2014.1 journal of literature and art studies

Journal of Literature

and Art Studies

Volume 4, Number 1, January 2014 (Serial Number 26)

David Publishing Company

www.davidpublishing.com

PublishingDavid

Publication Information: Journal of Literature and Art Studies is published monthly in hard copy (ISSN 2159-5836) and online (ISSN 2159-5844) by David Publishing Company located at 16710 East Johnson Drive, City of Industry, CA 91745, USA.

Aims and Scope: Journal of Literature and Art Studies, a monthly professional academic journal, covers all sorts of researches on literature studies, art theory, appreciation of arts, culture and history of arts and other latest findings and achievements from experts and scholars all over the world.

Editorial Board Members: Eric J. Abbey, Oakland Community College, USA Andrea Greenbaum, Barry University, USA Carolina Conte, Jacksonville University, USA Maya Zalbidea Paniagua, Universidad La Salle, Madrid, Spain Mary Harden, Western Oregon University, USA Lisa Socrates, University of London, United Kingdom Herman Jiesamfoek, City University of New York, USA Maria O’Connell, Texas Tech University, USA Soo Y. Kang, Chicago State University, USA Uju Clara Umo, University of Nigeria, Nigeria

Manuscripts and correspondence are invited for publication. You can submit your papers via Web Submission, or E-mail to [email protected], [email protected]. Submission guidelines and Web Submission system are available at http://www.davidpublishing.org, www.davidpublishing.com.

Editorial Office: 16710 East Johnson Drive, City of Industry, CA 91745, USA Tel: 1-323-984-7526, 323-410-1082 Fax: 1-323-984-7374, 323-908-0457 E-mail: [email protected], [email protected]

Copyright©2014 by David Publishing Company and individual contributors. All rights reserved. David Publishing Company holds the exclusive copyright of all the contents of this journal. In accordance with the international convention, no part of this journal may be reproduced or transmitted by any media or publishing organs (including various websites) without the written permission of the copyright holder. Otherwise, any conduct would be considered as the violation of the copyright. The contents of this journal are available for any citation, however, all the citations should be clearly indicated with the title of this journal, serial number and the name of the author.

Abstracted/Indexed in: Database of EBSCO, Massachusetts, USA Chinese Database of CEPS, Airiti Inc. & OCLC Chinese Scientific Journals Database, VIP Corporation, Chongqing, P.R.C. Ulrich’s Periodicals Directory LLBA Database of ProQuest Summon Serials Solutions Google Scholar

Subscription Information: Price (per year): Print $520 Online $320 Print and Online $560

David Publishing Company 16710 East Johnson Drive, City of Industry, CA 91745, USA Tel: 1-323-984-7526, 323-410-1082. Fax: 1-323-984-7374, 323-908-0457 E-mail: [email protected] Digital Cooperative: Company:www.bookan.com.cn

David Publishing Company www.davidpublishing.com

DAVID PUBLISHING

D

Journal of Literature and Art Studies

Volume 4, Number 1, January 2014 (Serial Number 26)

Contents Literature Studies

On the Alienation in Miss Brill 1 WANG Xiao-yan

The Deconstruction of American Myth in Thomas Pynchon’s Fiction 5 LIU Feng-shan

(Re)Ciphering Nations: Greece as a Constructed Illegibility in Odysseas Elytis’s Poetry 25 Álvaro García Marín

Art Studies

Some Remarks Regarding Originality and Historical Transformations of Chopin’s Mazurkas, as Based on the Mathematical Systematic Method of the Tonal Structure Analysis 34

Miroslaw Majchrzak

Musical Traditions of Tengrianism 46 Bakhtiyar Amanzhol

Special Resesrch

Dixy: A Connection Between the “Typographic Appearance” and the Brain of Children 55 María Fernanda del Real García

The Use and Reuse of Julius Caesar’s Religious Résumé on Imperatorial Coinage 62 Gaius Stern

Journal of Literature and Art Studies, ISSN 2159-5836 January 2014, Vol. 4, No. 1, 1-4

On the Alienation in Miss Brill∗

WANG Xiao-yan Changchun University, Changchun, China

Katherine Mansfield is a world famous woman master of short stories in English literature. Her stories are

sensitive revelations of human behaiour in quite ordinary situations, through which we can glimpse a powerful,

and sometimes cruelly pessimistic view of life. Miss Brill is one of her short stories published in her collection of

stories entitled The Garden Party and Other Stories (2007), describing an afternoon in the life of a middle-aged

spinster who visits the public park on a weekly basis, leading to her reassessment of her view of the world and the

secular reality. Short as it is, it is really worth carful analysis and appreciation. This paper will mainly deal with the

theme—alienation that the story conveys in two aspects: some obvious alienate elments in Miss Brill, in which

some background information is provided; some less obvious alienation in Miss Brill, in which a detailed analysis

is made into the story to reveal its alienation.

Keywords: alienation, Miss Brill, theme

Introduction

Katherine Mansfield, the famous woman master of short stories of 20th century English literature, was born in New Zealand. Since 1917, she led a wandering life in search of health and wrote under difficulties. Miss Brill is one of her most popular stories published in her 1922 collection of stories entitled The Garden Party and Other Stories (2007). The story is the typical style of Mansfield who wrote in an impressionistic style, focussed on psychological conflicts, and articulated the characters, inner voices by the use of interior monologues (LIU, 2001, p. 457). In the short story, Miss Brill’s character is vividly depicted through her psychological change when spending her Sunday afternoon on the park bench listening to the band playing and observing the crowd.

At the beginning of the story, the central character, referred to as Miss Brill throughout the story and without a given name, sets out for her regular afternoon promenade at the public gardens. Miss Brill was happy and excited preparation of wearing her prized fur stole and scarf. Her excitement continues when she is sitting on the bench in the bustling park filled with people from all walks of life, enjoying the warm afternoon, listening to the band’s loud and gay playing and observing different people and their interesting behaviors astutely. She was so happy that she even transforms the real, human scene in the park into a set scene from a play, “It was exactly like a play… They were all onthe stage… they were acting. She was part of the performance, after all” (WANG, 1987, p. 128). All perfectly interacting to form an idyllic backdrop for her studies of human nature. She believes herself to be an active and vital actress in this play. Unfortunately, her excitement was destroyed by a young ∗ Acknowledgements: This paper is part of the result of the research programs the author participated, The Study of the Female Characters’ Social Position in the Early Stage of 20th Century Foreign Literature, No. B 137, 2013.

WANG Xiao-yan, associate professor at School of Foreign Languages, Changchun University.

DAVID PUBLISHING

D

ON THE ALIENATION IN MISS BRILL 2

couple’s flippant comment on her, she is just “that stupid old thing” and “Who wants her? Why doesn’t she keep her silly old mug at home?” (WANG, 1987, p. 130). Consequently, her vivacious mood and illusion have been totally and cruelly shattered. She then leaves the park and went into her little dark room—a room like a cupboard—just like the little rooms of the lonely people she pitied at the garden. When she put the fur back in its box, Miss Brill thought that she heard something crying.

Whatever Miss Brill sees, she reduces to the parameters of her own constricted world. The present paper will mainly analyze the alienation in Miss Brill.

The Alienation in Miss Brill

Some Obvious Alienate Elments in Miss Brill It is well-known that Katherine Mansfield spent a considerable amount of her later years in warmer climates

in France due to her illness. Thus Miss Brill, written in the early 1920s, appears to be set in the south of France coinciding with Mansfield’s period of stay there. Miss Brill is an elderly, lonely alien woman who is forced to confront the handicaps in her life in France. This fact alone can account for some of her estrangement and inability to communicate freely. Being lonely in another country with poor physical condition, Miss Brill exposes the theme of alienation.

The theme of Katherine Mansfield’s Miss Brill is alienation or loneliness. Miss Mansfield gives, in this story, a significant survey of the small world that the lonely woman inhabits, through the eyes of Miss Brill. Indeed, Miss Brill’s world is more than lonely; it is also an existential world in which she finds herself in complete solitude estranged from the outside world, without friends or relatives. Her only relationships are with her students, in whom she naturally cannot confide, and with an old invalid gentleman who is practically dead. No one else figures in her life. She maintains only the most tenuous of contacts with the outside world.

Another obvious element of alienation in Miss Brill is Miss Brill’s name. Brill in French (briller) means to shine. The irony is that she does not shine but is indeed a dull spinster without a shining per-sonality or the warming glow of love. The name further suggests Miss Brill’s estrangement from herself. All that she can see and know of herself is that “varnish and tinsel” of the surface. Her fur is the most obvious of the surface fixtures with which she identifies. However, we can still find the some less obvious indications of alienation in the story.

Some Less Obvious Alienation in Miss Brill The story opens with the vivid description of the atmosphere:

The blue sky powdered with gold and great spots of light like white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques… the air was motionless, but when you opened your mouth there was a faint chill, like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now and again a leaf came drifting—from nowhere, from the sky. (WANG, 1987, p. 125)

One immediately can feel the first throes of autumn, that “faint chill” anticipating the colder chill of winter. Yet para-doxically, Miss Brill finds in the chill the feeling of the vibrancy of spring. “She had taken it out of its box that afternoon, shaken out the moth-powder, given it a good brush, and rubbed the life back into the dim eyes” (WANG, 1987, p. 125), and then like an awakening “she felt a tingling in her hands and arms, but that came from walking, she supposed. And when she breathed, something light and sad—no, not sad, exactly—Something gentle seemed to move in her bosom” (WANG, 1987, p. 125). Sunday afternoons at the Public Gardens are


special outings for Miss Brill, so she was extremely excited and happy. She has a great longing for this outing. This passage certainly parallels the passage in the later part of the story:

The Band had been having a rest. Now they started again. And what they played was warm, sunny, yet there was just a faint chill—a something, what was it? not sadness—no, not sadness—a something that made you want to sing. (WANG, 1987, p. 129)

The “chill” or the “something” points directly yet subtly to Miss Brill’s alienation. For her, love is a desire that she cannot get, she can only imagine it in her mind. She imagines all those gathered in the park singing and thus communicating with one an-other—a carved walking-stick, a Panama hat, button boots, ermine toque, a trotting dog, laughing children, hobbling old men, gay young men and women—which is faintly chill because she has been somehow excommunicated from a real experience of love. Thus not knowing love’s warmth or having any framework of reference for the experience of love, she can feel or imagine love only in the solitude devoid of warmth, estranged and left cold with absence.

So she almost has at loving, tender relationship to her fur necklet—a decorative fur piece worn about the neck like an ornament, which functions like an unsympathetic mirror into which she cannot see. The tenderness that she shows the dead animal—the fur necklet, reminds us of the absolute loneliness enveloping her life. We take sympathy for her because the only emotional outlet for her affection is a dead animal. She is rejected by the human world.

A further suggestion of alienation is in the meeting of the woman in the ermine toque and the man in the gray suit. The “ermine toque” was no longer young, her hand was a tiny yellowish paw, yet she tried all her means to seduce the “gray suit”. “But he shook his head, lighted a cigarette, slowly breathed a great deep puff into her face… flicked the match away and walked on” (WANG, 1987, p. 128). The man refused the woman, whom Miss Brill admires and with whom she identifies. Mansfield, at this moment, described: “… the band seemed to know what she was feeling and played more softly, …, the Brute! The Brute!” (WANG, 1987, p. 128). Miss Brill in her identification feels that her experiences of rejection are like those ex-perienced by the flirtatious woman. Miss Brill took sympathy for the flirtatious woman just as she took pity for herself. Both women passionately desire to express their love, the woman wearing the toque through the physical contact of sex, while Miss Brill through what she imagines. Society rebuffs both expressions. It rejects the one because sex is only one manifestation of love; it rejects the other because of failure to communicate. The society cannot read Miss Brill’s mind. Katherine Mansfield says in her letter “… one must declare one’s love”. Miss Brill’s declaration, is unheard and thus, to society, unexpressed (LU, 2008, p. 12).

We can find still further evidence of alienation in the story. Miss Brill had a wonderful time at the park, and she is gathered up into an imaginative experience with all the people gathered in the park singing together as a harmonious whole. This imagination filled her with tears. But even this imaginative attempt at an expression of love fails as Miss Brill thinks, “Yes we understand, we understand, she thought—though what they under-stood she didn’t know” (WANG, 1987, p. 130). Even in her most vivid imaginings, Miss Brill can find no understanding or communication with others and with the outside world. She finds herself completely alone, yet she denies or fails to understand or to confront her position.

Yet the final and most overwhelming evidence of alienation is the tragic scene in which Miss Brill is


rebuffed by the young man and young girl courting on the seat next to her. What the young people said are crude and brutish. It destroyed all of her imagination and desire, it brings her back to the cold, lonely society. With this confrontation of her solitude, she returns to her “cupboard” with nothing left her but self-pity in her loneliness.

Thus the theme of alienation is what Miss Mansfied wants to reveal to the readers. Miss Brill has made ever so passionate attempt to express love, to be a part of the whole of society that means so much to her. Her imagination, though sensitive, has failed from lack of experience. She is left, as she began, in her pathetic solitude.

Conclusions

Miss Brill is a quiet and understated story about the alienation of growing old woman without love, without human companionship in a foreign country. Even though Miss Brill does not seem to have intimate friendships or relationships of any kind, she has a curious mind and a kind and loving heart capable of deep feeling, love, and care. She quietly absorbs the impressions of the world around her, into which she wants to blend herself. However, the world returns her curiosity and gentleness with anonymity, disinterest, and the cruelty with which the young lovers treat her. And yet, her condition of isolation is so extreme that one thoughtless bit of cruelty is capable of wrecking everything. Mansfield shows us the character from the inside, in order to disclose why Miss Brill could be made so unhappy by such a remark. That is to say: Miss Brill’s misery is caused not only by Miss Brill’s personality of herself but by the cruelty of the unfeeling external world, represented by the young couple.

References GUI, Y. Q. (1985). Selected reading in English and American literature. Beijing: Translation Company Press. LIU, B. S. (2001). A short history of English literature. Zhengshou: Henan People’s Publishing House. LU, Q. X. (2008). On the social identity in Miss Brill. World Literature, 2, 67-69. Mansfield, K. (2007). The garden party and other stories. Whitefish: Kessinger Publishing LLC. Miriam, B. M. (1978). Reductive imagery in Miss Brill. Studies in Short Fiction, 6(4), 473-477. SONG, S. L. (2009). A stylistic analysis of Miss Brill by Katherine Mansfield. Review of European Studies, 1(2), 117-122. WANG, J. X. (1987). College English. Beijing: Foreign Language teaching and Research Press. YANG. H. (2007). An analysis of the detailed description in Miss Brill. Journal of Hubei Adult Education Institute, 4, 54-55. YANG, L. M. (1988). Teachers’ book of college English. Beijing: Foreign Language Teaching and Research Press. ZHENG, D. Q. (2012). On the points of view used in Mansfield’ s Miss Brill. Overseas English, 11, 56.


The Deconstruction of American Myth in

Thomas Pynchon’s Fiction∗

LIU Feng-shan Liaocheng University, Liaocheng, China

Living and creating in the tumultuous decades from the 1960s through 1980s, Thomas Pynchon unfalteringly

chooses the countercultural and civil rights movements in the United States of that age as the permanent topic of

his fiction. It can be seen from Pynchon’s dramatic, sometimes fantastic narratives about these movements that

the failure of the countercultural movements lies in their illusive nature in contrast with the hypocrisy and

disproportionate power of the government to destruct these movements, and that the presence of American racial

problems results to a great degree from the sloth prevailing over various institutions in American society when

dealing with racial inequality and from American white racists’ desire to eliminate an imagined threat in the face of

the minorities. This paper tries to provide a different understanding that Pynchon’s writing of the marginalized or

surrealistic issues in these countercultural and civil rights movements is his strategy to expose the falsehood of

American myth of democracy.

Keywords: Thomas Pynchon, American myth, countercultural movements, racial problems, deconstruction

Introduction

It seems undeniable that Thomas Pynchon is a postmodernist, though his literary works, like Pynchon himself, refuse to be nailed down on any label. Pynchon’s postmodernity, in light of the rich political and cultural implication of his fiction, lies with his deconstructive writing of American history especially of the post-war years. Growing up and writing in the most tumultuous age in American history ever since, Pynchon was absolutely touched by various political and cultural movements in the 1960s through 1980s, which he more than often implicitly rewrites in his fiction. Pynchon’s fiction, from a deconstructive angle, provides a truthful record of American political and cultural life in these years, especially the vigorous countercultural movements amongst its youth and the wide-spreading civil rights movements staged by American minorities, especially those that are often neglected or intentionally covered.

Yet Pynchon’s “truthful record” of the reality is quite different from that done by the fiction before the World War II. Pynchon’s fiction has skillfully decomposed the borderline between truth and fiction, deconstructing the grand narratives of contemporary American politics and culture. However, Pynchon never denies the realistic existence of various political and cultural problems prevailing over the United States. What ∗ Acknowledgements: This paper is part of the author’s academic studies project sponsored by Ministry of Eduction of People’s Republic of China—A Study of the Historical Writing in Post-War American Fiction (11YJA752008).

LIU Feng-shan, Ph.D., School of Foreign Languages, Liaocheng University.

DAVID PUBLISHING

D

THE DECONSTRUCTION OF AMERICAN MYTH IN THOMAS PYNCHON’S FICTION 6

Pynchon does is to stimulate his readers, white or colored, to meditate over these problems from different angles. A misleading creation strategy Pynchon employs in his fiction is that he does not lose his time on any detailed description of the struggles in countercultural and civil rights movements in the way non-fiction works do with these topics, but attempts to excavate their ideological sources to trigger the readers’ reflection over the myth of American democracy and equality as well.

Demystification of the Myth of American Democracy

One of Pynchon’s peculiarities in writing about the tumult of domestic political and economic activities in the United States after the World War II is to define them as wars which are in essence similar to the one that just ended. Under Pynchon’s pen, “The War is keeping things alive. Things. The Ford is only one of them. The Germans-and-Japs story was only one, rather surrealistic version of the real War. The real War is always there” (Pynchon, 1973, p. 645). Like other postmodern literary texts, Pynchon’s fiction conveys such a clear message that “there is virtually no difference in conditions of our existence in either peace or war” (Clerc, 1983, p. 23). Following World War II, in the 30 years’ Cold War between the United States and the Soviet Union, many of the social upheavals in the United States were partly the result of a series of domestic and international strategies American government formulated in political, economic, military, and cultural fields. The anti-war movement triggered by the Vietnam War, and the civil rights movements staged by the minorities, women’s liberation movement, countercultural movements, sexual liberation movements that followed, caused a great reform in political, cultural, and ideological fields throughout the country. American public, especially the young generation of intellectuals, uttered their doubt about the traditional authority system, trying to find a new way of self-expression in personal life, spiritual pursuit, and artistic creation. The hippies’ dissipated life and sexual orgies, the liberation movement of gays and lesbians, the public demand of speech freedom, the spreading of drug addiction, and the popularity of rock’n’roll music became the indispensable elements in the life of the post-war generation. Born in the early stage of World War II, living through the Cold War years in the political and cultural upheavals in the 1960s through 1980s, Pynchon definitely could not deny his thorough understanding of this era.

It cannot be denied that this era should have a great impact on Pynchon’s literary creation. Gordon (1994) as an insider knows well about what Pynchon might have experienced, “Throughout the decade [of the 1960s, Pynchon] was close to the life of the counterculture, absorbing its values and smoking its weed, but always listening and observing intently, sorting sensations for later use” (p. 177). Pynchon (1984) himself acknowledges that “For the first time I was also beginning to shut up and listen to the American voices around me, even to shift my eye away from printed sources and take a look at American nonverbal reality” (p. 22). Pynchon, via the presence of his various protagonists, fulfills these tasks of listening and observing the American society of his age. His early short stories, Vineland (1990), The Crying of Lot 49 (1986), V. (1981), and Inherent Vice (2009) utter his truthful interpretation of these tumultuous decades lying in the shadow of various deaths. Just as Saltzman (2000) defines it, that was an age infected with white terror, anxiety, and “shattered faith in the American experiment and its founding ideals” (p. 73). Profane and Stencil in V., Oedipa in The Crying of Lot 49, Frenesi and Zoyd in Vineland, Doc Sportello in Inherent Vice, all live through the perplexities of shattered dreams, unnamable anxiety and fear that Pynchon also experienced.


Critics agree that Vineland is the best in Pynchon’s fiction that depicts this special historical period in American history. According to Sandra Baringer, David Seed and many others, the central issue in this novel should be the “New Leftist Movement” and the countercultural movements staged by the university students alongside the Pacific in the 1960s, and the PR3 (People’s Republic of Rock and Roll) organization might be modeled on one radical student society in California University at Berkeley, while Brock Vond’s governmental institution might originate from the COINTELPRO (the Counter Intelligence Program) of FBI (the Federal Bureau of Investigation). Anyone who is familiar with this part of American history should have no trouble understanding Pynchon’s true meaning in writing in this novel about the countercultural movements, the “New Leftist Movement” and the fictional PR3. The COINTELPRO that American grand historical narrative tries to hide from its readers may be what Pynchon wants his reader to explore into.

According to an explanation from Wikipedia, COINTELPRO was in reality a series of secret, concealed, and often illegal activities carried out by FBI between the 1950s and 1970s under the cover to guarantee national security, to curb violence, to maintain harmonious social and political order, with an ultimate attempt to monitor, to infiltrate, to destruct domestic radical political activities, to defame relevant individuals by means of psywar and faked documents, and to disturb, to detain, even to assassinate the radicals. The FBI blacklist covered any organization or individuals that might be involved in any communist and socialist societies, civil rights movements, National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, Congress of Racial Equality, “New Leftists”, and anti-war societies, including political figures like Martin Luther King, Jr., scientists like Albert Einstein, Mr. and Mrs. Rosenberg, even Chinese scientist QIAN Xue-sen, and many writers. This organization came into being in 1956 to countercheck the imagined communist movements in the United States. Its major work in the 1960s was to destruct socialist party and any other radical organizations. COINTELPRO fell into silence after Nixon’s resignation, but came into use after Reagan came to power, and its job was to work with CISPES (The Committee in Solidarity with the People of El Salvador)1. This kind of reading of Pynchon’s historical writing may be an over-reading, but as one of his favorite techniques, Pynchon’s historical writing in his fiction often pulls his readers into the process of reconstructing a history that is often neglected or concealed by grand historical narrative. The readers of Vineland, like Prairie who is constructing her mother Frenesi’s personal history in the narrative frame, are compelled to piece together the historical fragments into a different American history between the 1950s and 1970s. Pynchon’s job is to make this part of history sound “stranger than fiction” (Gordon, 1994, p. 167), so as to give the readers absolute freedom to reconstruct this history according to their own understanding.

It is clear that the failure of the “New Leftist Movement” is one of Pynchon’s thematic focuses in Vineland.

1 The Committee in Solidarity with the People of El Salvador (CISPES), bases in Washington, D.C., is a national activist organization with chapters in various cities in the United States. CISPES supports the Farabundo Martí National Liberation Front and the progressive social movement in El Salvador. CISPES was founded in 1980 in opposition to the U.S. aid to the Salvadoran military and government during the Salvadoran civil war. CISPES opposed the politics and the actions of the right-wing Nationalist Republican Alliance and its leader Roberto D’Aubuisson during the Salvadoran Civil War, and continued to oppose the policies that ARENA (The Nationalist Republican Alliance) implements. Since the end of El Salvador’s civil war in 1992, CISPES has worked with the FMLN (The Farabundo Martí National Liberation Front) and with Salvadoran popular movement organizations in opposition to economic policies of free trade and privatization such as the Central American Free Trade Agreement. CISPES organized delegations to visit with El Salvador’s left wing activists as well as organizing delegations to monitor Salvadoran elections for potential fraud or political manipulation. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Committee_in_Solidarity_with_the_People_of_El_Salvador).


The “New Leftist” organization based on a body of university students was quite different from the earlier generation of leftist organizations that displayed much concern over the role of labor union, class conflicts, and social justice. They concentrated on personal issues of alienation and anomie in contemporary American society, authoritarianism and some other social problems, and adopted untraditional cultural values with an attempt to countercheck various social authorities. They advocated absolute equality between men, between races, and rejected the national utilitarianism in education to seek spiritual freedom and to refuse to become the tool of the military, technological, and economic institutions of American government. The “New Leftists” discarded the revolutionary strategy of labor union and any other forms of organization, emphasizing the spontaneity of revolution. So it was infected with anarchism from its very beginning, which, together with its unrealistic goals, led to its failure (ZHANG & LI, 1992, pp. 315-325). This is the true history that Pynchon wants his reader to reconstruct in Vineland. Within Pynchon’s literary view, the anarchist elements results in the break of “New Leftist Movement” away from American reality. The goals of Frenesi and her colleagues turn into a pure idealist act, and their failure is inescapable.

This understanding gives a peculiar significance to the different viewpoints about American social revolutions seen from three generations of social reform radicals of Frenesi, her parents, and her grandparents.2 For Pynchon, Frenesi’s generation is different from the radicals of labor unions in the 1930s and the silent radicals of the McCarthyist 1950s, for her generation of radicals are infused with too many idealistic elements. Brock Vond knows well about this generation of radicals and the reasons for the failure of their movements: “These kid rebels, being halfway there already, would be easy to turn and cheap to develop. They would only been listening to the wrong music, breathing the wrong smoke, admiring the wrong personalities. They needed some reconditioning”, and they are “the sort of mild herd creatures […] Children longing for discipline” (Pynchon, 1990, p. 269). Pynchon is indicating that the history of revolution of his contemporaries becomes one “about a generation’s missed chances, about its addictions and betrayals, and about its replacement, among the educated classes, of an uptight morality and blatant racial prejudice with more subtle forms of mental and economic oppression” (Tabbi, 1994, p. 97).

In light of Pynchon’s habitual technique of historical writing in his fiction, there should be more behind the failure of Frenesi’s cultural rebellion. Solomon (1994) states that Pynchon’s Vineland is intended to rewrite American history in the 1960s into one of betrayal: “Government agencies betray the people; revolutionaries sell each other out; the New Left, as in Doctorow’s Book of Daniel, is disgusted with the Old Left because of its penchant for doctrinal strife” (pp. 161-162). Solomon notices the differences between the revolt of Frenesi’s generation in the 1960s, the old leftists’ loyalty and radicalness in the 1930s, and the silence of the radicals in the McCarthyist 1950s. By means of Brock Vond’s generalization of this generation, Pynchon utters his clear, positive attitude towards the old leftist radicals different from the generation of Frenesi’s grandfather Jess Traverse3.

In his sixth novel Against the Day (2006), Pynchon traces the radicalness of the old leftists as seen in Jess

2 Solomon (1994) provides a very detailed study of the 1930s America in Vineland in his essay “Argument by Anachronism: The Presence of the 1930s in Vineland”. Dickson (1998) extends the scope of Pynchon’s historical reference back to 1915 when Joe Hill, the secretary of International Workers of the World (IWW or Wobblies) in California, was executed (p. 139). 3 Interestingly, obviously not out of mindless coincidence, the surname of the anarchist family in Against the Day is also Traverse. And the word “Traverse” itself means “to go counter; to thwart” or “to join issue upon (an indictment)”, according to American Tradition Dictionary.


Traverse back to American workers’ movements at the turn of the 19th and 20th century. The center issue in this novel is the United Colorado Labor Wars around 1903, which reminds the readers not only of the Great Railroad Strike of 1877, the Haymarket Riot of 1886 at Chicago, and the Pullman Strike of 1894, the name Traverse also reminds the readers of the series of strikes by the Congress of Industrial Organizations (CIO) that Jess Traverse took part in around the 1930s, as well as the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW or the Wobblies) set up in 1905 and the series of strikes relevant to it. The labor movement at the beginning of the 20th century was also obsessed by its anarchy like the cultural revolt of Frenesi’s generation in the 1960s in Vineland, but it avoided the fate of failure caused by the radicals’ disbelief in their organization in the 1960s. The rampancy of anti-communist McCarthyism undercut the radicalness of the radicals in the 1950s, trapping the generation of Frenesi’s parents into a state of silence resulting from fear of political persecution and betrayal. Pynchon is not commenting by this implication on whether or not Frenesi’s generation inherits the earlier generation’s revolutionary consciousness, but emphasizing the idealistic, unpractical posture of Frenesi’s generation who are rebellious in nature but quick to surrender to the governmental suppression and seduction. Pynchon’s comment on the 1960s revolt from a different angle expresses his doubt about anarchic ideology inherent in this generation of rebels. Yet it does not mean Pynchon uncritically accepts older generation of radicals’ recognition of social justice, labor union, and class struggles, but provides a stimulus for the readers to reflect on American rebellion tradition and the goal of democracy and equality these rebels have been fought for.

Vanderbeke (1999) contends that “the movement of the 60s, which never excelled in excessive coherence, has further dissolved into a heterogeneous mass of solipsistic and interchangeable ideologies” (para. 11). Like the “New Leftist Movement”, the countercultural movements of the same age also show themselves as various self-centered utopian dreams lacking practical combatant power. Film making, rock music, and drug, as the majors forms of the self-centered cultural revolts in the 1960s, are also emphasized in Vineland. Slade (1994), Olster (1994), and Porush (1994) have all found the hidden political meaning behind the film making industry as suggested by Pynchon’s fiction, arguing that the countercultural rebels treat film making as their tool to fight against government for its lies and frauds just because of the governmental anti-communist white terror by means of film censorship.4 Zoyd Wheeler who once depends on drug addiction for cultural revolt tells Hector who films his transfenestration: “I had you pegged as a real terrorist workin’ for the state? When you said cuttin’ and shootin’ I didn’t know you were talkin’ about film” (Pynchon, 1990, p. 52). Zoyd’s remarks are an implicitly clear expression of the political significance of film making and the struggle between the government and the rebels about film making as a political weapon ever since the McCarthyist 1950s when American utopia of democracy and spiritual freedom were seriously threatened.

The work of the feminist 24fps that Frenesi once works for is to go everywhere looking for trouble, finding and filming it with a belief “in the ability of close-ups to reveal and devastate […] What viewer could believe in the war, the system, the countless lies about American freedom, looking into these mug shots of the bought and sold?” (Pynchon, 1990, p. 195). Pynchon’s point is clear that the rebels use film making not only as a tool to

4 It seems that Ronald Reagan is a quite unfavorable president for Pynchon. Pynchon’s writing of the 24fps in Vineland, as many critics suggest, is implicating Reagan as the governmental agent in “the Screen Guild”, because the censorship in film industry is the extension of McCarthyism of the 1950s. Pynchon wants the readers to see the correlations between countercultural movement and the McCarthyist white terror, that is, what Reagan did in “the Screen Guild” is quite similar to what he did in COINTELPRO.


expose governmental lies and its various political corruption, but also as a public questioning of American myth of freedom. For the radicals in “the Death to the Pig Nihilist Film Kollective” and “the feminist 24fps society”, “a camera is a gun. An image taken is a death performed. Images put together are the substructure of an afterlife and a Judgment. We will be architects of a just Hell for the fascist pig” (Pynchon, 1990, p. 197). Pynchon has sensed the illusive nature of film making as a form of cultural rebellion, and fulfills his deconstruction of this illusive rebellion by the dramatic death of Weed Atman, the head of PR3. It is a big irony that the film making of the feminist 24fps does not fulfill its goal to expose governmental lies and frauds, but exerts its desired destructive force on the cultural rebels themselves by the fiction of Weed Atman’s betrayal of PR3. Another irony is that Weed Atman is a university professor. Pynchon aims to let the readers know through this textual arrangement that Weed Atman is elected the head of PR3 not because of his superpower as a leader, but because of his status of a well-known professor which for the cultural rebels is thought to be more powerful to attract followers. Atman’s status, his dramatic death and the decomposition of PR3 he symbolizes, for Thomas Pynchon, are true expression of the ideological defect of the 1960s countercultural movement, and so their “judgment” of the political authorities they fight against turns into something pale. And their history of failure suggests a molested dream of democracy and the public inability to protect this democracy when the authority institutions try to deny it.

Many readers interpret Frenesi in Vineland as the archcriminal of the countercultural movements in the 1960s, attributing the failure of this movement to her surrender to Brock Vond and the authority structure he represents5 as well as her betrayal of Weed Atman and the countercultural organization Atman represents. But different explanation of Frenesi may also be what Pynchon expects of his readers. Hite (1994) argues that like what her name suggests, the age Frenesi lives in is a crazy time in American history, infected with the rampancy of McCarthyism in the 1950s, anti-communist blacklisting in Hollywood, vigorous protests from labor unions, and various radical movements in the 1960s. Frenesi may symbolize the coming of a crazy age and embody this crazy age, symbolize both revolution and conspiracy (p. 150). What Pynchon really wants the readers to know is that the essential reason for Frenesi’s failure to fulfill the goal of using film making to expose governmental lies and frauds is that the radical body she takes part in fails to distinguish between art and reality. So whomever should be responsible for the failure of this revolution is not any individual rebel like Frenesi, but the illusive ideology this revolution bases itself on.

As to Frenesi’s relationship with Brock Vond and Weed Atman in connection with the failure of this countercultural movement, Pynchon tries to tell the readers about a truth of the real insignificant situation of American public in the face of the powerful political authorities. Madsen (1991), like Hite, also explains Frenesi as the archcriminal of the failure of the countercultural movements, but argues that:

Frenesi is led to blame herself for an act of betrayal which is more her response to a cultural imperative than a lapse into treachery. The failure of the ’60s Revolution is seen as a victory for violent and reactionary politics rather than as individual failures of commitment. (pp. 127-128)

For Madsen and for Hite, Frenesi is both a betrayer and a victim and she should not shoulder all the faults for

5 Male readers tend to put Frenesi in the company of reactionary figures represented by Brock Vond, suggesting that Frenesi’s intentional or unintentional betrayal leads to the failure of the revolution, but the feminist readers tend to focus on the positive elements of Frenesi. Pynchon’s characterization of Frenesi may be of multiple intentions. As the author (2013) mentioned elsewhere, Pynchon’s writing of female bodies and issues may be more feministic than feminists.


the failure of the 1960s countercultural movements. Madsen’s interpretation of the failure is more to the point. They fail not only because of their ideological and political weakness, but mainly because of the disproportional, reactionary political power of the government. The role of Frenesi as a fictional figure in the 1960s countercultural movements is nothing important. Pynchon’s portrayal of her is to expose the defective ideological nature of countercultural movement of this decade, more importantly to let the readers know about the role American government played in this part of history, and to provide as an insider a different angle for the readers to reexamine this part of American history in the long process of American democracy.

The PR3 in Vineland is the short form of an imagined organization “People’s Republic of Rock and Roll”. Pynchon’s purpose is to arouse the readers to think over the expression of the 1960s countercultural movements in the fields of music. Pynchon (1984) defines the role music plays in the countercultural movements of the 1960s in his preface to Slow Learner. Besides the Beatles and the new leftists represented by Jack Kerouac, Pynchon lists Elvis Presley and other jazz and rock’n’roll singers as countercultural rebels (pp. 7-20). It’s true that the Beatles and the Rolling Stones in the 1960s:

Caught the imagination and fired the spirits of millions of young people in the rebellious, activist sixties [singing] about the threat of nuclear war, about civil rights and racism, and about the power of the military-industrial complex [catching] the 1960s mood of bitterness and alienation. (Yudkim, 2002, p. 455)

It is recorded that the “rough, raucous, loud, electric and intense” quality of Elvis Presley’s music exerted a tremendous impact on the rebellious youth, and this made it necessary for the local police departments to ban this form of entertainment (Yudkim, 2002, p. 447). The Catcher in the Rye (1951) enjoyed its popularity although, and maybe because, it was banned year after year; Elvis Presley’s music was popular for the same reason. The seemingly unimportant black-Indian rock’n’roll star Jimi Hendrix Pynchon mentions in Vineland is definitely a reflection of Elvis Presley for the implied political meaning of rock music. This echoes Clerc’s statement that “progression in music represents these cultural, political, nationalistic changes” (Clerc, 2000, p. 148). Pynchon does not clarify what kind of destructive force the government exerts over countercultural movement in music field by means of economic enticement, but Frenesi’s fate as a film maker and her role as a countercultural rebel highlight the governmental hypocrisy in its destruction of the 1960s countercultural movements. And the death of Weed Atman and the following decomposition of PR3, partly for its namesake, to a great degree, suggest that countercultural movement in music field like any other forms of cultural revolution cannot solve the social problems of democracy in American society. But their failure in doing this turns out to be an outcry of public doubt about American democracy.

For the youth of Pynchon’s generation, drug was also once used as a weapon for countercultural protest to counterbalance “an establishment dominated by yuppies, non-smokers, Republicans, and other control fetishists” (Slade, 1994, p. 78). The readers can find shadow of Pynchon and his generation of youth in the wanderers in Kerouac’s On the Road (2012), Mucho Mass in The Crying of Lot 49, Zoyd Wheeler in Vineland, and Doc Sportello in Inherent Vice. They use drug, maybe as a form of rebellion against American government in the 1960s. Mucho Mass’s talk with Zoyd Wheeler in Vineland is quite suggestive of the rebellious significance of drug culture in this decade:

No wonder the State panicked. […] acid gave us the X-ray vision to see through that one, so of course they had to


take it away from us. […] They just let us forget. Give us too much to process, fill up every minute, keep us distracted, it’s what the Tube is for, and though it kills me to say it, it’s what rock and roll is becoming. (Pynchon, 1990, pp. 313-314)

Both Zoyd and Mucho know that drug, exactly like rock and roll music and film making, was once their weapon to carry out cultural revolt for spiritual freedom, but everything is different now, for the government has learned to make use of the paralyzing drug to fulfill its control of the rebellious youth. Drug becomes ironically the weapon the government uses to keep everybody under control.

And this kind of trick is not what Pynchon and his contemporaries dream to find in their government who prides itself on its democracy. Cultural rebels cannot fulfill their goals of counterchecking the government by means of film making or rock music, but the government knows well how to use the media of TV that film and music rely so much on to control the rebellious youth. In Pynchon’s literary world, the Thanatoids in Vineland may be among those who suffer the uttermost infection of this TV culture. Solomon (1994) states that the Thanatoids in Vineland include not only those American soldiers who lost their lives in Vietnam War, but also native Americans whose land, property, and culture have all been snatched away, and all the political and cultural radicals in American society between the 1930s and 1960s (p. 164). In light of this, Hector in Vineland who loses himself in TV programs and arranges his life according to the plots in these TV programs is also a Thanatoid. The most fearful thing is that Hector is not alone in contemporary American society. The fictional plot in TV programs, like drugs, just as what Mucho Mass says to Zoyd Wheeler, distracts the rebels and paralyzes them to forget their avowed rebellion against the dissatisfying government.

Zoyd’s experience of using drugs to rebel is quite disruptive. The drug as tool for rebellion turns out to be what the government makes use of to control the rebels. TV, under Pynchon’s pen, is another kind of drug, playing the role of a government wand to fulfill spiritual control of its youth. Pynchon (1990) is deeply touched by this and gives it an utterance in Vineland: TV companies partitions the country into political zones “which in time became political units in their own right as the Tubal entrepreneurs went extending their webs where there weren’t residents per linear mile to pay the rigging cost” (p. 319). Pynchon tries to remind his readers of the factual scene in American presidential or any kind of election where different TV companies provide services for different parties, as well as the propaganda that TV makes for the overseas invasion by American government. Media always plays the role of governmental voice, so the failure of countercultural movements of Pynchon’s generation is something unavoidable. Isaiah Two-Four’s fault-finding remark against Zoyd’s generation is sharp, disturbing, but reasonable:

Whole problem ’th you folks’s generation […] is you believed in your Revolution, put your lives right out there for it—but you sure didn’t understand much about the Tube. Minute the Tube got hold of you folks that was it, that whole alternative America, el deado meato, just like ’th Indians, sold it all to your real enemies, and even in 1970 dollars—it was way too cheap. (Pynchon, 1990, p. 373)

Isaiah Two-Four’s remark is Pynchon’s utterance about his understanding of American government in his time. Isaiah, or rather Pynchon, has noticed the paralyzing effect of TV media on American public under the control of the government, and also the self-centered and even childish illusive nature of the countercultural movements by Zoyd’s generation. More disturbing is the drugging process in which the government makes use of money, or more exactly the “1970 dollars”, to buy over the rock stars who begin their music as a tool of rebellion. Hayles (1994) argues that the huge profits the government makes from the control of the drug provides a best


chance for the Rock and Roll stars to make more money, to share the revenue, and this economic share aborts and numbs their revolutionary impulses (p. 15). For Pynchon and his generation of young rebels, visible drugs and invisible TV media and monetary seduction turn into “a literal opiate of the masses, dulling the awareness of those in the counterculture and helping the authorities maintain and solidify their power” (Booker, 1992, pp. 32-33). Reconsider Frenesi’s betrayal from this angle, and the readers can conclude that, just as what Isaiah Two-Four says, in the face of such a perfect conspiracy, the failure of Frenesi’s fellows is unavoidable. This is the ultimate intention of Pynchon’s rewriting of this part of American history.

Pynchon has implied this kind of government trick early even in his second novel The Crying of Lot 49 about 20 years before. Metzger in The Crying of Lot 49 is a lawyer in the narrative time, but an actor years before starring in a movie about what should be the World War I. Watching the movie again, Metzger senses something different. When Oedipa questions how he knows what really happens in the war, Metzger’s reply mixes reality and fiction: “Wasn’t I there?” (Pynchon, 1986, p. 32). This perplexing conversation between Oedipa and Metzger, or rather Metzger’s perplexity, is rich in political implication. Metzger’s perplexity about the difference is suggestive of what Pynchon wants his readers to know, that is, the censorship in film industry (Slade, 1994, p. 71; Porush, 1994, p. 37). Metzger’s double statuses as a lawyer and an actor remind one of the censorship issue in film industry in the 1960s. According to Michael Bérubé, Pynchon’s implication is that Reagan shared similar kind of double statuses, changing from an actor into the president of the country (Bérubé, 1992, p. 218). This connection may remind the readers of Reagan’s role in the Hollywood Blacklisting campaign against the so-called communists in the 1940s, 1950s, and the 1960s during his administration as chief executive of California. Reagan’s involvement in this campaign, for Pynchon and for his readers, implies the everlasting shadow over American myth of democracy, especially in the United States of the post-war era.

As it is mentioned above, the failure of the 1960’s rebels using drugs as a weapon to rebel against the hypocrisy of the government lies also in American government’s long-term plan to wage an overseas invasion under the pretext of drug war. The drug war staged by the federal government, in Pynchon’s words, is like “they had invaded some helpless land far away” in order to force the frontier territories to rejoin, “operationally speaking, the third world” (Pynchon, 1990, pp. 349, 357). Cowart (1994) observes that the search of marijuana plants in Pynchon’s story reminds one of the search-and-destroy acts of the U.S. army in Vietnam (p. 11). But it may have more to say. Thoreen (2003) states that the drug war in the United States in this decade is the fourth silent war inside its own territory in succession of the economic crisis in the 1930s, Cold War and President Johnson’s War on Poverty, busying making preparations for a marginalized historical events called REX84. The objective of REX84 is to suppress any kind of rebellion, demonstration, strikes to prepare the United States for its invasion against Nicaragua (pp. 219-234).

As his habitual strategy of historical writing, Pynchon wants his readers and his fictional characters to reconstruct any possible history that they feel exist by combining various kind of historical fragments distributed in the corners of his fiction. DL tells Prairie that “better than us reminiscing and boring you […] go to the library sometime and read about it. Nixon had machinery for mass detention all in place and set to go. Reagan’s got it for when he invades Nicaragua” (Pynchon, 1990, p. 264); Zoyd also senses unconsciously that the drug business will someday be “taken back under government control” (Pynchon, 1990, p. 220). Neither DL nor Zoyd clarifies, and they are unable to clarify, and Pynchon avoids clarifying, that all this effort by the federal government is finally


directed towards that overseas invasion against Nicaragua. Yet Hector’s ambiguous remark of vanity gives the sensitive readers some hints:

Was Regan about to invade Nicaragua at last, getting the home front all nailed down, ready to process folks by the tens of thousands into detention, arm local “Defense Force”, fire everybody in the Army and then deputize them in order to get around the Posse Comitatus Act? […] Could it be that some silly-ass national-emergency exercise was finally coming true? (Pynchon, 1990, p. 340)

Hector’s remark is quite suggestive: First, both REX84 and the drug war are nothing but American government’s cover to prepare for its overseas war, by sacrificing its people’s rights and interests to serve its imperialist activities. This coincides with the wars staged by the new leftists or the countercultural movements in the 1960s. Second, the 1980s is an age of American government turning from radicalness to conservativeness, turning from Nixon’s domestic suppression to Reagan’s overseas fascism (Cowart, 1994, p. 11). And this needs the readers and Pynchon’s characters to join in the task of historical reconstruction.

The overwhelming focus on the interpretation of the political issues in Vineland does not mean its absence in Pynchon’s other novels. Earlier readers of The Crying of Lot 49 often focus on the philosophical connotations of its labyrinth of fascinating language, while neglecting Pynchon’s writing of American political movements in the 1950s and 1960s.6 The historical setting of this novel is the transitional time in American history from the silent 1950s in the shadow of white terror to the tumultuous radical years in the 1960s, an age of the United States “plagued with Babbittry—cultural, political, and educational dullness” (Chambers, 1992, p. 7). Pynchon (1984) is clearly very dissatisfied with this era, complaining that:

One of the most pernicious effects of the ’50s was to convince the people growing up during them that it would last forever. Until John Kennedy […] began to get some attention, there was a lot of aimlessness going around. While Eisenhower was in, there seemed no reason why it should all not just go on as it was. (p. 16)

The rampancy of McCarthism turns the aimless country into silence, fearing that their outward speeches may destroy the cold war fortress it has built up against Soviet Union to lead to their personal disaster.

The muted horn of the imagined empire of Tristero in The Crying of Lot 49 is in fact an embodiment of this silent decade. Petillon (2007) serves that the years from 1957 to 1963 is a period when American society especially the young society changed from silent to outcry, when everywhere was the anger, fear, and doubt after they witnessed the success of Soviet Union’s success of satellite launch (pp. 132-135). And Pynchon also implicatively suggests to his readers the coming of an age obsessed by anti-war complex, civil rights movements,

6 Tanner (1978) suggests that “according to clues and inferences provided by various characters, it was often connected with rebellions and wars—perhaps responsible for the French Revolution, perhaps linked in some way to Nazism, perhaps, coming nearer home, perpetuated through some of the extreme right-wing secret societies of California, or religious ‘Other’, some kind of anti-God” (p. 43). Petillon (2007) also specifies some information about the Thirty Years’ War (1616-1648) which dislocated the old imperial map of Europe, and connects this event with Jacobean Civil War (1642-1648) in England. According to Petillon (2007), Jacobean 1618 is the year when Richard Wharfinger staged his notorious play The Courier’s Tragedy, which some believed predicted the beginning of the British Civil War and Charles I’s beheading in 1949 (pp. 151-152). Petillon (2007) also reads the underground world along the railway as Oedipa’s reentrance into the wilderness at the beginning of American history (p. 155). According to Chambers (1992), The Courier’s Tragedy contains fragments of historical references such as Russian Revolution, the French Revolution, civil wars—Spanish and American—and the two World Wars (p. 109). Edward Mendelson’s probation of Tristero’s history is perhaps the most detailed, see Mendelson’s “The Sacred, the Profane, and The Crying of Lot 49”. What should be noticed, yet, is Pynchon does not satisfy himself by only letting his readers make this kind of textual comparisons. He is suggesting anything political about his country.


feminist movement, New Leftist Movement, and countercultural movements. Pynchon (1984) admits that it is at this time that he, at the rather conservative Cornell University, got some connection with the beatniks and the hipsters and their countercultural ideology (pp. 7-10). Following the same line of understanding, it can be concluded that the experiences of Oedipa Mass exploring the history of the Tristero Empire in The Crying of Lot 49 and Doc Sportello investigating the case of Mickey Wolfman in Inherent Vice are in essence a reconstruction of American political and cultural history around the 1960s.

Oedipa Mass, Doc Sportello, and Pynchon’s readers are encouraged to construct a history of the United States in the 1960s completely different from the grand historical narratives by rearranging the historical fragments Pynchon distributes in his fiction. Oedipa and the readers of The Crying of Lot 49 cannot neglect Mexican Anarchist Jesus Arrabal’s definition of Tristero. Arrabal defines Tristero as “anarchist miracle” (Pynchon, 1986, p. 120). For Oedipa, this Tristero may be a shadow of the underworld postal system that rivals against the American postal system, may be the underworld in contrast with the yuppie society, may be any so-called pro-communist individual or organization muted by the rampant McCarthyism, may also be any feminist group suffocating under patriarchal ideology or homosexual groups seeking peculiar way of showing their love. Oedipa finds that every group or society that may have certain relationship with Tristero is planning “a calculated withdrawal, from the life of the Republic, from its machinery” (Pynchon, 1986, pp. 124-125), yet the ubiquitous sign of a muted horn as a symbol of Tristero is very suggestive. Unlike the rebellious group of the 1960s as depicted in Vineland, the rebellious voices Pynchon lets the readers heard piercing through the muted horn are not completely silenced by the white terror and conformism pervading the United States in the 1950s and 1960s. And Pynchon does not stop at just letting these voices heard no matter how weak they are. His ultimate purpose is to let the readers reflect on why there are these voices and why they are muted. A confession made by a teenaged boy at the end of Against the Day may be a good picture of American society at this time: “It means do what they tell you and take what they give you and don’t go on strike or their soldiers will shoot you down” (Pynchon, 2006, p. 1076). Negative, passive, ironic, but it is true for the Americans at the beginning of the 20th century, and also true for Americans in the post-war era, for it is the fate of any radical movement inside the American historical frame. McClintic Sphere’s motto in V. may be the best choice for these radicals of any time: “keep cool, but care” (Pynchon, 1981, pp. 365-366), but for Pynchon’s readers, it may suggest the necessity to reflect upon the myth of democracy avowed by the United States everywhere.

Reconstruction of American Myth of Racial Equality

Discussion of the political and cultural revolts of the mainstream society as described by Pynchon in Vineland, The Crying of Lot 49, Inherent Vice may be misleading for the readers that Pynchon forgets American minorities in his narrative framework. Compared with the rebellious mainstream white society, Pynchon does not spend too much space to portray this group of social “Other”, even the African Americans seemingly escape his attention especially in his novels. But Pynchon’s peculiar strategy to depict African Americans and other minorities in a different way reflect his historical view about racial problems in the United States. In view of Pynchon’s creative habit, his seemingly neglect of this group is on the contrary the manifestation of his deep concern for them, for there are too many historical narratives about this group in American literature and American social and political fields that have long been the bitter, central discourse in the grand historical


narratives, which makes any more writing of these familiar histories meaningless. But it does not mean that Pynchon chooses to ignore this special group.

The most active political force in the 1960s United States should be the African American communities of various fields and different social strata. President Kennedy’s racial integration attempt, the black civil rights movement led by Martin Luther King, Jr., and their assassination that followed are all the important elements of the African American politics at Pynchon’s time. And the fate of this group is depicted by Pynchon in the most implicit and the fiercest way in his fiction. But unlike African American writers of this age like Alice Walker, Tony Morrison, August Wilson, Pynchon does not lose himself in the stormy historical picturing of the forceful racial suppression African Americans suffered and their fierce protest, but provides a reexamination of the ideological source of American racism from the angle of the mainstream white society.

In view of the whole process of Pynchon’s literary creation, his early short story “The Secret Integration” (1984) manifests clearly his attitudes towards the racial problems African Americans face. The story begins with several white boys’ childish game—“Operational Sparticus”, and their original objective for this game is to countercheck the authoritative control from the adult world, as Huckleberry Finn experiences, to build a utopian babyish society without suppression and with complete freedom, and the black boy Carl Barrington is only a small part of their game. Early readers often read the black boy’s involvement in this game as an allegory of Kennedy’s racial integration attempt, and provide a quite positive reading of the white boys’ activities, arguing that their activities symbolize the utopian condition of American racial relations.

But there are also critics who provide a quite different reading about this story. Starting from the real status of Carl Barrington and his dramatic appearance and disappearance in the story, they conclude that the white boys’ imagined utopian society characteristic of racial equality is nothing but their illusion to escape the authoritative control of the white adult world, and Carl Barrington is nothing but their “‘imaginary playmate’ […] put together out of phrases, images, possibilities that grownup had somehow turned away from, repudiated, left out at the edge of towns” (Pynchon, 1984, p. 192). The utopia of racial equality in American society of Pynchon’s age is only an illusory construction of equalitarian ideas and political texts, without any practical progress. What is meaningful is that neither the school teacher nor the boss of the drug store has noticed, or would rather not acknowledge, the existence of Carl Barrington.7 Pynchon is clear here to tell the readers that the so-called racial equality is only an illusion, because there are too many unreal “phrases, images, possibilities” inherent deep in the white unconsciousness. In other words, anything about racial conflicts involving African Americans or other minorities are nothing but the expression of the white society’s subconscious self.

So the white boys’ “Operational Sparticus” is illusive in nature; Kennedy’s racial integration policy was in essence nothing different whatever his original objective was. This kind of illusiveness is certified by what follows in the story. The narrator of the story tells the readers that there are not children in the Barringtons. At the

7 Chambers (1992) and Curtin (2003) take the rise of automation as a metaphor to discuss the racism in “The Secrete Integration”. According to Chambers (1992), the children devised the Operation Spartacus to fight against any adult bureaucracy including racism. Their failure to resist racism is due to their lack of experience, equipment, money and the requisite ruthlessness, and also due to the inconvincible power of the system they fight against. But Chambers regards this story as a philosophical instead of a political one, grappling “with an existential problem that has political ramifications”, describing a causal chain that leads to “dehumanization and subtler forms of oppression” (p. 37). Curtin (2003) identifies Pynchon with Ellison who also creates a black who is treated as non-existent by the white society (p. 63).


end of the story, the white boys:

Took leave of Carl Barrington, abandoning him to the old estate’s other attenuated ghosts and its precarious shelter; and rollicked away into that night’s rain, each finally to his own house, hot shower, dry towel, before-bed television, good night kiss, and dreams that could never again be entirely safe. (Pynchon, 1984, p. 193)

Pynchon’s poetic language suggests that the white children, like Kennedy government, finally willingly or unwillingly accept “the structure of bigotry that is their cultural inheritance” (Madsen, 1991, p. 129), give up their utopian dream. Slade (1978) believes that these children, like Huckleberry Finn under Mark Twain’s pen who tries to revolt against the adult world order, have no strength to break the wall set up between the white and the black to fulfill their dreamed racial integration. Carl to the white boys, like Jim to Huckleberry Finn, is just a metaphor of their impulse to fight against various authoritative narratives their parents represent (p. 82). What is different is that Pynchon’s Huckleberry Finns live in the 1950s, 100 years after the end of American slavery.8 This repeated interval of 100 years in Pynchon’s historical narratives is by no means accidental. Pynchon is even forcing his readers to rethink over the myth of American equality in light of its tradition, even going back to the age another 100 years before when the American forefathers drafted “The Deceleration of American Independence”.

This kind of temporal connection in Pynchon’s fiction is quite significant, for Pynchon forces his readers, especially his white readers who are proud of their country’s avowed democracy and equality, into an embarrassing condition to reflect upon the still existent, even rampant, racial discrimination in the later part of the 20th century that Melba Pattillo Beals experienced.9 One of the most embarrassing situations is that white racists unconsciously treat the black as rubbish. Pynchon is exaggerating, but that Carl Barrington in “The Secret Integration” is depicted to be made by “auto parts in Etiene’s Father’s junkyard” (Pynchon, 1984, p. 192) and the Barrington’s yard is also littered with the white rubbish.

However embarrassed the white and African American readers may be, this kind of association appears again in Pynchon’s “Low-Lands”. The warder of the rubbish yard in the story is a black who shares a same kind of living space with a Gypsy girl as an “Other” to the white society. It is possible that reading the black warder’s status as metaphorizing the white racist association of African Americans with rubbish is a misreading, or a whimsy of Pynchon, but the existence of that Gypsy girl living in the underground tunnel in the rubbish yard is nothing accidental at all. Pynchon definitely wants to suggest through these two minority figures of “Otherness” that white racists’ attitude towards the colored people in the United States is the unconscious, ineradicable 8 Both Solomon’s and Dickson’s studies are very important because they all mention one of Pynchon’s favorable techniques, that is, “anachronism”, which means his writing of one time in history is suggestive of another age near to our time. Many critics distinguish the time in Pynchon’s fiction between “historical time” (past and future) and “the real time” (present). The present is the focus of Pynchon’s historical writing. Another very interesting feature of Pynchon’s anachronism is that the time span between the mentioned historical time and the implied one is often 100 years, and these historical times are often the crucial ones in American or world history. 9 Melba Pattillo Beals’s story in her autobiographical novel Warriors Don’t Cry (1995) is good expression of the rampant racial discrimination as late as in the middle of the 20th century. Beals chose to go to an all-white school, when she was 13 years old in 1955 and got enrolled as a student at the white Central High two years later, but there she had to suffer the white students and some parents spitting at and mocking her. The final nine black children Beals join in this white school had to face mobs that forced President Eisenhower to send in the 101st Airborne Division to protect their lives after the governor of Arkansas, Orval Faubus, used troops to block the Nine’s entry to the school. Beals’s story is a big irony for American government in the mid of the 20th century who never stops preaching about its politics of democracy and equality. Pynchon clearly has caught the essence of American society at this time, and his writing of the racial problems in the United States at this time is absolutely very significant.


sediment from several hundred years of American hierarchical history. Feminist readers explain Dennis Flange’s visit to the black warder as a metaphor of the tendency of American male in the middle of 20th century to escape family duties, but it is also reasonable to say that the existence of the black warder as a subordinate “Other” makes up the loss they fell disappearing in their life.10 The black warder of the rubbish yard plays the role of Flange’s spiritual comforter. Taking into consideration of the psychological analyses about the relationship between black male and white society in African American literary criticism, we may conclude that the true purpose of Pynchon in writing about racial relations in “The Secret Integration” and “Low-Lands” as is mentioned above is not difficult to comprehend.

Gavin Trefoil is a petty, often neglected figure in Pynchon’s masterpiece Gravity’s Rainbow (1973), but his weird remark about blackness is quite suggestive:

Their feelings about blackness were tied to feelings about shit, and feelings about shit to feelings about putrefaction and death. It seemed to him so clear… why wouldn’t they listen? Why wouldn’t they admit that their repressions had, has lost, had incarnated real and living men. (p. 276)

Pynchon divides between the authorities and those they want to control in Gravity’s Rainbow, defining the authorities represented by Blicero as “They” and those the authorities try to control as “We”. Gavin Trefoil’s ambiguous remark hints at these two groups. Blackness is the symbol of the African American “We”, the object the white “They” want to control though “They” do not admit this control. Trefoil’s point is that the white racist “They” do not want to admit their unconscious tendency to associate African Americans with shit and death, for it exposes their inherent disgust with the black and their fear of an imagined danger from the black community.

Slothrop’s absurd journey down the toilet pipe to trace his harmonica is completely Pynchon’s fabrication. Weisenburger (1981) argues that Slothrop’s journey is nothing but a metaphor of the “fouled and castoff scraps in the shithole of history” (p. 148). What Weisenburger suggests in his metaphor is the ineradicable racist complex in white racists’ unconsciousness. According to Weisenburger, what Slothrop finds underground is not human excrement, but the dirty, disgusting ideological sediments of American civilization against American minorities. What Slothrop feels about shit is white racists’ feelings of disgust and fear about African Americans or other minorities:

Shit, now, is the color white folks are afraid of. […] That’s what that white toilet’s for. […] Shinola shoeshine polish happens to be the color of shit. Shoeshine boy Malcolm’s in the toilet slapping on the Shinola, working off whiteman’s penance on his sin of being born the color of shit ‘n’ Shinola. (Pynchon, 1973, p. 688)

Wolfley (1981) argues that Slothrop’s absurd feeling is the projection of the “white stereotypes about blacks” (p. 110).11 What should be added to Wolfley’s conclusion is that Slothrop’s absurd feeling is also a projection of the ideological source of white racism, that is, white racists’ discrimination against and disgust with African Americans root in their fear of death, not physical death of their bodies, but a threat they feel as a result of

10 In his essay “‘Closed Circuit’: The White Male Predicament in Pynchon’s Early Stories”, Holton (2003) observes that the real freedom for white males lies in the pre-Civil Rights era of African America, and that the cultural significance of human body is not only that of a flesh-and-blood entity, but also that of a symbolic construct. 11 Werner (1986) and Schwarzbach (1978) agree that Slothrop would rather dehumanize himself by entering the dung pool than accept the ambiguities of any relationship with the blackness of Malcolm. Pynchon’s sympathy generally goes to the Preterite like Slothrop, but here Slothrop also becomes the target of Pynchon’s satire (p. 52, p. 197).


the existence of African Americans and any other minorities who they think might snatch away the priority they enjoy for centuries on the mythical American land of democracy. The possible connection of Pynchon’s Malcolm with that black civil rights movement leader Malcolm X makes this reading more reasonable.

Pynchon has found what is more secretly hidden beneath the American white racism. As is mentioned above, Flange in “Low-Lands” flees not only from his wife and the family responsibilities she represents, but from the white society he lives in, to the colored space represented by the black warder and that illusive Gypsy girl, in order to gain the authoritative comfort the white society denies him. Pynchon is exploring into the conflicting attitudes of the white society towards the colored minorities. While they feel disgusted with the colored, they have to depend on what they feel disgusted with to prove the existence of their social authority.

The sadomasochistic, pornographic carnival between Brigadier Pudding and Katje in Gravity’s Rainbow is explained by many Pynchon readers as a philosophical scheme, shadowed with sophistry about life and death: “the stink of shit floods his nose, gathering him, surrounding him”, reminding him of “the smell of Passchendaele, of the Salient. Mixed with the mud, and the putrefaction of corpses” and “he’s thinking, he’s sorry, he can’t help it, thinking of a Negro’s penis… it will not be denied, the image of a brute African who will make him behave” (Pynchon, 1973, p. 235). Yet it is significant if we read this passage by taking into consideration the ideological elements of American white racism. Pudding senses unconsciously the threat suggested by the color of black, but at the same time he enjoys the ecstasy brought forth by the black male body. This kind of ecstasy Pudding experiences is meaningful if read from the postmodernist moral point of view, but the most important is the comfort he feels by feeling his self-existence through the existence of a black “Other”. Suppression arises out of fear, and desire arises out of suppression. This is what is real in the unconscious level of white racist ideology.

Another fabricated episode in Gravity’s Rainbow that is often interpreted as a pornographic picture happens when American captain Pirate Prentice receives a mysterious letter with nothing on the paper but a picture of a woman. This letter is written by Katje with a mysterious ink invented by IG Farben which will turn into some words of “Negro-Brown” (Pynchon, 1973, p. 72) by pasting sperm liquid on it. Many readers read Pynchon’s use of “Negro-Brown” as a metaphor of the white society’s discrimination against African Americans for it embarrassingly associates African Americans with white excrement in the way the narrator of “The Secret Integration” associates rubbish with the black boy Carl Barrington. This kind of reading is a little farfetched, but in light of the African Russian descendant Enzian, this episode is given peculiar political significance. Enzian’s father is a white European. No matter what is his real attitude towards Enzian’s African mother, Enzian is undoubtedly the result of the colonial act of white Europeans. What is conflicting in Enzian’s status as this lies with his half-brother Russian officer Tchitcherine’s hatred of him and Tchitcherine’s desire to get rid of him. This hatred is partly because Enzian tries to snatch away the technological documents about German rocket that Tchitcherine tries to get for his country, but Pynchon’s ambiguous poetic language provides another interpretation possibility, that is, Tchitcherine’s hatred of Enzian roots in “the deepest fears of the colonialist West” (Tololyan, 1983, p. 59) shared by European and American white society roots in the white racists’ imagined threat of the black “Other”.

Simmon (1981) makes an interesting comparison between Gravity’s Rainbow and the film King Kong, concluding that King Kong is a metaphor of the white’s fear of the black, while the attempts to kill King Kong reflect the white racists’ desire to destroy the black community (p. 132). That King Kong demonized by the white


racist society and facing the threat of being terminated by this white society is nothing but a racist fabrication of the white society: “and so, too, the legend of the black scapeape we cast down like Lucifer from the tallest erection in the world has come, in the fullness of time, to generate its own children, running around inside Germany even now” (Pynchon, 1973, p. 275). If “the tallest erection” refers to the Empire State Building, Pynchon’s attack may be pointed to American racists who desire to exterminate the black community to curb their fear in the face of the black “Other”. Yet Pynchon does not limit his attack on American racist, but the whole white Euro-American world, because Enzian may be the product of Russian and German racism, but may also be that of American racism, yet what remains unchanged is that he is always the scapegoat the white racists to curb their own existence threat.

Of course, there are more to Pynchon’s allusion to the story of King Kong, namely, the King Kong who is transported to North American from Africa is not any prehistoric individual, but the whole African American community. The absurdity is that the white racists who snatch the black “Other” away from his homeland to North America is always troubled or frightened by what they have done, which results their desire to exterminate the existence of this black Other in their space. King Kong’s fate is not peculiar to African Americans. The Native Americans in North America, European Jews, and any other colonized race share the same fate. Pynchon’s contribution to the historical writing of American racial problems is that he breaks the limit of space and time to excavate boldly the historical and spiritual root of contemporary racism throughout the whole white world.

According to Slade’s reading, Pynchon’s article about the 1965 Watts Racial Riot tries to prove that neither the white society nor American policemen should be responsible for the racist acts against the black people, and what should be condemned is the unconscious social ideology the American white society abides by for years and centuries (Slade, 1978, p. 85). That is what “The Secret Integration” and Gravity’s Rainbow convey to the readers. Another petty figure in Gravity’s Rainbow, Wimpe, knows this very well. Wimpe tells Tchitcherine that any individual in any country is only a part of IG Farben. Tchitcherine suddenly and bitterly awakes to the recognition that his hatred of Enzian is the result of the white society’s rational cultivation. For Pynchon, any white individual should not shoulder the responsibility for American racism; it is the hierarchical ideology of American patriarchal society that Euro-American white society abides by that should shoulder this responsibility. Of course, Pynchon does not intend to free the white racists from this responsibility as Joseph Slade says. On the contrary, he expresses his doubt about American white society’s understanding of its authoritative system.

Pynchon’s historical writing of American racial relationships is objective. While anatomizing the ideological root of American racism, he does not deny the possibility the white society actively and self-consciously curb their racist tendency. Slothrop naively believes he is the American girl Ann Darrow to love and save King Kong. Ann does not save King Kong, yet Slothrop successively saves Enzian from his disaster Tchitcherine may bring over him. The Slothrop here is different from the Slothrop in the Malcolm scene. His attitude towards King Kong and Enzian is a reflection of Pychon’s fairness to the black. And this is emphasized in the story of Dixon beating the slave trader in Mason & Dixon (1997). Dixon’s story affirms Pynchon’s anti-slavery complex and his positive attitudes towards the black, though Thill and some other critics hold a different opinion


because they believe Dixon’s heroic act presupposes the black’s sufferings (Thill, 2005, pp. 51-53)12. Foreman (2000) provides a more detailed analysis of Dixon’s heroism, arguing that Dixon’s heroic act results from his finding one girl is quite like the African girl Austra he loves (p. 154), which undercuts Pynchon’s humanistic care about the black. The problem of Thill lies in the fact that he does not recognize slave trade is more evil than the physical sufferings the black people suffer, while Foreman overlooks Dixon’s act is in reality an act against slave trade.

The critic cycle has different views about Pynchon’s racial attitude. But as is illustrated above, this reveals Pynchon’s postmodernist literary creation strategy. He allows his readers to make various, even conflicting comments on his fiction, his person. This gives vitality to his literary texts, and inspires his readers to reexamine contemporary American racial problems. A talk between General Washington and his slave Gershom clearly exhibits Pynchon’s racial attitude. Gershom is a fantastic figure with multiple statuses of a black, a white, and a Jew, so his talk becomes highly suggestive:

Actually, they’re slave-and-Master Joaks, retailor’d for these Audiences. King says to his Fool, “So, —tell me, honestly, —what makes you willing to go about like such a fool all the time?” “Hey, George”, says the Fool, —“that’s easy, —I do it for the same reason as you, —out of Want”. —“What-what”, goes the King, “how’s that?” —“Why, you for want of Wit, and I for want of Money”. (Pynchon, 1997, p. 284)

Pynchon’s use of puns here is quite inspiring for the readers to rethink over American racial problems in a more extensive way. “Slave” may refer to the jesters in British King’s court, and it may also refers to Gershom himself; the “master” may be Washington or British King; “George” may be Washington, and may also be British king George III. For any person who is dissatisfied with the tyranny of British King, Gershom’s joke may be pointed to British King, but for any person sensitive to American racial problems, it may be a satire against American forefathers who were also slave holders, which is Pynchon’s boldest trick to mock at the American myth of “All Men Are Created Equal”. What is revolutionary about Pynchon’s historical narrative lies with his boldness to subvert through Washington’s posture about slavery the traditional grand image of American forefathers who claimed to build for their people a democratic, equal, and free country.

It is unnecessary for the readers to explore into the private life of Washington as a great figure in American history, but the American forefathers led by him neglected American constitution and its grandiose claim that “all men are created equal” to keep slaves in the new country, which needs more investigation though. It may be what Pynchon refers to as the ideological root of American racism in his article “A Journey into the Mind of Watts”. In light of the national cultural revival staged by African Americans during the 1970s and 1980s, Pynchon’s historical writing about American slavery is highly significant. Better political and economic life in contemporary America makes many black youth forget what their race has suffered, and therefore their culture is on verge of being completely assimilated by the mainstream white culture. Situated in the context of contemporary American racial relationship to reexamine Pynchon’s historical writing of slavery 200 years before,

12 Thill (2005) draws on Pynchon’s essay entitled “Sloth” (whose title on New York Times Book Review of June 6, 1993 is “Nearer, My Couch, to Thee”) to argue that people’s numbness and inaction in the face of slavery is another kind of slavery. At least this sloth is a complicity of slavery. Thill even mentions Franz Pökler’s sloth in Gravity’s Rainbow where he seems to choose to be ignorant about what is going on in the neighborhood Dora Camp. While the narrative voice outside the text damns Franz for his sloth, people who are silent in terms of slavery including historical figures like George Washington are condemnable also (pp. 65-67). So Dixon’s activity is revolutionary.


the readers definitely can form a deconstructive reading of American racial relations, while Gershom’s mixture of status as a white, a black, an Indian may let the readers of different ethnic statuses find more from his joke worthy of thinking over, to reconstruct their special picture of American racial equality.

Conclusions

We cannot deny that Pynchon’s fiction lets his readers re-experience all the bitterness the United States experienced in the 20th century, inspiring them to excavate the sources of this bitterness from the spheres of American politics, economy, and culture. A passage from his article “Nearer, My couch, to Thee” may best summarize Pynchon’s political view about the United States in this era.

In this century we have come to think of Sloth as primarily political, a failure of public will allowing the introduction of evil policies and the rise of evil regimes, the worldwide fascist ascendancy of the 1920’s and 30’s being perhaps Sloth’s finest hour, though the Vietnam era and the Reagan-Bush years are not far behind. Fiction and nonfiction alike are full of characters who fail to do what they should because of the effort involved. How can we not recognize our world? Occasions for choosing good present themselves in public and private for us every day, and we pass them by. Acedia is the vernacular of everyday moral life. Though it has never lost its deepest notes of mortal anxiety, it never gets as painful as outright despair, or as real, for it is despair bought at a discount price, a deliberate turning against faith in anything because of the inconvenience faith presents to the pursuit of quotidian lusts, angers and the rest. The compulsive pessimist’s last defense—stay still enough and the blade of the scythe, somehow, will pass by—Sloth is our background radiation, our easy-listening station—it is everywhere, and no longer noticed. (Pynchon, 1966, para. 16)

In this passage and throughout his fiction, the readers can sense Pynchon’s dissatisfaction with the political life in the democratic frame of the United States. What touch Pynchon most deeply should be the political upheavals in the years from the 1950s to the 1980s. He provides a cool re-observation of various radical movements he has experienced, and implicates that the disproportionate power of the government and the illusive, unpractical nature of this generation of rebels abort their revolution plans. As to the racial problems in the United States, Pynchon does not endeavor to provide a bleeding picture of the struggle of American minorities to seek political and social equality, but focuses on the excavation of the ideological root of American or world white racism inherent in the unconscious depth of the white mentality.

References Baringer, S. (2004). The metanarrative of suspicion in later twentieth century America. New York & London: Routledge. Bérubé, M. (1992). Marginal forces/cultural centers: Tolson, Pynchon, and the politics of the canon. Ithaca & London: Cornell

University Press. Booker, M. K. (1992). Vineland and dystopian fiction. Pynchon Notes, 30-31, 5-38. Chambers, J. (1992). Thomas Pynchon. New York: Twayne. Clerc, C. (1983). Introduction. In C. Clerc (Ed.), Approaches to gravity’s rainbow (pp. 3-30). Columbus: Ohio State University

Press. Clerc, C. (2000). Mason & Dixon & Pynchon. Lanham & New York & Oxford: University Press of America. Cowart, D. (1994). Attenuated postmodernism: Pynchon’s Vineland. In G. Green, D. J. Greiner, & L. McCaffery (Eds.), The

Vineland papers: Critical takes on Pynchon’s novel (pp. 3-13). Champaign: Dalkey Archive. Curtin, M. F. (2003). Out of touch: Skin tropes and identities in Woolf, Ellison, Pynchon, and Acker. New York & London:

Routledge. Dickinson, D. (1998). The utterance of America: Emersonian newness in Dos Passos’s U.S.A. and Pynchon’s Vineland. Göteborg,

Sweden: ACTA Universitatis Gothoburgensis. Foreman, D. (2000). Historical documents relating to Mason & Dixon. In B. Horvath, & I. Malin (Eds.), Pynchon and Mason &


Dixon (pp. 143-166). Newark: University of Delaware Press. Gordon, A. (1994). Smoking dope with Thomas Pynchon: A sixties memoir. In G. Green, D. J. Greiner, & L. McCaffery (Eds.),

The Vineland papers: Critical takes on Pynchon’s novel (pp. 167-178). Champaign: Dalkey Archive. Hayles, N. K. (1994). Who was saved?: Families, snitches, and recuperation in Pynchon’s Vineland. In G. Green, D. J. Greiner, & L.

McCaffery (Eds.), The Vineland papers: Critical takes on Pynchon’s novel (pp. 14-30). Champaign: Dalkey Archive. Hite, M. (1994). Feminist Theory and the Politics of vineland. In G. Green, D. J. Greiner, & L. McCaffery (Eds.), The Vineland

papers: Critical takes on Pynchon’s novel (pp. 135-153). Champaign: Dalkey Archive. Holton, R. (2003). “Closed circuit”: The white male predicament in Pynchon’s early stories. In N. Abbas (Ed.), Thomas Pynchon:

Reading from the Margins (pp. 37-50). London: Associated University Press. Kerouac, J. (2012). On the road. New York, Penguin. LIU, F. S. (2013). A study of Thomas Pynchon’s fiction in postmodern context. Jinan: Shandong University Press. Madsen, D. L. (1991). The postmodernist allegories of Thomas Pynchon. Leicester: Leicester University Press. Mendelson, E. (1978). The sacred, the profane, and The Crying of Lot 49. In E. Mendelson, & E. Cliffs (Eds.), Pynchon: A

collection of critical essays (pp. 112-146). N. J.: Prentice-Hall. Olster, S. (1994). When you’re a (Nin)jette, your’re a (Nin)jette all the way—Or are Yor?: Female filmmaking in Vineland. In G.

Green, D. J. Greiner, & L. McCaffery (Eds.), The Vineland papers: Critical takes on Pynchon’s novel (pp. 119-134). Champaign: Dalkey Archive.

Beals, M. P. (1995). Warriors don’t cry. New York: Washingtong Square Press. Petillon, P. Y. (2007). A re-cognition of her errand into the wilderness. In P. O’Donnell (Ed.), New essays on The Crying of Lot 49

(pp. 127-170). Beijing: Peking University Press. Porush, D. (1994). “Purring into transcendence”: Pynchon’s puncutron machine. In G. Green, D. J. Greiner, & L. McCaffery (Eds.),

The Vineland papers: Critical takes on Pynchon’s novel (pp. 31-45). Champaign: Dalkey Archive. Pynchon, T. (1966). A journey into the mind of Watts. The New York Times Magazine, 12, 34-35, 78, 80-82, 84. Pynchon, T. (1973). Gravity’s rainbow. New York: Penguin. Pynchon, T. (1981). V.. London: Pan. Pynchon, T. (1984). Slow learner. Boston & Toronto: Little, Brown. Pynchon, T. (1986). The crying of lot 49. New York: Harper & Row. Pynchon, T. (1990). Vineland. Boston & Toronto & London: Little, Brown. Pynchon, T. (1993). Nearer, My couch, to Thee. The New York Times Book Review, 6. Retrieved from

http://www.themodernword.com/pynchon/pynchon_essays_sloth.html Pynchon, T. (1997). Mason & Dixon. New York: Henry Holt. Pynchon, T. (2006). Against the day. New York: Penguin. Pynchon, T. (2009). Inherent vice. New York: Penguin. Salinger, J. D. (1951). The catcher in the rye. New York: Little, Brown and Company. Saltzman, A. (2000). “Cranbks of Ev’ry Radius”: Romancizing the line in Mason & Dixon. In B. Horvath, & I. Malin (Eds.),

Pynchon and Mason & Dixon (pp. 63-72). Newark: University of Delaware Press. Schwarzbach, F. S. (1978). A matter of gravity. In E. Mendelson, & E. Cliffs (Eds.), Pynchon: A collection of critical essays (pp.

56-66). N.J.: Prentice-Hall. Seed, D. (1988). The fictional labyrinths of Thomas Pynchon. London: MacMillan. Simmon, S. (1981). Beyond the theatre of war: Gravity’s rainbow as film. In R. Pearce (Ed.), Critical essays on Thomas Pynchon

(pp. 124-139). Boston: G. K. Hall & Co.. Slade, J. W. (1978). “Entropy” and other calamities. In E. Mendelson, & E. Cliffs (Eds.), Pynchon: A collection of critical essays

(pp. 69-86). N.J.: Prentice-Hall. Slade, J. W. (1994). Communication, group theory, and perception in Vineland. In G. Green, D. J. Greiner, & L. McCaffery (Eds.),

The Vineland papers: Critical takes on Pynchon’s novel (pp. 68-88). Champaign: Dalkey Archives. Solomon, E. (1994). Argument by anachronism: The presence of the 1930s in Vineland. In G. Green, D. J. Greiner, & L. McCaffery

(Eds.), The Vineland papers: Critical takes on Pynchon’s novel (pp. 161-166). Champaign: Dalkey Archive. Tabbi, J. (1994). Pynchon’s downwart art. In G. Green, D. J. Greiner, & L. McCaffery (Eds.), The Vineland papers: Critical takes

on Pynchon’s novel (pp. 89-100). Champaign: Dalkey Archive. Tanner, T. (1978). V. and V-2. In E. Mendelson, & E. Cliffs (Eds.), Pynchon: A collection of critical essays (pp. 16-55). N. J.:

Prentice-Hall.


Thill, B. (2005). The sweetness of immorality: Mason & Dixon and the American sins of consumption. In E. J. W. Hinds (Ed.), The multiple worlds of Pynchon’s Mason & Dixon (pp. 49-76). Rochester: Camden.

Thoreen, D. (2003). The fourth amendment and other modern inconveniences: Undeclared war, organized labor, and the abrogation of civil rights in Vineland. In N. Abbas (Ed.), Thomas Pynchon: Reading from the margins (pp. 215-233). London: Associated University Press.

Tololyan, K. (1983). War as background in Gravity’s Rainbow. In C. Clerc (Ed.), Approaches to Gravity’s Rainbow (pp. 31-68). Columbus: Ohio State University Press.

Vanderbeke, D. (1999). Vineland in the novels of John Barth and Thomas Pynchon. Retrieved from http://www.diss.sense.uni-konstanz.de/amerika/vanderbeke.htm

Weisenburger, S. (1981). The end of history? Thomas Pynchon and the uses of the past. In R. Pearce (Ed.), Critical essays on Thomas Pynchon (pp. 140-156). Boston: G. K. Hall & Co..

Werner, C. H. (1986). Recognizing reality, realizing responsibility. In H. Bloom (Ed.), Critical views: Thomas Pynchon (pp. 191-202). New York & New Haven & Philadelphia: Chelsea.

Committee in solidarity with the people of El Salvador. Retrieved from Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Committee_in_Solidarity_with_the_People_of_El_Salvador

Wolfley, L. (1981). Repression’s rainbow: The presence of Norman O. Brown in Pynchon’s big novel. In R. Pearce (Ed.), Critical essays on Thomas Pynchon (pp. 99-123). Boston: G. K. Hall & Co..

Yudkim, J. (2002). Understanding music (3rd ed.). Upper Saddle River, N.J.: Prentice Hall. ZHANG, Y. L., & LI, J. M. (1992). Social movements and governmental reforms in the history of the United States. Tianjin: Tianjin

Education Press.


(Re)Ciphering Nations: Greece as a Constructed Illegibility

in Odysseas Elytis’s Poetry

Álvaro García Marín Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, Madrid, Spain

In their attempt to construct their identity in opposition to European one, non-Western new nations with alphabets

such as Greek, Hebrew, or Cyrillic, used them as a way of emphasizing difference, and thus provide symbolic

spaces for the newborn nations. The illegibility of these alphabets for Western people, along with the ancient

prestige of at least Hebrew and Greek, fostered the illusion of temporal continuity and provided legitimacy to their

atomization projects. Odysseas Elytis (1911-1996), Nobel Prize for Literature winner in 1979 and the last national

poet of Greece, blends this old tendency in Greek culture and the broader claim of modern European poets for the

essential autonomy of art and literature. His efforts to reinforce the walls separating Greece from Latin-Western

culture by reinforcing the illegibility of both Greek and poetic idioms, aim at constructing a more essential Greece,

founded on aesthetics, language, and writing instead of politics, institutions, or geographic borders. In this paper,

engaging mainly in the fields of literary and postcolonial studies, the author intends to analyze the mechanisms by

which language, writing, or literature can be used to (re)cipher once again the already exclusive concept of nation,

and thus to undermine every possibility of deciphering and translatability. He concludes that in “conceptually

colonized” nations such as Greece, this process implies and anticolonial movement still caught nevertheless in a

colonial discursivity.

Keywords: Modern Greece, postcoloniality, writing, illegibility, poetry

Introduction

Most studies on Modern Greek literature overlook the peculiar position of Greece as a nation in modernity and the singular conditions of its production, coterminous with the construction of the notion of Western civilization. Subsequently, they approach its authors as simple, uncomplicated members of the allegedly unitary tradition of European literature. It is necessary, however, to account for the “colonial difference” (Mignolo, 2002) inherent in Modern Greek literature, and thus to address the specific mechanisms whereby authors relate their literary production to the question of nation building or engage directly with it through their work. Odysseas Elytis, arguably the last of a long series of Greek national poets, has been predominantly studied as a canonical European modernist writer, or as a geographically marginal surrealist who just happened to be Greek. A deeper analysis of his poetry reveals nonetheless the central involvement of his work with the colonial condition of Greece, and the attempt to counteract it through the possibilities of the poetic language.

Álvaro García Marín, Ph.D., Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas.

DAVID PUBLISHING

D

(RE)CIPHERING NATIONS: GREECE AS A CONSTRUCTED ILLEGIBILITY 26

Modern Greece as Colonial Nation

“Conceptual” Modes of Postcoloniality While Greece has never been under European colonial rule in the traditional political sense, scholarship in

the last decades has considered it to be a postcolonial nation. Leaving aside its long experience under the premodern and precolonial Ottoman Empire, the reasons for this denomination have to be tracked in a conceptual rather than in a military or material realm. Some authors have talked about metaphoric (Gourgouris, 1996) or surrogate colonization, colonization of the mind (Fleming, 2000, p. 1221) 1 , or even imperialism of the imagination (Goldsworthy, 1998). It is undeniable that the process of configuration of the new Greek nation in the 18th and 19th centuries was mediated, and to a great extent fostered, by European notions and models. The Hellenic Ideal and the Philhellenic discourse associated to it, so important themselves for the constitution of Western modernity, played a crucial role in this mechanism. The projection of an enlightened or romantic European image of Ancient Greece on the incipient Greek nationalism, however, made the legitimization of the latter conditional on the acceptation by Greek-speaking peoples in the Ottoman Empire of Western cultural and intellectual patronage. And, at the same time, it provided the Greeks of the diaspora, eager to become the political elite of the new state, with a justification before the “civilized world” for their independentist project. Of course, this metaphoric colonization had also practical consequences analysable from the point of view of a more canonical colonialism: The power was immediately placed in the hands of Western-educated, urban classes coming from the European diaspora that easily became the national bourgeoisie, and economic and political dependence was guaranteed by the imposition of a Bavarian king, who brought with him a whole educational system based on the Hellenic Ideal (Calotychos, 2003, p. 49)2. Obviously, this worked to reinforce the Classical model for Modern Greece and subjected the metaphoric colonization to a sort of vicious circle of relentless self-reproduction.

Self-colonization: Paradoxes of Identity, or Greek Nation (De)construction Across the Logic of the Sign But the application of a Philhellenist discourse on Modern Greece was not without conflicts and tensions.

After all, despite the claims of ulterior Greek historiography, the inhabitants of Greek-speaking Ottoman

1 “To view the relationship between Western Europe and the Balkans as homologous to colonialism is an approach that, if used with reason (and if historicized), has validity and can be fruitful. In the case of 18th and 19th-century Greece, the argument for the link between European philhellenism and some sort of metaphoric or pseudo-imperialism has been voiced by a number of scholars. Olga Augustinos has demonstrated that Greek travel literature of the period is directly tied to Europe’s claim on the ancient Greek past and shows that this claim ‘made [Greece] seem closer to the West’ and somehow under its control. Artemis Leontis notes that, while the ‘Greeks, former subjects of a powerful Eastern Empire, may be said to have gained the status of modern independent nation-state without having passed through administrative colonialization by the West’, it nevertheless ‘could be argued that modern Greece endured a “colonialization of the mind”, given that its system of education was imported directly from Germany’. I myself have argued elsewhere that in the case of Greece the mechanisms of romantic philhellenism and the cultivation of the belief in Greece as the fount of Western civilization functioned as the underpinnings for a sort of ‘surrogate’ colonialism, whereby Greece was brought into the intellectual and cultural penumbra of the West, particularly Britain and France”. 2 “It is worth relating that, politically, nationalism in colonial contexts often created a state patronage that spawned an authoritarian clientelism placed in the hands of Western-educated, urban nationalists. Greece’s transition from imperial Ottoman rule to nation-statism differs considerably from the transition of African nations from colonialism to state rule. But the decisive contribution of a Western-educated elite is common to both. In subaltern contexts, at the time of decolonization, this ‘class’ becomes the ‘national bourgeoisie’ that fashions ‘national identities’ ‘by methods that [were unable to] break formally with the system of representation that offered them an episteme in the previous dispensations: a “national buffer” between the ruler and the ruled’” (Spivak).


territories at the beginnings of the 19th century were completely unaware of who Achilles, Ulysses, or Homer were. European Philhellenes at the 18th century saw them in fact as the “dirty descendants” of Ancient Greeks, whose presence in the same land impeded the total appropriation of the Greek landscape as a symbolic capital (Gourgouris, 1996, p. 124). The ideal of Classical Hellenism collided thus with the reality of Ottoman subjects with oriental customs whose national identity was to be articulated rather on their Christian Orthodox faith than in their uncertain and distant Ancient Greek ancestry. The imposition of a Hellenic identity on these Ottoman peoples tried consequently to establish for them an ethical and aesthetical model in order to reinscribe them in the symbolic space of Europe, as well as to appropriate the new state for Western influence. If the Crusades of the religious Middle Ages had striven to recover for the Christian community one of the two symbolic origins of Europe, Jerusalem, the secularised post-Enlightenment world needed now to culturally possess the other one, Athens. For the Ottoman Greeks themselves, however, this ideal identity to which they had to accommodate represented both a source of anxiety (Calotychos, 2003, p. 50)3 and of schizophrenia. Its ubiquitous presence compelled them to produce themselves as the image (Gourgouris, 1996, p. 143)4 that Europe was keen on recovering after two thousand years and therefore to differ temporally and ontologically their very being. From this moment on, Greeks could only look at themselves through the eyes of Europeans (as cited in Calotychos, 2003, pp. 49-50)5. They were at once construed as the representatives of the “cradle of Europe”, and thus situated at its very core, and as the oriental Others that disturbed the Western repossession of its own origins. A process of displacement and spacing can therefore be appreciated in the very center of the configuration of Modern Greece, which emerges as a signifier whose signified seems impossible to attain: Neither historically nor geographically or ontologically can Greece once for all be defined (Calotychos, 2003, p. 37)6. It is at the same time anteriority and posteriority to Europe, inside and outside it, the origin of its civilization and the outcome of its more elaborate and contemporaneous conceptual productions, a normative model and a performative present, its oriental margin and its spiritual center. This paradoxical nature may well be the main feature of every nationalism, as Anderson (2000) has stated with reference to their usual simultaneous claims for temporal rupture and for historical continuity. Nevertheless, Greece seems to take this fact to the extreme insofar as it articulates itself on what could be called the logic of the sign. Modern Greece was not just produced on the dialectic of some binary oppositions, such as Western-Eastern or Byzantine-Classical, that have marked its whole development. It was generated instead on the edge of a constitutive disemia, as the American scholar Herzfeld (1987) has termed it (pp. 95-122). This implies in fact its construction on the very interstice between opposites (West-East, Europe-Asia, modernity-tradition, autochthonous-foreign, secularity-Orthodoxy), and therefore its undecidability. As a nation, then, Greece is not a narration or a novel, as Anderson has put it, but an inextricable play of signs that seems to respond rather to the Freudian concept of dream-work (Gourgouris, 1996, pp. 28-32). Indeed, its very modern emergence as a metaphoric colonial product started from the constellation of meanings and allusions unleashed

3 “For the Enlightenment Western concern for resuscitating dead white people through Classical Greeks obliged Modern Greeks to assume a ‘white man’s burden’ of their own, the racial impurity of not living up to the West’s image of them”. 4 “[Greece] was characterized from the start not merely with the usual production of self-images for internal consumption, but also with the grave task of producing the right set of images for export”. 5 There seems to be a connection between this phenomenon and the “double consciousness” theorized by W. E. B. Du Bois for African Americans in the United States (Du Bois, 1903). 6 Caught between a Western vision of the Classical Ideal and the impossibility of an unmediated Greek conception of self, the Greek is stranded in no-man’s land.


by a single word: Ελλάδα (Ellada, that is, Hellas). Among the many words the Greeks used up to the 18th century to denominate themselves, έλληνας (ellinas) was the most unusual one. Ρωμιός (romios) or γραικός (graikos), with obvious Latin and belated connotations, were far more popular, if not exclusive. The first colonial displacement took place therefore here, as the great mass of Greek-speaking Ottomans had to conform themselves to a term for which they were not originally the meaning and for which their time was not the time. The improper name Ελλάδα was the price to pay for legitimizing Greek nationalism before the eyes of Europe, but at the same time it determined the condition of Greekness as the constatation of the impossibility of the proper name. The very process through which Greece is grafted onto a European genealogy or, even more, onto the prehistoric center of the European culture, foregrounds its otherness to the epistemological and rhetorical project of the Western modernity and the Enlightenment. Outside any possible closure of signification, Greece has to construct itself on what Homi Bhabha has called in-between spaces (Bhabha, 1990, p. 4)7. Signifieds become distant entities to which signifiers can only tend, without ever attaining them. They must also themselves be constructed as signifiers in a rather conscious process that reinforces Greek anxiety: Greeks can only conceive themselves as poor reflections of a more authentic self that they need to project before the Europeans’ eyes in order to become someone, either the Ancient predecessor of classicism or the exotic Other of orientalism. Their colonial mimicry, then, looks not only onto the colonizer’s identity, but also, and primarily, to an ideal, ahistorical and unattainable self. This responds to what Vangelis Calotychos (2003) has termed self-colonization (pp. 47-53), the assumption by Greeks that these imposed images are the real poles where their identity has to be negotiated. That is why the performative practice of Greece consists precisely of the deconstruction of the static and frozen signifieds that supposedly denote it―what Homi Bhabha has called “pedagogy” (Chrisman, 2004, p. 194)8―by means of a multiplication of signifiers that keep it on a constant negotiation and construction. Unable to meet its real essence, Greece reproduces itself in the insurmountable gap of this search. It becomes, like the derridean sign, the trace of a trace.

For all these reasons, from the beginning of its modern reformulation Greece needs to constantly rewrite itself and its own temporal, geographical, and metaphorical boundaries. It is in fact a process of infinite reinscriptions and erasures: Greece is reinscribed into the political and conceptual body of Europe as a liminal/central element, classical Hellenism is reinscribed into Modern Greece as an inside/outside limit that generates a temporal and semantic scission and erases its Byzantine and Ottoman history, and Byzantinism and

7 “The ‘locality’ of national culture is neither unified nor unitary in relation to itself, nor must it be seen simply as ‘other’ in relation to what is outside or beyond it. The boundary is Janus-faced and the problem of outside/inside must always itself be a process of hybridity, incorporating new ‘people’ in relation to the body politic, generating other sites of meaning and, inevitably, in the political process, producing unmanned sites of political antagonism and unpredictable forces for political representation. The address to nation as narration stresses the insistence of political power and cultural authority in what Derrida describes as the ‘irreducible excess of the syntactic over the semantic’. What emerges as an effect of such ‘incomplete signification’ is a turning of boundaries and limits into the in-between spaces through which the meanings of cultural and political authority are negotiated”. 8 “Bhabha classifies nationalism as a dominatory force that is expressed through the discursive mode of ‘pedagogy’. Challenging it―through the contradictions of national ‘discourse’ itself―are the operations of the ‘performative’ mode. Thus ‘the people’ operate as performative subject and as pedagogical object of ‘the nation’, generating ‘counter-narratives’ that ‘continually evoke and erase its totalizing boundaries’. The ‘narrative’ of the nation, that is, tends to self-deconstruction. What is significant, here, is the way that Bhabha’s language casually characterizes nationalism as an essentializing, absolutist, and authoritarian power. Thus, the boundaries of the nation are referred to as ‘totalizing’, which is far from Anderson’s nuanced account of the nation’s boundaries as both open and closed, depending on whether linguistic, legal, cultural, or biological definitions of nationality are used”. See also Bhabha (1994b).


Orientalism are reinscribed into the Hellenic pole of the disemia attempting at the same time to erase and to correct the Classical Ideal. No chronological order can be found in this process. As the author have suggested above, Greece as a nation is not a legible narration, but an inextricable conglomerate of signs. Reinscriptions and rewriting not only can never stop, but constitute the very way Greece has to endlessly reproduce itself and thus to survive. Founded from the beginning on the exclusion and displacement of itself, insofar as Ottoman Greece is alienated by the European Hellenic Ideal, and the Hellenic Ideal is alienated in an oriental realm, the Greek nation needs to displace and retrace its inner and outer boundaries without end. Striving to become recognizable by Europeans, either as honourable descendants of Ancient Greeks or as oriental Others, Greeks find paradoxically their identity in their indecipherability by the West. Self-colonization becomes thus an unconscious anticolonial gesture. The European attempts to bring modern Greece into a classical (and Enlightenment) logic, according to which totalizing and self-contained concepts are possible, and meanings correspond univocally to transparent signifiers subject to perfect legibility (that is, the epistemological project of the Western modernity that underlies every project of colonial domination), are challenged by the very practice of the Greek nation.

Odysseas Elytis: National Poetry as (Anti)Colonial (Re)Ciphering

As long as signs and writing are so important for the configuration of Greece, it comes as no surprise that literature has been one of the crucial national institutions along its history. It has been there, even more than in politics or history itself, where national identity has been discussed, renegotiated, displaced, or reinscribed in creative ways9. The existence of national poets for this task until late in the 20th century, unlike most First World countries, attests as well to the postcolonial nature of Greece. Odysseas Elytis, Nobel Prize for Literature in 1979, was without any doubt the last of a long list of Greek national bards. Along his whole work he reflects, consciously or unconsciously, on what Greece really is. This implies, of course, reflecting also on the metaphorical colonialism of the West and on the disemia. In one of the fragments of his most famous poem, Axion Esti (1959), which consists of an account of the physical and textual elements that compose Greece, he mentions in a rather explicit way the action of Western colonizers in the 19th century:

They came my enemies innumerable times dressed as “friends” trampling the ancient soil. And the soil never fit their heels. They brought The Sage the Founder and the Geometer, Bibles of letters and numbers, absolute Subjugation and Power, dominating the ancient light. And the light never fit their coverings. (Elytis, 1997, p. 151)

As we can see, the principal intention of Europeans is to apply to Greece the epistemology of Enlightenment and of technoscientific modernity, that is, the logic of a perfect semantic closure where every signifier accounts for a referent in reality, and where every object in the world can be known and described by language. Greece,

9 See for this subject Lambropoulos (1987), and Jusdanis (1991).


however, sets in motion its deconstructive power and impedes such a closure or adaptation. Western theories are unable to read Greek realities. Greece acts as a restance that undermines every attempt to totalize meaning. The Greek words can nevertheless find the way out this textual imperialism that tries to freeze Greece in static signifieds, as he says:

But with your word you lit the lantern of the star in our hand, mouth of the innocent portal of Paradise! (Elytis, 1997, p. 152)

Inasmuch as it consists of a symbolic and narrative construction, the making of a nation is always basically a process of ciphering rather than of deciphering: It tries to construct its own law, its own legibility, in order not to be legible by Others. The Others are not encompassed by its law, are not even legible by it, and nations define themselves precisely against this liminal point of indecipherability. This general process is reinforced in Greece, as we have already seen, by the very logic of its historical emergence. Elytis’ endeavours to elucidate the “real face of Greece” (Elytis, 2000, p. 76) are based on an explicit rejection of the epistemology of Enlightenment and its understanding of Hellenism as a definable and legible historical, cultural, or geographical concept. Even more, Europe had constructed Greece as the source and prestigious genealogy of this very epistemological project of technoscientific modernity. To undo this process, he had only to thematize the mechanisms we have analyzed above: the construction of Greece on the interstice of spacing and on the logic of the sign, the insistence on difference rather than on identity, and the proliferation of signifiers as a manner of avoiding the fatal closure on a single signified. From this point of view, the nationalism of Elytis reciphers more and more the text of the Greek nation, in order to make it unreadable by the West. As he states in “Gift of a Silver Poem”, the deciphering of the textuality of Greekness can only be made by foreign powers, and equates to its disappearing, while restoring its symbolic and imaginal conglomerate not only resuscitates it, but constitutes also an act of resistance:

Since even the sun and the waves are a syllabic script which you decipher only in times of grief and exile. And the homeland a wall painting with successive Frankish or Slavic layers which should you attempt to restore it

you go immediately to prison and give an explanation. To a crowd of foreign Authorities through your own always. (Elytis, 1997, p. 239)

Greece can neither be anymore the cradle of Europe nor its oriental Other. It is construed outside every classification or system, on the irreducible gap of every dialectic, as the element indeed that disrupts every system. It is the unthought by the West, a wedge in the Encyclopaedic project that aspires to know and describe everything in the world.

Not by chance, Elytis develops these notions especially after the Second World War, when an incipient globalization starts to enter Greece. This globalization is perceived by him as a neocolonization, now from an economic and cultural standpoint, or, as Derrida has put it, as a globalatinization10. The term Latin is not hazardous here. Through it we can read the proximity of Elytis to Heidegger, mediated though by a nationalist bias that vulgarizes and localizes somehow the philosopher’s universal intuitions. The reason why Greece is not the cradle of the West, according to Elytis, is that Classical Hellenism is but a Latin (or Renaissance) distortion, a

10 For the term mondialatinisation, see Derrida (1996).


closed and therefore wrong reading of a prior authentic Greekness totally absent of European culture today. The Enlightenment itself, as well as the technoscientific modernity, is the product of such a misreading or, better, of the reduction of self-productive Greekness to a readable entity. Heidegger (1998) attributes this process to the translation of the Greek aletheia, rendered by him as “unconcealment”, as veritas, whereby the accent is shifted from a process of self-disclosure to a process of adequacy to a priori meanings. Elytis has long considered Latin influence as a danger to authentic Greekness, even in the realm of the alphabet. In the narration of one of his dreams, indeed, he furiously removes Latin letters from the walls of a Byzantine church in Ravenna, as he feels they are threatening its Greek nature:

I am, along with the whole procession, in front of an altar stone. Everywhere, the figure of the cross distorted, which makes me unhappy, because I shake my head in frustration. But what not only makes me unhappy but also angry are the many Latin inscriptions. However, with composure and readiness, as if everything was planned, I receive from the hands of someone who is besides me a big adz; and without hesitation, with rage, with fury, with passion, I start to hit the stone and to tear it. (Elytis, 2000, pp. 235-236)

The insistence on illegibility has to do with this. Greece is a script that, far from constituting the medium for the transmission of a message, has a value by itself. There is no teleology―a feature of European modernity―in this concept. The understanding of meaning implies the silence and the death of writing. Once the signified is transmitted, writing is not useful anymore. When meanings cannot be determined or attained, on the contrary, writing can never stop: It must continue speaking to fill the void. From this point of view, the impossibility of a closure for signifiers in Elytis’s poetry makes the Greek process of self-production and reproduction, that is, of writing, not to have an origin or a telos. Illegibility determines thus a complete lack of teleological, worldly history. Following Heidegger again, we could say Greece has not Historie, that is, the narrative account of events relevant to beings, but Geschichte, the non-teleological historicity of the Being. In this way, Greece can escape again the frozen image projected by Philhellenism, not without unconsciously assuming anyway some of its features. Having become a force of constant self-reproduction unable to be hypostasized in a definite and static concept, it is not already the remote origin of Western culture whose time is gone and must be imitated by Modern Greece, but an authentic force of originality whose action has never stopped and can even be useful for reconducting the world out of the present historical impasse. In his Comment on the Axion Esti, indeed, we read the proposal first of all to avoid the closure of meaning of Greece as a conventional country that plays its reduced part in the concert of nations, and on the other hand to consider it as a self-productive and unhistoricizable sensation that can reorganize the whole world by means of its ever renewed originality:

Is Greece merely a racial unit predestined to vanish into the amalgamation of other correlate units? Is it the bearer of the values that we have been taught at the Schools and that the West appropriated (without possessing analogous sense organs)? Or perhaps is, beyond all this, a specific and unique sensation, lively and always present, a way to conceive life and to express it, which does not resemble any other and which, from this point of view, could have a new and crucial importance in the tendency of contemporary humanity to constitute itself as a global organization? (Elytis, 1995, p. 27)

The originality of Greece lies precisely in its capability of constantly reciphering itself. Every time it arrives to the supposed telos, the signified, the Greek writing finds a new origin, another signifier. The process can never end. It seems to follow the logic of the heideggerian physis, where it is the mechanism of emergence but not the final result that is underscored.


In such a non-lineal historicity, everything is interchangeable. In one of his poems, Elytis (1997) affirms to use Minoan script in order not to be understood:

I became thousands of years old, and already I use Minoan script with such ease that the world wonders and believes in the miracle.

Fortunately they haven’t managed to read me. (p. 412)

Here it is important to note that the poet prefers to stress, as many other times in his works, a preclassic stage of Ancient Greek culture. This is of course not hazardous at all, as it helps subverting the Western image of classical Greece without completely renouncing to the prestige of a genealogy on Ancient times. But, in connection to this, it is even more important to notice that the mechanism of reciphering the nation here at stake cooperates also with the resistance to the metaphorical colonization by European Philhellenism. If Classical Greece is considered to have invented, as the basis of its rationalist project, the phonetic script, that is, a script that privileges transparency by effacing its materiality in favour of the pure mental concept, Elytis tries here to reverse this historical process by taking back Greek letters to an ideographic stage. All the values associated to Greek script, as are linearity, abstractness, and rationality, are just for Elytis the values of the European technoscientific modernity, and thus foregrounded by it in its process of self-legitimization. In his poems, in fact, Elytis (1997) stresses the materiality of the Greek letters: He describes them trying to find some symbolic correspondence to their form (Elytis, 1997, p. 434)11, undermines conventional lineal reading by presenting them in alphabetical squares that can and must be read in all directions (p. 464), or includes lists of Greek words that he affirms that, regardless of their meaning, reproduce Greece wherever they are (Elytis, 1997, p. 469)12.

But, as a reciphering of the nation, the reinforcement of illegibility is of course directed to the Others. This intention seems to be eased, and fostered, by the fact that the Greek alphabet is exclusively used for writing Greek and thus by the Greeks. Resistance to Western colonial and postcolonial homogenizing influence can be symbolically represented by it. However, this reciphering must be, as we have seen, reinforced as to avoid the fixation of Greece on a frozen image or on a historical meaning. Elytis affirms to have done exactly this in order to cover the void of meaning behind the signifier “Greece”:

So I very slowly took to setting words like gems to cover this country I love. Lest someone sees its beauty. Or suspect that maybe it does not exist. (Elytis, 1997, p. 424)

As an act of resistance, the weaving of signifiers not only reproduces the void in the center of signs that characterize Greece since its colonial production, but also disrupts the logophonocentrism that underlies the very

11 “Since I fell in love with these little bodies I grew thin, wasted. Asleep or awake I had nothing else in mind―just how to raise them, so one day to sleep with them. I lay in wait behind doors. I learned to catch them in air and in water. But I still don’t know how to speak them. A.-White or cyan, according to the hours and positions of the stars. L.-Really wet. Like a pebble. G.-The most lightweight; so your inability to pronounce it shows the degree of your barbarity. R.-A child’s and, certainly, almost always of female gender. E.-All air. The sea breeze takes it. U.-The most Greek letter. An urn. S.-Weed. But the Greek must sometimes also whistle. 12 Before presenting one of these lists, the poet says: “When I opened my guidebook, I understood. Neither plans nor anything, only words. But words to guide with precision to what I was looking for. So, bit by bit, turning the pages I saw the place take on form like the tear from emotion. And I in it”.


colonial project of the West. Illegibility implies resistance to the law, to the law of logocentrism and rationalism that defines the epistemology of modernity. That such an epistemology is also responsible for the construction of modern Greece as scission, sign, and interstice, seems not to be noticed by Elytis. After all, nobody can escape the colonial circle once he is inside. As Homi Bhabha has stated, anticolonial discourses, even the identity of colonizers and colonized, are produced in the point of contact of colonization itself (Bhabha, 1994a, pp. 50-57).

Conclusions

Though produced as a consequence of colonization itself, in postcolonial nations national literature often claims to embody the possibilities of escaping the Other’s gaze where the community has been caught. This is a highly problematic process, however, since the urge to individuation needs to be articulated through institutions and discourses incorporated as a consequence of colonization itself. Our conclusion in the case of Elytis is that, attempting to create an alternative epistemological display for the nation, he ends up utilizing the very language of the West he is trying to dispel: in this case, the possibilities of Greek writing and modern poetic language as a new mode of referentiality.

References Anderson, B. (2000). Imagined communities: Reflections on the origins and spread of nationalism. New York: Verso. Bhabha, H. K. (1990). Narrating the nation. In H. K. Bhabha (Ed.), Nation and narration (pp. 1-7). London: Routledge. Bhabha, H. K. (1994a). The location of culture. London: Routledge. Bhabha, H. K. (1994b). DissemiNation: Time, narrative, and the margins of the modern nation. In H. K. Bhabha (Ed.), The location

of culture (pp. 199-244). London: Routledge. Calotychos, V. (2003). Modern Greece: A cultural poetics. Oxford: Berg. Chrisman, L. (2004). Nationalism and postcolonial studies. In N. Lazarus (Ed.), The Cambridge companion to postcolonial literary

studies (pp. 183-198). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Derrida, J. (1996). Foi et savoir (Faith and knowledge). Paris: Seuil. Du Bois, W. E. B. (2003 [1903]). The souls of black folk. New York: Barnes & Noble. Elytis, O. (1995). Comment on the Axion Esti (Ena anekdoto ipomnima tou Elyti yia to Axion Esti, in Greek) (edited by Y.

Kechagioglou). Poiisi, 5, 27-65. Elytis, O. (1997). The collected poems by Odysseus Elytis. (J. Carson & N. Sarris, Trans.). Baltimore: The John Hopkins University

Press. Elytis, O. (2000). Anihta hartia (Open Papers, in Greek). Athens: Ikaros. Fleming, K. E. (2000). Orientalism, the Balkans, and Balkan historiography. The American Historical Review, 105(4), 1218-1233. Goldsworthy, V. (1998). Inventing Ruritania: The imperialism of the imagination. New Haven: Yale University Press. Gourgouris, S. (1996). Dream nation: Enlightenment, colonization, and the institution of Modern Greece. Stanford: Stanford

University Press. Heidegger, M. (1998). Parmenides. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Herzfeld, M. (1987). Anthropology through the looking-glass: Critical ethnography in the margins of Europe. Cambridge:

Cambridge University Press. Jusdanis, G. (1991). Belated modernity and aesthetic culture: Inventing national literature. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota. Lambropoulos, V. (1987). Literature as national institution: Studies in the politics of Modern Greek criticism. Princeton: Princeton

University Press. Mignolo, W. (2002). Rethinking the Colonial Model. In L. Hutcheon, & M. J. Valdés (Eds.), Rethinking literary history: A dialogue

on theory (pp. 155-193). Oxford: Oxford University Press.


Some Remarks Regarding Originality and Historical

Transformations of Chopin’s Mazurkas, as Based

on the Mathematical Systematic Method

of the Tonal Structure Analysis∗

Miroslaw Majchrzak Karol Lipiński Academy of Music;

Institute of Art of the Polish Academy of Sciences;

Wroclaw School of Banking, Wroclaw, Poland

Musical analysis enables us to study the various elements of a musical work, for example texture, melody,

dynamics, or harmony (including tonality). Thanks to musical analysis we are able to trace the compositional

technique, or assess the artistic value of given work. In addition to traditional, descriptive methods of music

analysis, we can observe in 20th century the development of methods based on science (mathematics, otherwise

statistics). Such methodologies allow us to obtain a strict understanding of the structure of musical pieces.

Applying mathematical methods for musical analysis seems very reasonable in relation to the output of Frederic

Chopin, due to large originality of the elements of musical pieces of this composer. Present paper was written as a

result of research related to the applying of numerical method of analysis for exploring the tonal structure of

Chopin’s works. The author’s research method enables a strict analysis of the chord’s domination that can be

classified under given key (range)—taking into consideration the harmonic functions. By the method of analysis,

we can get charts that depict whole diatonic vertical music material of the given piece. The main objective of the

present study is to describe observations on the high uniqueness in the tonal construction of selected Chopin’s

mazurkas, especially, when compared to the miniatures of other composers of the first half of the 19th century and

previously analyzed Chopin’s pieces: etudes, preludes, and songs.

Keywords: computational musicology, music analysis, Chopin’s mazurkas, tonality

Introduction

The studies of tonality of selected Chopin’s pieces, using mathematical analytical method gave various ∗ The first version of this paper was presented during International Musicological Society—Study Group on Musical Data and Computer Applications (University of Zurich, 9th-10th July 2007): Miroslaw Majchrzak, “The Tonal Structure of Chopin’s Mazurkas”.

Miroslaw Majchrzak, master of Arts, Faculty of Composition, Conducting, Theory of Music and Music Therapy, Karol Lipiński Academy of Music; master of Arts, Faculty of Musicology, Institute of Art of the Polish Academy of Sciences; Bachelor of Science, Department of Finance and Management, Wroclaw School of Banking (WSB).

DAVID PUBLISHING

D

SOME REMARKS REGARDING ORIGINALITY AND HISTORICAL TRANSFORMATIONS 35

results. Some Chopin’s etudes are characterized by great uniqueness of their tonal structure when compared to the piano miniatures of the first half of the 19th century (Majchrzak, 2009a). Chopin’s preludes, described as pieces of sophisticated tonal relationships using the descriptive methods of analysis (Bronarski, 1935; Tomaszewski, 2005), have definitely more traditional tonal structure than the etudes (Majchrzak, 2008b). The songs have the simplest tonal structure of the three analyzed Chopin’s musical forms (Majchrzak, 2010b).

And what about the other musical forms of this composer? The traditional analysis methods (non-mathematical) pointed to mazurkas, as pieces of interesting relationships as regards their harmony and tonality (Bronarski, 1935; Gołąb, 1995; Tuchowski, 1996; Ferková, 2010). For instance, the Mazurka in B minor, op. 33, No 4, starts from the chord of E minor and ends in the tonic chord (B minor)… Therefore, tracing the statistical domination of chords which correspond to particular keynotes in Chopin’s mazurkas seems to be a very interesting issue. This paper discusses and summarizes the issues connected with the mathematical tonal structure of Chopin’s mazurkas.

The mathematical methods of tonality analysis may be used to define the main keynote of musical pieces. Then such studies may be counted as research connected with artificial intelligence. On the contrary, the techniques of defining of the main key in a piece may be useful in musical analysis. These issues are the object of studies of musical theoreticians, psychologists, and IT (Information Technology) engineers. An interesting method of determining of a key, which proves useful in polyphonic music research, was developed by Carol Krumhansl and Mark Schmuckler in the 80s of the 20th century (Krumhansl, 1990). Their method consists in comparing the pitch of tones with the pattern created for the minor and major keys, using statistical correlation. When modulations appear, the results provided by the correlation become more difficult to interpret. On the basis of the main key determination method of Carol Krumhansl and other researchers, Craig Stuart Sapp developed a tonality analysis graphic system (Sapp, 2001, 2005). The method, which also has many other uses, employs graphic imaging, which renders specific keys by means of colours. Another interesting way of tonality analysis is a method of so called “spiral array model” (Chew, 2000, 2008). The existing analytical systems encounter problems appearing with modulation or a proper enharmonic notation of a given tone (Blankertz, Purwins, & Obermayer, 1999; Cambouropoulos, 2003; Gómez & Jordi, 2005; Temperley, 2008; Toiviainen, 2008). As it has been already mentioned in other papers, the author’s method of analysis accounts for the enharmonic notation of a given note and modulation does not cause any problem (Majchrzak, 2008b; Majchrzak & Gingras, 2009b).

Analytical System

The method of analysis and the opportunities it provides have been a topic of several conference presentations and scholarly publications (Majchrzak, 2005; 2007; 2008a; 2009c). We use integers for all keys. The method consists in statistical comparison of the groups of diatonic chords classified within, so called, key ranges1. The classification was based on a mathematical algorithm2 in which, for example, the key ranges of G major/E minor (KR 1), D major/B minor (KR 2), and A major/F sharp minor (KR 3) have the chords shown on

1 Selected key ranges: …, F major/D minor (from -1, 5 to -0, 5), …, D major/B minor (from 1, 5 to 2, 5), A major/ F sharp minor (from 2, 5 to 3, 5), …, B major/G sharp minor (from 4, 5 to 5, 5). 2 Arithmetic mean: x1 + x2 + x3 + … + xn/n; where: x1, x2, x3, …, xn—keys wherein the tones of a given diatonic chord appear, n—number of all keys. For example, the tones of C-E appear in the following keys: (-5, -4, -3, -2, -1, 0, 1), (-1, 0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5). Arithmetic mean of C-E equals 0. Hence, presented dyad is classified within key range C major/A minor (KR 0)


the following figure assigned to them (see Figure 1):

Figure 1. Selected chords and key ranges.

Non-diatonic chords and unison/rests are hold into a separate column. Each chord has metrical units. Chords with longer rhythmic values possess a greater number than chords with shorter rhythmic values. If we consider two chords: D-F#-A-C—crotchet, G-B-D—quaver, then the rhythmic values can be ascribed the following metric units: 2/4/… /10/12/16/… for the D-F#-A-C chord, and then correspondingly 1/2/… /5/6/8/… for the G-B-D chord (hence, all rhythmic relations on a proportional basis).

As an example for relationship of key ranges, let us have a look at quote Mazurka in A flat major op. 41 No. 4 (see Figure 2):

—tonic key range, —other key ranges.

0%

5%

10%

15%

20%

25%

30%

35%

-6 -5 -4 -3 -2 -1 0 1 2 - N-D U/R

Figure 2. Frederick Chopin, Mazurka in A-flat Major op. 41 No. 4. Notes. We can distinguish: horizontal axis—key ranges; vertical axis—percentage domination (%) of given key range; N-D—non-diatonic chords; U/R—unison/rests.

Based on the above tonal structure chart, the subsequent information can be derived: A distribution series is composed of nine KRs. The main range with regard to the frequency of appearance is

KR -4, being the key range for A flat major and F minor keys, i.e., a key range being a counterpart of the

G-B-D, F#-A-C, E-G-B, G-B-D-E, D-F#-A-C, G-B, G-A-B-C-D-E-F# D-F#-A-C-E, F#-C

D-F#-A, C#-E-G, B-D-F#, D-F#-A-B, A-C#-E-G, D-F#, D-E-F#-G-A-B-C# A-C#-E-G-B, C#-G

A-C#-E, G#-B-D, F#-A-C#, E-G#-B-D, E-G#-B-D, A-C# A-B-C#-D-E-F#-G# E-G#-B-D-F#, G#-D

Key range G major and E minor (KR 1)

Key range D major and B minor (KR 2)

Key range A major and F# minor (KR 3)


mazurka’s clef key (tonic key range). About 30% of chords appearing in this mazurka rank within tonic key range. The latter is not situated in the centre of the distribution series where two and six key ranges can be found, moving up and down the Circle of Fifths. The span of the key ranges is set by KR -6 (i.e., G flat major and E flat major) and KR 2 (i.e., D major and B minor).

Key range A flat major/F minor is evidently dominant in the piece. As we go down the circle of fifths, further and further away from KR -4, the numerousness of the subsequent key ranges is successively reduced (except for KR -2 and KR -1). KR -5, the D flat major/F minor key range, is ranked second. The third rank is attached to the KR -3 (dominant key range).

The Tonal Structure of Chopin’s Mazurkas

The Polish musicologists many times made attempts at studying particular components of a musical piece in the Chopin’s mazurkas making use of traditional research methods (See for example: Miketta 1949; Biegański 1960). The newest research on Chopin’s mazurkas using computational methods includes the project entitled “Style, performance, and meaning in Chopin’s Mazurkas”3 carried out by The AHRC (Analysis of Recorded Music and managed) Research Centre for the History and Analysis of Recorded Music and managed by Nicolas Cook (2007) and Craig Sapp (2006).

Mazurkas Mostly Diverting From Their Classical Pattern The mazurkas of the type mostly departing from the classical pattern will be those in which the tonic key

range lacks the first rank. Besides, the tonal structure of those pieces is frequently characterized by asymmetry and several tonal centers. Apart from the piece discussed, the group of mazurkas, which have the most original tonal structure, comprises. Let us observe the tonal structure of Mazurka C sharp minor op. 6 No. 2 (see Figure 3):


0%

5%

10%

15%

20%

25%

2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 - N-D U/R

Figure 3. Frederick Chopin, Mazurka C sharp minor op. 6 No. 2.

Composition is maintained in minor key. Most important differences in analysis of musical piece in view of the mode (major/minor) were presented in other publications (Majchrzak, 2008a; 2010). In presented Mazurka not only is the KR 4 (C sharp minor key range) not given a first rank, but moreover, one cannot find it across the three ranges that appear most numerously in the piece, either. The piece’s leading key range is G sharp major/E

3 Retrieved from http://www.charm.rhul.ac.uk/content/projects/chopin.html.


sharp minor (KR 8). Second and third ranks possess KR 7 and KR 6. The tonic key range (KR 4) is only ranked fourth. The structure of the three most numerously represented key ranges is most remindful for example of the C sharp major, rather that C sharp minor key:

First rank—KR 8—dominant key range in C sharp major; Second rank—KR 7—tonic key range in C sharp major (not C sharp minor); Third rank—KR 6—subdominant key range in C sharp major. Taking into account supremacy of given key ranges and seeing no more than the tonal structure diagram we

would be theoretically able to consider also G sharp major (first rank—KR 8—tonic key range in G sharp major; second rank—KR 7—subdominant key range in G sharp major), or C sharp major (first range—dominant key rang, second range—tonic key range, third rage subdominant key range) as a main key in this mazurka.

The analogous, quite sophisticated tonal structure possess: Mazurka E flat minor op.6 No. 4, Mazurka A minor op. 7 No. 2, Mazurka B minor op. 30 No. 2, Mazurka B minor op. 33 No. 4, Mazurka E minor op. 41 No. 2, Mazurka C sharp minor op. 41 No. 1, Mazurka C sharp minor op. 56 No. 3, Mazurka F sharp minor op. 59 No. 3, Mazurka C sharp minor op. 63 No. 3, or Mazurka A minor op. 67 No. 4.

Mazurkas, in Which the Tonic Key Range Lacks the First Rank, But the Entirety of Their Tonal Structure Looks Less Unconventional Than That in the Mazurkas of the Previous Group

Now, let us have a look at the mazurkas, in which the tonic key range lacks the first rank, but the entire tonal structure is not as much complicated as in the case of the pieces cited beforehand. Let us take Mazurka in the key of A minor op. 59, No. 1 (see Figure 4):


0%

3%6%

9%12%15%

18%21%

-6 -4 -2 0 2 4 6 8 10 N-D

Figure 4. Frederick Chopin, Mazurka A minor op. 59 No. 1.

The discrepancies in domination of KR 0, KR 2, KR 3, KR 4, and KR 5 are practically imperceptible. At times they differ by a tenth of per cent. The following are dominant in the group of the presented key ranges and at the same time in the whole piece: the key range of A major/F sharp minor and the key range of E major/C sharp minor. And, interesting, they occur with the same frequency. The tonic key range has the fourth rank also being second to the key range of B major/G sharp minor. Nevertheless, in this context, the depreciation of the tonic key range is not of the essential importance, due to the almost non-existent difference in the extent of domination of the remaining three key ranges. The issues of the tonal structure, which made it possible to select this group of


pieces, refer also to such mazurkas as: Mazurka C major op. 7 No. 5, Mazurka A minor op. 17 No. 4, Mazurka A flat major op. 50 No. 2, Mazurka C major without opus number (57).

Mazurkas Moderately Departing From the Classical Pattern Among Chopin’s mazurkas we can find such ones in which a tonic key range leads, but the tonal structure

departs from the classical pattern. We can differentiate a few kinds within this classification. It should be noted that sometimes a piece has some features which make it possible to classify it not within one kind only. The presented classification aims at indicating the multitude of the pieces of this sort which make them depart from the classical tonal structure.

(1) Mazurkas with increased number of key ranges, where some tonal centres occur apart from a tonal centre focused on the tonic key range. Mazurka in B major op. 41 No. 4 is a model piece which can be included in the first group (see Figure 5):


0%

4%

8%12%

16%

20%

24%28%

-5 -4 -3 -2 -1 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 - N-D U/R

Figure 5. Frederick Chopin, Mazurka B major op. 41 No. 4.

Apart from the tonic key range we can see the tonal centers around KR -3 and KR 1, or KR 2. The first selected group also includes the following pieces: Mazurka A flat major op. 7 No. 4, Mazurka F sharp minor op. 6 No. 1, Mazurka E minor op. 17 No. 2, Mazurka A flat Major op. 17 No. 3, Mazurka C major op 24 No. 2, Mazurka A flat major op. 24 No. 3, Mazurka C major op. 33 No. 3, Mazurka G major op. 50 No. 1, or Mazurka B major op. 56, No. 1.

(2) The pieces, where there is a highly asymmetric collection of key ranges relative to the tonic key range, are another example. Please note that the mazurka analyzed above features a relatively high asymmetry. The objective of the thorough analysis of this piece was to exemplify a piece which has several tonal centers. The example of another, second group is Mazurka in B major, op. 7 No. 1 (see Figure 6):

In piece dominates the tonic key range. KR -1, which is an equivalent of the key of F major/D minor and has the second rank. The third rank is characteristic for the range of subdominant. The remaining key ranges have decreasing frequency of occurrence, being the less frequent, the more they depart from key range. Only KR -6, to a slight extent, dominates over the adjacent ranges. The departures from the tonal structure, typical for classical pieces of a major key, can also be found in the question of larger number of the key ranges on the left-hand side of the tonic key range, despite we are on the ground of the key which has two flats at the cleft. The discussed feature,


which consists in asymmetry of key ranges relative to the tonic key range, also refers to such pieces of the analyzed musical forms as: Mazurka E major op. 6 No. 3, Mazurka B flat major op. 17 No. 1, Mazurka D major op. 33 No. 2, or Mazurka A flat major op. 41 No. 4.


0%

7%

14%

21%

28%

35%

42%

-8 -7 -6 -5 -4 -3 -2 -1 0 - N-D U/R

Figure 6. Frederick Chopin, Mazurka B flat major op. 7 No. 1.

(3) The last kind of mazurkas is connected with the relationships between the key ranges in minor keys. As an example we can choose Mazurka C sharp minor, op. 30, No. 4 (see Figure 7):


0%

4%

8%

12%

16%

20%

-6 -4 -2 0 2 4 6 8 10 - U/R

Figure 7. Frederick Chopin, Mazurka C sharp minor op. 30 No. 4.

The major dominant chord (G sharp-B sharp-D sharp) is included in KR 8 in the piece maintained in the key of C sharp minor. On the other hand, the dominant seventh occurs in KR 7. Both key ranges, and especially the range of the major dominant, are concealed by other key ranges. The similar tonal structure has: Mazurka G minor op. 24 No. 1, Mazurka B flat minor op. 33 No. 4, Mazurka G minor op. 67 No. 2, or Mazurka F minor op. 68 No. 4.

The Classical Tonal Structure Let us have a look at a mazurka, whose tonal structure appears classical (see Figure 8). Minor departures, as compared with the mazurkas presented above, are demonstrated in a greater number of

key ranges, and also in the frequency of occurrence of the key range E flat major/minor (KR -3), which does not


merge within the ideal one-modal chart formed by the remaining key ranges.


0%

4%

8%

12%

16%

20%

24%

-10 -9 -8 -7 -6 -5 -4 -3 -2 -1 0 1 - N-D U/R

Figure 8. Frederick Chopin, Mazurka D flat major op. 30 No. 3.

The presented group of pieces of classical tonal structure includes mainly commissioned mazurkas, the mazurkas which Chopin did not want to publish or the mazurkas, the Chopin’s authorship of which is not indisputable. This may be the evidence that Chopin attached great significance to the mazurkas composed as a result of his artistic need and not for other reasons. (If we assume that the original/unique tonal structure was one of the indicators of the value of a piece, in the composer’s opinion). The latter, in their prevailing majority, hale unconventional relationships of the chord groups which were assigned to particular key ranges.

Chopin’s Mazurkas Tonal Structure in Relation to the Period of Composing

The first of that kind, Mazurka in A flat major, op. 7 No. 4, was composed in 1824. Before the year 1830 few mazurkas were composed. The classical tonal structure is the characteristic feature of those pieces, perhaps except of Mazurka in A flat major and Mazurka in A minor, op. 68 No. 2 only. The charts show only little departures from the classical pattern. Let us have a look at Mazurka A flat major op. 7 No. 4 (see Figure 9).


0%

5%

10%

15%

20%

25%

30%

-8 -7 -6 -5 -4 -3 -2 -1 0 1 2 3 - N-D U/R

Figure 9. Frederick Chopin (1824), Mazurka A flat major op. 7 No. 4.


The piece has a significant number of key ranges, taking into account the period when it was composed. In this piece lead: KR -4 (tonic key range), KR -5 (subdominant key range), and KR -3 (dominant key range). KR 0 stands out among the remaining key ranges, whose frequency gradually decreases, departing from the tonic key range. However, in KR 0 we classify dominant chord in F minor key (KR -4). Hence, presented situation does not seem to be unconventional. Another tonal center is also visible in the chart. It is KR 3, which is not very related to A flat major key. Nevertheless the frequency of its occurrence is not especially significant.

After 1830 we can find even more pieces of this musical form. A considerable portion of mazurkas still has the type of the classical tonal structure, e.g., Mazurka E major op. 6 No. 3, or Mazurka C major op. 68 No. 1. Starting from 1832 and the second half of 1830 we find many mazurkas which feature the unbalance of natural domination of the key ranges, caused by the fact that the tonic key range has not got the first rank. In the second half of 1830 it is difficult to find a mazurka, which would have slight departures from the classical pattern tonal structure. Let us have a look at the tonal structure of one of the most complicated (possibly the most complex one) pieces with this respect (see Figure 10).


0%

6%

12%

18%

24%

30%

36%

-8 -6 -4 -2 0 2 4 6 8 10 12 N-D

Figure 10. Frederick Chopin (1838), Mazurka B minor op. 33 No. 4.

In the case of the discussed piece many attempts at the interpretation of the complicated chord relationships are encountered in the musicology literature (Bronarski, 1935). It is one of many examples of Chopin’s music where researchers face difficulties in interpretation of particular chords.

The very fact of occurrence of high variation in the key based on which the composer shapes the musical material in Mazurka in B minor op. 33 No. 4 probably results in high interest in statistical domination of chords classified within the specified key ranges. Apart from the key signature of B minor (immediately after the cleft), on which part III is based in general, the course of the piece reveals such keys as that of C major, B major, or the key of B flat major—a very far one from the key of B minor… And what is the form of the tonal structure? Is it as much original as the keys occurring in the course of this piece? We encounter a similar situation in Mazurka in B minor of op. 33 as in Mazurka in B minor of op. 30. The range of the most frequency is not the key range of the tonic chord. The first rank—which is astonishing—is made up of all diatonic chords of their arithmetic mean ranging from -0.5 do 0.5. The key range of C major/A minor—as this is the case—dominates in this piece in spite of the fact that the portions kept in the key not having the cleft key signatures appear in the first part only. The


presented fact of KR 0 domination (and not the domination of other key ranges, more related to the cleft signature key of B minor) cannot be affected by the frequency of non-diatonic (N-D) chords. The second rank, being secondary to KR 0 to a slight extent, is ascribed to KR 5. Such a situation seems to be more natural, as the whole second part is based on the key of B major. The tonic key range has the third rank, slightly preceding such ranges as: the key range of A major/F sharp minor and E major/C sharp minor. The choice of particular chords by the composer additionally results in appearing of tonal centres (apart from the already mentioned key ranges of C major/A minor and B major/G sharp minor) around the key range of G flat major/E flat minor and B major/G minor, which, however, slightly dominate over their adjacent ranges. To sum up, here we deal with a piece of the most original tonal structure of all the compositions of this musical form. In the other pieces, where there was a depreciation of the tonic key range, the key ranges, which dominated, were those which are definitely much more related to the cleft key signature of a piece.

Conclusions

The total number of pieces analyzed using the author’s research method, the four Chopin’s musical forms excluded, amounted to almost one hundred. We are talking here about pieces from different historical epochs (Majchrzak, 2005) and also about some selected piano miniatures by Robert Schumann and Felix Mendelssohn (Majchrzak, 2009a). On their background, the Frederick Chopin’s miniatures look quite unconventional in the aspect of their tonal structure. Taking into account the relations between the particular key ranges, mazurkas look

most unique. Summarizing the analytical data presented in the previous chapters we can come to a conclusion that we deal

with a large number of mazurkas, in which the most natural and important feature in the tonal structure is annulled. After all, most chords in a piece should belong to the key range, in which its tonic is classified whereas as many as several mazurkas are dominated by a key range which is not a tonic key range. Statistically this accounts for about 25% of all mazurkas, and the problem refers to, more or less, every four piece of this musical form. Statistically, about one third of mazurkas show a tonal structure which clearly departs from the classical pattern, in spite of domination a tonic key range in these pieces. Only about 40% of all mazurkas belong to a

group of pieces of non-complicated tonal structure or of one departing from the classical pattern tonal structure to a moderate extent. Please note that the analyzed piano miniatures by other composers of the first half of the 19th century had traditional tonal structure.

Hundreds of pages have been written on the Polish character in Chopin’s music (Paschalow, 1951; Chominski, 1978; Mysłakowski & Sikorski, 2010). The tonic key range in Chopin’s pieces at times loses its primary rank. It refers mainly to mazurkas, a musical form especially connected with the Polish national identity. This occurs in the period when Poland lost its independence and was divided by three countries—Austrian Partition, Prussian Partition, and Russian Partition.

Can we assume that the group of chords mostly related to the main key of a piece was deprived of its first rank as an artistic manifestation of the composer, who was affected by the fate of his motherland deprived of independence? We are left to guesses and speculations only.


References Biegański, K. (1960). Elementy skalowosci ludowej w mazurkach Chopina i ich konsekwencje harmoniczne (Elements of folk

scales in Chopin’s Mazurkas and their harmonic consequences). Scholary publications of the Institute of Musicology of the Warsaw University, pp. 79-123.

Blankertz, B., Purwins, H., & Obermayer, K. (1999). Toroidal models of inter-key relations in tonal music. Proceedings of The 6th

International Conference on Systematic and Comparative Musicology, Oslo. Bronarski, L. (1935). Harmonika Chopina (The Chopin harmonic). Warszawa, Towarzystwo Wydawnicze Muzyki Polskiej. Cambouropoulos, E. (2003). Pitch spelling: A computational model. Music Perception, 20(4), 411-429. Chew, E. (2000). Towards a mathematical model of tonality (Ph.D. dissertation, Operations Research Center, Massachusetts

Institute of Technology, Cambridge, MA). Chew, E. (2008). Out of the grid and into the spiral: Geometric interpretations of and comparisons with the spiral-array model.

Computing in Musicology, 15, 51-72. Chominski, J. M. (1978). Chopin. Cracow, The Polish Music Publishing House. Cook, N. (2007). Performance analysis and Chopin’s mazurkas. Musicae Scientiae (The Journal of the European Society for the

Cognitive Sciences of Music), 11(2), 183-207. Ferková, E. (2010). Tektonika a harmonická reč Chopinových mazúriek (Tectonics and harmonic language of Chopin mazúriek)

Slovenská hudba, 36, Bratislava, Slovak Musicology Association, 175-194. Gołąb, M. (1995). Chopins Harmonik. Chromatik in ihrer Beziehung zur Tonalität (Chromatic harmony and tonality in Chopin’s

work). Deutsche Übersetzung: B. Hirszenberg, Köln: Bela Verlag. Gómez, E., & Jordi, B. (2005). Tonality visualization of plyphonic audio. Proceedings of International Computer Music Conference,

Barcelona. Krumhansl, C. L. (1990). Cognitive foundations of musical pitch. New York: Oxford University Press. Majchrzak, M. (2005). Dywergencje i konwergencje szeregów rozdzielczych tonacji durowych i molowych w utworach okresu

supremacji harmonii tonalnej (Divergences and convergences of major and minor key distribution series in musical pieces of the tonal harmony supremacy period) (Master thesis, Karol Lipiński Academy of Music, Wroclaw, supervisor: Prof. Dr Stanislaw Krupowicz).

Majchrzak, M. (2007). Irrelative system in tonal harmony. Proceedings of 1st International Conference of Society for Mathematics and Computation in Music, Berlin.

Majchrzak, M. (2008a). Mode-dependent differences in chord classification under an original method of tonal structure analysis. Proceedings of 5th Sound and Music Computing Conference, Berlin.

Majchrzak, M. (2008b). Analytic capacities of an original tonality analysis method, based on the example of Chopin’s preludes op. 28. Proceedings of The 16th International Conference on Multimedia. Association of Computing Machinery (ACM), Vancouver-New York.

Majchrzak, M. (2009a). Diversity of the tonal structure of Chopin’s etudes (invited article). British Postgraduate Musicology, 10. Retrieved from http://www.bpmonline.org.uk/bpm10/

Majchrzak, M. (2009c). The application of descriptive statistics to the tonality analysis: Systematic possibilities; philosophical issues. Proceedings of International Symposium on Frontiers of Research on Speech and Music, ABV-Indian Institute of Information Technology & Management ,Gwalior.

Majchrzak, M. (2010a). Rozdiely v tonálnej štruktúre vybraných Chopinových diel vzhľadom na tóninu, na základe štatistickej metódy hudobnej analýzy (Discrepancies in tonal structure of Chopin’s works selected in view of the key). Slovenská hudba, 36, Bratislava, Slovak Musicology Association, 171-174.

Majchrzak, M. (2010b). Klasycznosc struktury tonalnej piesni Chopina (The classic character of the tonal structure of Chopin’s songs). Proceedings of 1st International Conference: Musical Analysis, Wroclaw.

Majchrzak, M., & Gingras, B. (2009b). Importance of enharmonic tone record in IT-based analysis of tonal structure. Proceedings of 7th Triennial Conference of European Society for the Cognitive Sciences of Music, Jyväskylä.

Miketta, J. (1949). Mazurki Chopina (Chopin’s Mazurkas). Cracow: The Polish Music Publishing House. Mysłakowski, P., & Andrzej, S. (2010). Fryderyk Chopin. Korzenie (Frederic Chopin. Roots). Warsaw: The Frederic Chopin

Institute. Paschalow, W. (1951). Chopin a polska muzyka ludowa (Chopin and Polish folk music). Cracow: The Polish Music Publishing

House.


Sapp, C. (2001). Harmonic visualizations of tonal music. Proceedings of The International Computer Music Conference—ICMC, Havana.

Sapp, C. (2005). Visual hierarchical key analysis. Computers in Entertainment, 3(4), 1-19. Sapp, C. (2006). Mazurkas project report. RMA Newsletter, The Royal Musical Association. Temperley, D. (2008). The tonal properties of pitch-class sets: Tonal implication, tonal ambiguity, and tonalness. Computing in

Musicology, 15, 24-38. Toiviainen, P. (2008). Visualization of tonal content in the symbolic and audio domains. Computing in Musicology, 15, 187-199. Tomaszewski, M. (2005). Chopin: Czlowiek, dzielo, rezonans (Chopin: Man, work, resonance). Cracow: The Polish Music

Publishing House. Tuchowski, A. (1996). Integracja strukturalna w świetle przemian stylu Chopina (Structural integration in the light of changes in

Chopin’s style). Cracow: Musica Iagellonica.


Musical Traditions of Tengrianism

Bakhtiyar Amanzhol Kazakhstans National Conservatory by Name of Kurmangazy, Almaty, Kazakhstan

This paper examines the musical tradition, widespread in the giant habitat of the northern hemisphere—from the

Urals in the east to the Pacific and even capturing the regions of North America. The author considers music as a

reflection of worldview and religion. For this purpose the author uses a method of comparison of a mythological

picture of the world and properties of musical language. An important element linking the two areas is vertical. In

mythology, this is turning the world on several floors in which the world of people occupies the middle one. At

the level of music—it is the vertical of overtone sound row. The initial timbre ideal of this tradition are the

sounds of throat singing which are associated with the vertical of the universe and consciousness used as an

important formative structure of the World Model. In the article the author considers a materialization of musical

consciousness in musical instruments. For this purpose, eight instruments under different names are selected and

presented in musical cultures of people. This allows the author to create the card of geographical distribution of

tengri consciousness.

Keywords: musical language, vertical of overtone sound row, worldview of Tengry, throat singing

Introduction

Our time is marked by unprecedented population growth and after this—an aggravation balance between human and environment. The ways of solving the problems lie not only in the sphere of scientific technology, but also in the spiritual one—in comprehending the ethnic traditions which contain the centuries-old experience of oneness with nature. This is one of the major reasons of great scientific, cultural, and educational interest in the spiritual content of folk traditions today. One of the world outlook traditions, being an ancient source of modern world religions became the subject of study of the author of this article. The author approached the problem through the research study of music as a language opening the worldview information containing in it.

It was promoted by openings in the field of musicology and psychology of the last decades. In particular, the researches of brain languages done by American neuropsychologist Pribram (1971) who has come to a conclusion that consciousness generally operates with spatial concepts, also the work of the Kazakh musicologist Amanov (1985) who has found a language sign of music—the vertical. He connects psycho-physiology (the vertical structure of the human body), mythology (the vertical structure of the World), acoustics (the vertical structure of the harmonic series—overtones), musicology (the vertical structure of the musical tissue), and organology (the vertical structure of the string instrument). This has allowed considering music as a language on the analytical level, also, in the similar line of work—the research of Russian

Bakhtiyar Amanzhol, Ph.D., professor, composer, musicologist, Kazakhstans National Conservatory by Name of Kurmangazy.

DAVID PUBLISHING

D

MUSICAL TRADITIONS OF TENGRIANISM 47

musicologist Matsievsky (2007), who introduced the term “contonation”1. There are also other researches, among which, the work of the author of this paper, who developed the system of musical analysis (“Sacral-spacial analysis”) (2010), in the scope of which lies also the research of ideological spatial structures with musical essence.

This approach allows examining the whole musical styles and traditions as an expression of worldview that underlies them. One of the directions devoted by the author is to study the ancient musical tradition the worldview of which is fundamentally ecological in nature. It has long been on the periphery of scientific attention2, although it’s an integral part of today’s world religions and cultures of many nations.

The Spiritual Tradition of Tengri

In the second half of the 20th century scholars started to talk about a new world religion—Tengrianism, or the worship of the Sky deity Tengri deity, the Cosmic Breath (Tan is sky in Japanese, tjan—in Chinese, tanirlik—in Kazakh which is the morning light rising, in the language of inuil it’s anirinik—the dreath, the polar lights of the died children’s oul in the sky). Many scientists believe that Tengrianism is more a worldview than a religion because it covers the entire system of communication between human and nature. In earlier works this religion had been known under other names, such as “Altaic shamanism” or “the cult of ancestor spirits”. Nowadays, we are only beginning to appreciate its significance for the spiritual culture of Eurasia and even beyond.

The historical roots of Tengrianism extend deep into history. The earliest references to Tengri date back to the fourth century B.C.: In ancient Mesopotamia the name of a king would be written with an honorific title, “Dingir” (God) (Oppenheim, 1990). By the 12th-13th century A.D. this form of worship had become a religion in its own right, with its own ontology, cosmology, mythology, and demonology (Tokarev, 2003). Variants of the word “tengri”, meaning “god”, are found in a wide range of Turkic languages, and there have been some hypothesis about its etymology. The Russian researcher of Tengrianism, Bezertinov (2000), conveys a sense of its meaning for Altaic worship by collating the Turkic word “tan” which means “sunrise”, with the ancient Egyptian word “rа” which means “sun”, and the Turkic, Altaic word “yang”, meaning “consciousness”.

Although the epicentre of Tengrianism is thought to have been Altai, original home of the Turkic people, manifestations of this ancient religion are found in the cultural traditions of the peoples inhabiting the area from the Ural mountains in the west to the Pacific in the east. Elements of the worship of Tengri were incorporated into Buddhism, Christianity, and Islam, adding a distinctive cultural dimension to these later religions.

Music in Tengrianism as Spiritual Mediation The role of music as a channel of religious communication has been known from earliest times in the

cultures of many peoples. It can be seen in oral lore and mythology, for example in the myth about Orpheus, in the ancient Turkic legend about Qorqyt, and the Kyrghyz legend about Qambar.

What aspects of musical language provide the means for sacred mediation in the Tengrian tradition? The relationship of music with the system of worldviews here lies in the expression of the idea of vertical connection

1 That is—the holographic-dimensional perception of sounds, in contrast to the linear-sequential in the “intonation”. 2 Epicenter and geographically large part of this tradition is in the territory of the former Sovet Union totalitarian ideology that caused the blockade studies.


between different spheres of the universe: The lower sphere of the Earth, the upper sphere of the Sky and the human world in between. The ancient Turkic inscription on the Orkhon-Enisei monument to Kultegin found in northern Mongolia and dating back to the eighth century A.D. draws a picture of the creation of the universe: “When the blue Heaven above and the brown Earth beneath arose, between the twain Mankind arose” (The inscription on a stone stele from grave Kul’-Tegin. Orkhon-Yenisei monuments, ages VII-VIII) (Atabek, 2000, p. 36).

In the Tengrian musical tradition, various musical means convey this idea of a multi-layered organisation of the universe. These include the quality of sound and timbre, texture and form, and a propensity for improvisation and meditation. It is not incidental that in the timbral aesthetics of the peoples who have historically shared the Tengrian system of worldviews, preference is given to acoustically complex timbres and sounds, enriched with harmonics and extra sound effects. The resulting complex sonic structure serves as an analogy of a connection between dense matter and thin ether, body and soul or spirit.

The earliest historical prototype of this sonic structure is overtones of throat-singing. The sound of throat-singing represents a coexistence of the earthly and the heavenly world. Throat-singing is also characterised by imitation of the sounds of nature and animals which also has sacred connections inherent in animistic beliefs. Various forms of throat-singing or singing which highlight the acoustic complexity of sound are found across Central and Inner Asia, mainly in Siberia and Mongolia. A modified form of this singing is also found in the mugham tradition of the Caucasus, in Iran and Turkey. A form of singing analogous to throat-singing in Inner Asia is current among the North American Inuits, the aboriginal people, who migrated to the north of America from Asia around the second millenium B.C., and whose culture links them to the peoples of Siberia. All these forms of singing are characterised by prolonged tones embellished with a succession of accents. In throat-singing the production of such accents is achieved by means of palatal vibration.

Musical Instruments of Tengrianism Among the Kazakhs

The Tengrian worldview and its sonic image have also found expression in the sound of musical instruments and instrumental music. Musical instruments represent an interface of material and spiritual culture. The author shall now overview types of musical instrument that can be said to embody the Tengrian worldview. The author shall focus on Kazakh musical instruments, with which the author has the greatest familiarity.

Studies by the European musicologists Werner Bachmann and Slavi Donchev have argued that the qobyz (see Figure 1), the two-stringed bowed lute with horsehair strings, is an ancient prototype of the violin (Bachmann, 1969; Mukhambetova, 2002, pp. 513-519). The violin departed considerably from its predecessor, as it expresses a different sound aesthetic where purity of intonation and elimination of extra sound effects are most valued. The qobyz, on the contrary, is distinguished by a complex sound amplified by harmonics which are produced by the friction of a horsehair bow drawn across the horsehair strings. The resulting sound can be understood as a sonic representation of the picture of the universe in Tengrianism. The specific complexity of the qobyz sound distinguishes this instrument from other modifications of bowed stringed instruments which presumably developed later.


Figure 1. Qobyz.

Figure 2. Sybyzghy.

The sound aesthetic of the sybyzghy (see Figure 2), an open end-blown flute with six holes, is related to that of the qobyz. In the case of the sybyzghy, the tube serves as an amplifier for overtones from the low vocal drone produced by the performer. The resonating sound of the sybyzghyis accompanied by a hissing effect as an extra stream of air is expelled. Flutes of similar construction and sound are current across Central and Inner Asia, e.g., Altaic shoor, Tuvan chuur, Mongolian tsuur, Kyrghyz choor, Turkmen gargy-tuiduk, and Bashkir kurai.

Figure 3. Shaŋ-qobyz.

The Kazakh shaŋ-qobyz (see Figure 3) is a mouth harp. Instruments of this kind are found in many music cultures of the world. The specific sound of the mouth harp and the method of its sound production whereby the player’s mouth becomes a resonating chamber for the creation of an overtone sound structure, have their origins in the shamanic, Tengrian tradition. Similar instruments among other peoples of Central and Inner Asia have had sacred connotations (Altaic khomus, Tuvan sheler khomus, Yakut khomus, Kyrghyz temir ooz komuz and jigach ooz komuz, Bashkir kubyz, Turkmen gopuz).


Figure 4. Dombyra.

On the two-stringed plucked lute, dombyra (see Figure 4), the idea of a multi-layered structure of the universe reveals itself not so much in the timbre or sound as such, as in the development of musical material within a composition. Many pieces for the dombyra, called küi, are structured according to the principle of melodic and modal progression from lower to higher registers with intermittent returns to the lower register. This corresponds to the movement of the dombyra player’s hand from the upper part of the instrument’s neck to the bottom, at its juncture with the soundboard. The Kazakh musicologist Amanov (1985) suggested that this principle of development resembles the trajectory of a shaman’s movement in his journeys to the upper world during the healing and divination séances (pp. 39-48). Extra-musical analogies of this sound structure are also reflected in the customary names for the dombyra neck sections which correspond to particular register zones (buyn). These designations point to an association between the division of the dombyra neck, the structure of the human body and that of the universe. Thus, the dombyra neck is notionally divided into three main parts: the section close to the soundboard, known as sagha (source, foundation) or ayaq (leg, end, and bottom); middle section, called orta (middle) or keude (chest), and the section close to the pegboard, known as bas (head, beginning, and top).

Figure 5. Zhetygen.

Horizontally held zithers played by plucking or striking the strings with light beaters have been found among various peoples since old times. The zithers of the zhetygen (see Figure 5) type are played by plucking strings on the right side of the bridges and stopping them on the left side as they sound (e.g., Khakass chatkhan, Mongolian yatga, Chinese zheng, guzheng, Vietnamese dan tranh, Korean kayagum, Japanese koto). In Altai,


the zither has been mainly used to accompany throat-singing. Solo performance on this kind of instrument also reproduces the idea of a multi-layered structure of the universe: In a number of compositions, a low drone is combined with a high-pitched melody. In Chinese, Korean and Japanese performance traditions the zithers are no longer used as an accompaniment to singing, and their construction is different from that of the instruments of the zhetygen type, but the instrumental repertoire still depicts images of the natural world. In the history of Korean music the adoption of the zither, kayagum, dates, if not to the sixth century, at least to the time of close contacts with Turks in the seventh century and with the Tang Dynasty (618-907 A.D.), which captured areas of Mongolia from the Turks and absorbed steppe nomads into its protectorate.

Figure 6. Saz-syrnai.

Saz-syrnai (see Figure 6) is a clay ocarina. Its timbre chimes with the imagery of the Tengrian worldview. In its sound one can feel the chill and mystic sound of the wind singing, and in the lower register it can imitate animal calls and cries, for instance, the howling of the wolf, totem animal among Turks. An early type of whistle was found during the archeological excavation of the ancient city of Otrar near Shymkent in the south of Kazakhstan. This whistle would hardly count as a musical instrument. But an early repertoire for the ocarina among the Chinese and Koreans which dates back to the second century A.D. suggests connections with the music of Turkic nomads. As evidence of this, perhaps, the author came across an early Chinese piece for the xian ocarina called “Tending Sheep” (Su wu) which tells of a hero-herdsman. It is a monodic piece performed in an improvisatory manner.

Figure 7. Asatayaq.


Percussion instruments, such as the frame drum and staff with metal pendants, known among Kazakhs as asatayaq (see Figure 7), have been used in shamanic practice both in and beyond Central Asia. In Siberia, Tibet, India, Japan, and Indonesia, the ritual use of these instruments reflects local sacred worldviews. The distinctive properties of the staff type of instrument are its vertical shape and metal pendants attached at the top which have cleansing properties. The practice of ringing bells for purification purposes in ancient Tibet was later adopted in Christianity and spread across the world. As for the Turkic-Mongolian staff of the asatayaq type, it was introduced into the military trappings of Chingiz Khan’s armies shaped like a pikestaff or mace—a kind of loud-sounding amulet to ward off evil (tumar) (see Figure 8). Later, it became adopted in the Russian army. We are familiar with this kind of instrument from Soviet and post-Soviet military parades.

Figure 8. Tumar.

Three Geocultural Distribution Zones of Tengrianism in Music

Musical instruments associated with Tengrianism cover a wide geographical area (see Figure 9). It is possible to distinguish three geographical zones, in which they range from instruments of living music practice to museum artefacts: (1) The zone in which the Tengrian tradition is most strongly manifested; (2) The zone where it is manifested less obviously and constantly; and (3) The zone which preserves some historical traces of its influence.

The first zone (marked yellow on the map) stretches from the Caspian Sea to the Pacific, including Siberia, in the south—Kazakhstan, Kyrghyzstan, Tibet, Mongolia, and North China; in the south-east—Korea and Japan; as well as the areas inhabited by Inuits—Alaska, North Canada, and Greenland. In this zone three or more instruments of the types described earlier are current in music practice and are used in the way that corresponds to the Tengrian sound aesthetics and imagery, depicting images of nature, sacred animals, totems of ancestor-spirits.

The second zone (marked green) extends beyond the first zone, to the Caucasus in the west, to the south of Central Asia and North India. Here, three or fewer instruments of the above types are current in performance. The spiritual connotations of their use are less pronounced, and the musical traditions are influenced by more recent religions.


Figure 9. Tengrianism cover a wide geographical area.

Finally, the third zone (marked brown) encompasses cultures which have retained certain historical traces of the Tengrian musical tradition, or preserve the corresponding instruments merely as museum exhibits. This zone includes western Europe (mainly Germany and Italy), the Balkans, the Middle East and North Africa, Ukraine, the Carpathian Mountains, North Russian, and to the south—South China, Vietnam and Indonesia.

Further studies may uncover new information about the spiritual and musical tradition of Tengrianism and give us a fuller picture of the distribution of this tradition.

Conclusions

As a result of research of musical language of a large range of people of Asia, as well as North American regions, the author draws a parallel between the worldview and the musical instruments. This allows the author to create the card of geographical distribution of Tengri consciousness.

References Amanov, B. (1985). Kompozitzionnaya terminologiya dombrovyh kuev (Compositional terminology of Dombra Kuis). In

Instrumentalnaya muzyka kazakhskogo naroda (Instrumental music of the Kazakh people) (pp. 39-48). Alma-Ata: Oner. Amanzhol, B. (2002). Tembry kazakhskoi muzyki (The timbres of Kazakh music). In Melodii vekov. Materialy mezhdunarodnoi

konferenzii, posvyashennoi 100-letiu kuishi Kambara Medetova. Almaty, 2001 (The Melodies of Centuries. Proceedings of the International Conference Dedicated to the 100th Anniversary of the Kui Master Kambar Medetov. Almaty, 2001) (pp. 308-319). Almaty: Daik-Press.

Amanzhol, B. (2010). Abstract. Prostaranstvennye struktury kazahskoy muzyki I ih otrajenie v tvorchestve kompozitorov XX veka (Spatial structures of Kazakh music and their reflection in the works of composers of the XX century). Almaty: Gridan poligraf.

Atabek, A. (2000). Yiolyg-tegin. Monument of Kul’-Tegin. Almaty: Nil Infoteh. Bachmann, W. (1969). The origins of bowing and the development of bowed instruments up to the thirteenth century. (N. Deane,

Trans.). London: Oxford University Press. Bezertinov, R. (2000). Tengrianstvo—religiya turkov i mongolov (Tengrianism—The religion of the Turks and Mongols).

Naberezhnye Chelny: Ayaz. Pribram, K. H. (1971). Languages of the brain: Experimental paradoxes and principles in neuropsychology. New York: Brandon

House.


Matsievsky, I. (2007) Narodnaya instrumental’naya muzyka kak fenomen kul’tury (Folk instrument’s music as a cultural phenomenon). Almaty: Daik-Press.

Mukhambetova, A. (2002). V poiskah predkov skripki (In search of the ancestors of the violin). In B. Amanov, & A. Mukhambetova (Eds.), Kazakhskaya traditzionnaya muzyka i 20 vek (Kazakh traditional music and the 20th century) (pp. 513-519). Almaty: Daik-Press.

Oppenheim, A. L. (1977). [1964]. Ancient Mesopotamia: Portrait of a dead civilization (Revised and completed by E. Reiner). Chicago: University of Chicago Press (Russian edition (1990). Moscow: Nauka).

Sheikin, Y. I. (2002). Istoriya muzykalnoi kultury narodov Sibiri: Sravnitelno-istoricheskoe issledovanie (The history of the musical culture of the peoples of Siberia: Comparative and historical study). Moscow: Vostochnaya literatura.

Tokarev, S. A. (2003). Mify narodov mira. Enziklopediya v dvuh tomah (Myths of the peoples of the world. Encyclopaedia in two volumes). Moscow: Bolshaya Rossiiskaya enziklopediya.


Dixy: A Connection Between the

“Typographic Appearance” and the Brain of Children*

María Fernanda del Real García

Universidad Autónoma de Barcelona, Bellaterra, Spain

This study presents a comparison between three different fonts in order to know the possible influence they may

have when used in educational materials for children with readers difficulties resulting from dyslexia. Two of the

three selected fonts (Arial and MeMimas) are frequently used in textbooks in Spain. The third type of letter (Dixy)

was specially developed for typographic research purposes, following graphic features that according to literature

and previous studies on reading patterns favor the dyslexic, and could improve reading skills in these individuals.

To examine the quality of reading (speed and accuracy) between fonts, a small—but significant—sample was used.

Ten children in Madrid, from eight to 10 years old were examined while reading words and pseudowords with three

different fonts (Arial, MeMimas, and Dixy). The result of the study shows the influence of the shapes of the letters

in the legibility of texts with familiar and unfamiliar words (pseudowords) in children with dyslexia. The study

showed that using the font Dixy, despite not being known by the children, reading is more accurate than using fonts

known to them, such as Arial and MeMimas. As to the reading speed, the results indicate that, although the Dixy is

a font never seen before by the children, reading speed is similar to a known font for them, as is the Arial, and

greater than a hand writing font such as MeMimas.

Keywords: legibility, letter font, dyslexia, reading, children, readers difficulties

Introduction With this study, we intend to identify the trends on the influence over the legibility of texts provided by

some of the main letter fonts used in teaching materials (books, manuals, games, and videos among others) for children with reading difficulties.

Legibility is the characteristic which indicates us how easy and fast a text can be read with regards to its graphic features (Carter, 1997, p. 12) (letter font (Duñabeitia, Perea, & Carreiras, 2009; Fiset et al., 2008; Hillier, 2007, 2006; Feely, Rubin, Ekstrom, & Perera, 2005; Perera, 2003; Sassoon & Williams, 2000), size (Hughes & Wilkins, 2002; Hughes & Wilkins, 2000), inclination, weight (Sassoon & Williams, 2000), spacing (Reynolds, 2006; Feely et al., 2005; Sassoon & Williams, 2000), back-image contrast, text justification (Sassoon, 1993; Sassoon & Williams, 2000), and spacing (Reynolds, 2006; Sassoon, 1993; Sassoon &

* Acknowledgements: Thanks to Fundacion Aprender of Madrid (children, parents, and specialists) for their participation in this research. Thanks to the author’s thesis advisor Dr. Marius Martinez Muñoz. Thanks to Jose Maria Urós for his collaboration during the improvement of the font type Dixy. Thanks to the specialists during the validation of the test. Thanks to Dr. Rosemary Sasson and Dr. Rob Hillier for their valuable feedback during the author’s research. Thanks to Aida Mendoza ([email protected]) for her help in the English translation of the author’s work.

María Fernanda del Real García, Ph.D., Department of Applied Education, Universidad Autónoma de Barcelona.

DAVID PUBLISHING

D

DIXY: A CONNECTION BETWEEN THE “TYPOGRAPHIC APPEARANCE”

56

Williams, 2000) among others). Legibility is subjective, this subjectivity depends on the demands made by groups of individuals with the

same or similar characteristics (children, adults, elders, visual impaired individuals, dyslexic children, and dyslexic adults among others) (Sassoon, personal interview, March 21, 2008), as well as on the automatisms which intervene in the reading (neuronal process) (Urger, 2009). For those studying legibility in letter fonts, it is well-known that the legibility demands on the letter fonts present in a children without reading difficulties, will not be the same as those present in a children with reading difficulties (Sassoon, personal interview, March 21, 2008), according to the different theories explaining the causes of dyslexia (Peer, 2009). Likewise, the use of reading models used by an expert reader will not be the same as the one used by a new reader or by an individual with reading difficulties, such as a dyslexic individual.

The existence of studies, mainly neuronal, on reading models (word-shape model, letter-to-letter model, and the dual model), which attempt to explain the functional processes when we read have thrown results that validate that there are differences between word reading among dyslexic and non-dyslexic individuals (Shaywitz et al., 1998; Seidenberg, 2005; Friedmann & Gvion, 2001, 2005; Hillier, 2009).

Each typeface, hair line, joint writing, and printing, Serif (with tailing lines) and Sans Serif (without tailing lines), provides different characteristic which, according to the group targeted by the text, could offer a greater or lesser degree of legibility. If we take into consideration that the main usefulness of a typeface is to communicate by written means (Ambrose & Harris, 2007; Thangaraj, 2004; Clark, 2007; Baudin, 1989), then carrying out a study on the legibility needs that favor a certain group, could provide greater data for designing a typeface for a specific end.

The existence of studies, carried out in the United Kingdom (Sassoon & Williams, 2000), on legibility with regards to reading processes of children in general, evidences that word shape may influence on the reading quality of children.

Existing research carried out with regards to the graphical characteristics of letters and legibility (Duñabeitia et al., 2009; Fiset et al., 2008; Hillier, 2007, 2006; Feely et al., 2005; Perera, 2003; Sassoon & Williams, 2000; Hughes & Wilkins, 2002, 2000; Sassoon, 1993; Sassoon & Williams, 2000), in particular the works by Wilkins and colleagues (2002, 2007, 2009) and Sassoon (1993) indicated that typefaces used in teaching materials for children are chosen by adults, psychologists, professors, or children with high reading skills, who believe are capable of “knowing” what is best for those children showing reading difficulties, like dyslexic ones, ignoring, on one hand, the opinion of children themselves (Sassoon, 1993), and, on the other, reliable researches on the topic (Wilkins, Cleave, Grayson, & Wilson, 2009). Typefaces used in teaching materials for children, in most school centers in Spain, are based on a pedagogic model focused on the psychomotor development of children. The justification for the use of this type of model, according to said pedagogical perspective, is that there is not enough psychomotor development to perform more complex strokes (Sassoon, personal interview, March 21, 2008). Majchrzak (2004) considered that it forgets that the importance of the reading and writing actions is based on the development of intellectual skills and not of manual and handmade skills, in other words, based on the understanding of what is written (reading) and the creation of ideas (writing) and not on the reproduction of senseless letters.

The existence of a suitable typeface which could provide a greater degree of legibility in texts, could contribute to innovation and to the improvement in the way to reach the market, not only by companies which


57

products are mainly texts, such as editorial houses, but also by all companies developing products for children where reading understanding is a critical factor for the use of the same product.

Currently, within the literature, a validated typeface that shows legibility in texts, particularly those aimed towards dyslexic children in a Spanish-speaking context, has been found. Validated typefaces are focused on an English-speaking context (Sassoon, 1993; Reynolds, 2006; Walker, Reynolds, Robson, & Guggi, 2005; Hughes & Wilkins, 2002; Feely et al., 2005; Perera, 2003; Hillier, 2007, 2006).

Material and Methods In this study, the test designed and validated to measure legibility in typefaces, was used (del Real, 2009).

The test was applied, in an exploratory manner, by three experts on 10 children in age range from eight to 10 years old from the Autonomous Community of Madrid (six boys and four girls) diagnosed with dyslexia.

In a calmed space, suitable for reading (classrooms on the Colegio Agora de Madrid) each one of the children, in an individual fashion, was requested to read three sheets with texts of words, and three sheets with texts of pseudowords (both arranged without sense and in text format) one by one (Wilkins, Jeanes, Pumfrey, & Laskier, 1996). Each of the three sheets (words and pseudowords) had 40 words/pseudowords with a different typeface and with different words/pseudowords (to prevent a better reading due to practice and not the typeface). Figure 1 shows extracts of the test with the different typefaces. In the reading, two factors were taken into consideration: (1) Reading mistakes, according to the different theories on dyslexia (Peer, 2009), incurred by the children; and (2) Time taken to read each of the sheets (a maximum of 40 words/pseudowords in a maximum of 60 seconds). In order to confirm the mistakes and the time, the tests were recorded and later listened to. The data obtained in the tests were analyzed with the statistical Software PASW Statistics 18.0.

Figure 1. Extracts of the test performed with the three typefaces used in the study: (A) with Arial font; (B) with

Memimas font; and (C) with Dixy font. The image is shown at a 50% scale in relation to the original.

Results Reading Accuracy

As for the reading accuracy, the numbers of mistakes incurred by during the reading tests were: (1) Reading of words and pseudowords with Arial font: In the reading of 40 words, a minimum of zero

mistakes and a maximum of 13 were observed, resulting in an average of six mistakes. In the reading of 40 pseudowords in Arial font, a minimum of six mistakes and a maximum of 23 mistakes were observed, resulting in an average of 12 mistakes.

(2) Reading of words and pseudowords with Dixy font: In the reading of 40 words, a minimum of one


58

error and a maximum of eight mistakes were observed, resulting in an average of three mistakes. In the reading of 40 pseudowords in Dixy font, a minimum of two mistakes and a maximum of 15 mistakes were observed, resulting in an average of seven mistakes.

(3) Reading of words and pseudowords with Memimas typeface: In the reading of 40 words, a minimum of two mistakes and a maximum of 12 mistakes were observed, resulting in an average of seven mistakes. In the reading of 40 pseudowords in Memimas typeface, a minimum of five mistakes and a maximum of 18 mistakes were observed, resulting in an average of 10 mistakes (see Table 1).

Table 1 Mistakes Incurred Into During the Reading of Words and Pseudowords N Minimum Maximum Average Total number of mistakes incurred into Arial words 10 0 13 6 Total number of mistakes incurred into Dixy words 10 1 8 3 Total number of mistakes incurred into MeMimas words 10 2 12 7 Total number of mistakes incurred into Arial pseudowords 10 6 23 12 Total number of mistakes incurred into Dixy pseudowords 10 2 15 7 Total number of mistakes incurred into MeMimas pseudowords 10 5 18 10 N valid (according to list) 10

Reading Speed As for the reading speed, the number of words/pseudowords read in 60 seconds, according to each test, was: (1) Word and pseudoword reading in Arial typeface: The number of words read during the reading test of

40 words with Arial typeface (see Table 2) was of 15 words minimum for 40 words maximum, which results in an average of a 36 words total. The minimum time in the reading of words was 26 seconds and the maximum was 60, resulting in an average of 49 seconds.

The number of pseudowords read during the reading test of 40 pseudowords with Arial typeface (see Table 3) was of 17 pseudowords minimum for 40 maximum, with an average of 32 pseudowords per test. The minimum time in the reading of pseudowords in Arial typeface was 44 seconds and the maximum was 60, resulting in an average of 57 seconds per test.

(2) Word and pseudoword reading in Dixy typeface: The number of words read during the reading test of 40 words with Dixy typeface (see Table 2) was of 22 words minimum for 40 words maximum, which results in an average of a 35 words total. The minimum time in the reading of words was 29 seconds and the maximum was 60, resulting in an average of 46 seconds.

The number of pseudowords read during the reading test of 40 pseudowords with Dixy typeface (see Table 3) was of 17 pseudowords minimum for 40 maximum, with an average of 32 pseudowords per test. The minimum time in the reading of pseudowords in Dixytypeface was 45 seconds and the maximum was 60, resulting in an average of 56 seconds per test.

(3) Word and pseudoword reading in MeMimas typeface: The number of words read during the reading test of 40 words with MeMimas typeface (see Table 2) was of 16 words minimum for 40 words maximum, which results in an average of a 34 words total. The minimum time in the reading of words was 25 seconds and the maximum was 60, resulting in an average of 51 seconds.

The number of pseudowords read during the reading test of 40 pseudowords with MeMimas typeface (see Table 3) was of 15 pseudowords minimum for 40 maximum, with an average of 32 pseudowords per test. The


59

minimum time in the reading of pseudowords in MeMimas typeface was 50 seconds and the maximum was 60, resulting in an average of 58 seconds per test.

Table 2 Words Read and Reading Time During the Word Reading Test N Minimum Maximum Average Number of words read in Arial typeface 10 15 40 36 Number of words read in Dixy typeface 10 22 40 35 Number of words read in MeMimas typeface 10 16 40 34 Time in seconds read of the sheet with words in Arial typeface 10 26 60 49 Time in seconds read of the sheet with words in Dixy typeface 10 29 60 46 Time in seconds read of the sheet with words in MeMimas typeface 10 25 60 51 N valid (according to the list) 10

Table 3 Words Read and Reading Time During the Pseudoword Reading Test N Minimum Maximum Average Number of pseudowords read in Arial typeface 10 17 40 32 Number of pseudowords read in Dixy typeface 10 17 40 32 Number of pseudowords read in MeMimas typeface 10 15 40 32 Time in seconds read of the sheet with pseudowords in Arial typeface 10 44 60 57 Time in seconds read of the sheet with pseudowords in Dixy typeface 10 45 60 56 Time in seconds read of the sheet with pseudowords in MeMimas typeface 10 50 60 58 N valid (according to the list) 10

Discussion The results obtained in this exploratory research indicate that the letter font types used in texts for dyslexic

children may influence the reading. In spite of the fact that Dixy was unknown to children, the results throw evidence that this letter font, compared to the Arial and to the MeMimas, is the one with which dyslexic children make the least mistakes in word and pseudoword reading (reading accuracy). As for the reading speed, the research could indicate that Arial is the typeface which could favor reading speed, followed closely (one-second difference) by Dixy and MeMimas. It is important to point out that Arial is a typeface widely known by children and that Dixy is a typeface never before seen by children; therefore, the difference in reading speed between these two typefaces indicates that texts in Arial could have been more rapidly read due to the knowledge on the letter font type and not to the letter font type which due to its graphic characteristics in its shapes, favors reading speed. Memimas is the typeface with which children make a greater number of mistakes when reading words; furthermore, it is the typeface that takes them longer to read both in words as well as in pseudowords text reading in comparison with Arial and Dixy.

Conclusions With these results and still taking into consideration their exploratory value due to the reduced number of

cases, it is possible to conclude that clear evidence that dyslexic children: (1) could make more mistakes in the reading of texts with graphical characteristics shown by cursive typefaces; and (2) typefaces designed or modified specifically to fulfill legibility needs present in reading by children (such as the Dixy) could contribute


60

to reading improvement for children with reading difficulties, has been identified. It is important to mention that the use of a suitable typography, such as Dixy, could significantly contribute

to innovation and to the improvement in the way to reach the market, not only by companies which products are mainly texts, such as editorial houses, but also by all companies developing products for children where reading understanding is a critical factor for the use of the same product.

References Ambrose, G., & Harris, P. (2007). Typography (Fundamentos de la tipografía). (M. A. Percy, Trans.). Publicació Barcelona:

Parramón. Baudin, F. (1989). How typography works (and why it is important). Gran Bretaña: Lund Humphries. Carter, R. (1997). Diseñando con tipografía 3: Color y tipografía (Designing with typography 3: Color and typography).

Barcelona: Inter books. Clark, J. (2007). A graphic artist’s blog. Publicació Barelona: Parramón. Retrieved from

http://shahidmasif.blogspot.com/2007/09/serif-sans-serif.html del Real, G. M. F. (2005). Dixy: A typeface for improved readability and legibility for sufferers of dyslexia (Proyecto de master,

School of Graphic’s Arts and Design, Leeds Metropolitan University). Reino Unido: Publication Service. del Real, G. M. F. (2009). Diseño y validación de un instrumento para medir la legibilidad en los tipos de letra en textos para

niños con dyslexia (Design and validation of an instrument to measure the readability of fonts in texts for children with dyslexia) (Thesis project, Departmentof Applied Pedagogy, Universidad Autónoma de Barcelona, Spain).

del Real, G. M. F. (2010). Estudio comparativo sobre la influencia de los tipos de letra utilizados en el material de lectura en niños con dyslexia (Comparative study on the influence of the fonts used in the reading material in children with dyslexia) (Research sufficiency project, Department of Applied Pedagogy, Universidad Autónoma deBarcelona, Spain).

del Real, G. M. F., & Urós, J. M. (2009). Dixy versión 0.2. TrueType. Variaciones de la Dixy 0.1.: Características gráficas que aporten mayor legibilidad en los tipos de letra de textos para niños con dyslexia (Dixy version 0.2. TrueType. Dixy variations 0.1.: Graphic features provide greater readability in text fonts for children with dyslexia) (unpublished). Barcelona, Spain.

Duñabeitia, J. A., Perea, M., & Carreiras, M. (2009). Eye movements when reading words with $YMβOL$ and NUM83R5: There is a cost. Visual Cognition, 17(5), 617-631.

Feely, M., Rubin, G., Ekstrom, K., & Perera, S. (2005). Investigation into font characteristics for optimum reading fluency in readers with sight problems. International Congress Series, 1282(2005), 530-533.

Fiset, D., Blais, C., Ethier-Majcher, C., Arguin, M., Bub, D., & Gosselin, F. (2008). Features for identification of uppercase and lowercase letters. Psychol Science, 19, 1161-1168.

Friedmann, N., & Gvion, A. (2001). Letter position dyslexia. Cognitive Neuropsychology, 18, 673-696. Friedmann, N., & Gvion, A. (2005). Letter form as a constraint for mistakes in neglect dyslexia and letter position dyslexia.

Behavioral Neurology, 16, 145-158. Hillier, R. (2006). A typeface for the adult dyslexic reader. Retrieved from http://www.robfonts.com/project.html Hillier, R. (2007). A typeface for adult dyslexic readers (Doctoral dissertation, Anglia Polytechnic University). Reino Unido:

Publication Service. Hillier, R. (2009, March 3). Tema: About your research. E-mail personal (Unpublished). Hughes, L., & Wilkins, A. (2000). Typography in children’s reading schemes may be suboptimal: Evidence from measures of

reading rate. Journal of Research in Reading, 23(3), 314-324. Hughes, L., & Wilkins, A. (2002). Reading at the distance: Implications for the design of text in children’s big books. British

Journal of Educational Psychology, 72(2), 213-226. Majchrzak, I. (2004). Nombrando al mundo: El encuentro con la lengua escrita a partir del nombre propio (Naming the world:

The encounter with the written language from the own name). Barcelona: Paidos. Peer, L. (2009). Research review. Londres: The British Dyslexia Association. Perera, S. (2003). An investigation into the legibility of large print typefaces. Tiresias: Scientific and technological report.

Retrieved from http://www.tiresias.org/research/reports/index.htm Reynolds, L. (2006). Children’s responses to line spacing in early reading books or “holes to tell which line you’re on”. Visible

Language, 40(3), 246-267.


61

Sassoon, R. (1993). Through the eyes of a child perception and type design. In R. Sassoon (Ed.), Computers and typography (pp. 150-177). Gran Bretaña: Intellect books.

Sassoon, R., & Williams, A. (2000). Why Sassoon? Guide for educators and publishers. Retrieved from http://www.sassoonfont.co.uk/fonts/sas/WhySassoon1.3.pdf

Seidenberg, M. S. (2005). Connectionist models of word reading. American Psychological Society, 14(5), 238-242. Shaywitz, S. E., Shaywitz, B. A., Pugh, K. R., Fulbright, R. K., Constable, R. T., Mencl, W. E., … Gore, J. C. (1998). Functional

disruption in the organization of the brain for reading in dyslexia. Neurobiology, 95, 2636-2641. Thangaraj, J. (2004). Fascinating fonts; is the power of typography a marketing myth?. Prism, 2. Retrieved from

http://praxis.massey.ac.nz Urger, G. (2009). ¿Qué ocurre mientras lees? Tipografía y legibilidad (What happening while you read? Typography and

readability). (E. Jasen, Trans.). Valencia: Campgràfic Editors. Walker, S., Reynolds, L., Robson, N., & Guggi, N. (2005). The typographic design for children project. Retrieved from

http://www.kidstype.org/The%20project/project.html Wilkins, A. (2002). Coloured overlays and their effects on reading speed: A review. Ophthal. Physiol. Opt., 22, 448-454. Wilkins, A. J., Jeanes, R. J., Pumfrey, P. D., & Laskier, M. (1996). Rate of reading test: Its reliability, and its validity in the

assessment of the effects of coloured overlays. Ophthalmic and Physiological Optics, 16, 491-497. Wilkins, A. J., Smith, J., Willison, C. K., Beare, T., Boyd, A., Hardy, G., … Harper, S. (2007). Stripes within words affect reading.

Perception, 36(12), 1788-1803. Wilkins, A., Cleave, R., Grayson, N., & Wilson, L. (2009). Typography for children may be inappropriately designed. Journal of

Research in Reading, 32(4), 402-412.


The Use and Reuse of Julius Caesar’s Religious Résumé

on Imperatorial Coinage∗

Gaius Stern University of California, Berkeley, USA

Soon after Roman mint masters began issuing the silver denarius (traditional date 187 B.C.), they discovered that

they could employ coinage as newspapers and PR by individualizing the imagery on each side of the coin with

references to their ancestry, current events, and/or their religious offices to increase their name recognition in order

to win votes. It should come as no surprise that the Divine Julius ordered his mint masters to issue coinage that

advertised all of the above features to circulate his good reputation in what our modern political scientists would

call propaganda. After Julius’ enemies began to attack his reputation, some of his partisans boasted of their

closeness to him on coinage by recycling specific coin images. What is surprising is how these partisans adopted

the exact imagery Julius had used to advertise his own religious résumé on their coinage, even though these

religious images could not and did not apply to them specifically. Apparently, Julius’ religious résumé no longer

demonstrated a religious portfolio, but had transformed into a badge of partisanship, however thinly it applied, so

that the religious symbols themselves retained only the function of an association with Julius without their original

and intrinsic meaning.

Keywords: Roman history, Roman religion, Roman coinage, Julius Caesar, Augustus, lituus, simpulum,

numismatics, Second Triumvirate

Introduction

Under the Republic, the appearance of religious implements on coinage advertised the religious credentials of the mint-master or his patron. Two of Julius Caesar’s coins illustrated religious implements for this exact goal, namely the elephant coin and the post-Thapsus (46 B.C.) AUGUR PONT MAX coin (see Figures 1 and 2). During the Era of the Second Triumvirate, especially 43-40 B.C., certain Caesarian partisans circulated coins with the exact same reverses as Julius Caesar, not exclusively to advertise themselves as priests, but because they were advertising their loyalty to and/or claiming leadership of the Caesarean faction (see Figures 3 and 4), and although sometimes these images vary on later coins, the AUGUR PONT MAX reverse reappears exactly, albeit with a new meaning to announce that the emperor had become the Pontifex Maximus.

∗ This paper was originally presented at the Classical Association of the Pacific Northwest, 15-16 March 2013, at the University of Oregon at Eugene. Except for Figures 5, 6, 8, 9, 10, 14, 16, 17, 18, 19, 27, 29, 30, 31, 33, 34, 36, and 38, which are the author’s own, the other images were generously provided by David Freeman (Retrieved from www.wildwinds.com).

Gaius Stern, Ph.D., lecturer in Roman Material Culture, Department of History of Art, University of California.

DAVID PUBLISHING

D

THE USE AND REUSE OF JULIUS CAESAR’S RELIGIOUS RÉSUMÉ 63

Figure 1. Elephant denarius of Julius 49/48 B.C. Figure 2. AUGUR PONT MAX denarius, 46 B.C.

Figure 3. Lepidus/Antony denarius, 43 B.C. Figure 4. Caesar Octavian denarius, 37 B.C.

As a rule, broken first by Julius himself in 46 B.C., Roman mint masters did not put portraits of living people on coinage. Every other form of self-promotion was permitted, so long as the line of personal portraiture was not crossed. Devising new images of self-promotion on coinage became a game for the mint master whereby references to famous ancestors, divine heritage, and every other exploitable advantage were permitted, eventually even including stick figure representation of oneself. Because the Roman denarius was the size of a dime, artwork could only express so much on a small field. Many symbols were engaged to announce messages that were common, every day features of Roman life and immediately recognizable to every citizen. However, some of them are not as easy for us to recognize and therefore require explanation.

Republican Use of Religious Implements on Coinage

During the Republic, the top three colleges of the Roman religion were the Pontifical College, the Augural College, and the College of the XVviri: the Quindecimviri Sacris Facundis (Lewis, 1955, p. 92).1 Each college used special, unique immediately identifiable implements. The top four priests of the Roman religion, the Pontifex Maximus and the priests of Jupiter, Mars, and Romulus respectively, belonged to the Pontifical College. They were immediately recognizable in public when performing their duties from both their clothing and the objects they carried (see Figure 5). The Pontifex Maximus had a special religious implement called an aspergillus, essentially a holy water sprinkler. The next three ranking priests had to wear a special double toga and a special skullcap at religious ceremonies, called a galerus with a spike, called an apex, well-known from the Ara Pacis. In addition, the priest of Jupiter, the Flamen Dialis, was attended by the early version of an altar boy, called a camillus, who carried his ceremonial axe. The other members of the Pontifical College all carried a ladle called a simpulum and/or a special jug (guttes). The Augures had a special wand called a lituus and a jug called a capis. The Quindecimviri, as priests of Apollo, each had a special tripod, which was used as they are standard religious symbol. All of the symbols occasionally appear on coinage in order to advertise a major priesthood, although the mint master himself did not necessarily have to occupy the post. Mint masters perfectly willingly advertised the holiness and integrity of an ancestor who held a major religious post with the idea that voters could trust the mint

1 A fourth college, the Septemviri Epulones, was promoted to senior status under Augustus in 16 B.C.


master and confidently vote for him in his future political campaigns, based on the sterling character of his ancestor. Descent from a great Roman war hero or a man renowned for his piety applied voter appeal to coinage.

Figure 5. Three of the Flamines on the Ara Pacis Augustae.

Several examples illustrate the culture these coins fed and augmented, occasionally leading to conversations between the mint masters, a few of which famously turned ugly. In 134 B.C., Ti. Minucius Augurinus released the denarius (see Figure 6) which has a very traditional obverse—Roma, but a novel reverse of two togate figures, one holding a simpulum, the other a lituus, standing by a column in a pose of worship. Although they are stick figures, they represent Minucius and his brother, rather than two random worshipers. The message clearly advertizes the pietas of the mint master and hence his and his brother’s qualification for high office.

Figure 6. Denarius of Minucius Augurinus, 134 B.C.

Similarly, ca 126 B.C., Fabius Pictor released a denarius (see Figure 7) whose reverse shows a seated figure beside a shield and the galerus with the apex of a flamen, apparently referring to an ancestor who held one of the top priesthoods. In this case Fabius solicits votes based on his family’s military and the sacral accomplishments, a pattern he can be trusted to uphold. A denarius of L. Valerius Flaccus, 108-107 B.C., shows the winged goddess Victory (Nike) on the obverse. This reverse, like that of Fabius, shows a crowded scene with multiple images (see Figure 8). The god Mars dominates the center between a head of wheat and again the galerus and apex of a flamen, apparently commemorating an ancestor of the mint master. His name also appears in small letters.

Figure 7. Denarius of Fabius Pictor, 126 B.C. Figure 8. Denarius of Valerius Flaccus, 108-107 B.C.


In 69 B.C., friends of P. Sulpicius Galba released a denarius of a veiled Vesta on the obverse and a secespita (sacrificial knife), simpulum, and securis (axe) on the reverse, which alludes both to his ancestors and to him (see Figure 9). The knife refers to an unknown priesthood (it also appears on a coin of Brutus and Lentulus (see Figure 22)). The axe certainly refers to an ancestral Flamen Dialis. The simpulum refers to Galba himself, who was a Pontifex.2 The family had entered the Pontifical College at least as early as 203 B.C. when Ser. Sulpicius Galba was elected pontifex to succeed Q. Fabius Maximus.3 Although backed by Julius, Galba later lost the consular election in 64 to Cicero and C. Antony. Later in anger, he turned against Julius when passed over for a consulship.4 He joined the conspiracy led by Brutus and Cassius, for which he was sentenced to death under the Lex Pedia.5

Figure 9. Denarius of P. Sulpicius Galba, 69 B.C. Figure 10. Denarius of Pomponius Molo, 97 B.C.

As a matter of fact, one finds the symbol of the Augural College, the lituus, far more often than the simpulum on coins. A fairly early example was minted in 97 B.C. by Pomponius Molo (see Figure 10), whose denarius shows his ancestor, king Numa Pompilius, performing a sacrifice and holding a lituus. Molo is one of few mint masters to employ an image of a king on money to persuade voters of his worthiness. Most of the kings had an odious recollection to voters.

Far more common is the example of C. Servilius Vatia in 127 B.C., who placed a lituus on the obverse behind the head of Roma, referring to himself or an ancestor to persuade voters of his worthiness (see Figure 11). His son minted an extremely similar coin, substituting Apollo for Roma (see Figure 12). Many other ambitious politicians added the lituus as a self reference on the obverse, even if they apparently blurred the image by placing their own lituus beside a portrait of an ancestor or a god (see Figures 12-16).

Figure 11. Denarius of Servilius Vatia, 127 B.C. Figure 12. Denarius of Servilius Vatia, 82 B.C.

2 Cic. De Har. Resp. 6.12; Macr. Sat. 3.13.11. Galba was curile aedile in 69 (when Cicero was a plebeian aedile). It is most likely considering the listing of his own magistracy as aedile that it refers to himself. 3 Liv. 30.26.10. Strangely, C. Sulpicius Galba was elected Pontifex to succeed Manlius Torquatus in 202 B.C., Liv. 30.39.6, although two members of the same family should not sit in the same college. See Szemlar (1972) for a thorough study on the occupants and dates of the religious offices in the Republic. 4 Suet. Galba 3. C. f. Sen. De Ira 3.31.2. 5 Cic. Ad. Att. 1.1; Suet. Galba 3.


Figure 13. Denarius of Calpurnius Piso, 90 B.C. Figure 14. Denarius of Sulla, 84-83 B.C.

Figure 15. Denarius of Faustus Sulla, 56 B.C. Figure 16. Denarius of L. Marcius Philippus, 56 B.C.

A large issue of denarii, issued by Calpurnius Piso in 90 B.C. shows Apollo on the obverse and a rider (probably a desultor) in a horserace on the reverse (see Figure 13). A younger kinsman rereleased very similar series a generation later. The imagery varies slightly from issue to issue, but on one issue the lituus appears behind the head of Apollo, a god linked to divination.

Sulla also belongs on the long list of politicians who put a lituus on his coin to show he is an Augur. In 84/84 B.C., he advertized his victories with a denarius that includes two religious symbols, a jug (capis) and the lituus (Stewart, 1997, pp. 107-189) (see Figure 14).6 The jug might indicate he was a Pontifex, as some scholars believe. In 56 B.C., mint masters loyal to his son issued the same two symbols on the reverse to evoke Sulla’s priesthoods and to express the son’s ambitions (see Figure 15).

In that same year, 56 B.C., the step-brother to the future emperor Augustus, L. Marcius Philippus, released a denarius of his alleged ancestor, king Ancus Marcius on the obverse and the Aqua Marcia on the reverse (see Figure 16), while his father was consul. The family issued several other denarii with Ancus or both Ancus and Numa on the obverse. The lituus behind the head of Ancus indicates the priesthood the family currently enjoyed (held by the father of the moneyer). The moneyer later held a suffect consulship in 38 B.C.

Also in the 80s, the future Pontifex Maximus Q. Caecilius Metellus Pius minted a denarius decorated with a jug and lituus (see Figure 17). Metellus Pius was certainly never an Augur, so the symbols either refer to ancestors or constitute a partisan emblem for the Optimates faction to which Sulla and Metellus Pius belonged, based on the Sullan precedent (See Figure 13).7 The imagery of Pietas and the stork (a bird that Romans thought mated for life) refer to his efforts to recall from exile his father.

In this numismatic atmosphere of advertisement of one’s own pietas and worthiness for office, we do not find it all surprising that the Divine Julius vaunted himself in a very large issue upon the outbreak of the Civil War in 49. Furthermore, because Julius never held the post of triumvir of the mint, this was his first opportunity to produce coinage to advertising himself and his agenda to the Roman world.

6 Stewart, (1997), says Sulla was the first to use both to indicate that he was simultaneously a Pontifex and an Augur, contra L. R. Taylor (1944); Frier (1967; 1969); Fears (1974); A. Keaveny (1982), and T. Martin (1989). 7 See also how his younger contemporary and rival, Pompey the Great similarly issued an aureus that shows the jug and lituus to coincide with one of his triumphs. We know he was an augur, so one can attribute both symbols to his priesthood, or as in the case of Metellus Pius, one may regard the double symbols as a badge of partisanship with the Optimates of Sulla.


Figure 17. Denarius of Metellus Pius, 81 B.C.

Julius Caesar’S Use of Religious Imagery on Coinage

In 49 and possibly into 48 Julius released the famous elephant denarius (see Figures 1 & 18). The reverse presents Julius’ religious résumé, and hence his pietas. The first pair of religious symbols refers to Julius’ current post as Pontifex Maximus: the simpulum and aspergillus. Julius had been elected Pontifex Maximus in 63 over bitter opposition from the Optimates through much bribery of voters. The second pair, the axe (securis) and galerus with its apex, refers to Julius’ youthful, brief term as Flamen Dialis, which was cut short during the civil war of the 80s when Sulla had Julius defrocked and put a price on his head. The mint master included the symbol of priesthood taken from Julius, a post by 49 B.C. vacant for over 30 years, perhaps as a reminder that Julius’ enemies had wrongly and impiously stripped him of it (Stern, 2003, pp. 293-297).8 The combination of religious symbols asserts a moral high ground, for Julius was the only man in history to hold the two highest individual posts in the Roman religion (but not simultaneously). Together these four religious symbols became a coat of arms for the Caesarians, which as we shall see, later partisans embraced to express their loyalty or leadership.

The elephant has received far more attention, and many scholars interpret it as a symbol of Roman power. However, elephants are more associated with Africa, and especially Carthage, so it is odd to see it applied as an expression of Roman might. Only the family of the Caecilii Metelli used the elephant on Roman coinage, and they did so because an ancestor was the first to capture elephants (during the First Punic War). One of my students, Aaron Parker, suggests that the elephant may not be a symbol of power of the Roman army or a real elephant, but a more complex symbol of the surrender of the enemy. The elephant represents how Julius’ conquest of Gaul in the 50s forced the Gauls to surrender all means of making war: ships, weapons, and elephants. Vercingetorix did not have any elephants, but Romans understood it as a metaphor for armaments, from previous conquests. The elephant and the pipe (often mistaken for a snake) in front of it are symbols of the Gallic surrender that resulted in complete Roman victory.9

Figure 18. Elephant denarius of Julius, 48 B.C. Figure 19. Denarius, AUGUR PONT MAX, 46 B.C.

8 The post remained vacant for ca. 75 years until approximately 15 B.C., when Augustus pressured the aged Lepidus to choose a new priest of Jupiter, Tac. Ann. 3.58. 9 John Jencek has shown me that the item is certainly not a snake, but a Gallic pipe. A coin of Brutus Albinus also shows the same pipes as tokens of surrender.


The second denarius (see Figure 19) was minted after the battle of Thapsus. The obverse bears either Ceres or Venus. The reverse bears an updated résumé that a number of his partisans would duplicate. Upon winning Thapsus, Julius annexed a post as Augur so that he could occupy a seat in each of the top two colleges. The coin shows the simpulum and the aspergillum to represent his post as Pontifex Maximus and the capis and lituus to represent his new post as augur. This reverse image was later revived by Vespasian, and used by several subsequent emperors (see Figure 37).

Imperatores in the Aftermath of the Ides of March

After the assassination of Julius, the number of religious symbols on coinage proliferated. Anyone who could control a mint issued coins of self-glorification, sometimes with portraiture, and often times with expressions of pietas by advertising their own priesthood. Antony enthusiastically applied both tactics. Immediately after the battle of Mutina on 14 April 43 B.C., he and Lepidus united against the young Caesar and the Senate, and they began to mint coins. A denarius minted in 43 advertises their numerous religious offices (see Figure 19). The obverse shows Antony’s augurship in triplicate with a lituus, a jug, and a bird. Remarkably, the reverse, which should advertise Lepidus’ post as Pontifex Maximus instead duplicates the reverse of Julius’ elephant coin (see Figure 17). The first two symbols, of course, could apply to Lepidus perfectly, but the latter pair can only express partisan loyalty to the memory of Julius, and proclaim Lepidus’ leadership of the Caesarians (against the upstart young Caesar!). However, very soon an invitation from the young Caesar brought the trio together to form the Second Triumvirate against their common enemies, namely the Senate and the assassins. Their coinage celebrates this alliance by placing any two of the three triumvirs on a coin. Following the Philippi campaign in 42 B.C., Antony’s coinage regularly shows a lituus, marking him an Augur.10

Figure 20. Denarius, Antony and Lepidus, 43 B.C. Figure 21. Denarius, Antony and Plancus, 42 B.C.

Religious symbols appear on the coins of other imperatores, as well. One example, minted under Antony’s ally, Munatius Plancus (see Figure 21), carries a thunderbolt, a jug, and a caduceus on one side to illustrate divine favor and power, sanctity, and prosperity. Its reverse bears two symbols of the Augural College in reference to Antony’s and/or Plancus’ priesthood.

The presence of religious symbols on coinage proliferated swiftly under every possible commander who can stake a claim. In reply to the Caesarians Brutus, Cassius, and Lentulus Spinther began to produce their own coins with multiple religious symbols to advertise their pietas. Lentulus and Brutus released reply to Lepidus and Antony that shows Lentulus as a Augur by means of the jug and lituus and boasts three different priesthoods of

10 Antony was nominated to be the Flamen Iulialis in 44, and thus also was a member of the Pontifical College, but he was not inaugurated until 41/40. Antony must have expected to inherit power after Julius, as the son of a Julia, Julius’ colleague and right hand man in 44, and now his priest (and later he married Julius’ great-niece). He surely resented Julius’s failure to prefer him. A very similar relationship developed between Tiberius and Augustus.


prior and current Junii Bruti with the axe, simpulum (Brutus himself), and knife (see Figure 22). Another denarius (see Figure 23) shows a tripod for Cassius and the Augural jug and lituus for Lentulus to prove their religious credentials against the Caesarians. Cassius is now a victorious general, IMP (erator). A third coin (see Figure 24), minted by the pro-quaestor Sestius under Brutus, uses a tripod for Cassius the XVvir and a simpulum for either Brutus or Lentulus—both Pontifices—along with an ancestor’s flamen’s axe for Brutus, as if they also were a triumvirate and alternated images on their coinage in reply to the Second Triumvirate. Lentulus apparently claimed the third leadership position among the assassins after the death of December Brutus Albinus. Of course, the Caesareans continued to claim the religious high ground, and they used spoils to win support. The priesthoods ranked among the best spoils of war, so the Second Triumvirate now distributed them to loyal followers and new friends to fill the vacancies created by dead enemies. Naturally, several followers advertised these religious posts on coinage. A most remarkable issue was released in Osca, Spain in 40 B.C. by Domitius Calvinus (cos. 53, 40), partly as an expression of loyalty to Julius and partly as self-promotion. Like the denarius of Lepidus, his issue duplicates the reverse of Julius’ elephant coin with its four religious symbols, three of which represent posts Domitius Calvinus never occupied.11 This coin (see Figure 25) serves several purposes at once. It vaunts Domitius Calvinus as a loyal follower of the late dictator (now a God). As it circulated in an area where Julius had many clients and a repeated presence, it emphasized the association of Domitius Calvinus with Julius. Thereby, the coin advances his claim to play a greater leadership role in the state. However, if he believed his political power was genuine and could elevate his political authority to equal the triumvirs, his ambitions did not pan out.

Figure 22. Denarius, Brutus and Lentulus, 43/42 B.C. Figure 23. Denarius of Cassius, 43/42 B.C.

Figure 24. Denarius of Sestius, 42 B.C. Figure 25. Denarius of Domitius Calvinus, 40 B.C.

Coinage of the Young Caesar Bearing Religious Imagery

Starting in 43, coins advertised Antony’s Augurship and Lepidus’ post as Pontifex Maximus. The person we should most expect to employ Julius’ religious résumé as his own emblem was surprisingly restrained: the Young Caesar. Although he had received a Pontifical seat in 47 and an Augurship by 37, he rarely applied

11 Domitius Calvinus held seat in the Pontifical College, ILS 42 = CIL 6.1301. Aside from Lepidus he was the only man alive who held two consulships. The young Caesar held two brief consulships in 43 and 37.


religious imagery to his coinage. Instead he repeatedly emphasized his connection to the Divine Julius as DIVI FILIUS (son of the god), and in later life we can see that he celebrated his multiple priesthoods.12 Only once before 30 B.C., when he joined two priestly colleges, did he release denarii that recount his religious résumé, a triple issue, dated by Sear to 37 (Sear, 1995, pp. 190-191; Lewis, 1955, p. 42).13 The first denarius displays a tripod to advertize his entry into the College of the XVviri (see Figure 26).14 The legend around the tripod reads “Caesar, consul in the future a second and third time” inside a wreath. The second denarius, employing the same imagery of Julius’ AUGUR PONT MAX denarius (see Figure 19), marks his entry into the Augural College with the simpulum, aspergillum, capis, and lituus, even though only three of the symbols can apply to the Young Caesar, who was not yet Pontifex Maximus (a post he thought he deserved). The obverse has no portrait, only the same words as the first denarius. The third denarius repeats the legend and reverse of the second and includes a portrait (see Figures 4 and 27). This triple issue was his only such release of coins with multiple religious symbols for nearly 20 years, and when the Roman mint did release coins advertising Augustus’ religious résumé in 16 B.C., a new arrangement proclaimed a new message.

Figure 26. Tripod denarius of Imp Caesar, 37 B.C. Figure 27. Augurship denarius of Imp Caesar, 37 B.C.

Even while his numerous rivals were trying to elevate their status with religious and political appeals on coins (including Sextus Pompey), Imperator Caesar, as he called himself, displayed only occasional religious assertions. Like Antony, he issued a few early coins that show a lituus behind his head, such as on the AEGYPTO CAPTA denarius, partly to link him to his favorite god, Apollo (see Figure 28). After 29, once his last rivals had been cleared aside, Augustus—as he was now known—continued only intermittently to reuse the religious reverses of his divine father and never did so to elevate his religious status above others. Augustus could play the religious card only so far while another man held the coveted post of Pontifex Maximus.

Figure 28. Aegypto Capta/crocodile denarius, 30 B.C.

Julius and Augustus used the same religious imagery on coins to say very different things. Whereas Julius advertised his religious credentials on the elephant coin, and announced his Augurship on the Venus coin to rise

12 Res Gestae 7, 10. 13 Lewis (1955) had dated the Augurship of Augustus between 43-40 B.C., citing Grueber 2.398, 404, 491, 493. Sear’s later date is to be preferred. 14 As a devotee of Apollo, the young Caesar certainly wanted to join his priesthood as early as possible.


above his rivals, the Young Caesar engaged these images within a larger, multifarious set of numismatic images to associate himself with his father, not as a personal résumé. Other coins show the both of them on the obverse, or place one on each side of the denarius, the Julian comet, statues of Julius, or the temple of Julius. He alone enjoyed a kinship with the Divine Julius, an advantage that topped any of Antony, Lepidus, or Domitius Calvinus, no matter how valiantly they tried to associate themselves with the Divine Julius. Their numismatic expressions of loyalty persuaded few when the public saw them oppose the one man with the name Caesar. The family connection and the name conquered all.

Augustus’ Use of Religious Implements on Coinage During the Principate

Oddly enough, the Spanish mint produced several issues whose obverse bears the head of Augustus and whose reverse bears Julius’ religious résumé from the elephant denarius, long after its original message was obsolete. Augustus’s portrait on the obverse was by this time standard. These coins apparently mark anniversaries, such as the 25th year after the Ides of March, thus in 19 B.C. Another possibility for a later issue was the 75th anniversary of the nomination of Julius as Flamen Dialis, thus ca. 11 B.C., or the 50th anniversary of his election as Pontifex Maximus, thus 13 B.C. (although the latter two might be of little importance in the provinces). An excellent example of this is the large copper coin from Novo Carthago minted by Varius Rufus and Julius Pollio (see Figure 29). The same images reappeared on multiple issues of the smaller value aes.

Figure 29. Novo Carthago mint, symbols of Julius. Figure 30. Colonia Patricia aes, galerus simpulum.

A different bronze aes, from Colonia Patricia, bears on the reverse the galerus with apex and the simpulum (Sear dates it 19/18 to 2 B.C.) (see Figure 30). The galerus with apex refers to a lesser priesthood of Augustus; he was also a fetialis. The simpulum of course refers to his Pontificate.

Another bronze aes, also from Colonia Patricia, shows a poor portrait of Augustus and the simpulum, jug, and the lituus (see Figure 31). Three religious implements from Julius’ elephant coin reappear, but the presence above the jug of a patera (dish), which represents the VIIviri, shows that this coin celebrates Augustus, who by 12 B.C. held all of the represented priesthoods. The simpulum was deleted as redundant, now that Augustus is Pontifex Maximus. A dupondius issued in 12 B.C. from Ebora (Portugal) verifies this interpretation (see Figure 32).15

Innovation in the colonial mints followed in the more important Roman mint, which had a greater ability to circulate messages. An important denarius from 16 B.C. celebrates the occasion of Augustus obtaining a seat within the college of the VIIviri (see Figure 33). The coin depicts one symbol for each of the top four religious colleges: simpulum, lituus, tripod, and patera. Three years later in 13 B.C. a second release with an exceedingly

15 An earlier coin from the Alexandrian mint ca. 19 B.C. also mixes the symbols of both of Julius’ coins onto an Augustan era bronze aes. The obverse bears a portrait of Augustus; the reverse the letters KAICAR and the simpulum, jug, lituus and axe (Retrieved from http://wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1716.html#milne_07).


similar reverse was issued, probably because Agrippa had also joined the top four colleges (see Figure 34). Alternately it serves to remind voters of Augustus’ sacral qualifications for the vacant post of Pontifex Maximus shortly after the death of Lepidus in 13. Just as Julius had his mint masters advertize his sacral greatness in 46, mint masters in Rome likewise celebrated Augustus’ sacral greatness in 16 and perhaps that of Agrippa or Augustus in 13. The coin might serve to draft Augustus for Pontifex Maximus.

Figure 31. Aes, Colonia Patricia mint, ca. 12 B.C. Figure 32. Ebora mint dupondius, ca. 12 B.C.

Figure 33. Denarius showing multiple priesthoods, 16 B.C. Figure 34. Denarius, multiple priesthoods 13 B.C.

The mint produced in two successive years, 9 and 8 B.C., new issues of multiple religious symbols. In 9, the three mint masters Aelius Lamia, Silius, and Annius released a quadrans with the unmistakable symbols of the Augural and Pontifical colleges, followed in the next year by a near identical release from Statilius Taurus, Livinius Regulus, and Claudius Pulcher (see Figure 35). The low value coins circulated the message to a much wider audience. It likely serves to draft Augustus’ sons Gaius and Lucius to membership within the top religious colleges when vacancies may occur. Both princes soon obtained priesthoods, a fact well attested from both epigraphy and textual evidence, and especially from a prolific issue of aureii and denarii in 2 B.C. that place the lituus and simpulum over the heads of Gaius and Lucius( see Figure 36).

Figure 35. quadrans of Taurus et al., 8 B.C. Figure 36. Denarius of Gaius and Lucius as principes 2 B.C.

The excessively dynastic atmosphere to which these coins contributed brought on dire consequences. A conspiracy formed against Augustus among the nobility.16 Thereafter, the Roman mint ceased to issue coins

16 The unlucky conspiracy of Iulus Antonius, Vell. 2.100.2-5; Sen. De Brev. 4.5; Dio 55.9.12-16.


bearing religious imagery to promote him or his sons for priesthoods or to justify his regime. Only the modest lituus continued.

The Re-use of Julius’ Images by Later Emperors

Of Tiberius, Caligula, and Claudius, only Claudius recycled an Augustan reverse (that of 16 B.C.), and not for himself, but when he inducted Nero as his heir into the top four religious colleges (see Figure 37).17 When Vespasian came to power, he avoided association with the odious Claudius and Nero to reach back to recycle Julius’ 46 B.C. issue with simpulum, aspergillum, jug, and lituus to show his multiple priesthoods and his accession as Pontifex Maximus (see Figure 38). The idea that the emperor should hold multiple priesthoods was now an ingrained feature of monarchy. Vespasian’s denarius closely resembles that of Julius, even copying most of the reverse legend, AUGUR PON MAX. For Vespasian, Julius was now a natural forefather in imperium with whom an ideological association in no way created an unwelcome connection, now that monarchy was entrenched.18 Of course, the meaning has changed, even if the image on the coinage looks the same. Julius had to assert himself against rivals; Vespasian had won the civil wars and was paramount. The coin is more a tribute to the victory of absolutism than a paean to Julius’ memory. Nerva, Antoninus Pius, and Marcus Aurelius reused the same reverse in their own issues when they in turn became Pontifex Maximus as new emperors.

Figure 37. Nero denarius under Claudius, 52 A.D. Figure 38. Vespasian denarius after Julius, 70 A.D.

Conclusions

While the use of religious implements on Republican coinage started out as a form of self advertisement, Julius expanded the practice to proclaim a holier than thou status over his rivals. During the 40s and 30s various imperatores borrowed his imagery to advance their own ambitions, usually loudly expressing loyalty to his memory to the public. Well into the Augustan regime, imagery from Julius continued to reappear from time to time on coinage, although its original context no longer had any practical value. An Augustan alternative did not endure, despite Claudius’s favor. Subsequently, Vespasian recycled Julius’s imagery to announce his accession as emperor and Pontifex Maximus because the Divine Julius was seen as a natural predecessor of the emperors. In this atmosphere, the emperor could directly vaunt his own holiness through the presence of multiple religious symbols on coinage, both for self-promotion and to discourage others from opposing the holder of secular and sacral power.

17 Tiberius and Caligula did not employ religious implements on their coinage to advertise their priesthoods. The closest parallels would be their coins declaring their elections as Pontifex Maximus, both of which bear Vesta (sometimes misidentified as Livia in the case of the Tiberian issue) and the words PONT MAX. 18 This is why Suetonius included a biography of Julius in The Twelve Caesars.


References Lewis, M. H. (1955). The official priests of Rome under the Julio-Claudians. Rome: American Academy. Sear, D. (1995). The history and coinage of the Roman imperators 49-27 B.C. (190-191). London: Spink. Stern, G. (2003). M. Aemilius Lepidus and the four flamines on the Ara Pacis Augustae. In A. A Donohue, C. C. Mattusch, & A.

Brauer (Eds.), Common ground: Archaeology, art, science and the humanities, Acta of the XVI International Congress of Classical Archaeology (pp. 293-297), Cambridge, MA: Oxbow Monograph.

Stewart, R. (1997). The jug and lituus on Republican coin types: Ritual symbols and political power. Phoenix, 51, 107-189. Szemlar, G. J. (1972). The priests of the Roman Republic. Brussels: Latomus. Vangaard, J. H. (1988). The flamen: A study in the history and sociology of Roman religion. Copenhagen: Museum Tosculanum. Wallace-Hadrill, A. (1986). Image and authority in the coinage of Augustus. The Journal of Roman Studies, 76, 66-87.

2014.1 journal of literature and art studies

Documents