of their subject. References Kulyk Keefer, Janice (1991). “From Mosaic to Kaleidoscope: Out of the Multicultural Past Comes a Vision of a Transcultural Future.” Books in Canada 20/ 6. 13-16. Martin Löschnigg Institut für Anglistik Karl-Franzens-Universität Graz Christoph Bode, Der Roman. Eine Einführung. (UTB 2580). 2., erw. Aufl. Tübingen: Francke, 2011. Doris Mader Christoph Bode legt mit dieser Auflage von Der Roman eine um minimale editorische Mängel bereinigte, um ein nützliches Personenregister erweiterte und bibliographisch aktualisierte Version seines “UTB 2580” vor. Der ursprünglich 2005 erschienene Band wurde mittlerweile von James Vigus ins Englische übersetzt und, ebenfalls 2011, bei Wiley-Blackwell als The Novel. An Introduction verlegt. Dieser ‘einführende’ Band über das Erzählen und dessen Analyse und Theorie anhand von Beispielen vorwiegend englischer, aber auch anderer europäischer und der amerikanischen Literatur stellt die seltene Form eines durchaus kurzweiligen Lehr-, fast ist man versucht zu sagen, ‘Belehr-Buchs’ dar. Verspricht der Titel eine eingehende Beschäftigung mit der Gattung Roman, so löst der Band insofern mehr ein, als alle ‘einführenden’ sowie auch die darüber hinausgehenden Betrachtungen zu narratologischen Diskussionen mutatis mutandis auf sämtliche Formen neuzeitlichen bis heutigen Erzählens, wenn auch in unterschiedlicher Gewichtung, anwendbar sind. Schon der Klappentext kommt hier ganz zur Sache, wenn der Band der UTB-Reihe sich “Studierende[n] aller neuphilologischen Literaturwissenschaften” anempfiehlt und festhält, dass er “[n]arratologische Begriffe und Methoden […] mit grundlegenden literaturtheoretischen Fragen verknüpft”. Die Vielfalt erzählender Texte, mit deren Hilfe - vor allem in den ersten Kapiteln - Grundlegendes bezeugt wird, reicht allerdings von Romanliteratur bis zu Epen und Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 86 anderen narrativen (Sub-)Gattungen, wie etwa dem Märchen, bis hin zur narrativen Verserzählung in der Ballade und geht somit auch darin über das im Titel Angekündigte hinaus. Diese Fülle an besprochenem und, wo erforderlich, auch mit Synopsen umrissenem Primärmaterial wird anhand von sinnvoll ausgewählter Sekundärliteratur z. T. ausführlich und in der Regel äußerst anschaulich diskutiert. Somit präsentiert Bode hier einen wahren Fundus an prototypischen Werken und deren paradigmatischer narratologischer Durchleuchtung. Der Roman als Prototyp des Erzähltextes wird in seinem auch merkantilen Erfolg herausgestellt - eine Eigenschaft, auf die Bode, beginnend bei der ihrerseits durchaus ebenfalls marktgerechten Titulierung seines Bandes, entsprechend in Begründung und Zugriff konsequent abstellt. In Form einer zuweilen ‘quasi-narrativen Doppelung’ wird entlang beobachteter Schreibpraxis und angewandter Theorie ausgewählt, beschrieben und veranschaulicht. Dieses Darstellungsprinzip jedoch, im Detail vielfach genial gelungen, geht insgesamt mit einer überraschenden methodischen Gelassenheit im Gesamtzugriff einher: Denn die ‘Fabel’ der neun Kapitel in der Gesamtanlage des Bandes spiegelt durchgängig das griffige Aristotelische Prinzip von Anfang, Mitte und Ende wider, wobei die eigens beschworene Vorgängigkeit des discours gegenüber jeglicher histoire (vgl. 91ff.) sich darin zumindest nicht wiederfindet. Diese wohl grundlegende Differenzierung, salopp als das “Wie des Was (discourse und story)” benannte “Objekt jeder Romananalyse” (81) wird kurzerhand ins dritte Kapitel (81-96) ‘verbannt’, sodass sich innerhalb dieser - wenn auch im understatement so bezeichneten - ‘Einführung’ eine in der Tat auffallend unbekümmerte Systematik ergibt. Dieses knappe dritte Kapitel ist von den übrigen zugleich getrennt und ihnen hierarchisch gleichgeordnet. Es ist sowohl den “Anfänge[n]” (1-34) als auch dem ambitionierten Abriss über den “neuzeitliche[n] europäische[n] Roman” (35-80) nachgestellt, allen übrigen Kapiteln - über die “Zeit” (97-122) oder etwa “Symbolik und Raum” (288-304) bis hin zum letzten Kapitel über “[d]as Ende des Romans und die Zukunft einer Illusion” (305-326) - vorangestellt. Diese Gleichstellung wird freilich konterkariert, wenn das sinnstiftende Miteinander von Diskursmaterial und abstrahierbaren Bedeutungen im Durchgang durch die einzelnen Kapitel konsequent als Grundlage berücksichtigt bleibt. Eine Hierarchie von Analyseebenen zeigt sich in diesem Band also weniger in seiner gewählten Struktur denn innerhalb der einzelnen Abschnitte, deren Umfang auch eher Auskunft über Gewichtung und mögliche Ordnungen analytischer Ebenen erteilt. In einem ersten umfangreichen Schwerpunkt widmet sich Bode dem neuzeitlichen europäischen Roman und dessen “Kerngeschäft [...], Formen von Sinn-Erzeugung vorzuführen” (33). Dieses erste Kernstück gilt der Geschichte der “jüngste[n] und erfolgreichste[n] literarische[n] Gattung der Menschheitsgeschichte”, einer “Gattung, die sich rechnet” (32) - eine ‘Marktorientiertheit’, die sich nicht nur diskursiv widerspiegelt in Bodes Wahl merkantiler Begriffe, sondern durchaus auch als Programm dieses Bandes aufzufassen sein mag. Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 87 Das sechste und mit Abstand längste Kapitel zur “Bestimmung der Erzählsituation” (143-248) bildet einen weiteren inhaltlichen Schwerpunkt, der allerdings nur räumlich (und hier zu Unrecht) vom Gravitationszentrum des basalen Spannungsfeldes, vom ‘Wie des Was’, schon ein wenig entrückt ist, handelt es doch gegenüberstellend das Inventar an Instrumentarien ab, das die großen Erzähltheoretiker Stanzel und Genette für die analytische Erfassung der - vermittelnden - Kommunikationsstrukturen von Erzähltexten bereitgestellt haben. Den Spezifika der sogenannten Erzählsituationen wird in Bodes ausführlicher, kritischer und überaus gelungener Diskussion denn auch jener breite Raum gewährt, den er in der noch gar nicht so langen Geschichte der systematischen und kommunikationstheoretischen Erfassung von Erzähltexten mittlerweile tatsächlich einnimmt. Entsprechend signalisieren die mittige Position und der Umfang dieses Kapitels - nach den “Anfänge[n]”, die auch die “Spielregeln” (6ff.) erklären, und dem Rückgriff auf “Vorläufer, Ursprünge, Konventionen, Unterarten” in Kapitel II zum “neuzeitliche[n] europäische[n] Roman” (35ff.) - auch jenseits des implizit präsenten teleologischen Prinzips die Gewichtung im vorliegenden quasi-erzählerischen Diskurs über das Erzählen. Bode erweist den großen Narratologen Stanzel und Genette nicht nur in der Ausführlichkeit und Akribie seiner Darstellungen jede Reverenz, sondern bereitet das umfangreiche Material auch didaktisch überzeugend auf. Indem er sowohl die “[g]ermanische Rosette” Stanzels als auch die “gallische Taxonomie” (143) Genettes - beides bemerkenswerte Etiketten - in ihrer jeweiligen Systematik umfassend aufbereitet und ihre Vorzüge und Nachteile anhand von konkreten Textanwendungen anschaulich dokumentiert, gelingt es ihm auch, vielfach auftauchende Schwierigkeiten und Beschränkungen beider analytischer Verfahrensweisen nachzuzeichnen. In diesem Hauptteil dienen die umsichtigen Bewertungen dem übergeordneten Zweck, den Zugriff auf die Modelle zu erleichtern sowie möglichen Fehlanwendungen durch vorgreifende Klärungen vorzubeugen. Gerade in der Diskussion der durchaus missverständlichen Konzepte von Fokalisierung und Perspektive kommt Bode mit der Ausführlichkeit seiner instruktiven Abwägungen Lernenden weit entgegen. Das Bestreben liegt in diesem Kapitel - etwa im substanziellen Einwand - Genettes Kategorien der ‘Fokalisierung’ vermengten Wahrnehmungssubjekt und Objektwahrnehmung, fühlbar darin, unterschiedliche Zugriffe zu evaluieren und damit Wege zum ästhetischen Verständnis des Erzählens und zu dessen vielfältigen Möglichkeiten zu ebnen. Indem die Handhabung unterschiedlicher Analysekategorien auch praktisch erprobt wird, zeigt sich eine vorsichtige, heuristisch begründete, wenn auch keinesfalls ausschließende Präferenz für die Stanzel’sche Vorgangsweise. Ähnlich stringent werden in den Abschnitten zur Multiperspektivität und zum ‘unzuverlässigen Erzähler’ (vgl. 249-277) historisch evolutionäre Strategien des Erzählens weithin schlüssig dargelegt. Nicht nur hinsichtlich ihrer Überlegungen und der im Detail berechtigten Vorbehalte und Einwendungen, sondern auch in der Art der Darbietung sind diese bislang besprochenen Kapitel den übrigen deutlich überlegen. Denn “wie er seine Geschichte ‘rüberbringt’” (81), ist nicht allein entscheidend für den Romancier und sein Werk, und die Instruktion, sich auch “ganz genau Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 88 diesen einen Erzähltext daraufhin an[zu]schauen” (ibid.), leitet im Kontext dieses Metadiskurses jene an, die Romane lesen und studieren, fordert jedoch implizit Geltung für die, die eben auch diesen einen Band über den Roman selbst lesen. Eine weitere kritikwürdige Auffälligkeit des Bandes betrifft nämlich die Diktion, mit der Bode vielleicht selbst, was er dem “neuzeitlichen europäischen Roman” (46) insgesamt attestiert, “die Menschen dort abholt, wo sie stehen” (ibid.) - oder der Autor die intendierte Leserschaft vermutet. Dass derlei so ohne weiteres nicht zu erreichen ist, belegt des Bandes (allzu? ) weit gedehnter sprachlicher Bogen, der, im Rahmen des wissenschaftlichen Diskurses reichlich unüblich, ans Mündliche angelehnte (elliptische) Umgangssprache und Idiomatik, altertümliche Gelehrtensprache und verblasste (häufig medizinische) Metaphorik sowie Kolloquialismen kombiniert. Dieses Amalgam aus Stilen beinhaltet die Verwendung von im Kontext archaisch bis gespreizt anmutenden Begriffen wie “gerechtet” (47) und “rechten” (85), die “Einspeisung” (51) technischen Jargons, so etwa, Defoes Robinson Crusoe sei in eine bestimmte Lesekultur “eingespeist” (ibid.) worden, umgangssprachliche Ausdrucksweisen wie etwa, Romane würden etwas “in unserm [sic] Hirn anrichten” (78), oder die Bemerkung, dass Veränderungen im Erzähltempo zu erkennen uns auch anzeigte, “was der Text in dieser Hinsicht, oft subkutan, mit uns anstellt” (105). Auch vor bisweilen regelrecht problematischen idiomatischen Wendungen wird nicht Halt gemacht. Vermutlich entspringt derlei sprachliche Vielfalt nicht rein dem Bestreben nach didaktischer Gefälligkeit, Emphase und Unterhaltsamkeit, sondern ist womöglich - neben der spürbaren Faszination des Autors an Formen des Erzählens an sich wie auch am eigenen Fabulieren über das Nachgedachte - auch einer gewissen Marktorientierung geschuldet, die dieser Band seinem Gegenstand zuordnet, der er selbst jedoch - zwar im Verzicht auf “Originalität in der Sache” (XIII), dafür umso mehr in der Art und Weise seiner Darstellung - zu gehorchen versucht. Dieser Strategie entspricht auch, dass schon das Vorwort mit Vehemenz gegen ein Verständnis des Romans anschreibt, wie es im “Szenetratsch” oder “Quiz- Spiel” (ibid.) vermutet wird, Betrachtungsweisen, die wohl kaum die wissenschaftliche Rede über das Erzählen gefährden können. Die Zeitgeistigkeit, mit der das ‘Produkt Roman’ auch als Mittel zur Bewusstseinsveränderung konnotiert und als mit “Risiken und Nebenwirkungen” (36) verbunden denotiert wird, mag Geschmackssache sein. Weniger schon, wenn ausgeführt wird, Humbert Humbert (Lolita) habe “einen psychischen Schaden” (272) - eine Formulierung, die sich neben der durchgehenden und selten adäquaten Automobilmetaphorik (vgl. 107 et passim) findet. Wenn indes auf ein und derselben Seite, wo Bode sich auf Martin Amis’ Time’s Arrow auf “Nazis” und deren “‘Endlösung der Judenfrage’” (115) bezieht, in unschicklicher Form das Idiom “für ein Heidengeld” (ibid.) firmiert, ist vielleicht der Bogen überspannt und die Grenze zur Geschmacklosigkeit schon überschritten. Hinzu kommt - in auffälligem Kontrast zum Bescheidenheitstopos im Vorwort und gegen Ende des Bandes - der autoritative, nahezu ‘auktorial’ anmutende Gestus, mit dem Bode, keinen Widerspruch duldend, gewisse Unterscheidungen (beispielsweise die von Handlungs- und Figurenroman u.a.) für heuristisch Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 89 überflüssig und Diskussionen als beendet deklariert, die vorzeitig abzuwürgen vielleicht gerade im Rahmen eines Bandes, dessen Ziel “[e]ine allgemeine, verständliche Einführung zu sein” (XIII) darstellt, doch nicht angeraten scheint. So wird etwa Isers instruktive Dreiteilung von Realem, Fiktivem und Imaginärem kommentarlos in einer Fußnote (vgl. 59, Fn. 27) abqualifiziert; das Konzept des impliziten Autors (und somit das des impliziten Lesers? ) wird nahezu ohne erzähllogische Diskussion ebenso schlankerhand verabschiedet (vgl. 261ff.) 1 wie das Konzept der ‘Repräsentation’ ohne jeglichen semiotischen Aufwand schlichtweg durchfällt (vgl. 91). Je nachdem, wo Leser/ -innen ihren (praktischen wie theoretischen) Erfahrungshorizont haben, wird manches, was hier apodiktisch konstatiert ist, trotzdem oder gerade deswegen, zum Widerspruch herausfordern müssen, zumal unterschiedliche Ansätze potentieller Gegenentwürfe mit unübersehbarer Herablassung bedacht werden. Hinzu kommen etliche fragwürdig überzogene Formulierungen wie z.B. die, Stanzel schlösse bei seiner Definition der Reflektorfigur jegliche Mittelbarkeit der Darstellung aus (vgl. 232f.), oder, vom Anfang hinge viel ab “- in der Erzählung alles” (2) u.a. Wenn auch in zu erwartenden weiteren Auflagen dieses durchaus spannenden und in weiten Teilen gelungenen Bandes der Ton wohl nicht gemäßigt werden wird, so mögen folgende kleine editorische Korrekturen noch angebracht sein: Ob die bei Thomas Bernhard ausgemachten “eigentlich nur aus Tiraden bestehenden Erzähler” (268) so benannt stehen bleiben sollen, ist fraglich. Die in Fn. 15 zitierte Studie von Werner Wolf (vgl. 55), Ästhetische Illusion und Illusionsdurchbrechung in der Erzählkunst, führt aus gutem Grund tatsächlich den Untertitel Theorie und Geschichte mit Schwerpunkt auf englischem illusionsstörenden Erzählen. In einem Band eines Anglisten fallen Anglizismen wie “vom Ende des Tages” (19) oder ‘Sinn machen’ (vgl. 63) sowie die konsequente Verwendung des ebenfalls aus der vom Englischen dominierten Informatik-Sprache fälschlicherweise übernommenen “Attributierung” (269 und 282) anstelle der ‘Attribuierung’ besonders unschön auf; verwendete termini technici wie “top down” und “bottom up” (132) sollten wie ihresgleichen behandelt und daher ebenfalls kursiviert werden, wenn sie keinem Zitat entspringen. Auf den Seiten 5 und 114 finden sich immer noch Kommafehler, das Argument in Fußnote 15 auf Seite 111 entbehrt immer noch einer logischen Verneinung, um Sinn zu ergeben, und sollten die “Dekomposition” (131) und die “Vor-täuschung” (53 und 55) tatsächlich als solche gemeint sein, so bieten sich die orthographisch korrekten und unmissverständlichen Varianten ‘Vor-Täuschung’ und ‘De-Komposition’ an. In einer nächsten Auflage sollten Bemerkungen über “Romane, die die sozio-kulturelle Konstruktion von gender widergeben [sic]” (287), ebenfalls anders wiedergegeben werden. 1 Dass derlei Ökonomisierung zu weiteren Kurzschlüssen führen kann, zeigt sich in Bodes Ausführungen zum unzuverlässigen Erzähler, der “meine [sic] Leichtgläubigkeit ausnutzt” (266), womit die kardinale Differenzierung zwischen textexterner und textinterner Ebene ebenfalls abgeschafft wäre, was didaktisch nicht zu überzeugen vermag. Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 90 Es wäre schön, wenn Bodes Band mit seinen mitunter provokanten Formulierungen trotz manch voreiliger Abschlüsse und trotz des ungewöhnlich harschen Tonfalls den narratologischen Diskurs weiterhin befeuern könnte, denn immerhin bietet er in weiten Teilen eine durchaus schöne und auch anregende Lektüre für Leser/ -innen von Erzähltexten, die sich auch für deren erzähltechnische Substanz und Genese interessieren, und bereitet zeitweise durchaus Vergnügen. Als Einführungslektüre für Studierende, die die Textsorte der wissenschaftlichen Arbeit auch weiterhin nicht nur als intersubjektiv nachvollziehbare Methodenanwendung kennen lernen sollen, sondern auch und vor allem den sorgsamen Umgang mit Sprache und mit Texten anderer erfahren sollen, kann der Band indes - unter Berücksichtigung der so betonten Vorgängigkeit von discours vor histoire - nach dem hier Gesagten nur mit Kautel empfohlen werden. Doris Mader Institut für Anglistik Karl-Franzens-Universität Graz Irene Gilsenan Nordin and Carmen Zamorano Llena (eds.), Redefinitions of Irish Identity. A Postnationalist Approach. (Cultural Identity Studies 12). Berlin: Peter Lang, 2010. Katharina Rennhak In the opening sentence of her article in the collection under review Catherine Rees remarks that “[r]ecent cultural criticism in modern Irish studies frequently describes the nation as experiencing moments […] of crises of identity within a global context” (221). Redefinitions of Irish Identity is by no means the first collection to discuss questions of national identity in (post)- Celtic Tiger Ireland - it can build, e.g., on the insights in Peadar Kirby, Luke Gibbons, and Michael Cronin’s influential Reinventing Ireland: Culture, Society and the Global Economy (2002) - nor will or should it be the last. Contemporary ‘globalized’ Ireland with its well-known 20 th -century trajectory of cultural and political nationalism - which is simultaneously exemplary and unique in comparison to that of other European nations, since it is temporally as well as conceptually situated halfway between earlier Western and later Eastern European national movements - is relevant in so many contexts today that it certainly deserves our sustained attention and critical commitment. Nordin and Zamorano Llena have subtitled their collection A Postnationalist Approach. Of the thirteen contributions, the first one by historian Michael Böss, “Irish neutrality: From nationalism to postnationalism” provides a his- Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 91 torical overview from pre-Second World War Ireland to the Seville Declaration of 2002, which reminds the reader of contexts relevant to almost all the other articles in the volume. Simultaneously, its claim that the concept of neutrality, “a key symbol of Irish identity” (17), gains various different meanings that depend both on the political agenda of those who use it and on the different national(ist) discourses which keep re-employing it throughout the 20 th century opens up a refreshingly original perspective. Billy Gray’s contribution on the essayist Hubert Butler’s reflections on “community, nationalism and a globalised Ireland” serves as a smooth transition from the historical article by Böss to the analyses of literature and film in the eleven articles that follow. Gray establishes “Butler’s views” as predating Jean Baudrillard’s, Homi Bhabha’s or Zygmunt Bauman’s “critique” of various effects of “increasing globalization,” e.g. the “pivotal role the global media play in propagating what [Butler] terms ‘the ravages of second-hand experience’” (47). Providing the most sceptical perspective on the postnational, Gray moves on to suggest that Butler’s emphasis on the importance of “personal relationships [and] neighbourly concern” (58) may offer answers to some unsolved problems of the globalized world. In briefly (and somewhat fleetingly) touching on the significance of Butler’s “beautifully honed prose style” (60), Gray’s article also reflects on the relationship between the message of a text and its discursive form. A more pronounced interest in the interaction of medium and message, formal structure and ideological effect characterizes the following articles in the collection. In their introduction, which recapitulates the main issues addressed in two of the most influential recent contributions to the “cultural, politicophilosophical […] discourse of postnationalism” (1) - Jürgen Habermas’s The Postnational Constellation (2001) and Richard Kearney’s Postnationalist Ireland (1997) - Nordin and Zamorano Llena contend: “Very rarely does postnationalism leave critics indifferent and positions tend to be radicalised.” (1) Even though some contributors embrace the concept of postnationalism more wholeheartedly than others, such radicalization is certainly not a characteristic of the calmly argued articles collected in the book. Almost all contributors refer to Kearney and argue along the lines of his “optimistic perception of the European Union.” Another common feature is the discussion of the central issue of “the regional and the local” in a globalized world (3). On that ground, one can roughly distinguish three different approaches to literary representations of ‘the postnational’. The first group of critics focuses on films (Seán Crosson on The Rocky Road to Dublin and Clash of the Ash), plays (David Cregan on Friel’s The Enemy Within and Living Quarters), or novels (Grace Tighe Ledwidge on Tóibín’s The South, The Heather Blazing, and The Blackwater Lightship) which “provide a searing indictment of romantic nationalist ideology” (Ledwidge 202). They regard this critique as enabled by the authors’ postnational vantage point. It is interesting to observe how, despite their different approaches - Crosson works with Kearney’s concept of the postnational, Jameson’s idea of the postmodern and insights from Irish film studies; Cregan practices masculinity studies informed by Freud; and Ledwidge builds on trauma theories and De- Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 92 clan Kiberd’s idea of the “quest for ‘an enabling narrative’” (201) - they all demonstrate that their ‘postnational authors’ make visible a hitherto often unperceived link between Irish national(ist) discourses and institutions like the GAA, the church, or the law on the one hand, and, to use R.W. Connell’s term introduced by Cregan, the construction of a ‘hegemonic masculinity’ (171) on the other. All three articles thus demonstrate that 20 th -century Irish nationalism has “limited ideas and practices” not just of femininity, but also “of masculinity,” because “men themselves [have] creat[ed] restrictive and narrow versions of their own gender” (Cregan 161). Questions of masculinity (as of gender in general) are also discussed in Paula Murphy’s article (on Dermot Bolger’s In High Germany and The Holy Ground; also analysed by Damien Shortt), as well as by Miriam O’Kane Mara and in Catherine Rees’s analysis of plays by Marian Jones and Martin McDonagh, whose contributions can be said to form a second group of articles that also includes Matt McGuire’s “The postmodern promise of Robert McLiam Wilson’s fiction.” These contributors approach the postnational by disentangling (post-)Celtic Tiger processes of identity construction and by asking “how nationalism is constructed […] in a postnationalist Ireland” (Rees 238). While a number of contributors simply equate (Jameson’s or Lyotard’s or Žižek’s) postmodernist theories with postnationalism (cf. 125 or 184f.), Carmen Zamorano Llena’s analysis of contemporary Irish poetry and Miriam O’Kane Mara’s reading of the work of Nuala O’Faolain more rigorously draw on more differentiated concepts of the ‘postnational’ or ‘globalization’. Zamorano Llena charts a number of issues and “overriding concerns” (146) which have been theorized by, e.g., Arjun Appadurai or Zygmunt Bauman and reappear in the poetry of David Wheatley, Justin Quinn and Sinéad Morrissey, most importantly typical ways of interrogating “traditional understandings of time and space” (146). O’Kane Mara establishes a particularly convincing argument about the “search for global Irishness in Nuala O’Faolain” by applying and, at times challenging, Arjun Appadurai’s concepts of ethnoscapes and mediascapes, as developed in his influential study Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of Globalization (1996), and by demonstrating how Faolain skillfully plays with the genre conventions of the memoir (Are You Somebody; Almost There), the novel (My Dream of You), and the literary biography (The Story of Chicago May). In the process, the author’s characters are shown to “create Irish identity by building narratives about other people and places, not by comparison with an Other, but rather by integrating global perspectives into an Irish framework” (76). Like the other critics who can be said to belong to this second group, O’Kane Mara stresses the importance of the “global community of Irish emigrants” (qtd. Shortt 114) for the construction of postnational Irish identities. The question raised at the end of Rees’s article of how contemporary Irish dramatists refashion dramatic conventions in order to accommodate postnational concerns to the genre which, in Ireland, “has become overly preoccupied with questions of national authenticity” (239) is also addressed in the two articles (by Paula Murphy and Damian Shortt) on Bolger’s monologue play High Germany, the literary Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 93 text discussed in the volume which most decidedly tries to actually establish and stage the often rather elusive concept of ‘postnational Irishness’. The contributions by Irene Gilsenan Nordin and Ulf Dantanus, which conclude the volume, can be said to shift the critical interest from processes of identity construction to different aspects of reconstructed Irish identities. Ulf Dantanus’s article traces continuities and convincingly demonstrates that “the supernatural and the spiritual, in their folkloric and religious manifestations,” which have been central elements of “the Irish dramatic imagination” ever since the Literary Renaissance, “still exercise considerable influence” (275), formally and structurally, on recent Irish plays by Brian Friel, Marina Carr, Conor McPherson and Frank McGuiness. In contrast, Irene Gilsenan Nordin’s Heideggerian ecocritical reading of Moya Cannon’s poetical work demonstrates that the traditional preoccupation with (especially rural) Irish landscapes, which Neil Corcoran and many others have shown to be “inseparable from matters of Irish [national] history” (244), gives way to a much “wider, earth-centred approach” in Cannon’s poetry and, thus, clearly marks the concern of Irish literature with questions of national identity as dated, and of minor significance. As such her article is probably the one with the most radically postnational argument in the whole volume. As is typical of such collections, some articles are more convincing and innovative than others. In some cases, the interaction between postnational or postmodern theory on the one hand, and the literary analyses and interpretations on the other, is rather more implicit than rigorously and coherently argued. Some readers will certainly miss a more systematic exploration of the main concept of the ‘postnational’, and a more courageous attempt at structuring the overall results by the editors. Still, the open form of assembling individual contributions to debate an important and topical issue will surely stimulate further explorations into a field of research which is highly relevant to different areas of European cultural and literary studies. Most importantly, this collection itself, by bringing together academics from various different European countries and the United States, is a remarkable testimony to the extraordinary and unique postnationalist drive of contemporary Irish cultural and literary criticism. Redefinitions of Irish Identity does not just provide a ‘postnationalist approach’ but is the result of a truly postnational research project. As such, it is indicative of one of the most typical features of the Irish Studies academic community today. Katharina Rennhak Anglistik/ Amerikanistik Bergische Universität Wuppertal Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 94 Petra Eckhard, Klaus Rieser und Silvia Schultermandl (eds.), Contact Spaces of American Culture. Globalizing Local Phenomena. Münster [etc.]: LIT-Verlag, 2012. Julia Sattler Starting from Mary Louise Pratt’s notion of the “contact zone,” and from the idea that Americanness and its production are always results of an encounter, the twelve essays in this volume explore a diversity of contact spaces, both physical (such as the inner city, the pirate ship, or the tent city) and metaphorical (such as the internet and global media circulation). The essays, even though different from each other in scope and in the approaches to this topic, look at contact spaces as sites of encounter, as sites of potential dialogue and solidarity, but also as sites of ambiguity, marginalization and tension. Contact, the “key variable” (9) of the collection, is explored from multiple points of entry ranging from literary to media and film studies as well as the social sciences. The articles use a variety of theoretical concepts that work together well with Pratt’s notion of the contact zone, from Foucault’s heterotopia to Mizuko Ito’s network localities. Alexandra Ganser’s essay on “The Pirate Ship as a Black Atlantic Heterotopia: Michel Maxwell Philip’s Emanuel Appadocca” discusses questions of legitimacy and illegitimacy negotiated in the novel via the representation of the pirate ship as multiethnic and transnational contact space. Eric Erbacher’s discussion of third wave gentrification in the Brooklyn neighborhood of Williamsburg, New York, shows that community development is both a contact space and a potential conflict zone, but one in which people can unite across different social, religious and ethnic groups once they have literally established a common ground and common goals. Kathy-Ann Tan, in her negotiation of “Makeshift Heterotopia(s): Tent Cities in North America,” draws attention to those who have been left behind by contemporary capitalism, and in part by the very processes discussed by Erbacher: she focuses on homelessness, public space and property ownership. The dialogue she initiates between homelessness and artistic engagements with tent cities and other temporary makeshift settlements opens a new contact space within American culture challenging the invisibility of the homeless and urban poor, and providing new strategies of thinking about economic deprivation, as well as about the links between art and social activism in the United States and beyond. In their discussion of social networks and both their American origins and their simultaneous independence from a specific locality, Eugen Banauch, Astrid Fellner and Susanne Hamscha open the way for new approaches to the complex dynamics between local and global levels in a world dominated by the internet as important contact space. Finally, Leo Lippert’s exploration of enacting “Indianness” in Austria presents a case study of a contemporary performance going beyond local and global modes of discussion. Encountering a version of an imaginary “America” in an “unexpected global setting” (255) challenges power relations and leads to question the Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 95 forms of knowledge circulating about “America” in the global realm, but also encourages reconsideration of the notion of the contact space and its implications for performances and enactments of “America” as a whole. All contributions to the collection make evident that the spatial dimension of both the local and the global has become essential to contemporary American Cultural Studies, and that reading contact spaces offers new and useful paths to understanding American Culture across different time periods and across different walks of life from trade to sports to subcultures, and from the mainstream to the marginalized. Contact spaces as discussed throughout the collection are always spaces of relationship, and spaces of social production; they potentially invite exploration of the unknown Other just as well as contestation of one’s individual perception of the world. At the same time, such spaces may also be spaces of exploitation and marginalization of the Other; or spaces of mediation in which established notions such as social class, gender or race can be newly negotiated through the encounter that is implied in the term contact space itself. In any case, the idea of the contact space hints at interaction, at a multilateral movement and the building of links and interconnections between the self and the Other, the historical and the contemporary, and the local and global levels of negotiation. The essays invite explorations of encounters and their spatial dimensions from different angles, while at the same time addressing the importance of representation and global media circulation which have generated new contact spaces of their own right: transnational, transcultural and oftentimes transgressive in their potential to overcome established borders. The dialogue between physical and metaphorical spaces that is initiated in many of the essays is a specific quality of this publication, and pays tribute to the globalized economies and transnational flows that have always shaped our encounters with America but have intensified tremendously through the internet and global media. Reading American culture via the notion of the contact space provides new insights into understanding processes of inclusion and exclusion as well as such notions as inside and outside, but also leads us to critically question our own role in shaping, questioning and representing such phenomena. Julia Sattler Institut für Anglistik/ Amerikanistik Technische Universität Dortmund Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 96 Anne-Kathrin Hillenbach, Literatur und Fotografie. Analyse eines intermedialen Verhältnisses. Bielefeld: Transcript, 2012. Jeff Thoss Intermedialität dürfte seit über einem Jahrzehnt kaum mehr zu denRandgebieten der Literaturwissenschaft zählen. Die Komparatistin Anne-Kathrin Hillenbach setzt sich in dieser Monographie, die zugleich ihre Dissertation an der Universität Gießen darstellt, mit einem der Kerngebiete der Intermedialität auseinander, den Text-Bild-Beziehungen - genauer gesagt, dem Verhältnis und der Verbindung von Literatur und Fotografie. Die Einbettung von Fotografien in literarische Texte wurde in letzter Zeit, etwa am Werk W.G. Sebalds, vielfach untersucht. Allerdings möchte die Autorin hierüber hinausgehen und einen „umfassenden Überblick zu Formen und Funktionen der Kombination aus Literatur und Fotografie“ (24) liefern. Nach einer ausgedehnten Einleitung und einem Kapitel, das Aufschluss über Intermedialitäts- und Fototheorie sowie Hillenbachs eigenen Ansatz gibt, folgt demnach auch ein praktischer Teil, der sowohl Analysen von Erzähltexten, die Fotos beinhalten, wie auch von Fotoromanen, Comics, Fotoserien und Künstlerbüchern bietet. Dabei gelingt es der Autorin sehr schön aufzuzeigen, wie die von ihr ausgewählten Beispiele gängige Unterscheidungen in Bezug auf die Relation zwischen Text und Bild aufgreifen, problematisieren und sich produktiv zu Nutze machen. Kunstwerke, die Literatur und Fotografie kombinieren, so Hillenbachs vielleicht etwas zu verallgemeinernde These, vollziehen implizit auch immer eine mediale Selbstreflexion. Allerdings sind die theoretischen Überlegungen der Verfasserin und der praktische Teil ihres Buches nicht immer optimal aufeinander abgestimmt, und auch die Fallstudien sind untereinander etwas isoliert. Hier hätte man sich eine stringentere und konsistentere Argumentationsführung gewünscht. Die Verfasserin beginnt mit einer Einordnung ihres Gegenstands in die Intermedialitätsforschung und bemerkt zu Recht, dass der Begriff der Medienkombination, unter den sämtliche ihrer Beispiele fallen würde, zu vage ist. Als Erweiterung der Typologien von Irina Rajewsky und Werner Wolf schlägt sie eine Unterscheidung zwischen verdeckter und offener Medienkombination vor. Erstere umfasst Bereiche wie Oper oder Film, die längst nicht mehr als Konvolut distinkter Medien angesehen werden, zweitere schließlich solche Fälle, in denen die Plurimedialität noch augenfällig ist und mit denen sich Hillenbach in ihrer Arbeit beschäftigt. Einer engeren Festlegung des Medienbegriffs geht sie dabei geschickt aus dem Weg. Den Beweis für ihre Behauptung, dass „mediale Selbstreflexivität in der Kombination zweier Medien besser beobachtet werden kann, als wenn der Bezug des einen Mediums auf ein anderes metaphorisch oder durch Verweis hergestellt wird“ (12), bleibt sie allerdings schuldig. Eine Auseinandersetzung mit der Forschung zur „filmischen Schreibweise“ oder zur Ekphrasis, die hierfür wohl notwendig wäre, findet jedenfalls nicht statt. Hervorzuheben ist, dass Hillenbach das vermehrte Aufkommen von Fotografie und Literatur vermischenden Werken in den Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 97 letzten Jahrzehnten und ihr wissenschaftliches Interesse daran nicht aus dem pictorial turn heraus erklärt. Sehr stichhaltig legt die Autorin dar, dass wir „nicht in einem Zeitalter des Bildes leben, sondern in einem Zeitalter der allgegenwärtigen, intermedialen, technisch vermittelten Informationen“ (34). Im zweiten Kapitel ihres Buchs setzt sich Hillenbach in erster Linie mit zentralen Begriffen der Fototheorie auseinander und bindet diese in eine Diskussion von Text-Bild-Beziehungen ein. Vielfach argumentiert die Autorin hier gegen die traditionelle Auffassung dieser beiden Medien als quasi diametral entgegengesetzte und zeigt beispielsweise, wie die Authentizität des Bildes auch nur eine Fiktion ist, wie Texte zumindest ansatzweise indexikalisch oder ikonisch sein können oder wie sowohl Fotografie als auch Literatur zur Darstellung von Erinnerungen genutzt werden. So sehr man Hillenbachs Plädoyer für eine Anerkennung der Vielschichtigkeit und Dynamik von Fotografie und Literatur begrüßen muss, scheinen manche ihrer Schlüsse jedoch voreilig gezogen oder unzureichend begründet. Gegen die bekannte Lessing’sche Unterscheidung zwischen der Simultaneität der Bilder und dem Nacheinander der Sprache etwa zieht Hillenbach mit zwei Argumenten ins Feld. Zum einen bringt sie überzeugende Beispiele, in denen man sehr wohl von einer „Leserichtung“ und sukzessiven Wahrnehmung von Bildern sprechen kann, wobei allerdings noch zu klären wäre, ob diese partielle Parallelität ausreicht, um die grundsätzliche Divergenz der beiden Medien zu revidieren. Zum anderen aber entscheidet sie sich dafür, „Momente des Simultanen in der Literatur“ (67) ausgerechnet an einer ganz klar ekphrastischen Stelle aus Zadie Smiths Roman On Beauty zu demonstrieren. Dies scheint ungünstig, versucht doch der Text hier die Simultaneität des Mediums Bild zu imitieren und sich gerade nicht auf seine ‚eigenen‘ medialen Mittel zu verlassen. In Bezug auf das Narrative in der Fotografie räumt die Verfasserin anderswo ein, dass dieses zwar nur in der „Vorstellungskraft des Betrachters“ stattfindet, fährt allerdings dann mit dem Hinweis fort, dass es beim Text schließlich auch darauf ankomme, dass der Rezipient „die Worte als visuelle Zeichen erkennt und in Vorstellungen übersetzt“ (76). Hieraus auf eine ähnliche gelagerte Narrativität der beiden Medien zu schließen, wie es Hillenbach vorschlägt, erscheint etwas verkürzt und lässt wesentliche Charakteristika von Erzähltexten - wie etwa den Erzähler - außer Acht. Darüber hinaus muss man anmerken, dass die Autorin mit einem sehr engen Fotografiebegriff arbeitet: Obwohl sie auch kurz auf die Möglichkeiten des digitalen Bilds eingeht, ist Fotografie bei ihr meist synonym mit klassischer Dokumentarfotografie. Der explizite Einbezug der inszenierten Fotografie hätte sicherlich interessante Impulse geliefert in Bezug auf Stichworte wie Authentizität, Fiktionalität oder auch Narrativität. Insgesamt hinterlässt das zweite Kapitel einen durchwachsenen Eindruck. Zwar greift die Autorin alle zentralen Diskussionen und Begriffe um das Verhältnis von Literatur und Fotografie auf und versucht sie miteinander zu verbinden, aber die Sachverhalte werden eher kursorisch abgehandelt, so dass sich am Ende dennoch kein wirklich einheitliches Bild ergibt. Der dritte und längste Teil des Buchs ist schließlich ausgedehnten Fallstudien gewidmet. Zeitlich beschränkt sich Hillenbach auf Werke aus den letzten Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 98 dreißig Jahren, da sie davon ausgeht, dass diese den Boom der Fototheorie im Anschluss an Susan Sontag und Roland Barthes in gewisser Weise mitreflektieren. Bei den einzelnen Analysen ist allerdings selten ersichtlich, dass diese sich explizit mit diesen theoretischen Texten auseinandersetzten. In der Korpusauswahl der ersten Gruppe von Werken, literarischen Texten, die Fotografien beinhalten, findet man jedenfalls die unumgängliche Prosa W.G. Sebalds, Jonathan Safran Foers Roman Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close sowie zwei Erzählungen von Monika Maron: Pawels Briefe und Geburtsort Berlin. Die Verfasserin bietet hier souveräne Interpretationen, die vor allem um die Begriffe Authentizität und Erinnerung kreisen, sich allerdings auch nicht sonderlich von der bisherigen Forschung zu diesen Texten absetzen. Etwas irritierend ist es, dass Hillenbach hier zum Teil etwas andere Standpunkte vertritt als im vorigen Kapitel. So argumentiert sie in Bezug auf Sebald, dass dieser „das vornehmlich Konsekutive der Sprache nutzt,“ „während das fotografische Bild bei [ihm] keine erzählende prozesshafte Struktur aufweist“ (108), und untermauert damit die traditionelle Position, die sie doch scheinbar anfechten wollte. Spannender als diese erste Auswahl von Werken sind sicherlich jene Beispiele, die Hillenbach im Anschluss bespricht und mit denen sie auch die bekannteren Pfade der Text-Bild-Forschung verlässt. Sie beschäftigt sich nun mit einem Comic, in den Fotos eingebettet sind (Der Fotograf von Emmanuel Guibert, Didier Levèvre und Frédéric Lemercier), einer Fotoserie, deren Bilder mit Texten überschrieben sind (Shirin Neshats Women of Allah), und zwei Künstlerbüchern (Double Game von Sophie Calle und Wisconsin Death Trip von Michael Lesy). Einige exkursartige Unterkapitel, etwa zur Entstehungsgeschichte einzelner Werke oder zur Biografie Shirin Neshats, mögen zwar überflüssig erscheinen oder den Eindruck erwecken, dass die Fallstudien Hillenbachs theoretischen Überlegungen entgegen laufen, aber dennoch ist dies der stärkste Teil des Buchs. Hillenbach zeigt hier sehr anschaulich auf, wie Literatur und Fotografie überaus vielfältige Formen von Beziehungen eingehen können, die ein neues Licht auf viele der bereits bekannten Konzepte und Oppositionen werfen. Zum Beispiel beschreibt die Autorin, wie das gezeichnete Bild durch die Einbettung von fotografischen Bildern im Comic näher zum Text und zur Schrift rückt, wie bei Shirin Neshat der literarische Text in der Fotografie „zwischen Ornament und Lesbarkeit“ (195) oszilliert oder wie Sophie Calle, die mit Double Game auf Paul Austers Darstellung ihrer selbst in Leviathan reagiert, die Frage nach Fiktion und Authentizität um ein Vielfaches kompliziert. Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 99 In einem kurzen Fazit führt Hillenbach ihre Analysen, die bis dahin immer ein wenig für sich standen, zusammen und gibt einen Ausblick auf die Zukunft der Text-Bild-Forschung. Mit ihrer Arbeit hat die Autorin sicherlich wichtige Impulse zu einer Ausweitung des Forschungsgebiets von Literatur und Fotografie geliefert und kann doch auf Grund einiger Ungereimtheiten und Schwächen nicht immer vollständig überzeugen. Jeff Thoss Institut für Englische Philologie Freie Universität Berlin Russell West-Pavlov, Jennifer Wawrzinek (eds), Frontier Skirmishes. Literary and Cultural Debates in Australia after 1992. (Anglistische Forschungen 409). Heidelberg: Winter 2010. Adi Wimmer This volume starts from the premise that frontier research in Australia reached a dead end in the early 1990s. The project is ambitious: in the introduction the editors list a whole range of discursive areas and aims. What it boils down to is this: “to examine these areas as multiple facets of a single broader issue: white Australia’s multi-pronged campaigns to control, on the cultural plain, the frontiers of a continent fully conquered in the 19 th Century but still felt to be insecure in less tangible ways.” (I daresay that not all contributors to this volume would underwrite the editors’ “state control” motive.) In 1993 Australia’s most prominent historian Geoffrey Blainey coined the term “black armband view of history,” arguing that most young historians had a biased view towards Australia’s colonial past, representing it primarily in terms of dispossession, violence and genocide. This was the opening salvo in what later became known as the “history wars” and this volume is clearly part of the anti-Blainey, left-wing campaign. Research on the “frontier aspect” of Australia’s 19 th century history was largely absent, as the opening chapter convincingly demonstrates. In 1999, Rod Moran published Massacre Myth, in which he examined the 1926 Forest River massacre in Western Australia. The result of his research was that it never happened, that it was in fact invented by a well-meaning missionary. His research represents a ‘skirmish’ towards the real ‘history war’, in which a polemical study by historian Keith Windschuttle (2002, The Fabrication of Aboriginal History, Vol. 1: Van Diemen Land, 1803-1847) plays a key role. Windschuttle hangs like a ghost over this volume. Curious that almost all contributors mention - and revile - him, but none engages with his theses. Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 100 (Only four out of nineteen contributions list him in their Works Cited section.) To do so seems to have become the standard academic discourse in Australia: anyone suggesting that his argument may have at least some merit will be ostracized. You don’t argue with Windschuttle, you dismiss him out of hand. There is no consensus amongst the contributors on what impact Windschuttle has had on Australia’s discourse of Aboriginality: most contributors indicate that Windschuttle has re-ignited racist sentiment and has hardened the public’s stance towards a collective acceptance of guilt. James Boyce, however, whose impassioned, well-written essay “The Legacy of the Australian History Wars in Tasmania” is one of the best of this volume, also thinks that the history wars “have had little impact in Tasmania.” The reason, so his underdeveloped argument, is the Tasmanian “love of the land.” Boyce draws an interesting and - to us in Germany (and Austria) - flattering national comparison: “Why […] could Germans openly talk about the horrific crimes committed by their own parents’ generation, while so many Tasmanians were as yet too sensitive to talk about frontier crimes committed over 150 years ago? ” (55). In his introduction Russell West presents a view opposed to Boyce’s: even after Prime Minister Rudd’s apology to all Australian Aborigines, there is “unresolved unease” about black-white relations, fuelled by the “afterlife” of earlier armed conflicts. West opposes Rudd, who in 2009 publicly said it was time to leave behind us the polarisation that began to infect our every discussion of our nation’s past. To go beyond the so-called white blindfold view that refused to confront some hard truths about our past, as if our forebears were all men and women of absolute nobility, without spot or blemish. But time, too, to go beyond the view that we should only celebrate the reformers, the renegades and revolutionaries, thus neglecting or even deriding the great stories of our explorers, of our pioneers, and of our entrepreneurs. Russell West views white control as an invariable; then, the power came from the barrels of guns, now we have various mechanisms that maintain a cultural hegemony over the past and over the issues of white guilt. Citing Clausewitz, West posits that “in the contemporary Australian context, cultural politics is the continuation of frontier warfare by other means” (12). Strong stuff, that, establishing his stance as a radical proponent of “blackarmbandism.” “Genocide” as a core charge is given much space in this volume, without detailing how the term is to be understood. Oliver Haag has recently done an excellent job in problematizing and historicizing the concept and its history; but his article (July 2012) appeared too late for this volume (Haag 2012). What Russell West’s introduction fails to see is that Aboriginal lives ought not to be frozen in victimhood. This position was first presented in the late 1990s by Noel Pearson, for many the major sane voice in Aboriginal politics. 1 1 When John Howard, with Labor’s support, decreed the “intervention” into Aboriginal communities because most, if not all of them had developed an insidious culture of systemic sexual abuse of girls and boys as well as sexual violence in general, Noel Pearson and Marcia Langton were the major Aboriginal voices who Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 101 Pearson is approvingly quoted by Kim Scott (“an Aboriginal public intellectual I greatly admire”, 60) in his highly personal essay “Apologies, Agency and Resilience”: victimhood, the discursive paradigm clearly favored by West and the majority of this volume’s contributors, ought to be replaced by a “psychology […] of defiance, survival and agency.” But that rarely happens in this volume. Guilt and shame are forever present in all discourses. Sarah Pinto for example emphasizes the “guilt work” (124) that her discussed film The Tracker performs, citing Marc Golub’s term “redemption histories” for the Aboriginal film genre. After the Bringing Them Home Report, the hugely impressive march across Sydney Harbor bridge in May 2000 and the subsequent creation of ‘Sorry Day’, many political commentators noted a new sympathy in mainstream Australia for Aboriginal issues and were hopeful that the old discourses of guilt could be overcome. Pinto denies this with the argument that behind such voices was a wish to “repudiate white guilt.” Really? The Tracker, so Pinto concludes, insists that “guilt, blame and responsibility are not only possible, but also imperative to contemporary understandings and negotiations of this past.” A contrasting voice was that of Sir Ronald Wilson, President of the Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission and, together with Mick Dodson, President of the Royal Commission to investigate the ‘Stolen Generation’ issue. Chief Justice Wilson repeatedly stated that the Commission’s work was “never about guilt” but about an understanding of Aboriginal suffering and black-white reconciliation. The contributions are too numerous to be discussed individually and at length. “Teaching the Frontier” (Alexandra Sauvage) is a mercifully clear survey of how Australian history was taught from Federation onward to the present. Informative. Frances Devlin-Glass offers an interesting analysis of Pat Jacobs’ novel Going Inland (1998), in which the main character Zoe aligns settler violence with the holocaust. Devlin-Glass does not take issue with this hyperbolic claim. Instead, she argues that authors such as Thomas Keneally or Xavier Herbert express a sense of “shared victimhood” when writing of the Irish in Australia and Aboriginal history, a claim which I find not just false but outrageous. Numerous Irish settlers gleefully chased Aborigines from their land. Kate Hall examines “Violence and Accountability” in Sam Watson’s 1991 novel The Kadaitcha Sung and Alexis Wright’s more recent (and more complex) Plains of Promise. Once again we are flung into the Windschuttle/ Henry Reynolds battle, but matters of greater interest do follow. Hall points to the role of these (and other) contemporary writers as “narrative historians.” Since historians (such as Mark McKenna) have similarly transwelcomed it. That systemic sexual violence was rife in self-governed communities surfaced in 2004 and had been rumoured about even earlier. Aboriginal and nonaboriginal academics denied it. Australia’s most prominent historian Henry Reynolds ignored the reasons for the intervention and declared that the real reason was to roll back Mabo. In this he was the leader of the ‘denialist’ camp that brushed aside two important publications that revealed the extent of the abuses: the first by playwright Louis Nowra (2007), Bad Dreaming. Aboriginal Men’s Violence against Women and Children, the second by famous anthropologist Peter Sutton (2009), The Politics of Suffering. Indigenous Australia and the End of the Liberal Consensus. Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 102 gressed their professional boundaries in order to write fictional accounts, we learn that both the fiction writers and the historians have moved into each other’s terrain, both in an attempt to fill the gaps between fact and fiction. A hugely satisfying paper is Kelly Jean Butler’s “This is how I’m sorry: Witnessing the Frontier in Contemporary Australian Historical Writing.” Starting with a survey of the heated debate that Kate Grenville’s novel The Secret River generated, she posits that Grenville’s structured account is just the tip of an iceberg of “hundreds of thousands” of very personal and, in their nature, unstructured responses to Australia’s colonial past. If James Boyce claims (earlier in the volume) that Mainstream Australia still does not want to address its violent history, Kelly Butler takes the opposite view, seeing a mass trend in Australian society to understand their own country by confronting the history. Citing Grenville, she argues that many “ordinary Australians” are looking for a “pulse of connectedness.” Citing Kay Schaffer and Sidonie Smith, she advises us that The Bringing Them Home Report “seeded thousands of local initiatives toward racial reconciliation and Indigenous autonomy, including dinners and memorials, storytelling workshops and healing houses, educational awareness and stolen wages campaigns, land rights and environmental initiatives” (172). In short, there has been a remarkable shift in public awareness: everyone now wants to respond personally to Australia’s tainted past. They all want to confront the history of dispossession: “Hundreds of thousands were moved to witness to the stories of Indigenous Australians” (172). They did that not just as an expression of personal empathy, but as an act of defiance of the clay-footed Howard government. Such observations flatly contradict Russell West’s position in his opening essay. The volume is closed by an epilogue: “The National Apology to the Stolen Generations and the Frontier of Indigenous Alterity.” The editors did well to give the final say to a prominent public intellectual. Dirk Moses from Melbourne University provides a lucid account of how the various Aboriginal groups and factions responded to PM Kevin Rudd’s long-awaited apology, from the very positive ones at grassroot level (“a day filled with high emotions. We shed tears of sadness and joy, we hugged with happiness and comfort”) to the diehard rejectionists (“The word ‘sorry’ cannot mean anything to me”). One year after the event, Mick Dodson wrote in the Sydney Morning Herald that “beneficial change” had taken place, that “honest conversations” were now being conducted between Indigenous and non-Indigenous Australians. He also spoke of concrete measures to improve the lives of Aborigines. So where is the “hidden frontier”, a frontier of covert surveillance and control, that Russell West claims still exists? Not to be found in Moses’ account. He does allow that it still exists as a discursive trope, but adds that newer complexities and nuances of Indigenous political thinking will have to be accommodated. I wish to end my discussion with a reference to the admirable Professor Marcia Langton of Melbourne University. Langton does not support the unrealistic (and for Noel Pearson, undesirable) demands from the radical Aboriginal section for billions of dollars of reparation. She demands a change in the Rezensionen AAA Band 38 (2013) Heft 1 103 Australian constitution that specifically recognizes the worth of indigenous culture. By such a constitutional change the ‘frontier’ between Indigenous and white discourses might disappear. Which is clearly not in the interest of an Australian academic establishment focused on what Sid Finkelstein (in a different context) has called the “guilt industry.” References Haag, Oliver (2012). “The History of an Argument: Genocide in Australian History.” Zeitschrift für Australienstudien 26. 24-46. Nowra, Louis (2007). Bad Dreaming. Aboriginal Men’s Violence against Women and Children. Melbourne: Pluto Press Australia. Sutton, Peter (2009). The Politics of Suffering. Indigenous Australia and the End of the Liberal Consensus. Melbourne: Melbourne UP. Windschuttle, Keith (2002). The Fabrication of Aboriginal History, Vol. 1: Van Diemen Land 1803-1847. Paddington: Macleay Press. Adi Wimmer Anglistik/ Amerikanistik Universität Klagenfurt