Imaginary Homelands - kotobati

TomymotherNeginRushdiewithmylove

SALMANRUSHDIE

IMAGINARYHOMELANDS

ESSAYSANDCRITICISM1981-1991

Copyright©SalmanRushdie,1981,1982,1983,1984,1985,1986,1987,1988,1989,1990,1991

AllrightsreservedSomeoftheselectionsinthisbookfirstappearedinLondonReviewofBooks,TheGuardian,IndexonCensorship,

Observer,Granta,TheTimes,AmericanFilm,NewSociety,TheNewYorkTimes,TheWashingtonPost,TheNewRepublic,TheTimes

LiterarySupplement,andIndependentonSunday.

ISBN978-1-6237-3012-3

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

1IMAGINARYHOMELANDS

‘ERRATA’:OR,UNRELIABLENARRATIONINMIDNIGHT’SCHILDRENTHERIDDLEOFMIDNIGHT:INDIA,AUGUST1987

2CENSORSHIP

THEASSASSINATIONOFINDIRAGANDHI

DYNASTY

ZIAUL-HAQ.17AUGUST1988DAUGHTEROFTHEEAST

3‘COMMONWEALTHLITERATURE’DOESNOTEXIST

ANITADESAI

KIPLING

HOBSON-JOBSON

4OUTSIDETHEWHALE

ATTENBOROUGH’SGANDHI

SATYAJITRAYHANDSWORTHSONGS

THELOCATIONOFBRAZIL

5THENEWEMPIREWITHINBRITAIN

ANUNIMPORTANTFIRE

HOMEFRONTV.S.NAIPAUL

THEPAINTERANDTHEPEST

6AGENERALELECTION

CHARTER88ONPALESTINIANIDENTITY:ACONVERSATIONWITHEDWARDSAID

7NADINEGORDIMER

RIANMALAN

NURUDDINFARAHKAPUŚCIŃSKI’SANGOLA

8JOHNBERGER

GRAHAMGREENE

JOHNLECARRÉONADVENTURE

ATTHEADELAIDEFESTIVALTRAVELLINGWITHCHATWIN

CHATWIN’STRAVELSJULIANBARNESKAZUOISHIGURO

9MICHELTOURNIERITALOCALVINO

STEPHENHAWKING

ANDREISAKHAROVUMBERTOECOGÜNTERGRASS

HEINRICHBÖLL

SIEGFRIEDLENZPETERSCHNEIDER

CHRISTOPHRANSMAYR

MAURICESENDAKANDWILHELMGRIMM

10GABRIELGARCÍAMÁRQUEZ

MARIOVARGASLLOSA

11THELANGUAGEOFTHEPACKDEBRETTGOESTOHOLLYWOOD

E.L.DOCTOROW

MICHAELHERR:ANINTERVIEWRICHARDFORD

RAYMONDCARVERISAACBASHEVISSINGER

PHILIPROTHSAULBELLOW

THOMASPYNCHONKURTVONNEGUT

GRACEPALEYTRAVELSWITHAGOLDENASS

THEDIVINESUPERMARKET

12NAIPAULAMONGTHEBELIEVERS

‘INGODWETRUST’INGOODFAITH

ISNOTHINGSACRED?ONETHOUSANDDAYSINABALLOON

INTRODUCTION

The essay fromwhich this collection takes its titlewasmy contribution to aseminar about Indianwriting inEnglishheld inLondonduring theFestivalofIndia in 1982. In those days Indira Gandhi was back as India’s premier. InPakistan, the Zia regime was consolidating its power in the aftermath of theexecutionofZulfiqarAliBhutto.BritainwasintheearlythroesoftheThatcherrevolution, and in theUnited States,RonaldReaganwas still an unregenerateColdWarrior.The structures of theworld retained their uninspiringly familiarform.

The upheavals of 1989 and 1990 changed all that. Now that we’recontemplating a transformed international scene, with its new possibilities,uncertainties, intransigences and dangers, it seems not inappropriate to pulltogether our thoughts on the rapidly receding decade in which, as Gramsciwouldhavesaid,theoldwasdying,andyetthenewcouldnotbeborn.‘Inthisinterregnum there arises a great diversity of morbid symptoms,’ Gramscisuggested.Thisbookisanincomplete,personalviewoftheinterregnumofthe1980s,notallofwhosesymptoms,ithastobesaid,weremorbid.

In1981Ihadjustpublishedmysecondnovel,andwasenjoyingtheuniquepleasure of havingwritten, for the first time, a book that people liked.BeforeMidnight’sChildren, I hadhadonenovel rejected, abandoned twoothers, andpublishedone,Grimus,which,toputitmildly,bombed.Now,aftertenyearsofblunders, incompetence and commercials for cream cakes, hair colourants andtheDailyMirror,Icouldbegintolivebymypen.Itfeltgood.

Almostalltheimportant‘Indo-Anglian’writerswereattheLondonseminar:NiradC.Chaudhuri,AnitaDesai,RajaRao,MulkRajAnandamongthem.Ofthebignames,onlyR.K.Narayanwasabsent,thoughI’dbeentoldearlierthathe’daccepted the invitation. ‘Narayan is socourteous thathealwaysaccepts,’somebodytoldme,‘buthenevershowsup.’Itwasexhilaratingformetomeetandlistentothesewriters.Buttherewereworryingmoments,too;indicationsofsomeparticipants’desiretodescribeIndianculture—whichIhadalwaysthoughtofasarichmixtureoftraditions—inexclusive,andexcluding,Hinduterms.

One distinguished novelist began his contribution by reciting a Sanskritsloka.Then,insteadoftranslatingtheverse,hedeclared:‘EveryeducatedIndianwillunderstandwhatI’vejustsaid.’Thiswasnotsimplyaformofintellectualgrandeur. In the room were Indian writers and scholars of every conceivablebackground—Christian, Parsi,Muslim, Sikh.None of us had been raised in aSanskritictradition.Wewereallreasonably‘educated’,however;sowhatwerewebeingtold?Perhapsthatweweren’treally‘Indian’?

Later in the day, an eminent Indian academic delivered a paper on Indianculture that utterly ignored all minority communities.When questioned aboutthis from the floor, the professor smiled benignly and allowed that of courseIndia contained many diverse traditions—including Buddhists, Christians and‘Mughals’. This characterization of Muslim culture was more than merelypeculiar.Itwasatechniqueofalienation.ForifMuslimswere‘Mughals’,thentheywereforeigninvaders,andIndianMuslimculturewasbothimperialistandinauthentic. At the time we made light of the gibe, but it stayed with me,prickingatmelikeathorn.

A decade later, India has arrived at a full-blown crisis of descriptions.Religiousmilitancy threatens thefoundationsof thesecularstate.ManyIndianintellectualsnowappeartoaccepttheHindunationalistdefinitionsofthestate;minority groups respondwith growing extremisms of their own. It is perhapssignificantthatthereisnocommonlyusedHindustaniwordfor‘secularism’;theimportance of the secular ideal in India has simply been assumed, in a ratherunexamined way. Now that communalist forces would appear to have all themomentum, secularism’s defenders are in alarming disarray. And yet, if thesecularist principle were abandoned, India could simply explode. It is aparadoxical fact that secularism, which has been much under attack of late,outside India as well as inside it, is the only way of safeguarding theconstitutional, civil, humanand, yes, religious rightsofminoritygroups.DoesIndiastillhavethepoliticalwilltoinsistonthissafeguard?Ihopeso.Wemustallhopeso.Andweshallsee.

Thefirstthreesectionsofthisvolumedealwithsubcontinentalthemes.SectiononecontainsworkroughlygroupedaroundMidnight’sChildren;sectiontwoisabout thepoliticsof IndiaandPakistan; section three is about literature. Indo-Anglianliteratureispresentlyinexcellentshape.Manynewwritersmadetheir

reputations in the1980s—VikramSeth,AllanSealy,AmitavGhosh,RohintonMistry, Upamanyu Chatterjee, Shashi Tharoor, and more—and are producingworkofgrowingconfidenceandoriginality.Ifonlythepoliticalscenewereashealthy! But, alas, the damage done to Indian life by ‘the Emergency’, MrsGandhi’s period of authoritarian rule between 1974 and 1977, is now all tooplain. The reason why somany of us were outraged by the Emergency wentbeyondthedictatorialatmosphereofthosedays,beyondthejailingofopponentsandtheforciblesterilizations.Thereasonwas(asIfirstsuggestedsixyearsagointheessayhereentitled‘Dynasty’)thatitwasduringtheEmergencythatthelidflewoffthePandora’sboxofcommunaldiscord.Theboxmaybeshutnow,butthe goblins of sectarianism are still on the loose. Indian painters like VivanSundaram rose nobly to the challenge of the Emergency. No doubt Indianwritersandartistswillrespondwithequalskilltothenewcrisis.Badtimes,afterall,traditionallyproducegoodbooks.

The fourth section deals primarily with movies and television. I havetinkeredonlyalittlewiththeoriginalformofthesepieces,butIshouldsaythat,sevenyearson,Ifind‘OutsidetheWhale’alittleunfairtoGeorgeOrwellandtoHenryMiller, too. IhavenotchangedmymindaboutRichardAttenborough’sfilmGandhi,butitmustbeacceptedthatthefilm’sinfluenceoutsideIndiawasoften very positive; radical and progressive groups and movements in SouthAmerica,EasternEuropeandsouthernAfrica,too,foundituplifting.ThepieceaboutHandsworth Songs stimulated a lively debate among blackBritish film-makers, some of it supportive of my views, some of it critical, all of itfascinating and, I think, helpful. And one footnote to the piece about SatyajitRay.WhenImethim,hewasshootingscenesforTheHomeandtheWorldinanoldzamindar’smansioninthedepthsofruralBengal.Herightlythoughtit theperfect setting for hismovie. I found that I needed it, too, and it became themodel for the dreammansion, ‘Perownistan’, occupied byMirza SaeedAkhtarandhiswifeinthe‘Titlipur’sectionsofTheSatanicVerses.(Thegiantbanyaninfestedbybutterflieswasn’tthere,however.IsawthatinsouthernIndia,notfarfromMysore.)

Sectionfivecontainsfivepiecesabouttheexperienceofmigrants,primarilyIndianmigrantstoBritain.Ofthese,‘TheNewEmpireWithinBritain’requiresafewwordsofcomment,becauseof its ratherstrangeafterlife. Itwasoriginallywritten for theOpinions slot in the very early days ofChannel 4. (Itwas thesecondprogrammeintheseries,followingE.P.Thompson.)ThemanyBritishblacksandAsianswhophoned inorwroteagreed,virtuallyunanimously, that

thelecturehaddonenomorethantellthesimpletruth.Tothem,Ihadgonenofurther than the ABC of racial prejudice in Britain. There was also,unsurprisingly,ahostileresponsefromsomemembersofthewhitecommunity,thoughtheywereoutnumberedbyotherwhiteBritonswhohadfoundthepieceinformativeanduseful.Mypurposehadbeensimple:totellthewhitemajorityhowlifeinBritainalltoooftenfelttomembersofracialminoritygroups.(I’vebeeninaminoritygroupallmylife—amemberofanIndianMuslimfamilyinBombay,thenofa‘mohajir’—migrant—familyinPakistan,andnowasaBritishAsian.)Byarticulatingagrievance,Icouldhelp,orsoIhoped,tobuildbridgesofunderstanding.

I had thought of television programmes as evanescent, here-today-gone-tomorrow things.Butwewereat thebeginningof thevideoboom,and tomysurprisethetapeofthebroadcastcirculatedwidely,throughtheCommissionforRacialEqualityandotherorganizations.Thiswassatisfying,ofcourse,butalsoalittleworrying.Ihadwrittenandspokenataparticularmomentinthehistoryof British race relations. Those relationships moved on, developed, changed.Somethings(moreblackfacesintelevisionprogrammesandinthecommercialbreaks) got a bit better, others (racial harassment) got rather worse. The taperemainedthesame.

What I had, perhaps naïvely, failed to anticipate was that the text of thelecturewouldbedistorted,falsifiedandusedagainstmebypeopleofadifferentpoliticaldispositionthanmyself.IwasaccusedbothbyGeoffreyHoweandbyNormanTebbitofhavingequatedBritainwithNaziGermany,andsoofhaving‘betrayedand insulted’myadoptedcountry.Now it’s true that the textof thisessayisdeliberatelypolemical,andnodoubtthatupsettheHowesandTebbits.Imakenoapologyforbeingangryaboutracialprejudice.Butit isalsotruethatthepiecerepeatedlyinsiststhatthesituationinBritainisnotcomparabletolifeunderNazismorapartheid.Idrawattentiontothisnow,becausedistortionsandfalsehoodshaveawayofbecomingtruebyvirtueofbeingrepeatedfrequently.The‘NaziBritain’smearhasbeenaroundforlongenough.Therepublicationof‘TheNewEmpireWithinBritain’ in thisvolumeenables readers todecide forthemselveswhetheritwasjustifiedornot.

Iam,ofcourse,bynomeanstheonlyBritishwritertohavecomeunderfireinthesepastyears.TheregularscoldingsmetedoutinthenewspaperstoallofuswhowroteagainstthegrainofThatcherismwereanotablefeatureofthepastdecade. IanMcEwanwas scoldedbyaSundayTimes leader forhisnovelTheChildinTime.HaroldPinterwasscoldedforhisviewsaboutAmericanpolicyin

Nicaragua.MargaretDrabblewasscoldedforbeingworthy,Hampsteadishandboring. In between scoldings, such writers were dismissed as ‘champagnesocialists’.Thisisbecausetheirbooksandplaysandfilmswerepopular.Iftheworkhadbeenunpopular,nodoubttheywouldhavebeenattackedasfailures.Itwasagooddecadefordoublebinds.

Sectionsixcontainsthreepieces—reflectionsontheThatcher/Footelection,on Charter 88 and on the question of Palestine—of, I suppose, the scolding-provokingvariety.

The next five sections—on writers from Africa, Britain, Europe, SouthAmericaandtheUnitedStates—neednofootnotes.Thelastsectiondealswithasubject—thecrisisthatengulfedmynovelTheSatanicVerses—towhichfartoomanynoteshavealreadybeenappended.Ihavelittletoadd.

Finally,somenecessaryacknowledgements.Totheoriginalpublishersofthesepieces, who include the London Review of Books, Guardian, Index onCensorship, Observer, Granta, The Times, American Film, New Society, NewYork Times, Washington Post, New Republic, Times Literary Supplement andIndependent on Sunday,my thanks;most particularly toBillWebb andBlakeMorrison,thebestoftwogenerationsofBritishliteraryeditors.Thanks,too,toBillBuford,BobTashmanandeveryoneatGrantaBookswhohelpedtopullthisbook together. Edward Said kindly allowed me to reproduce the text of ourpublic conversation at the Institute of Contemporary Arts. And to SusannahClapp, forpluckingoutof the textof anessay thephrase thatbecame first itstitleandthenthetitleofthisbook,abighugofgratitude.

1991

1

IMAGINARYHOMELANDS

‘ERRATA’

THERIDDLEOFMIDNIGHT

IMAGINARYHOMELANDS

AnoldphotographinacheapframehangsonawalloftheroomwhereIwork.It’sapicturedatingfrom1946ofahouseintowhich,atthetimeofitstaking,Ihad not yet been born. The house is rather peculiar—a three-storeyed gabledaffairwith tiled roofs and round towers in twocomers, eachwearing apointytiledhat.‘Thepastisaforeigncountry,’goesthefamousopeningsentenceofL.P.Hartley’s novelTheGo-Between, ‘theydo thingsdifferently there.’But thephotographtellsmetoinvertthisidea;itremindsmethatit’smypresentthatisforeign,andthatthepastishome,albeitalosthomeinalostcityinthemistsoflosttime.

AfewyearsagoIrevisitedBombay,whichismylostcity,afteranabsenceof something like halfmy life. Shortly after arriving, acting on an impulse, Iopened the telephone directory and looked for my father’s name. And,amazingly, there it was; his name, our old address, the unchanged telephonenumber,asifwehadnevergoneawaytotheunmentionablecountryacrosstheborder.Itwasaneeriediscovery.IfeltasifIwerebeingclaimed,orinformedthatthefactsofmyfarawaylifewereillusions,andthatthiscontinuitywasthereality. Then Iwent to visit the house in the photograph and stood outside it,neitherdaringnorwishingtoannouncemyselftoitsnewowners.(Ididn’twanttoseehowthey’druinedtheinterior.)Iwasoverwhelmed.Thephotographhadnaturally been taken in black and white; and my memory, feeding on suchimages as this, had begun to see my childhood in the same way,monochromatically.Thecoloursofmyhistoryhadseepedoutofmymind’seye;nowmyother twoeyeswereassaultedbycolours,by thevividnessof the redtiles, the yellow-edged green of cactus-leaves, the brilliance of bougainvillaeacreeper. It is probably not too romantic to say that that was when my novelMidnight’s Children was really born; when I realized howmuch I wanted torestorethepasttomyself,notinthefadedgreysofoldfamily-albumsnapshots,butwhole,inCinemaScopeandgloriousTechnicolor.

Bombay isacitybuiltbyforeignersuponreclaimed land; I,whohadbeenawaysolongthatIalmostqualifiedforthetitle,wasgrippedbytheconviction

thatI,too,hadacityandahistorytoreclaim.Itmaybethatwritersinmyposition,exilesoremigrantsorexpatriates,are

hauntedbysomesenseofloss,someurgetoreclaim,tolookback,evenattheriskofbeingmutatedintopillarsofsalt.Butifwedolookback,wemustalsodoso in the knowledge—which gives rise to profound uncertainties—that ourphysical alienation from India almost inevitably means that we will not becapable of reclaiming precisely the thing thatwas lost; thatwewill, in short,create fictions, not actual cities or villages, but invisible ones, imaginaryhomelands,Indiasofthemind.

WritingmybookinNorthLondon,lookingoutthroughmywindowontoacityscenetotallyunliketheonesIwasimaginingontopaper,Iwasconstantlyplaguedbythisproblem,untilIfeltobligedtofaceitinthetext,tomakeclearthat (in spite of my original and I suppose somewhat Proustian ambition tounlockthegatesoflosttimesothatthepastreappearedasitactuallyhadbeen,unaffectedbythedistortionsofmemory)whatIwasactuallydoingwasanovelof memory and about memory, so that my India was just that: ‘my’ India, aversionandnomorethanoneversionofallthehundredsofmillionsofpossibleversions.ItriedtomakeitasimaginativelytrueasIcould,butimaginativetruthis simultaneouslyhonourableand suspect, and Iknew thatmy Indiamayonlyhavebeenone towhichI (whoamnolongerwhatIwas,andwhobyquittingBombayneverbecamewhatperhapsIwasmeanttobe)was,letussay,willingtoadmitIbelonged.

This is why I made my narrator, Saleem, suspect in his narration; hismistakes are the mistakes of a fallible memory compounded by quirks ofcharacter and of circumstance, and his vision is fragmentary. It may be thatwhentheIndianwriterwhowritesfromoutsideIndiatriestoreflectthatworld,he is obliged to deal in brokenmirrors, some of whose fragments have beenirretrievablylost.

Butthereisaparadoxhere.Thebrokenmirrormayactuallybeasvaluableastheonewhich is supposedlyunflawed.Letmeagain tryandexplain this frommy own experience. Before beginning Midnight’s Children, I spent manymonthstryingsimplytorecallasmuchoftheBombayofthe1950sand1960sasIcould;andnotonlyBombay—Kashmir,too,andDelhiandAligarh,which,inmybook,I’vemovedtoAgratoheightenacertainjokeabouttheTajMahal.I

was genuinely amazed by how much came back to me. I found myselfrememberingwhatclothespeoplehadwornoncertaindays,andschoolscenes,and whole passages of Bombay dialogue verbatim, or so it seemed; I evenrememberedadvertisements, film-posters, theneonJeepsignonMarineDrive,toothpaste ads for Binaca and for Kolynos, and a footbridge over the localrailwaylinewhichbore,ononeside,thelegend‘Essoputsatigerinyourtank’and,on theother, thecuriouslycontradictoryadmonition: ‘Drive likeHellandyou will get there.’ Old songs came back to me from nowhere: a streetentertainer’sversionof‘GoodNight,Ladies’,and,fromthefilmMr420(averyappropriatesourceformynarratortohaveused),thehitnumber‘MeraJootaHaiJapani’,*whichcouldalmostbeSaleem’sthemesong.

IknewthatIhadtappedarichseam;butthepointIwanttomakeisthatofcourseI’mnotgiftedwithtotalrecall,anditwaspreciselythepartialnatureofthesememories, their fragmentation, thatmade themsoevocative forme.Theshardsofmemoryacquiredgreaterstatus,greaterresonance,becausetheywereremains;fragmentationmadetrivialthingsseemlikesymbols,andthemundaneacquirednuminousqualities.Thereisanobviousparallelherewitharchaeology.The broken pots of antiquity, fromwhich the past can sometimes, but alwaysprovisionally,bereconstructed,areexcitingtodiscover,eveniftheyarepiecesofthemostquotidianobjects.

Itmaybearguedthatthepastisacountryfromwhichwehaveallemigrated,thatitslossispartofourcommonhumanity.Whichseemstomeself-evidentlytrue;butIsuggestthatthewriterwhoisout-of-countryandevenout-of-languagemayexperiencethislossinanintensifiedform.Itismademoreconcreteforhimby the physical fact of discontinuity, of his present being in a different placefromhispast,ofhisbeing‘elsewhere’.Thismayenablehimtospeakproperlyandconcretelyonasubjectofuniversalsignificanceandappeal.

Butletmegofurther.Thebrokenglassisnotmerelyamirrorofnostalgia.Itisalso,Ibelieve,ausefultoolwithwhichtoworkinthepresent.

JohnFowlesbeginsDanielMartinwith thewords:‘Wholesight:orall therest isdesolation.’Buthumanbeingsdonotperceivethingswhole;wearenotgods but wounded creatures, cracked lenses, capable only of fracturedperceptions.Partialbeings, inall thesensesof thatphrase.Meaningisashakyedificewebuildoutof scraps,dogmas, childhood injuries, newspaper articles,chanceremarks,oldfilms,smallvictories,peoplehated,peopleloved;perhapsitis because our sense of what is the case is constructed from such inadequatematerials thatwedefend it so fiercely, even to thedeath.TheFowlesposition

seems tome away of succumbing to the guru-illusion.Writers are no longersages,dispensingthewisdomof thecenturies.Andthoseofuswhohavebeenforcedbyculturaldisplacementtoaccepttheprovisionalnatureofalltruths,allcertainties,haveperhapshadmodernismforceduponus.Wecan’tlayclaimtoOlympus,andarethusreleasedtodescribeourworldsinthewayinwhichallofus,whetherwritersornot,perceiveitfromdaytoday.

InMidnight’sChildren,mynarratorSaleemuses,atonepoint,themetaphorofacinemascreentodiscussthisbusinessofperception:‘Supposeyourselfinalargecinema,sittingatfirstinthebackrow,andgraduallymovingup,…untilyour nose is almost pressed against the screen. Gradually the stars’ facesdissolve into dancing grain; tiny details assume grotesque proportions; … itbecomes clear that the illusion itself is reality.’ The movement towards thecinemascreenisametaphorforthenarrative’smovementthroughtimetowardsthe present, and the book itself, as it nears contemporary events, quitedeliberately loses deep perspective, becomesmore ‘partial’. Iwasn’t trying towrite about (for instance) the Emergency in the same way as I wrote abouteventshalfacenturyearlier.Ifeltitwouldbedishonesttopretend,whenwritingabout thedaybeforeyesterday, that itwaspossible to see thewholepicture. Ishowedcertainblobsandslabsofthescene.

I once took part in a conference onmodernwriting atNewCollege,Oxford.Variousnovelists,myselfincluded,weretalkingearnestlyofsuchmattersastheneed for new ways of describing the world. Then the playwright HowardBrenton suggested that this might be a somewhat limited aim: does literatureseek todonomore than todescribe?Flustered,all thenovelistsatoncebegantalkingaboutpolitics.

Letme apply Brenton’s question to the specific case of Indianwriters, inEngland, writing about India. Can they do no more than describe, from adistance, the world that they have left? Or does the distance open any otherdoors?

Theseareofcoursepoliticalquestions,andmustbeansweredatleastpartlyinpolitical terms. Imustsayfirstofall thatdescription is itselfapoliticalact.The black American writer Richard Wright once wrote that black and whiteAmericanswereengagedinawaroverthenatureofreality.Theirdescriptionswereincompatible.Soitisclearthatredescribingaworldisthenecessaryfirst

steptowardschangingit.Andparticularlyat timeswhentheStatetakesrealityintoitsownhands,andsetsaboutdistortingit,alteringthepasttofititspresentneeds, thenthemakingofthealternativerealitiesofart, includingthenovelofmemory, becomes politicized. ‘The struggle of man against power,’ MilanKunderahaswritten,‘isthestruggleofmemoryagainstforgetting.’Writersandpoliticians are natural rivals. Both groups try tomake theworld in their ownimages; theyfightfor thesameterritory.Andthenovel isonewayofdenyingtheofficial,politicians’versionoftruth.

The ‘State truth’ about the war in Bangladesh, for instance, is that noatrocitieswerecommittedbythePakistaniarmyinwhatwasthentheEastWing.This version is sanctifiedbymanypersonswhowoulddescribe themselves asintellectuals. And the official version of the Emergency in India was wellexpressedbyMrsGandhi in a recentBBC interview.She said that thereweresome people around who claimed that bad things had happened during theEmergency, forced sterilizations, things like that; but, she stated, this was allfalse.Nothingofthistypehadeveroccurred.Theinterviewer,MrRobertKee,didnotprobethisstatementatall.InsteadhetoldMrsGandhiandthePanoramaaudiencethatshehadproved,manytimesover,herrighttobecalledademocrat.

Soliteraturecan,andperhapsmust,givethelietoofficialfacts.Butisthisaproper function of those of us who write from outside India? Or are we justdilettantes in such affairs, because we are not involved in their day-to-dayunfolding,becausebyspeakingoutwetakenorisks,becauseourpersonalsafetyisnotthreatened?Whatrightdowehavetospeakatall?

Myanswerisverysimple.Literatureisself-validating.Thatistosay,abookisnotjustifiedbyitsauthor’sworthinesstowriteit,butbythequalityofwhathasbeenwritten.Thereare terriblebooks thatarisedirectlyoutofexperience,and extraordinary imaginative feats dealingwith themeswhich the author hasbeenobligedtoapproachfromtheoutside.

Literature is not in the business of copyrighting certain themes for certaingroups. And as for risk: the real risks of any artist are taken in the work, inpushingtheworktothelimitsofwhatispossible,intheattempttoincreasethesumofwhat it is possible to think.Books becomegoodwhen they go to thisedgeandriskfallingoverit—whentheyendangertheartistbyreasonofwhathehas,orhasnot,artisticallydared.

So if I am to speak for Indian writers in England I would say this,paraphrasingG.V.Desani’sH.Hatterr:Themigrationsofthefiftiesandsixtieshappened.‘Weare.Wearehere’.Andwearenotwilling tobeexcludedfrom

any part of our heritage;which heritage includes both aBradford-born Indiankid’srighttobetreatedasafullmemberofBritishsociety,andalsotherightofanymemberofthispost-diasporacommunitytodrawonitsrootsforitsart,justas all the world’s community of displaced writers has always done. (I’mthinking,forinstance,ofGrass’sDanzig-become-Gdansk,ofJoyce’sabandonedDublin, of Isaac Bashevis Singer and Maxine Hong Kingston and MilanKunderaandmanyothers.It’salonglist.)

Letmeoverrideatonce the faintlydefensivenote thathascrept into theselastfewremarks.TheIndianwriter,lookingbackatIndia,doessothroughguilt-tinted spectacles. (I am of course, once more, talking about myself.) I amspeakingnowofthoseofuswhoemigrated…andIsuspectthattherearetimeswhen the move seems wrong to us all, when we seem, to ourselves, post-lapsarianmenandwomen.WeareHinduswhohavecrossedtheblackwater;weareMuslimswhoeatpork.Andasaresult—asmyuseoftheChristiannotionoftheFallindicates—wearenowpartlyoftheWest.Ouridentityisatoncepluralandpartial.Sometimeswefeelthatwestraddletwocultures;atothertimes,thatwe fall between two stools. But however ambiguous and shifting this groundmaybe,itisnotaninfertileterritoryforawritertooccupy.Ifliteratureisinpartthebusinessoffindingnewanglesatwhichtoenterreality,thenonceagainourdistance,ourlonggeographicalperspective,mayprovideuswithsuchangles.Oritmaybethatthatissimplywhatwemustthinkinordertodoourwork.

Midnight’s Children enters its subject from the point of view of a secularman. I am amember of that generation of Indianswhowere sold the secularideal.OneofthethingsIliked,andstilllike,aboutIndiaisthatitisbasedonanon-sectarianphilosophy.IwasnotraisedinanarrowlyMuslimenvironment;IdonotconsiderHinduculturetobeeitheralienfrommeormoreimportantthanthe Islamic heritage. I believe this has something to do with the nature ofBombay, a metropolis in which the multiplicity of commingled faiths andcultures curiously creates a remarkably secular ambience.SaleemSinaimakesuse,eclectically,ofwhateverelementsfromwhateversourceshechooses.ItmayhavebeeneasierforhisauthortodothisfromoutsidemodernIndiathaninsideit.

IwanttomakeonelastpointaboutthedescriptionofIndiathatMidnight’sChildrenattempts.Itisapointaboutpessimism.ThebookhasbeencriticisedinIndiaforitsallegedlydespairingtone.Andthedespairofthewriter-from-outsidemayindeedlookalittleeasy,alittlepat.ButIdonotseethebookasdespairingornihilistic.Thepointofviewofthenarratorisnotentirelythatoftheauthor.

WhatI tried todowas tosetupa tension in the text,aparadoxicaloppositionbetweentheformandcontentofthenarrative.ThestoryofSaleemdoesindeedleadhimtodespair.Butthestoryistoldinamannerdesignedtoecho,ascloselyasmyabilitiesallowed,theIndiantalentfornon-stopself-regeneration.Thisiswhythenarrativeconstantlythrowsupnewstories,whyit‘teems’.Theform—multitudinous, hinting at the infinite possibilities of the country—is theoptimisticcounterweighttoSaleem’spersonaltragedy.Idonotthinkthatabookwritteninsuchamannercanreallybecalledadespairingwork.

England’sIndianwritersarebynomeansallthesametypeofanimal.Someofus,forinstance,arePakistani.OthersBangladeshi.OthersWest,orEast,orevenSouthAfrican.AndV.S.Naipaul,bynow,issomethingelseentirely.Thisword‘Indian’ is getting to be a pretty scattered concept. Indian writers in Englandinclude political exiles, first-generation migrants, affluent expatriates whoseresidencehereisfrequentlytemporary,naturalizedBritons,andpeoplebornherewhomayneverhave laideyeson the subcontinent.Clearly,nothing that I saycanapplyacrossallthesecategories.Butoneoftheinterestingthingsaboutthisdiverse community is that, as far as Indo-British fiction is concerned, itsexistencechangestheballgame,becausethatfictionisinfuturegoingtocomeasmuchfromaddressesinLondon,BirminghamandYorkshireasfromDelhiorBombay.

OneofthechangeshastodowithattitudestowardstheuseofEnglish.Manyhave referred to the argument about the appropriateness of this language toIndianthemes.AndIhopeallofussharetheviewthatwecan’tsimplyusethelanguageinthewaytheBritishdid;thatitneedsremakingforourownpurposes.ThoseofuswhodouseEnglishdoso inspiteofourambiguity towards it,orperhapsbecauseofthat,perhapsbecausewecanfindinthatlinguisticstruggleareflectionofotherstrugglestakingplaceintherealworld,strugglesbetweenthecultures within ourselves and the influences at work upon our societies. ToconquerEnglishmaybetocompletetheprocessofmakingourselvesfree.

But the British Indianwriter simply does not have the option of rejectingEnglish,anyway.Hischildren,herchildren,willgrowupspeakingit,probablyas a first language; and in the forging of aBritish Indian identity theEnglishlanguageisofcentralimportance.Itmust, inspiteofeverything,beembraced.(The word ‘translation’ comes, etymologically, from the Latin for ‘bearing

across’. Having been borne across the world, we are translated men. It isnormally supposed that something always gets lost in translation; I cling,obstinately,tothenotionthatsomethingcanalsobegained.)

To be an Indian writer in this society is to face, every day, problems ofdefinition.Whatdoesitmeantobe‘Indian’outsideIndia?Howcanculturebepreserved without becoming ossified? How should we discuss the need forchangewithin ourselves and our communitywithout seeming to play into thehands of our racial enemies? What are the consequences, both spiritual andpractical,of refusing tomakeanyconcessions toWestern ideasandpractices?Whatare theconsequencesofembracing those ideasandpracticesand turningaway from the ones that came herewith us? These questions are all a single,existentialquestion:Howarewetoliveintheworld?

Idonotproposetooffer,prescriptively,anyanswerstothesequestions;onlytostatethatthesearesomeoftheissueswithwhicheachofuswillhavetocometoterms.

To turn my eyes outwards now, and to say a little about the relationshipbetweentheIndianwriterandthemajoritywhitecultureinwhosemidsthelives,andwithwhichhisworkwillsoonerorlaterhavetodeal:

In common with many Bombay-raised middle-class children of mygeneration, I grew up with an intimate knowledge of, and even sense offriendshipwith,acertainkindofEngland:adream-EnglandcomposedofTestMatchesatLord’spresidedoverby thevoiceofJohnArlott,atwhichFreddieTrueman bowled unceasingly and without success at Polly Umrigar; of EnidBlytonandBillyBunter,inwhichwewereevenpreparedtosmileindulgentlyatportraitssuchas‘HurreeJamsetRamSingh’,‘theduskynabobofBhanipur’.IwantedtocometoEngland.Icouldn’twait.Andtobefair,Englandhasdoneallrightbyme;butIfinditalittledifficult tobeproperlygrateful.Ican’tescapethe view thatmy relatively easy ride is not the result of the dream-England’sfamoussenseoftoleranceandfairplay,butofmysocialclass,myfreakfairskinandmy‘English’Englishaccent.Takeawayanyofthese,andthestorywouldhavebeenverydifferent.Becauseofcoursethedream-Englandisnomorethanadream.

Sadly, it’s a dream from which too many white Britons refuse to awake.Recently, on a live radioprogramme, aprofessionalhumorist askedme, in all

seriousness, why I objected to being called a wog. He said he had alwaysthought ita rathercharmingword,a termofendearment. ‘Iwasat thezoo theotherday,’herevealed,‘andazookeepertoldmethatthewogswerebestwiththeanimals;theystucktheirfingersintheirearsandwiggledthemaboutandtheanimalsfeltathome.’TheghostofHurreeJamsetRamSinghwalksamongusstill.

AsRichardWrightfoundlongagoinAmerica,blackandwhitedescriptionsof society are no longer compatible. Fantasy, or the mingling of fantasy andnaturalism,isonewayofdealingwiththeseproblems.Itoffersawayofechoingin the form of our work the issues faced by all of us: how to build a new,‘modern’worldoutofanold,legend-hauntedcivilization,anoldculturewhichwehavebroughtintotheheartofanewerone.Butwhatevertechnicalsolutionswemayfind,Indianwritersintheseislands,likeotherswhohavemigratedintothe north from the south, are capable of writing from a kind of doubleperspective: because they, we, are at one and the same time insiders andoutsidersinthissociety.Thisstereoscopicvisionisperhapswhatwecanofferinplaceof‘wholesight’.

ThereisonelastideathatIshouldliketoexplore,eventhoughitmay,onfirsthearing, seem to contradictmuchofwhat I’ve so far said. It is this: of all themany elephant traps lying ahead of us, the largest andmost dangerous pitfallwould be the adoption of a ghetto mentality. To forget that there is a worldbeyond the community to which we belong, to confine ourselves withinnarrowly defined cultural frontiers,would be, I believe, to go voluntarily intothat formof internalexilewhich inSouthAfrica iscalled the ‘homeland’.Wemust guard against creating, for the most virtuous of reasons, British-IndianliteraryequivalentsofBophuthatswanaortheTranskei.

Thisraisesimmediatelythequestionofwhomoneiswriting‘for’.Myown,short, answer is that I have never had a reader inmind. I have ideas, people,events,shapes,andIwrite‘for’thosethings,andhopethatthecompletedworkwill be of interest to others. But which others? In the case of Midnight’sChildrenIcertainlyfeltthatifitssubcontinentalreadershadrejectedthework,Ishouldhave thought it a failure,nomatterwhat the reaction in theWest.So IwouldsaythatIwrite‘for’peoplewhofeelpartofthethingsIwrite‘about’,butalsoforeveryoneelsewhomIcanreach.InthisIamofthesameopinionasthe

blackAmericanwriterRalphEllison,who, in his collectionof essaysShadowandAct,saysthathefindssomethingpreciousinbeingblackinAmericaatthistime;butthatheisalsoreachingformorethanthat.‘Iwastakenveryearly,’hewrites,‘withapassiontolinktogetherallIlovedwithintheNegrocommunityandallthosethingsIfeltintheworldwhichlaybeyond.’

Artisapassionofthemind.Andtheimaginationworksbestwhenitismostfree.Westernwriters have always felt free to be eclectic in their selection oftheme, setting, form;Westernvisual artists have, in this century, beenhappilyraidingthevisualstorehousesofAfrica,Asia,thePhilippines.Iamsurethatwemustgrantourselvesanequalfreedom.

Let me suggest that Indian writers in England have access to a secondtradition,quiteapartfromtheirownracialhistory.Itisthecultureandpoliticalhistoryofthephenomenonofmigration,displacement,lifeinaminoritygroup.Wecanquite legitimately claimas our ancestors theHuguenots, the Irish, theJews; thepast towhichwebelongisanEnglishpast, thehistoryof immigrantBritain. Swift, Conrad,Marx are as much our literary forebears as Tagore orRamMohanRoy.America,anationof immigrants,hascreatedgreat literatureoutofthephenomenonofculturaltransplantation,outofexaminingthewaysinwhich people copewith a newworld; itmay be that by discoveringwhatwehaveincommonwiththosewhoprecededusintothiscountry,wecanbegintodothesame.

Istressthisisonlyoneofmanypossiblestrategies.Butweareinescapablyinternational writers at a time when the novel has never been a moreinternationalform(awriterlikeBorgesspeaksoftheinfluenceofRobertLouisStevenson on his work; Heinrich Böll acknowledges the influence of Irishliterature; cross-pollination is everywhere); and it is perhaps one of the morepleasant freedomsof the literarymigrant tobe able to choosehisparents.Myown—selected half consciously, half not—include Gogol, Cervantes, Kafka,Melville, Machado de Assis; a polyglot family tree, against which I measuremyself,andtowhichIwouldbehonouredtobelong.

There’s a beautiful image in Saul Bellow’s latest novel, The Dean’sDecember.Thecentral character, theDean,Corde,hears adogbarkingwildlysomewhere.Heimaginesthatthebarkingisthedog’sprotestagainstthelimitofdogexperience. ‘ForGod’ssake,’ thedogissaying,‘opentheuniversea littlemore!’AndbecauseBellow is,ofcourse,not really talkingaboutdogs,ornotonly about dogs, I have the feeling that the dog’s rage, and its desire, is alsomine,ours,everyone’s.‘ForGod’ssake,opentheuniversealittlemore!’

1982

*MerajootahaiJapaniYépatloonInglistaniSarpélaltopiRusi—PhirbhidilhaiHindustani—whichtranslatesroughlyas:O,myshoesareJapaneseThesetrousersEnglish,ifyoupleaseOnmyhead,redRussianhat—Myheart’sIndianforallthat.[ThisisalsothesongsungbyGibreelFarishtaashetumblesfromtheheavensatthebeginningofTheSatanicVerses.]

‘ERRATA’:OR,UNRELIABLENARRATIONINMIDNIGHT’S

CHILDREN

AccordingtoHindutradition,theelephant-headedgodGaneshaisveryfondofliterature; so fond that he agrees to sit at the feet of the bardVyasa and takedowntheentiretextoftheMahabharata,fromstarttofinish,inanunparalleledactofstenographiclove.

InMidnight’sChildren,SaleemSinaimakesareference,atonepoint,tothisoldtradition.Buthisversionisalittledifferent.AccordingtoSaleem,Ganeshasat at the feet of the poet Valmiki and took down the Ramayana. Saleem iswrong.

Itisnothisonlymistake.DuringhisaccountoftheevolutionofthecityofBombay,hetellsusthatthecity’spatron-goddessMumbadevihasfallenoutoffavour with contemporary Bombayites: ‘The calendar of festivals reveals herdecline…Where isMumbadevi’s day?’ As amatter of fact, the calendar offestivals includes a perfectly goodMumbadevi Day, or at least it does in allversionsofIndiaexceptSaleem’s.

And how could Lata Mangeshkar have been heard singing on All-IndiaRadioasearlyas1946?AnddoesSaleemnotknowthatitwasnotGeneralSamManekshawwhoacceptedthesurrenderofthePakistanArmyattheendoftheBangladeshWar—theIndianofficerwhowasTigerNiazi’soldchumbeing,ofcourse, Jagjit Singh Arora? And why does Saleem allege that the brand ofcigarettes,StateExpress555,ismanufacturedbyW.D.&H.O.Wills?

Icouldcontinue.ConcretetetrapodshaveneverbeenusedinBombayaspartof any land reclamation scheme,butonly to shoreupandprotect the seawallalongtheMarineDrivepromenade.NorcouldthetrainthatbringsPictureSinghandSaleemfromDelhitoBombaypossiblyhavepassedthroughKurla,whichisonadifferentline.

Etcetera. It is by now obvious, I hope, that Saleem Sinai is an unreliablenarrator,andthatMidnight’sChildrenisfarfrombeinganauthoritativeguidetothehistoryofpost-independenceIndia.

But this isn’t quite how unreliable narration usually works in novels.

Conventionallyunreliablenarratorsareoftenalittlestupid,lessabletoworkoutwhat’sgoingonaroundthemthanthereader.Insuchnarratives,onedeciphersthe true meaning of events by ‘seeing through’ the narrator’s faulty vision.However, thenarratorofMidnight’sChildren isneitherparticularlystupid,norparticularlyunawareofwhat’shappening.

Why, then, all the errata? One answer could be that the author has beensloppyinhisresearch.‘Ifyou’regoingtouseHindutraditionsinyourstory,MrRushdie,’Iwasaskedbyanirateandshiny-headedgentlemaninBangalore—hehadspottedtheValmiki/Vyasaconfusion—‘don’tyouthinkyoucouldtakethetrouble to look it up?’ I have also received letters arguing aboutBombay busroutes, and informingme that certain ranks used by thePakistanArmy in thetextarenotinfactusedbythePakistanArmyinPakistan.Intheselettersthereisalwaysanundertoneofpleasure:thereader’sdelightathaving‘caughtthewriterout’.

SoletmeconfessthatthenoveldoescontainafewmistakesthataremineaswellasSaleem’s.OneistobefoundinthedescriptionoftheAmritsarmassacre,during which I have Saleem say that Dyer entered the Jallianwala Baghcompound followed by ‘fifty white troops’. The truth is that there were fiftytroops,buttheyweren’twhite.WhenIfirstfoundoutmyerrorIwasupsetandtriedtohaveitcorrected.NowI’mnotsosure.ThemistakefeelsmoreandmorelikeSaleem’s;itswrongnessfeelsright.

Elsewhere, though, Iwent to some trouble to get thingswrong.Originallyerror-free passages had the taint of inaccuracy introduced. Unintentionalmistakes were, on being discovered, not expunged from the text but, rather,emphasized,givenmoreprominenceinthestory.Thisoddbehaviourrequiresanexplanation.

When I began the novel (as I’ve written elsewhere) my purpose wassomewhatProustian.Timeandmigrationhadplacedadoublefilterbetweenmeandmysubject,andIhopedthatifIcouldonlyimaginevividlyenoughitmightbepossibletoseebeyondthosefilters,towriteasiftheyearshadnotpassed,asif I had never left India for the West. But as I worked I found that whatinterestedmewastheprocessoffiltrationitself.Somysubjectchanged,wasnolongerasearchforlosttime,hadbecomethewayinwhichweremakethepasttosuitourpresentpurposes,usingmemoryasourtool.Saleem’sgreatestdesireisforwhathecallsmeaning,andnear theendofhisbrokenlifehesetsout towritehimself,inthehopethatbydoingsohemayachievethesignificancethatthe events of his adulthood have drained from him. He is no dispassionate,

disinterestedchronicler.Hewantssotoshapehismaterialthatthereaderwillbeforcedtoconcedehiscentralrole.Heiscuttinguphistorytosuithimself,justashedidwhenhecutupnewspapers tocomposehisearlier text, theanonymousnotetoCommanderSabarmati.Thesmallerrorsinthetextcanbereadasclues,asindicationsthatSaleemiscapableofdistortionsbothgreatandsmall.Heisaninterestedpartyintheeventshenarrates.

Heisalsoremembering,ofcourse,andoneofthesimplesttruthsaboutanysetofmemoriesisthatmanyofthemwillbefalse.ImyselfhaveaclearmemoryofhavingbeeninIndiaduringtheChinaWar.I‘remember’howfrightenedweall were, I ‘recall’ people making nervy little jokes about needing to buythemselves aChinesephrasebookor two,because theChineseArmywasnotexpectedtostopuntilitreachedDelhi.IalsoknowthatIcouldnotpossiblyhavebeeninIndiaatthattime.IwasinterestedtofindthatevenafterIfoundoutthatmymemorywasplayingtricksmybrainsimplyrefusedtounscrambleitself. Itclungto thefalsememory,preferring it tomere literalhappenstance.I thoughtthatwasanimportantlessontolearn.

Thereafter, as I wrote the novel, and whenever a conflict arose betweenliteral and remembered truth, Iwould favour the remembered version. This iswhy, even though Saleem admits that no tidal wave passed through theSundarbansintheyearoftheBangladeshWar,hecontinuestobeborneoutofthejungleonthecrestofthatfictionalwave.Histruthistooimportanttohimtoallowittobeunseatedbyamereweatherreport.Itismemory’struth,heinsists,andonlyamadmanwouldprefersomeoneelse’sversiontohisown.

SaleemSinaiisnotanoracle;he’sonlyadoptingakindoforacularlanguage.Hisstoryisnothistory,butitplayswithhistoricalshapes.Ironically,thebook’ssuccess—itsBookerPrize,etc—initiallydistortedthewayinwhichitwasread.Many readers wanted it to be the history, even the guide-book, which it wasnevermeanttobe;othersresenteditforitsincompleteness,pointingout,amongotherthings,thatIhadfailedtomentionthegloriesofUrdupoetry,ortheplightof the Harijans, or untouchables, or what some people think of as the newimperialismoftheHindilanguageinSouthIndia.Thesevariouslydisappointedreaderswere judging the book not as a novel, but as some sort of inadequatereferencebookorencyclopaedia.

Thepassageoftimehassmoothedoutsuchwrinkles.I’djustliketoclearupthatmistakeofSaleem’saboutthegodGanesha.IthappensjustafterSaleemhasbeen boasting about his own erudition. In spite of coming from a Muslimbackground, he tells us, he’s well up on the Hindu stories. That he should

instantlyperpetrateahowlerabout themythwhichis,afterall,mostcentral tohimself(Ganesha’selephantinenose,anddubiousparentage,prefigurehisown)was,I thought,awayofdeflatingthatnarratorialpomposity;but itwasalso—along with Saleem’s other blunder about the date of Mahatma Gandhi’sassassination—awayoftellingthereadertomaintainahealthydistrust.

History is always ambiguous. Facts are hard to establish, and capable ofbeinggivenmanymeanings.Reality isbuiltonourprejudices,misconceptionsandignoranceaswellasonourperceptivenessandknowledge.ThereadingofSaleem’sunreliablenarrationmightbe,Ibelieved,ausefulanalogyforthewayinwhichweall,everyday,attemptto‘read’theworld.

1983

THERIDDLEOFMIDNIGHT:INDIA,AUGUST1987

Fortyyearsago,theindependentnationofIndiaandIwerebornwithineightweeks of one another. I came first. This gave rise to a family joke—that thedeparture of the British was occasioned bymy arrival on the scene—and thejoke,inturn,becamethegermofanovel,Midnight’sChildren,inwhichnotjustone child, but one thousand and one children born in the midnight hour offreedom, the first hour of 15 August 1947, were comically and tragicallyconnectedtothebirthofanation.

(I worked out, by the way, that the Indian birth rate in August 1947 wasapproximately twobabiesper second, somyfictional figureof1,001perhourwas,ifanything,alittleonthelowside.)

Thechainreactioncontinued.Thenovel’stitlebecame,formanyIndians,afamiliarcatch-phrasedefiningthatgenerationwhichwastooyoungtorememberthe Empire or the liberation struggle; and when Rajiv Gandhi became PrimeMinister,Ifoundhisadministrationbeingwelcomedinthenewspapersbysuchheadlinesas:‘Entermidnight’schildren.’

Sowhenfortycamearound,itoccurredtometotakealookat thestateofthe Indian nation that was, like me, entering its fifth decade; and to look, inparticular, through theeyesof theclassof ‘47, thecountry’scitizen-twins,mygeneration.Iflewtothesubcontinentinsearchofthereal-lifecounterpartsoftheimaginarybeingsIoncemadeup.Midnight’srealchildren:tomeetthemwouldbelikeclosingacircle.

Therewasa riddle Iwanted to tryandanswer,with theirhelp:Does Indiaexist?Astrange,redundantsortofinquiry,onthefaceofit.Afterall,therethegiganticplacemanifestlyis,aroughdiamondtwothousandmileslongandmoreor less as wide, as large as Europe though you’d never guess it from theMercatorprojection,populatedbyaroundasixthofthehumanrace,homeofthelargestfilmindustryonearth,spawningFestivalstheworldover,famousasthe‘world’s biggest democracy’. Does India exist? If it doesn’t, what’s keepingPakistanandBangladeshapart?

It’swhenyoustartthinkingaboutthepoliticalentity,thenationofIndia,the

thingwhosefortiethanniversaryitis,thatthequestionstartsmakingsense.Afterall, in all the thousands of years of Indian history, there never was such acreatureasaunitedIndia.Nobodyevermanagedtorulethewholeplace,nottheMughals, not the British. And then, that midnight, the thing that had neverexistedwassuddenly‘free’.Butwhatonearthwasit?Onwhatcommonground(ifany)didit,doesit,stand?

Somecountriesareunitedbyacommonlanguage;Indiahasaroundfifteenmajorlanguagesandnumberlessminorones.Norareitspeopleunitedbyrace,religionorculture.Thesedays,youcanevenhearsomevoicessuggesting thatthe preservation of the union is not in the common interest. J. K.Galbraith’sdescription of India as ‘functioning anarchy’ still fits, but the stresses on thecountryhaveneverbeensogreat.DoesIndiaexist?Ifitdoesn’t,theexplanationistobefoundinasingleword:communalism.Thepoliticsofreligioushatred.

Thereisamedium-sizedtowncalledAyodhyainthestateofUttarPradesh,and in this town there is a fairly commonplacemosque named BabriMasjid.According to theRamayana, however,Ayodhyawas the home town ofRamahimself, and according to a local legend the spot where he was born—theRamjanmabhoomi—is the one on which the Muslim place of worship standstoday.Thesitehasbeendisputedterritoryeversinceindependence,butformostofthefortyyearsthelidhasbeenkeptontheproblembytheveryIndianmethodof shelving the case, locking themosque’s gates, and allowingneitherHindusnorMuslimstoenter.

Last year, however, the case finally came to court, and the judgementseemed to favour theHindus.BabriMasjidbecame the targetof the extremistHindu fundamentalist organization, the Vishwa Hindu Parishad. Since then,Hindus and Muslims all over North India have been clashing, and in everyoutbreak of communal violence the Babri Masjid affair is cited as a primarycause.

When I arrived in Delhi the old Walled City was under heavy curfewbecause of just such an outbreak of communal violence. In the little alleys ofChandniChowkImetaHindutailor,HarbansLal,bornin1947andasmildandgentle aman as you couldwish to find. The violence terrified him. ‘When itstarted,’ he said, ‘I shut up the shop and ran away.’ But in spite of all hismildness,HarbansLalwasa firmsupporterof theHindunationalistparty thatusedtobecalledtheJanSanghandisnowtheBJP.‘IvotedforRajivGandhiintheelectionafterMrsGandhidied,’hesaid.‘Itwasabigmistake.Iwon’tdoitagain.’IaskedhimwhatshouldbedoneabouttheBabriMasjidissue.Shouldit

belockedupagainasithadbeenforsomanyyears?ShoulditbeaplacewherebothHindusandMuslimscouldgotoworship?‘It’saHindushrine,’hesaid,‘Itshould be for the Hindus.’ There was no possibility, in his mind, of acompromise.

AcoupleofdayslatertheWalledCitywasstillbubblingwithtension.Thecurfewwas liftedforanhouror twoeveryday toenablepeople togooutandbuy food. The rest of the time, security was very tight. It was Eid, the greatMuslimfestivalcelebratingtheendofthemonthoffasting,butthecity’sleadingimams had said that Eid should not be celebrated. In Meerut, the mutilatedcorpsesofMuslimsfloatedintheriver.Thecity’spredominantlyHindupoliceforce,thePAC,hadrunamok.Onceagain,BabriMasjidwasoneofthebonesofcontention.

ImetAbdulGhani,aDelhiMuslimwhoworkedinasarishop,andwho,likeHarbans Lal, India and me, was 1947-born. I was struck by how much likeHarbans Lal he was. They were both slightly built, mild-mannered men withlow, courteous voices and attractive smiles. They each earned about 1,000rupees(100dollars)amonth,anddreamedofowningtheirownshops,knowingthey neverwould.Andwhen it came to theHindu-Muslim communal divide,AbdulGhaniwasjustasunyieldingasHarbansLalhadbeen.‘WhatbelongstotheMuslims,’hesaidwhenIaskedaboutBabriMasjid,‘shouldbegivenbacktotheMuslims.Thereisnothingelsetobedone.’

The gentleness of Harbans Lal and Abdul Ghani made their religiousdivisions especially telling.Norwas BabriMasjid the only issue between thefaiths.AtAhmedabad,inthestateofGujarat,Hindu-Muslimviolencewasagaincentredintheoldwalled-cityareaofManekChowk,andhadlongagoacquireditsowninternallogic:somanyfamilieshadlostmembersinthefightingthatthecycle of revenge was unstoppable. Political forces were at work, too. AtAhmedabad hospital the doctors found that many of the knife wounds theytreatedwereprofessionallyinflicted.Somebodywassendingtrainedkillersintotown.

All over India—Meerut, Delhi, Ahmedabad, Bombay—tension betweenHindus andMuslimswas rising. InBombay, a (1947-born) journalist toldmethatmanycommunalincidentstookplaceinareaswhereMuslimshadbeguntoprosperandmoveuptheeconomicscale.BehindtheflashpointslikeAyodhya,shesuggested,wasHindus’resentmentofMuslimprosperity.

TheVishwaHinduParishadhasalistofoverahundreddisputedsitesoftheBabriMasjid type.Twoareespecially important. InMathura,aMuslimshrine

stands on the supposed birthplace of the god Krishna; and in Benares, a siteallegedlysacredtoShivaisalsoinMuslimhands…

In Bombay, I found a ‘midnight child’, a clerical worker in the docks, aMuslimnamedMukadamwhowas sucha supercitizen thathewasalmost toogood to be true.Mukadamwas absolutely dedicated to the unity of India.Hebelieved in small families. He thought all Indians had a duty to educatethemselves,andhehadputhimselfthroughmanyeveningcourses.HehadbeennamedBestWorkerathisdock.Inhisvillage,heclaimedproudly,peopleofallfaiths lived together incompleteharmony. ‘That ishow it shouldbe,’hesaid.‘After all, these religions are only words. What is behind them is the same,whicheverfaithitis.’

But when communal violence came to the Bombay docks in 1985,Mukadam’ssuper-citizenshipwasn’tofmuchuse.Onthedaythemobcametohisdock,hewassavedbecausehehappenedtobeaway.Hedidn’tdaretoreturntoworkforweeks.Andnow,hesays,heworriesthatitmaycomeagainatanytime.

Like Mukadam, many members of Indian minority groups started out asdevotees of the old, secular definition of India, and there were no Indians aspatrioticastheSikhs.Until1984,youcouldsaythattheSikhsweretheIndiannationalists. Then came the storming of the Golden Temple, and theassassinationofMrsGandhi;andeverythingchanged.

The group of Sikh radicals led by Sant Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale, thereligious leaderwhodied in theGoldenTemplestorming,couldnotbesaid torepresentmorethanasmallminorityofallSikhs.ThecampaignforaseparateSikhstate,Khalistan,hadsimilarlyfoundfewtakersamongIndia’sSikhs—untilNovember 1984, when Indira Gandhi died, and it became known that herassassinswereSikhs.

InDelhi,angryHindumobs—amongwhompartyworkersofMrsGandhi’sCongress-Iwereeverywhereobserved—decidedtoholdallSikhsresponsibleforthedeedsoftheassassins.Thusanentirelynewformofcommunalviolence—Hindu-Sikhriots—cameintobeing,andinthenexttendaystheSikhcommunitysuffered a series of traumatizing attacks fromwhich it has not recovered, andperhapsneverwill.

InBlock32of theDelhi suburbcalledTrilokpuri,perhaps350Sikhswereburnedalive. Iwalkedpast streetsofcharred,guttedhouses in someofwhichyoucouldstillseethebonesofthedead.ItwastheworstplaceIhaveeverseen,not least because, in the surrounding streets, children played normally, the

neighbourswentonwiththeirlives.Yetsomeoftheseneighboursweretheverypeoplewhoperpetrated thecrimeof32Trilokpuri,whichwasonlyoneof themanymassacresofSikhsthat tookplacethatNovember.ManySikh‘midnightchildren’neverreachedfortyatall.

Iheardaboutmanyofthesedeaths,andwillletonestorystandforall.WhenthemobcameforHariSingh,ataxi-driverlikesomanyDelhiSikhs,hissonfledintoanearbypatchofovergrownwasteland.Hiswifewasobligedtowatchasthemob literally ripped her husband’s beard off his face. (This beard-rippingritualwasafeatureofmanyoftheNovemberkillings.)Shemanagedtogetholdofthebeard,thinkingthatitwas,atleast,apartofhimthatshecouldkeepforherself, and she ran into their house to hide it. Some members of the mobfollowed her in, found the beard and removed it. Then they poured keroseneoverHari Singh and set fire to him. They also chased his teenage son, foundhim,beathimunconscious,andburnedhim,too.TheyknewhewasaSikheventhough he had cut his hair, because when they found his father’s beard theyfound his cut hair as well. His mother had preserved the sacred locks thatidentifiedherson.

Another taxi-driver,PalSingh (bornNovember1947), toldme thathehadneverhadtimefortheKhalistanmovement,butafter1984hehadchangedhismind.‘Nowitwillcome,’hesaid,‘maybewithintenyears.’SikhsweresellinguptheirpropertyinDelhiandbuyinglandinthePunjab,sothatifthetimecamewhen they had to flee back to theSikh heartland theywouldn’t have to leavetheirassetsbehind.‘I’mdoingit,too,’PalSinghsaid.

Almost three years after the 1984 massacres, not one person has beenchargedwithmurdering aSikh in those fearsomedays.TheCongress-I,RajivGandhi’sparty,increasinglyreliesontheHinduvote,andisreluctanttoalienateit.

The new element in Indian communalism is the emergence of a collectiveHindu consciousness that transcends caste, and that believes Hinduism to beunder threat from other Indian minorities. There is evidence that Rajiv’sCongress-Iistryingtoridethattiger.InBombay,thetigerisactuallyinpower.The ruling Shiv Sena Party, whose symbol is the tiger, is the most overtlyHindu-fundamentalistgroupingevertoachieveofficeanywhereinIndia.

Its leader, Bal Thackeray, a former cartoonist, speaks openly of his beliefthat democracy has failed in India. He makes no secret of his open hostilitytowardsMuslims.IntheBhiwandiriotsof1985,afewmonthsbeforetheShivSena won the Bombay municipal elections, Shiv Sena activists were deeply

involvedintheanti-Muslimviolence.Andtoday,astheSenaseekstospreaditsinfluenceintotheruralareasofMaharashtra(thestateofwhichBombayisthecapital), incidents of communal violence are being reported from villages inwhichnothingofthesorthaseverhappenedbefore.

IcomefromBombay,andfromaMuslimfamily,too.‘My’Indiahasalwaysbeen based on ideas of multiplicity, pluralism, hybridity: ideas to which theideologies of the communalists are diametrically opposed. To my mind, thedefining image of India is the crowd, and a crowd is by its very naturesuperabundant, heterogeneous, many things at once. But the India of thecommunalistsisnoneofthesethings.

Ispentonelongeveninginthecompanyofa(‘47-born)Bengaliintellectual,Robi Chatterjee, for whom the inadequacies of society are a cause for deep,permanent,operaticanguish.‘DoesIndiaexist?’Iaskedhim.

‘Whatdoyoumean?’hecried.‘Wherethehelldoyouthinkthisis?’ItoldhimthatImeanttheideaofthenation.Fortyyearsafteranationalistrevolution,wherecoulditbesaidtoreside?

Hesaid,‘Tothedevilwithallthatnationalism.IamanIndianbecauseIambornhereandIlivehere.Soiseveryoneelseofwhomthatistrue.What’stheneedforanymoredefinitions?’

I asked, ‘If you do without the idea of nationalism, then what’s the glueholdingthecountrytogether?’

‘We don’t need glue,’ he said. ‘India isn’t going to fall apart. All thatBalkanization stuff. I reject it completely. We are simply here and we willremainhere.It’sthisnationalismbusinessthatisthedanger.’

According to Robi, the idea of nationalism in India had grownmore andmore chauvinistic, had become narrower and narrower. The ideas of Hindunationalism had infected it. I was struck by a remarkable paradox: that, in acountry created by the Congress’s nationalist campaign, the wellbeing of thepeoplemightnowrequirethatallnationalistrhetoricbeabandoned.

UnfortunatelyforIndia,thelinkagebetweenHindufundamentalismandtheideaofthenationshowsnosignsofweakening.IndiaisincreasinglydefinedasHindu India, and Sikh and Muslim fundamentalism grows ever fiercer andentrenchedinresponse.‘Thesedays,’ayoungHinduwomansaidtome,‘one’sreligion is worn on one’s sleeve.’ She was corrected by a Sikh friend. ‘It isworn,’hesaid,‘inascabbardatthehip.’

I remember that whenMidnight’s Children was first published in 1981, themost common Indian criticism of it was that it was too pessimistic about thefuture.It’sasadtruththatnobodyfindsthenovel’sendingpessimisticanymore,becausewhat has happened in India since 1981 is somuch darker than I hadimagined. If anything, the book’s last pages, with their suggestion of a new,more pragmatic generation rising up to take over from themidnight children,nowseemabsurdly,romanticallyoptimistic.

ButIndiaregularlyconfoundsitscriticsbyitsresilience,itssurvivalinspiteofeverything.Idon’tbelieveintheBalkanizationofIndiaanymorethanRobiChatterjeedoes.It’smyguessthattheoldfunctioninganarchywill,somehoworother,keepon functioning, foranother fortyyears, andnodoubtanother fortyafterthat.Butdon’taskmehow.

1987

2

CENSORSHIP

THEASSASSINATIONOFINDIRAGANDHI

DYNASTY

ZIAUL-HAQ.17AUGUST1988

DAUGHTEROFTHEEAST

CENSORSHIP

My first memories of censorship are cinematic: screen kisses brutalized byprudish scissors which chopped out the moments of actual contact. (Briefly,beforecomprehensiondawned,Iwonderedifthatwerealltherewastokissing,thelanguorousapproachandthenthesuddenturkey-jerkaway.)Theeffectwasusuallysomewhatcomic,andcensorshipstillretains,incontemporaryPakistan,astrongelementofcomedy.WhenthePakistanicensorsfoundthatthemovieElCid endedwith a deadCharltonHeston leading theChristians to victory overliveMuslims,theynearlybannedit,untiltheyhadtheideaofsimplycuttingouttheentireclimax,sothatthefilmasscreenedshowedElCidmortallywounded,ElCiddyingnobly,andthenended.Muslims1,Christians0.

Thecomedyissometimesblack.TheburningofthefilmKissaKursiKa(TaleofaChair)duringMrsGandhi’sEmergencyrule in India isnotorious;and, inPakistan,areader’slettertothePakistanTimes,insupportofthedecisiontobanthefilmGandhibecauseofitsunflatteringportrayalofM.A.Jinnah,criticizedcertain ‘liberal elements’ for having dared to suggest that the film should bereleasedsothatPakistaniscouldmakeuptheirownmindsaboutit.Iftheywereless broad-minded, the letter-writer suggested, these persons would be bettercitizensofPakistan.

My first direct encounterwith censorship took place in 1968,when Iwastwenty-one,freshoutofCambridgeandfulloftheradicalfervourofthatfamousyear.IreturnedtoKarachi,whereasmallmagazinecommissionedmetowriteapieceaboutmyimpressionsonreturninghome.Irememberverylittleaboutthispiece(mercifully,memoryisacensor,too),exceptthatitwasnotatallpolitical.It tended, I think, to lingermelodramatically, on images of dying horseswithflies settling on their eyeballs. You can imagine the sort of thing. Anyway, Isubmittedmy piece, and a couple of weeks later was told by themagazine’seditor that the Press Council, the national censors, had banned it completely.

Now it so happened that I had an uncle on the Press Council, and in a veryunradical,string-pullingmoodIthoughtI’djustgoandseehimandeverythingwould be sorted out.He looked tiredwhen I confronted him. ‘Publication’ hesaidimmovably,‘wouldnotbeinyourbestinterest,’Ineverfoundoutwhy.

NextIpersuadedKarachiTVtoletmeproduceandactinEdwardAlbee’sTheZooStory,which they likedbecause itwas forty-fiveminutes long,hadacastoftwoandrequiredonlyaparkbenchforaset.Ithenhadtogothroughaseriesofastonishingcensorshipconferences.ThecharacterIplayedhadalongmonologueinwhichhedescribedhislandlady’sdog’srepeatedattacksonhim.Inanattempttobefriendthedog,heboughtithalfadozenhamburgers.Thedogrefused the hamburgers and attacked him again. ‘I was offended,’ I wassupposedtosay.‘Itwassixperfectlygoodhamburgerswithnotenoughporkinthemtomakeitdisgusting.’‘Pork,’aTVexecutivetoldmesolemnly,‘isafour-letterword.’Hehadsaidthesamethingabout‘sex’,and‘homosexual’,butthistimeIarguedback.The text, Ipleaded,wassaying theright thingaboutpork.Pork, inAlbee’s view,made hamburgers so disgusting that even dogs refusedthem.Thiswassuperbanti-porkpropaganda.Itmuststay.‘Youdon’tsee,’theexecutivetoldme,wearingthesametiredexpressionasmyunclehad,‘thewordporkmaynotbespokenonPakistantelevision.’Andthatwasthat.IalsohadtocutthelineaboutGodbeingacolouredqueenwhowearsakimonoandpluckshiseyebrows.

ThepointI’mmakingisnotthatcensorshipisasourceofamusement,whichitusuallyisn’t,butthat—inPakistan,atanyrate—itiseverywhere,inescapable,permitting no appeal. In India the authorities control the media that matter—radio and television—and allow some leeway to the press, comforted by theirknowledgeof thecountry’s lowliteracy level. InPakistan theygofurther.Notonlydotheycontrolthepress,butthejournalists,too.Attherecentconferenceof the Non-Aligned Movement in New Delhi, the Pakistan press corps wasnotable for its fearfulness. Each member was worried one of the other guysmight inform on him when they returned—for drinking, or consorting toocloselywithHindus,orperformingotherunpatrioticacts.Indianjournalistsweredeeply depressed by the sight of their opposite numbers behaving like scaredrabbitsonemomentandquislingsthenext.

What are the effects of total censorship? Obviously, the absence ofinformationandthepresenceoflies.DuringMrBhutto’scampaignofgenocideinBaluchistan, the newsmedia remained silent.Officially,Baluchistanwas atpeace.Thosewhodied,diedunofficialdeaths.Itmusthavecomfortedthemto

knowthattheState’struthdeclaredthemalltobealive.Anotherexample:youwill not find the involvement of Pakistan’s military rulers with the boomingheroin industrymuch discussed in the country’s newsmedia.Yet this iswhatunderlies General Zia’s concern for the lot of the Afghan refugees. Afghanentrepreneurs help to run the Pakistan heroin business, and they have had thegood sense tomake sure that theymake the army rich aswell as themselves.How fortunate that the Qur’an does notmention anything about the ethics ofheroinpushing.

But theworst,most insidiouseffectofcensorship is that, in theend, itcandeadentheimaginationofthepeople.Wherethereisnodebate,itishardtogoonremembering,everyday,thatthereisasuppressedsidetoeveryargument.Itbecomesalmostimpossibletoconceiveofwhatthesuppressedthingsmightbe.Itbecomeseasytothinkthatwhathasbeensuppressedwasvalueless,anyway,or so dangerous that it needed to be suppressed. And then the victory of thecensor is total. The anti-Gandhi letter-writer who recommended narrow-mindednessasanationalvirtueisonesuchcasualtyofcensorship;helovesBigBrother—orBurraBhai,perhaps.

It seems,now, thatGeneralZia’sdaysarenumbered. Idonotbelieve thatthe present disturbances are the end, but they are the beginning of the end,becausetheyshowthatthepeoplehavelosttheirfearofhisbrutalregime,andifthepeoplecease tobeafraid,he isdonefor.ButPakistan’sbig testwillcomeafter the end of dictatorship, after the restoration of civilian rule and freeelections,wheneverthatis,inoneyearortwoorfive;becauseifleadersdonotthenemergewhoarewillingtoliftcensorship,topermitdissent,tobelieveandtodemonstrate thatopposition is thebedrockofdemocracy, then, I amafraid,thelastchancewillhavebeenlost.Forthemoment,however,onecanhope.

1983

THEASSASSINATIONOFINDIRAGANDHI

AllofuswholoveIndiaareinmourningtoday.ItisofnoimportancewhetherwenumberedourselvesamongstIndiraGandhi’smostferventsupportersorhermostimplacableopponents;hermurderdiminishesusall,andleavesadeepandalarmingscarupontheveryideaofIndia,verylikethatleftonPakistanisocietyby General Zia’s execution of the leader who was in so many ways sonsemblable, son frère,PrimeMinisterBhutto.During the timeofMrsGandhi’sfatherJawaharlalNehru,theIndianewsmedia’sfavouritecatch-phrasewastherather nervous ‘After Nehru, who?’ Today, we ask ourselves a more fearfulquestion:‘AfterIndira,what?’Anditisclearthatwhatismosttobefearedisanoutbreakofreprisalkillings,ofHindu-Sikhcommunalviolence,bothinsideandoutsidethePunjab.ThewindwassowninAmritsar;now,perhaps(anditwouldbegoodtobewrong),thewhirlwindripens.

Where,inallthis,canwefindanyscrapofhopeforIndia’sfuture?Whereistheway forward that leads away fromdestruction, disintegration andblood? Ibelievethatifitistobefoundanywherethenitmustbegin,atthismostdifficultof times, with the clearest possible analysis of the mistakes of recent years.Thosewhoforgetthepastarecondemnedtorepeatit.

AttheheartoftheideaofIndiathereliesaparadox:thatitscomponentparts,the States which coalesced into the union, are ancient historical entities, withcultures and independent existencesgoingbackmanycenturies;whereas Indiaitself is amere thirty-seven years old.And yet it is the ‘new-born’ India, thebaby,sotospeak,theCentralgovernment,thatholdsswayoverthegreybeards.Centre-State relationshave always, inevitably, been somewhat delicate, fragileaffairs.

In recent years, however, that delicate relationship has developed severeimbalances, and much of the responsibility must lie at Mrs Gandhi’s door.During her time in office, power has systematically been removed from theStates to the Centre; and the resentments created by this process have beenbuilding up for years. The troubles in the Punjab beganwhen the Congress-Ileadershippersistentlyrefusedtodiscussthethenverymoderatedemandsofthe

AkaliDalPartyfortherestitutiontotheStategovernmentofpowerswhichtheCentre had seized. There can be no doubt that this intransigencewas amajorcontributing factor to the growth in support for Sant Jarnail SinghBhindranwale’s terrorists,and to thewholesorryprocesswhichresulted in theattackontheGoldenTemple.

ElsewhereinIndia,too,theCentre’spowerhungerhasbeenveryunpopular,and the Congress-I has suffered a string of defeats in State elections. MrsGandhi’s reaction to these defeats was sadly all too predictable, and very farfromdemocratic.Sheembarkedoncovertprogrammesofdestabilization,oneofwhichsucceeded,atleasttemporarily,intopplingthepopularandelectedChiefMinisterofKashmir,FarooqAbdullah,andanotherofwhichbackfiredwhenN.T.RamaRaowasdismissed, inAndhra,and thenhad tobe reinstatedwhen itturnedoutthathestillcommandedamajority.

ItiscleartoanystudentofIndianaffairs,andIhopeitwillbecrystalcleartowhoeversucceedsMrsGandhiasIndia’sPrimeMinister, thatall thisnonsensehasgot tostop.There isnodenying that theCentralgovernmentmustgovern;but it is time that the States’ legitimate grievances received the kind ofsympathetichearingwhichtheyhavebeendeniedforyears.Ifthishappens,thenthereisaglimmerofhopeforthefuture.Ifitdoesnot,thenonemustfearfortheunion.

The dangers of communalism, of the kind of religious sectarianismwhichmotivatedtheassassins’bullets,areevenmoretobefeared.Hereisanotheroftheparadoxesat theheartof the India-idea: that theethicof the independencemovement,andoftheindependentState,hasalwaysbeensecular;yettherecanbefewnationsonearthinwhichreligionplaysamoredirectorcentralroleinthecitizens’dailylives.Inthisarea,too,therehavealwaysbeentensions;butinrecent years these tensions have been getting more and more extreme. ThegrowthofHindufanaticism,asevidencedbytheincreasingstrengthoftheRSS,the organizationwhichwas behind the assassination ofMahatmaGandhi, hasbeenveryworrying;and ithashad itsparallel in theBhindranwalegroupand,recently, in the increased support for the Muslim extremist Jamaat Party inKashmir—this support being, itself, the result of the toppling of FarooqAbdullah by the Centre, which seemed to legitimize the Jamaat’s view thatMuslimshavenoplaceinpresent-dayIndia.

Oneofthesaddestaspectsofthegrowthofcommunalismhasbeenthat,attimes,MrsGandhi’sCongressPartyhasseemedtobegoingouttogettheHinduvote.ThatshewaswillingtosacrificetheSikhvotebyherattackontheGolden

Temple,andtheMuslimvotebyherdeposingofFarooqAbdullah,maybeseenasevidenceofthis;anditcomesallthemoredepressinglyfromtheleaderofaparty whose electoral success has always been based on its reputation as theguardianofminoritygroups’rightsandsafety.Inrecenttimes,theminorities—the Harijans, or untouchables, as well as Sikhs and Muslims—have beendesertingtheCongressfold.IverymuchhopethatthenewCongressleadershipwillgiveup,onceandforall,theideathatthepartycanwinelectionsbyplayingthecommunalistcard,andrememberthesecularethiconwhichthefutureofthecountrydepends.

Itisalsonecessarytosay—anditishardtosaythisonsuchaday—that,inmyopinion,oneofthethreatstodemocracyinIndiahascome,inrecentyears,fromthedynasticaspirationsoftheNehrufamilyitself,andfromthepeculiarlymonarchicstyleofgovernmentwhichMrsGandhideveloped.Letusrememberabout the Nehrus—Motilal, his son Jawaharlal, his daughter Indira, her sonsRajivandSanjay—thatwhen itcomes topower theymake theKennedys looklikeamateurs.Afterall, forno less than thirty-oneof the thirty-sevenyearsofindependentIndianhistory,therehasbeenaNehruincontrol.AndlatterlyNewDelhihasnotfeltlikethecapitalofanelectivedemocracyatall,butratherlikean old-fashioned durbar, a court. The powerful figures in this court have notbeen, in many cases, members of the government or even of the IndianParliament.Theyhave,rather,beenamotleyassortmentofoldschoolchumsofSanjay or Rajiv, billionaire businessmen, even, at times, one or twomanifestations of that group now known in India as ‘Godmen’. This cloud ofcourtiers has enveloped the Indian Prime Minister, and it would be a greatadvanceifitwerenowtolosepower.Forthisreason,itwouldseemtomequitewrongfortheCongress-Itochoose,asitsnewleader,amanasuntried,andasunsuitedforhighoffice,asRajivGandhi;itistimeforIndiatoassert,andforitsrulingpartytodemonstrate,thatthenationisnotownedbyanyonefamily,nomatterhowillustrious.TheQueenisdead;vivelaRépublique.

No,IamnottryingtolayallofmodernIndia’smanyillsatthedoorofthebutcheredPrimeMinister.PoliticalcorruptionisoneofIndia’sbesettingills,andtherehasbeenplentyofitintheCongressParty,butofcourseitisnotallMrsGandhi’sresponsibility.Norwillthetaskofcleaningthestablesbeeasy.Butitisuptothenewleadershiptoshowtheway.Torejecttheideaofgettingvotesby appealing to religious sectarianism. To give up using the Congress partymachineasaninstrumentofpatronage.Tostoptheprocessofunderminingtheauthority of the civil service. To desist from bribing and corrupting the

supportersofone’spoliticalopponents inorder toachieve inback-roomswhathasnotbeenachievedbytheballot-box.ToshowthatIndiaisnotinthegripofanynewimperium.AndtorestoreourfaithintheIndia-idea.

What, centrally, is that idea? It isbasedon themostobvious andapparentfact about the great subcontinent: multitude. For a nation of seven hundredmillionstomakeanykindofsense,itmustbaseitselffirmlyontheconceptofmultiplicity, of plurality and tolerance, of devolution and decentralizationwhereverpossible.Therecanbenooneway—religious,cultural,orlinguistic—ofbeinganIndian;letdifferencereign.

On the face of it, Mrs Gandhi’s legacy in the field of external relationspresents her son’s administrationwith fewer problems.Ever since she left herhusband, Feroze Gandhi, in 1949, andmoved back into her father’s house tobecome Jawaharlal Nehru’s ‘official hostess’, Mrs Gandhi has moved withconsiderableassuranceandnolittleskillintheworldofinternationalaffairs;thespeed with which she managed to persuade the world to forget the atrocitiescommitted during her years of Emergency rule is evidence of her gifts. Shemanaged,forthemostpart,tokeepthebalancebetweenAmericaandtheSovietUnion (the long-standing Russian alliance never led to any ideological shifttowards Soviet-style communism; quite the reverse, in fact, because in recentyearsMrsGandhiopenlyabandonedherearliersocialistrhetoricinfavourofanakedlycapitalistprogramme).AndasleaderoftheNon-AlignedMovementshegaveIndiagreatstatureintheeyesofthepeopleoftheThirdWorld,formanyofwhomtherelativestabilityandlibertyoftheIndiansystemhavebeenthingstotakeprideinandadmire.

Thereare,however,deepuncertainties in thisareaaswell. It’seasy tosaythatthenewadministrationshould,andinalllikelihoodwill,attemptsimplytocontinuetheforeignpoliciesofthelast;thingswillbemuchtrickierinpractice.OurknowledgeofMrsGandhi’sgreatexperienceindiplomacyonlyunderlinesthecompleteinexperienceofRajivandhisgroup.Addtothisthepossibilityofaperiod of prolonged political instability in India, and you have a recipe for arapid increase in superpower meddling. India may be about to become theworld’sbiggestpoliticalfootball.

AndthenthereisPakistan.It’sonlyamatterofweekssincerumoursofMrsGandhi’swillingness to findapretext forawarwithPakistanwere rife in theIndian capital. There are some grounds for giving credence to these rumours.MrsGandhiwas,withgoodreason,extremelynervousabouttheoutcomeoftheapproaching general election, and shewell remembered the electoral landslide

whichsheachievedafter theBangladeshWar (tosaynothingofMrsThatcherandtheFalklands).AndacoupleofmonthsagoRajivGandhimadesomeveryodd,sabre-rattlingnoises,accusingPakistanoftryingtostartawar.Thiswas,tomanyobservers,amanifestabsurdity.EvenageneralisunlikelytofailtonoticethatitwouldbefoolishtogotowarwithIndiawhenIndia’sbiggestally,Russia,is sitting on your other frontier … At any rate, the question remains: if thesituationinIndiacontinuestodeteriorate,willRajiv’sthoughtsturnonceagaintowar?Onecanonlyhopetheydonot.

TwoclichésaboutIndiamust,beforeIconclude,bedismissed,especiallyasbothofthemhave,inthesefirsthourssincethenewsoftheassassinationbroke,rearedtheirwizenedoldheads.Firstly,theprobabilityofamilitarycoupinIndiatoestablishaparalleldictatorshiptothatofZiais,Ibelieve,soslightthatitcanbe discounted, if only because the entire history of India demonstrates theimpossibilityofconqueringtheplacebymilitaryforce.Secondly,thebulletsthatkilledMrsGandhididnot‘prove’theunsuitabilityofdemocracyforIndia,anymore than the killing of twoKennedys, or the Brighton bombing, proved thesameaboutAmericaorBritain.Theideaofaunited,democratic,secularIndiacansurvivethisterribleday.

Forthemoment,however,allofuswhoareIndianbycitizenship,orbirth,orrace,mustacceptthattheassassinationofIndiraPriyadarshiniGandhishamesusall;and in thatshame,wemusthope, thepeopleand leadersofIndiawill findthestrengthtoactwithhonourinthedaystocome.

1984

DYNASTY

RajivGandhiwassworninasIndia’sPrimeMinisterwithinfortyminutesoftheannouncement,onAll-IndiaRadioandthetelevisionnetworkDoordarshan,ofhismother’sassassination;andonthatdaywhennothingintheworldseemedcertain,theonefactuponwhicheverybodyagreedwasthathe,Rajiv,hadbeenthe only possible choice.Hewas repeatedly referred to as the ‘heir-apparent’.Wewere told that hewas ‘coming intohis inheritance’.The ‘succession’wassmooth,the‘dynasticchangeover’hadbeen‘inevitable’.

This sounds more like the language of courtiers than of politicalcommentators.But, side by sidewith it, therewas another kind of rhetoric inuse: the already tired description of India as ‘the world’s largest democracy’grew a good dealmore exhausted in the hours and days after IndiraGandhi’smurder.Andnobodyseemedtohearthelouddissonancebetweenthetwoformsofdiscourse.Thisnationaldeafnesswasanindicationofhowgreatthepowerofthe descendants of Motilal Nehru had become. On 31 October 1984, RajivGandhi was indeed the only possible choice, endorsed by his party’s power-brokersandbythefewmenwhomighthavechallengedhimforthejob.Itwasas if something utterly natural, some organic process of the body politic, hadtakenplace.And,inoneofthemostironictwistsofall,thisimperialaccessiontoIndia’s‘throne’waspresentedtotheworldasproofoftheresilienceofIndia’sdemocraticsystem.

In fact, what happened was anything but natural: a forty-year-old man, apoliticalnovicewhohadpreviouslybeenthoughtofasavote-loser,weak,evenuninterestedinpolitics,hadbeentransformedintotheautomaticselectionforthemostimportantjobinthecountry,inthespaceofafew,chaoticmoments.WasthisthesameRajivGandhiwhohadbeennervouslythinkingofstandinginmorethanoneconstituencyinthegeneralelection,lesthelosehisbrother’soldseatofAmethitohisalienatedsister-in-law,Sanjay’swidow,Menaka?Whatmagichadbeenworkedtoturnthisgroundedairlinepilotintothepotentialsaviourofthenation?

It seems tome that the answers to suchquestionsmustgobeyondpolitics

andhistoryandenterthezoneofmyth.TheNehru-Gandhifamilyhas,bynow,beenthoroughlymythologized;itsstoryhasbeen,toborrowatermfromLévi-Strauss,‘cooked’.Andinthatcookingwemaydiscoverthesourceofthemagic.

Matter,aswenowknow,isnothingbutcompressedenergy:yourlittlefingercontains many Nagasakis. By analogy, we may describe myths as beingcomposed out of compressed meanings. Any mythological tale can bear athousandandoneinterpretations,becausethepeopleswhohavelivedwithandusedthestoryhave,overtime,pouredallthosemeaningsintoit.Thiswealthofmeaningisthesecretofthepowerofanymyth.

Thecontinuingsagaof theNehru family,of thevicissitudesof Jawaharlal,Indira,SanjayandRajiv,hasbeen,forhundredsofmillionsofus,anobsessionspanningmore than three decades.We have poured ourselves into this story,inventing its characters, then ripping them up and reinventing them. In ourinexhaustible speculations lies one source of their power over us.We becameaddicted to these speculations, and they,unsurprisingly, tookadvantageofouraddiction.Or:wedreamedthem,sointenselythattheycametolife.Andnow,asthedreamdecays,wecannotquitebringourselvestoleaveit,toawake.

In this version—the dynasty as collective dream—Jawaharlal Nehrurepresents the dream’s noblest part, its most idealistic phase. Indira Gandhi,alwaysthepragmatist,oftenunscrupulouslyso,becomesafigureofdecline,andbrutal Sanjay is a further debasement of the currency. It’s hard to say, as yet,whatRajivGandhistandsforinthisanalysis.Perhapsheisthemomentbeforetheawakening,afterall.Inthedecayingmomentsofadream,thesoundsoftherealworldbegintopenetratethedreamer’sconsciousness;andcertainly,inIndiatoday,thesoundsofrealityareinsistentandharsh.Rajivmaynotbeenoughofasandmantokeepthepeopleasleep.Weshallsee.

JawaharlalNehruwas flatlyopposed toMahatmaGandhi’sbizarreattempttomarginalizehumansexualitybysayingthat‘thenaturalaffinitybetweenmanandwomanis theattractionbetweenbrotherandsister,motherandson, fatheranddaughter.’Andyet,inJawaharlal’sownfamily,suchaffinitiesofbloodhaveindeedprovedmoredurablethanmarriages.ThosewhohavemarriedNehrus—Jawaharlal’s Kamala, Indira’s Feroze, Sanjay’s Menaka—have rarely beenhappy spouses. The crucial relationships have been those between father anddaughter(JawaharlalandIndira)andIndiraandSanjay,thatis,motherandson.Thisingrown,closed-ranksatmospherehasbeen,Isuggest,therockuponwhichthe appeal of the dynasty-as-myth has been built. A myth requires a closedsystem; and here, once again, is evidence that Rajiv, whose family life gives

every appearance of being happy, andwho never seemed particularly close toIndira,issimplynotamythicfigure.(Itcanbeargued,ofcourse,thatthisisnobadthing.)

PublicspeculationinIndiahasfeastedontheserelationships,takingtherawmaterialandcookingupallmannerofnotions,oneofwhichmaybequotedtodemonstrate the extremes to which gossip about the ‘royal family’ could go.During theEmergency,at theheightofSanjayGandhi’spower,anabsurdandentirely unfounded rumour had it that the intimacy between Sanjay and hismothermightbeincestuous.HereisacaseofOedipalambiguitiesbeingwildlyexaggerated by the overheated imaginations of some scrutineers. In this andmanyotherinstancesthestoryoftheNehrusandGandhisbecameafigmentoftheirsubjects’fancies.Buttherewerealsoenough‘reallife’scandalstokeepthespeculation-factoriesworking—becausemyths, likesoap-operas,whichcontainthemythic in itsmostdebasedform,requireahigh levelofspice.SowehavehadpublicquarrelsbetweenJawaharlalNehruandFerozeGandhi;wehaveseenIndira in post-Emergency disgrace, and witnessed the death—in what somecalledanactofdivineretribution—ofSanjayGandhiinaplanecrash;wehavehad the extraordinary, virulent quarrel between Indira and Menaka Gandhi.Already,speculationisbeginningtofocusonthenextgeneration.Whowillbethedynasty’snextcandidate?SanjayandMenaka’ssonFerozeVarun,orRajivandSonia’sRahul?Whatdothetwoprincelingsthinkofeachother?Andsoon.IthasoftenseemedthatthestoryoftheNehrusandGandhishasprovidedmoreengrossingmaterialthananythinginthecinemasorontelevision:arealdynastybetterthanDynasty,aDelhitorivalDallas.

Letusremember,however,thattheIndianpublichasbeenbynomeanstheonly mythologizing force at work. The family itself has set about self-mythificationwithawill.ButherewemustexemptJawaharlalNehru,who,asTariqAli remindsus,once toldan Indiancrowd that they, thepeople,andnotmotherearthoranythingelse,wereIndia.Whatacontrastistobefoundinthenotoriouselectionsloganadoptedbyhisdaughter:IndiaisIndiraandIndiraisIndia. Unlike her father, Mrs Gandhi was clearly suffering badly from thegrandiloquent,l’étatc’estmoidelusionsofaLouisXIV.Heruseofthecultofthemother—ofHindumother-goddess symbolsandallusions—and the ideaofshakti,ofthefactthatthedynamicelementoftheHindupantheonisrepresentedasfemale—wascalculatedandshrewd,butonefeelsthat this, too,wouldhavedisturbedherfather,whohadneverbeeninfavourofMahatmaGandhi’suseofHindumysticism. Jawaharlal saw the divisiveness implicit in the elevating of

anyoneIndianethicovertheothers;Indira,lesssqueamish,became,bytheend,toomuch aHindu, and too little a national leader.And, because it helpedhermystique,sheexploitedtheaccidentofhermarriagetoaquitedifferentGandhi,aswell:thesurnameanditsattendantconfusionswerenotwithoutuses.(Onthenightofherdeath,TheTimes’sfirsteditioncarriedaphotographoftheMahatmaand the young Indira over the caption, The grand-daughter; by the secondedition,thishowlerhadbeenamendedtoreadThedisciple,whichwasn’tmuchmoreaccurate.)

SanjayGandhi,too,developedaroundhimselfacultofpersonality;andnow,Rajiv,asevertheleastflamboyant,themostprosaicoftheclan,hasinstalledanew icon in his quarters: a computer. Already, the image of ‘computer kid’Rajiv, leader of the technological revolution, is being polished up. JawaharlalNehru once said that India had just entered the age of the bicycle;Rajiv—or,rather,themythofRajiv—clearlyhasotherideas.

Thethirdelementintheprocessofmyth-makinghasbeentheWest.Inthecoverage of India by the news media of the West, the concentration on theFamily has been so great that I doubt ifmanyEuropeans orAmericans couldnameasingleIndianpoliticianwhowascalledneitherNehrunorGandhi.Thiskind of reportage has created the impression that there have been no otherpossibleleaders;and,forallofJawaharlal’stimeinofficeandmostofIndira’s,thishassimplynotbeentrue.Eventoday,whentheIndianpoliticalscenelooksalittleimpoverished, therearesignsofanewgenerationemerging;thereareanumber of political figures—Farooq Abdullah, Ramakrishna Hegde, evenChandraShekhar—withwhomRajivandhispeoplewillhave toreckon in thenearfuture.YetwehearlittleaboutthemintheWesternpress.

The leaders of the West, too, have played their part. This has beenparticularly noticeable in the period since 1979, when the Janata Party’sdisintegrationletMrsGandhibackintopower.Hermajoraiminthefollowingyearswas to achieve apersonal rehabilitation, toobliterate thememoryof theEmergencyanditsatrocities,tobecleansedofitstaint,absolvedofhistory.Withthe help of numerous prime ministers and presidents, that aim was all butachievedbythetimeofherdeath.ShetoldtheworldthatthehorrorstoriesabouttheEmergencywereallfictions;andtheworldallowedhertogetawaywiththelie. It was a triumph of image over substance. It’s difficult to resist theconclusion that the West—in particular, Western capital—saw that arehabilitatedMrsGandhiwouldbeofgreatuse,andsetaboutinventingher.

It would, obviously, be possible to offer counter-myths to set against the

mythologizedFamily.OnesuchmythmightusefullybethatofPandoraandherbox. It has seemed to me, ever since it happened, that the imposition of theEmergencywasanactoffollycomparabletotheopeningofthatlegendarybox;and that many of the evils besetting India today—notably the resurgence ofreligiousextremism—canbetracedbacktothosedaysofdictatorshipandStateviolence.TheEmergencyrepresented the triumphofcynicisminIndianpubliclife; and itwouldbedifficult to say that that triumphhas sincebeen reversed.Mrs Gandhi was much praised internationally for acting democratically bygiving up power when she lost the 1977 elections; which seems rather likecongratulatingPandoraforshuttingherbox,longaftertheevilsoftheworldhadescapedintotheair.

Butit’sbettertocountermythswithfacts.AndthefactsindicatethatFamilyrulehasnotleftIndiandemocracyinparticularlygoodshape.Thedrawingofallthe power to theCentre has created deep, and sometimes violently expressed,resentments in theStates; thereplacementofNehru’smore idealisticvisionbyhisdescendants’politicsofpower-at-any-costhasresultedinasharploweringofthestandardsofpubliclife;andthecreation,inDelhi,ofasortofroyalcourt,arulingéliteofintimatesoftheFamily,unelectedandunanswerabletoanyonebutthePrimeMinister,hasfurtherdamagedthestructureofIndiandemocracy.Itisbeginning to look just possible—is it not?—that the interests of ‘the world’slargestdemocracy’andthoseofitsrulingfamilymightnotbequitethesame.

1985

ZIAUL-HAQ.17AUGUST1988

Whenatyrantfalls,theworld’sshadowslighten,andonlyhypocritesgrieve;andGeneralMohammadZiaul-Haqwasoneofthecruellestofmoderntyrants,whatever his ‘great friend’ George Bush and his staunch supporter MargaretThatcherwouldhaveusthink.Elevenyearsago,heburstoutofhisbottlelikeanArabianNights goblin, and althoughhe seemed, at first, a small, puny sort ofdemon,heinstantlycommencedtogrow,untilhewasgiganticenoughtobeabletograbthewholeofPakistanbythethroat.Now,afteraneternityofrepression(even the clocks ran slowly under the pressure of Zia’s thumb), that sad,strangulatednationmay,forafewmoments,breathealittlemorefreely.

Deferential, unassuming, humbly religious Zia, the plain soldier’s plainsoldier:itwaseasyforamanasbrilliant,patricianandautocraticasZulfikarAliBhutto—no stranger to despotism himself—to see such a fellow as a useful,controllablefool,acorkedandbottledgeniewithacomicalGrouchomoustache.ZiabecameBhutto’sChiefofStaff in1976 largelybecauseBhuttofelthehadhim safely in his pocket.But Pakistani generals have away of leaping out ofsuchpocketsandsealingup their formermasters instead.TheprotégédeposedthepatroninJuly1977,andbecamehisexecutionertwoyearslater,initiatingabloodfeudwiththeBhuttodynastywhichcouldprobablyhaveendedonlywithhis death. One of the more optimistic aspects of the new situation is thatPakistan’s remaining generals have no reason to fear the Bhuttos’ revenge ifpowershouldreturntoPakistan’slong-denieddemocraticprocess.

Pakistan under Zia has become a nightmarish, surreal land, in whichbattlefieldarmamentsmeantfortheAfghanrebelsaretradedmoreorlessopenlyon thecountry’sblackmarkets; inwhich thecitizensofKarachi speak,withashrug,of thedailycollusionbetween thepolice forceand large-scalegangsofthieves;inwhichprivatearmiesofheavilyarmedmendefendandserviceoneoftheworld’sbiggestnarcoticsindustries;inwhich‘elections’takeplacewithoutthe participation of any political parties. That such a situation should bedescribed,aroundtheworld,as‘stability’wouldbefunnyifitwerenotvile;thatithasbeenconcealedbeneathacloakofreligiousfaithismoreterriblestill.

It needs to be said repeatedly in the West that Islam is no moremonolithicallycruel,nomorean ‘evil empire’, thanChristianity, capitalismorcommunism. The medieval, misogynistic, stultifying ideology which Ziaimposed onPakistan in his ‘Islamization’ programmewas the ugliest possibleface of the faith, and one by which most Pakistani Muslims were, I believe,disturbedand frightened.Tobeabeliever isnotbyanymeans tobe a zealot.Islam in the Indo-Pakistani subcontinent has developed historically alongmoderate lines,withastrongstrainofpluralisticSufiphilosophy;Ziawas thisIslam’senemy.Nowthathehasgone,muchoftheIslamizationprogrammemayquickly follow him. Pakistan neither wants nor needs a legal system whichmakestheevidenceofwomenworthlessthanthatofmen;noronewhichbansthe showing on Pakistani TV of thewomen’s events from the SeoulOlympicGames.

This is how Pakistan’s greatest poet, Faiz Ahmed Faiz, wrote of thesemattersinhispoemZalim(TheTyrant,translatedbyNaomiLazard):Thisisthefestival;wewillinterhope

withappropriatemourning.Come,mypeople.Wewillcelebratethemassacreofthemultitudes…Mineisthenewreligion,thenewmorality.Minearethenewlaws,andanewdogma.FromnowonthepriestsinGod’stemplewilltouchtheirlipstothehandsofidols…Everygateofprayerthroughoutheavenisslammedshuttoday.

Well, the tyrant has had his day, and has gone. How did it happen? Thepossibility of accidental death can, I think, safely be discounted. Nor am Iconvinced by suggestions of an internal army coup, or a ‘hit’ from across theIndian frontier.Anassassinationbymembersof theAfghansecret service isarealpossibility;andtherearemanyothermorespeculativeoptions.Thetruth,ifiteveremerges,willnodoubtsurpriseusall.

ThedeathoftheUSambassadoris,ofcourse,asadness;buthisproximitytoGeneralZiaillustrateshowmuchthelatePresidentdependedonAmericangoodwill and support. It is Pakistan’s tragedy that theUnited States, in its role asfreedom’s global policeman, should have chosen to defend freedom inAfghanistanbysacrificingthehuman,civilandpoliticalrightsofGeneralZia’ssubjects.

Whathappensnow?Seasonedobserversof thePakistani scenewill notbethrowing too many hats in the air. It seems unlikely that the army will be

prepared to relinquish real powerwhile theAfghan situation remains volatile.AndalthoughseveralleadinggeneralsdiedwithZiaintheC-130explosion,twoofthetoughestarestillverymuchalive:FazleHaq,foralongtimeZia’sclosestassociate, his reputation tarnished by persistent allegations of his involvementwithdrugs traffickers, andAslamBeg,who isperhaps themanmost likely tosucceed.It’salwayseasiest,whensurveyingthebleakPakistanipoliticalscene,toforeseetheworst.Butthistimethereisanotheroption:alongshot,butworthamention.

IftheUSadministrationcouldbringitselftoseethatGeneralZia’sbrandof‘stability’hasleftbehindalegacyofprofoundinstability;andifAmericawerethentodecidetobackthedemocraticforcesinPakistanratherthanthemilitaryones, then a new stability centred on that quaint old idea, representativegovernment, might become possible. I am talking, of course, about BenazirBhuttoandthecoalitionofpoliticalpartiessheleads,andwhichshemustnowworkhardtopreserve.ThisoughttobeBenazir’smoment;itremainstobeseenwhether the obduracy of the Pakistan Army, the fissiparous nature of thecoalition (now that its great uniting foe has gone), and the contortions ofgeopoliticsconspiretodepriveherofit.

1988

DAUGHTEROFTHEEAST

‘Cogito, ergo sum,’ Benazir Bhutto muses, translating I helpfully: ‘I think,thereforeIam.IalwayshaddifficultywiththisphilosophicalpremiseatOxfordand I am havingmuchmore difficulty with it now.’ It’s not that she doesn’tthink,youunderstand—actually,shethinksevenwhenshedoesn’twantto—butthatthethinkingdoesn’tseemtohelpherbe.‘IfeelthatIhavenothingonwhichto leavemy imprint,’ she laments.Onemight thinkanautobiography theveryplace for such imprint-leaving, but alas, Benazir is curiously absent from herownbook,DaughteroftheEast.Thevoicethatspeaks,themarksthataremadehere,belongtoanAmericanghost.

Itisastaccatoghost-voicethathatesverbsandismuchenamouredofsoundeffects.Hereitis,describingwhatthePakistanArmydidinBangladeshin1971:‘Looting. Rape. Kidnappings. Murder.’ Here it tells us of Benazir’s solitaryconfinement:‘Time,relentless,monotonous…Flakingcement.Ironbars.Andsilence. Utter silence.’ And here is the funeral of her brother Shah Nawaz:‘Black. Black armbands. Black shalwar kameez anddupattas…Black.Moreblack.’Andwhatwerethepeopledoing,‘inthefeveroftheirgrief’?—‘Crying.Wailing.’

But even this is lyrical by comparisonwith the evocation ofBenazir’s earinfection:‘Click.Click.Click.Click.’(Eleventimesinallonpage61.)Orofthesoundsofprisonasheardfromalonelycell:‘Tinkle,Tinkle.Clank,Clank.’Orof Benazir’s choice of a husband: ‘Asif Zardari. Asif Zardari. Asif Zardari.’PerhapsitisaswellthatMsBhutto’sphantomdoesn’tattempttoomuchintheway of drama. When it does, this happens: ‘“No!” I screamed. “No!”’ (Onhearingofherbrother’sdeath.)And:‘“No!”IcriedinEliotHall,throwingdownthenewspaper.’(OnhearingoftheIndianArmy’sinvasionofBangladesh.)And,most tragically of all, when she dreams her father’s execution: ‘“No!” thescreamburstthroughtheknotsinmythroat.“No!”’

Iftheworstsmellemanatingfromthisbookhadbeenthatofrottenwriting,however, it would have been possible—even proper—to be reasonablyforgiving.Afterall,MsBhuttohashadonehellofalife,anditoughttobean

absorbingtale,evendeckedoutinJoanCollinsprose.Unfortunately,thepoliticsstink,too.DaughteroftheEast,shecallsherself,butintruthshe’sstillZulfikarAli Bhutto’s little girl, still unwilling to admit that the martyred parent evencommittedthetiniestofsins.

Theresultingomissionsfromthestoryareasrevealingas thebitssheputsin.Shemanages, forexample, toget throughherentireaccountofherfather’sgovernment without once mentioning the little matter of genocide inBaluchistan.ShespeaksquitecorrectlyoftheZiaregime’storturecamps,bothinBaluchistan and elsewhere—‘Chains.Blocks of ice.Chilis inserted into theprisoners’rectums’—butdrawsadaughterlyveilovertheBhuttopeople’sverysimilar misdeeds. She fails entirely to mention Bhutto’s strenuous efforts atelection-rigging in1977, effortswhich,bygivinghimavictoryof ludicrouslyimplausibleproportions,gaveZiahisopening,allowinghimtotakeoveronthepretext of holding new, non-controversial polls. Worst of all, she falsifiesBhutto’s role in the events leading to the secession of Bangladesh to a quitescandalousdegree.

InBenazir’sversion,theblameisplacedfirmlyontheshouldersofSheikhMujib, leader of the then East Pakistani Awami League. After the 1970elections,Benazirsays,‘insteadofworkingwithmyfather,…Mujibinstigatedanindependencemovement…Mujibshowedanobstinacythelogicofwhichtothisdaydefiesme.’Youfeellikeusingwordsofonesyllabletoexplain.Listen,dearchild,themanhadwon,anditwasyourfatherwhoduginhisheels…intheelectionsof1970,theAwamiLeaguewonanabsolutemajorityofallseatsinPakistan’stwo‘Wings’combined.Mujibhadeveryrighttoinsist,‘obstinately’,on being Prime Minister, and it was Bhutto and General Yahya Khan whoconspired to prevent this fromhappening.Thatwas how thewar of secessionbegan,butyouwouldn’tknowitfromreadingthisbook.

It is depressing to find Benazir still being so daughterly. She is a bravewoman,hashad ahard life andhas comea longwayas apolitician from theinexperienced days when she would issue Zia with ultimatums she could notenforce. In Pakistan’s forthcoming elections Benazir Bhutto and the People’sParty represent Pakistan’s best hope, and if I had a vote in those elections, Iwouldprobablycastitinherfavour.Butthisbook’snaïvety,anditswillingnessto turn a blind eye to unpalatable facts, are indications of the faintness, thehollownessofthathope.IfBenaziristhebest,youcanguesswhattherestarelike.

Herbookdoes,inevitably,haveitsmoments,when,forexample,shetellsus

how shemistook Hubert Humphrey for BobHope, or when she gives us thebehind-the-scenes dope on the post-Bangladesh peace negotiations at SimlabetweenMrsGandhiandMrBhutto.AndbyfarthemostpowerfulchapteristheoneaboutthefarcicaltrialandsubsequentexecutionofBhuttobythatfearsome‘cartoon’,Ziaul-Haq.Butbytheendit’sBenazir’sdifficultywithcogitationthatstrikesonemostforcefully.

Onmybeloved’s forehead,hishair is shining,Benazir’sghost singsat thehennaceremonyprecedingthemarriagetoAsifAsifAsif.Onhisforehead,eh?Well, no highbrow he, by all accounts, and on this evidence, his arrangedmarriagelookslikeaperfectmatch.

1988

3

‘COMMONWEALTHLITERATURE’DOESNOTEXIST

ANITADESAI

KIPLING

HOBSON-JOBSON

‘COMMONWEALTHLITERATURE’DOESNOTEXIST

When I was invited to speak at the 1983 English Studies Seminar inCambridge, the lady from the British Council offered me a few words ofreassurance.‘It’sallright,’Iwastold,’‘forthepurposesofourseminar.Englishstudies are taken to includeCommonwealth literature.’At all other times, onewasforcedtoconclude, these twowouldbekeptstrictlyapart, likesquabblingchildren, or sexually incompatible pandas, or, perhaps, like unstable, fissilematerialswhoseunionmightcauseexplosions.

AfewweekslaterIwastalkingtoaliteraturedon—aspecialist,Ioughttosay,inEnglishliterature—afriendlyandperceptiveman.‘AsaCommonwealthwriter,’ he suggested, ‘you probably find, don’t you, that there’s a kind ofliberty, certain advantages, in occupying, as you do, a position on theperiphery?’

And then aBritishmagazine published, in the same issue, interviewswithShivaNaipaul,BuchiEmechetaandmyself. Inmy interview, Iadmitted that Ihadbegun to find this strange term, ‘Commonwealth literature’,unhelpful andevenalittledistasteful;andIwasinterestedtoreadthatintheirinterviews,bothShiva Naipaul and Buchi Emecheta, in their own ways, said much the samething. The three interviews appeared, therefore, under the headline:‘Commonwealthwriters…butdon’tcallthemthat!’

Bythispoint,theCommonwealthwasbecomingunpopularwithme.Isn’t this theveryoddestofbeasts, I thought—aschoolof literaturewhose

supposedmembersdenyvehementlythattheybelongtoit.Worse,thesedenialsaresimplydisregarded!Itseemsthecreaturehastakenonalifeofitsown.SowhenIwasinvitedtoaconferenceabouttheanimalin—ofallplaces—Sweden,IthoughtI’dbettergoalongtotakeacloserlookatit.

The conference was beautifully organized, packed with erudite andsophisticated persons capable of discoursing at length about the new spirit ofexperiment inEnglish-languagewriting in thePhilippines.Also, Iwas able tomeet writers from all over the world—or, rather, the Commonwealth. It wassuchaseductiveenvironmentthatitalmostpersuadedmethatthesubjectunder

discussion actually existed, and was not simply a fiction, and a fiction of auniquetype,at that, inthat ithasbeencreatedsolelybycriticsandacademics,whohavethenproceededtobelieveinitwholeheartedly…butthedoubtsdid,inspiteofalltemptationstosuccumb,persist.

Many of the delegates, I found,werewilling freely to admit that the term‘Commonwealth literature’ was a bad one. South Africa and Pakistan, forinstance, are notmembers of theCommonwealth, but their authors apparentlybelongtoitsliterature.Ontheotherhand,England,which,asfarasI’maware,has not been expelled from the Commonwealth quite yet, has been excludedfromitsliterarymanifestation.Forobviousreasons.ItwouldneverdotoincludeEnglish literature, the great sacred thing itself, with this bunch of upstarts,huddlingtogetherunderthisnewandbadlymadeumbrella.

AttheCommonwealthliteratureconferenceItalkedwithandlistenedtotheAustralian poet Randolph Stow; the West Indian, Wilson Harris; Ngugi waThiong’ofromKenya;AnitaDesaifromIndiaandtheCanadiannovelistArithavan Herk. I became quite sure that our differences were so much moresignificant than our similarities, that it was impossible to say what‘Commonwealth literature’—the idea which had, after all, made possible ourassembly—might conceivably mean. Van Herk spoke eloquently about theproblem of drawing imaginative maps of the great emptinesses of Canada;Wilson Harris soared into great flights of metaphysical lyricism and highabstraction;AnitaDesai spoke inwhispers, her novel the novel of sensibility,and Iwonderedwhat on earth she could be held to have in commonwith thecommitted Marxist Ngugi, an overtly political writer, who expressed hisrejection of theEnglish language by reading his ownwork in Swahili,with aSwedish version read by his translator, leaving the rest of us completelybemused. Now obviously this great diversity would be entirely natural in ageneralliteratureconference—butthiswasaparticularschoolofliterature,andIwastryingtoworkoutwhatthatschoolwassupposedtobe.

The nearest I could get to a definition sounded distinctly patronizing:‘Commonwealthliterature’,itappears,isthatbodyofwritingcreated,Ithink,intheEnglishlanguage,bypersonswhoarenotthemselveswhiteBritons,orIrish,or citizens of the United States of America. I don’t know whether blackAmericansarecitizensofthisbizarreCommonwealthornot.Probablynot.ItisalsouncertainwhethercitizensofCommonwealthcountrieswritinginlanguagesother than English—Hindi, for example—or who switch out of English, likeNgugi,arepermittedintothecluboraskedtokeepout.

By now ‘Commonwealth literature’ was sounding very unlikeable indeed.Notonlywasitaghetto,butitwasactuallyanexclusiveghetto.Andtheeffectofcreatingsuchaghettowas,is,tochangethemeaningofthefarbroaderterm‘Englishliterature’—whichI’dalwaystakentomeansimplytheliteratureoftheEnglish language—into something far narrower, something topographical,nationalistic,possiblyevenraciallysegregationist.

Itoccurredtome,asIsurveyedthismuddle,thatthecategoryisachimera,and in very precise terms. The word has of course come to mean an unreal,monstrous creature of the imagination; but you will recall that the classicalchimerawas amonster of a rather special type. It had the head of a lion, thebodyofagoatandaserpent’stail.Thisistosay,itcouldexistonlyindreams,beingcomposedofelementswhichcouldnotpossiblybejoinedtogetherintherealworld.

Thedangersofunleashingsuchaphantomintothegrovesofliteratureare,itseemstome,manifold.AsImentioned,thereistheeffectofcreatingaghetto,andthat,inturn,doesleadtoaghettomentalityamongstsomeofitsoccupants.Also, thecreationofa falsecategorycananddoes lead toexcessivelynarrow,andsometimesmisleading readingsof someof theartists it isheld to include;andagain,theexistence—orputativeexistence—ofthebeastdistractsattentionfromwhat is actuallyworth lookingat,what is actuallygoingon. I thought itmightbeworthspendingafewminutesreflectingfurtheronthesedangers.

I’ll begin from an obvious starting place. English is by now the worldlanguage.ItachievedthisstatuspartlyasaresultofthephysicalcolonizationofaquarteroftheglobebytheBritish,anditremainsambiguousbutcentraltotheaffairsofjustaboutallthecountriestowhomitwasgiven,alongwithmissionschools,trunkroadsandtherulesofcricket,asagiftoftheBritishcolonizers.

But itspresent-daypre-eminence isnotsolely—perhapsnotevenprimarily—the result of the British legacy. It is also the effect of the primacy of theUnited States of America in the affairs of the world. This second impetustowards English could be termed a kind of linguistic neo-colonialism, or justplain pragmatism on the part of many of the world’s governments andeducationists,accordingtoyourpointofview.

Asformyself,Idon’tthinkitisalwaysnecessarytotakeuptheanti-colonial—or is it post-colonial?—cudgels against English. What seems to me to behappening is that those peopleswhowere once colonizedby the language arenow rapidly remaking it, domesticating it, becoming more and more relaxedabout the way they use it—assisted by the English language’s enormous

flexibilityandsize,theyarecarvingoutlargeterritoriesforthemselveswithinitsfrontiers.

To take the case of India, only because it’s the onewithwhich I’mmostfamiliar.Thedebate about the appropriateness ofEnglish in post-British Indiahas been raging ever since 1947; but today, I find, it is a debate which hasmeaningonlyfortheoldergeneration.ThechildrenofindependentIndiaseemnottothinkofEnglishasbeingirredeemablytaintedbyitscolonialprovenance.TheyuseitasanIndianlanguage,asoneofthetoolstheyhavetohand.

(Iamsimplifying,ofcourse,butthepointisbroadlytrue.)ThereisalsoaninterestingNorth-SouthdivideinIndianattitudestoEnglish.

IntheNorth,intheso-called‘Hindibelt’,wherethecapital,Delhi,islocated,itispossible to thinkofHindi as a futurenational language;but inSouth India,whichisatpresentsufferingfromtheattemptsofcentralgovernmenttoimposethis national language on it, the resentment of Hindi is far greater than ofEnglish.AfterspendingquitesometimeinSouthIndia,I’vebecomeconvincedthatEnglish isanessential language in India,notonlybecauseof its technicalvocabulariesand the internationalcommunicationwhich itmakespossible,butalsosimplytopermittwoIndianstotalktoeachotherinatonguewhichneitherpartyhates.

Incidentally, in West Bengal, where there is a State-led move againstEnglish,thefollowinggraffito,asharpdigattheState’sMarxistchiefminister,JyotiBasu,appearedonawall,inEnglish:itsaid,‘Mysonwon’tlearnEnglish;yoursonwon’t learnEnglish;butJyotiBasuwill sendhissonabroad to learnEnglish.’

OneofthepointsIwanttomakeisthatwhatI’vesaidindicates,Ihope,thatIndiansocietyandIndianliteraturehaveacomplexanddevelopingrelationshipwiththeEnglishlanguage.Thiskindofpost-colonialdialecticispropoundedasoneoftheunifyingfactorsin‘Commonwealthliterature’;butitclearlydoesnotexist,oratleastisfarmoreperipheraltotheproblemsofliteraturesinCanada,Australia, even SouthAfrica. Every time you examine the general theories of‘Commonwealthliterature’theycomeapartinyourhands.

English literaturehas its Indianbranch.By this Imean the literatureof theEnglish language. This literature is also Indian literature. There is noincompatibility here. If history creates complexities, let us not try to simplifythem.

So:EnglishisanIndianliterarylanguage,andbynow,thankstowriterslikeTagore,Desani,Chaudhuri,MulkRajAnand,RajaRao,AnitaDesaiandothers,

it has quite a pedigree. Now it is certainly true that the English-languageliteratures of England, Ireland and the USA are older than, for example, theIndian; so it’s possible that ‘Commonwealth literature’ is no more than anungainlynamefor theworld’syoungerEnglishliteratures.If thatweretrueor,rather, if that were all, it would be a relatively unimportantmisnomer. But itisn’tall.Because the termisnotusedsimply todescribe,orevenmisdescribe,butalso todivide. Itpermitsacademic institutions,publishers,criticsandevenreaderstodumpalargesegmentofEnglishliteratureintoaboxandthenmoreorlessignoreit.Atbest,whatiscalled‘Commonwealthliterature’ispositionedbelow English literature ‘proper’—or, to come back to my friend the don, itplaces Eng. Lit. at the centre and the rest of theworld at the periphery.HowdepressingthatsuchaviewshouldpersistinthestudyofliteraturelongafterithasbeendiscardedinthestudyofeverythingelseEnglish.

Whatislifelikeinsidetheghettoof‘Commonwealthliterature’?Well,everyghettohasitsownrules,andthisoneisnoexception.

Oneoftherules,oneoftheideasonwhichtheedificerests,isthatliteratureisanexpressionofnationality.WhatCommonwealthliteraturefindsinterestinginPatrickWhiteishisAustralianness;inDorisLessing,herAfricanness;inV.S.Naipaul, hisWest Indianness, although Idoubt that anyonewouldhave thenervetosaysotohisface.Booksarealmostalwayspraisedforusingmotifsandsymbolsout of the author’s ownnational tradition, orwhen their formechoessome traditional form,obviouslypre-English,andwhen the influencesatworkuponthewritercanbeseentobewholly internal to theculturefromwhichhe‘springs’.Bookswhichmixtraditions,orwhichseekconsciouslytobreakwithtradition,areoftentreatedashighlysuspect.Togiveoneexample.AfewyearsagotheIndianpoet,ArunKolatkar,whoworkswithequalfacilityinEnglishandMarathi,wrote,inEnglish,anaward-winningseriesofpoemscalledJejuri,theaccountofhisvisittoaHindutempletown.(Ironically,Ishouldsay,itwontheCommonwealthPoetryPrize.)Thepoemsaremarvellous,contemporary,witty,and in spite of their subject they are the work of a non-religious man. Theyaroused the wrath of one of the doyens of Commonwealth literary studies inIndia,ProfessorC.D.Narasimhaiah,who,whileadmittingthebrillianceofthepoems, accused Kolatkar of making his work irrelevant by seeking to defytradition.

What we are facing here is the bogy of Authenticity. This is somethingwhichtheIndianartcriticGeetaKapurhasexploredinconnectionwithmodernIndian painting, but it applies equally well to literature. ‘Authenticity’ is the

respectable child of old-fashioned exoticism. It demands that sources, forms,style, language and symbol all derive from a supposedly homogeneous andunbroken tradition.Orelse.What is revealing is that the term,somuch inuseinside the littleworld of ‘Commonwealth literature’, and always as a term ofpraise, would seem ridiculous outside this world. Imagine a novel beingeulogizedforbeing‘authenticallyEnglish’,or‘authenticallyGerman’.Itwouldseemabsurd.Yetsuchabsurditiespersistintheghetto.

In my own case, I have constantly been asked whether I am British, orIndian.Theformulation‘Indian-bornBritishwriter’hasbeeninventedtoexplainme.But,as I said lastnight,mynewbookdealswithPakistan.Sowhatnow?‘British-resident Indo-Pakistaniwriter’?You see the folly of trying to containwritersinsidepassports.

Oneofthemostabsurdaspectsofthisquestfornationalauthenticityisthat—as faras India is concerned, anyway—it is completely fallacious to supposethatthereissuchathingasapure,unalloyedtraditionfromwhichtodraw.Theonly peoplewho seriously believe this are religious extremists. The rest of usunderstand that the very essence of Indian culture is thatwe possess amixedtradition, a mélange of elements as disparate as ancient Mughal andcontemporaryCoca-ColaAmerican.TosaynothingofMuslim,Buddhist,Jain,Christian, Jewish, British, French, Portuguese, Marxist, Maoist, Trotskyist,Vietnamese,capitalist,andofcourseHinduelements.Eclecticism,theabilitytotakefromtheworldwhatseemsfittingandtoleavetherest,hasalwaysbeenahallmark of the Indian tradition, and today it is at the centre of the bestworkbeingdonebothinthevisualartsandinliterature.Yeteclecticismisnotreallyanice word in the lexicon of ‘Commonwealth literature’. So the reality of themixedtraditionisreplacedbythefantasyofpurity.

Youwillperhapshavenoticedthat thepurposeof this literaryghetto—likethat of all ghettos, perhaps—is to confine, to restrain. Its rules are basicallyconservative.Tradition isall; radicalbreacheswith thepastare frownedupon.Nowondersomanyofthewritersclaimedby‘Commonwealthliterature’denythattheyhaveanythingtodowithit.

Isaidthattheconceptof‘Commonwealthliterature’diddisservicetosomewriters,leadingtofalsereadingsoftheirwork;inIndia,IthinkthisistrueoftheworkofRuthJhabvalaand, toa lesserextent,AnitaDesai.Yousee, lookedatfrom the point of view that literature must be nationally connected and evencommitted, it becomes simply impossible to understand the cast of mind andvision of a rootless intellect like Jhabvala’s. In Europe, of course, there are

enoughinstancesofuprooted,wanderingwritersandevenpeoplestomakeRuthJhabvala’sworkreadilycomprehensible;butbytherulesoftheCommonwealthghetto,sheisbeyondthepale.Asaresult,herreputationinIndiaismuchlowerthan it is in theWest.AnitaDesai, too,gets into troublewhen she stateswithcompletehonesty thatherworkhasno Indianmodels.Thenovel isaWesternform,shesays,sotheinfluencesonherareWestern.Yetherdelicatebuttoughfictionsaremagnificent studiesof Indian life.Thisconfuses thecohortsof theCommonwealth. But then, where ‘Commonwealth literature’ is concerned,confusionisthenorm.

Ialsosaidthatthecreationofthisphantomcategoryservedtoobscurewhatwasreallygoingon,andworthtalkingabout.Toexpandonthis,letmesaythatifweweretoforgetabout‘Commonwealthliterature’,wemightseethatthereisakindofcommonalityaboutmuchliterature,inmanylanguages,emergingfromthosepartsoftheworldwhichonecouldlooselytermthelesspowerful,orthepowerless. The magical realism of the Latin Americans influences Indian-languagewritersinIndiatoday.Therich,folk-talequalityofanovellikeSandroofChegem,bytheMuslimRussianFazilIskander,findsitsparallelsinthework—for instance—of the Nigerian, Amos Tutuola, or even Cervantes. It ispossible,Ithink,tobegintotheorizecommonfactorsbetweenwritersfromthesesocieties—poorcountries,ordeprivedminoritiesinpowerfulcountries—andtosay thatmuchofwhat is new inworld literature comes from this group.Thisseems to me to be a ‘real’ theory, bounded by frontiers which are neitherpolitical nor linguistic but imaginative. And it is developments of this kindwhichthechimeraof‘Commonwealthliterature’obscures.

Thistransnational,cross-lingualprocessofpollinationisnotnew.Theworksof Rabindranath Tagore, for example, have long been widely available inSpanish-speakingAmerica, thanks tohis close friendshipwith theArgentinianintellectualVictoriaOcampo.Thusanentiregeneration,oreven two,ofSouthAmericanwritershavereadGitanjali,TheHomeandtheWorldandotherworks,andsome,likeMarioVargasLlosa,saythattheyfoundthemveryexcitingandstimulating.

Ifthis‘ThirdWorldliterature’isonedevelopmentobscuredbytheghostof‘Commonwealth literature’, then ‘Commonwealth literature’s’ emphasis onwritinginEnglishdistractsattentionfrommuchelsethatisworthourattention.Itried to showhow in India thewhole issueof languagewas a subject of deepcontention. It is also worth saying that major work is being done in India inmany languages other than English; yet outside India there is just about no

interestinanyofthiswork.TheIndo-Angliansseizeallthelimelight.Verylittleis translated; very few of the bestwriters—Premchand,AnanthaMoorthy—orthebestnovelsareknown,evenbyname.

Togooninthisvein:itstrikesmethat,atthemoment,thegreatestareaoffrictioninIndianliteraturehasnothingtodowithEnglishliterature,butwiththeeffects of the hegemony ofHindi on the literatures of other Indian languages,particularly other North Indian languages. I recently met the distinguishedGujaratinovelist,SureshJoshi.HetoldmethathecouldwriteinHindibutfeltobliged towrite inGujarati because itwas a language under threat.Not fromEnglish,ortheWest:fromHindi.Intwoorthreegenerations,hesaid,Gujaraticould easily die. And he compared it, interestingly, to the state of the CzechlanguageundertheyokeofRussian,asdescribedbyMilanKundera.

This is clearly a matter of central importance for Indian literature.‘Commonwealthliterature’isnotinterestedinsuchmatters.

Itstrikesmethatmytitlemaynotreallybeaccurate.Thereisclearlysuchathingas‘Commonwealthliterature’,becauseevenghostscanbemadetoexistifyou set up enough faculties, if you write enough books and appoint enoughresearchstudents. Itdoesnotexist in thesense thatwritersdonotwrite it,butthat is of minor importance. So perhaps I should rephrase myself:‘Commonwealth literature’ should not exist. If it did not,we could appreciatewritersforwhattheyare,whetherinEnglishornot;wecoulddiscussliteraturein termsof its realgroupings,whichmaywellbenational,whichmaywellbelinguistic, but which may also be international, and based on imaginativeaffinities; andas far asEng.Lit. itself is concerned, I think that ifallEnglishliteraturescouldbestudied together,a shapewouldemergewhichwould trulyreflect thenewshapeof thelanguageintheworld,andwecouldseethatEng.Lit. has never been in better shape, because the world language now alsopossesses a world literature, which is proliferating in every conceivabledirection.

TheEnglishlanguageceasedtobethesolepossessionof theEnglishsometime ago. Perhaps ‘Commonwealth literature’ was invented to delay the daywhenweroughbeastsactuallyslouchintoBethlehem.Inwhichcase,it’stimetoadmitthatthecentrecannothold.

1983

ANITADESAI

The subject of Anita Desai’s fiction has, thus far, been solitude. Her mostmemorablecreations—theoldwoman,NandaKaul,inFireontheMountain,orBiminClearLightofDay—havebeenisolated,singularfigures.Andthebooksthemselves have been private universes, illuminated by the author’sperceptiveness,delicacyoflanguageandsharpwit,butremaining,inasense,assolitary,asseparate,astheircharacters.

Her novel In Custody is, therefore, a doubly remarkable piece of work;becauseinthismagnificentbookAnitaDesaihaschosentowritenotofsolitudebut of friendship, of the perils and responsibilities of joining oneself to othersrather thanholdingoneselfapart.Andat the same timeshehaswrittenaverypublicfiction,sheddingthereserveofherearlierworktotakeonsuchsensitivethemes as the unease of minority communities in modern India, the newimperialism of the Hindi language and the decay that is, tragically, all tooevident throughout the fissuring body of Indian society. The courage of thenovelisconsiderable.

Thestorycontraststheslowdeathofafalsefriendshipandthepainfulbirthofatrueone.Deven,aloverofUrdupoetrywhohasbeenobligedtoteachHindiin a small-town college for financial reasons, is bullied by his boyhood chumMurad to go to Delhi and interview the great, ageing Urdu poet NurShahjehanabadi for Murad’s rather ridiculous magazine. The relationshipbetween the weak, unworldly Deven and the posturing bullyMurad seems atfirst like something out of R. K. Narayan. But Narayan’s meek charactersusuallystandfortraditionalIndiaandhisbulliesforsomeaspectofthemodernworld. In Custody has no such allegorical intentions. Murad’s appallingbehaviour—heallbutruinsDevenwhileappearingtohelp,wastingmoneyonapoor tape recorder for the interview, then arranging for an incompetent‘assistant’whocompletelyfoulsuptherecording,andfinallyrefusingtosettlethe bills arising from the event—makes the fine, unsentimental point that ourfriendsareaslikelytodestroyusasourenemies.

But thenovel’semotionalheart lies in the relationshipbetweenDevenand

hisheroNur.Atfirsttheyoungteacher’sdreamoftheliterarygiantappearstohavebecometrue.Then,superbly,weareshownthefeetofclay:Nurbesetbypigeonsandother,human,hangers-on;Nurgluttonous,Nurdrunk,Nurvomitingonthefloor.Hereallegoryperhapsisintended.‘HowcantherebeUrdupoetry,’the poet asks rhetorically, ‘when there is no Urdu language left?’ And hisdecrepitude—like the derelict condition of the once-grand ancestral home ofDeven’sfellow-lecturer, theMuslimSiddiqui—isafigureof thedeclineof thelanguage and the culture for which he stands. The poet’s very name, Nur, isironic:thewordmeanslight,butitisalightgrownverydimindeed.

Once again, however, the central point beingmade is not allegorical. ThebeautyofInCustodyisthatwhatseemstobeastoryofinevitabletragedies—thetragicomedyofDeven’sattempts togethis interviewbeingthecounterpoint tothemore sombre tragedyofNur—turnsout tobe a taleof triumphover thesetragedies.At theveryend,Deven,besetbycrises,houndedbyNur’sdemandsformoney(foracataractoperation,forapilgrimagetoMecca),understandsthathehasbecomethe‘custodian’bothofNur’sfriendshipandofhispoetry,

andthatmeanthewasthecustodianofNur’sverysoulandspirit.Itwasa great distinction. He could not deny or abandon that under anypressure.

Once Deven has understood this, the calamities of his life seem suddenlyunimportant.‘Hewouldruntomeetthem,’andhedoes.

The high exaltation of such a conclusion is saved from lushness byAnitaDesai’swhollyadmirable lackofsentimentality.Hervisionisunsparing:Urdumaybedying,but in the characterofSiddiqui she showsus theworst sideofUrdu/Muslimculture—itssnobbishness,itseternalnostalgiaforthelostgloryofan early Empire. And, most significantly, we see that while Deven may bewillingtoembracehisresponsibilitiestoNur,heutterlyfailstodolikewisewithNur’swifeorhisown.He feels too threatenedby the formereven to readherpoetry, and too careless of his ownpoorSarlawith her faded dreams of ‘fan,phone,frigidaire’tobuildanysortofrealrelationshipwithheratall.ThatAnitaDesai has so brilliantly portrayed the world of male friendship in order todemonstratehowthis,too,isapartoftheprocessbywhichwomenareexcludedfrompowerover theirown lives isabitter ironybehindwhat isananguished,butnotatallabitterbook.

1984

KIPLING

InLuisBuñuel’slastfilm,Cetobscurobjetdedésir,theheroinewasplayedbytwoactresses,onecoolandpoised,theotherfieryandsensual.Thetwowomenlookedutterlydissimilar,yetitwasnotuncommonforpeopletowatchtheentiremoviewithoutnoticingthedevice.Theirneedtobelieveinthehomogeneityofpersonalitywassodeeplyrootedastomakethemdiscounttheevidenceoftheirowneyes.

I once thought of borrowing Buñuel’s idea for a TV programme aboutRudyardKipling. Iwanted him to be played by an Indian actor aswell as anEnglish one, to speak Hindi in some scenes and English in others. After all,when the child Rudyard was admitted to his parents’ presence, the servantswould have to remind him to ‘speak English now to Mama and Papa.’ Theinfluence of India on Kipling—on his picture of the world as well as hislanguage—resulted in what has always struck me as a personality in conflictwith itself, part bazaar-boy, part sahib. In the early Indian stories (this essayconfines itself to the twocollections,SoldiersThree and InBlackandWhite),thatconflictistobefoundeverywhere,andKiplingdoesnotalwaysseemfullyconsciousof it. (By the timehewroteKim, twelveyears later,hiscontrolhadgrown.ButKim’s torn loyaltieshaveneverseemedas interesting tomeas theambiguous, shifting relationships between the Indians and the English in, forexample,‘OntheCityWall’.)

The early Kipling is a writer with a storm inside him, and he creates amirror-stormofcontradictoryresponsesinthereader,particularly,Ithink,ifthereader is Indian. I have never been able to read Kipling calmly. Anger anddelight are incompatible emotions, yet these early stories do indeed have thepowersimultaneouslytoinfuriateandtoentrance.

Kipling’s racial bigotry is often excused on the grounds that he merelyreflected in his writing the attitudes of his age. It’s hard for members of theallegedly inferior race to accept such an excuse. Ought we to exculpate anti-SemitesinNaziGermanyonthesamegrounds?IfKiplinghadmaintainedanysort of distance between himself and the attitudes he recorded, it would be a

differentmatter.But,asstoryafterstorymakesplain,theauthor’sattitudes—theattitudes, that is,ofKiplingasplayedby theEnglishactor—are identicalwiththose of his white characters. The Indians he portrays are wife-killers (‘DrayWaraYowDee’), scamps (‘AtHowliThana’),betrayersof theirownbrothers(‘Gemini’),unfaithfulwives(‘AtTwenty-Two’)andthelike.EventheEurasianMrsDeSussa in ‘PrivateLearoyd’s Story’ is a fat figure of fun. Indians bribewitnesses, desert their political leaders, and are gullible, too: ‘Overmuchtenderness… has bred a strong belief amongmany natives that the native iscapableofadministeringthecountry.’MrKiplingknowsbetter.‘It[India]willneverstandalone.’

ButthereistheIndianactor,too;RuddyBabaaswellasKiplingSahib.Andit is on account of this fellow that Kipling remains so popular in India. Thispopularity looks like, and indeed is, an extraordinary piece of culturalgenerosity. But it is real. No other Western writer has ever known India asKiplingknewit,anditisthisknowledgeofplace,andprocedure,anddetailthatgiveshisstoriestheirundeniableauthority.Theplotof‘BlackJack’turnsontheoperationaldifferencesbetweentwodifferentkindsofrifle;while thestory‘InFloodTime’owesitsqualitytoKipling’spreciseandmagnificentdescriptionofaswollenriverinthemonsoonrains.NorcouldhehavecreatedthesalonofthecourtesanLalunin‘OntheCityWall’hadhenotbeenaregularvisitortosuchestablishmentshimself.

Not all the storieshave stood the test of time—‘TheSendingofDanaDa’seemsparticularlyflimsy—butallofthemarepackedwithinformationaboutalost world. It used to be said that one read in order to learn something, andnobodycanteachyouBritishIndiabetterthanRudyardKipling.

Thesestoriesare,aboveall,experimentsinvoice.InSoldiersThree,Kiplinghas sought to give voice to the ordinary British soldier whom he admired somuch.(Theoriginalversionofthefirststory,‘TheGodfromtheMachine’,waspublished in theRailwayLibraryeditionwithadedication to ‘thatverystrongman,T.ATKINS,…inalladmirationandgoodfellowship’.)Howwellhehassucceededisopentodispute.

There can be no doubt that he knew his characters inside out, and, byabandoningtheworldoftheofficerclassesinfavouroftheviewfromtheranks,openedupauniquesubculturethatwouldotherwisehavebeenverylargelylosttoliterature;orthatmanyoftheseareverygoodindeed.‘TheBigDrunkDraf’,inwhichacompanyofmenonitswaytoboardtheshipforEnglandnearlyturnsuponitsyoungofficer,butisthwartedbythewilesofTerenceMulvaneyandthe

courage of the officer himself, is one such splendid tale; while ‘Black Jack’,which tellsof amurderplot, andowes something—asKiplingadmitted in theRailwayLibraryedition—toRobertLouisStevenson’sstory‘TheSuicideClub’,ismyownfavouriteyam.

But the surface of the text is made strangely impenetrable by Kipling’sdetermination to render the speech of his three musketeers in thick Oirish(Mulvaney), broad Cockney (Ortheris) and ee-ba-goom Northern (Learoyd).Mulvaney’s ‘menowdherin’, an’minandherin’, an’ blandandherin” soongrowstiresome,andOrtherisdropssomanyinitialH’sandfinalG’sandD’sthattheapostrophes begin to swim before our eyes. George Orwell suggested, ofKipling’s verse, that such mimicry of lower-class speech actually made thepoemsworsethantheywouldbeinstandardEnglish,and‘restored’someofthelinestoprovehispoint.Imustconfesstofeelingsomethingsimilaraboutthesestories.ThereissomethingcondescendingaboutKipling’smimicry:

‘Ahdoan’tcare.Ahwouldnotcare,butmaheartisplaayin’tivvy-tivvyonmaribs.Letmadie!Oh,leavemadie!’

Learoyd’s suffering is curiously diminished by the music-hall orthography.Kipling’saffectionfortheSoldiersThreecanoftenseemdehautenbas.

TheothermainpointoflinguisticinterestintheSoldiersThreestoriesistheincorporationofanumberofHindiwordsandphrases.Thisiskeptatapidgin,Hobson-Jobson level: Take him away, an’ av you iver saywanwurrud aboutfwhat you’vedekkoed, I’llmarrow you till your ownwifewon’t sumjaowhoyouare!’TheIndiancriticS.S.AzfarHussainhaspointedoutthat,oftheelevenHindisentenceswhichappearinSoldiersThree(andthesearetheonlycompleteHindisentencestobefoundinthewholeofKipling’sæuvre),tenareimperativesentences;andnineoftheseareordersfromEnglishmasterstotheirservants.Itis important, then, not to overstate the extent to which Kipling’s Indianchildhood influenced his work. It seems certain that Kipling did not remainliterateinHindiorUrdu.DrHussainreportsthat‘Kipling’smanuscriptsintheBritishMuseum…showthathetriedseveraltimestowritehisnameinUrdu,but oddly enough did not succeed once. It reads “Kinling”, “Kiplig” and“Kipenling”.’

IntheSoldiersThreestoriestheHindi/Urduwordsaresimplysprinkledoverthe text, like currypowder.The InBlackandWhite stories attempt somethingaltogethermoreambitious.HereitistheIndianswhohavebeengivenvoice,andsince, in many cases, they would not actually be speaking English, a whole

idiolecthashadtobeinvented.Much of this invented Indiaspeak is so exclamatory, so full of ‘Ahoo!

Ahoo!’ and ‘Ahi! Ahi!’ and even ‘Auggrh!’ as to suggest that Indians are apeople incapable of anything but outbursts. Some of it sounds very like thesalaaming exoticism of the pantomime: ‘The mind of an old man is like thenumah-tree.Fruit,bud,blossom,andthedeadleavesofalltheyearsofthepastflourish together.’ Sometimes Kipling’s own convictions place impossiblesentencesinIndianmouths:‘GreatisthemercyofthesefoolsofEnglish’isonesuchcontortedutterance.Butmuchofitisbrilliantlyright.Thedeviceofliteraltranslations of metaphors is certainly exotic, but it does also lend a kind ofauthenticitytothedialogue:‘…itistheSahibhimself!Myheartismadefatandmy eye glad.’ And the Indian banias, policemen, miners and whores soundIndian in a way that—for example—Forster’s never do. This is because theythinklikeIndians,oratleasttheydowhenKiplingletsthem.Fortheproblemofcondescension remains. Kipling could never have dedicated a story to the‘natives’ as he did to ‘T.Atkins’, after all.And if the tone ofSoldiers Threeseemspatronizingattimes,inInBlackandWhiteitcansoundfar,farworse.

Kipling’sIndianwomen,inparticular,are(atbest)thecauseoftroubleanddangerformen—theHinduheroineof‘InFloodTime’isthecauseofadeadlyrivalrybetweenaMuslimandaSikh—while,atworst, theycheatontheirold,blindhusbandsasUndadoesin‘AtTwenty-Two’,orontheirferociousPathanhusbands, as the ‘woman of theAbazai’ does,with unhappy results, in ‘DrayWaraYowDee’:

Andshebowedherhead,and I smote itoff at theneck-boneso that itleapedbetweenmyfeet.Thereaftertherageofourpeoplecameuponme,andIhackedoffthebreasts,thatthemenofLittleMalikandmightknowthecrime…

And yet, and yet. It is impossible not to admireKipling’s skill at creatingconvincing portraits of horse-thieves, or rural policemen, or Punjabi money-lenders. The story of how the blindminer JankiMeah finds theway out of acollapsedminemayfeatureaflightyfemale,buttheworld,andthepsychology,andthelanguageofthemenaresuperlativelycreated.

Themostremarkablestoryinthiscollectionisunquestionably‘OntheCityWall’.Init,thetwoKiplingsareopenlyatwarwithoneanother;and,intheend,itseemstome,theIndianKiplingmanagestosubvertwhattheEnglishKipling

takestobethemeaningofthetale.‘On the CityWall’ is not narrated by an Indian voice, but by an English

journalistwho,incommonwith‘alltheCity’,isfondofvisitingLalun’sbrothelontheLahorecitywalltosmokeandtotalk.ThebrothelispresentedasanoasisofpeaceintheturbulenceofIndia;hereMuslims,Hindus,SikhsandEuropeansmingle without conflict. Only one group is excluded: ‘Lalun admits no Jewshere.’One of themost vocal figures at Lalun’s isWaliDad, theWesternizedyoungmanwhocallshimself‘aProduct—aDemnitionProduct.ThatalsoIoweto you and yours: that I cannotmake an end tomy sentencewithout quotingfrom your authors.’ The deracinated—or seemingly deracinated—WaliDad isoneof the story’smain actors.Another is the imprisoned revolutionaryKhemSingh, who is kept locked in Fort Amara. The third major ‘character’ is thecrowd of Shia Muslims thronging the city streets, for it is the time of theMuharramprocessions,andviolenceisintheair.

Kipling’s treatment ofWaliDad is, by any standards, pretty appalling.Hebuilds him up purely in order to knock him down, andwhen the youngman,seeing the frenzy of theMuharram processions, is transformed into a sort ofsavage—‘Hisnostrilsweredistended,hiseyeswere fixed,andhewas smitinghimself softlyon thebreast,’Kipling tellsus, andmakesWaliDad say thingslike ‘These swine of Hindus! We shall be killing kine in their templestonight!’—themeaning is clear:Western civilization has been nomore than aveneer;anative remainsanativebeneathhisEuropean jacketsand ties.Bloodwill out.WaliDad’s regression is notonlyunbelievable; it also showsus thatKiplinghasfailedtoappreciatethatitwasamongtheseverypeople,theseWaliDads,JawaharlalNehrusandM.K.Gandhis,thattheIndianrevolutionwouldbemade;thattheywouldassimilateWesternculturewithoutbeingderacinatedbyit,andthenturntheirknowledgeagainsttheBritish,andgainthevictory.

In the story’s other main narrative strand, Lalun tricks the narrator intoassistingintheescapeof therevolutionary,KhemSingh.Kiplingsuggests thattheold leader’s followershave lost their appetite for revolution, so thatKhemSingh has no option but to return voluntarily into captivity. But his narratorunderstandsthemeaningofthestoryratherbetterthanthat:‘Iwasthinking,’heconcludes, ‘how I had becomeLalun’sVizier, after all.’ LouisCornell, in hisstudyofthisstory,suggestsratheroddlythat‘theostensibleclimax…wherethereporterdiscoversthathehasunwittinglyhelpedarevolutionarytoescapefromthepolice, is toominor an incident, placed too close to the endof the tale, toseeminproportionwiththerestofthestory.’Itseemstomenotatallunusual

for a climax to be placed near a story’s end; and, far from being a minorincident,KhemSingh’sescapeseemscentral to the story’s significance. India,Lalun-India, bewitches and tricks theEnglish, in the character of the reporter;themasterismadetheservant,theVizier.SothattheconclusionoftheverytextinwhichKiplingstatesmostemphaticallyhisbelief that Indiacanneverstandalone,withoutBritish leadership, and inwhich he ridicules Indian attempts toacquirethesuperiorcultureofEngland,leavesuswithanimageoftheinabilityof the sahibs to comprehend what they pretend to rule. Lalun deceived thenarrator;Wali Dad deceived the author. ‘On the CityWall’ is Ruddy Baba’svictoryoverKiplingSahib.Andnowthatthe‘great idolcalledPaxBritannicawhich,asthenewspaperssay,livesbetweenPeshawarandCapeComorin,’hasbeen broken, the story stands, along with the others in this volume, as atestamenttotheoldquarrelbetweencolonizerandcolonized.TherewillalwaysbeplentyinKiplingthatIwillfinddifficulttoforgive;butthereisalsoenoughtruthinthesestoriestomakethemimpossibletoignore.

1990

HOBSON-JOBSON

The British Empire, many pundits now agree, descended like a juggernautuponthebarbicansoftheEast,insearchofloot.Themogulsoftherajwentinpalanquins, smokingcheroots, to sip toddyorsherbeton theverandahsof thegymkhanaclub,whilethememsahibsfrettedaboutthe thugs inbandannasanddungareeswhoroamedthenightlikepariahs,plottingghoulishdeeds.

All the italicized words in the above paragraph can be found, with theirEastern family trees, in Hobson-Jobson, the legendary dictionary of BritishIndia,onwhosereissueRoutledgearetobecongratulated.Thesethousand-oddpagesbeareloquenttestimonytotheunparalleledinterminglingthattookplacebetweenEnglishandthelanguagesofIndia,andwhilesomeoftheIndianloan-words will be familiar—pukka, curry, cummerbund—others should surprisemanymodernreaders.

Did you know, for example, that the word tank has Gujarati andMarathiorigins?Or thatcashwasoriginally theSanskritkarsha, ‘aweightofsilverorgoldequalto1/400thofaTula’?Orthatashampoowasamassage,nothingtodo with the hair at all, deriving from the imperative form—champo!—of theHindiverbchampna,‘tokneadandpressthemuscleswiththeviewofrelievingfatigue,etc.’?Everycolumnofthisbookcontainsrevelationslikethese,writtenup in a pleasingly idiosyncratic, not to say cranky, style. The authors, HenryYule andA.C.Burnell, arenot averse to tickingoff anuntrustworthy source,witnesstheirentryundermuddle,meaningadouble,orsecretary,orinterpreter:‘Thiswordisonlyknowntousfromtheclever—perhapstooclever—littlebookquotedbelow…probablyamisapprehensionofbudlee.’

The chief interest of Hobson-Jobson, though, lies not so much in itsetymologiesforwordsstillinuse,butintherichnessesofwhatonemustcalltheAnglo-Indianlanguagewhosememorialitis,thatlanguagewhichwasinregularusejustfortyyearsagoandwhichisnowasdeadasadodo.InAnglo-Indianajam was a Gujarati chief, a sneaker was ‘a large cup (or small basin) with asaucerandcover’,aguinea-pigwasamidshipmanonan India-boundboat,anowlwasadisease,Macheenwasnotaspellingmistakebutaname,abbreviated

from ‘Maha-Cheen’, for ‘greatChina’.Evena commonplaceword likecheesewastransformed.TheHindichiz,meaningathing,gavetheEnglishwordanew,slangy sense of ‘anything good, first-rate in quality, genuine, pleasant oradvantageous’as,wearetold,inthephrase,‘thesecherootsaretherealcheese.’

Some of the distortions of Indian words—‘perhaps by vulgar lips’—havemovedalongwayfromtheirsources.Ittakesaneffortofthewilltosee,intheAnglo-Indiansnow-rupee,meaning‘authority’, theTeluguword tsanauvu.Thedictionary’s own title, chosen, we are told, to help it sell, is of this type. ItoriginatesinthecriesofYaHasan!YaHussain!utteredbyShiaMuslimsduringtheMuharramprocessions.Idon’tquiteseehowthecolonialBritishmanagedtohearthisasHobson!Jobson!,butthisisclearlyafailureofimaginationonmypart.

It’sjustaboutacenturysincethisvolume’sfirstpublication,andin1886itwas actually possible for Yule and Burnell (whom it’s tempting to renameHobson and Jobson) to make puns which conflated Hindi with, of all things,Latin.TheAnglo-Indianwordpoggle,amadman,comesfromtheHindipagal,and sowe’re offered the following ‘macaronic adagewhichwe fear the non-Indianwillfailtoappreciate:pagaletpecuniajaldéseparantur.’(Afoolandhismoneyaresoonparted.)

British India had absorbed enough of Indian ways to call their Masoniclodges ‘jadoogurs’ after the Hindi for a place of sorcery, to cry ‘kubberdaur’(khabardaar)when theymeant ‘lookout’, and to ‘puckerow’an Indian (catchhim) before they started to ‘samjao’ him—literally, to make him understandsomething,but,idiomatically,tobeathimup.

Strange,then,tofindcertainwell-knownwordsmissing.Nokaffir,nogully,notevenawog,althoughthereisawug,aBalochorSindhiwordmeaningeitherloot or a herd of camels. (Hobson-Jobson can be wonderfully imprecise attimes.)Ithought,too,thatamodernappendixmightusefullybecommissioned,to includethemanyEnglishwordswhichhavetakenon, in independentIndia,new ‘Hinglish’ meanings. In India today, the prisoner in the dock is theundertrial;abossisoftenanincharge;and,inasinistereuphemism,thosewhoperishatthehandsoflawenforcementofficersareheldtohavediedina‘policeencounter’.

TospendafewdayswithHobson-Jobsonis,almost,toregretthepassingoftheintimateconnectionthatmadethislinguistickedgereepossible.Butthenonerememberswhat sort of connection itwas, and ismoved to remark—asRhettButler once said to Scarlett O’Hara—‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a small

copper coin weighing one tolah, eight mashas and seven surkhs, being thefortiethpartofarupee.’Or,toputitmoreconcisely,adam.

1985

4

OUTSIDETHEWHALE

ATTENBOROUGH’SGANDHI

SATYAJITRAY

HANDSWORTHSONGS

THELOCATIONOFBRAZIL

OUTSIDETHEWHALE

Anyonewhohasswitchedonthetelevisionset,beentothecinemaorenteredabookshop in the last fewmonthswillbeaware that theBritishRaj,after threeandahalfdecadesinretirement,hasbeenmakingasortofcomeback.Afterthebig-budget fantasy double-bill of Gandhi and Octopussy we have had theblackfaceminstrel-showofTheFarPavilions in itsTVserial incarnation,andimmediately afterwards the overpraised Jewel in the Crown. I should alsoinclude the alleged ‘documentary’ about Subhas Chandra Bose, GranadaTelevision’s War of the Springing Tiger, which, in the finest traditions ofjournalistic impartiality, described India’s second-most-revered independenceleader as a ‘clown’. And lest we begin to console ourselves that the painfulexperiencesarecomingtoanend,weareremindedthatDavidLean’sfilmofAPassagetoIndiaisintheoffing.IrememberseeinganinterviewwithMrLeaninTheTimes, inwhichheexplainedhisreasonsforwishingtomakeafilmofForster’snovel.‘Ihaven’tseenDickieAttenborough’sGandhiyet,’hesaid,‘butas faras I’maware,nobodyhasyet succeeded inputting Indiaon thescreen.’The Indian film industry, from Satyajit Ray toMr N. T. Rama Rao, will nodoubtfeelsuitablyhumbledbythegreatman’sopinion.

These are dark days. Having expressedmy reservations about theGandhifilmelsewhere, Ihavenowish to renewmyquarrelwithMahatmaDickie.AsforOctopussy,onecanonlysaythatitsportraitofmodernIndiawasasgrittilyand uncompromisingly realistic as its depiction of the skill, integrity andsophisticationoftheBritishsecretservices.

IndefenceoftheMahattenborough,hedidallowafewIndianstobeplayedby Indians. (One is becoming grateful for the smallest of mercies.) ThoseresponsiblefortransferringTheFarPavilionstothescreenwouldhavenotruckwith such tomfoolery. True, Indian actors were allowed to play the villains(SaeedJaffrey,whohasturnedtheRajrevivalintoapersonalcottageindustry,withpartsinGandhiandJewelintheCrownaswell,didhishissingandhand-rubbingpartypiece; andSnehGuptaplayed the selfishprincessbut,unluckilyforher,herentirepartconsistedoftheinterminablyrepeatedline,‘RamRam’).

Meanwhile, the good-guy roles were firmly commandeered by Ben Cross,ChristopherLee,OmarSharif, and,mostmemorably,Amy Irving as the goodprincess,whosemake-up person obviously believed that Indian princesses diptheireyesinblackinkandgetsun-tansontheirlips.

Nowof courseTheFarPavilions is thepurest bilge.ThegreatprocessingmachinesofTVsoap-operahave taken the somewhatmore fibrousgarbageoftheM.M.Kaye book and puréed it into easy-swallow, no-chewing-necessarydrivel.Thus,thetwocentralcharacters,bothsupposedlyraisedasIndians,havebeen lobotomized to the point of being incapable of pronouncing their ownnames.Theman calls himself ‘AShock’, and thewoman ‘An Jooly’.Aroundand about them there is branding of human flesh and snakery and widow-burning by the natives. There are Pathans who cannot speak Pushto. And, toavoidoffendingtheChristianmarket,weareaskedtobelievethatthechild‘AShock’,whilebeingraisedbyHindusandMuslims,somehowknewthatneither‘way’ was for him, and instinctively, when he wished to raise his voice inprayer, ‘prayed to the mountains’. It would be easy to conclude that suchmaterialcouldnotpossiblybetakenseriouslybyanyone,andthatitisthereforeunnecessary to get worked up about it. Should we not simply rise above thetwaddle,switchoffoursetsandnotcare?

Ishouldbehappieraboutthis,thequietistoption—andIshallhavemoretosayaboutquietismlateron—ifIdidnotbelievethatitmatters,italwaysmatters,tonamerubbishasrubbish;thattodootherwiseistolegitimizeit.Ishouldalsomind less,were itnot for the fact thatTheFarPavilions,bookaswell asTVserial,isonlythelatestinaverylonglineoffakeportraitsinflictedbytheWeston the East. The creation of a false Orient of cruel-lipped princes and duskyslim-hipped maidens, of ungodliness, fire and the sword, has been brilliantlydescribedbyEdwardSaid inhisclassicstudyOrientalism, inwhichhemakesclearthatthepurposeofsuchfalseportraitswastoprovidemoral,culturalandartisticjustificationforimperialismandforitsunderpinningideology,thatoftheracial superiority of the Caucasian over the Asiatic. Let me add only thatstereotypesareeasier toshrugoff ifyoursisnot theculturebeingstereotyped;or, at thevery least, ifyourculturehas thepower tocounterpunchagainst thestereotype.IftheTVscreensoftheWestwereregularlyfilledbyequallyhyped,big-budget productions depicting the realities of India, one could stomach theodd M. M. Kaye. When praying to the mountains is the norm, the stomachbeginstoheave.

Paul Scott was M. M. Kaye’s agent, and it has always seemed to me a

damningindictmentofhisliteraryjudgementthathebelievedTheFarPavilionstobeagoodbook.EvenstrangeristhefactthatTheRajQuartetandtheKayenovel are founded on identical strategies of what, to be polite, one must callborrowing.Inbothcases,thecentralplotmotifsareliftedfromearlier,andmuchfinernovels.InTheFarPavilions, theheroAsh(‘AShock’),raisedanIndian,discoveredtobeasahib,andeverafterwardstornbetweenhis twoselves,willbeinstantlyrecognizableasthecardboardcut-outversionofKipling’sKim.AndtherapeofDaphneMannersintheBibigharGardensderivesjustasplainlyfromForster’sAPassagetoIndia.ButbecauseKayeandScottarevastlyinferiortothewriterstheyfollow,theyturnwhattheytouchtopurelead.WhereForster’ssceneintheMarabarcavesretainsitsambiguityandmystery,Scottgivesusnotone rape but a gang assault, and one perpetrated, what is more, by peasants.Smellypersonsoftheworstsort.Soclassaswellassexisviolated;Daphnegetstheworks. It is useless, I’m sure, to suggest that if rapemust be used as themetaphoroftheIndo-Britishconnection,thensurely,intheinterestsofaccuracy,it should be the rape of an Indian woman by one or more Englishmen ofwhateverclass.ButnotevenForsterdaredtowriteaboutsuchacrime.Somuchmore evocative to conjure upwhite society’s fear of the darkie, of big browncocks.

YouwillsayIambeingunfair;ScottisawriterofadifferentcalibretoM.M.Kaye.What’smore,veryfewoftheBritishcharacterscomeatallwelloutoftheQuartet—Barbie,Sarah,Daphne,noneofthemen.(Kaye,reviewingtheTVadaptation,founditexcessivelyrudeabouttheBritish.)

Inpointof fact, Iamnotsosure thatScott issomuchfineranartist.LikeKaye, he has an instinct for the cliché. Sadistic, bottom-flogging policemanMerrick turns out to be (surprise!) a closet homosexual. His grammar schooloriginsgivehim (what else?) a chipon the shoulder.And all aroundhim is agalaxy of chinless wonders, regimental grandes dames, lushes, empty-headedblondes, silly-asses, plucky young things, good sorts, bad eggs and Russiancounts with eyepatches. The overall effect is rather like a literary version ofMulligatawnysoup. It tries to taste Indian,but endsupbeingultra-parochiallyBritish,onlywithtoomuchpepper.

Andyes,ScottisharshinhisportraitsofmanyBritishcharacters;butIwanttotryandmakearathermoredifficultpoint,apointaboutform.TheQuartet’sform tells us, in effect, that the history of the end of the Raj was largelycomposedof thedoingsof theofficerclassand itswife. Indiansgetwalk-ons,butremain,forthemostpart,bit-playersintheirownhistory.Oncethisformhas

been set, it scarcely matters that individual fictional Brits get unsympathetictreatmentfromtheirauthor.Theforminsiststhattheyaretheoneswhosestoriesmatter, and that is somuch less than thewhole truth that itmust be called afalsehood.ItwillnotdotoarguethatScottwasattemptingtoportraytheBritishin India, and that such was the nature of imperialist society that the Indianswouldonlyhavehadbit-parts.Itisnodefencetosaythataworkadopts,initsstructure,theveryethicwhich,initscontentandtone,itpretendstodislike.Itis,infact,thecasefortheprosecution.

IcannotendthisbriefaccountoftheRajrevivalwithoutreturningtoDavidLean, a film director whose mere interviews merit reviews. I have alreadyquoted his masterpiece in The Times; here now are three passages from hisconversationwithDerekMalcolmintheGuardianof23January,1984:

(1) Forsterwas a bit anti-English, anti-Raj and so on. I suppose it’s atricky thing to say, but I’m not somuch. I intend to keep the balancemore. Idon’tbelieveall theEnglishwerea lotof idiots.Forster rathermadethemso.Hecamedownhardagainstthem.I’vecutoutthatbitatthe trial where they try to take over the court. Richard [Goodwin, theproducer]wantedme to leave it in. But I said no, it justwasn’t right.Theywouldn’thavedonethat.

(2) As for Aziz, there’s a hell of a lot of Indian in him. They’remarvellouspeoplebutmaddeningsometimes,youknow…He’sagoose.But he’s warm and you like him awfully. I don’t mean that in aderogatoryway—thingsjusthappen.Hecan’thelpit.AndMissQuested…well, she’s a bit of a prig and a bore in the book, you know. I’vechanged her, made her more sympathetic. Forster wasn’t always verygoodwithwomen.

(3)Oneotherthing.I’vegotridofthat‘Notyet,notyet’bit.Youknow,when the Quit India stuff comes up, and we have the passage aboutdriving us into the sea? Forster experts have always said it wasimportant, but the Fielding-Aziz friendshipwas not sustained by thosesortofthings.AtleastIdon’tthinkso.Thebookcameoutatthetimeofthe trialofGeneralDyerandhada tremendoussuccess inAmerica forthatreason.ButIthoughtthatbitrathertackedon.AnywayIseeitasapersonalnotapoliticalstory.

Forster’s lifelong refusal to permit his novel to be filmed begins to lookrathersensible.Butoncearevisionistenterprisegetsunderway,themerewishesof a dead novelist provide no obstacle. And there can be little doubt that inBritain today the refurbishmentof theEmpire’s tarnished image isunderway.Thecontinuingdecline,thegrowingpovertyandthemeannessofspiritofmuchofThatcheriteBritainencouragesmanyBritonstoturntheireyesnostalgicallytothelosthouroftheirprecedence.TherecrudescenceofimperialistideologyandthepopularityofRaj fictionsputone inmindof thephantomtwitchingsofanamputated limb. Britain is in danger of entering a condition of culturalpsychosis,inwhichitbeginsonceagaintostrutandtoposturelikeagreatpowerwhile,infact,itspowerdiminisheseveryyear.Thejewelinthecrownismade,thesedays,ofpaste.

AnthonyBarnetthascogentlyargued,inhistelevisionessayLet’sTakethe‘Great’OutofBritain,thattheideaofagreatBritain(originallyjustacollectivetermforthecountriesoftheBritishIsles,butrepeatedlyusedtobolsterthemythofnationalgrandeur)hasbedevilledtheactionsofallpost-wargovernments.ButitwasMargaret Thatcherwho, in the euphoria of the Falklands victory,mostplainlynailedhercolours to theoldcolonialmast,claimingthat thesuccess intheSouthAtlanticprovedthattheBritishwerestillthepeople‘whohadruledaquarter of the world.’ Shortly afterwards she called for a return to Victorianvalues, thusdemonstrating that shehad embarkedupon aheroicbattle againstthelinearpassageofTime.

Iamtryingtosaysomethingwhichisnoteasilyheardabovetheclamourofpraise for the present spate of British-Indian fictions: that works of art, evenworksofentertainment,donotcomeintobeinginasocialandpoliticalvacuum;and that the way they operate in a society cannot be separated from politics,from history. For every text, a context; and the rise of Raj revisionism,exemplifiedby thehuge successof these fictions, is the artistic counterpart ofthe rise of conservative ideologies in modern Britain. And no matter howinnocentlythewritersandfilm-makerswork,nomatterhowskilfullytheactorsact(andnobodywoulddenythebrillianceof,forexample,theperformancesofSusanWooldridgeasDaphneandPeggyAshcroftasBarbie in theTVJewel),theyrunthegraveriskofhelpingtoshoreuptheconservatism,byofferingitthefictionalglamourwhichitsrealitysogrievouslylacks.

Thetitleof thisessayderives,obviously,fromthatofanearlierpiece(1940)by1984’sotherliteraryphenomenon,MrOrwell.AndasI’mgoingtodisputeitsassertions about the relationship between politics and literature, I must ofnecessitybeginbyofferingasummaryofthatessay,‘InsidetheWhale’.

ItopenswithalargelyadmiringanalysisofthewritingofHenryMiller:

On the face of it nomaterial could be less promising.WhenTropic ofCancer was published the Italians were marching into Abyssinia andHitler’sconcentrationcampswerealreadybulging…Itdidnotseemtobe a moment at which a novel of outstanding value was likely to bewrittenaboutAmericandead-beatscadgingdrinks in theLatinQuarter.Ofcourseanovelistisnotobligedtowritedirectlyaboutcontemporaryhistory,butanovelistwhosimplydisregardsthemajorpubliceventsofthemoment is generally either a footler or a plain idiot. From amereaccount of the subjectmatter ofTropic of Cancer,most peoplewouldprobablyassumeittobenomorethanabitofnaughty-naughtyleftoverfromthetwenties.Actually,nearlyeveryonewhoreaditsawatoncethatitwas…averyremarkablebook.Howorwhyremarkable?

HisattempttoanswerthatquestiontakesOrwelldownmoreandmoretortuousroads.HeascribestoMillerthegiftofopeningupanewworld‘notbyrevealingwhat is strange, but by revealing what is familiar.’ He praises him for usingEnglish ‘as a spoken language, but spokenwithout fear, i.e., without fear ofrhetoricoroftheunusualorpoeticword.Itisaflowing,swellingprose,aprosewithrhythmsinit.’Andmostcrucially,helikensMillertoWhitman,‘forwhatheissaying,afterall,is“Iaccept”.’

Aroundherethingsbegintogetalittlebizarre.Orwellquitefairlypointsoutthattosay‘Iaccept’inlifeinthethirties‘istosaythatyouacceptconcentrationcamps, rubber truncheons, Hitler, Stalin, bombs, aeroplanes, tinned food,machine-guns,putsches,purges,slogans,Bedauxbelts,gasmasks,submarines,spies,provocateurs,presscensorship, secretprisons,aspirins,Hollywood filmsandpoliticalmurders.’(No,Idon’tknowwhataBedauxbeltis,either.)Butintheverynextparagraphhe tells us that ‘preciselybecause, inone sense, he ispassive to experience,Miller is able to get nearer to the ordinaryman than ispossible to more purposive writers. For the ordinary man is also passive.’Characterizingtheordinarymanasavictim,hethenclaimsthatonlytheMillertype of victim-books, ‘nonpolitical, … non-ethical, … non-literary, … non-

contemporary’, can speakwith the people’s voice. So to accept concentrationcampsandBedauxbeltsturnsouttobeprettyworthwhile,afterall.

There follows an attackon literary fashion.Orwell, a thirty-seven-year-oldpatriarch,tellsusthat‘whenonesaysthatawriterisfashionableonepracticallyalwaysmeansthatheisadmiredbypeopleunderthirty.’Atfirsthepickseasytargets—A. E. Housman’s ‘roselipt maidens’ and Rupert Brooke’s‘Grantchester’(‘asortofaccumulatedvomitfromastomachstuffedwithplace-names’). But then the polemic is widened to include ‘the movement’, thepoliticallycommittedgenerationofAudenandSpenderandMacNeice.‘Onthewhole,’ Orwell says, ‘the literary history of the thirties seems to justify theopinionthatawriterdoeswelltokeepoutofpolitics.’Itistruehescoressomepoints,aswhenheindicatesthebourgeois,boarding-schooloriginsofjustaboutall these literary radicals, orwhen he connects the popularity of Communismamong British intellectuals to the general middle-class disillusion with alltraditional values: ‘Patriotism, religion, theEmpire, the family, the sanctity ofmarriage, the Old School Tie, birth, breeding, honour, discipline—anyone ofordinaryeducationcouldturnthewholelotoftheminsideoutinthreeminutes.’Inthisvacuumofideology,hesuggests,therewasstill‘theneedforsomethingtobelievein’,andStalinistCommunismfilledthevoid.

ReturningtoHenryMiller,OrwelltakesupandextendsMiller’scomparisonofAnaïsNintoJonahinthewhale’sbelly.

Thewhale’sbellyissimplyawombbigenoughforanadult…astormthatwouldsinkallthebattleshipsintheworldwouldhardlyreachyouasanecho…Millerhimselfisinsidethewhale,…awillingJonah…Hefeelsnoimpulsetoalterorcontroltheprocessthatheisundergoing.Hehas performed the essential Jonah act of allowing himself to beswallowed, remaining passive, accepting. It will be seen what thisamountsto.Itisaspeciesofquietism.

And at the end of this curious essay, Orwell—who began by describingwriters who ignored contemporary reality as ‘usually footlers or plainidiots’—embracesandespousesthisquietistphilosophy,thiscetaceanversionofPangloss’sexhortationto‘cultivernotrejardin’.‘Progressandreaction,’Orwellconcludes,‘havebothturnedouttobeswindles.Seeminglythereisnothingleftbutquietism—robbingrealityofitsterrorsbysimplysubmittingtoit.Getinsidethewhale—or rather, admit you are inside thewhale (for youare, of course).

Giveyourselfovertotheworld-process…simplyacceptit,endureit,recordit.Thatseemstobetheformulathatanysensitivenovelistisnowlikelytoadopt.’

Thesensitivenovelist’sreasonsaretobefoundintheessay’slastsentence,in which Orwell speaks of ‘the impossibility of any major literature until theworldhasshakenitselfintoitsnewshape.’

AndwearetoldthatfatalismisaqualityofIndianthought.

It is impossible not to include in any response to ‘Inside the Whale’ thesuggestionthatOrwell’sargumentismuchimpairedbyhischoice,foraquietistmodel, of Henry Miller. In the forty-four years since the essay was firstpublished,Miller’s reputation hasmore or less completely evaporated, and henow looks to be very littlemore than the happy pornographer beneathwhosescatological surface Orwell saw such improbable depths. If we, in 1984, areasked tochoosebetween,on theonehand, theMillerofTropicofCancerand‘the firsthundredpagesofBlackSpring’and,on theotherhand, thecollectedworksofAuden,MacNeiceandSpender,IdoubtthatmanyofuswouldgoforoldHenry.Soitwouldappearthatpoliticallycommittedartcanactuallyprovemoredurablethanmessagesfromthestomachofthefish.

Itwould also bewrong to go any furtherwithout discussing the senses inwhichOrwellusestheterm‘politics’.Sixyearsafter‘InsidetheWhale’,intheessay‘PoliticsandtheEnglishLanguage’(1946),hewrote:‘Inouragethereisno such thing as “keeping out of politics”.All issues are political issues, andpoliticsitselfisamassoflies,evasions,folly,hatredandschizophrenia.’

For a man as truthful, direct, intelligent, passionate and sane as Orwell,‘politics’hadcometorepresenttheantithesisofhisownworld-view.Itwasanunderworld-become-overworld,Hellonearth.‘Politics’wasaportmanteautermwhich included everything he hated; no wonder he wanted to keep it out ofliterature.

IcannotresisttheideathatOrwell’sintellect,andfinallyhisspirit,too,werebrokenbythehorrorsoftheageinwhichhelived,theageofHitlerandStalin(and,tobefair,bytheillhealthofhislateryears).Facedwiththeoverwhelmingevils of exterminations and purges and fire-bombings, and all the appallingmanifestations of politics-gone-wild, he turned his talents to the business ofconstructing and also of justifying an escape-route. Hence his notion of theordinarymanasvictim,andthereforeofpassivityastheliterarystanceclosestto

thatoftheordinaryman.Heisusingthistypeoflogicasameansofbuildingapathbacktothewomb,intothewhaleandawayfromthethunderofwar.Thislooksveryliketheplanofamanwhohasgivenupthestruggle.Eventhoughheknowsthat‘thereisnosuchthingas“keepingoutofpolitics”’,heattemptstheconstructionofamechanismwithjust thatpurpose.Sit itout,herecommends;wewriters will be safe inside the whale, until the storm dies down. I do notpresumetoblamehimforadoptingthisposition.Helivedintheworstoftimes.Butitisimportanttodisputehisconclusions,becauseaphilosophybuiltonanintellectual defeat must always be rebuilt at a later point. And undoubtedlyOrwelldidgiveway toakindofdefeatismanddespair.By the timehewroteNineteenEighty-Four,sickandcloisteredonJura,hehadplainlycometothinkthat resistancewasuseless.WinstonSmithconsidershimselfadeadmanfromthemomentherebels.Thesecretbookofthedissidentsturnsouttohavebeenwritten by the Thought Police. All protest must end in Room 101. In an agewhen it often appears that we have all agreed to believe in entropy, in thepropositionthatthingsfallapart,thathistoryistheirreversibleprocessbywhicheverythinggraduallygetsworse, theunrelievedpessimismofNineteenEighty-Fourgoessomewaytowardsexplainingitsstatusasatruemythofourtimes.

What ismore (and this connects theyear’sparallelphenomenaofEmpire-revivalism andOrwellmania), the quietist option, the exhortation to submit toevents, is an intrinsically conservative one. When intellectuals and artistswithdrawfromthefray,politiciansfeelsafer.Once,therightandleftinBritainused to argue aboutwhich of them ‘owned’Orwell. In those days both sideswantedhim;and,asRaymondWilliamshassaid,thetug-of-wardidhismemorylittlehonour.Ihavenowishtoreopentheseoldhostilities;butthetruthcannotbeavoided,andthetruthisthatpassivityalwaysservestheinterestsofthestatusquo,of thepeoplealreadyat thetopoftheheap,andtheOrwellof‘InsidetheWhale’andNineteenEighty-Fourisadvocatingideasthatcanonlybeofservicetoourmasters. If resistance isuseless, thosewhomonemightotherwise resistbecomeomnipotent.

It is much easier to find common ground with Orwell when he comes todiscuss the relationship between politics and language. The discoverer ofNewspeak was aware that ‘when the general [political] atmosphere is bad,language must suffer.’ In ‘Politics and the English Language’ he gives us aseries of telling examples of the perversion ofmeaning for political purposes.‘Statements like “Marshal Pétainwas a true patriot”, “The Soviet Press is thefreestintheworld”,“TheCatholicChurchisopposedtopersecution”arealmost

always made with intent to deceive,’ he writes. He also provides beautifulparodiesofpoliticians’metaphor-mixing:‘TheFascistoctopushassungitsswansong, the jackboot is thrown into themelting pot.’ Recently, I came across aworthy descendant of these grand old howlers: The Times, reporting thesmugglingofclassifieddocumentsoutofCivilServicedepartments,referredtotheincreasedfrequencyof‘leaks’from‘ahigh-levelmole’.

It’sodd,though,thattheauthorofAnimalFarm, thecreatorofsomuchofthe vocabulary through which we now comprehend these distortions—doublethink,thoughtcrime,andtherest—shouldhavebeenunwillingtoconcedethat literaturewasbest able todefend language, to dobattlewith the twisters,preciselybyenteringthepoliticalarena.ThewritersoftheGroup47inpost-warGermany,Grass,Böllandtherest,with their‘rubble literature’whosepurposeandgreatachievementitwastorebuildtheGermanlanguagefromtherubbleofNazism,areprimeinstancesofthispower.So,inquiteanotherway,isawriterlikeJosephHeller.InGoodasGoldthecharacterofthepresidentialaideRalphprovides Heller with some superb satire at the expense of Washingtonspeak.Ralph speaks in sentences that usually conclude by contradicting theirbeginnings:‘Thisadministrationwillbackyouallthewayuntilithasto’;‘ThisPresidentdoesn’twantyes-men.Whatwewantareindependentmenofintegritywhowill agreewith all our decisions afterwemake them.’Every timeRalphopenshisoxymoronicmouthherevealsthelimitationsofOrwell’sviewoftheinteractionbetweenliteratureandpolitics.Itisaviewwhichexcludescomedy,satire,deflation;becauseofcoursethewriterneednotalwaysbetheservantofsome beetle-browed ideology. He can also be its critic, its antagonist, itsscourge. From Swift to Solzhenitsyn, writers have discharged this role withhonour.AndrememberNapoleonthePig.

Just as it is untrue that politics ruins literature (even among ‘ideological’political writers, Orwell’s case would founder on the great rock of PabloNeruda),soitisbynomeansaxiomaticthatthe‘ordinaryman’,l’hommemoyensensuel, is politically passive. We have seen that the myth of this inertcommonerwas a part ofOrwell’s logic of retreat; but it is neverthelessworthremindingourselvesofjustafewinstancesinwhichthe‘ordinaryman’—nottomention the ‘ordinary woman’—has been anything but inactive.Wemay notapprove of Khomeini’s Iran, but the revolution there was a genuine massmovement.SoistherevolutioninNicaragua.Andso,letusnotforget,wastheIndian revolution. Iwonder if independencewouldhavearrived in1947 if themasses,ignoringCongressandtheMuslimLeague,hadremainedseatedinside

whatwouldhavehadtobeaverylargewhaleindeed.

Thetruth is that there isnowhale.Welive inaworldwithouthidingplaces;themissileshavemadesureofthat.Howevermuchwemaywishtoreturntothewomb,wecannotbeunborn.Soweareleftwithafairlystraightforwardchoice.Eitherweagreetodeludeourselves,toloseourselvesinthefantasyofthegreatfish, forwhich a secondmetaphor is that of Pangloss’s garden; orwe can dowhatallhumanbeingsdoinstinctivelywhentheyrealizethatthewombhasbeenlostforever—thatis,wecanmaketheverydevilofaracket.Certainly,whenwecry,wecrypartlyforthesafetywehavelost;butwealsocrytoaffirmourselves,tosay,hereIam,Imatter,too,you’regoingtohavetoreckonwithme.So,inplaceofJonah’swomb,Iamrecommendingtheancienttraditionofmakingasbigafuss,asnoisyacomplaintabouttheworldasishumanlypossible.WhereOrwell wished quietism, let there be rowdyism; in place of the whale, theprotestingwail. Ifwecanceaseenvisagingourselvesasmetaphorical foetuses,andsubstitute the imageofanew-bornchild, then thatwillbeat leasta smallintellectualadvance.Intime,perhaps,wemayevenlearntotoddle.

Imustmakeonethingplain:Iamnotsayingthatallliteraturemustnowbeof thisprotesting,noisy type.Perish the thought;now thatwearebabies freshfromthewomb,wemustfinditpossibletolaughandwonderaswellasrageandweep.Ihavenowishtonailmyself,letaloneanyoneelse,tothetreeofpoliticalliteraturefortherestofmywritinglife.LewisCarrollandLaurenceSterneareasimportanttoliteratureasSwiftorBrecht.WhatIamsayingisthatpoliticsandliterature, like sport andpolitics, domix, are inextricablymixed, and that thatmixturehasconsequences.

Themodernworldlacksnotonlyhidingplaces,butcertainties.Thereisnoconsensusaboutrealitybetween,forexample,thenationsoftheNorthandoftheSouth.WhatPresidentReagansays ishappening inCentralAmericadifferssoradically from, say, the Sandinista version, that there is almost no commonground.Itbecomesnecessarytotakesides,tosaywhetherornotonethinksofNicaraguaastheUnitedStates’s‘frontyard’.(Vietnam,youwillrecall,wasthe‘back yard’.) It seems to me imperative that literature enter such arguments,becausewhatisbeingdisputedisnothinglessthanwhatisthecase,whatistruthandwhatuntruth.Ifwritersleavethebusinessofmakingpicturesoftheworldtopoliticians,itwillbeoneofhistory’sgreatandmostabjectabdications.

Outsidethewhaleistheunceasingstorm,thecontinualquarrel,thedialecticof history. Outside thewhale there is a genuine need for political fiction, forbooksthatdrawnewandbettermapsofreality,andmakenewlanguageswithwhichwe canunderstand theworld.Outside thewhalewe see thatwe are allirradiatedbyhistory,weareradioactivewithhistoryandpolitics;weseethatitcan be as false to create a politics-free fictional universe as to create one inwhichnobodyneedstoworkoreatorhateorloveorsleep.Outsidethewhaleitbecomesnecessary,andevenexhilarating,tograpplewiththespecialproblemscreated by the incorporation of political material, because politics is by turnsfarceandtragedy,andsometimes(e.g.,Zia’sPakistan)bothatonce.Outsidethewhalethewriterisobligedtoacceptthathe(orshe)ispartofthecrowd,partofthe ocean, part of the storm, so that objectivity becomes a great dream, likeperfection, an unattainable goal for which one must struggle in spite of theimpossibility of success. Outside the whale is the world of Samuel Beckett’sfamousformula:Ican’tgoon,I’llgoon.

Thisiswhy(toendwhereIbegan)itreallyisnecessarytomakeafussaboutRajfictionandthezombie-likerevivalofthedefunctEmpire.Thevariousfilmsand TV shows and books I discussed earlier propagate a number of notionsabouthistorywhichmustbequarrelledwith,asloudlyandasembarrassinglyaspossible.

Theseinclude:Theideathatnon-violencemakessuccessfulrevolutions;thepeculiarnotionthatKasturbaGandhicouldhaveconfidedthesecretsofhersex-life toMargaret Bourke-White; the bizarre implication that any Indians couldlook like or speak like Amy Irving or Christopher Lee; the view (whichunderliesmanyoftheseworks)thattheBritishandIndiansactuallyunderstoodeachotherjollywell,andthattheendoftheEmpirewasasortofgentleman’sagreementbetweenoldpalsattheclub;therevisionisttheory—seeDavidLean’sinterviews—that we, the British, weren’t as bad as people make out; thecalumny,towhichtheuseofrape-plotslendscredence,thatfrailEnglishroseswere in constant sexual danger from lust-crazed wogs (just such a fear laybehindGeneralDyer’sAmritsarmassacre);and,aboveall, the fantasy that theBritish Empire represented something ‘noble’ or ‘great’ about Britain; that itwas, in spite of all its flaws and meannesses and bigotries, fundamentallyglamorous.

Ifbooksandfilmscouldbemadeandconsumedinthebellyofthewhale,itmight be possible to consider them merely as entertainment, or even, onoccasion,asart.Butinourwhalelessworld,inthisworldwithoutquietcorners,there can be no easy escapes from history, from hullabaloo, from terrible,unquietfuss.

1984

ATTENBOROUGH’SGANDHI

DeificationisanIndiandisease,andinIndia,MohandasKaramchandGandhi,great soul, little father, has been raisedhigher than anyone in the pantheonoflatter-daygods.‘But,’IwasaskedmorethanonceinIndiarecently,‘whyshouldan Englishman want to deify Gandhi?’ And why, one might add, should theAmericanAcademywish tohelphim,bypresenting, likevotiveofferings inatemple, eight glittering statuettes to a film that is inadequate as biography,appallingashistory,andoftenlaughablycrudeasafilm?

The answermay be thatGandhi (the film, not theman, who irritated theBritishimmensely,butwhoisnowsafelydead)satisfiescertainlongingsintheWesternpsyche,whichcanbecategorizedunderthreebroadheadings.First,theexotic impulse, thewish to see India as the fountainhead of spiritual-mysticalwisdom.Gandhi, thecelluloidguru, follows in the footstepsofotherpopholymen.TheMaharishiblazedthistrail.Second,thereiswhatmightbetermedtheChristianlonging,fora‘leader’dedicatedtoidealsofpovertyandsimplicity,amanwho is toogood for thisworldand is thereforesacrificedon thealtarsofhistory.Andthird,thereistheliberal-conservativepoliticaldesiretohearitsaidthat revolutions can, and should, be made purely by submission, and self-sacrifice,andnonviolencealone.TomakeGandhiappealtotheWesternmarket,hehadtobesanctifiedandturnedintoChrist—anoddfateforacraftyGujaratilawyer—and the history of oneof the century’s greatest revolutions had to bemangled.Thisisnothingnew.TheBritishhavebeenmanglingIndianhistoryforcenturies.

Muchofthedebateaboutthefilmhasconcernedomissions:whynoSubhasBose? Why no Tagore? The film’s makers answer that it would have beenimpossibletoincludeeverythingandeveryone,andofcourseselectioniscentraltoanyworkofart.Butartisticselectioncreatesmeanings,andinGandhithesearefrequentlydubiousandinsomecasesfrighteninglynaïve.

TaketheAmritsarmassacre.Thisisperhapsthemostpowerfulsequenceinthefilm.Boththemassacreandthesubsequentcourt-martial,atwhichoutragedEnglishmen question the unrepentant Dyer with barely suppressed horror, are

staged accurately and with passion. But what these two scenes mean is thatDyer’s actions at Jallianwala Bagh were those of a cruel, over-zealousindividual,andthattheywereimmediatelycondemnedbyAnglo-India.Andthatisacompletefalsehood.

TheBritish in Punjab in 1919were panicky. They feared a second IndianMutiny. They had nightmares about rape. The court-martial may havecondemnedDyer,butthecolonistsdidnot.Hehadtaughtthewogsalesson;hewasahero.AndwhenhereturnedtoEngland,hewasgivenahero’swelcome.Anappealfundlaunchedonhisbehalfmadehimarichman.Tagore,disgustedbytheBritishreactiontothemassacre,returnedhisknighthood.

In the case of Amritsar, artistic selection has altered the meaning of theevent.Itisanunforgivabledistortion.

Another example: the assassination of Gandhi. Attenborough considers itimportantenoughtoplaceitatthebeginningaswellastheendofhisfilm;butduringtheinterveningthreehours,hetellsusnothingaboutit.Nottheassassin’sname.Not thenameof theorganizationbehind thekilling.Not theghostof amotiveforthedeed.Inapoliticalthriller,thiswouldbemerelycrass;inGandhiitissomethingworse.GandhiwasmurderedbyNathuramGodse,amemberoftheHindu-fanaticRSS,whoblamedtheMahatmaforthePartitionofIndia.Butinthefilmthekillerisnotdifferentiatedfromthecrowd;hesimplystepsoutofthecrowdwithagun.Thiscouldmeanoneofthreethings:thatherepresentsthecrowd—that the people turned againstGandhi, that themob threw up a killerwho did its work; that Godsewas ‘one lone nut’, albeit a lone nut under theinfluenceofasinister-lookingsadhuinarickshaw;orthatGandhiisChristinaloincloth, and theassassination is thecrucifixion,whichneedsnoexplanation.WeknowwhyChristdied.Hedied thatothersmight live.ButGodsewasnotrepresentative of the crowd. He did not work alone. And the killing was apolitical, not amystical, act.Attenborough’s distortionsmythologize, but theyalsolie.

Ah,but,wearetold,thefilmisabiography,notapoliticalwork.Evenifoneaccepts this distinction (surely spurious in the case of a life lived somuch inpublic), onemust reply that a biography, if it is not to turn into hagiography,musttackletheawkwardaspectsofthesubjectaswellasthelovableside.Thebrahmacharya experiments, duringwhichGandhiwould liewithyoungnakedwomenall night to test hiswill-to-abstain, arewell known,notwithout filmicpossibilities,andtheyare,ofcourse,ambiguousevents.Thefilmomitsthem.ItalsoomitsGandhi’sfondnessforIndianbillionaire industrialists(hedied,after

all,inthehouseoftherichestofthem,BirlaHouseinDelhi).Surelythisisaricharea for a biographer tomine: themanof themasses, dedicated to the simplelife, self-denial, asceticism, who was financed all his life by super-capitalistpatrons, and, some would say, hopelessly compromised by them? A writtenbiographywhichfailedtoentersuchmurkywaterswouldnotbeworthreading.Weshouldnotbelesscriticalofafilm.

Gandhi presents false portraits ofmost of the leaders of the independencestruggle.Patelcomesacrossasaclown,whereashewasoneof thehardestofhard men. And it was witty to portray Jinnah as Count Dracula. But theimportant changes are in thepersonalityofNehruand in thedecision to eraseBosefromhistory.

In both cases, dramatic interest has been sacrificed in the interests ofdeification.NehruwasnotGandhi’sdisciple.Theywereequals,andtheyarguedfiercely.Theirdebatewascentral tothefreedommovement—Nehru,theurbansophisticatewhowanted to industrialize India, tobring it into themodernage,versus the rural, handicraft-loving, sometimes medieval figure of Gandhi: thecountrylivedthisdebate,andithadtochoose.IndiachoseGandhiwithitsheart,but in terms of practical politics, it choseNehru.One can understand nothingabout the nature of India’s independence unless one understands the conflictbetweenthesetwogreatmen.Thefilm,byturningNehruintoBapuji’sacolyte,managestocastrateitself.

AndBoseisselectedout.Bose theguerrilla,whofoughtwith theJapaneseagainst theBritish in thewar,Bosewhoseviewscouldhaveprovidedanothersort of counterweight to Gandhi’s, and so improved the film. But Bose wasviolent, and the film, if it means anything, seeks to mean that nonviolenceworks, and that it could work anywhere, in any revolution. All counter-argumentsarethereforerigorouslyexcluded.ThemessageofGandhiisthatthebestwaytogainyourfreedomistolineup,unarmed,andmarchtowardsyouroppressors andpermit them to clubyou to theground; if youdo this for longenough,youwillembarrassthemintogoingaway.Thisisworsethannonsense.It is dangerous nonsense. Nonviolence was a strategy chosen for a particularpeopleagainstaparticularoppressor;togeneralizefromitisasuspectact.Howusefulwouldnonviolencehavebeenagainst,say,theNazis?EveninIndia,theleadersoftheindependencemovementdidnotsucceedbecausetheyweremoremoral than the British. They won because they were smarter, craftier, betterfighting politicians than their opponents. Gandhi shows us a saint whovanquishedanEmpire.Thisisafiction.

All devotees of unintentional comedy will relish the scenes inGandhi inwhich Bapu re-enacts his marriage for the benefit of aWestern journalist; inwhich one man’s hunger strike pacifies a rioting Calcutta, and repentanthooliganspromiseGandhithattheywilladoptMuslimorphanchildren;inwhichMirabehnisplayedasawomaninapermanenthypnotictrance;orinwhichthePartition is sorted out during a two-minute break in the independencenegotiations.IfthisistheBestFilmof1983,Godhelpthefilmindustry.

Whatitis,isanincrediblyexpensivemovieaboutamanwhowasdedicatedto the small scale and to asceticism. The form of the film, opulent, lavish,overpowersandfinallycrushesthemanatitscentre,inspiteofBenKingsley’sluminousperformance(atleasthedeservedhisOscar).ItisasifGandhi,yearsafter his death, has found in Attenborough the last in his series of billionairepatrons,hislastBirla.Andrichmen,likeemperors,havealwayshadaweaknessfortameholymen,forsaints.

1983

SATYAJITRAY

‘Icanneverforgettheexcitementinmymindafterseeingit,’AkiraKurosawasaid about Satyajit Ray’s first film, Pather Panchali (The Song of the LittleRoad),andit’strue:thismovie,madefornexttonothing,mostlywithuntrainedactors, by a director whowas learning (andmaking up) the rules as he wentalong, is a work of such lyrical and emotional force that it becomes, for itsaudiences,aspotentastheirown,mostdeeplypersonalmemories.Tothisday,thebriefestsnatchofRaviShankar’swonderfulthememusicbringsbackafloodof feeling,andacrowdof images: the singleeyeof the littleApu, seenat themomentofwaking,fullofmischiefandlife;theinsectsdancingonthesurfaceofthepond,prefiguringthecomingmonsoonrains;andabovealltheimmortalscene,oneofthemosttragicinallcinema,inwhichHariharthepeasantcomeshometothevillagefromthecity,bringingpresentsforhischildren,notknowingthathisdaughterhasdied inhisabsence.Whenhe showshiswife,Sarbajaya,the sari he has brought for the dead girl, she begins to weep; and now heunderstands,andcriesout,too;but(andthisisthestrokeofgenius)theirvoicesare replaced by the high, high music of a single tarshehnai, a sound like ascreamofthesoul.

PatherPanchaliwasthefirstRaymovieIeversaw,and,likemanycinema-addictedIndians,IsawitnotinIndiabutinLondon.Inspiteofhavinggrownupin the world’s number-one movie city, Bombay (‘Bollywood’ in those daysproducedmoremoviesperannumthanLosAngelesorTokyoorHongKong),Iknew less about India’s greatest film-maker than I did about ‘internationalcinema’(or,atanyrate,themoviesofRobertTaylor,theThreeStooges,Francisthe Talking Mule and Maria Montez). It was at the old Academy in OxfordStreet,andat theNationalFilmTheatre,andat theArtsCinemainCambridgethat, with mixed feelings of high elation and shame at my own previousignorance, I filled in this lamentable gap. By the middle 1960s, when theNouvelleVaguehitthecinemaslikeatidalwave,andthenamesofTruffautandGodard and Resnais and Malle and Antonioni and Fellini and Bergman andWajdaandKurosawaandBuñuelbecamemore important tous thananymere

novelist,andwhenthenewmovieinagivenweekmightbecalledJulesetJimorAlphaville andmightbe followed,aweek later,byAshesandDiamondsorYojimbo or Le Feu Follet or L’Eclisse or 8½ or The Seventh Seal or TheExterminating Angel or The SaragossaManuscript—when, that is to say, thecinema was ablaze with innovation and originality, I took real pride in theknowledgeIgainedfromRay’sfilms:thatthisexplosionofcreativegeniushaditsIndiandimension,too.

ThiswasnotanopinionsharedbyallIndians.BecauseRay,aBengali,madefilms in his own language, his filmswere not distributed outside Bengal. Hisinternational success brought predictable sniping at home. Andrew Robinsonrecords, in Satyajit Ray: The Inner Eye, a paradigmatic expression of thisresentment, which also brings the vulgar, energetic (and, it must be said,sneakily appealing) Bombay cinema into direct conflict with the highbrow,uncompromising,‘difficult’Ray.TheBombaymoviestarNargis(NargisDutt),starofthe1957mega-weepieMotherIndia,wasbythebeginningofthe1980samemberoftheIndianParliament,fromwhichexaltedpositionshelaunchedanamazingattackonRay:

NARGIS:WhydoyouthinkfilmslikePatherPanchalibecomepopularabroad?…BecausepeopletherewanttoseeIndiainanabjectcondition.Thatistheimagetheyhaveofourcountryandafilmthatconfirmsthatimageseemstothemauthentic.

INTERVIEWER:ButwhyshouldarenowneddirectorlikeRaydosuchathing?NARGIS:Towinawards.His filmsarenotcommercially successful.Theyonly

winawards…WhatIwantisthatifMrRayprojectsIndianpovertyabroad,heshouldalsoshow‘ModernIndia’.

INTERVIEWER:Whatis‘ModernIndia’?NARGIS:Dams…

Shewas answeredbya letter from theForum forBetterCinema: ‘Doyouhonestly believe that [Modern India] is portrayed in the so-called commercialfilms ofBombay? In fact, theworld of commercialHindi films is peopled bythugs,smugglers,dacoits,voyeurs,murderers,cabaretdancers,sexualperverts,degenerates,delinquents and rapists,whichcanhardlybecalled representativeof modern India.’ Soon afterwards, Mr Robinson tells us, ‘the governmentinformed Ray it could not grant him permission to make a film about childlabour since this did not constitutionally exist in India.’ (Indian governments

often demonstrate a weakness for the ostrich position. My own 1987documentary, The Riddle of Midnight, ran into trouble because, among otherthings, I mentioned that all the Kashmiri Muslims I spoke to were highlydisaffected with India, and wanted to join Pakistan. This was officiallyunsayableat the time,andsoIwasaccusedoffundamentalistsympathies; lessthan three years later, the lid that NewDelhi pushed down over theKashmirissueforsolongmayfinallyhaveblownoff.)

The exchange between Nargis Dutt and Ray’s supporters, the quarrelbetween the philistine/commercialist/jingoistic position and theaesthete/purist/open-eyedview,canbeseeninanumberofdifferentways:asaquarrel between twodefinitionsof patriotic love, becausewhileNargis all butcallsRayanti-Indian,his lovefor India is,asMrRobinsonasserts,powerfullyevident throughout his œuvre; and, more interestingly perhaps, as a disputebetweentwoverydifferenturbancultures,thecosmopolitan,brashbitch-cityofBombayversus the old intellectual traditionsofCalcutta.Rayhimself is,withmuchjustification,scathingabouttheBombaytalkies.‘India,’hesays,‘tookoneof the greatest inventions of the West with the most far-reaching artisticpotential, andcut itdown to size.’EndlessBollywood remakesofLoveStory,TheMagnificentSeven,etc.,goalongwaytoprovinghispoint.

However,beingaBombaywallahmyself,Ican’tavoidobservingthatinthebattle between Bombay and Calcutta, Andrew Robinson seems moreemphatically onRay’s side thanRay himself.Hemakes a number of unfairlydismissive remarks about the ‘new’ or ‘middle’ cinema now growing up inBombay,Keralaandelsewhere.Thisattempttosteeracoursebetweenmandarinandmoneybagsattitudestothemoviesis,wearetold,‘lackingincommitment’to its subjectmatter, a vague sort of assertion and one that demeans the solidachievements of the directors he names, Benegal, Gopalakrishnan andAravindan. ‘There is a superficiality and dullness inmost of the work of the“new”cinemathatseemstoderivefromthefakeurbancultureofmodernIndia,and which arises ultimately from the failure of imagination in the Indian“synthesis”ofthelastcentury,’MrRobinsonsuggests, inoneofthefewover-the-toppassagesinanotherwisescrupulousbook.Thefilmsheattacksarebetterthan he admits; and while it’s undeniable that Indian urban culture, Bombayabove all, is full of fakery and gaudiness and superficiality and failedimaginations,it isalsoacultureofhighvitality,linguisticverve,andakindofmetropolitan excitement that European cities have for themost part forgotten.And this is true of that over-painted courtesan, Bombay, as it is of Ray’s

Calcutta.ThecaseofRay’smovieShatranjkeKhilari(TheChessPlayers)represents

thelowestpointintheuneasyrelationshipbetweenSatyajitRayandtheBombayfilmindustry.Thisfilm,Ray’sfirst(andtodateonly)featurefilminHindi,wasa deliberate attempt to enter the mainstream of Indian culture. According tolegend, the movie bosses of Bombay ruined the film’s chances by puttingpressureonnationaldistributorsnottobookit.MrRobinsonshedslittlelightontheincident,remarkingonlythat‘Rayrefusestobedrawnonthepointandhasavoided wasting his time trying to find out the truth; but Shama Zaidi, whoknowsBombay’s filmworldwell, thinks theexistenceofaconspiracyagainstthe film “quite probable”.’ Gossip is no substitute for investigation.My ownmemoryoftalkingtoSatyajitRayaboutthismatteristhathewasamoreopenbelieverintheconspiracytheorythanMrRobinsonallows;butthat,inspiteofitall,hehadfoundtheexperienceofworkinginHindiverystimulating,aboveallbecausehehadbeenable tochoose fromamuch largergroupofgiftedactorsthanweretobefoundinthesmallerBengali-languagecinema.HewasinterestedinmakingmoreHindimovies;illhealthmaynowhavemadethatimpossible.

A highbrow auteur who is nevertheless appreciative of the talents ofBollywoodmoviestars,SatyajitRayisalso,foramanwhodisapprovesof themoviesofBuñuelbecauseof‘thesurrealistelement’,amanwithastrongstreakof fantasy.His fairy-talemovie,GoopyGyneBaghaByne (TheAdventures ofGoopyandBagha),is,inBengal,aswell-lovedasTheWizardofOzishere.‘Itreally is extraordinary how quickly [Goopy and Bagha] has become part ofpopularculture,’Raywrotesoonafterthemovie’srelease.‘Really,thereisn’tachildinthecitywhodoesn’tknowandsingthesongs.’SoitseemsthatRay’sworkhasbeenquitecapableofdoingmorethanwinningawards;buteveryoneof Ray’s fabulist movies—Hirak Rajar Dese (The Kingdom of Diamonds),SonarKella (TheGoldenFortress), JoiBabaFelunath (TheElephantGod)aswell asG&B—has failed, outside India, to attract the plaudits accorded to hismorerealistfilms.MrRobinsonputsthisdownto‘theWest’shistoricdisinterest[sic]inthelegendsofIndia’,whichmaybetrue.Certainly,whenImentionedtoSatyajitRaythatTheGoldenFortresswasoneofmyfavouritemovies,heleaptupfromhisbreakfastandmadehugegesticulationsofdelight, turning into theepitomeoftheproudparentwhoseleast-appreciatedchildhasjustbeenlavishedwithunlooked-forpraise.

GoopyandBagha,AndrewRobinsonrightlysays,‘releasedtheveinofpent-upfantasyinSatyajitRay,thatisgivenfreereininhisgrandfather’sandfather’s

work.’ByfarthestrongestsectionofSatyajitRay:TheInnerEyeistheopeningseventy-pagebiographicalstudy.Raycamefromafamilyoffantasists,creatorsofnonsenseverseandfabuloushybridanimals—Stortle,Whalephant,Porcuduck—and both Ray’s father Sukumar and his grandfather Upendrakishore werefamous for their children’s stories and illustrations, published in the family’smagazine,Sandesh,whichmeans,asMrRobinsontellsus,bothSweetmeatandInformation.But thiswasalsoa familyofdazzlingandvaried intellectualandspiritual gifts. Upendrakishore was a printer whose innovations in half-tonescreenprintingwerestolenbyaBritishcompany;Sukumarhadavisionaryside,andsawhisowndeathbeforeithappened.Rayhasbeendeeplyaffectedbyhisfamily’s recurring mystical streak (his great-great-grandfather Loknath had it,too); he even attributes his own artistic gifts to it. ‘This whole business ofcreation … cannot be explained by science.’ Once again, close examinationrevealsSatyajitRaytobesomethingotherthantherealisticartistheseems,evenclaims,tobe.

TherestoftheRayclanwasnolessbrilliant.Hisgreat-uncle,HemendranathBose,wasaperfumer,andalso‘apioneerofthebicycleinIndia,oneofthefirstpeopleinIndiatoownamotor-car,andthefirsttomakephonogramrecordings…hisfourteenchildrenincluded,induecourse,afamoussinger,apainterandconnoisseurofmusic,afilmsoundrecordist,fourcricketers(oneofwhomwasthenameofhis time),andawell-knownfilmdirector,NitinBose,whowouldlater tell Satyajit he should take up art direction and forget directing.’With afamilylikethistoliveupto,Rayhadtostartearly.Hewas‘highlysensitiveasachild to sounds and lighting. Half a century later, he can remember variousvanishedstreetcriesandthefactthatinthosedaysyoucouldspotthemakeofacar from inside the house by the sound of its horn.’Among the car horns helearned to identify was the one belonging to his aunts’ Lancia, which ‘had aglasscricketperchedonitsbonnetwhichglowedpinkasthecarcruisedalong.’Even his friends seemed to develop magical gifts; his college chum PritwishNeogy, for example, ‘had the extraordinary ability to identify a painting bylooking at one square inch of it’ and, according to Satyajit, he could‘immediatelyspotthefakefromthegenuine.’

Mr Robinson maintains his biographical approach up to the making ofPatherPanchali, ofwhichheprovidesanabsorbingaccount.Then, somewhatregrettably,heswitchestoamovie-by-movieaccountofRay’scareer,andonlyoccasionallyattempts toweave the storyof themovies into the larger storyofRay’s personal and intellectual development. It is as if Ray’s own famous

reticenceonpersonalmattershaspermeatedthebook.Such attempts at contextualization as aremade are unfailingly interesting.

SukumarRay’scommitmenttothemovementthat‘sweptBengalfrom1903inreaction to Lord Curzon’s proclaimed intention of partitioning the province’sheds valuable light on his son Satyajit’s later decision to film the novelRabindranathTagorewroteaboutthatmovement,GhareBaire(TheHomeandthe World); and Ray’s own family associations with Tagore himself provideequallyvaluable sidelightson the filmdirector’s lifelongengagementwith thewriter’swork.Again,Ray’sreactionstothegreatBengalFamineof1943-4,hissenseofshameathavingdonenothingtohelpthedying,powerfullyinformsourknowledgeofthegreatfilmhelatermadeonthesubject,AsaniSanket(DistantThunder). There is much interesting information about the films and theirreception, too: the storyofhowDevi (TheGoddess)wasattackedby religiousextremistsasanti-Hinduisonesuchsnippet.Onecannotavoidsaying,however,that the film-by-film approach does reduce the interest of this book for non-movie buffs;which is a pity because, as those opening pages demonstrated, afull-bloodedbiographycouldnothavefailedtobeofwidegeneralappeal.

The book deserves to bewelcomed nevertheless. It is extremely thorough,often perceptive and at times highly entertaining. It is good to have asympatheticportraitofoneofthegiantsofthecinema.Afteraheartattackandbypass surgery in 1984, SatyajitRay’s ability towork has been restricted; hislatest film, Ganashatru, a version of Ibsen’s An Enemy of the People, hasperforcebeenfilmedinthestudio,withRay’ssonassistinghisfather.Itistobehoped thatRaywillmanage to completemanymoremovies, but his already-completedachievement isastonishing;andyoucouldsay that theentireœuvreis,liketheveryfirstfilm,a‘songofthelittleroad’,becauseRayhasinvariablypreferredtheintimatestorytothegrandepic,andisthepoetparexcellenceofthe human-scale, life-sized comedy and tragedy of ordinarymen andwomen,journeying,aswealljourney,downlittle,butunforgettable,roads.

1990

HANDSWORTHSONGS

InTheHeart of aWoman, volume four of her famous autobiography,MayaAngeloudescribes ameeting of theHarlemWriters’Guild, atwhich she readsomeofherworkandhad it torn topiecesby thegroup. It taughthera toughlesson. ‘If I wanted to write, I had to be willing to develop a kind ofconcentration found mostly in people awaiting execution. I had to learntechniqueandsurrendermyignorance.’

It just isn’t enough to be black and blue, or even black and angry. Themessage is plain enough in Angelou’s self-portrait, in Louise Meriwether’smarvellous Daddy Was A Numbers Runner, in Toni Morrison and PauleMarshall;ifyouwanttotelltheuntoldstories,ifyouwanttogivevoicetothevoiceless,you’vegottofindalanguage.Whichgoesforfilmaswellasprose,fordocumentaryaswellasautobiography.Usethewronglanguage,andyou’redumbandblind.

DownattheMetrocinemathere’sanewdocumentarystartingathree-weekrun,HandsworthSongs,madebyBlackAudioFilmCollective.The‘buzz’aboutthepictureisgood.NewSocialistlikesit,CityLimitslikesit,peoplearecallingitmulti-layered,original,imaginative;itsmakerstalkofspeakinginmetaphors,its director John Akomfrah is getting mentioned around town as a talent towatch.

Unfortunately,it’snogood,andthetroubledoesseemtobeoneoflanguage.Letmeputitthisway.IfIsay‘Handsworth’,whatdoyousee?MostBritons

wouldseefire,riots,lootedshops,youngRastasandhelmetedcopsbynight.Abigstory;frontpage.PerhapsaWestSideStory:OfficerKrupke,armedtotheteeth,versusthekidswiththesocialdisease.

There’salinethatHandsworthSongswantsustolearn.‘Therearenostoriesin the riots,’ it repeats, ‘only the ghosts of other stories.’ The trouble is, wearen’ttoldtheotherstories.WhatwegetiswhatweknowfromTV.Blacksastrouble;blacksasvictims.Here isaRastadodging thepolice;hereare theoldnews-clipsofthefolksinthefiftiesgettingofftheboat,singingcalypsosabout‘darlingLondon’.Littledidtheyknow,eh?Butwedon’thearabouttheirlives,

orthelivesoftheirBritish-bornchildren.Wedon’thearHandsworth’ssongs.Whynot?Thefilm’shandoutsprovideaclue.Thefilmattemptstoexcavate

hidden ruptures/agonies of “Race”.’ It ‘looks at the riots as a political fieldcolouredbythetrajectoriesof industrialdeclineandstructuralcrisis.’Ohdear.Thesadthingis thatwhile thefilm-makersare tryingtoexcavaterupturesandworkouthowtrajectoriescancolourfields,theyletushearsolittleofthemuchricherlanguageoftheirsubjects.

WhenHomeSecretaryHurdvisitsHandsworth,lookingbemused,justaftertheriots,ablackvoiceisheardtosay:‘Thehighermonkeyclimb,themorehewillexpose.’Ifonlymoreofthissortofwitandfreshnesscouldhavefounditswayintothefilm.Butthemakersaretoobusy‘repositioningtheconvergenceof“Race” and “Criminality”,’ describing a livingworld in the dead language ofrace-industryprofessionals.

Idon’tknowHandsworthverywell,but Idoknow it’sburstingwith talesworthtelling.TakealookatJohnBishtonandDerekReardon’s1984photo-and-text essay, Home Front. There are Vietnamese boat people in Handsworth,whereFatherPeterDiem,arefugeehimself,runsapastoralcentretowhichtheycomeforcomfort.There’sanAsianbusinessmaninHandsworthwhomadehispile by employing his fellow-Asians in sweatshops tomake, of all things, theHarringtonjacketsbelovedbytheskinheadswhowerealso,asithappened,fondofbashingtheoddPaki.

HerearetwooldBritishsoldiers.One,nameofShriDalipSingh,sitsstifflyinhisarmytunic,sportinghisAfricaStarwithpride; theother,acertainJagatSingh, is a broken old gent who has been arrested for drunkenness on thesestreetsoverthreehundredtimes.Somenightstheycatchhimtryingtodirectthetraffic.

It’sareligiousplace,Handsworth.WhatwasonceaMethodistchapelisnowoneofmanySikhgurdwaras.HereistheGoodNewsAsianChurch,andthereyou can seeRasta groundations, amosque, Pentecostal halls, andHindu, Jainand Buddhist places of worship. Many of Handsworth’s songs are hymns ofpraise. But there’s reggae, too; there are toasters at blues dances, there arePunjabighazalsandTwoTonebands.

Thesedays,thekidsinHandsworthliketodancetheWobbler.Andsomeofits denizens dream of distant ‘liberations’, nurturing, for example, the darkfantasyofKhalistan.

It’simportant,Ibelieve,totellsuchstories;tosay,thisisEngland.Lookatthe bright illuminations and fireworks during the Hindu Festival of Lights,

Divali.ListentotheMuslimcalltoprayer,‘AllahuAkbar’,waftingdownfromthe minaret of a Birmingham mosque. Visit the EthiopianWorld Federation,which helps Handsworth Rastas ‘return’ to the land of Ras Tafari. These areEnglishscenesnow,Englishsongs.

Youwon’t find themor anything like them, inHandsworthSongs, thoughforsomereasonyouwillseeplentyoffootageabouttroublesinTottenhamandBrixton,which is just thesortofblurringyouknow theHarlemwriterswouldhavejumpedon,nomatterhowright-onitlooked.

It isn’teasyforblackvoicestobeheard.It isn’teasytogetitsaidthattheStateattacksus,thatthepolicearemilitarized.Itisn’teasytofightbackagainstmediastereotypes.Asaresult,wheneversomebodysayswhatweallknow,eveniftheysayitclumsilyandinjargon,there’sastrongdesiretocheer,justbecausetheymanagedtogetsomethingsaid,theymanagedtogetthrough.Idon’tthinkthat’smuchhelp,myself.Thatkindofcelebrationmakesuslazy.

Next time, let’sstart telling thoseghost-stories. Ifweknowwhy thecagedbirdsings,let’slistentohersong.

1987

THELOCATIONOFBRAZIL

InN.F. Simpson’s playOneWayPendulum, one of the very few competentBritishcontributionstotheTheatreoftheAbsurd,amanreceives,bymailorder,afull-sizedreplicaofanOldBaileycourtroominkitform.Heassemblesitinhislivingroomandshortlyafterwardsfindshimselfontrialinit.Aclerkannouncesthatonthedayinquestion,thedefendant,ourhero,‘wasnotinthisworld’.Thejudge, frowning, inquires, ‘Which world was he in, then?’ And the clerkexplains:‘Itseemshehasoneofhisown.’

It isnoteasy,yousee, tobepreciseabout the locationof theworldof theimagination.Eventhelegalsystem(especiallythelegalsystem)isunawareofitswhereabouts. The French, these days, would have us believe that this world,which theycall ‘the text’, isquiteunconnected to the ‘real’world,which theycall‘theworld’.ButifIbelieve(andIdo)thattheimaginedworldis,mustbe,connectedtotheobservableone,thenIshouldbeable,shouldInot,tolocateit;tosayhowyougettherefromhere.Anditisnoteasy,yousee,tobeprecise…

ThesereflectionshavebeenpromptedbyTerryGilliam’smagnificentfilmoffuturetotalitarianism,Brazil.Becausethemorehighlyimaginedapieceofwork,themoreticklishthisproblemof locationbecomes.Letmeput it thisway:wecanallagree,withouttoomuchargument,thattheclimaxofNorthbyNorthwesttakes place on Mount Rushmore, or that All the President’s Men was set inWashington,DC. Progressing beyond such reassuring clarities, we arrive in amurkyzoneaboutwhichwecouldargueuntilthesmallhours:wasApocalypseNow‘really’setinVietnam,orinsome‘fictional’heartofdarkness?IsAmadeushistory or bunk?And, still further down this road, the surface turns to yellowbrick,whiterabbitsscurrypast,LemmyCautionchewsaGauloise.Mypointis:where havewe come to?What kind of place isOz, orWonderland?Bywhatroute,withorwithoutaFordGalaxy,mayonearriveatAlphaville?Specifically—forthepurposesofthisessay—whereisBrazil?

Whereitisnot,isinSouthAmerica.(AlthoughthatBrazil,likethisone,hasinthepastbeenknownforattachinghigh-voltageelectrodestotheanatomiesofitsdissidentcitizens.)ThefilmtakesitstitlefromanoldXavierCugatmelody.

Brazil,whereheartswereentertainedinJune,WestoodbeneathanambermoonAndsoftlymurmured:Somedaysoon.

So arewe to say that this is a film that is somehow located in a song?Well,there’sanironicsenseinwhichthatmightbetrue.Thelushinnocenceoftheoldtune,whensetagainstGilliam’staleofStateterror,doesindeedembodymuchofthefilm’sspirit,acombination,asGilliamhassaid,ofFranzKafkaandFrankCapra.

‘Somedaysoon,’softlymurmursthesong,andinthelightofGilliam’sstory,itsoundslikeathreat.Whichleadsustoasecondwayoflocatingthefilm,thatis,intime.GeorgeLucas’sStarWarscyclebeginswithacoyparadox,asubtitleinformingusthatwhatweareabouttoseehappenednotonlyfarawaybutalsolong ago. However, Lucas’s ‘past’ looks so much like a conventional space-opera future that we quickly disregard his little opening joke. A much moreinteresting time-location is to be found in Michael Radford’s recent film ofNineteen Eighty-Four. If Lucas makes the past look like the future, Radfordchoosestomakehis‘future’(anoddtermtouseaboutafilmreleasedintheyearafter which it was named, and which is already past) look consciously old-fashioned;suchafutureasmighthavebeenenvisionedbyadesignerfrom1948,theyear inwhichOrwellwrotehis book. It’s an effective, if somewhat literalidea.ThefutureinBrazilisafarmoreambiguousanddisturbingplace.

Hereelementsofpastandfuturecombinetodisorientus.TheTVsetslookoddlyquaint.Messagesaresent(astheyareintheRadfordmovie)inthoselittlemetal canisters one pops into suction tubes, the kind they used to have indepartmentstores.Inotherways,though,thefilmlooksmarvellouslyfuturistic,sometimesverycomicallyso,asinthescenesetintherestaurantfestoonedwithgreat intestinal metallic pipework, where the food depicted so lavishly onphotographicmenus turnsout tobecolouredmush.Theconflationofpastandfuture is unsettling; it creates, instead of Radford’s archaic future, an air ofsomethingverylikenostalgia.(Onceagain,thetitlemusicisapposite.)

It feels as though, in these dayswhen, as at the lastmillennium andwithbetterreason,wefearwemaybeneartheendoftime,ourdreamsofthefuture—even of such a dark future as this one—must necessarily be tinged withnostalgia and regret. It may not be too fanciful to suggest that the other StarWarsprogramme, theone that isn’tatall farawayor longago,has turned thefutureintoafiction,orrather,heighteneditsfictionality.Nowadaystomorrowisnotonlyaplacethathasn’tarrivedyet,butonethatmayneverarriveatall.Like

theclothesJonathanPryce(whoplaysSam,theanti-heroofBrazil)wearsinthemovie, the idea of the future is somewhat out of date. And if this cancelledfutureisthelocationofGilliam’smovie,thenweseethatthatlocationisanevenmoreelusiveplacethanwepreviouslysuspected.

Atthemostobviouslevel,thefilmissetinDystopia,Utopia’sdarkopposite,theworstofallpossibleworlds.Unseenterroristbombersopposetheviolenceofthepolicestate.Ordinarycitizensgetkilled in largequantitiesbybothparties,butthat’slife.Amidthemayhem,twostoriesintertwine.OneisthesadtaleofMrButtleandMrTuttle,whichbeginsdeepinthebowelsoftheState,whenathought-policemanswatsafly,whichfallsintoacomputerprinterandinducesaspelling mistake. In place of the dangerous subversive and freelance air-conditioning engineer, Harry Tuttle (Robert de Niro, dressed like a cigar-smokingversionoftheoldcartooncharacterThePhantom),themachinefingerstheinnocentfamilymanMrButtle,andthecopsaccordinglycarveaholeinhisceilingandhaulhimoff,tobeslowlycarvedintopieceswithbluntscissors,orsomethinglikethat.Asfliestowantonboysarewetothegods.Meanwhile,asthey say, aWinston Smith-ish clerk named Sam dreams of beingwinged andsoaring free above the earth amid fleecy clouds, pursuing a blonde visionwrapped,likeRenaissanceVirgins,infloatingfoldsofshimmeringfabric.Thisturns out to be Jill (KimGreist),whodrives amonster truck andwithwhom,eventually,SamrevoltsagainsttheState,withpredictableandnastyresults.

It might seem, then, that the film can be ‘placed’ as a visually brilliantreworkingofOrwellianthemes.TheendingoftheversionIsaw—whenSam’sescapefromthetorturechamber,withthehelpofHarryTuttle,turnsouttohavebeen thewish-fulfilmentdreamofhismaddenedbrain(heendsupback in thetorture chair, gazing inwardly upon green fields, while his tormentors grinironically: ‘Looks like he’s got away from us’)—emphasized this Orwellianconnection,andmademewanttoraiseagainstBrazilthesamecriticismIwouldmake of Orwell: that it is too easy, too pat, to create a Dystopia in whichresistance is useless; that by offering only token individual resistance to themightof theStateonefalls intoasortofromantictrap; that therehasneverinthe history of the world been a dictatorship so overpowering that it becameimpossibletofight,against.But,foranumberofreasons,itseemstomethattolocate Brazil too close to Orwell’s Airstrip One would not be quitecartographicallyaccurate.

For one thing, audiences in the United States will see a rather differentending.Samisstill,at thelast, in thegripof thetorturers;butnow,inthelast

scene,theydonothavethelast,leeringwords.Nowthetorturechamberslowlyfillsupwithclouds,thesamefleecywhitecloudsamongstwhich,inhiswingeddreams, he used to fly (and with which the American cut of the film, againunliketheBritish,alsoopens).Thisratherchangesthemeaningoftheending.Itbecomes a scene about the triumph of the imagination, the dream, over theshacklesofactuality.Itbecomesclearthatthis,ratherthanthepoliticalallegory,mayinfactbewhatthefilmhasbeenabout.Itseems,atlast,thatwearegettingclosertowhere,andwhat,thefilmis‘at’.

Otherelementsinthefilmalsosuggestavisionmorecomplexthanthebleaksimplicities of Nineteen Eighty-Four, notably the role of Robert de Niro asTuttlethePhantom-handyman.Sammaybedestroyed,butTuttleswingson,likean urban Tarzan, from skyscraper to skyscraper, munching his cheery cigar.Becausehe,too,‘flies’,ifonlywiththeaidofropes,hecanbeseenasastreet-wiseversionofSam’sdreamofhimselfasanangel.InBrazil,flightrepresentstheimaginingspirit;soitturnsoutthatwearebeingtoldsomethingverystrangeabout the world of the imagination—that it is, in fact, at war with the ‘real’world, the world in which things inevitably get worse and in which centrescannothold.AngelicSamanddevilishMrTuttlerepresentthepowerofdream-worlds to oppose this dark reality. In an age inwhich it seems impossible tocreatehappyendings;inwhichweseemtomakeDystopiasthewayearlieragesmade Utopias; in which we appear to have lost confidence in our ability toimprovetheworld,Gilliambringshearteningnews.AsN.F.SimpsonrevealedinOneWayPendulum, theworldof the imagination is aplace intowhich thelongarmofthelawisunabletoreach.

This idea—theoppositionof imaginationtoreality,whichisalsoofcoursetheoppositionof art topolitics—isofgreat importance,because it remindsusthatwearenothelpless;thattodreamistohavepower.AndIsuggestthatthetrue location of Brazil is the other great tradition in art, the one in whichtechniquesofcomedy,metaphor,heightenedimagery,fantasyandsoonareusedtobreakdownourconventional,habit-dulledcertaintiesaboutwhattheworldisandhastobe.Unrealityistheonlyweaponwithwhichrealitycanbesmashed,so that it may subsequently be reconstructed. (I once worked in an officebuilding in which some troubled anonymous soul took to destroying thelavatories.Itseemedlikemotiveless,insanedestruction,untiloneday,onawallnext to a wrecked water-closet, we read these scribbled words: If the cisterncannot be changed, it must be destroyed. Brazil’s radical repairman, HarryTuttle,wouldhavebeenproudofhim.)

Play.Invent theworld.Thepowerof theplayful imaginationtochangeforeverourperceptionsofhowthingsarehasbeendemonstratedbyeveryonefromLaurenceSterne, inTristramShandy, to a certainMontyPython in hisFlyingCircus.OursenseofthemodernworldisasmuchthecreationofKafka,withhisunexplainedtrialsandunapproachablecastlesandgiantbugs,as it isofFreud,MarxorEinstein.Buttherelies,inthisapproach,aterribledangerwhichisnotfacedbytherealistartist.Thisdangeriswhimsy.Whentherearenorulesexceptthe ones youmake up, don’t things get too easy?When pigs can fly, do theyremainpigs,andifnot,whyshouldwecareaboutthem?Canaworkofartgrowintoanythingofvalueifithasnorootsinobservablereality?

One answer to such questions is ‘Lewis Carroll’. (We recall that TerryGilliam is the director of Jabberwocky.) There are artistswhose gift is to putdownrootswithintheworldofdreams,thelogicofwhoseworkisthelogicofthedreamingandnotthewakingmind.JamesJoycediditinFinnegansWake.TerryGilliam,Ibelieve,doessomethingverylikeitinBrazil.

And there is a second answer. It has been said that the basic differencebetween the American and the British approach to comedy is that Americancomedybeginswith thequestion,‘Isn’t it funnythat…?’(thatMASHdoctorsexisted tomend soldiers so that thearmycoulddamage themagain; thatNewYorkers,asembodiedbyWoodyAllen,aredrivenbyanxietyandguilt;orthatthe poor—Chaplin eating his boots—are poor)… whereas British comedy’sstarting-point is thequestion, ‘Wouldn’t itbe funny if…?’ (if apet shopsolddeadparrots;ifbrainsurgeonswerementallydefective;ifmeninpinstripedsuitsdidsillywalks).TerryGilliam,anAmericanlivinginBritainandlookingbackat America—because he says clearly thatBrazil is about America, and whilewe’retryingtolocatethefilmwereallyoughttopayalittleattentiontowhatitsmakersays—managestomakeasynthesisofbothapproaches.

One of the keys to his method is Kafka. A story like ‘Metamorphosis’appears, at first glance, to fall into the ‘British’ camp:wouldn’t it be funny ifGregorSamsawokeuponemorningtofindhimselfmetamorphosedintoagiantinsect?Butinfactitderivesits(veryblack)humourfromarathermoreseriousquestion: Isn’t it funny that a man’s family reacts with fear, embarrassment,shame,love,boredomandreliefwhenthesonofthehousebecomessomethingtheydonotunderstand,suffersterriblyandfinallydies?ThehumourinBrazilissimilarly black—isn’t it funny that bourgeois women have face-lifts that gohorriblywrong?Isn’t it funny thatpeopleabout tobekilled looksoridiculouswiththeirheadshiddeninsidebags?AndlikeKafka,ituses‘surface’techniques

of the Absurdist/Python type: giant Samurai warriors; typists, writing down acondemned man’s confession while he’s being tortured, and including everyaargh and sob. By darkening his humour,Gilliam avoids the trap ofwhimsy.MontyPythongoestoMetropolisandtheresultisthatrarity,aseriouslyfunnymovie.

It is also relevant thatTerryGilliam is amigrant. ‘Americabombardsyouwithdreamsanddeprivesyouofyourown,’he says, andBrazil is about that,too: the struggle between private, personal dreams (flying, love) and the greatmass-produced fantasies, eternal youth, material wealth, power. But Gilliam’smigrantstatusisnotimportantjustbecauseofhisalienationfromtheAmericanconsumersociety.Brazilistheproductofthatoddthing,themigrantsensibility,whosedevelopmentIbelievetobeoneofthecentralthemesofthiscenturyofdisplacedpersons.Tobeamigrantis,perhaps,tobetheonlyspeciesofhumanbeing free of the shackles of nationalism (to say nothing of its ugly sister,patriotism).Itisaburdensomefreedom.

Theeffectofmassmigrationshasbeenthecreationofradicallynewtypesofhuman being: people who root themselves in ideas rather than places, inmemoriesasmuchasinmaterialthings;peoplewhohavebeenobligedtodefinethemselves—becausetheyaresodefinedbyothers—bytheirotherness;peopleinwhose deepest selves strange fusions occur, unprecedented unions betweenwhat theywere andwhere they find themselves.Themigrant suspects reality:havingexperiencedseveralwaysofbeing,heunderstandstheir illusorynature.Toseethingsplainly,youhavetocrossafrontier.

ThecontrollingimaginationofBrazilisbornofafusionbetweenthetypeofBritishnessexemplifiedbyLewisCarroll,SterneorSwift,andanAmericannessthatunderstandsintuitivelyhowtoavoidparochialism,howtopaceanepic,howto use a superstar’s persona to surprising effect. De Niro has rarely been soeccentrically,butconfidently,employed.Throughthefilm,wefindimageswithrootsonbothsidesoftheAtlantic.Theend,forexample,whenSam’sfantasyofescapefizzlesout, leavinghimback in thehotseat (withorwithoutclouds) isreminiscentofPincherMartin, inwhichadrowningsailor fantasizesan islandonwhich he imagines himself to bewashed up; but, equally, it is an echo ofIncidentatOwlCreek, thefilmbasedonanAmbroseBiercestory, inwhichaman about to be hanged fantasizes his escape into a deliriously happy future,onlytoendupdanglingfromhisrope.

Migrantsmust, of necessity,make a new imaginative relationshipwith theworld, because of the loss of familiar habitats. And for the plural, hybrid,

metropolitan result of such imaginings, the cinema, in which peculiar fusionshave always been legitimate—in which, for example, casting directors havetaught us to accept Peter Sellers as a French detective, and a French actor asLordGreystoke,Tarzanoftheapes—maywellbetheideallocation.AndifIamtoconcludewith thesimple (butalso,perhaps,not sosimple)observation thatthelocationofBrazilisthecinemaitself,becauseinthecinemathedreamisthenorm, thenIshouldaddthat thiscinematicBrazil isa landofmake-believeofwhich all of us who have, for whatever reason, lost a country and ended upelsewhere,arethetruecitizens.LikeTerryGilliam,IamaBrazilian.

1985

5

THENEWEMPIREWITHINBRITAIN

ANUNIMPORTANTFIRE

HOMEFRONT

V.S.NAIPAUL

THEPAINTERANDTHEPEST

THENEWEMPIREWITHINBRITAIN

Britain isn’t South Africa. I am reliably informed of this. Nor is it NaziGermany.I’vegotthatonthebestauthorityaswell.Youmayfeelthatthesetwostatementsarenotexactlythemostdramaticofrevelations.Butit’sremarkablehowoftenthey,orsimilarstatements,areusedtocountertheargumentsofanti-racist campaigners. ‘Things aren’t as bad as all that,’ we are told, ‘youexaggerate,you’reindulginginspecialpleading,youmustbeparanoid.’Soletme concede at once that, as far as I know, there are no pass laws here. Inter-racialmarriagesarepermitted.AndAuschwitzhasn’tbeenrebuiltintheHomeCounties.Ifinditodd,however, that thosewhousesuchabsencesasdefencesrarely perceive that their own statements indicate how serious things havebecome.BecauseifthedefenceforBritainisthatmassexterminationofraciallyimpurepersonshasn’tyetbegun,orthattheprincipleofwhitesupremacyhasn’tactuallybeenenshrinedintheconstitution,thensomethingmusthavegoneverywrongindeed.

Iwanttosuggestthatracismisnotaside-issueincontemporaryBritain;thatit’snotaperipheralminorityaffair.IbelievethatBritainisundergoingacriticalphase of its postcolonial period, and this crisis is not simply economic orpolitical.It’sacrisisofthewholeculture,ofthesociety’sentiresenseofitself.Andracismisonlythemostclearlyvisiblepartofthiscrisis,thetipofthekindoficebergthatsinksships.

NowIdon’t supposemanyofyou thinkof theBritishEmpireasasubjectworthlosingmuchsleepover.Afterall,surelytheonethingonecanconfidentlysay about that roseate ageofEngland’s precedence,when themapof half theworldblushedwithpleasure as it squirmedbeneath thePaxBritannica, is thatit’sover,isn’tit?GiveortakeaFalklandIsland,theimperialsunhasset.Andhowfinewasthemannerofitssetting;inwhatgoodordertheBritishwithdrew.Union Jacks fluttered down their poles all round theworld, to be replaced byotherflags,inallmannerofoutlandishcolours.Thepinkconquerorscrepthome,the boxwallahs andmemsahibs and bwanas, leaving behind them parliaments,schools,GrandTrunkRoadsandtherulesofcricket.Howgracefullytheyshrank

backintotheircoldisland,abandoningtheirlivesasthedashingpeopleoftheirdreams,diminishing from theendless steaming landscapesof IndiaandAfricainto the narrow horizons of their pallid, drizzled streets. TheBritish have gotother things to worry about now; no point, you may say, in exhuming thisparticular dead horse in order to flog the poor, decomposed creature all overagain.

But the connection Iwant tomake is this: that those same attitudes are inoperationrighthereaswell,hereinwhatE.P.ThompsonhasdescribedasthelastcolonyoftheBritishEmpire.ItsometimesseemsthattheBritishauthorities,no longer capable of exporting governments, have chosen instead to import anewEmpire,anewcommunityofsubjectpeoplesofwhomtheythink,andwithwhomtheycandeal,inverymuchthesamewayastheirpredecessorsthoughtofand dealt with ‘the fluttered folk and wild’, the ‘new-caught, sullen peoples,half-devilandhalf-child’,whomadeup,forRudyardKipling,theWhiteMan’sBurden. In short, if we want to understand British racism—and withoutunderstanding no improvement is possible—it’s impossible even to begin tograspthenatureofthebeastunlessweacceptitshistoricalroots.Fourhundredyearsofconquestandlooting,fourcenturiesofbeingtoldthatyouaresuperiortotheFuzzy-Wuzziesandthewogs,leavetheirstain.Thisstainhasseepedintoeverypartoftheculture,thelanguageanddailylife;andnothingmuchhasbeendonetowashitout.

Forproofoftheexistenceofthisstain,wecanlook,forinstance,atthehuge,undiminished appetite of white Britons for television series, films, plays andbooksall filledwithnostalgia for theGreatPinkAge.Or thinkabout theeasewithwhichtheEnglishlanguageallowsthetermsofracialabusetobecoined:wog, frog, kraut, dago, spic, yid, coon, nigger, Argie. Can there be anotherlanguagewith sowide-ranging a vocabulary of racist denigration?And, sinceI’ve mentioned Argies, let me quote from, Margaret Thatcher’s speech atCheltenhamonthethirdofJuly,herfamousvictoryaddress:‘Wehavelearnedsomethingaboutourselves,’shesaidthen,‘alessonwhichwedesperatelyneedtolearn.Whenwestartedout,therewerethewaverersandthefainthearts…Thepeoplewhothoughtwecouldnolongerdothegreatthingswhichweoncedid…thatwecouldneveragainbewhatwewere.Therewerethosewhowouldnotadmit it…but—in theirheartofhearts—they toohad their secret fears that itwastrue:thatBritainwasnolongerthenationthathadbuiltanEmpireandruledaquarteroftheworld.Well,theywerewrong.’

There are several interesting aspects to this speech.Remember that itwas

made by a triumphant PrimeMinister at the peak of her popularity; a PrimeMinister who could claim with complete credibility to be speaking for anoverwhelmingmajorityof theelectorate,andwho,asevenherdetractorsmustadmit, has a considerable gift for assessing the nationalmood.Now if such aleaderatsuchatimefeltabletoinvokethespiritofimperialism,itwasbecauseshe knew how central that spirit is to the self-image of white Britons of allclasses. I say white Britons because it’s clear that Mrs Thatcher wasn’taddressingthetwomillionorsoblacks,whodon’tfeelquitelikethatabouttheEmpire.Soevenheruseoftheword‘we’wasanactofracialexclusion,likeherother well-known speech about the fear of being ‘swamped’ by immigrants.Withsuch leaders, it’snot surprising that theBritishareslow to learn the reallessonsoftheirpast.

LetmerepeatwhatIsaidatthebeginning:Britainisn’tNaziGermany.TheBritishEmpire isn’t theThirdReich.But inGermany, after the fall ofHitler,heroic attemptsweremadebymanypeople topurifyGerman thought and theGerman language of the pollution of Nazism. Such acts of cleansing areoccasionallynecessaryineverysociety.ButBritishthought,Britishsociety,hasneverbeencleansedofthefilthofimperialism.It’sstillthere,breedingliceandvermin,waitingforunscrupulouspeopletoexploititfortheirownends.Oneofthe key concepts of imperialismwas thatmilitary superiority implied culturalsuperiority,andthisenabledtheBritishtocondescendtoandrepressculturesfarolder than their own; and it still does. For the citizens of the new, importedEmpire, for the colonized Asians and blacks of Britain, the police forcerepresentsthatcolonizingarmy,thoseregimentsofoccupationandcontrol.

Now the peoples whom I’ve characterized as members of a new colonywouldprobablybedescribedbymostofyouas‘immigrants’.(You’llnotice,bythe way, that I’ve pinched one of Mrs Thatcher’s strategies and the You towhomI’mtalkingisawhiteYou.)SonowI’dliketoaskyoutothinkaboutthisword ‘immigrant’, because it seems tome to demonstrate the extent towhichracistconceptshavebeenallowedtoseizethecentralground,andtoshapethewholenatureofthedebate.Thefactsarethatformanyyearsnowtherehasbeenasizeableamountofwhiteimmigrationaswellasblack,thattheannualnumberofemigrants leavingtheseshoresisnowlarger thanthenumberof immigrantscoming in; and that, of the black communities, over forty per cent are notimmigrants,butblackBritons,bornandbred,speakinginthemanyvoicesandaccents of Britain, and with no homeland but this one. And still the word‘immigrant’means ‘black immigrant’; themythof ‘swamping’ lingerson;and

evenBritish-bornblacksandAsiansarethoughtofaspeoplewhosereal‘home’iselsewhere.Immigrationisonlyaproblemifyouareworriedaboutblacks;thatis,ifyourwholeapproachtothequestionisoneofracialprejudice.

But perhaps the worst thing about the so-called ‘numbers game’ is itsassumptionthatlessblackimmigrationisself-evidentlydesirable.Theeffectofthisassumptionisthatgovernmentsofbothpartieshaveeagerlypassedoffgrossinjusticeassuccess.Letmeexplain.Theimmigrationlawsofthiscountryhaveestablished a quota system formigrationofUKpassport holders fromvariouscountries.ButafterIdiAmindroveouttheUgandanAsians,andBritaindidherbest to prevent those British citizens from entering this country, that Africanquotawasneverincreased;and,asaresult,thetotalnumberofblackimmigrantstoBritain has fallen.Now youmight think that natural justicewould demandthatthealreadylamentablylowquotasforBritishcitizensfromAfricawouldbemadeavailabletothosesamecitizens,manyofwhomarenowlivingasrefugeesin India, adesperatelypoor countrywhichcan ill-afford to care for them.Butnaturaljusticehasneverbeenmuchinevidenceinthisfield.Infact,theBritishtax system now intends to withhold tax relief from wage-earners here whosedependants are trapped abroad.So first youkeeppeople’s families away fromthemandthenyoualteryourlawstomakeit twiceashardforthosepeopletokeeptheirfamiliesfed.They’reonly‘immigrants’,afterall.

AcoupleofyearsagotheBritishpressmadeahugestinkaboutafamilyofAfricanAsianswho arrived atHeathrow airport andwere housed by the veryreluctantlocalauthority.Itbecameaclassicmediawitchhunt:‘Theycomeoverhere, sponge off the State and jump the housing queue.’But that sameweek,anotherfamilyalsolandedatHeathrow,alsoneeding,andgetting,housingfromthe same local authority.This second family barelymade the papers. Itwas afamilyofwhiteRhodesiansrunningawayfromtheprospectofafreeZimbabwe.One of the more curious aspects of British immigration law is that manyRhodesians,SouthAfricansandotherwhitenon-Britonshaveautomaticrightofentry and residence here, by virtue of having one British-born grandparent;whereasmanyBritishcitizensaredeniedtheserights,becausetheyhappentobeblack.

Onelastpointaboutthe‘immigrants’.It’saprettyobviouspoint,butitkeepsgettingforgotten.It’sthis:theycamebecausetheywereinvited.TheMacmillangovernment embarked on a large-scale advertising campaign to attract them.Theywereextraordinaryadvertisements,fullofhopeandoptimism,whichmadeBritainout tobea landofplenty, agoldenopportunitynot tobemissed.And

theyworked.People travelledhere ingoodfaith,believingthemselveswanted.ThisishowthenewEmpirewasimported.Thiscountrywasnamed‘perfidiousAlbion’ long ago; and that shaming nickname is now being earned all overagain.

Sowhat’s it like, thiscountry towhich the immigrantscameand inwhichtheirchildrenaregrowingup?Youwouldn’trecognizeit.Becausethisisn’ttheEnglandof fairplay, tolerance,decencyandequality—maybe thatplaceneverexisted anyway, except in fairy-tales. In the streets of the new Empire, blackwomen are abused and black children are beaten up on theirway home fromschool.IntherundownhousingestatesofthenewEmpire,blackfamilieshavetheirwindowsbroken,theyareafraidtogooutafterdark,andhumanandanimalexcrementarrives throughtheir letter-boxes.Thepoliceoffer threats insteadofprotection,andthecourtsoffersmallhopeofredress.Britainisnowtwoentirelydifferentworlds, and the one you inhabit is determined by the colour of yourskin.Nowinmyexperience,veryfewwhitepeople,except for thoseactive infighting racism, arewilling tobelieve thedescriptionsof contemporary realityoffered by blacks. And black people, faced with what Professor MichaelDummett has called ‘the will not to know—a chosen ignorance, not theignoranceofinnocence,’growincreasinglysuspiciousandangry.

Agulfinrealityhasbeencreated.Whiteandblackperceptionsofeverydaylifehavemovedsofarapartastobeincompatible.Andtheriftisn’tnarrowing;it’sgettingwider.Westandonoppositesidesoftheabyss,yellingateachotherand sometimes hurling stones, while the ground crumbles beneath our feet. Imake no apology for taking an uncompromising view of the reasons for theexistence of this chasm. The will to ignorance of which Professor Dummettspeaksarisesoutofthedesirenottofacetheconsequencesofwhatisgoingon.

Thefactremainsthateverymajorinstitutioninthiscountryispermeatedbyracialprejudicetosomedegree,andtheunwillingnessof thewhitemajority torecognizethisisthemainreasonwhyitcanremainthecase.Let’staketheLaw.Wehave,inBritaintoday,judgeslikeMcKinnonwhocansayincourtthattheword ‘nigger’ cannot be considered an epithet of racial abuse because hewasnicknamed ‘Nigger’ at his public school; or like thegreatLordDenning,whocanpublishabookclaimingthatblackpeoplearen’tasfitaswhitestoserveonjuries,becausetheycomefromcultureswithlessstringentmoralcodes.We’vegot a police force that harasses blacks every day of their lives. There was apolicemanwho sat in an unmarked car on Railton Road in Brixton last year,shoutingabuseatpassingblackkidsandarrestingthefirstyoungsterswhomade

the mistake of answering back. There were policemen at a Southalldemonstrationwhosatintheirvans,writingthelettersNFinthesteamoftheirbreath on the windows. The British police have even refused to make racialdiscriminationanoffence in their codeof conduct, in spiteofLordScarman’srecommendations.Nowitispreciselybecausethelawcourtsandthepolicearenotdoingtheirjobsthattheactivitiesofracisthooligansareontheincrease.It’sjustnotgoodenough todeplore the existenceofneo-Fascists in society.Theyexistbecausetheyarepermittedtoexist.(Isaideverymajorinstitution,solet’sconsider the government itself.When theRaceRelationsActwas passed, thegovernment ofBritain specifically exempted itself and all its actions from thejurisdictionoftheAct.)

Afriendofmine,anIndian,wasdeportedrecentlyforthetechnicaloffenceknownas‘overstaying’.Thismeansthatafteradozenorsoyearsoflivinghere,hewas found tobeacoupleofdays latesending in the formsapplying foranextensiontohisstay.Nowneitherhenorhisfamilyhadeverclaimedapennyinwelfare,or,IsupposeIshouldsay,beenintroublewiththepolice.Heandhiswifefinancedthemselvesbyrunningaclothesstall,andgavealltheirsparetimeandefforttovoluntaryworkhelpingtheircommunity.Myfriendwaschairmanofhis local traders’association.Sowhen thedeportationorderwasmade, thisassociation,allthreeofhisboroughMPsandaboutfiftyotherMPsofallpartiespleaded with the Home Office for clemency. None was forthcoming. Myfriend’ssonhadararedisease,andadoctor’sreportwasproducedstatingthatthechild’shealthwouldbeendangeredifhewassenttoIndia.TheHomeOfficerepliedthatitconsideredtherewerenocompassionategroundsforreversingitsdecision.Intheend,myfriendofferedtoleavevoluntarily—hehadbeenofferedsanctuary inGermany—and he asked to be allowed to go freely, to avoid thestigma of having a deportation order stamped into his passport. The HomeOfficerefusedhimthislastscrapofhisself-respect,andthrewhimout.AstheFascistJohnKingsleyReadoncesaid,onedown,amilliontogo.

Thecombinationofthissortofinstitutionalracismandthewilledignoranceof thepublicwasclearly inevidenceduringthepassage throughParliamentofthe Nationality Act of 1981. This already notorious piece of legislation,expresslydesignedtodepriveblackandAsianBritonsoftheircitizenshiprights,wentthroughinspiteofsome,mainlynon-white,protests.Andbecauseitdidn’treallyaffectthepositionofthewhites,youprobablydidn’tevenrealizethatoneofyourmost ancient rights, a rightyouhadpossessed forninehundredyears,wasbeingstolenfromyou.Thiswastheright tocitizenshipbyvirtueofbirth,

theiussoli,orrightofthesoil.ForninecenturiesanychildbornonBritishsoilwas British. Automatically. By right. Not by permission of the State. TheNationality Act abolished the ius soli. From now on citizenship is the gift ofgovernment. Youwere blind, because you believed theActwas aimed at theblacks;andsoyousatbackanddidnothingasMrsThatcherstolethebirthrightofeveryoneofus,blackandwhite,andofourchildrenandgrandchildrenforever.

Nowit’spossible that thisblindness is incurable.Oneof theSDP’sbetter-knowncandidatestoldmerecentlythatwhilehefoundtheideaofworking-classracismeasytoaccept,theparallelnotionofwidespreadprejudiceinthemiddleclasseswasunconvincingtohim.Yet,aftermanyyearsofvoluntaryworkinthisfield,IknowthatthemanagementlevelsofBritishindustryandbusinessarejustasshotthroughbythethreadsofprejudiceasaremanyunions.Itisbelievedforinstance,thatasmanyasfiftypercentofalltelephonecallsmadebyemployerstoemploymentagenciesspecifynoblacks.Blackunemploymentismuch,muchhigherthanwhite;andsuchanomaliesdon’tarisebyaccident.

Let me illustrate my point by talking about television. I once earned mylivingbywritingcommercials,andIfoundtheprejudiceofseniorexecutivesinBritishindustryquiteappalling.Icouldtellyouthenameof thechairmanofaleadingbuildingsocietywhorejectedajingleonthegroundsthattheoff-screensinger sounded as if he had a black voice. The ironywas that the singerwasactuallywhite,butthepreviousyear’sjinglehadbeensungbyablackmanwhoobviously had the good fortune not to sound like one. I know the marketingdirectorofa leadingconfectioneryfirmwhoturneddownallrequests tocastablackchild—asoneofanotherwisewhitegroupofchildren—inhiscommercial.Hesaidhisresearchshowedsuchcastingwouldbecounterproductive.Iknowanairlineadvertisingmanagerwho refused topermit theuse, inhisTVads,of agenuineairstewardessemployedbyhisownairline,becauseshewasblack.Shewasgoodenoughtoservehiscustomerstheirdrinks,butnotgoodenoughtobeshowndoingsoontelevision.

Alanguagereveals theattitudesof thepeoplewhouseandshapeit.Andawhole declension of patronizing terminology can be found in the language inwhichinter-racialrelationshavebeendescribedinsideBritain.Atfirst,weweretold, the goal was ‘integration’. Now this word rapidly came to mean‘assimilation’: a black man could only become integrated when he startedbehaving like a white one. After ‘integration’ came the concept of ‘racialharmony’. Now once again, this sounded virtuous and desirable, but what it

meant in practicewas that blacks should be persuaded to live peaceablywithwhites,inspiteofalltheinjusticesdonetothemeveryday.Thecallfor‘racialharmony’wassimplyaninvitationtoshutupandsmilewhilenothingwasdoneaboutourgrievances.Andnowthere’sanewcatchword:‘multiculturalism’.Inourschools,thismeanslittlemorethanteachingthekidsafewbongorhythms,howtotieasariandsoforth.Inthepolicetrainingprogramme,itmeanstellingcadetsthatblackpeopleareso‘culturallydifferent’thattheycan’thelpmakingtrouble.MulticulturalismisthelatesttokengesturetowardsBritain’sblacks,anditoughttobeexposed,like‘integration’and‘racialharmony’,fortheshamitis.

Meanwhile, the stereotyping goes on. Blacks have rhythm, Asians workhard. I’ve been told by Tory politicians that the Conservative Party seriouslydiscussestheideaofwooingtheAsiansandleavingtheAfro-CaribbeanstotheLabourParty,becauseAsiansaresuchgoodcapitalists.InthenewEmpire,asintheoldone,itseemsourmastersarewillingtousethetriedandtrustedstrategiesofdivide-and-rule.

But I’ve saved the worst and most insidious stereotype for last. It is thecharacterizationofblackpeopleasaProblem.YoutalkabouttheRaceProblem,theImmigrationProblem,allsortsofproblems.Ifyouare liberal,yousaythatblackpeoplehaveproblems.Ifyouaren’t,yousaytheyaretheproblem.Butthemembers of the new colony have only one real problem, and that problem iswhitepeople.Britishracism,ofcourse,isnotourproblem.It’syours.Wesimplysufferfromtheeffectsofyourproblem.

Anduntilyou,thewhites,seethattheissueisnotintegration,orharmony,ormulticulturalism, or immigration, but simply the business of facing up to anderadicatingtheprejudiceswithinalmostallofyou,thecitizensofyournew,andlast,Empirewillbeobligedtostruggleagainstyou.Youcouldsaythatwearerequiredtoembarkonanewfreedommovement.

Andsoit’sinterestingtorememberthatwhenMahatmaGandhi,thefatherofanearlierfreedommovement,cametoEnglandandwasaskedwhathethoughtofEnglishcivilization,hereplied:‘Ithinkitwouldbeagoodidea.’

1982

ANUNIMPORTANTFIRE

There was an unimportant fire in the London Borough of Camden on 20November. Nothing spectacular; just a cheap bed-and-breakfast establishmentgoingupinflames.Thefirewasat46GloucesterPlace,ownedbyLondonLets,whoseproprietor is oneMr J.Doniger.When it started, no alarm rang. It hadbeen switched off. The fire extinguishers were empty. The fire exits wereblocked.Itwasnight-time,butthestairswereindarkness,becausetherewerenobulbsinthelightingsockets.Andinthesingle,crampedtop-floorroom,wherethecookerwasnexttothebedandwheretheyhadbeenhousedforninemonths,MrsAbdulKarim,aBangladeshiwoman,andher five-year-oldsonand three-year-olddaughterdiedofsuffocation.TheyhadbeenhousedinLondonLetsbyCamdenCouncil,atacostthatonecouncillorestimatedat£280aweek.Death-trapsarenotalwayseconomical,itwouldappear.

Thoseofuswhodonotliveinslumhousinggetusedwithremarkableeaseto thefact thatothersdo. It isbynowreasonablywellknownthatcouncilsalloverthecountryareputtingpeopleintosubstandardB&Baccommodation.Thecouncilsadmit that thisaccommodationiswaybelowtheirownstandards,andconforms to justaboutnopublichealthandsafety regulations.Theywill evenadmit, if pressed, that black andAsian families are farmore likely thanwhiteones to be placed in such ‘temporary’ places. (I use the inverted commasbecauseIhavemetmanyfamilieswhohavebeenintheseslums,withouthopeofamove,forwelloverayear.)Hardstatisticsarenoteasytocomeby,butitseemssafetosaythatbetweenathirdandahalfofallfamiliesputintoLondonLets-type establishments are black. We know all this; and sighingsympathetically about the problem, we pass by on the other side. This time,however,themaltreatedfamilieshavedecidednottomakethingssoeasyforthecouncil,orforus.On22November,theycametoCamdenTownHalltoaskforapublicinquiry.Whenitwasrefused,theyoccupiedthecouncilchamber.AsIwritethis,theyarestillthere,andintendtoremainuntilkingdomcome,ifneedbe, although theywould prefer just to be rehoused in safe, decent, permanentaccommodation.

TheoccupyingfamiliesarerepresentativeoftheeightyorsofamilieshousedbyCamdeninLondonLetsproperties.Theyaredemandingacommitmentfromthe council that it cease to use such accommodation. And there are plenty ofhorror stories, if you want them. One mother told us how her baby died ofinfectionscontractedbecausetheywerelivinginaroomintowhichsewagekeptpouring.AnothertoldusthatshehadbeenstuckinaB&Bforthreeyearsnow.Twopregnantmothers,past theirduedates,havebeensleepingon thecouncilchamber floor for over aweek, thinking it preferable to, and safer than, theirappallinghomes.And,overandoveragain,Iwastoldofstaircaseswithrottenfloorboards,oftoiletsthatdidnotflush,ofdampandmould,andofinfestationbyinsects.Intheirsingleroomat42GloucesterPlace,MrandMrsAliandtheirsonareobligedtosharetheirquarterswithlargenumbersof‘whitish,crawlinginsects,likeearthworms’.

It gives me no pleasure to attack a socialist local authority like CamdenCouncil, already high onNanny’s hit list. But nor do I derivemuch pleasurefromthewayIhaveseensupposedsocialistsbehavingandtalkingoverthelastweek or so. I asked Councillor Bob Latham, Chair of Camden’s RaceCommittee,whatwouldhappenif thefamiliesintheslumstookthecouncil tocourt for being in breach of their statutory duty to house the citizens of theborough according to public standards.He said thatmany of theB&B placeswere in fact outside Camden; so he didn’t think Camden could be sued.Councillor SandyWynn,Deputy Leader of the council and awomanwith anunfortunate,high-handedmanner, loudlyproclaimedthatthehomelessfamilieswerebeing‘manipulatedbypeoplewithotherthingsintheirminds.’CouncillorRichardSumrayhasimpliedinhismediainterviewsthattheoccupationispartof an attempt by Bengali families to jump the housing queue. (It’s worthpointingout thatbynomeansall the families involvedareblack.)Presumablynotenoughpeoplehavebeenburnedtodeathyet.Prioritiesarepriorities,afterall.Howdoestheoldsonggo?Thepeople’stapeisdeepestred…

Onthesecondnightof theoccupation, thefamiliesformedaringaroundagroup of councillors who were trying to walk out of a discussion. Camden’sradical responsewas to send in the police.While a police superintendentwasnegotiatingwiththefamilies’lawyer,hismentookmattersintotheirownhandsandstormed thecouncilchamber.Thereare threeentrances to this room.Twowere completely unguarded and unlocked.By the third, therewas a crowd ofpeople.Thepolicecameinbythecrowdedentrance,andtheycameinroughly.One youngman had to go to hospital and returnedwith his arm in a sling. I

askedSumraywhathadhappened.‘Somebodygrazedanelbow,’hetoldme.Thepolicearenow treating thedeathsofMrsKarimandherchildrenasa

murder investigation. There is apparently evidence that the fire was starteddeliberately. And at once the hints and innuendoes have started flying: thehomeless familiesstarted the fire themselves, the insinuationssay, to force thecouncil torehouse them.Itsounds like theNewCrossfirealloveragain:howmuchneaterlifegetswhenyoumakethevictimsresponsibleforthecrime.

Since the deaths and the beginning of the occupation, there have beennumerous stories of an increase in the harassment of slum-housed families bytheir landlords, andby the police, under the cover of ‘investigating theKarimmurders’. There has been an attempt by councillors to divide and rule: theyoffered to rehouse the familiesactually in thecouncilchamber,and leave it atthat.ButsolidaritystillmeanssomethinginBritain,evenifLabourcouncillorshaveforgotten theword: theoccupiersrefusedtonegotiateexcepton thebasisthatalleightyfamiliesshouldbeconsideredtogether.

Andtherehasbeenoneverymovingmoment.OnWednesday29November,theLeaderofthecouncil,PhilTurner,cametolistentothefamiliesdescribingthehorrorsoftheirlives,andtodiscusswhatthecouncilcoulddo;andheburstinto tears, an honourable man driven to weeping by the frustrations of hisposition.TheoccupyingfamiliesbelieveTurnertobesympathetictotheircase.They say his problem is that he is not getting much support either from thehousing department’s officers or from the majority Labour Group. So thefamilieshavebeenoffered,andrejected,awholeseriesofvaguepromisesandinadequate new homes, that is, more B&B housing or more ‘temporary’accommodation.

This is why the council is so nervous of giving the eighty families thecommitment they are asking for: London Lets is by nomeans the end of thestory. I have heard people describing many other B&B establishments whichsoundevenworse.Again,it’shardtobecertainaboutthefigures,buttheremaybeasmanyas700families—about2,000humanbeings—housedbyCamdenindisease-infestedfiretraps.Nowonderthecouncillorsarenervous.Themicehavestartedbitingback.

Letmesayagain,attheend,it’snofuntobashCamden.Manymembersofthe council, and many of its employees, are dedicated folk doing their best.Thinkhowmuchworsetheplightofthehomelessmustbeinless‘enlightened’boroughs.

Thetroubleis,Camden’sbesthasbeennothinglikegoodenough.Itistime

people stopped having to die to prove to local authorities that they live inhideouslyunsatisfactoryconditions.IfthedeathsofMrsKarimandherchildrenaretobetreatedasmurders,thenmanyofuswouldsaythatthemurderersaretobe found in Camden TownHall; and no, I am not talking about the familiesoccupying the council chamber to protest non-violently and to demand theirlong-deniedrights.

1984

HOMEFRONT

Home Front, by John Bishton and John Reardon, is a book of images; andimagination,theprocessbywhichwemakepicturesoftheworld,is(alongwiththeideaoftheselfandthedevelopmentoftheopposablethumb)oneofthekeystoourhumanity.Sowell-madepicturesareofimportancetousall;theytellusnotonlywhatwehavepreviouslyseen,butwhatit ispossibletobeginseeing.They open our eyes. There are many such pictures to be found in thisphotographicportraitofeverydayrealityasitisexperiencedbyBritain’sAsiansand blacks—many memorable images of happiness, turbulence, defiance,childhood,death.InaHandsworthgurdwara,orSikhtemple,anoldmansitsona white-sheeted floor and clutches at a radiator for warmth. Or in a scrap ofurban waste land, a child’s head appears at the peak of a pyramid of rubble,whilebehindhimrisestheironyofabrickwallonwhichispaintedaluridsceneoftropicalparadise.

ButthesignificanceofsuchaphotographicessayasHomeFrontisnotonlyaesthetic.Fortheseareimagesofpeoplewhohaveforcenturiesbeenpersecutedbyimages.Theimaginationcanfalsify,demean,ridicule,caricatureandwoundaseffectivelyasitcanclarify,intensifyandunveil;andfromtheslavesofoldtotheBritish-bornblackchildrenofthepresent,therehavebeenmanywhocouldtestifytothepainofbeingsubjectedtowhitesociety’sviewofthem.

Fortunately,‘whitesociety’isnohomogeneousmass.Afterall,wehaveherethe work of two white men, and it is sensitive, knowledgeable work. In TheBlack Jacobins, C. L.R. Jameswrote: ‘The blackswill know as friends onlythose whites who are fighting in the ranks beside them. And whites will bethere.’Andsotheyare.

Letussay,then,thatthisbookshouldbeseenaspartofthestruggle.Itstitleimpliesasmuch,withitsechoesofwartimeprivationsandvigilance,aswellasthe growing comradeship and solidarity of the people—in this case the blackcommunities.Itseekstosetnew,truerimagesagainsttheoldfalsehoods,sothattheworldanditsattitudesmaybeenabledtomoveforwardamillimetreortwo.

An honourable enterprise; butwhat forces are still arrayed against it! The

troublebegan,onemightalmostsay,attheveryBeginning:

GodmadethelittleniggerboysHemadetheminthenightHemadetheminahurryAndforgottopaintthemwhite.

Yes, perhaps it startedwithCreation.Darkness, you recall, preceded light;but ‘God saw the light, that it was good: andGod divided the light from thedarkness.’Thenthefearofmelanin-darkenedskinisreallythefearoftheprimalDark, of the Ur-Night. It is the instinctual hostility of day-beings for thecreaturesofnight.Maybeso.AndmaybeallthisisconnectedalsototheideaoftheOther,thereversedtwininthelooking-glass,thedouble,thenegativeimage,whobyhisoppositeness tellsonewhatone is.GodcannotbedefinedwithouttheDevil,JekyllismeaninglesswithoutHyde.ClearlytheOtheristobefeared.Imagesofhim-her-itoftenusemotifsofnight,orofinvisibility,whichisanightof the watching eye; or of sexual threat (Beauty and the Beast); or ofmalformation (Frankenstein’s monster). Very frequently the Other is foreign;only very, very rarely is it presented as an object of sympathy. Two notableexceptionsareKafka’s‘Metamorphosis’andthefilmKingKong.KafkashowsuselsewherethattheOthercanbeaCastle,oranocturnalknockatthedoor;butitcanalsobeahelplessbug,thatistosayGregorSamsa,thatistosayourselves.And Kong is allowed to love FayWray, which earns him a kind of tragedy:“TwasBeautykilledtheBeast.’

However,itwillnotsufficetoblameracismandthecreationoflyingimagesofblackpeoplesonsomedeep-bubbling,universalfailinginhumanity.Evenifprejudice has roots in all societies, each malodorous flowering of the plantoccursinspecifichistorical,politicalandeconomiccircumstances.Soeachcaseisdifferent, and ifonewishes to fight against such triffidsofbigotry, it is thedifferencesthatareimportantanduseful.Interestingly,theuniversalityofracialprejudiceisoftenusedtoexcuseit.(Whereasfewpeoplewouldtrytocondone—for example—murders on the grounds that aggression and violence are alsouniversaltothespecies.)And,whileitisobviouslytruethatblacksandAsiansneedtofaceuptoanddealwithourownprejudices,itseemsequallyclearthatthemostattentionmustbepaidtothemostseriousproblem,andinBritain,thatiswhite racism. Ifwewere speakingof India orAfrica,wewouldhaveotherformsof racism to fight against.But you fight hardestwhere you live: on thehomefront.That’shumannature,too.

British racism—and by that I mean a fully developed ideology, complete

withthetrappingsofpseudo-scienceand‘reason’—firstfloweredasameansoflegitimizing the lucrative slave trade, andwas patently economic in origin. Itexpanded,duringtheAsianandAfricancolonialexperience,intoarationaleforworld domination. These are the specific circumstances without which theBritishvariationofthediseasecannotbeunderstood.Butitisoftenarguedthatthoseolddays,thoseoldideasarelongdead,andplaynosignificantpartintheeventsofcontemporaryBritain.Ifonlythatweretrue.Ifonlyhistoryworkedsocleanly,erasingitselfasitwentforward.

Ifonlytheideasofthepastdidnotrotdownintotheearthandfertilizetheideas of the present. In the nineteenth century, it was the Irish who werecriticizedfortheirrabbit-likebreedingandtheircookingsmells;ahundredyearslater,thesameslanders,injustaboutthesamewords,werebeinghurledatthe‘Pakis’. And many of the myths, the false pictures against which blacks stillstruggle,datefromtheearlydaysoftheslavetrade—themyth,forinstance,oftheirinsatiableanimaldesires,ofthesexualaggressionofblackwomenandthehuge,threateningmembersofblackmen.In1626,FrancisBaconwroteinNewAtlantis that the‘SpiritofFornication’was‘alittlefouluglyAethiope’.Itwasjustoneofmanysuchremarks.

Itisimpossibleinthisbriefpiecetocataloguealltheconcoctedimageryandreceivedideaswhichworkbothontheconsciousandunconsciousmindtocreatethe environment in which racism can thrive. Minstrel shows, old-moviemammies shuffling and bopping across the screenwearing head-kerchiefs andcarpet slippers, pantomime Orientals in harem-pants, yashmaks, turbans. Yes,the golliwog, too; at football grounds, black players are tauntedwith the cry,‘Get back on your jamjar.’ Television and newspaper images: because blacksandAsians,whetherinBritainorabroad,moreorlessdisappearfromthenewsexcept in times of crisis. Violence, riot, assassination, famine, flood, disease,mugging: the operation of ‘news values’ subliminally links blacks to trouble.Well, no, not entirely. Blacks have natural rhythm, Asians don’t. Blacks aregoodatathletics,Asiansatstudies.(Thisstereotypicalcontrastisstillatworkinmanyschools.)Asiansarethrifty,interestedinbusiness,naturallyconservative;blacks throw theirmoney around, are lazy, disaffected from the State. Blackstakedrugs;Asianscan’tspeakEnglish.

Thepointaboutstereotypesisthat,inspiteoftheirbanality,inspiteoftheirseeminglyevidentwrongness,theywork.Theyhaveeffects.TheyareatworkinBritain today.And they arehard to combat, becausenobody readily admits tobeinginfluencedbythem.Ofcourseyoucanseehowotherpeoplemightbe—

butnotyou—no!—ridiculous.Andwhilethegreatpoweroffalseperceptionsisbeing denied, Britain’s blacks and Asians go on living in the worst availablepublichousing,sufferingfromafarhigherunemploymentratethantheirwhiteneighbours, facing street-armies of neo-Fascists, fearing the police, beingharassedat immigrationpoints,and,when theyprotest,being told that there isnoreasonforthemtostayhereiftheydon’tlikeit;asif theethnicminorities’Britishcitizenshipwereconditionalontheirnevermakingafuss.

We live in ideas.Through imageswe seek to comprehendourworld.Andthrough images we sometimes seek to subjugate and dominate others. Butpicture-making, imagining, can also be a process of celebration, even ofliberation. New images can chase out the old. This book is one, notablecontributiontothatprocess,theprocessofgettingoffthejamjar.

1984

V.S.NAIPAUL

Afewyearsago,V.S.Naipaulsaidthathestillthoughtofhimselfasacomicwriter, and that his highest ambition was to write a comedy to equal hismagnificent 1961 novel, A House for Mr Biswas. To read this was to feelheartened;iftheauthorcouldfindawayofunitingthewarmthandenergyoftheearly work that culminated in Biswas with the technical mastery of his laterwriting,wemightbeinforsomethingratherspecial.

But thereweredoubts.Thedarkclouds that seemed tohavegatheredoverNaipaul’s innerworldwouldnot, one feared, be easily dispelled; his affectionfor the human race appeared to have diminished, and the comedy ofMiguelStreet, The Mystic Masseur, The Suffrage of Elvira and Biswas, cutting andunsentimentalasthosebookswere,hadbeenessentiallyaffectionate.

TheEnigmaofArrival,Naipaul’sfirstnovelineightyears,suggeststhatthecloudshavenotlifted,butdeepened.Thebooklacksthebittertasteofsomeofhisrecentwriting,butitisoneofthesaddestbooksIhavereadinalongwhile,its tone one of unbroken melancholy. ‘This melancholy penetrated my mindwhileIslept,’saysthenarratorwhomit is impossiblenot toseeas theauthor,‘andthen,whenIawakened…Iwassopoisonedbyit…thatit tookthebestpartofthedaytoshakeitoff.’

It’s a strange book, more meditation than novel, autobiographical in thesense that itoffersaportraitof the intellectual landscapeofonewhohas longelevated ‘the life of themind’ above all other forms of life. Its subject is thenarrator’sconsciousness,itsreformationbytheactofmigration,of‘arrival’,anditsgradualturningtowardsJames’s‘distinguishedthing’,death.Thereareothercharactershere,buttheyareobservedfromadistance,themaineventsintheirlives—anelopement,asacking,adeath—takingplaceoff-stage.Asa resultofthisemptying,thewriterbecomesthesubject;thestory-tellerbecomesthetale.

Interestingly,andunlikemostofhisfellow-migrants,Naipaulhaschosentoinhabit a pastoralEngland, anEngland ofmanor and stream.The book’s firstsegment deals with what he calls his ‘second childhood’ in this piece ofWiltshire.Thenotionofmigrationasaformofrebirthisonewhosetruthsmany

migrantswill recognize. Instantly recognizable, too, andoftenverymoving, isthesenseofawriterfeelingobligedtobringhisnewworldintobeingbyanactofpurewill,thesensethatiftheworldisnotdescribedintoexistenceinthemostminute detail, then it won’t be there. The immigrant must invent the earthbeneathhisfeet.

So Naipaul describes: this lane, this cottage, this gardener, this view ofStonehenge,thistinypatchoftheplanetinwhichhisnarratormustlearn,oncemore,tosee.Itisakindofextrememinimalism,butitbecomesalmosthypnotic.Andslowly thepicture isbuilt, figuresarrive in the landscape,anewworld iswon.

Through the story—well, the account—of the farm labourer Jack and hisgarden,weareshownhowthenarrator’sviewofrusticEnglandchanges.Atfirstidyllic—‘Of literature and antiquity and the landscape Jack and his garden…seemedemanations’—itdevelopsalongmorerealisticlines.Jack’shealthfails,hisgardendecays,hedies,thenewoccupantsofhiscottagepourconcreteoverhisgarden.Theideaoftimelessness,ofJackasbeing‘solid,rootedinhisearth’,turnsouttobefalse.ChangeanddecayinallaroundIsee.

Sothenewworldbeginstobeseenforwhatitis,butatwhataprice!It’sasif Naipaul expended so much of his energy on the effort of creating andcomprehendinghispieceofWiltshirethathehadnostrengthleftwithwhichtomake the characters breathe and move. They manage only tiny flutters ofactivity;eventhestoryofBrenda,thecountrywifewhoexpectedtoomuchfromher beauty, and Les, the husband who murdered her after she returned, tailbetweenlegs,fromherfailedattemptatanaffairwithanotherman,istoldinanoddlyenervated,inconsequentialmanner.

Thenarratorspeaksoftenofhisspiritbeingbroken,ofillness,ofexhaustion.He oncewanted towrite a story based onChirico’s painting ‘The Enigma ofArrival’,hesays,andthen,inlessthanapage,givesusasummaryofthisuntoldtale. It is quite brilliant, a traveller’s tale set in the classical world of thesurrealistpainting,utterlyunlikeanythingNaipaulhaseverwritten.

Thepaintingshowsaport,asail,atower,twofigures.Naipaulmakesoneofthefiguresatravellerwhoarrivesata‘dangerousclassicalcity’.‘Gradually…hisfeelingofadventurewouldgivewaytopanic…Iimaginedsomereligiousritualinwhich,ledonbykindlypeople,hewouldunwittinglytakepartandfindhimself the intended victim. At the moment of crisis he would come upon adoor,openit,andfindhimselfbackonthequaysideofarrival…Onlyonethingismissing now…The antique ship has gone. The traveller has lived out his

life.’Thebookwehave is at oncemorehonest anddirect, and less vibrant and

engaging, than the first-imagined fantasy, and, especially in the drawn-outsecondhalf of the novel, one frequentlywishes thatNaipaul had been able towritethediscardedtale.Exhaustionagain;whenthestrengthforfictionfailsthewriter,whatremainsisautobiography.

After an interesting, and courageous, account of his formation as awriter,Naipaul returns tohisWiltshiremicrocosm,and it turnsout thathisnarrator’sexhaustionandturning-towards-deathismirroredinhistinyworld.AversionofEnglandisdying,too,themanornolongeraseconomicallypowerfulasitwas,its owner sunbathing plump-thighed amid the decay. Just about all the book’spersonagesare insomeway in thrall to themanor—asecondgardener,Pitton,the estate manager Phillips and his wife, a driver, a failed writer, even thenarratorhimself—andthey,too,aregoingdownwiththeship.Deathandfailurestalkthemall.

All this is evoked indelicate,preciseproseof thehighestquality,but it isbloodless prose. The idea that the British have lost their way because of ‘anabsence of authority, an organization in decay’, that the fall of the manorencourages ordinary folk ‘to hasten decay, to loot, to reduce to junk’, is anunlikeable,untenableone.Butifonlythebookoccasionallysparkedintosomesort of life! As it stands, the portrait of exhaustion becomes, eventually, justexhausting.

Whysuchutterweariness?Wearetoldofadreamofanexplodinghead,ofillhealth,offamilytragedy.Theremaybemoretoit.IthinkitwasBorgeswhosaidthat,inariddletowhichtheanswerisknife, theonlywordthatcannotbeemployed is knife. There is one word I can find nowhere in the text of TheEnigmaofArrival.Thatwordis‘love’,andalifewithoutlove,oroneinwhichlovehasbeenburiedsodeepthatitcan’tcomeout,isverymuchwhatthisbookisabout;andwhatmakesitsovery,verysad.

1987

THEPAINTERANDTHEPEST

ItlooksverymuchasthoughanewparagraphneedstobeaddedtothehistoryofAbstractExpressionistpainting.Anewname,itappears,musthenceforthbementioned,ifnotinthesamebreathasthoseofJacksonPollockandWillemdeKooning, then in the breaths following: the name of Harold Shapinsky, sixtyyears old this month, an artist of Russian extraction presently living in NewYorkCity,whereformostofthepastfourdecadeshisworkhasbeencompletelyignored.Now,afteralltheyearsofneglect,therehasbeenaremarkablereversaloffortunes,andMrShapinskyisexperiencinganannusmirabilis,withamajorretrospectiveofhisworkatLondon’sMayorGallery,loadsofpublicityonbothsides of the Atlantic, and several important European galleries reportedlyqueuinguptobuyhiswork.

Thestoryofthebelated‘discovery’ofHaroldShapinskymustsurelybeoneof the most extraordinary in the history of modern art. It is hard enough tobelievethatapainterwhoisnowattractinglavishpraisefromeverycomeroftheEuropean art establishment could have languished so long in Manhattan, theundisputedcapitaloftheartworld,withoutgaininganysortofrealrecognition.Evenlessplausible,perhaps,istheidentityofhis‘discoverer’;becausethemanwhohassinglehandedlyworkedthemiracleisnotanartexpertatall,andhasnolinks with either the American or European art establishments. He describeshimselfvariouslyas‘somecrazyIndian’and‘apest.’

This man is Akumal Ramachander, thirty-five, a teacher of elementaryEnglish at an agricultural college in Bangalore in southern India—a suitablyimprobablebackgroundfortheheroofashaggy-dogstorywhosesavinggraceisthatithappenstobequitetrue.

ProfessorRamachander—Akumal—isanamateurintherealsense:amanofpassions.Infact,heisquitepossiblythemostenthusiasticindividualonthefaceoftheplanet,asIdiscoveredacoupleofyearsagowhenIwasonalecturetourofIndia.Akumal,thenacompletestranger,arrivedatmyBangalorehotelroom,introducedhimself,andproceededtooverwhelmmewiththeunstoppablefrenzyof garlands, vast smiles, flashing eyes, unceasing monologues and emphatic

gesticulations towhich thosewho find themselves inhisvicinity rapidlygrowaccustomed.Hestruckmeasabitofanoperator,but itwas impossiblenot towarm to his openness and affection for life, aswell as his obviously genuineloveforliterature,art,cinemaandmanyotherthings,includingbutterflies.(Healso sings.) This inexhaustible, ‘crazy’ energy needed something to focus on.ThatnecessarysenseofpurposewasprovidedwhenAkumalmet,bychance—thoughonesometimeswondersifanythinginhislifereallyhappensbychance—thesonofthepainterHaroldShapinsky.

In September 1984,Akumal, visiting the Indian poetA.K. Ramanujan inChicago,wastakentoapartywherehemetDavidShapinsky,andheardaboutHaroldforthefirsttime.AtDavid’shomehesawafewexamplesofthefather’sworkandbecame,asheputit,‘alerted’.HetravelledtoNewYork—itshouldbepointedoutherethatAkumalisnozillionaire,jetsettingIndian;hehasneverhadmuchmoney,andduring thisperiodwentquite someway intodebt—andmetHaroldandKateShapinskyforthefirsttime.

Hewasimpressedandmovedbythepaintings,andalsobythedignitywithwhichtheShapinskyslived,inspiteoftheirconsiderablepoverty.Theapartmentwas minute. There was, Akumal found, no liquid soap with which to do thewashing-up;theyusedacakeofhardsoapplacedatthebottomofajarofwaterinstead.Thepainterhadbeensoshortoffundsforsolongthathewasunabletoaffordcanvases,andwasobligedtowork,asaresult,onthicksheetsofpaper.(Sothepaintingsareallrathersmall,and,tomyeyeatleast,oneofShapinsky’smost impressive achievements has been to paint epic, ‘big’ concepts on thisartificiallyconstrictedscale.)

Kate Shapinsky is a dancer by profession, a contemporary of MarthaGraham’s. Now, while Shapinsky paints, she makes quilts, sweaters andpullovers and sells them toboutiques, and the small income from thiswork iswhathas,formanyyears,enabledtheShapinskystoliveandHaroldtopaint.

Akumal discussed with David Shapinsky the possibility of his, Akumal’s,tryingtopromoteHarold’swork,anditwasagreedthatheshouldtry.NowtheprofessorfromBangaloremadeabetwiththepainter’sson—thatwithintwelvemonthshewouldgetHaroldShapinskyamajorexhibitioninEurope,inLondon,perhaps, orAmsterdam; and that theEncyclopaediaBritannicawould have torewriteitssectiononAbstractExpressionism,tomakeroomfortheachievementofthelong-neglectedmaster.

ButHaroldShapinskyhadspentmostofhiscareerintotalisolationfromtheartmarketplace,unnoticedbygalleriesanddealers.In1950hisworkhadbeen

includedinanewtalentexhibition,andevenpraisedbytheNewYorkTimes,butsince then there had been virtually nothing, except for a few obscure groupshows.Indifferencehadforcedhimintoseclusion.Andanyestablishmenthatestoadmittoamistake.

ItwasthiswallofindifferenceandscepticismthatAkumalhadtoscale,ortodemolish. He had slides of Shapinsky’s work made at his own expense, andbeganafrontalassaultontheManhattanartworld.Hehadnosuccess;thewallheldfirm.Afterall,howwasitpossiblethatthecrazyIndianfromtheBangaloreagricultural college had spotted something that the New York mandarins hadmissed? After about thirty galleries had refused even to look at the slides,AkumaldecidedtotryEurope.Andnowhisluck—andShapinsky’s—changed.

InLondoninDecember1984AkumalarrivedattheTateGallery,withoutanappointment,clutchinghisboxofslides.AfewminuteslaterRonaldAlley,theKeeperof theModernCollection,was telephoned from the fronthall and toldthat an Indian gentleman had arrived, in rather an agitated state, and wasinsistingonshowingsomebodyagroupofslidesthatheclaimedwereamajordiscovery.Alley agreed to look at the slides.Akumal had broken through thewall.

When Ronald Alley saw the slides, he says, ‘I was amazed that a realAbstractExpressionistpainterof suchquality shouldbeunknown,’andheputAkumal in touchwith theMayor Gallery. He also put in writing his feelingsaboutShapinsky’swork.InthenextfewweeksmanyEuropeanexpertsfollowedsuit. ProfessorNorbert Lynton, Professor ofArtHistory at SussexUniversity,wrote: ‘He is certainly a painter of outstandingquality… the slides suggest arare quality of fresh and vivid (as opposed to mournfully soulful) abstractexpressionism,amarvelloussenseofcolourandalsoararefeelforpositioningmarks and areas of colour on the canvas or paper.’ The leading modern-artgalleries of Cologne and Amsterdam also expressed enthusiasm. And JamesMayoroftheMayorGalleryflewtoNewYork,wasimpressedandexcited,andmadeaselectionfortheShapinskyretrospective.Thebetwaswon.

Onesuspectsthat,aswellasthegenuineenthusiasmalloverEuropeforthequalityofShapinsky’swork, therehasbeena certain amountofgleefulhand-rubbinggoingon,becausetheShapinskycasereflectssobadlyontheNewYorkartscene.AndNewYorkhasbeenrulingtheroostforsolongthatthispieceofEuropeanrevengemusttastesweetindeed.

AsforProfessorRamachander,he,too,shouldnowbenefitfromthe‘launch’ofHaroldShapinsky.ButwhatwasitthatenabledAkumaltoseewhateveryone

hadfailedtosee?Theanswer,itseems,isthosebutterflies:‘Myartschoolwasasmall field near my house. I would spend quite a long time there, chasingbutterflies.Hundredsofthousandsofthem,youknow,inalltheirbrillianthues.I would never destroy a butterfly, just chase them and wonder at that greatprofusion of colours. And I think all that colour sank into me … all thosepermutationsandcombinations, theywerealready there inme.All thathad tohappenwastogetsomeone’swork,andseeifIcouldgetbackallthecoloursIsawinmychildhood.AndShapinskyseemedtocomeveryclosetothat.’

For centuries now, it has been the fate of the peoples of the East to be‘discovered’by theWest,withdramatic andusuallyunpleasant consequences.ThestoryofAkumalandShapinskyisonesmallinstanceinwhichtheEasthasbeenabletorepaythecompliment,andwithahappyending,too.AndifweareaskedtobelievethatitallbeganinafieldinCalcutta,whereanIndianboyranwith butterfly-colours swirling all around him, thenwhy not? It’s as likely asanythingelseinthisstory,afterall.

1985

6

AGENERALELECTION

CHARTER88

ONPALESTINIANIDENTITY:ACONVERSATIONWITHEDWARDSAID

AGENERALELECTION

I returned to England only recently, after spending twomonths in India, andwas feeling pretty disorientated even before the general election was called.Now,assuccessiveopinionpollsinformusofthenear-inevitabilityofamoreorless enormous Tory victory, my sense of alienation has blossomed intosomethingclosetofull-scalecultureshock.“Tisamadworldyouhavehere,mymasters.’

Have they been putting something in the drinking water while I’ve beenaway?IhadalwaysthoughtthattheBritishpridedthemselvesontheircommonsense,ongoodold-fashioneddown-to-earthrealism.Buttheelectionof1983isbeginningto lookmoreandmorelikeadarkfantasy,afictionsooutrageouslyimprobablethatanynovelistwouldberidiculedifhedreameditup.

Consider this fiction.AToryPrimeMinister,MaggieMay,getselectedonthe basis of her promises to cut direct taxation and to get the country back towork (‘Labour isn’tworking’).During thenext fouryears she increasesdirecttaxationandcontrivestoaddalmosttwomillionpeopletothedolequeues.Andshe throws inall sortsof extragoodies: a fifthof thecountry’smanufacturingindustry lies in ruins, and (although she claims repeatedly to have vanquishedthe monster Inflation) she presides over the largest increase in prices of anyBritish Prime Minister. The country’s housing programme grinds to a halt;schoolsandhospitalsareclosed; theNationalityActrobsBritonsof their900-year-old right tocitizenshipbyvirtueofbirth;and thegreatwindfallofNorthSeaoilmoneyissquanderedonfinancingunemployment.Moneyispouredintothepoliceforce,andasaresultnotifiablecrimesrisebytwenty-eightpercent.

She constantly tells the nation that cash limits are tight, but finds untoldbillions to spendona crazywarwhose legacy includes the exportofdrinkingwatertotheSouthAtlanticatacosttotheBritishtaxpayeroffivepenceapint;and,speakingofpeace,sheearmarksfurtheruntoldbillionsforthepurchaseofthe latest weapons of death, although common sense, not to mention history,clearlyindicatesthatthemoresuchweaponsexist,themorelikelytheyaretobeused.

So far, the story of PrimeMinister May is almost credible. The fictionalcharacter does come across as unusually cruel, incompetent, unscrupulous andviolent,but therehave justoccasionallybeenTorypoliticiansofwhomsuchadescriptionwouldnotbewhollyinaccurate.No,thestoryonlyfallsapartwhenitgetstotheend:MaggieMaydecidestogotothecountry,andinsteadofbeinghounded into the outer darkness, or at least Tasmania, like her namesake, itseemsthatsheistoreceiveavoteofconfidence;thatfivemoreyearsofcruelty,incompetence,etc.,iswhattheelectoratewants.

Thehaplessnovelist submits his story, and is immediately submerged in aflood of rejection slips. Desperately, he tries to make his narrative moreconvincing. Maggie May’s political opponents are presented as hopelesslydivided.Thepresenceof alleged ‘full-time socialists’ amongsther foes alarmsthepeople.The leaderof theLabourPartywearsa crumpleddonkey-jacket attheCenotaphandkeepsfallingoverhisdog.Butstill (therejectionslipspointout) the fact remains that forMrsMay to hold anything like the lead that thepolls say she holds, the unemployed—or some of them, anyway—must beplanning to vote for her; and so must some of the homeless, some of thebusinessmenwhosebusinessesshehasdestroyed,someofthewomenwhowillbe worse off when (for instance) her proposal to means-test child benefitsbecomes law, and many of the trade unionists whose rights she proposes soseverelytoerode.

At this point, our imaginary novelist (compromising the integrity of hisvisionforthesakeofpublication)would,inallprobability,agreetorewritehisending. The trumpets sound, the sleeping citizenry awakes, le jour de gloirearrives,andMaggieMaygets,in1983,thesamesortofbum’srushgiventoherheroWinstonChurchillin1945.

Isitnotpassingstrangethatthis,theplausibleandhappyending,istheonethatlooks,inthecoldlightofreal-lifeBritain,liketheoneinwhichit’salmostimpossibletobelieve?

IfindmyselfentertainingSpenglerianthoughtsabouthowtherecanbetimeswhenallthatisworstinapeoplerisestothesurfaceandexpressesitself,initsgovernment. There are, of course, many Britains, and many of them—thesceptical, questioning, radical, reformist, libertarian, nonconformistBritains—Ihavealwaysadmiredgreatly.ButtheseBritainsarepresentlyinretreat,evenindisarray; while nanny-Britain, straight-laced Victoria-reborn Britain, class-riddenknow-your-placeBritain, thin-lipped, jingoistBritain, is incharge.Darkgoddessesrule;brightnessfallsfromtheair,‘TheAncientBritons,’saysthebest

ofhistorybooks,1066andAllThat,‘paintedthemselvestrueblue,orwoad,andfought heroically under their dashing queen,Woadicea.’TheBritons are evenmoreAncient now, but they have been fighting once again, and that blue dyetakesalongtimetowearoff.Woadicearidesagain.

Whatanachievement ishers!Shehaspersuadedthenation thateverythingthat goes wrong, from unemployment to the crime rate, is an Act of God orsomeoneelse’sfault,thattheforcesoforganizedlabourareactuallytheenemiesof organized labour; that we can only defend ourselves by giving the UnitedStatesthepoweroflifeanddeathoverus;thattobean‘activist’issomehowfarworsethanbeinganinactivist,andthattheleftmustoncemorebethoughtofinLatin, as sinister. She propounds what is in fact an ideology of impotencemasquerading as resolution, a con-trick, and it looks as though it’s going towork:Maggie’ssting.

And itwas as recently as 1945 that theBritish people, politicizedby theirwartime experiences, threw off the yoke of the true-blue ruling class…Howquicklythewheelhasturned,howquicklyfaithhasbeenlost in thepartytheyforgedastheirweapon,howdepressinglywillingthenationseemstobetostarttouchingforelocksonceagain.Theworstthingaboutthiselectionisthatnobodyseemsreallyangryaboutwhathashappened,ishappening,andissuretogoonhappeningifMrsThatcherisstandingonthestepsofNo.10onthemorningof10 June. (What will she quote from this time? St Francis of Assisi again? StJoan?TheHitlerDiaries?)

I believe the absence of widespread anger matters enormously, for thisreason: that democracy can only thrive in a turbulent climate.Where there isacquiescence,cynicism,passivity,resignation,‘inactivism’,theroadisclearforthosewhowouldrobusofourrights.

So, finally, and in spite of all the predictions and probabilities, I refuse toaccept that the cause is lost. Despair brings comfort to one’s enemies. Andelectionsarenot,atbottom,aboutreasonedarguments;theyareaboutpassions.Itisjustconceivablethatevennow,inthiseleventhhour,aragecanbekindledinthepeople,rageagainstthedyingofthelightthatThatcherismrepresents.Theelectorate,wearetold,hasneverbeensovolatile;somaybethemiraclecanstillbeworked.Maybe,ontheday,real lifewill turnout toobeythesamelawsofprobabilityasfiction,andsanitywillreturn.

If not, we can look forward to five more years of going to the dogs.Guardian readers will no doubt remember these unappealing canines; a fewyearsago,theyusedtobeknownastherunningdogsofcapitalism.

1983

CHARTER88

It used to be believed that philosophies of social justice, arguments over thedefinitionofthegood,indeedalldiscussionoftheshapeofthesocietyinwhichwewishedtolive,wereanteriortopolitics,that,infact,politicswasasecondaryandsubservientbranchofethics.YoucouldarguethatthiswasastrueforKarlMarx as it had been for Aristotle. It is apparently true no more. ‘Nothing inBritain is these days permitted to be apolitical,’ Hugo Young tells us in aGuardianarticleaccusingtheCharter88campaignofbeingtheSDPindisguise,anappealtothe‘apoliticalclasses’.Theonly‘real’targetofsuchcampaigns,hesays,is‘toconverttheLabourPartytothiskindofthinking.’Sonewideasmustnowgocap inhand topoliticaloverlords(and‘politics’ isequatedwith‘partypolitics’).Thesearenarrowdays.

In the mind of one of these overlords, Mr Roy Hattersley, an even moreremarkable fusionof the ethical andpolitical hasoccurred, onewhich enableshim to define ‘positive freedom’ as ‘government action’—this in an articlewhoseimmediatelyprecedingparagraphrefers,withoutanyseemingawarenessofthecontradictioninvolved,tothedenial,‘bygovernmentaction’,oftherightsofethnicminoritiesandwomen.

‘True liberty requires action from the government,’ saysMr Hattersley inauthenticallyOrwelliantones,ignoringtheentirehistoryoffreedommovementstheworldover,tosaynothingofthedistinguishedrecordofextra-governmentalcitizens’movementsintheincreaseofliberty—arecordwhichsuggeststhat,inthematteroffreedom,governmentsdonotactuntiltheyarepushed.

ItwillclearlytakequiteapushtomoveMrHattersley,forwhomdemocracymeansthe‘absolutesovereignty’ofParliament.QuotingaMorireportofwhatproportional representationwould havemeant in the 1987 election (theTorieswould have won 279 seats, not 375; Labour 202, not 229; the Alliance 149instead of just 22), he insists that because this would have created a hungparliament, resulting in the ‘destructionof themajorparties’, itmustneverbeallowed to happen. Thus we see that the Deputy Leader of the Labour Partybelieves not only in the absolute sovereignty of Parliament, but of the major

parties;furtherproof,iffurtherproofwereneeded,thatthetrueconservativesinBritainarenowintheLabourParty,whilethereareplentyofradicalsinblue.

Charter88 is anattempt to renew thedebateabout thekindofcountrywewant to live in, precisely because our ‘absolute sovereigns’ seem no longercapableofgivingexpressiontosuchconcerns;preciselybecauseitisbecomingdifficult tobelieve in the inviolabilityofour rights,or even in their existence,untilweseethemenshrinedinawrittenconstitution.AsIanMcEwanputsit,ifwe in Britain are the proud possessors of fundamental freedoms denied to somanyotherpeoples,whatcouldbetheobjectiontowritingthemdown?

I would certainly not describe the Charter 88 campaign as ‘apolitical’,because it must clearly seek eventually to enter the political, even the party-politicalfield;butaspre-political,asoneofthoseinitiativeswhich,likethecivilrights movement, the anti-Vietnam movement, the women’s movement, thenuclear disarmament movement, the greens, seeks initially to work as amovementofcitizens,notleaders,andrequirespoliticianstolisten,forachange,toothervoicesthantheirown.

WhatdifferentiatesCharter88fromthemovementsI’vejustlistedisthatitisnotasingle-issuecampaign,butanattemptataradicalcritiqueofthewaywearepresentlygoverned;andthat,foritsaimsevertobeachieved,itwouldneedsupport fromallpartsof thepolitical spectrum.A lastingconstitutionmustbeabovethesectarianismofpartypolitics.

RoyHattersleyiscontemptuousofwrittenconstitutions.EventheEuropeanConventiononHumanRights isdismissedasameansofprotecting thepublicschools. Anyway, he tells us, the thing can’t be done. ‘What Parliament hasgiven away, Parliament can take back.’ Absolute sovereigns lack, it seems,absolute power only over themselves. All this is hogwash. Yes, Charter 88proposes something very like a constitutional revolution, but constitutionalrevolutions have happened before. Yes, it would require, for example,Parliament voting for its own, momentary abolition, so that—perhaps at aconstitutional convention—the law could finally be placed above our rulers’heads.Yes,we’re talkingaboutchanging the legal formof thenation.Nationscan do such things if they deem them necessary. Mr Hattersley’s hatred ofchangecondemnshim,Ifear,tothefateofthedinosaurs.

Thesimpletruthisthatjustabouteveryotherdemocraticsocietypossesses,andcherishes,awrittenconstitution;thattheBritishinsistedthatalltheirformercoloniesshould,atthemomentofindependence,acquiresuchadocument;andthat increasing numbers of British citizens no longer have faith in the

untrammelledpowersofthis,oranyotherover-mighty,Britishgovernment.‘The very idea of human rights—particularly universal ones—is a

comparatively novel, recent development,’ Steve Platts writes in the NewStatesman & Society. It is valuable to be reminded by him ‘just howrevolutionaryadevelopment’theUN’sUniversalDeclarationofHumanRights,justfortyyearsago,reallywas.Eventhemostcursorystudyofthehistoryofthetwentieth century indicates that it’s really very hard indeed to pin downwhatmayormaynotbea‘human’ora‘civil’right,andthatit’scorrespondinglyeasyforgovernments to act as if such rightsdidnot, orneednot, exist.Butweallknowwhatwemeanbya‘constitutionalright’.TheFifthAmendmentoftheUSconstitution makes it impossible for an American Thatcher to remove adefendant’srighttosilenceinacourtoflaw.TheCharter88signatoriesbelievethat it’shightimewehadsuchrights;anditmayjustbepossible toachieveanational—and,atfirst,extra-parliamentary—consensusthatagrees.

1988

ONPALESTINIANIDENTITY:ACONVERSATIONWITH

EDWARDSAID

SALMAN RUSHDIE: For those of uswho see the struggle between Eastern andWestern descriptions of the world as both an internal and an externalstruggle, Edward Said has for many years been an especially importantvoice. Professor of English and Comparative Literature at Columbia andauthor of literary criticism on, among others, Joseph Conrad, Edward hasalwayshadthedistinguishingfeaturethathereadstheworldascloselyashereadsbooks.Weneedonlythinkofthemajortrilogywhichprecedeshisnewbook,After theLastSky. In the firstvolume,Orientalism,heanalysed ‘theaffiliation of knowledge with power’, discussing how the scholars of theperiodofEmpirehelpedtocreatean imageof theEastwhichprovidedthejustificationforthesupremacistideologyofimperialism.ThiswasfollowedbyTheQuestionofPalestine,whichdescribedthestrugglebetweenaworldprimarilyshapedbyWesternideas—thatofZionismandlaterofIsrael—andthelargely‘oriental’realitiesofArabPalestine.ThencameCoveringIslam,subtitled‘HowtheMediaandtheExpertsDetermineHowWeSeetheRestof theWorld’, in which theWest’s invention of the East is, so to speak,broughtuptodatethroughadiscussionofresponsestotheIslamicrevival.After the Last Sky is a collaborative venture with Jean Mohr—a

photographer who may be known to you from John Berger’s study ofimmigrantlabourinEurope,ASeventhMan.Itstitleistakenfromapoem,‘TheEarth isClosingonUs’, by the national poet ofPalestine,MahmoudDarwish:

Theearthisclosingonus,pushingusthroughthelastpassage,andwetearoffourlimbstopassthrough.

Theearthissqueezingus.Iwishwewereitswheatsowecoulddieandliveagain.Iwishtheearthwasourmother

Soshe’dbekindtous.Iwishwewerepicturesontherocksforourdreamstocarry

Asmirrors.Wesawthefacesofthosetobekilledbythelastofusinthe

lastdefenceofthesoul.Wecriedovertheirchildren’sfeast.Wesawthefacesofthosewhowillthrowourchildren

Outofthewindowofthislastspace.Ourstarwillhangupmirrors.Whereshouldwegoafterthelastfrontiers?Whereshouldthebirdsflyafterthelastsky?

Whereshouldtheplantssleepafterthelastbreathofair?Wewillwriteournameswithscarletsteam,

Wewillcutoffthehandofthesongtobefinishedbyourflesh.Wewilldiehere,hereinthelastpassage.Hereandhereourbloodwillplantitsolivetree.*

Afterthelastskythereisnosky.Afterthelastborderthereisnoland.Thefirst part of Said’s book is called ‘States’. It is a passionate and movingmeditationondisplacement,onlandlessness,onexileandidentity.Heasks,forexample,inwhatsensePalestinianscanbesaidtoexist.Hesays:‘Doweexist?Whatproofdowehave?ThefurtherwegetfromthePalestineofourpast,themoreprecariousourstatus,themoredisruptedourbeing,themoreintermittentourpresence.Whendidwebecomeapeople?Whendidwestopbeingone?Or arewe in theprocess of becomingone?What do thosebigquestionshavetodowithourintimaterelationshipswitheachotherandwithothers?We frequently end our letterswith themotto “Palestinian love” or“Palestiniankisses”.AretherereallysuchthingsasPalestinianintimacyandembraces,oraretheysimplyintimacyandembraces—experiencescommonto everyone, neither politically significant nor particular to a nation or apeople?’Saidcomes,asheputsit,froma‘minorityinsideaminority’—aposition

withwhichIfeelsomesympathy,havingalsocomefromaminoritygroupwithinaminoritygroup.It isakindofChineseboxthathedescribes:‘MyfamilyandIweremembersofatinyProtestantgroupwithinamuchlargerGreek Orthodox Christian minority, within the larger Sunni Muslimmajority.’He thengoeson todiscuss theconditionofPalestinians throughthemediationofanumberofrecentliteraryworks.Oneofthese,incorrectlycalled an ArabTristram Shandy in the blurb, is a wonderful comic novelaboutthesecretlifeofsomebodycalledSaid,TheIll-FatedPessoptimist.Apessoptimist,asyoucansee,isapersonwithaproblemabouthowheseesthe world. Said claims all manner of things, including, in chapter one, to

have met creatures from outer space: ‘In the so-called age of ignorancebeforeIslam,ourancestorsusedtoformtheirgodsfromdatesandeatthemwheninneed.Whoismoreignorantthen,dearsir,Iorthosewhoatetheirgods?Youmightsayitisbetterforpeopletoeattheirgodsthanforthegodstoeatthem.Iwouldrespond,yes,buttheirgodsweremadeofdates.’A crucial idea in After the Last Sky concerns the meaning of the

PalestinianexperiencefortheformofworksofartmadebyPalestinians.InEdward’sview,thebrokenordiscontinuousnatureofPalestinianexperienceentails that classic rules about form or structure cannot be true to thatexperience;rather,itisnecessarytoworkthroughakindofchaosorunstableform that will accurately express its essential instability. Edward thenproceedstointroducethetheme—whichisdevelopedlaterinthebook—thatthehistoryofPalestinehasturnedtheinsider(thePalestinianArab)intotheoutsider.Thispoint is illustratedbyaphotographofNazarethtakenfromapositioninwhatiscalledUpperNazareth—anareawhichdidnotexistinthetimeofArabPalestine.ThusArabPalestineisseenfromthepointofviewofanew,inventedPalestine,andtheinsideexperienceoftheoldPalestinehasbecometheexternalexperienceinthephotograph.Andyet thePalestinianshaveremained.

Itwouldbeeasiertocatchfriedfishinthemilkywaytoploughtheseaortoteachthealligatorspeechthantomakeusleave.*

In part two, ‘Interiors’,which greatly develops the theme of the insiderandtheoutsider,EdwardreferstoachangeinthestatusofthePalestinianswhoareinsidePalestine.Untilrecently,amongthePalestiniancommunityingeneral, therewas a slight discountingof thosewho remained inside, as ifthey were somehow contaminated by the proximity of the Jews. Now,however, the situation has been inverted: those who go on living there,maintaining aPalestinian culture and obliging theworld to recognize theirexistence,haveacquiredagreaterstatusintheeyesofotherPalestinians.ThisexperienceofbeinginsidePalestiniannessispresentedasaseriesof

codes which, though incomprehensible to outsiders, are instantlycommunicatedbyPalestinianswhentheymeetoneanother.Theonlywayinwhichtoshowyourinsidernessispreciselythroughtheexpressionofthose

codes. There is a very funny incident in which Professor Said receives aletter, via a complete stranger, from a man who has built hisPalestinianidentityasakarateexpert.‘Whatwasthemessagetome?’Saidasks.‘Firstofallhewasinside,andusingthegoodofficesofasympatheticoutsidertocontact me, an insider who was now outside Jerusalem, the place of ourcommonorigin.ThathewrotemynameinEnglishwasasmuchasignthathetoocoulddealwiththeworldIlivedinasitwasthathefollowedwhatIdid. The time had come to demonstrate that the Edward Saids had betterremember that wewere beingwatched by karate experts. Karate does notstand for self-development but only for the repeated act of being aPalestinianexpert.APalestinian—itisasiftheactivityofrepeatingpreventsusandothersfromskippingusoroverlookingusentirely.’Hethengivesanumberofotherexamplesofrepeatingbehaviourinorder

tomake it Palestinian behaviour, and thus existing through that repetition.Therealsoseemstobeacompulsiontoexcess, illustrated invariousways,both tragic and comic, within the book. One of the problems of beingPalestinianisthattheideaofinteriorisregularlyinvadedbyotherpeople’sdescriptions,byotherpeople’sattempts tocontrolwhat it is tooccupythatspace—whether it be Jordanian Arabs who say there is no differencebetweenaJordanianandaPalestinian,orIsraeliswhoclaimthatthelandisnotPalestinebutIsrael.Thethirdpart,‘Emergence’,andthefourthpart,‘PastandFuture’,turnto

adiscussionofwhat itactually isormightbe tobeaPalestinian.There isalsoanaccountofthepowertowhichPalestiniansaresubject,ofthewayinwhich even their names have been altered through the superimposition ofHebrewtransliteration.Asamarkofresistance,PalestiniansarenowseekingtoreasserttheiridentitybygoingbacktotheoldArabicforms:AbuAmmar,for example, instead of Yasser Arafat. On various occasions the verymeaning of names has been changed. Thus the largest refugee camp inLebanon, Ein el Hilwé, which is written with an ‘h’ in the Arabictransliteration, has become Ein el Khilwé in the Hebrew transliteration: aname which means ‘sweet spring’ has been turned into something like‘springintheemptyplace’.Saidseesinthisanallusiontomassgravesandthe regularly razed and not always rebuilt camps. ‘I also register thethought,’ he writes, ‘that Israel has indeed emptied the camp with itsPalestinianwellspring.’ThetextgoesontotalkaboutZionism,whichheaddressedinhisearlier

bookTheQuestionofPalestine.Weshouldnotethedifficultyinmakinganykind of critique of Zionism without being instantly charged with anti-Semitism. Clearly it is important to understand Zionism as a historicalprocess, as existing in a context and having certain historical functions.Afurtherideaintheselatersectionsofthebookisthat,intheWest,everyonehascometothinkofexileasaprimarilyliteraryandbourgeoisstate.Exilesappear tohavechosenamiddle-classsituation inwhichgreat thoughtscanbe thought. In the case of the Palestinians, however, exile is a massphenomenon:itisthemassthatisexiledandnotjustthebourgeoisie.FinallySaidposesaseriesofquestionswhichcomedowntotheoriginal

one of Palestinian existence: ‘What happens to landless people? Howeveryou exist in theworld,what do you preserve of yourselves?What do youabandon?’Ifindonepassageparticularlyvaluable,asitconnectswithmanythings I have been thinking about. ‘Our truest reality,’ he writes, ‘isexpressed in the way we cross over from one place to another. We aremigrantsandperhapshybrids, inbutnotofanysituation inwhichwe findourselves.Thisisthedeepestcontinuityofourlivesasanationinexileandconstantly on the move.’ He also criticizes the great concentration of thePalestinian cause on its military expression, referring to the dangers ofculturallossorabsence.ProfessorSaidperiodically receives threats tohissafety fromtheJewish

DefenseLeagueinAmerica,andI thinkit is importantforus toappreciatethattobeaPalestinianinNewYork—inmanywaysthePalestinian—isnottheeasiestoffates.One of my sisters was repeatedly asked in California where she came

from.When she said ‘Pakistan’most people seemed to have no ideawhatthis meant. One American said: ‘Oh, yes, Pakestine!’ and immediatelystartedtalkingabouthisJewishfriends.It is impossibletooverestimatetheconsequences ofAmerican ignorance onworld affairs.When Iwas at thePENCongress in NewYork in 1986, the American writer Cynthia Ozicktook it upon herself to circulate a petition which described ChancellorKreiskyofAustriaasananti-Semite.Whywasheananti-Semite—thismanwho is himself a Jew and has given refuge to tens, perhaps hundreds, ofthousands of Jews leaving the Soviet Union? Because he had had aconversationwithYasserArafat.Thealarmingthingisthatthispetition,onthe face of it quite absurd, should have been taken so seriously byparticipantsatthecongress.TherewasevenamomentwhenIfeltnervously

thatsincenooneelseseemedtobespeakingforPalestine, Imighthave tomyself.ButthedefencecamefromPierreTrudeauofallpeople,whospokevery movingly about the Palestinian cause. These are some of theextraordinarythingsthathappeninNewYork.Edward,youarethemanonthespot.Isitgettingworseorbetter?Howdoesitfeel?

EDWARDSAID:Well,Ithinkitisgettingworse.Firstofall,mostpeopleinNewYorkwhofeelstronglyaboutPalestineandPalestinianshavehadnodirectexperienceatall.Theythinkofthemessentiallyintermsofwhattheyhaveseenontelevision:bombscares,murdersandwhattheSecretaryofStateandothers call terrorism. This produces a kind of groundless passion, so thatwhenIamintroducedtosomeonewhomayhaveheardofme,theyreactinaverystrangewaythatsuggests‘maybeyou’renotasbadasyouseem.’Thefact that I speak English, and do it reasonably well, adds to thecomplications, and most people eventually concentrate on my work as anEnglishprofessorfortherestoftheconversation.Butyoudofeelanewkindofviolencearoundyouwhich isa resultof1982.An importantbreakwiththe past occurred then, both for people who have supported Israel in theUnitedStates,andforpeoplelikeus,forwhomthedestructionofBeirut,ourBeirut,was the end of an era.Most of the time you can feel that you areleadinganormallife,buteverysooftenyouarebroughtupagainstathreator an allusion to something which is deeply unpleasant. You always feeloutsideinsomeway.

SALMANRUSHDIE:Has therebeenanychange inyourability topublishor talkaboutthePalestinianissue?

EDWARDSAID:Tosomeextent.Thisisoneissueonwhich,asyouknow,thereisaleft-rightbreakinAmerica,andtherearestillafewgroups,afewpeople—likeChomskyorAlexanderCockburn—whoarewillingtoraiseitpublicly.Butmostpeople tend to think that it isbetter left to thecrazies.Therearefewerhospitableplaces,andyouenduppublishing forasmalleraudience.Ironically,youalsobecometokenized,sothatwheneverthereisahijackingorsomesuchincident,Igetphone-callsfromthemediaaskingmetocomealong and comment. It’s a very strange feeling to be seen as a kind ofrepresentativeofterrorism.You’retreatedlikeadiplomatofterrorism,withaplaceatthetable.Irememberoneoccasion,though,whenIwasinvitedtoa television debate with the Israeli ambassador—I think it was about theAchilleLauroincident.Notonlywouldhenotsitinthesameroomwithme;hewantedtobeinadifferentbuilding,soasnottobecontaminatedbymy

presence. The interviewer said to the national audience: ‘You know,ProfessorSaidandAmbassadorNetanyahurefusetospeaktoeachother,theIsraeli ambassador won’t speak to him and he won’t …’ But then Iinterruptedandsaid:‘No,no,Iamperfectlywillingtospeaktohim,buthewon’t…’Themoderatorreplied:‘Well,Istandcorrected.MrAmbassador,whywon’tyouspeaktoProfessorSaid?’‘Becausehewantstokillme.’Themoderator,withoutbattinganeyelid,urged:‘Ohreally,tellusaboutit.’AndtheambassadorwentonabouthowPalestinianswanttokilltheIsraelis,andsoon.Itwasreallyatotallyabsurdsituation.

SALMANRUSHDIE:Yousayyoudon’tlikecallingitaPalestiniandiaspora.Whyisthat?

EDWARDSAID:Isupposethereisasenseinwhich,asonemanwroteinanotetome from Jerusalem,we are ‘the Jews of theArabworld’. But I think ourexperience is really quite different and beyond such attempts to drawparallels.Perhaps itsdimensionismuchmoremodest. Inanycase the ideathat there is akindof redemptivehomelanddoesn’t answer tomyviewofthings.

SALMANRUSHDIE:Soletmeputtoyouyourownquestion.Doyouexist?Andifso,whatproofdoyouhave?InwhatsenseisthereaPalestiniannation?

EDWARD SAID: First of all, in the sense that a lot of people havememories orshowgreatinterestinlookingintothepastforasignofcoherentcommunity.Many, too—especially younger-generation scholars—are trying to discoverthingsaboutthePalestinianpoliticalandculturalexperiencethatmarkitofffromtherestoftheArabworld.Secondly,thereisthetraditionofsettingupreplicas of Palestinian organizations in places as far afield as Australia orSouthAmerica.It isquiteremarkable thatpeoplewillcometolivein,say,Youngstown,Ohio—atownIdon’tknow,butyoucanimaginewhatit’slike—and remain on top of the latest events in Beirut or the currentdisagreements between the Popular Front and Al Fatah, and yet not evenknow thenameof themayorofYoungstownorhowhe is elected.Maybethey will just assume that he is put there by somebody rather than beingelected.Finally,youcanseefromJeanMohr’spicturesthatthePalestiniansareapeoplewhomovealot,whoarealwayscarryingbagsfromoneplacetoanother.Thisgivesusafurthersenseofidentityasapeople.Andwesayitloudly enough, repetitiously enough and stridently enough, strong in theknowledgethattheyhaven’tbeenabletogetridofus.Itisagreatfeeling—callitpositiveorpessoptimistic—towakeupinthemorningandsay:‘Well

theydidn’tbumpmeoff.’SALMANRUSHDIE:Toillustratethispointthatthingscouldbeworse,youtellthe

story of amotherwhose son died very soon after hiswedding.While thebrideisstillmourningshesays:‘ThankGodithashappenedinthiswayandnotinanotherway!’Thebridethengetsveryangryandsays:‘Howdareyousay that! What could possibly be a worse way?’ But the mother-in-lawreplies: ‘Well,youknow, ifhegrewoldandyou lefthimforanothermanandthenhedied,thatcouldbeworse.Soit’sbetterthathediesnow.’

EDWARDSAID:Exactly.Youarealwaysinventingworsescenarios.SALMAN RUSHDIE: It’s very difficult to work out whether this is optimism or

pessimism. That’s why it is called pessoptimism. Would you like to saysomething now about the codes bywhich Palestinians exist and recognizeeachotherandabouttheideaofrepetitionandexcessasawayofexisting?

EDWARDSAID:LetmetellyouanotherstorythatwillshowyouwhatImean.Aclose friend ofmine once came tomy house and stayed overnight. In themorningwehadbreakfast,whichincludedyogurtcheesewithaspecialherb,za’atar. This combination probably exists all over the Arab world, andcertainly inPalestine, Syria andLebanon.Butmy friend said: ‘There, yousee.It’sasignofaPalestinianhomethatithasza’atarinit.’Beingapoet,hethenexpatiatedatgreatandtediouslengthonPalestiniancuisine,whichisgenerallyverymuchlikeLebaneseandSyriancuisine,andbytheendofthemorning we were both convinced that we had a totally distinct nationalcuisine.

SALMANRUSHDIE:So,becauseaPalestinianchoosestodosomethingitbecomesthePalestinianthingtodo?

EDWARD SAID: That’s absolutely right. But even among Palestinians there arecertaincodewordsthatdefinewhichcamporgroupthespeakercomesfrom;whetherfromthePopularFront,whichbelievesinthecompleteliberationofPalestine,orfromtheFatah,whichbelievesinanegotiatedsettlement.Theywillchooseadifferentsetofwordswhentheytalkaboutnationalliberation.Then there are the regional accents. It is very strange indeed to meet aPalestinian kid in Lebanon who was born in some refugee camp and hasneverbeentoPalestinebutwhocarriestheinflectionsofHaifa,orJaffa,inhisLebaneseArabic.

SALMANRUSHDIE:Letusturntotheideaofexcess.Youtalkabouthowyoufindyourself obliged to carry too much luggage wherever you go. But moreseriously,IrememberthatdialoguebetweenacapturedPalestinianguerrilla

and an Israeli broadcaster inwhich the guerrilla appears to be implicatinghimselfinthemostheinouscrimesbutisinfactsendinguptheentireeventbyacolossalexcessofapologies.Thebroadcasteristootunedintohisownsetofattitudestorealizewhatisgoingon.

EDWARD SAID: Yes. It was in 1982 in southern Lebanon, when Israeli radiowould often put captured guerrillas on the air as a form of psychologicalwarfare.Butinthecaseyouaretalkingabout,noonewasdeceived.Infact,thePalestinians inBeirutmadeacassetterecordingof thewholeshowandplayed it back in the evening as a way of entertaining people. Let metranslateasample:

Israelibroadcaster:Yourname?CapturedPalestinian:AhmedAbdulHamidAbuSite.Israeli:Whatisyourmovementname?Palestinian:MymovementnameisAbuLell[whichinEnglishmeansFatherofNight,witharatherthreatening,horriblesoundtoit].

Israeli:Tellme,MrAbuLell,towhichterroristorganizationdoyoubelong?Palestinian:IbelongtothePopularFrontfortheLiberation…ImeanterrorizationofPalestine.

Israeli:Andwhendidyougetinvolvedintheterroristorganization?Palestinian:WhenIfirstbecameawareofterrorism.Israeli:WhatwasyourmissioninSouthLebanon?Palestinian:Mymissionwasterrorism.Inotherwords,wewouldentervillagesandjustterrorizetheoccupants.Andwhenevertherewerewomenandchildreninparticular,wewouldterrorizeeverything,andallwedidwasterrorism.

Israeli:Anddidyoupractiseterrorismoutofbeliefinacauseorjustformoney?

Palestinian:No,justformoney.Whatkindofcauseisthisanyway?Istherestillacause?Wesoldoutalongtimeago.

Israeli:Tellme…wheredotheterroristorganizationsgettheirmoney?Palestinian:Fromanyonewhohassparemoneyforterrorism.Israeli:WhatisyouropinionoftheterroristArafat?Palestinian:Iswearthatheisthegreatestterroristofall.Heistheonewhosoldusandthecauseout.Hiswholelifeisterrorism.[Ofcourse,toaPalestinianthiscouldmeanthatheisthemostcommittedofall,butitsoundsasifheisjustatotalsellout.]

Israeli:WhatisyouropinionofthewayinwhichtheIsraelidefenceforceshaveconductedthemselves?

haveconductedthemselves?Palestinian:Onmyhonour,wethanktheIsraelidefenceforcesfortheirgoodtreatmentofeachterrorist.

Israeli:Doyouhaveanyadviceforotherterrorists,whoarestillterrorizingtheIDF?

Palestinian:MyadvicetothemistosurrendertheirarmstotheIDF.Whattheywillfindthereisthebestpossibletreatment.

Israeli:Lastly,MrTerrorist,wouldyouliketosendamessagetoyourfamily?

Palestinian:IwouldliketoassuremyfamilyandfriendsthatIamingoodhealth.Iwouldalsoliketothanktheenemybroadcastingfacilityforlettingmespeakoutlikethis.

Israeli:YoumeantheVoiceofIsrael?Palestinian:Yes,yes,sir.Thankyou,sir.Yesofcourse,sir.

SALMANRUSHDIE:Andthiswentoutovertheair?EDWARDSAID:Absolutely.Itwasputoutonadailybasis,andrecordedinBeirut

andplayedbacktotheguerrillas.It’saveryfunnyandwonderfulstory.SALMAN RUSHDIE: You also talk about a photo article in a fashionmagazine,

undertheheadline‘TerroristCulture’,whichclaimsthatthePalestiniansarenot really Palestinians because they have simply hijacked Arab dress andrenameditPalestinian.

EDWARDSAID:Wedoitallthetime!SALMANRUSHDIE:Thearticlealsoclaimsthatthissupposedlydistinctivedressis

not that of the people but of the upper middle class. Referring to theAmerican author of the article, SharonChurcher, youwrite: ‘In the largerscheme of things… she is somebody doing a hack job on a hack fashionmagazine.’ And yet, you say you feel the need to go right back to thebeginning, to explain the whole history of Palestine in order to unmakeSharon Churcher’s lie and show that this is in fact genuinely popularPalestiniandress.Doesn’tthisneedtogobackagainandagainoverthesamestorybecometiring?

EDWARDSAID:Itdoes,butyoudoitanyway.Itisliketryingtofindthemagicalmoment when everything starts, as in Midnight’s Children. You knowmidnight,andsoyougoback.Butitisveryhardtodothatbecauseyouhavetoworkouteverythingandgetpastalotofquestionsinthedailypressaboutwhy Palestinians don’t just stay where they are and stop causing trouble.

Thatimmediatelylaunchesyouintoatremendousharangue,asyouexplainto people: ‘My mother was born in Nazareth, my father was born inJerusalem…’Theinterestingthingis that thereseemstobenothingin theworldwhichsustains thestory:unlessyougoontelling it, itwill justdropanddisappear.

SALMANRUSHDIE:Theneedtobeperpetuallytold.EDWARD SAID: Exactly. The other narratives have a kind of permanence of

institutionalexistenceandyoujusthavetotrytoworkawayatthem.SALMAN RUSHDIE: This is one of the things that you criticize from within

Palestinianness:thelackofanyseriousefforttoinstitutionalizethestory,togiveitanobjectiveexistence.

EDWARD SAID:That’s right. It is interesting that right up to 1948,most of thewriting by Palestinians expressed a fear that theywere about to lose theircountry.TheirdescriptionsofcitiesandotherplacesinPalestineappearedasakindofpleadingbeforeatribunal.AfterthedispersionofthePalestinians,however, there was a curious period of silence until a new Palestinianliteraturebegantodevelopinthefiftiesand,aboveall,thesixties.Giventhesizeofthisachievement,itisstrangethatnonarrativeofPalestinianhistoryhaseverbeeninstitutionalizedinadefinitivemasterwork.Thereneverseemstobeenoughtime,andonealwayshastheimpressionthatone’senemy—inthiscasetheIsraelis—aretryingtotakethearchiveaway.Thegravestimageformein1982wasoftheIsraelisshippingoutthearchivesofthePalestineResearchCentreinBeiruttoTelAviv.

SALMANRUSHDIE:Inthecontextofliteratureratherthanhistory,youarguethatthe inadequacy of the narrative is due to the discontinuity of Palestinianexistence.Isthisconnectedwiththeproblemofwritingahistory?

EDWARD SAID: Yes. There aremany different kinds of Palestinian experience,whichcannotallbeassembledintoone.Onewouldthereforehavetowriteparallel histories of the communities in Lebanon, the occupied territories,andsoon.Thatisthecentralproblem.It isalmostimpossibletoimagineasinglenarrative:itwouldhavetobethekindofcrazyhistorythatcomesoutinMidnight’sChildren,withallthoselittlestrandscomingandgoinginandout.

SALMANRUSHDIE:YouhavetalkedofThePessoptimistasafirstmanifestationof the attempt to write in a form which appears to be formlessness, andwhich in fact mirrors the instability of the situation. Could you say somemoreaboutthis?

EDWARDSAID:It’sarathereccentricview,perhaps.ImyselfamnotascholarofPalestinianandcertainlynotArabicliteratureingeneral.ButIamfascinatedbytheimpressionmadeoneveryoneby,forinstance,Kanafani’snovelMenintheSun,whosetextureexemplifiestheuncertaintywhetheroneistalkingaboutthepastorthepresent.Onestoryofhis,called,Ithink,‘TheReturntoHaifa’, followsa familywho left in1948and resettled inRamallah.MuchlatertheyreturntovisittheirhouseinHaifa,andtomeetagainthesontheyhad left behind in a panic and who was adopted by an Israeli family.Throughoutthenovelthereisapowerfulsenseofendlesstemporalmotion,inwhichpast,presentandfutureintertwinewithoutanyfixedcentre.

SALMANRUSHDIE:PerhapswecouldnowturntothelengthydiscussioninAfterthe Last Sky about the unheard voices of Palestinian women. You write:‘Andyet,Irecognizeinallthisafundamentalproblem—thecrucialabsenceofwomen.Withfewexceptions,womenseemtohaveplayedlittlemorethantheroleofhyphen,connective,transition,mereincident.Unlessweareabletoperceiveattheinteriorofourlifethestatementswomenmake:concrete,watchful, compassionate, immensely poignant, strangely invulnerable—wewill never fully understand our experience of dispossession.’ The mainillustration you then give is a film, The Fertile Memory, by the youngPalestiniandirectorMichelKhleifi,whichdealswith theexperienceof twoPalestinianwomen.

EDWARDSAID:Yes.Thisfilmmadeaverystrongimpressiononme.Oneofthemost striking scenes revolves around the older woman, who is actuallyKhleifi’saunt.ShehasapieceofpropertyinNazarethwhichaJewishfamilyhasbeenlivingonformanyyears,butonedayherdaughterandson-in-lawcomewiththenewsthatthisfamilynowwantstobuyupthetitledeeds.Shemakesitclearthatsheisnotinterested.‘Butwhatdoyoumean?’theyinsist.Theyarelivingonit;it’stheirland.Theyjustwanttomakethingseasierforyoubygivingyoumoneyinreturnforthedeeds.’‘No,Iwon’tdothat,’shereplies.Itisatotallyirrationalposition,andKhleifiregisterstheexpressionofstubbornness,almosttranscendentfoolishness,onherface.‘Idon’thavethe land now,’ she explains. ‘Butwhoknowswhatwill happen?Wewerehere first.Then the Jewscameandotherswill comeafter them. Iown theland and I’ll die, but it will stay there despite the comings and goings ofpeople.’Sheisthentakentoseeherlandforthefirsttime—ithadbeenlefttoherbyherhusband,whowenttoLebanonin1948anddiedthere.Khleifirecordsher extraordinary experienceofwalkingon the land that sheowns

but does not own, treading gently and turning round and round. Thensuddenly her expression changes as she realizes the absurdity of it all andwalksaway.Thisscenetypifiedformethepersistentpresenceofthewomanin Palestinian life—and, at the same time, the lack of acknowledgementwhichthatpresencehaselicited.ThereisastrongmisogyniststreakinArabsociety:akindoffearanddislikeexistingalongsiderespectandadmiration.IrememberanotheroccasionwhenIwaswithafriendlookingatapictureofaratherlargeandformidableyethappyPalestinianwoman,herarmsfoldedacross her chest. This friend summed up the whole ambivalence with hisremark: There is the Palestinian woman, in all her strength … and herugliness.’Thepictureofthiswoman,byJeanMohr,seemstosaysomethingthatwehavenotreallybeenabletotouchupon.ThatexperienceisonethatI,asaman,inthisPalestiniansortofmess,ambeginningtotrytoarticulate.

SALMANRUSHDIE:InAftertheLastSkyyousaythat,havinglivedinsideWesterncultureforalongtime,youunderstandaswellasanynon-JewcanhopetodowhatisthepowerofZionismfortheJewishpeople.Youalsodescribeitasaprogrammeofslowandsteadyacquisitionthathasbeenmoreefficientand competent than anything the Palestinians have been able to put upagainstit.TheproblemisthatanyattempttoprovideacritiqueofZionismisfaced, particularly nowadays, with the charge that it is anti-Semitism indisguise.Theretort thatyouarenotanti-Semiticbutanti-Zionist isalways,oroften,greetedwith:‘Ohyes,weknowthatcode.’Whatyouhavedoneinthis book and in The Question of Palestine is to offer a very useful,emotionally neutral critique of Zionism as an historical phenomenon.Perhapsyoucouldsayafewwordsaboutthis.

EDWARD SAID: In my opinion, the question of Zionism is the touchstone ofcontemporarypolitical judgement.A lotofpeoplewhoarehappy toattackapartheid or US intervention in Central America are not prepared to talkaboutZionismandwhatithasdonetothePalestinians.Tobeavictimofavictimdoespresent quite unusual difficulties.For if you are trying to dealwiththeclassicvictimofalltime—theJewandhisorhermovement—thentoportrayyourself as thevictimof the Jew is a comedyworthyof oneofyourownnovels.Butnowthereisanewdimension,aswecanseefromthespateofbooksandarticlesinwhichanykindofcriticismofIsraelistreatedasanumbrellaforanti-Semitism.ParticularlyintheUnitedStates,ifyousayanythingatall,asanArabfromaMuslimculture,youareseentobejoiningclassical European or Western anti-Semitism. It has become absolutely

necessary, therefore, toconcentrateon theparticularhistoryandcontextofZionismindiscussingwhatitrepresentsforthePalestinian.

SALMANRUSHDIE:Theproblem, then, is tomakepeople seeZionismasbeinglikeanythingelseinhistory,asarisingfromsourcesandgoingsomewhere.DoyouthinkthatZionismhaschangeditsnatureinrecentyears,apartfromthefactthatithasbecomesubjecttocriticism?

EDWARDSAID:Oneofmymainconcerns is theextent towhichpeoplearenotfrozeninattitudesofdifferenceandmutualhostility.IhavemetmanyJewsoverthelasttenyearswhoareveryinterestedinsomekindofexchange,andevents in thesixtieshavecreatedasignificantcommunityofJewswhoarenotcomfortablewiththeabsolutesofZionism.Thewholenotionofcrossingover,ofmovingfromoneidentitytoanother,isextremelyimportanttome,beingasIam—asweallare—asortofhybrid.

SALMANRUSHDIE:Iwouldliketoaskyouacoupleofmorepersonalquestions.YousaythattobeaPalestinianisbasicallytocomefromaMuslimculture,andyetyouarenotaMuslim.Doyoufindthataproblem?Havetherebeenanyhistoricalfrictionsinthisrespect?

EDWARDSAID:All Icansayis thatIhavehadnoexperienceofsuchfrictions.My own sense is that our situation as Palestinians is very different fromLebanon,whereconflictsbetweenSunnis,Shiites,Maronites,Orthodoxandso forth have been sharply felt historically. One of the virtues of being aPalestinianisthatitteachesyoutofeelyourparticularityinanewway,notonly as a problem but as a kind of gift. Whether in the Arab world orelsewhere, twentieth-century mass society has destroyed identity in sopowerfulawaythatitisworthagreatdealtokeepthisspecificityalive.

SALMAN RUSHDIE: You write: ‘The vast majority of our people are nowthoroughlysickofthemisfortunesthathavebefallenus,partlythroughourown fault, partly becauseofwho thedispossessors are, andpartly becauseour cause has a singular ineffectuality to it, capable neither of sufficientlymobilizingourfriendsnorofovercomingourenemies.Ontheotherhand,Ihavenevermet aPalestinianwho is tiredenoughofbeingaPalestinian togiveupentirely.’

EDWARDSAID:That’sratherwellput!SALMANRUSHDIE:This bringsme tomy final point that, unlike your previous

three books, which centred on the dispute between Eastern and Westerncultures, After the Last Sky focuses much more on an inner dispute ordialecticat theheartofPalestinianness.Afteraperiodofextroversion,you

suggest, many Palestinians are themselves experiencing a certain turninginwards.Whyisthisso?Whathasbeenyourownexperience?

EDWARD SAID: Well, obviously much of it has to do with disillusion. Mostpeopleinmyowngeneration—andIcan’treallyspeakforothers—grewupin an atmosphere of despondency. But then in the late sixties and earlyseventies, a tremendous enthusiasm and romantic glamour attached to theriseofanewmovementoutoftheashes.Inamaterialsenseitaccomplishedvery little: no land was liberated during that period. Moreover, theexcitementofthePalestinianresistance,asitwascalledinthosedays,wasaratherheadyatmosphere,formingpartofArabnationalismandeven—inanironic and extraordinaryway—part of theArab oil boom.Now all that isbeginning to crumble before our eyes, giving way to a sense ofdisillusionment and questioning aboutwhether itwas everworthwhile andwhereweare togo fromhere. Itwasas anexpressionof thismood that IwroteAftertheLastSky.Thephotographswereimportantinordertoshowthatwe are not talking just of our ownpersonal, hermetic disillusionment.ForthePalestinianshavebecomeakindofcommodityorpublicpossession,useful,forexample,toexplainthephenomenonofterrorism.Ifoundmyselfwriting from the point of view of someone who had at last managed toconnectthepartthatwasaprofessorofEnglishandthepartthatlived,inasmallway,thelifeofPalestine.LuckilyJeanMohrhadbuiltupquitealargearchive of pictures since heworked for the Red Cross in 1949.We cametogetherunderstrangecircumstances:hewasputtingupsomepicturesandIwasworkingasaconsultantfortheUnitedNations.Sincetheywouldnotletuswritewhatwewanted,wesaid:‘Let’shaveabookanddoitinourownway.’Itrepresentedaverypersonalcommitmentonbothourparts.

SALMANRUSHDIE:Thepictureonthecoverisreallyquiteextraordinary—amanwithakindofstarburstontheright lensofhisglasses.Asyousay,hehasbeenblindedbyabulletinoneeye,buthaslearnedtolivewithit.Heisstillwearingthespectacles…andstillsmiling.

EDWARDSAID:Jean toldmethathe tookthephotoas themanwasenroute tovisithisson,whohadbeensentencedtolifeimprisonment.

*‘TheEarthisClosingonUs’,translatedbyAbdullahal-Udhari,inVictimsofaMap,A1SaqiBooks,London,1984,p.13.*Fromthepoem‘TheTwentyImpossibles’,byTawfiqZayyad,citedbySaidinAftertheLastSky.

7

NADINEGORDIMER

RIANMALAN

NURUDDINFARAH

KAPUŚCIŃSKI’SANGOLA

NADINEGORDIMER

SomethingOutThere

Great White sharks, killer bees, werewolves, devils, alien horrors burstingfromthechestsofmoviespacemen:thepopularcultureofourfearfultimeshasprovided us with so many variations on the ancient myth of the Beast, the‘something’lurkingouttherethathuntsusandishuntedbyus,astomakeitoneofthedefiningmetaphorsoftheage.Inthejungleofthecities,weliveamongstouraccumulationsofthingsbehinddoorsgarlandedwithlocksandchains,andfinditalltooeasytofeartheunforeseeable,all-destroyingcomingoftheOgre—CharlesManson,theAyatollahKhomeini, theBlobfromOuterSpace.Clearly,manyoftheseforebodingsaretheproductofaffluenceandofpower.Thehavesandthepowerful,fearingtheuprisingofthehave-notsandthepowerless,dreamofthemasmonsters.

There is a wild animal roaming around the affluent white suburbs ofJohannesburginthelongnovellawhichgivesitstitletoNadineGordimer’snewcollection; butGordimer is the least lurid ofwriters, and her creature’sworstoffence is tobite awomanon the shoulder.Herprose is cool andmeticulous,andthesightingsofherBeast—probablyababoon,it issaid—areforthemostpart low-key,evendomestic:a legofvenisonstolen fromitshook inMariellaChapman’s kitchen; a photograph of thrashing tree-tops taken by the thirteen-year-oldschoolboyStanleyDobrowathisbarmitzvah;ashape,apairofeyesseeninthevegetationattheedgeofanexclusivegolfcourse.Andattheendofthepiecethecreatureisquitematter-of-factlydemystified;deadinalane,itisnonightmare monster, but ‘only a baboon, after all; not an orang-utan, not achimpanzee—just a native species.’ White South Africans have no need ofdreamogres:itisrealitythattheyfear,andthesomethingoutthereisthefuture.TheNaasKloppers, thevanGelders and all theother rather stupid, somewhatcaricaturedbigotswithwhomNadineGordimer populates her tale go to sometroubletoprotectthemselves,butthebaboonshowsthemamostuncomfortable

truth: ‘The Bokkie Scholtz’s house is burglar-proofed, has fine wires onwindows and doors which activate an alarm … They have a half-breedRottweilerwhowasasleep,apparently,onthefrontstep,whentheattackcame.Itjustshowsyou—whateveryoudo,youcan’tcallyourselfsafe.’

Thisqualityofsubversion,thisdeliberateuseofbanalityinordertodisturb,iswhatsetsMsGordimer’sversionoftheBeastmythapart.Thepulpfictionandcinemawhichexploitthisthemeusuallyoffernomorethananenjoyablescare,asanitizedfrisson;theyactuallyreassureuswhilepretendingtoterrify.SomethingOutThereconcentrates,bycontrast,on theminutiaeof therealworld.Theartliesintherefusalofallexaggeration,allhyperbole.Fromthisrefusalspringsthestory’s authority, its unsettling menace. ‘Whatever you do, you can’t callyourselfsafe.’

Asecondnarrativecounterpointsthatofthebaboon.Theother‘something’outtherebeyondthewhitesuburbsisacelloffourterrorists,twoblackmenandawhitecoupleorrather,awhitemanandwomanwhoarenolongerlovers.Hereagain,NadineGordimer’s purpose is to demystify a kind of twentieth-centuryBeast.Thefourinsurgents,listeningtoanti-terroristrhetoricontheradio,‘wereaccustomed to smile as people will when they must realize that those beingreferredtoasmonstersarethehumanbeingsdrinkingaglassofwater,cuttingahang-nail,writingaletter,inthesameroom;arethemselves.’

While the terroristswait for the right time toblowupapower station,MsGordimer brings them expertly to life, not as beasts, not orang-utans orchimpanzees.Justanativespecies.Shegivesus,ineffect,portraitsoftworatherdifferentlyoddcouples: thewhitemanandwoman,CharlesandJoy,awkwardbothwiththeirblackcolleaguesandwitheachother;andtheblackmen,Eddie,theoutgoingone,whojeopardizestheirmissionbyhitchingarideintotownforanightamongthebrightlights,andVusi,thebattle-hardenedone,thestillcentreofthegroup.Thestilted,damagedhumanityofthisfoursomeissetagainstthebluff inhumanity of the inhabitants of the rich suburbs. Mr and Mrs NaasKlopper, the estate agent and his biscuit-making wife, with their split-levellounge and their arsenal of labour-saving devices and their impala-skin barstools,areperhapsthestory’srealbeasts.

The toneremainsmuted to theveryend.Theclimaxof the terroristplot ismadetohappen,sotospeak,off-stage; the livesofCharlesandJoyandEddieandVusifadeintohints,rumours,readingsbetweenthelinesofthenews.Andthebaboon,aswehaveseen,issimplyshot.Butthen,inthelastcoupleofpages,comes a brilliant stroke. Rising above its characters’ essential unknowability

(‘Nobodyreallyknows…whomtheybelievedthemselvestobe’),andalsotheirignoranceoftheirownhistoriesandgenealogies,thenarrative,inakindofrageagainstthisexcessofunknowing,placesthemalluponthemapofhistory—putsthem firmly in their context, or place.And just asDrGrahame Fraser-Smith,whenhe looked into thebaboon’seyesonagolfcourse, fanciedhimself tobelooking ‘back into a consciousness from which part of his own came,’ to beclosingacircle,sothenovellaatitsconclusionclosesacircle,joiningthefar-offpasttotheapproachingfuture;andbothofthem(ominouslyforalltheKlopperscaughtwithinthecircle’sclosingjaws)areblack.

There are nine other stories in this collection, not all of themof the samedistinction as the novella. One seems to me an unmitigated disaster. MsGordimer has taken upon herself the task of writing, on Hermann Kafka’sbehalf,areplytohisson’sfamousandnever-sent‘LettertoHisFather.’‘LetterfromHisFather’isatwenty-pagearchembarrassment,fullofHomelyWisdom(‘Well,we had to acceptwhatGod gave’), LiteraryNudging (‘Some say youwerealsosomekindofprophet’)andoccasionalfitsofThigh-Slapping(‘Hah!IknowI’mnointellectual,butIknewhowtolive’).ItmaywellbethecasethatFranzwasunfairtoPapa,butIamafraidMsGordimerhasnotdonetheoldmananyfavours,either.

A second story, ‘Rags and Bones’, fails to escape the trap ofinconsequentially. It begins casually: ‘A woman named Beryl Fels recentlypickedupanoldtinchestinajunkshop.’Anditremainsdesultorytotheend.Inthe tin chest is a bundle of letters; they draw Beryl Fels into the story of anaffair, in the 1940s, between a distinguished male scientist and an equallydistinguishedwomanwriter.The lovers feelobliged tokeep theiraffairsecret,because‘wearebothpeopleinthepubliceye;it’sthepriceorthereward,Godknows, of what we both happen to be.’ Butwhen Beryl Fels looks into theirlives,shecanfindnotraceofeitherofthem.Thewriterisunknown,notoneofherbooks inprint; the scientisthas likewisevanished from the record.This isintended,I take it,asacruel irony: thepainof thesecrecyrenderedabsurdbythedisintegrationoftheirpublicstatus.Butthestory’scasualtone,itsreluctanceto allow any heightening of feeling, prevents the irony frombeing felt by thereader.

Fortunately,theothersevenstoriesareexcellent.‘Blinder’isaboutRose,anoldfamilyretainerwithaweaknessforgoingonalcoholicbinges,whosuddenlyhastocopewithadifferentsortofbefuddlement,adifferent‘blinder’—thatis,the death of her lover, Ephraim. This brief story is passionate, moving and

beautiful. ‘A Correspondence Course’ describes the friendship that growsbetweenayoungwomanandapoliticalprisoner,throughtheletterstheywritetoeach other. But the important character is Pat Haberman, the mother of theyoung woman, Harriet. While the man is safely in jail, she encourages thecorrespondence,eventalksaboutitproudlytoothers,asproofofherliberalism.Butthenthemanescapes,andcomestothehouseand,inanextraordinaryfinalparagraph, ‘Liquid flashes like the sweeps of heat that had gone through herblood at fifty took Pat to her bedroom. She locked that door,wanting to beatuponit,whimper…Todosomethingwithherhandsshefilledatooth-glassatthewash-handbasinand,aprisonertendinghisonesprigofgreen,gavewatertothepotofAfricanvioletsforwhatshehaddone,donetoherdarlinggirl,donefor.’Thegamehasturnedreal,and,aswehaveseen,realityinMsGordimer’sworldisathingofwhichtobeafraid.

The remaining stories can be read as variations on the theme of betrayal.(And,ofcourse,intheKafkastory,MsGordimer’sHermannisaccusingFranzofbetrayal, too:ofbetrayinghisfamilyandhisJudaism;andPatHabermanin‘A Correspondence Course’ comes to feel she has betrayed her daughter.) In‘Sins of the ThirdAge’, the treachery is sexual. The carefully laid retirementplansofanelderlycouple,PeterandMania,areirrevocablyalteredwhenPeterhasanaffair; evenwhenhechooses toput this affairbehindhim, thedamagecannotbeundone.Paradisehasbeenlost.‘Terminal’presentsanotherversionofthetreasonoflovers.Awomandyingofanincurablediseasemakesapactwithherhusband thathewillnotpreventhersuicide.Her lastact is to leavehimanote:‘Keepyourpromise.Don’thavemerevived.’Buthedoes;andwhen,aftertakingthepills,shehasthe‘terroroffeelingherselfwakingfromit’,thetraitorisholdingherhand.

Andinevitablytherearethebetrayalsofpolitics.In‘ACityoftheDead,ACityof theLiving’, inwhichMsGordimermagnificentlydescribes life in theblackghetto,apoorwoman,oppressedbythetensionofhavingawantedmanhiding in her cramped home, squeals to the police. Her treason teaches hernothing;shelongstotelleveryone,‘Idon’tknowwhyIdidit,’butnobodyasks.Instead,peoplespit.In‘CrimesofConscience’,conversely,weseethatbetrayalcan be a kind of education. The story is about a government-paid infiltrator,Felterman,whoseducesaradicalwomaninordertospyonhergroup.Hesensesareserveinher,asifshewerewaitingforhimtospeaksomepassword.Finallyhediscoversit:‘I’vebeenspyingonyou,’heconfesses,andshetakeshisheadintoherhands.

‘AttheRendezvousofVictory’isaclassiccameoportrait—oftheguerrilla‘general’ forwhom,after thesuccessofhis revolution,hisoldfriend,nowthePrime Minister of the newly liberated nation, has less and less time. MsGordimer’sportraitofSinclair‘GeneralGiant’Zwedu, thediscardedherowhowillnottoethelineandwhobecomesanembarrassment,isverydeeplyfeltandimagined; and from Che Guevara, kept at a distance by Castro after theirtriumph,totherevolutionaryfightersofpresent-dayBlackAfrica,itisaportraitwithmanyechoes inreal life.Likemostof thestories inwhat is, inspiteofacoupleoffalsenotes,adistinguishedcollection,itmakesitspointandcreatesitsresonances not by any exaggeration or flashiness, but by the scrupulousdepictionofwhatallNadineGordimer’sreaderswill instantlyrecognizeastheunvarnishedtruth.

1984

TheEssentialGesture:Writing,Politics,Places

Like most of her South African white contemporaries, the young NadineGordimer was a sort of sleepwalker: ‘I led an outward life of sybariticmeagreness that I am ashamed of. In it I did not one thing that I wantedwholeheartedlytodo…Myexistentialselfwasbreathingbutinert.’Shehas,ofcourse, left that somnambulist self farbehind. ‘I liveat6,000 feet ina societywhirling,stamping,swayingwiththeforceofrevolutionarychange,’shesaidattheNewYorkInstituteoftheHumanitiesin1982,demonstrating,ashereditorandcollaboratorStephenClingmansuggests,her full realization that theSouthAfrican revolution was no longermerely potential; that it had already begun.One way of characterizing The Essential Gesture: Writing, Politics, Placeswouldbetocallitthestoryofanartist’sawakening;toliterature,toAfrica,andtothegreatuglyrealityofapartheid.

InAndréBrink’sbookMapmakers,hetellsusthathisawakeninghappened‘on a bench in the LuxembourgGardens in Paris’, where themeaning of therecent massacre at Sharpeville (this was in 1960) came home to him, andchangedhisviewofhiscountryforever.ForGordimer, theprocesswasmoreinward,moreliterary.The“problems”ofmycountrydidnotsetmewriting;onthe contrary, it was learning to write that sentme falling, falling through the

surface of the “South African way of life”.’ This volume of essays, skilfullyselected and introduced by Clingman, is the record of that lifelong creativeplunge.Andifsomeof theearlymaterialcansound,at times,a littleplaintive—‘Wheredowhitesfit inintheNewAfrica?Nowhere,I’minclinedtosay,inmygloomierandleastcourageousmoods’—itisneverlessthanwhollytruthful.NadineGordimerhasbeenradicalizedbyhertime—or,rather,byherattempttowritehertime—andit’sfascinatingtowatchhistoryhappeningtoherprose.

‘Itisnotfornothing,’shetellsus,‘thatIchoseasanepigraphformynovelJuly’sPeopleaquotationfromGramsci:“Theoldisdying,andthenewcannotbeborn;inthisinterregnumtherearisesagreatdiversityofmorbidsymptoms”.’Now many people would include among these symptoms the fact that whiteexperiences of the South African reality, as evoked by white novelists,playwrights and film-makers, continue to command a degree of internationalattention that blackdescriptionsofblack experienceonly rarely receive.SteveBiko’s story is subsumed, on film, into the story of Donald Woods; ChrisMenges’sfine,humanenewmovieAWorldApartispraisedbytheObserver’sJohnColemanforforcingus‘intosomerealizationofwhatitmustbelike,dayin, day out, for those middle-class whites there, brave enough to buck thesystem’;andwhileBrink,Gordimer,BreytenBreytenbach,AtholFugardandJ.M. Coetzee have well-deserved worldwide reputations, very few of theiradmirerscouldnamemorethan(perhaps)oneortwooftheirblackcounterparts.

NadineGordimer is fullyawareof theparadoxesofhersituation:acentralfigure inworld literaturewho is also, in her ownestimation, peripheral to hercountry’spoliticalandevenculturallife,dependentfortheethicalvalidityofherpositiononthewillingnessofsomeSouthAfricanblackstoconcedethatwhiteswhorejectapartheidhaveagenuineroletoplayinthestruggleforfreedom.Itisagreatstrengthofherwritingthatsherecognizesthisvulnerability,andyet(orperhapsandtherefore)succeedsinwritingwithimmenseconfidence,opennessandanentirelyunromanticclearnessofsight.Sheisawriterwhofindsitabsurdthat South African writers are praised around the world for their ‘courage’,becausesheknows,asCamusknew,thatcourageisavaluenotofliteraturebutoflife.

The literaryvalueof these essays derives not only from their testamentarypower, but also from the range and depth of their preoccupations. ‘Why DidBram Fischer Choose Jail?’ (1966) deals with the communist leader aroundwhom, thirteenyears later,shebuiltherfinestnovel,Burger’sDaughter. ‘OneMan Living Through It’ is a moving portrait of the young black writer Nat

Nakasa, who committed suicide in exile in the USA. The ‘Letter fromJohannesburg’(1976)isabrilliantdescriptionofthetimeoftheSowetoriots.

However, some of the most potent pieces are not directly, or at any rateprimarily, ‘political’. The section entitled ‘A Writer in Africa’ containsGordimer’sreckoningswith,amongotherplaces,Botswana,Egypt,Madagascar,andespeciallytheCongoRiver.Thequalityoftheproseisuneven:sometimeslittle more than conventional magazine travel writing, it can suddenly takegloriousflight;forexamplewhenconsideringthebeautifulMalagasywordlolo,which means both ‘soul’ and ‘butterfly’. Here she is, unforgettably, on theCongo:

Beginwithastainintheocean.Threehundredmilesouttosea,offthewestcoastofAfrica, themarkofapresence the immensityof seashasnotbeenabletoswallow…thestainofland;amassiveland,acontinent,givingrisetoandfeedingarivergreatenoughtomakeadentinthesea.

That immensity isGordimer’s chosen subject, and she has grown tomatch it.The writers she quotes and draws strength from—Brecht, Mann, Pasternak,Solzhenitsyn,Achebe—havetaughtherthattheonlyimportantthingforawriteris‘togoonwritingthetruthasheseesit.’Suchaneffortinevitablybringstheartistintothearenaofpublicaffairs,andnotonlyintotalitarianstates;nordoessuch a fierce engagement with life necessarily involve creative compromise.Gordimer (who is good at quoting) quotesTurgenev: ‘Without freedom in thewidestsenseoftheword—inrelationtooneself…indeed,toone’speopleandone’s history—a true artist is unthinkable; without that air it is impossible tobreathe.’

Andsheaddsherown,indisputablelastword:‘Inthatairalone,commitmentandcreativefreedombecomeone.’

1990

RIANMALAN

LosAngeles,1979.AyoungSouthAfrican,RianMalan,whohasfledSouthAfrica because ‘I wouldn’t carry a gun for apartheid, and because Iwouldn’tcarryagunagainstit,’landsajobwritingrock’n’rollreviewsforasmallmusicmagazine.HeisintheUnitedStatesillegallyandso,asaprecaution,usesapen-name.Thepen-nameis‘NelsonMandela’.Nobodyrecognizesit.‘TheESTianswhoowned themagazinemistook theword formandala,’Malan tellsus. It isoneof thefewgenuinelyfunnymoments inanotherwiseenraged, remorseless(andmagnificent)book,andlikeallthebestcomedy,itcontainsatruth.Duringhis imprisonment, and even more so since his release,MrMandela has beenelevatedtothelevelofspiritualsymbol.HereallyisNelsonMandalanow.

ToworryaboutwhetherthisisentirelyaGoodThingisinnowaytodetractfromMrMandela’squalitiesofhumanityandleadership.ButNelsonMandelaisa politician involved in one of the cruellest struggles of modern times. TheunderstandableWembley euphoria should not blind us to the inevitablemoralambiguities of such a struggle. These gut-wrenching ambiguities, black SouthAfricanaswellaswhiteAfrikanerambiguities,arethesubjectofRianMalan’sMyTraitor’sHeart.

MrMalan is the black sheep of one of the verywhitest of families in theWhite Tribe of Afrikaners. His ancestor D. F.Malan, who came to power in1948, was the first architect of apartheid. And further back in time, hiseighteenth-century forebear Dawid Malan lived a life which, we are told,remainsa truthfulmetaphorforpresent-daySouthAfrica.DawidMalanfell inlovewithablackwoman,gaveupeverythingforher,andfledwithhisSaraintoXhosacountryacrosstheGreatFishRiver.Hereappearedinhistoryyearslater,withoutSara,transformedintoawhitesupremacist,withawhitewifeandsons,‘willingtodieratherthanaccordblackpeopleequalitybeforethelaw.’Hewasnowoneof the ringleadersof aBoer revolt against theBritish,whohadbeen‘interferingwiththeirrighttochastiseandslaughterthedark-skinnedheathenastheydeemednecessary.’Thisisthemoment,RianMalansuggests,atwhichtheBoers became Afrikaners, ‘arrogant, xenophobic, and “full of blood”, as the

Zulussayoftyrants.’Andheaddsthatnothinghaschanged,that‘itallleadsusback,intheend,toDawidMalanandalawformulatedonthebanksoftheGreatFishRivertwohundredyearsago:Youhavetoputtheblackmandown,plantyourfootonhisneck,andkeephimthatwayforever,lesthespringupandslityourthroat.’

ThebookthatRianMalansetouttowritewasaltogethermoreconventionalthan the one he haswritten. It was supposed to be a history of the great anddetestedMalan family, as told by its kafferboetie (that is, ‘brother of blacks’,‘nigger-lover’) renegade. But along theway he ran into, and faced up to, thetruththatisthemakingofhisbook—thatforallhisnigger-loving,leftistviews,forallhislonghairanddayssmokingzol(dope)onthehillsidesinthemysticalTolkienishcompanyof‘wiseoldAfs’,forallhisdaubingofpro-blackslogansonthewallsofJohannesburg’snorthernsuburbs,wherescarcelyablackwouldeverseethem,hewasstillaMalan;thathecouldonlywriteabouttheatrocityofSouthAfricabyadmittingtheatrocityhiddeninhisowntraitorousheart.

Thesourceofitallisfear.Lesthespringupandslityourthroat.EvenforaradicaljournalistlikeRianMalan,walkinginSowetoatnightcanbeterrifying.When the day comes, you’ll still be whitey. And along with the fear comesincomprehension: of the necklace killings, of the burning alive of thirty-twoblack‘witches’byfellow-blacks inSekhukuniland,of the thingswhichhumanbeings, black and white, are capable of. Malan is excellent and unforgivingabout the naiveties and hypocrisies of white leftists like himself. ‘When thechipsweredown…and thekilling started, therewerenowhiteson theblacksideofthebarricade.None.Ever.’

ForallRianMalan’sclear-sightednessandtruth-telling,histestamentisnotwithoutunresolvedproblems.‘Wewhitepeoplecouldn’treallytalktoAfricans,’hewrites. ‘They lived on the far side of a barrier of language and culture, sowhenwe tried to look into their hearts, allwe sawwasdarkness.Whoknowswhat lurks in darkness? We feared the worst.’ One of the strengths of MyTraitor’sHeart is precisely this portrait of SouthAfrica as a place ofmutualincomprehension,ofstrugglinglanguages.Butifoneperceivesthattheissueisatbottomlinguistic,mightonenotmakesomeefforttolearnblacklanguages?If such an idea has ever occurred to RianMalan, it isn’t evident from thesepages;which ispuzzlingandoneof thebook’s few falsenotes. (The repeatedprotestationabout‘lovingblacks’is,tomyearatanyrate,another.)

However, the presence of a few ragged edges does little to undermine thebook’s immense power. Perhaps that rawness, that sense of a cri de cæur too

painfultobecontrolledfully,isactuallythesourceofthewriting’senergy.And,intruth,oneofthebook’sgreatesttriumphsislinguistic.Here,asinnothingI’veread before, is the demotic voice of black and Afrikaner South Africa. InMalan’s pages, blacks andwhites go jolling (‘a very important SouthAfricanconcept,connotingkamikazedebaucheries’),indulgingin‘drank,dagga,dobbelen vok’—‘drink, dope, dice and fucking’. They speak the street patois, tsotsi-taal:tobuydopefromablackdealer,you‘gooi[give]thedouble-horneddevil’shand sign and charf [say], “Level with the gravel, ek se”.’ An English SouthAfricanisasoutpiel,‘saltdick’,becausehehasonefootinSouthAfricaandtheother inEngland, ‘a straddle so broad that his cock dangled in the sea’.Mostevocativeofall,perhaps,are the termsusedfor the tworivalblackcamps: theANC/UDF supporters who ‘say Mandela’; and the remnants of the BlackConsciousnessmovement,theoneswho‘sayBiko’.TheBikopeoplearecalled‘Zim-zims’becausetheirheadsarefullof‘isms’—socialism,racism,capitalism,colonialism. TheMandela men are ‘Wararas’, from the Afrikaanswaar-waar(‘where-where’),becausetheUDF’sdoctrineofnon-racialismisthoughtbyitsopponents tobeconfused. ‘Theyweregropingaround in thedark in searchoftheirtrueenemy,crying,“Where?Where?”’

Malan isexcellenton thestilluncompletedwarbetween theZim-zimsandWararas;butthemainthrustofhisbookisitsattempttoreachtheheartoftheSouth African tragedy by exploring ‘tales of ordinary murder’. Murder isdifferent inSouthAfrica,Malansays.Inmostpartsof theworld,murder isanintimate crime; killers and victims are usually well known to each other. InSouthAfrica,murder is a relationship of strangers, brought about by race, orideology,ordarker,cruellermotivations(thewitch-burningsofSekhukuniland)forwhichallexplanationsseeminadequate.

ThecentralsectionofMyTraitor’sHeartisfullofsuchtales.Twostandout.Ablackman,DennisMosheshwe,issavagelybeatentodeathbyapoorwhite,AugiedeKoker.Malancallsthis‘acompletelytraditionalSouthAfricandeath.ThereisevenatraditionalwordforitinAfrikaans:kafferpak,meaninga“kaffirhiding”.’

AndthenthereisthestoryofSimontheHammerman,themultiplemurdererofEmpangeni,whostruck terror intowhiteheartsuntilhesimplysurrendered.RianMalan’sinvestigationoftheHammermancaseissuperb.FirsthetellsusofSimon’s prison quarry days, where Simonwitnessed the deliberate beating todeathoffellow-prisoners,andfoundthat,ashesmashedrockswithahammer,‘it isnot longbefore the rocksare thewhiteman’shead.’ButMalandoesnot

stophere.‘Somethingishidinginthisstory.’Hediscoverscruellertruths.SimontheHammermanwas the childof an incestuousunion, anoutcast, a sourceofhorroramonghisownZulupeople,becauseincest‘causesharrowingturbulencein the spirit world.’ His hideous crimes were as much a response to hisexperienceofrejectionbyblacksasofmaltreatmentbywhites.Ambiguity:thekindoftruththatisbeyondpolitics,thatishardtotellbecausepeopledon’twishtohear it.MyTraitor’sHeart is fullofsuch invaluable,awkward,unpackagedtruth.

Its final section, when RianMalan goes to sit at the feet of an old whitewoman living among Zulus in a remote comer of the country, is the leastsuccessful, because here Malan seems to be straining for the metaphoricalresonancewhich,elsewhereinhisbook,comesnaturallyoutofhismaterial.Butit ishere thatwe find thekey to this tormentedbook.Theoldwoman,CreinaAlcock,tellsRianMalan:‘Loveisworthnothinguntilithasbeentestedbyitsowndefeat…Love is toenableyou to transcenddefeat.’MyTraitor’sHeart,which tellsusof thedefeatof itsauthor’s illusions,his ideals,hissenseofhisown goodness, his courage, and his ability to comprehend his fellow SouthAfricansastheydancetheirdeath-dances,whichisfullofbitterness,cynicism,angerandstorms,isatriumphantinstanceofthistypeofdefeatedlove.

1990

NURUDDINFARAH

Hereisastarvingchild,thereisamaddog;feedher,bombhim…informationaboutAfricareachesus,mostof the time, throughaseriesof filterswhich,byreducingthevastcontinent toaclusterofemotiveslogans,succeedindenyingusanysenseofcomplexity,context,truth.Butthen,asNuruddinFarahremindsus inhisnewnovel (hissixth), theWestwasalways ratherarbitraryabout thenames it pinned to Africa: Nigeria was named for an imperialist’s mistress,EthiopialazilyderivedfromtheGreekfor‘apersonwithablackface’.

FormanyyearsFarah,oneof thefinestofcontemporaryAfricannovelists,has been bringing us a very differentworld. HisAfrica,most particularly hisnative Somalia, is in revolt against the long hegemony of cartographers andbestowersofnames.TobeaSomaliistobeapeopleunitedbyalanguageanddivided bymaps.Maps is a book about such political divisions, and thewarstheycause(theconflictintheOgadeniscentraltothestory);butwhatmakesitatrue and rich work of art is Farah’s knowledge that the deepest divisions arethose betweenmen andwomen, and the riftswithin the self.Maps charts thechasmsofthesoul.

AnorphanedSomalibaby,Askar,isfoundandraisedintheOgadenvillageof Kallefo by a non-Somali woman, Misra. The book’s first movement—themusical term seems necessary—is a meditation on their relationship. He is apreternaturallywisechild,andhisgrowingup isatoncemythicalandsensual,punctuated by such strange images as the discovery of amanviolating a hen.ThepassionandintimacyofwhatdevelopsbetweenAskarandMisraculminatesinasurrealriteofblood,whentheboy,justonce,andinexplicably,menstruates.

Later, as ayoungman inMogadiscio (its localname,Xamar, the red city,echoes and underlines the importance in the novel of blood), he encountersMisra again. Now she is a woman under a dark cloud, accused of an act oftreason that led to 600 people in Kallefo being executed by the Ethiopians.Askar,whoisbeingdrawntothelifeofaSomalirevolutionaryfighter,issetatwarwithhimself:willhefindherguiltyornot?Shedeniesthetreason;and,asAskar’sunclepointsout,‘throughouthistory,menhaveblamedwomenforthe

illlucktheythemselveshavebroughtontheirheads.’ThestruggleinsideAskaristhatancientstruggle,andit isalsoanechoofthe‘real’war,andofhisowndivisions and doubts. The resolution is ambiguous, butAskar does arrive at acertaintyofsorts,acharacterizationoflifeassacrifice,asblood.

Aroundthecentralnarrative,Farahweavesawebof leitmotifsdrawnfromfolk-tales and fromdreams; and in the end it is thisweb inwhich thenovel’sstrength is seen to reside, as the meaning of names, the remaking of history,mesheswithnightmareandmyth toformthebasisofanewdescriptionof theworld,andoffersusnewmapsforold.

1986

KAPUŚCIŃSKI’SANGOLA

What kinds of life should we call ‘ordinary’, here in the late twentiethcentury? What is ‘normal’ in these abnormal days? For many of us, anydefinitionofthequotidianwouldstillincludenotionsofpeaceandstability.Wewouldstill,perhaps,wishtopictureeverydaylifeasrhythmic,basedonsettledandrepeatingsocialpatterns.RyszardKapuściński’sworkseemstobebasedonhis knowledge that such conventional descriptions of actuality are now solimitedinapplicationthattheyhavebecome,inaway,fictions.

There’s this ‘spryolddame’whomKapuścińskimeets in the emptinessofLuanda,Angola,duringthecivilwarof1975.She’sworriedthatthewhiteraceisabouttoenter‘thevestigialphase.Barelytwopercent(oftheinhabitantsofearth)willhavenaturallyblondhair.Blondes:…ararityofrarities.’Youcouldsay that humdrum, predictable lives are getting to be as abnormal as thoseblondes.

Kapuściński’s own life hasn’t been dull. He’s been to twenty-sevenrevolutions in fifty-five years, which could be a record. The statistic revealsmore than just his line of work. It suggests that the revolution, that thing ofrumours and broken rhythms, amorphous, bloody, fitful, is now one of thenormativeprocessesofhumanaffairs.Whenpeacebecomesabnormal,combatfatigues, automatic rifles,missiles, hostages, hunger, fear become the buildingblocksofanew,uncomfortabledefinitionofthereal.

Insuchabravenewworld,it’snotsurprisingthattheforeigncorrespondenthasbecomeamyth-figure.Hegoesoutthere,doesn’the,andsendsusthebadnews. And when we’ve had too much reality, we turn the page, we switchchannels,enoughisenough.

Alas,ourintrepidcorrespondentstendtorunintobrickwalls.Thesituationis too confused, they can’t find anythingout, it’s time to file a story. In thesestoriesRyszardKapuścińskiisabletoadmire‘theopulenceofhumanfantasy.’Onehundred thousandCubanswere inAngolaaccording to theworld’spress,whereasintruththetotalfightingstrengthoftheleftistMPLAwasabout30,000soldiers,‘ofwhomabouttwothirdswereAngolans.’TheMPLA’sCubanallies

had brought over lots of extra uniforms, because a Cuban uniform scared thepantsofftheright-wingFNLAandUNITAtroops.

Ifwarreportageissooftenmake-believe,fromwhomarewetohearreliableaccounts of the horrific, metamorphosed reality of our age? To answer thisquestion is to understand the profound importance of Kapuściński’s writing.There is a difference between invention and imagination, and Kapuścińskipossessesinabundancethegiftsofthetrueimaginativewriter.

InhisbooksonHaileSelassieandtheShah,andnowinAnotherDayofLife,hisdescriptions—no,hisresponses—dowhatonlyartcanmanage:thatis,theyfire our own imaginations. One Kapuściński is worth a thousand grizzledjournofantasists;andthroughhisastonishingblendofreportageandartistryweget as close towhat he calls the incommunicable image ofwar aswe’re everlikelytobyreading.

AnotherDayofLifeisaboutthebirth-crisisofindependentAngola.Itisalsoa superlative, vivid piece of writing, containing many of the resonant surrealvisionsthathavebecomeKapuściński’strademark.

In the opening section, the capital, Luanda, is emptying rapidly, itsinhabitantsconvincedthatHoldenRoberto’sFNLAforces,backedbyZaireandtheWest,areabouttodevastatethecity.‘Everybody,’Kapuścińskinotes,‘wasbusybuildingcrates.’Fromthisprosaicbeginninghelaunchesintoarhapsodicaccount of the emptying of the city’s stone buildings into the wooden crates.‘Gradually … the stone city lost its value in favour of the wooden city …Nowhere else in theworldhad I seen sucha city…But afterward, [it] sailedawayontheocean…Idon’tknowiftherehadeverbeenaninstanceofawholecitysailingacrosstheocean,butthatisexactlywhathappened.Thecitysailedoutintotheworld,insearchofitsinhabitants.’

The seagoing crate-city belonged to the Portuguese who had fled Angola.Kapuściński finally traced the crates to their destinations: Rio, Capetown,Lisbon.HisodetothewoodenLuandaisperhapsashadetoolong,butit’sstillalittlebitofgenius.OfallthosewhowroteaboutLuanda,onlyKapuścińskisawthewoodencity.Itwasthereundereverybody’snoses,butitstillneededeyestosee.

InthisAngola,aroadblockuses‘aceiling-highwardrobebuiltintheformofa huge triptych with a movable crystal-glass mirror mounted on the centralsection.Bymanipulating thismirror…so that it reflected the raysof thesun,they blinded drivers.’ At such roadblocks, death is always close. It can comewhenyougreettheguardswiththewordcamarada,notknowingthatthisisthe

factionthatusesthegreetingirmão.After a journey down one of Angola’s many dangerous roads, past the

Russian roulette of roadblocks and the constant probability of ambush,Kapuściński’s companion Nelson murmurs, ‘Another day of life.’ He iscelebrating their survival, good, so we live until tomorrow at least. ButKapuścińskiappreciatesthatthephrasehasasecondarymeaning:thisishowlifeisnow,thisisjustthewayofit,itiswhatlivinghasbecome:adailyescapefromdeath,untilthedayyoudon’t.

Kapuściński counterpoints his portrait of this shifting, uncertain, terrifiedworldwithhis telexeshome,settingupa tensionbetween the rich,ambiguoustruthoflifeinwar-crazedAngolaandtheneedofnewspapersforfacts.Formostofthebook,hisportrayalofthenightmareseemsfarmoreimportantthanwhatmight‘really’begoingon.But in thebook’s lastmovement, factsdobegin toemerge.History takes centre stage, theMPLAcomes to power, the poetNetobecomesPresident,apageturns,adayoflifeends.

Thisconcluding,albeittemporary,victoryoffactsoveruncertaintyshowsusthatKapuścińskiisnotthekindofpurely‘literary’writerwhomighthavebeencontentwith an open-ended, unresolved portrait of life as chaos, studdedwithmanybrilliantmetaphorsofunknowing.Thetruthmaybehardtoestablish,butitstillneedsestablishing.

‘Overseas, they don’t know,’ Kapuściński writes, but he often does. Heknows that thewholewarhasdependedon twomen: thepilotRuiz,whofliesammunition to besieged border cities, and the engineer Alberto Ribeiro, whomanages to keep Luanda’s water supply going.Without these two, the citieswouldhavehadtosurrendertotheSouthAfrica-backedenemyforces.

Such details are, like the wooden crate-city, proof that Kapuściński’s is averypiercingeye.Hehearswell,too.OfanMPLAcommissar,hesays:‘Ju-Ju’scommuniqués are brief and calm when things are going well … But whensomethingturnsrotten,[they]becomeprolixandcrabbed,adjectivesproliferate,and self-praise and epithets scorning the enemy multiply.’ Ours is the mostcrypticofcenturies,itstruenatureadarksecret.RyszardKapuścińskiisthekindofcodebreakerweneed.

1987

8

JOHNBERGER

GRAHAMGREENE

JOHNLECARRÉ

ONADVENTURE

ATTHEADELAIDEFESTIVAL

TRAVELLINGWITHCHATWIN

CHATWIN’STRAVELS

JULIANBARNES

KAZUOISHIGURO

JOHNBERGER

The young John Berger was memorably described by Stephen Spender asbeinglike‘afoghorn inafog.’Theremarkwas intendedtobederogatory—inthosedaysBerger’sartcriticism in theNewStatesmanwasgettingupa lotofdistinguished noses—but Berger wrote to Spender thanking him for thecompliment.‘Whatcouldbemoreusefulinafogthanafoghorn?’hewondered.

Over thirty years later the fog is thicker than ever, and the foghorn is stillworking.Berger’sgreatgifthasalwaysbeenhisabilitytohelpusseehowwhatwe see can be manipulated. At the end of the influential first programme ofWaysofSeeing,hesaid: ‘Iamcontrollingandusing formyownpurposes themeansof reproductionneeded for theseprogrammes. Ihopeyouwill considerwhatIarrange—butbescepticalofit.’

Ways of Telling by Geoff Dyer is the first book-length study of Berger’swork,anditsauthor,whocallsit‘anextendedresponsefromaninterestedandgrateful reader’,writes primarily in celebration of that keen but sceptical eye.Andwhy not? ‘All hiswork,’ asDyer rightly says, ‘is criticism in the sense,notedbyBarthes,ofbringingintocrisis,andtheintellectualstimulationofsuchan approach remindsme of a very differentmanner of critic,KennethTynan,becausetheybothputthemselvesontheline,atrisk,inthemannerofallartistsandveryfewotherwritersofcriticism.’

Berger is, of course, not only a critic but a creative artist (albeit one ofdisputablequality).HisnovelsG.,aboutwhose‘strikinglycinematic’structureGeoff Dyer is particularly good, and Pig Earth, the first part of a trilogy inwhich Berger proposes to examine nothing less than ‘the intricate movementfrompeasantsocietytometropolis’,bearwitnesstohisimaginativegifts.Buttome,andtoagenerationoftheleft,hisideashavemeantmorethanhisdreams.

E.P.Thompsonhasremindedusthatpoliticaldiscourseinthiscountrywasnot always the narrow, managerial thing it is today, but an argument aboutmorals,aboutwhatkindofworldwewishedtolivein.ForJohnBerger,politicsremainsanethicaldiscourse;sodoesart.Heisaformidableprotagonistinoneofthemostcrucialbattlesofourage:thewaroverthenatureofreality.

WalterBenjaminandBertoltBrechtunderstoodlongagothat‘realism’isnotanaestheticconcept.Itisnotasetofrulestowriteorpaintby.Itis,rather,anattempt to respond as fully as possible to the circumstances of the world inwhich the artistworks.Realismdepends,Berger says, ‘upon the nature of theconclusions drawn about the subject’, and not on any particular technique.Mimetic naturalism,whichBerger calls a ‘thoughtless, superficial goggling atappearances’,isaverydifferentaffair.ThetechnologizednightmaresofaJ.G.Ballardare,tomeatleast,adealmorerealisticthanthecool,poisedworldsofanAnitaBrookner.

Migration,andthesituationof theémigréasworkerandasartist,hasbeenanotherofBerger’slong-standingconcerns.InhisnovelAPainterofOurTime,andlaterinASeventhMan,thestudyofEuropeanmigrantlabourundertakenincollaborationwith thephotographer JeanMohr, he looked at, respectively, thebourgeois and working-class variants of the phenomenon. In both books, theexperienceofculturaldisplacementresultsinformsofdegradation.Thepainterinthenovelfeelscrippledbyhisémigréstatus,capableonlyof‘averylimitedart’;theworkersofASeventhManare‘homeless’and‘nameless’,andintheireyesweseetheeffectsofcenturiesof‘infernal’history.

One can appreciate the compassion of Berger’s vision, and admire thebrilliantoriginalityofASeventhMan,andstillwishtostartpushingbeyondsuchapparentdespondency.Tomigrateiscertainlytoloselanguageandhome,tobedefinedbyothers,tobecomeinvisibleor,evenworse,atarget;itistoexperiencedeep changes and wrenches in the soul. But the migrant is not simplytransformed by his act; he also transforms his newworld.Migrantsmaywellbecomemutants,butitisoutofsuchhybridizationthatnewnesscanemerge.

WaysofTellingisagood,solidjobofwork.GeoffDyerisnohagiographer,quitecapableofpointinguptheutterhumourlessnessofBerger’swork,andoftakinghishatchet to theunsuccessfulearlynovels.He takesusonwhat is, forthemostpart,askilfullyconductedvoyageroundJohnBergerthatmanagestobebothreadableandscholarly.

HeisparticularlysharpwhenhediscussesBerger’spresent ideaofhimselfas story-teller, a rolewhichBerger interprets as a submerging of self: ‘Story-tellers lose theirown identityandareopen to the livesofotherpeople.’Dyer,shrewdly,commentsthatBergerisnottherighttypetoremainsimplyawitness,suggestingthatthereis‘somethingsoeagerinBerger’switnessingastoturnitinto an overly participatory activity…Berger is simply too self-conscious towriteasadetachedobserver.’

Afewnigglescreepin.InthepassageonTheFootofClive,thedullydog-ridden novel, I waited in vain for some comparison to Grass’s majesticDogYears,publishedwithinmonthsof theBergerbook.AndwhenDyerdiscussesthefailureofCorker’sFreedomanditsattempttowriteaboutpeoplewho‘aredeprivedof themeansof translatingwhat theyknow into thoughtswhich theycan think,’ it is extraordinary that the master of inarticulacy, Harold Pinter,remainsunmentioned.

Dyer is also far toobothered about the opinions of the egregiousAuberonWaugh andGrahamLord. JohnBerger can dowithout their praise. The bookreadsattimeslikeapleaforBerger’sinclusioninthatveryestablishmentwhichhe has opposed all his life, for all Dyer’s disclaimers. I think this is becauseDyer, exactly likeBerger, has terrible troublewith suchwords as ‘greatness’,‘genius’and‘masterpiece’.

Bergerhimselfadmittedthathisfailuretodealwiththeideaofgeniuswasthe ‘immense theoretical weakness’ ofWays of Seeing. He has continued toneed,andtoemploy,suchdescriptionsofexceptionality,but,asDyersays,‘hasneverappliedhimselftodevelopingasystematictheoryoftheaesthetic.’

Likemaster,likepupil.Whatdoes‘masterpiece’meanwhenitcanbeusedlikethis:‘Boucher’simageisoneofthegreatwhat-the-butler-sawmasterpiecesinpainting’?Which,onewonders,aretheothers?

It iswhenour ideasofquality,of transcendence,even,are ill-defined, thatonegetstoworryingabouttheapprovalofthe‘literaryestablishment’.Thereisworktobedonehere,becausesuchworriesarefaintlyabsurd.Thefoghorndoesnotdesirethegoodopinionofthefog.

1987

GRAHAMGREENE

TheCaptainandtheEnemy

GrahamGreene’snewnovelbeginswiththefigureofatwelve-year-oldboy,Victor Baxter—‘Baxter Three’—fleeing across his boarding school quad toescape from his enemies. Baxter is one of nature’s ‘Amalekites’, an outsider,intended, as theBible suggests, for slaying. Sowhen themysterious, piratical‘Captain’arriveswithanotefromtheboy’sfatherandpermission to takehimout,youngBaxterlooksuponhimasasaviour:aviewhewill,inaway,neverlose,foritistheCaptainwhoenableshimtostopbeinganAmalekitealmostforever,byabductinghimandsochangingthecourseofhislife.

‘Willyoubesuretoknowthegoodsidefromthebad,theCaptainfromtheenemy?’ reads the novel’s epigraph, and within a page or two Greene hasenmeshedusinjustsuchamoraltangle:Weretheboy’sschoolfellowshisrealfoes?Ishisabductortrulyonthegoodside?DidtheCaptainreallywinBaxterThreefromhisfather inagameofbackgammon?Orwas it,ashisfather laterinsists,actuallychess?Canthefatherbewhatheiscalledthroughthebook:viz.,‘theDevil’?And is theCaptain justified, that is to say right, tohave capturedthisboyforthesakeofthewomanhepurportstolove,acertainLiza,wholongsforachild—particularlyasLiza,whentheCaptainfirstmether,wasrecoveringfrom an abortion, which was itself the outcome of her liaison with the elderBaxter,theDevilhimself?

For seventy-nine pages, as he explores such questions with a miraculous,zanylightnessoftouch,Greenewriteslikeadream.Therecanrarelyhavebeenalessprobablefictionalfamily—helplessLizaandhercrookofabeau,lookingaftertheDevil’schild—buttheirstoryispuredelight.TheCaptain,alsoknownasColonelClaridge,theMajor,theSergeant,SeñorSmithandMrBrown,givesBaxterThreeaneducationintheslipperinessandmutabilityofthings.Theboyquicklybecomes ‘Jim’,while ‘Victor’ is added to theCaptain’s list of names.Geography, under the Captain’s tutelage, becomes a war game. And there’s

economics, too: ‘Ifyou’reabit shortofcash…neverdrinkat thebar,unlessyou’vebookedaroomfirst,forotherwisetheywanttheirmoneystraightaway.’Whereas, once you’ve booked a room, you can eat a hearty dinner and thenabscond,leavingbehindacheapsuitcasecontainingtwostoutbricks.

Mostproblematicofall,however,aretheCaptain’slessonsinlove.HetakeshimtoseethefilmKingKong,andtheboyispuzzled.‘“Whydoesn’thedropher?”Iasked.IsupposeIsoundedveryheartlesstotheCaptain,forherepliedharshly,“He lovesher,boy.Can’tyouunderstand that—he lovesher?”ButofcourseIcouldn’tunderstand.’Ofcourse,becauseitisJim’stragedytobeunableto love any human being. (Even more bewildering to him is the Captain’sassertionthatthewoman’skickingoutatKongdoesnotmeanshedoesn’tlikehim.‘It’sawoman’sway.’)

The unloving child, the pale, needywoman and the cut-price corsair whoneeds her are as haunting (and, I suppose one ought to say, ‘seedy’) a trio asGreene has come up with in a long time. And while we’re seeing throughtwelve-year-oldJim’scoldeyes,thenovelworks.Thenweleapaheadtenyears.Jimisnowtwenty-two,LizadiesanaccidentaldeathwhiletheCaptainisawayinPanama,andthespellbreaks.

Part of theproblem is technical.Greenehasdescribed the fitfulmanner inwhich the novel was written over a period of some thirteen years, and hisfictional Jim’s narrativemethod now acquires something of the same stop-goquality.Jimbecomesaself-consciousnarrator,revisingandupdatinghistextaswegoalong;untilatlengthhethrowsthewholethingintoawaste-paperbasket,whence it is retrievedbyoneColonelMartinez, an associate of theCaptain’s,who considers having it recommended for a Cuban literary prize. After thelightnessofthenovel’searlypages,thiscomesacrossasheavy-handedstuff.

But the biggest disappointment is theweakening of emotional tension thatresults fromLiza’s death.With thewomanout of theway, the bookbecomessomethinglikearippingyam, inwhichtheold,maleandsomewhatexhaustedthemeofthebetrayalofthe(fake)fatherbythe(false)sonmovesponderouslytocentrestage.

Jim,lustingforadventure,hasdecidedtojointheCaptaininPanama,where,it transpires, he’s busy airlifting weapons to the Sandinistas (the action takesplacebeforethe1979Nicaraguanrevolution).Geographyis,onceagain,awargame, but Jim is blithely ignorant of Latin America (‘Where’s Estelí? Whatcountryareyoutalkingabout?’And,alittlelater:‘WhatCanaltreaty?’).HeliestotheCaptain,notdaringtotellhimthatLizaisdead;andatlast,afterabitter

quarrel,spills thebeansabouthissurrogatefather’ssecretplanetoMrQuigly,an Englishman with a bit of an American accent, who poses as a financialcorrespondent but is actually the ghost of many such shadowy spooks fromGreenelandlongago,drinkingPiscoSoursandarrangingfor theCaptaintobeshotdownandkilled.

TheCaptain turnsout tobeKingKong,afterall.Hehasheldon toLiza’smemoryforyears,writingtohereveryday,andwhensheisfreedfromhisgraspit’stheaeroplanesthatgethim.(Butnotreallytheaeroplanes,asweknowfromthe film’s famous last line: “Twas Beauty killed the Beast.’) And Jim,remorselessJim,turnsouttobeanAmalekiteafterall:anenemy,fittobeslain.

Goodish news, then, from Greeneland. After the damp squib of DoctorFischerofGenevaandtheDonCamillo-likeflatnessofMonsignorQuixote,halfanovel’sworthofvintageGreeneisnottobesneezedat.Weshouldbegratefulforthatinitialchampagne,andtolerantofwhatfollows,evenifmuchofitisaratherplainPanamanianplonk.

1988

YoursEtc.:LetterstothePress1945-1989

Ifyouglancethroughtheindexofthissprightlyvolume,inwhichistobefoundamost entertaining celebration of GrahamGreene’s lesser-known career as aprolific author of letters to newspapers, youwill find unarguable proof of histotaladdictiontoeverythingabouthistime,fromthegreatestissuesofthedaytothehumblestsubjectimaginable.Under‘E’youwillfind,incloseproximity,ElSalvador, Eliot, T. S., Elizabeth II,Queen, andElthamLaundrySuppliesLtd.TheletterGofferstheequallyremarkablesequence:God,sexof,Goddard,LordRayner, Gonzi, Archbishop, andGorbachev,Mikhail; while, amongst theMs,Matisse rubs shoulders withMauMau rebellion andMaudling; andMy FairLady(musical)isfollowedbyMyLai(massacre).Hereisevidenceofthatmostun-English of characteristics, an eclectic and frontierless engagementwith theworld; engagementnot in thenarrowsenseofovertpolitical affiliation,but inthebroadersenseoffindingoneselfpossessedofahugeandconsumingneedtoreportontherealityofreallife.

Greene has always acted upon the assumption that a writer might have a

publicroleaswellasapurelyliteraryone;thatthereismuchthatanartistmightlegitimately comment on outside the confines of his art.His letters keep up arunningcommentaryonanumberofissues,notablythenatureoftheSandinistagovernmentinNicaraguaandofitsopponents,the‘contra’insurgentsandtheirpuppet-mastersintheUnitedStates;andthefollyofNATO’scommitmenttothenuclear ‘first strike’; and, at a somewhat less elevated level, thepostal serviceitself(therearelettersonfairpayforpostmen,andletterscontainingapparentlycontradictoryschemestobankruptthePostOfficeentirely).

The inevitable effect of such meddling is that Greene has been regularlyreviled in the public prints, accused of blasphemy, bizarrerie, Communism,Jansenismandothercapitaloffences.Oneofthemostremarkableaspectsofthiscollection is its demonstration of Greene’s perfect equanimity and good-humoured perseverance in the face of such opposition. When accused ofbecoming ‘increasingly leftwing in his old age’ byAlexanderChancellor, onaccountofhisfriendshipwithNicaragua’sTomásBorge,Greenereplied:‘Iam,Ihopeyouwillagree,afriendofAlexanderChancellor.Does thismeanthatIamseeingBlue?’Or,whentheAmericanright-wingerWilliamF.Buckleytookserious issuewithGreene’sfrivoloussuggestion that ‘itwouldbeequally true,or equally false’ to call the Nicaraguan government Catholic as Communist,Greenerejoined:‘Alas,theseEnglishjokes!Imusttrytoavoidthem.’

JournalistsingeneralappeartobetheonlyhumanbeingsforwhomGrahamGreene has little time or respect. ‘A petty reason perhapswhy novelistsmoreandmore try to keep a distance from journalists is that novelists are trying towritethetruthandjournalistsaretryingtowritefiction,’hesayssharplybeforedemolishing one Stephen Pile. Other journos who get the treatment in thesepages include Bernard Levin, Penelope Gilliatt, Nicholas Wapshott, MarinaWarner andBernard Levin again.On rarer occasions, such as the fairlywell-known tiff with Anthony Burgess, he quarrels with fellow-novelists as well,though in this case Burgess’s habit of telling interviewers that Greene ‘wasliving with a woman whose husband walks by at night and shouts up at thewindow “Crapaud! Salaud!”’ might be thought a sufficient provocation.(Typically,Greenequarrelsonlywiththeyelling.‘ButIliveonthefourthfloor.Andwiththetraffic,howcanherhusbandcomeshoutingthroughthewindow?’)

Some vendettas are friendlier. The verbal swordplay between Greene andEvelyn Waugh is one of the features of this book. When an AmericandramatizationofTheHeartoftheMatterflopped,Waughwrote:‘IlongtohearanaccountofyourBostondisaster.’Greene,inhisturn,iscapableofreferringto

apieceofWaughcorrespondenceas‘alittlecastratedletter’.Butthefriendshipwasadeepone,andwhenWaughdiedGreenedefendedhimfiercelyagainstanattack by Beverley Nichols in the Spectator. He likens Nichols to the ‘oldestunmarriedwoman’customarilyemployedbyanunnamedWestAfricantribetospituponadeadchief’sgrave.‘Evelynneverwaitedtillamandiedtoreleasehisvenom.’ Greene finely remarks. ‘He would always have chosen to spit in aman’sfaceratherthanonhisgrave.’

YoursEtc.,inwhichGreene’slettersareplacedincontextbytheexcellentlywittyChristopherHawtree(whoremarks,atonepoint,intrueGreenejournalist-hating fashion, that ‘a haddock never looks best pleased at being squashedagainstamugshotofPaulJohnson’),isabookstuddedwithgems.Hereyouwilllearn of Greene’s addiction to practical jokes, to the formation of satiricalsocieties and toNew Statesman andSpectator competitions, particularly thoseaskingforparodiesofGrahamGreene.Severalofhisbooks,includingthemostrecentnovelTheCaptainandtheEnemy,hadtheiroriginsinsuchcompetitionentries. Here, too, are Greene’s letters championing Charlie Chaplin,anatomizing Indo-China, defending Nabokov’s Lolita, resigning from theAmerican Academy over the Vietnam War, and fulminating against theoutrageous decision by the British government to seize and burn books andmusic imported fromArgentina during the FalklandsWar. Contraception, thePope, liberation theologyandvoodooalsofigureprominently.Along life,andan argumentative one; and while there have been those who wondered, asKingsleyMartininformedGreeneduringthecourseofadisputein1958,‘whyanyone so successful and creative as you should have become so “bitter, rudeanddisgruntled”,’mostreaderswill, I’msure,agreethatwhileGreeneisquitecapable of rudeness he is never bitter and seems a most enviably gruntledindividual.Gruntlementislikewisehisreaders’happylot.

1989

JOHNLECARRÉ

Ifyourcharactershave tohidebehind façades for a living, theworldofyournovelcanalltooeasilylookmorelikeacheapstagesetthantherealthing.Butreadersreadspynovelstobepersuadedthatthey’regettinganauthenticinsightintotheclosedworldonthefarsideofthelooking-glass.Itisthisproblem(HowdoyoucreateasatisfyinglyroundedportraitofFlatland?Howtogivefaces tonecessarily faceless men?) which the spy novelist must solve if he wants hisworktotranscendthegenreandbetreatedasSeriousLiterature.

JohnleCarré,whowantstobetakenveryseriouslyindeed,hasinthepasttriedtwosolutionstowhatcouldbecalledthe‘humanfactor’problem.Hisbestbook,TinkerTailorSoldierSpy,was abrilliantlyplottedprocedural thriller inwhich the secret world was shown not to be flat but composed of differentdimensions. Here character was no longer destiny. Deception and power hadsupplantedit.Thiswasatheatreofmasks,whosespook-world,itseconomyandmorals indecay,becameaperfectmetaphor forBritainasawhole.Earlier, inThe Spy Who Came in from the Cold, the technique was different. In thisvariation, an agent burdened with residual human values (love, ethics, etc.)foundhimselfatoddswiththeanti-ethicofthe‘espiocrats’.The‘round’worldoftheemotionsstruggledagainstthe‘flat’worldofpower.ThisisthemethodtowhichTheRussiaHousereturns.

LoveandwarhavelongbeenincompatibleinleCarré.Hismostproficientcold warriors, like George Smiley, have emotional lives that are not so hot.Whereas thosewhopermit themselveshumanattachments, theoneswhocomein from the cold, tend to become casualties of the loveless, endless war ofshadows fromwhich they can’t really escape. To put itmore simply:womenusually mean trouble. Mr Palfrey, the spies’ lawyer who is the ostensiblenarratorofTheRussiaHouse,isSmileyishlyunhappyinlove;whileatthecentreofthenovelistheloveaffairofanEnglishpublisher,BarleyBlair,perhapstheunlikeliest spyofall leCarré’shonourable schoolboys,andaRussianwoman,KatyaOrlova.Andfromthisloveaffairallkindsoftroubleflows.

Muchofthetroubleis,I’mafraid,literary.Thereissomethingunavoidably

stick-figure-likeaboutleCarré’sattemptsatcharacterization.Here,forexample,isKatya’s entry into the story: ‘Shewasearnest.Shewas intelligent.Shewasdetermined.Shewas scared, even thoughher dark eyeswere litwith humour.AndshehadthatrarequalitywhichLandauinhisflowerywaylikedtocalltheClassThatOnlyNatureCanBestow.Inotherwords,shehadqualityaswellasstrength.’ This is pretty close to schlockbusterese, and the novel’s malecharactersarenotmuchbetterdoneby.Allthatpublic-schoolchatter,allthoseinsufferable Americans and poetic/tormented/drunk Russians! And if one isgoingtosendafullyformedhumanbeingdownthemeanstreetsoftheinhumansecret world, one ought to be able to make his declaration of love moreconvincingthan,oh,‘It’samature,unselfish,absolute,thrillinglove,’or,‘IloveyousoprofoundlythatIamashamedtobearticulate…Ilookatyou,andIamabsolutelysickofthesoundofmyownvoice.’AtwhichKatya,displayingtheClassThatOnlyNatureCanBestow,suffersherselftobekissed.

The truth is that le Carré’s strengths do not include profoundcharacterization. He is at his best telling a terrific, mystifying story pepperedwith the special vocabulary that he has taught us all and which may be hisgreatest gift to us—mole, lamplighter, tradecraft.Thehuman factor brings outwhat ismostnaïveandsentimental inhisprose.AndthebiggestproblemwithTheRussiaHouseisthatthelovestorytakesupsomuchoftheforegroundthatthespystoryisalmostperfunctorilysimple—aRussianscientistwantshisworkpublished in theWest, it turnsout tocontainsensational informationabout thelimitations of Russian weaponry, the Brits recruit the Russian’s chosenpublisher,theaboveBarleyBlair,togetmoreoutofthesource,theAmericanstakeover,Barleyfallsinlove,thingsbegintogowrong…Foradmirersofthemyriad subtle convolutions of le Carré’s plotting at its best, this isdisappointinglyplainfare.

ThosewhohavelikedTheRussiaHouse—andithasalreadyacquiredmanydistinguishedadmirers,includingRussianones—havepraiseditprimarilyforitsportraitof theUSSRinthethirdsummerof theperestroika, for itsattempts toadapttherulesofthespygenretotherequirementsofwhatonecharactercalls‘glasnostics’.Andthere’snodoubtthatthenovelisfullofinformationabouttheSovietUnion,fromthepriceofnotebooks to theelaboratesystemofbarterbywhichpeopleobtainthethingstheywant;whilethereareglasnosticiansofeverytype to be found within these pages, from committed believers tounreconstructed cold warriors for whom nothing has really changed. But theknowledge the book imparts is head-knowledge; there’s not much here to

illuminethespirit.Onepage,oneparagraphofTatyanaTolstayagivesyoumoreofRussiathanall344pagesofleCarré.WhatashamethatleCarré’sWesternreaders will outnumber readers of Tolstaya’s wicked, magical collection ofstories,OntheGoldenPorch,byseveralthousandstoone.

The shadowworld is evidently a good dealmore fascinating than the onemostpeopleinhabit.Unfortunately,fewseriouswritershaveeverpenetratedit,GrahamGreenebeingthegreatcontemporaryexception.LeCarréisasclosetoa serious writer as the spy genre itself has thrown up. Close, but—this time,anyway—nocigar.

1989

ONADVENTURE

‘Thetrueadventurer,’wroteO.HenryinTheGreenDoor,‘goesforthaimlessand uncalculating to meet and greet unknown fate. A fine example was theProdigalSon—whenhestartedhome.’

Amongthemostremarkablequalitiesofthewordsadventureandadventureris their capaciousness. Any idea that can encompass the Prodigal Son andIndianaJones, that findscommongroundbetween thePilgrimFathers’voyagetoAmericaandthejourneyoftheDarlingswithPeterPantotheNeverland,thatsuggestsaconnectionbetweenAlice’sstepthroughthelooking-glassandCrickandWatson’sdiscoveryofthedoublehelixofDNA,isclearlyoneofthemostresonantnotionsintheculture.Weoftenthinkofadventureasametaphoroflifeitself, andnot only of life: ‘Todie,’ PeterPanmuses, ‘will be an awfully bigadventure.’

Closelyconnectedwith thisversionof the ideaofadventurearenotionsofdanger,of a journey,of theunknown.And,of course,ofheroism:he (or she)whowouldvoyageintothesecretnight,whowouldstepofftheedgeoftheearthbecause it is there,must clearly bemade of the Right Stuff. Sam Shepard asChuck Yeager is perhaps a modern archetype of this myth; Huck Finn itsantithesis, adventure’s antihero.Heroic adventure is, typically, an individualistaffair. There are of course adventurer-heroes who travelled in groups—Argonauts,Everestclimbers, theMagnificentSeven—but themythmoreoftenseemstorequiretheexistentialistpurityofasinglehumanbeingpittedagainstthe immensity of the universe, to prefer the lone sailor in the small boattraversingtheliquidAndesofCapeHorntoanyteameffort,toelevatethelonegunman(ClintEastwoodinmostofhisWesternroles)abovetheWildBunch.

Contemporaryliterarytravellerstend,itbeinganantiheroicage,tobemoreHuckthanChuck.Theirtrueancestorsarenot,perhaps,somuchthewanderingheroesoftheclassicalepoch(Jason,Ulysses,unspeakablypiousAeneas)asthepicaros of the novel.Many of themost appealing pieces of twentieth-century‘travel writing’ read very like picaresque novels, offering us the notion ofadventure-as-mad-quest.EvenItaloCalvino’sfictionalMarcoPolo,inInvisible

Cities, has a whole series of such quests in mind: he travels through hiswondrouscities insearchofhispast,hisfuture,Venice,memory,andstrangerthings: ‘This is the aimofmyexplorations: examining the tracesofhappinessstill to be glimpsed. I gauge its short supply.’ Such conceits, exquisite andcomic,suggestparodiesoftheancientmythoftheHolyGrail.

ToinvoketheGrailistorealizethatadventure,asitisunderstoodtoday,haslostacertainhigh-mindedgrandeur,andthatthelossliesintheareaofpurpose.Once upon a time the journey, the quest, the adventure was not so much aprivate,oridiosyncratic,orcrazyenterpriseasaspirituallabour.TheKnightsoftheRoundTable sought theSangreal inGod’s name.ThePilgrim’sProgress,like its Islamiccounterpart,Farid-ud-dinAttar’sConferenceof theBirds, isanadventure of purification, of winning through to the divine. The voyages ofSindbadtheSailorhavebeenexplicatedinreligio-mysticalterms.Likethelineof sight in a Gothic cathedral, the adventuring spirit was swept forwards andupwards in the directionofGod.This allegorical, transcendent adventuring is,thesedays,moreorlesscompletelydefunct.

Therearegood reasons for feeling relieved thatadventure isnowadays theprovinceof thedetermined, thecuriousand the idiosyncratic.Theadventuringspirit,whenruledbyfaithorideology,hasnotbeenanentirelyGoodThing.Thebehaviour of the Crusader knights, Spanish conquistadors and the like bearswitnesstothis.Likeall important ideas,adventurehasadarksideaswellasalight.ForeveryChristopherColumbus there isalsoaCaptainHook, foreverylamp-genie there is a fiend. The world of the adventurer contains at least asmanymercenary‘soldiersoffortune’as idealisticknights-errant,andforeveryVasco da Gama there is also an Aguirre, Wrath of God. When the spirit ofadventure invades the historical process—when States or their leaders orrepresentatives go adventuring—the results are usually catastrophic. FromGenghisKhan toNapoleonandMussolini,history is litteredwithexamplesofwhat happens when adventurers come to power: disaster, rapine, fire and thesword,BadThingsgalore.Adventureandpoliticsarebestkeptfarapart,ratherlikeuraniumandplutonium.

On the whole, then, the Candide/Quixote model of adventure seemspreferable to older versions. In our increasingly vicarious culture, theadventurersare thepeoplewhoperformmarvelsonourbehalf.Escaping fromtheir own roots, from the prison of everyday reality, they enable us toexperience, if at one remove, something of the exhilaration of the successfuljailbreaker. If urban societybea confiningchain, then theadventurers areour

necessaryHoudinis,remindingusthatchange,difference,strangeness,newness,riskandachievementreallydostillexist,andcan,ifwewish,beattained.

This kind of adventuring has become, or so it seems tome, a prettywellexclusivelyWesternphenomenon.OncetherewasanIbnBattutatosetagainstMarcoPolo,andevenanIslamicempiretolikentotheChristianones.Butit’shard to conceive of, say, an IndianPaulTheroux becoming obsessedwith therailways of the United States, or a black African Karen Blixen heading forScandinavia. I offer the theory that adventuring is, these days, by and large amovementthatoriginatesintherichpartsoftheplanetandheadsforthepoor.Orajourneyfromthecrowdedcitiestowardstheemptyspaces,whichmaybeanother way of saying the same thing. I recently watched a televisiondocumentary in which a group of British adolescents on Honda motor-trikesroared across the perfection of the Saharan sand-dunes, boasting that thecrossingoftheErghadneverbeendonebefore‘onmotorizedtransport’.Iwasleft with the memory of the bemused courteous faces of the locals theyencountered,manyofwhomhadveryprobablycrossedthatdesertonadmittedlynon-motorizedcamels;andIfrettedabouttheethnocentricnarrownessofvisionofsomewhoventureforthintotheexoticSouth.ToaSaharannomad,afterall,thejourneyisthepoint,theshapingfactofexistence;arrivingatsomenotionaldestination—‘conqueringthedesert’—isakindoffiction,theillusionofanend.Adventurestendtobelinearnarratives,butinlife,asinliterature,that’snottheonlywayofseeingthings.

As all writers know, you don’t have to leave home to embark on anadventure.ThepoetBasho, inEdwardBond’splayNarrowRoad to theDeepNorth, returns from his dangerous northward pilgrimage in search ofenlightenment, claiming to have found what he sought. And what wasenlightenment?‘Isawtherewasnothingto learnin thedeepnorth…Yougetenlightenment where you are.’ Many of the greatest adventurers of our age,Marie Curie, Freud, Marx, Einstein, Proust, Kafka, Emily Dickinson and therest,didn’t travelmuch further thana laboratory, a library, aconsulting room.Adventuremay havemuch to do with the pushing back of frontiers, but fewtopographicalboundariescanrivalthefrontiersofthemind.

Eveninthecaseoftravel-adventures,thebestofallarethoseinwhichsomeinnerjourney,someadventureintheself,istherealpoint.PeterPanwouldnotbe the same ifWendy and the Lost Boys didn’t discover that theywanted togrowup, that Paradise has to be lost. The real plot ofMobyDick takes placeinsideAhab; the rest is a fishing trip.And evenQuixote,maddest ofpicaros,

sees himself ridiculous at last: ‘For there are no birds this year in last year’snests.Iwasmad,butIamsanenow.’

So it turns out that Basho is both right and wrong; that the travellingadventurer can, after all, gain knowledge that is not available elsewhere, andthen, by living to tell the tale, offer that knowledge to us. Enlightenment iscertainlytobehadathome,butit’sstillworthmakingthelong,arduoustrip,inspiteofthestormsandbrigands,intotheremotefastnessesofthedeepnorth.

1985

ATTHEADELAIDEFESTIVAL

The first time I went to an international literary festival, I was bullied intoplaying centre-forward for the World against Finland (our host nation) in afootballmatchthatbeganatmidnightbythelightofthemidnightsun—thatis,insemi-darkness.TheFinnishwriters took thegameveryseriously, rehearsingwallpassesandbicyclekicks,andwarninguscasuallythattheirgoalkeeperwasalsothecountry’sharshestliterarycritic,soitmightnotbewhollyadvisabletomakehimcross.Meanwhile, theWorld,whoserepresentativesdidnothavesomuchasalanguageincommon,concentratedontryingtospottheballthroughwhat Flann O’Brien would have called the accretions of black air. My owntroubles were increased by my complete lack of footballing talent, by mydecisionnottowearmyglassesincasetheybroke,andbyD.M.Thomas,whoconvincedagulliblereporterthatIhadoncewonanOlympicmedalatfootballforIndia.Thefinalscore—nothankstotheWorld’sOlympicStar—wasFinland1, the World 6, and the Finns never really forgave us. Such internationalencounterscanberisky.

At literary festivals you can hear J. P. Donleavy lamenting the presentshortageofwomenwhocanbothcookandsew.YoucanbeinstructedbyTedHughes in theuseofvitamins.Scandinaviannovelistswill read translationsofnovels about father-daughter incest, or science-fiction tales in which eightSwedesaremaroonedinaspacestationforfiftyyears.Atliteraryfestivalstherewillbedrink,andarareopportunityforwriterstofeelimportant.TherewillbeinterminablespeechesbytheRussiandelegateabouthowArtismuchtodowiththe passions, and is not rationalistic or objectivist in process. An earnestYugoslavwomanwilldemandthefloorandinformhercolleaguesthattheyareall thevictimsofPositivism,afterwhich therewillbea low,polyglotbuzzofwriters’voices,askinginDutchandArabicandGikuyuifanyoneknowswhatthisPositivismis.AtliteraryfestivalsitisimportantnottobeluredintosittingdowntopokerwithAlAlvarez,unlessyouplayapproximatelyaswellasSteveMcQueeninTheCincinnatiKid.

What is valuable for audiences—for readers—about these rather strange

events is that for some reason they find it interesting to look at and listen toauthors aswell as read their books.What ismost valuable to thewriters is, Ithink,theinformaltalk,theoff-stagestuff.Writersknowtheywillprobablynotmeeteachotherveryoftenandso,whentheydo,theytendtocomedirectlytothepoint,and,usually,totalkagreatdeal.ThisaspectofliterarygatheringsisreminiscentofwhatIwastoldonmyfirstnightatuniversitybytheProvostofmy college. ‘The most valuable part of your education,’ he said in an after-dinner speech to us freshmen, ‘will bewhat you dowhen you sit privately ineachother’sroomsatnight,fertilizingoneanother.’

Thisyear,seekingfertilization,ItravelledtenthousandmilestotheAdelaideFestival’sWriters’Week.IarrivedknowingverylittleaboutAdelaide:capitalofSouthAustralia,closetotheBarossaValleywhereGermanmigrantsestablishedmanyexcellentvineyards,siteofoneof themostattractivecricketgroundsonearth.Notmuch else, except that bothDavidHare,whose playAMap of theWorldwaspremieredatanearlierAdelaideFestival,andtheactorRoshanSethwhoplayedtheleadinit,hadspokenveryhighlyoftheplace.Withinhoursofarriving,however,Iwasofferedamemorablesummaryofthecitybyoneofmyhosts. ‘It’s called the City of Churches, Adelaide,’ he said. ‘But one of thechurchesisnowadiscothèque,andwhat’smoreit’sthefirstdiscoinAustraliatoshowpornofilms.’

Itwasausefulclue,ahintthattherewasmoretoAdelaidethanmettheeye.Whatmettheeyewasconservative,spacious,prettyandalittlebland.AdelaidewasdesignedfromscratchbySouthAustralia’sfirstSurveyor-General,ColonelWilliamLight,in1836.‘Light’sVision’wasofagridsetinagarden,andthat’sthewaythecitystilllooks.Butforallitsparklandandwideavenuesitretainsanairofbeingsomehowunrooted,orunexplained,whichisperhapscommontoallplannedcities. It isattractiveenough,with itsgreeneryand its ‘Adelaide lace’filigreewrought-ironornamentationonmanyporchesandbalconies,butittellsyounothing.Thecity’sshapedoesnotcontainthehistoryorunveilthenatureofitspeople.Itisakindofdisguise.

At times during my stay I would be afflicted by odd feelings ofdisorientation.Ifeltasthoughsomethingwereblurringmyvision,orpreventingmefromfocusingmyeyesproperly.Nodoubtjetlagandfluhadsomethingtodowith this.But itwasn’t just that: Ikept thinkingIwassomewhere inNorthAmerica.Itwasanillusioncreatedbythefurnitureofthestreets—theneon,theposterart,thetrafficlightsallderivefromAmerican,notEuropeanmodels.AndthenAdelaide is anewcity, a citywithoutmuchof apast,nothing in itmore

than150yearsold,andthat’scertainlyAmerican.AnditalsohastodowithachoicemadebywhiteAustralians.Theymaymakeanti-Americanjokesall thetime,buttheyhavechosentoturntheirfacestowardstheNewWorldandawayfromtheold.Thereissomethingunreal,somethinggraftedaboutAdelaide.ItisAmericadrivingontheleft.But—asthatimageindicates—thereisstillagreatdeal of British and European influence around.Nowonder, then, that visitorsoccasionallysufferfromdoublevision.

Adelaidewas an enigma, and Iwas getting interested in breaking its codes.Meanwhile, though, Writers’ Week was proceeding fertilely enough. ThedistinguishedSouthAfricannovelistAndréBrinkarrived,havingbeenobligedto sit throughout his flight fromAfrica next to anAustralian farmerwho hadassuredhimhewouldenjoyAustralia,‘becausewe’vegotourblackswellundercontrol,youfollowme,sport?’However,Brink’smeetingwiththeexiledblackSouth African writer Bessie Head was the week’s most moving encounter.Bessie,atoughwomanwithatiny,singsongvoiceissuingfromanampleframe,said it had beenworth coming all theway fromBotswana toAdelaide just tomeet André, ‘because, for the first time in my life, I havemet a good whiteSouthAfrican.’

Writers’Week takes place in and around a largemarquee set in pleasant,palm-fringed lawns across the road from the main Festival Centre; half-establishment,half-fringe,ithasinthepastirritatedsomeofthemorepompousvisitingwritersby its informality.But thatseemedtometobe itschiefvirtue.Allweek,writersandreadersmeanderedinandoutofthemarquee,strolledonthelawns,dippedintothebooktentandeven,fromtimetotime,stoppedbythebar for a tinnie of Swan. The audiences are mostly friendly, but they dosometimes heckle: Adelaide’s own Barbara Hanrahan had to put upwith onewell-lubricatedgentleman’srepeatedadviceto‘shutupandgivesomeoneelseachance.’

No hecklers, however,whileMorrisWest,Australia’s bestselling novelist,spokeforanhourwithoutoncegettingofftheabsorbingsubjectofhisextremelyhighincome.

Everywhere you looked you saw excellent Australian writers. ElizabethJolley, deceptively frail to look at, with a profile uncannily close to VirginiaWoolf’s,readwhatshecalledacoupleofdances.‘Idon’treallydancemyself,’

shetoldtheaudience,‘butforsomereasonmycharactersoftendo.’Thedanceswere subtle, courtly, graceful. Later in the week Rodney Hall read from hismagnificentnovelJustRelations,winneroftheMilesFranklinaward:itwassogood that you wished you had written it yourself. And there was Blanched’Alpuget,theacute,level-headedbiographerofBobHawke,thePrimeMinisterwiththeseventy-eightpercentpopularityrating,aLabourleaderwhomissesnoopportunity of beating up the left. ‘His physical appeal is huge,’ Blanched’Alpugettoldme.‘Menwritetohimtosaytheycarryhisphotographintheirwalletsanditgivesthemstrength.’Whatdoesthatdotoaman,Iwondered,thatadulation.Whenhearrivesatrockconcertsandwalksthroughthecrowd,peoplestandupashepasses.‘Bob,it’sBob.G’dayBob,goodonyer,Bob.’Itseemedalarmingtome,thisleader-worship.

‘Well, of course,’ Blanche said, ‘what’s happening to him is totallycorrupting.’

Jolley,Hall,d’Alpuget;ThomasKeneallybeamingateveryoneandstandingthem drinks; and PatrickWhite, DavidMalouf, Peter Carey andMurray Bailweren’t even there … Australian literature seemed to be in extremely goodshape. Iwas ashamed tohavearrivedknowing so little; I left knowinga littlemore;itwasagoodweek.

‘Don’t you find,’AngelaCarter saidone evening, ‘that there’s something alittleexhaustedabouttheplacenamesaroundhere?Imean,MountLofty,WindyPoint.’Onanotheroccasion,BruceChatwinsaidsomethingsimilar:‘It’satiredcountry,notyoungatall.Ittiresitsinhabitants.It’stooancient,tooold.’

I was looking for the keys to Adelaide. And gradually things did comebubbling up from under that smooth, solid façade. On an excursion into theAdelaideHillsIwastoldhowfiresregularlydevastatedtheregion.Iheardaboutthefamousblazeon‘AshWednesday’.Freakeffects—astheflamessurgedovera roadonwhich therewere twopetrolpumps,oneblewupand theotherwasunharmed.Andfinally,almostcasually,Iwasgivenhintsaboutarson.Whatsortofpeoplearethesethatburnthelandscape?Thereisstrangenesshere.

HindleyStreet,Adelaide, looks livelywhenyou firstwalkdown it.Youngpeople,nightspots, restaurants,street life.Thenyounotice thebrothelsandthewinos.Andonenighta trailofbloodalong thepavement.Shoeprints inbloodstaggeringalong,endingup inadarkdoorway.Anotherclue.Andacoupleof

dayslaterIhearaboutthevanishingyoungsters.Sixteen-year-oldgirlsandboys,disappearing into thin air. The police do nothing, shrug; teenagers are alwaysleaving home. But they never turn up. I am told that parents of thesedematerialized children have formed their own search organizations. Adelaideseemsmoreeeriebytheminute.

Onmylastnight in town,manyofusgo toaparty thrownbyJim,a localsheepking.Itisahousewarming:hislasthousewithitspricelessartcollectionwas destroyed in the Ash Wednesday fire. The new place is in ritzy NorthAdelaide.Anexcellentparty,andJimisagenerousandliteratehost.ButthenIam buttonholed by someone who wants to reminisce about his days in anEnglishpublicschool,andthedoublevisionbeginsagain.Laterintheevening,abeautifulwomanstartstellingmeabouttheweirdomurders.‘Adelaide’sfamousfor them,’shesays,excitedly. ‘Gaypair slayyounggirls.Parentsaxechildrenandinterthemunderlawn.Stufflikethat.Youknow.’

Now I begin to understand Adelaide. Adelaide is the ideal setting for aStephenKingnovel,orhorror film.Youknowwhy those filmsandbooksarealways set in sleepy, conservative towns?Because sleepy, conservative townsare where those things happen. Exorcisms, omens, shinings, poltergeists.AdelaideisAmityville,orSalem,andthingsheregobumpinthenight.

Bruce Chatwin and I flew out from Adelaide at the end ofWriters’Week,headingforAliceSprings.VeryquicklythegreeneryofAdelaidewasreplacedbythedesert.Thegreat,redinfinityofthatawesomemoonscapesetthepreviousweekinitspropercontext.Thedesert,theharshpuredesert,wasthereality,wasAustralia,wasthetruth;thetownIwasleavingstoodrevealedasamirage,alien,aprevarication.Isettledbackintomyseat,eagertoreachtheAlice.

1984

1991:Apostscript.Whenthisessaywasfirstpublished,someofthecitizensofAdelaidewereupsetbyitsreferenceto‘weirdomurders’,eventhoughI’dbeentoldaboutsuchcrimesbymore thanoneresidentof thecity.AfewdaysaftertheMayorattackedmeinthelocalpaper,however,agroupofunknowncraziesclimbedintotheAdelaideZooatnightandsystematically,viciously,murderedjustaboutalltheanimals…

TRAVELLINGWITHCHATWIN

AfewmemoriesofmytravelswithBruceinCentralAustraliainearly1984:

Wearedrivingdownawidered-dirtroadwhenadingoemergesfromnowhereandstandsbytheroadside,staring.Westopthecarandstareback.Thedingoisunperturbed.Brucestarts telling it sickdingo jokes. ‘What’sababy inapramnexttoadingo?—Mealsonwheels.’Thedingo,disgusted,lopesoff.(Idiscoverlater thatsickdingojokesinfectallvisitors toAliceSprings.TheproducersoftherecentfilmabouttheLindyChamberlaincasehadtroublesettlingonatitlefor themovie. Among the titles they considered were ‘Foetal Attraction’ and‘FullMatinéeJacket’.)

Theideaofthe‘dreamingtracks’or‘songlines’captivatesmeasmuchasitdoesBruce. How could writers fail to love a world which has been mapped bystories?Ifindmyselfenvyinghimhissubject.Hetalksaboutitconstantlyandwe go in for long arcane passages of supposition. What happens when twosonglinescross?Dothesongsacquirecommonlines?Ordoesoneline‘burrow’whileanother‘flies’?TheLondonUndergroundmapappearsinmymind.Ikeepnagging away at the idea of junctions: the Piccadilly Circuses and King’sCrossesofthesestrange,walkingpoems.Butsomanyofthesonglinesarelost,their people exterminated by white settlers, that it’s impossible to rebuild thewholemap.

Eachaboriginal tribesperson ‘owns’apieceof the local song.Bruceand Igetstuckintoanotherfutilediscussion:whichcamefirst,theurgetonarrateortheurgetoown?Imaginationorpossession?Chickenoregg?Ilisten,Brucetalks.Iam a fairly garrulous personmyself, but in Bruce’s company I don’tmanagemorethanafewinterruptions.Istartbecomingratherproudofthese.

Brucetalksabouteverythingunderthesun.IrememberalongdisquisitionaboutthewriterEçadeQueiroz.Iremembermanyetymologicalsnippets.‘ThewordbuggercomesoriginallyfromthepejorativeFrenchverb,bougrir—tomakelove

likeaBulgarian.’

At thisstage,Bruce thoughthisbookwouldbecalledArkady,andwould takethe simple formof aPlatonicdialogue.Twomen sittingunder a tree inAliceSprings, letting their talk rangeacross timeandspace. Inour four-wheel-driveToyota,heis,Irealize,usingmetohelphimhaveakindofroughdraftofthistalk.

Later, after the book is published, Bruce tells someone that ‘of course’ I amArkady. This isn’t true. I know one person in Alice Springs, like Arkady anAustralian of Russian descent, also highly knowledgeable about aboriginalreligion,whoisamuchmoreobviousmodel.NordoIrecognizeasinglelineofourconversationinTheSonglines.Thetruthis,‘ofcourse’,thatBruceisArkadyaswellasthecharacterhecallsBruce.Heisbothsidesofthedialogue.

An impressive fact. Bruce made a great many telephone calls from variousmotels.Inhisfamousmoleskinnotebooksheseemedtohavethephonenumbersofeveryoneon theplanet.Whenhecalledsomeonehe invariablysaidsimply,‘Bruce here’. Amazingly, in that country stuffed with Bruces, I never heardanybodyask:‘Brucewho?’NootherBruceeversoundedquitelikeBruce.

Bruce takes me to meet a Lutheran pastor who looks like a cowboy;weatherbeatenface,wrinkledeyes.Thismanoffersusteaandcakesandbeginstochatwithgentlecrazinessaboutthegeneticdifferencesthatmakeaboriginalpeoples unable to hold their liquor. ‘Their intestines are not like ours.’ApparentlynowhiteAustraliansevergetdrunk.Brucetreatsthemanlikeanoldfriend.WhenweleaveIaskhimwhy.‘Heknowsavastamountofstuff.’LaterIdiscoverthatmanyoftheyoungwhiteradicalsImeetinAliceSprings,peopleworkingaslawyersfortheLandRightsmovement,orpeopleworkingwiththevarious tribes ‘outbush’,distrustBruce forhisapparentpoliticalconservatismandhis ‘anthropological’orientation.Bruce isuntroubled,walking through theminefield of black Australian politics with unconcern. (When I read TheSonglines I said, ‘Yourealizemanyof thesortofpeopleyou’vewrittenaboutwillbeprettycrossaboutsomeof this?’Hesaidheknew,butwhatcouldonedo?Youhadtotellitasyousawit.)

AtGlenHelenwehearthestoryofthecrookedpubownerwhofilledthehollowtubesofhiscar’sroofrackwithsweetsherryandmadeafortunedrivingaround

thebushsellingthestuffto‘theboongs’.Again,thestoriesofgeneticinferiorityrecur.

AtHermannsburg,aLutheranmissionsettlementforaboriginalpeoples,wegoout beyond the township’s limits to meet a man running a car mechanics’workshop with a wholly aboriginal workforce. Out here cars are endlesslycannibalizedtomakeotherequallyancientcarsrun.Whenthemechanicseesuscomingheyells,‘Look!It’sthebookies!’Wehavebroughtcopiesofourbooksaspresents.Whenhiswifeisofferedthese,sheadoptsawide-eyed,reverentialexpression,caresses thePicadorpaperbacksandsays, ‘Youmeanwecanhavethem to lookat for abit?’ ‘No,’ saysBruce, ‘pleasekeep them, they’regifts.’Shecan’tbelieveit,andthen,asifhandlingsacredobjects,wrapsInPatagoniaandMidnight’sChildreninabitofclothandputsthemuponahighshelf.

At the InlandMotelnearAyersRockwehear about the truck-driver,DouglasCrabbe,whowasthrownoutofthepubonenightandwentoutsideandreversedhistruckintothebar,killingandmaiminganumberofpeople.Thelocalsrebuiltthepubeventhoughtheyknewthewholemotelwasgoingtobedemolishedayearlateranyway.

LaterweareinAliceSpringsandhearthatCrabbe’strialisunderwayandheisin the witness-box. Bruce and I grab our notepads and go off to play courtreporter. Crabbe is softly spoken, dapper, with a little brown moustache andbutton-down blue shirt with dark blue knotted tie. While giving evidence hekeepshiseyescastdown.Hislineisthathedidn’tknowwhathewasdoing,hehasnomemoryof it: a temporary insanityplea, I suppose.Hesays repeatedlythathe’snotthesortofmantocommitsuchacrime.Whenpressedaboutthis,he says: ‘I’ve been driving trucks now for four and a half years, and treatingthemasiftheyweremyown.’(Hedoesn’tquiteadd‘children’.)‘Soformetohalfdestroyatruckiscompletelyagainstmypersonality.’Ilookatthejuryandsee themallbegin to sortofhissandgrind their teethanddecide to sendhimaway and throw away the key. Afterwards I say to Bruce, ‘Wasn’t that anamazing piece of self-destruction?’ Bruce is genuinely puzzled, betraying anunexpected innocence. ‘I don’t see what was so wrong with that. He wasactuallytellingthewholetruthabouthimself.Hewasbeinghonest.’

IcometothinkofBruce’sunwrittenbookastheburdenhe’sbeencarryingallhiswritinglife.Oncehe’sdonethis,I think,he’llbefree,he’llbeabletotake

flightinallsortsofdirections.

ThethingIfindsaddestaboutUtzisthatissuggeststomethatBrucewasindeedbeginningthatnew,light-spiritedphaseofflight.Utzisallwehaveofwhathadbecome possible for him once his Australian odyssey helped him express theideaswhichhe’dcarriedaboutforsomanyyears.

There is in the centre ofAlice Springs a bravewoman trying to run a properliterarybookshop.AfterIleftBruceintheAlice,thisladypersuadedhimtodoalunchtimesigningsession.ShesaidAliceSpringswasfulloffansofhis,andshewouldadvertise, and so forth.Outof friendshipandadmiration forher,Bruceagreed.Theadvertisementappearedinthesmall-adssectionofthepaper,nexttonoticesaboutanimalprovenderandcamelrearing.BrucewenttothebookshopwithhisMontBlancpenattheappointedhour.

Notasinglepersoncameintotheshop.

WhathappenedinAustraliawasthatBruceandIbecamefriends.Ifyouspendthatmuchtimetalkingthatmuchwithanotherperson,lockedupinsideaToyotastationwagonandasuccessionofmotelrooms,youfindoutagreatdealabouteachother.Attheendofsuchajourneyyoueitherhateeachotherpassionatelyoryoudiscoveryou’reinlove.

Speakingformyself,Ifellinlove.

1989

CHATWIN’STRAVELS

Bruce Chatwin and I drove around Central Australia in a four-wheel-drivestationwagon,avehiclewhich,wewererepeatedlyinformed,‘mustbeToyota’sAnswer to theLittleSubaru.’Brucepuzzledover thiscuriousphrase, tryingtoinvent amythology thatmight explain it. TheLittle Subaruwas plainly somesortofDreamtimeAncestor, but if our carwas the ‘answer’ thenwhat,Brucewanted(likeGertrudeStein)toknow,couldpossiblyhavebeenthequestion?

To be with Bruce Chatwin was, usually, to be his willing audience. Hisconversationwould soar upMountEverest (wewere halfwayupAyersRock,and Iwashalfdeadand turningpurple,whenhementioned thathe’d recentlymadeittotheEverestbasecamp),andjustasswiftlyplummettoadiscussionofthediseasesonemightcontract fromdiversEuropeanandAfricanwhores.Hewas a magnificent raconteur of Scheherazadean inexhaustibility, a gilt-edgedname-dropper,avoraciousreaderofesoterictexts,ascholargypsy,amimic—hisMrs Gandhi was perfect—and a giggler of international class. He was astalkative as he was curious, and he was curious about everything, from theoriginsofevil to thequestionaskedby theLittleSubaru.Hiswordsabout theex-ChamberlainofKingZogofAlbaniaaretruerofhimself:‘Peopleofhiskindwillnevercomeagain.’Whatavoicewelostwhenhisfellsilent!Howmuchhestillhadtosay.

WhatAmIDoingHere (couldthefastidiousChatwinreallyhaveagreedtothe omission of the question mark?) is what we have left. His last book, a‘personal selection’ of essays, portraits, meditations, travel writing and other,unclassifiable, Chatwinian forms of prose, was put together during his final,terribleyearofwastingaway, and it is inevitably a littlepatchy inplaces;butoneofitschiefdelightsisthatitcontainssomanyofitsauthor’sbestanecdotes,hischoicestperformances.

Here is Bruce’s ‘snake story’, as told to him by the cleaning lady fromPalermo,andAssunta’smonologueisreallyBruce‘doing’Assunta,allwavingarmsandflashingeyes,afigurenotfromlifebutfromacomicopera.Andhereis Bruce’s encounter with the footprints of the Yeti, and Bruce’s visit to a

MansonesquehippyfamilyinBoston.Hiscampierperformancesarehere,too:adelicious snatch ofDianaVreeland, andmy own favouriteChatwin story, theone about his meeting with Noel Coward, who told him: ‘I have very muchenjoyedmeetingyou,butunfortunately,wewillnevermeetagain,becauseveryshortlyIwillbedead.Butifyou’lltakeonepartingwordofadvice,“Neverletanythingartisticstandinyourway.”’

There are, it should swiftlybe said,manymore substantialpleasures tobehad from this collection. Bruce Chatwin was often at his best when furthestafield,andWhatAmIDoingHerecontainssomesuperbpiecesfromRussia—anunforgettableNadezhdaMandelstam,carelesslystuffinghererrantbreastsbackinto her blouse; a concise, brilliant account of the decline of the LeftistMovement in post-revolutionary Russian art, and of its excavation andpreservationby the collectorGeorgeCostakis; a tripdown theVolga that is aclassicof‘travelwriting’.Brucewasplanningalarge-scaleRussiannovelwhenhedied;hemighthaveprovedtobeakindofNabokovinreverse.We’llneverknow.

Africa,inwhichthat‘desertmutation’,homosapiens,thenomad,thewalker,firstevolved,isthesettingforsomeequallyfinepieces:theaccountofthecoupChatwinstumbled into inBeninwhileresearchingTheViceroyofOuidah,andtheverydifferent(comicratherthanscary)accountofhowWernerHerzogandKlausKinskisetaboutfilmingViceroy(re-titledCobraVerde)someyearslater,in Ghana. In this latter essay, Bruce has untypically, and kindly, censoredhimself, omitting the no doubt libellous accounts of sexual shenanigans onlocation,andalsohislessthancomplimentaryviewofthefinishedfilm,bothofwhichwereincludedwithrelishintheoralversionofthetale.

Bruce’spoliticscouldbe,toputitpolitely,alittleinnocent.HecouldbangonabouthowthingswerereallygettingalotbetterinSouthAfrica,andhecouldfail to understand why Nadine Gordimer was irritated by his insistence onreferring to Namibia as ‘South West Africa’. But he could also get thingsmagnificentlyright,andtheessayinthiscollectionentitled‘TheVerySadStoryofSalahBourguine’,whichusestheinter-racialmurderinMarseillesasawayofopeninguptheunsavourysubjectofFrenchcolonialisminNorthAfrica,isoneofthemostvividthingseverwrittenonthisdifficulttopic.

Brucewasmuchattracted (and attractive) to formidable ladiesof a certainage,and thisvolumeoffersusquiteagalleryof them: theaforesaidNadezhdaMandelstamandDianaVreeland,butalsoMadeleineVionnet,‘theArchitectofCouture’,who designed her clothes on a doll because she didn’t dare tell her

father the extent of her business (he worried, as a result, that she might beretarded);andMariaReiche, spendingher life trying todecode themysteryofthelinesandpatternsonthePeruvianpampa.AndthepieceonMrsGandhiisaswonderfulinwritingasitwaswhenhetolditaloud.“‘HowthatwomanwantstobePM!”MrsG.saysofMrsThatcher.“Ifeltliketellingher,ifyouwanttobePMthatbadly,you’llnevermakeit.”’WhichjustgoestoshowthatevenMotherIndiracouldbewrong.

What Am I Doing Here is indeed, as the blurb suggests, a sort ofautobiography,but it is an autobiographyof themind. In thisbook, as in life,BruceChatwinissecretiveabouttheworkingsofhisheart.Iwishitwerenotso,for hewas aman of great heart and deep feeling, but he rarely let it into hisprose.Exceptionshereareamovingvignetteofhisfather;andanelegyfortheAfghanistanknown toRobertByronand trampledbyRussian troops, thatwillread, toBruceChatwin’smany admirers, like a lament forwhatwe have lostthroughhisuntimelydeath:

Wewillnotsleepinthenomadtent,orscaletheMinaretofJam.Andweshalllosethetastes—thehot,coarse,bitterbread;thegreenteaflavouredwithcardamoms…Norshallwegetbackthesmellofthebeanfields,…orthewhiffofasnowleopardat14,000feet.

1989

JULIANBARNES

AHistoryoftheWorldin10½Chapters,byJulianBarnes,isnotahistorybutafictionaboutwhathistorymightbe:‘justvoicesechoinginthedark;imagesthatbum for a few centuries then fade; stories, old stories that sometimes seem tooverlap; strange links, impertinent connections.’Overlapping stories, strangelylinked,iswhatwe’regiven:apost-modern,post-ChristianseriesofvariationsonthethemeofNoah’sArk.BarnesisinhisFlaubert’sParrotmode,onlymoreso.Inthisveinhe’slikeaworldly,secularreincarnationofamedievalgloss-writeron sacred texts, and what he offers us is the novel as footnote to history, assubversionofthegiven,asbrilliant,elaboratedoodlearoundthemarginsofwhatwe knowwe think about what we thinkwe know. This is fiction as critique,whichisitslimitationaswellasitsstrength,becauseforallitshighintelligenceand formal elegance it proceeds (except for one brief, redeeming parenthesis)fromthebrainratherthantheheart.

There’s no denying the ingenuity, though, and at its bestBarnes’sHistoryoffers much high and some low comedy as well. The quality of the earlyepisodesmakesoneanticipateafeastofinventiveness.There’sawoodworm’s-eye-view of the Ark story, featuring a drunken Noah who thinks of hismenagerieasa‘floatingcafeteria’andeatsmanyspeciesintoextinction,andaGoddescribedasan‘oppressiverolemodel’whodrovepoorNoahtodrink.Theplayful irreverence of this chapter would make instructive and no doubtshockingreading forsomeof today’shardline religionists. (Sorry, Julian.)Thewoodworms crop up again in the hilarious proceedings of a medieval Frenchcourt; this time they’re the accused in a surreal trial, charged with eating achurchuntilitfelldown.

Achurch,beingashipofsouls,isalsoasortofark.AndtheTitanicwasanark,andso,forJonah,wastheWhale,andsowastheraftofthesurvivorsoftheMedusa that Géricault painted. And just as Noah ate his animals, so theMedusa’s survivors turned to cannibalism; and there are woodworm, it issuggested, in theGéricaultpicture’s frame…thestoriesproliferateandcross-connect and Noah’s tub becomes an ever more protean image.We are all, it

seems,ridersofBarnes’slostark.Not all the stories convince, however. In particular, ‘Upstream’, the

epistolaryaccountofthemakingofafilmsomethinglikeTheMission,toldbyanotably self-regarding actor, and containing a notably self-indulgent, in-jokeyreference to the author’s buddy, Redmond O’Hanlon, is a real turkey. Andseveral times the connections between the tales offer no enrichments; they’rejust links.Inchaptersix,areligiouszealot,AmandaFergusson,diesonMountArarat in 1839; in chapter nine, another religious zealot, an astronaut, whobelieveshe’sbeenspokentobyGodwhenhewasonthemoon,goestoArarattofindNoah’sArkand,findingAmanda’sskeleton,claimstohavediscoveredoldNoahhimself.Yougetthepoint,butnotthemessage.

The key to this strange, ambitious novel lies in that ‘Parenthesis’ Imentioned,the½ofits10½chapters.Heretheauthorgazesatusdirectly,likeElGrecostaringoutofhismasterpieceTheBurialofCountOrgaz,andtalkstous about love.Barnes’s viewof history (voices echoing in the dark, etc.: nearmeaninglessness uponwhichwe try to imposemeanings) is, finally,what letsthisbookdown;it’sjusttoothintosupportthewholefabric;buthisviewoflovealmost saves the day. His beautiful idea is that history ‘is ridiculous withoutlove’; that ‘love teaches us to standup to history,’ to reject its stupid,martialterms.Love, too, isakindofark,hesays,onwhich twopeoplemight justbesaved.Idon’tknowifhe’sright,ifthisistrue,anytruerthanAuden’s‘Wemustloveoneanotherordie,’anytruerthanhistory,buttheideathattheoppositeofhistoryisloveisworthhangingonto,likealifebelt,likearaft.

But even here one wishes that Barnes the essayist had stepped aside forBarnesthefull-bloodednovelist;thatinsteadofadisquisitiononlove,wecouldhave been given the thing itself. ‘Don’t talk of love,’ as ElizaDoolittle sang,‘showme.’

Julian Barnes has written a book that is frequently brilliant, funny,thoughtful, inventive,daring,iconoclastic,original,andadelighttoread.Whatmore, hemight legitimately inquire, could anybody ask for? I can only replythat,forme,thebitsofAHistoryoftheWorldin10½Chaptersdidn’tquiteaddup;that,althoughtheypossessinabundancethehighliteraryvirtueoflightness,theyfailtoacquire,bycumulation,thenecessaryweight:itbeingtheparadoxofliterature that you need the pair of them on the voyage,weight and lightness,and, aswith lovers and animals, you can’t afford to leave half the couple offyourark.

1989

KAZUOISHIGURO

The surface of Kazuo Ishiguro’s novel, The Remains of the Day, is almostperfectly still. Stevens, a butler well past his prime, is on a week’smotoringholiday in the West Country. He tootles around, taking in the sights andencountering a series of green-and-pleasant country folk who seem to haveescapedfromoneofthoseEnglishfilmsofthe1950sinwhichthelowerordersdoff their caps and behavewith respect towards a gentwith properly creasedtrousersandflattenedvowels.Itis,infact,July1956;butother,timelessworlds,the world of Jeeves and Bertie Wooster, the upstairs-downstairs world ofHudson,MrsBridgesandtheBellamys,arealsointheair.

Nothingmuchhappens.Thehighpoint ofMrStevens’s little outing is hisvisittoMissKenton,theformerhousekeeperatDarlingtonHall,thegreathouseto which Stevens is still attached as ‘part of the package’, even thoughownership has passed from Lord Darlington to a jovial American namedFarradaywhohasadisconcertingtendencytobanter.StevenshopestopersuadeMissKentontoreturntotheHall.Hishopescometonothing.Hemakeshiswayhome.Tinyevents;butwhy,then,istheageingmanservanttobefound,neartheend of his holiday, weeping before a complete stranger on the pier atWeymouth?Why,when the stranger tellshim thatheought toputhis feetupandenjoytheeveningofhislife,isitsohardforStevenstoacceptsuchsensible,ifbanal,advice?Whathasblightedtheremainsofhisday?

Just below the understatement of the novel’s surface is a turbulence asimmenseasitisslow;forTheRemainsoftheDayisinfactabrilliantsubversionof the fictionalmodes fromwhich it at first seems todescend.Death, change,pain and evil invade theWodehouse-world; the time-hallowed bonds betweenmasterandservant,andthecodesbywhichbothlive,arenolongerdependableabsolutesbutrathersourcesofruinousself-deceptions;eventhegalleryofhappyyokelsturnsouttostandforthepostwarvaluesofdemocracyandindividualandcollective rights which have turned Stevens and his kind into tragicomicanachronisms.‘Youcan’thavedignityifyou’reaslave,’thebutlerisinformedinaDevoncottage;butforStevens,dignityhasalwaysmeantthesubjugationof

the self to the job, and of his destiny to his master’s. What then is our truerelationship to power? Are we its servants or its possessors? It is the rareachievement of Ishiguro’s novel to poseBigQuestions (What is Englishness?What is greatness?What is dignity?)with a delicacy and humour that do notobscurethetough-mindednessbeneath.

Therealstoryhereisthatofamandestroyedbytheideasuponwhichhehasbuilthislife.Stevensismuchpreoccupiedby‘greatness’,which,forhim,meanssomething very like restraint. (The greatness of the British landscape lies, hebelieves, in its lack of the ‘unseemly demonstrativeness’ of African andAmericanscenery.)Itwashisfather,alsoabutler,whoepitomizedthisideaofgreatness; yet it was just this notion which stood between father and son,breeding deep resentments and an inarticulacy of the emotions that destroyedtheirlove.

InStevens’sview,greatnessinabutler‘hastodocruciallywiththebutler’sability not to abandon the professional being he inhabits.’ This is linked toEnglishness:ContinentalsandCeltsdonotmakegoodbutlersbecauseof theirtendency to ‘run about screaming’ at the slightest provocation. Yet it isStevens’s longing for such ‘greatness’ thatwrecked his one chance of findingromanticlove;hidingwithinhisrole,helongagodroveMissKentonaway,intothearmsofanotherman.‘Why,why,whydoyoualwayshavetopretend?’sheaskedindespair.Hisgreatnessisrevealedasamask,acowardice,alie.

Hisgreatestdefeatwasbroughtaboutbyhismostprofoundconviction—thathismasterwasworkingforthegoodofhumanity,andthathisownglorylayinserving him. But Lord Darlington ended his days in disgrace as a Nazicollaboratoranddupe;Stevens, acut-priceStPeter,deniedhimat least twice,but felt for ever tainted by his master’s fall. Darlington, like Stevens, wasdestroyed by his own code of ethics; his disapproval of the ungentlemanlyharshnessoftheTreatyofVersaillesiswhatledhimtowardshiscollaborationistdoom.Idealscancorruptasthoroughlyascynicism.

ButatleastLordDarlingtonchosehisownpath.‘Icannotevenclaimthat,’Stevens mourns. ‘You see, I trusted … I can’t even say I made my ownmistakes.Really,onehastoaskoneself,whatdignityisthereinthat?’Hiswholelife has been a foolish mistake; his only defence against the horror of thisknowledgeisthatsamefacilityforself-deceptionwhichprovedhisundoing.It’sacruelandbeautifulconclusiontoastorybothbeautifulandcruel.

Ishiguro’sfirstnovel,APaleViewofHills,wassetinpostwarNagasakibutnevermentioned theBomb;hisnewbook is set in theverymonth thatNasser

nationalizedtheSuezCanal,butfailstomentionthecrisis,eventhoughtheSuezdébâclemarkedtheendofacertainkindofBritainwhosepassingisasubjectofthenovel. Ishiguro’ssecond‘Japanese’novel,AnArtistof theFloatingWorld,also dealt with themes of collaboration, self-deception, self-betrayal and withcertain notions of formality and dignity that recur here. It seems thatEnglandandJapanmaynotbesoveryunlikeoneanother,beneaththeirratherdifferentlyinscrutablesurfaces.

1989

9

MICHELTOURNIER

ITALOCALVINO

STEPHENHAWKING

ANDREISAKHAROV

UMBERTOECO

GÜNTERGRASS

HEINRICHBÖLL

SIEGFRIEDLENZ

PETERSCHNEIDER

CHRISTOPHRANSMAYR

MAURICESENDAKANDWILHELMGRIMM

MICHELTOURNIER

InoneofthekeytextsofSurrealism,ParisPeasant,LouisAragonspokeofhis‘sense of the marvellous suffusing everyday life.’ Defining reality as ‘theapparentabsenceofcontradiction,’heexplained:‘Themarvellousistheeruptionof contradiction within the real.’ The surrealist’s task of revealing thesecontradictions—literally‘against-sayings’,ordenialsofwhatiscommonlyheldtobethecase—requiresarelentlessintensityofvision,poweredbyaninnatelyiconoclasticformofintellectualenergy.ItisthistaskwhichMichelTournierhasset himself in Gemini. Echoing Aragon’s fifty-five-year-old thesis, Tourniermakesoneofhischaractersreflectthat‘Underitsapparentbanality,theworldisdecidedlyfullofbarelyconcealedwonders—justlikeAliBaba’scave.’Ontheenormous loom ofGemini, Tournier weaves banalities into wonders: rubbishdumps,tapeworm,Venetianhoneymoons,eventheweather,areheretransmutedinto the stuff of marvels. (This is not a randommetaphor: near the centre ofTournier’swebofsymbolsstandsthetallshapeofanoldJacquardmachine.)

Gemini is about a pair of identical twins, collectively knownas Jean-Paul.This is something like saying that Ulysses is about a man walking aroundDublin.BecauseTournieruses the themeof twinshiptoexploreanear-infinityof dualities: heterosexuality and homosexuality, city and countryside, Heavenand Hell. Here we discover the profound opposition of chronology andmeteorology:ontheoneside,thefixed,regulatedmarchofthehours,andontheother, the wild, unpredictable fluctuation of the seasons; and, in a passage ofstartling metaphysical originality, we are told that ‘Christ has to besuperseded’—notbyanyManicheanSatan,butbytheSpirit,theHolyGhost.

ItwillbeclearthatGeminiisnotlightreading;andyet,suchistheelectricityofTournier’sintelligence,soskilfullydoesheweavehisshimmeringweb,thatforthegreaterpartofthismammothbookthereaderismesmerizedbythesheerdaringof the conception and the audacitywithwhich the author carries it off.Themagicwanes in the last third,butby then themomentumwhichhasbeenbuiltisstrongenoughtosweepusontothefinale.

Gemini begins in a small community on the Breton coast. It opens,

significantly, with a description of the weather conditions. The book wasoriginallycalledLesMétéores,andTournierinsistsonrevivingthetruemeaningoftheword:asmeteorologistsknow,itreferstoanyatmosphericphenomenonatall.TheelementofmostinteresttoTournieristheair:inGemini,theairistrulyeverywhere.ItisagalewhichpushestheyounghomosexualDanieltohisdeathin a foulpit full of rats; and it is ‘wind, tempest, breath’which, for thepriestThomas, is the Earthly manifestation of the Holy Ghost. No breeze, in thesepages,blowsbyaccident,whetherforgoodorill.

In‘LesPierresSonnantes’—the‘SoundingStones’—live the twin-children,JeanandPaul,soalarmingly identical that theirparentscannot tell themapart;and, in one memorable incident, when their father Édouard mixes upphotographs of the pair, Jean himself fails to separate himself from hisOtherhalf.Theyare a completeorganism: they speak their own language, ‘Aeolian’(namedafterAeolus, thewindgod); theirprivategameofBep is theirabidinginterest;theyoftenjoin,headtotailin‘geminatecommunion’,anechooftheirpositioninthewomb;towhichisaddedariteofsemen.ForPaul,thedominanttwin, to whom twinship is unquestionably superior to ‘normal’ humanity, histwinned life is a treasure to be preserved at all costs. ‘Every pregnantwomancarries two children in her womb,’ he imagines. ‘But the stronger will nottoleratethepresenceofabrother…and,havingstrangledhim,heeatshim…Mankind ismadeupofogres…Wealone, youunderstand, are innocent.Wealonecameintothisworldhandinhand,asmileofbrotherhoodonourlips.’

ButJean,theothertwin,rebels.Twinship,forhim,hasbecomeacage.Hisearly attempts at asserting his independence sometimes misfire: insisting ongoingshoppingforclothesseparately,hereturnshome,havingchosengarmentsidenticalineveryrespecttothoseselectedbyhisbrother.Later,heattemptstomarry;butPauldrivesSophieaway, first seducingherand thenhorrifyingherwhensherealizesthatJean,herfiancé,hascometoherfromhisbrother’sbed.ButJeandoesbreakaway,andthisbreakrepresentsamomentoftransformationforthenovelitself.

Before that, however, we have spent a good deal of time away from thetwins, from their weak father Édouard and their earth-mother,Maria-Barbara;away, too,fromthementallyhandicappedchildrenatStBrigitte’snextdoor—children whose enforced enclosure in a solipsistic world forms a whollyunsentimentalizedechoofthetwins’self-absorption.

Thistimeisspentinthecompanyofthetwins’‘shockinguncle’,Alexandre,whomakesofhishomosexualityatotemalmostaspowerfulasPaul’stheoryof

twinship. (World War Two, when it comes, is to Alexandre a heterosexualbusiness, nothing to do with him, except of course for the fact that Hitler isexterminatinghiskind.)Alexandre’sexuberancegivesthefirsthalfofthebookmuch of its drive and verve; he lives dangerously,walking the streetwith histrusty swordstick ‘Fleurette’ in search of conventionally oriented males:‘Heterosexualsaremywomen,’hereveals.HeisthemanagerofagarbagefirmcalledTURDCO(TheUrbanRefuseDisposalCompany),andinthesectionsofthebooknarratedbyhimheturnsthis‘lunarlandscape’ofrefuseintoaworldofrevelations,thetruthofwhichsocietyseekstodisguise,butwhichitcannothidefromitsgarbage-men.Thesepassagesinpraiseoffaecesarekissedwithgenius;inthem,Tournierperformsthevertiginouslydifficultfeatofimbuingtheworstthingsintheworldwithakindofradianceandmeaning.(ItiseasytoseewhyJeanGenet thinkssohighlyof thisbook.)At theSaint-EscobilledumpoutsideParis during the war—to take just one instance—the rubbish-train from Parisbrings Alexandre strange, resonant symbols of the time; dogs, for instance.‘Hundredsofthousandsofdeaddogs!Thirty-fivewagonloadsofthem!’Becausethe fleeing Parisians had abandoned their pets, and the Nazis had had themmassacred.

Alexandreis,inaway,killedbythetwins.HeseestheminCasablancaand,notknowingthattherearetwoofthem,orrecognizingthemashisnephews,hefallsinlovewiththis‘ubiquitousboy’,likeanAschenbachofshit;andwhenhestumblesacrossthetwoperformingtheirriteofunion,andseesthatthereisnochance for him against such completeness, he goes deliberately into themurderousdocksatnightandiskilled.Asahomosexual,heis,afterall,onlyacounterfeittwin:‘heisusurpingaconditionwhichdoesnotbelongtohim.’

Alexandredies.Maria-Barbara issent toBuchenwald.Édouarddoesn’t lastmuchlonger.Sophieischasedaway,butthisdeedsplitsthetwinsforgood.Jeantakesoffonalongodysseyaroundtheworld,‘throwinghimself’,toescapefromPaul,‘intothearmsofanyonehemeets.’Paul,ofcourse,pursueshim.Andthebook changes. Mirroring its characters’ eruption out of the egg of geminatecompleteness into this global quest, the novel becomes linear, sequential,episodic—andagooddeal lessgripping. Intellectually, it remainsrigorousandsatisfying, showing how what began as a pursuit changes, for Paul, into adetermination tohaveallJean’sexperiencesafterhim, toprevent theirdriftingapart;andthen,whenhebeginstoacceptthathemayneverfindJeanagain,hisjourney—whichgoesfromVenicetoNorthAfrica,Japan,Vancouver,untilthelinearquestbecomescircular,a two-dimensionalmirror-imageof thegeminate

egg,asitheadsbackhomeacrossCanada—turnsintothephysicalexpressionofwhatAlexandre’sfriend,Thomasthepriest,describesasuniversaldidymy:‘theunpaired twindied andabrother to allmenwasborn inhisplace.’Thequestcontains many gripping images, too: a whole series of gardens, for example,representJean’ssearchforEden,and theamputationofPaul’s left limbs inanaccident beneath the BerlinWall (itself a symbol of lost unity, the city as adividedegg)isthephysicalexpressionofhislossoftwinship.

What this section lacks is more traditionally novelistic satisfactions. Theglobal journey cannot avoid sounding like a travelogue; the charactersencountered are inevitably minor, rarely gripping and in one instance—thegardener-sage,Shonin,inJapan—likeapretentiousechoofthatmonkwhousedtoteachDavidCarradine(‘Grasshopper’)themeaningoflifeintheKungFuTVseries.

Theending,however—inwhichPaul surmounts the lossofhis limbsbyasortofactofsupranaturalwill—isworthwaitingfor;andthereisnodoubtthatthisisabookofrareintelligence,originalityandthatintensityofsightofwhichAragon was also a master. Tournier and Aragon are far from being twins,however:Gemini isanovel impregnatedwiththeology,afterall,andAragon’sviewofGodwasthathewas‘adisgustingandvulgaridea’.

1981

ITALOCALVINO

AtthebeginningofItaloCalvino’sfirstbookforsixyears,anentirelyfictionalpersonagenamedYou,theReader,buysandsettlesdownwithanovelwhichhefirmly believes to be the new Calvino. ‘You prepare to recognize theunmistakabletoneoftheauthor.No.Youdon’trecognizeitatall.Butnowthatyouthinkaboutit,whoeversaidthisauthorhadanunmistakabletone?Onthecontrary,he isknownas anauthorwhochangesgreatly fromonebook to thenext.’ One of the difficulties with writing about Italo Calvino is that he hasalreadysaidabouthimselfjustabouteverythingthereistobesaid.

Ifonawinter’snightatravellerdistilsintoasinglevolumewhatisperhapsthedominantcharacteristicofCalvino’sentireoutput:hisprotean,metamorphicgeniusforneverdoingthesamethingtwice.Inthespaceof260pages,wearegiven the beginnings of no fewer than ten novels, each of which is atransmogrified avatar of the previous one; we also have a more or less fullydevelopedlovestorybetweentheabove-mentionedYouandLudmilla,theOtherReader; plus, for good measure, a conspiracy-theory fiction about a secretorganizationknownastheOrganizationofApocryphalPower,runbyafiendishtranslator named Ermes Marana, whose purpose may or may not be thesubversion of fiction itself. The OAP is vaguely reminiscent of ThomasPynchon’sundergroundpostalservice,theTristeroSystem,andalmostcertainlyhascovertlinkswithBuñuel’sRevolutionaryArmyoftheInfantJesus,theonlycomic terrorist organization in the history of the cinema. (Buñuel’s film ThePhantombfLiberty,with its almost infinite sequenceofplotswhich takeoverthe movie, one after the other, with astonishing casualness, and are thenthemselvessupplantedwithhilariousease,istheworkofartwhichmostcloselyresemblesIf…)

ItisentirelypossiblethatCalvinoisnotahumanbeingatall,butaplanet,something like the planetSolaris ofStanislawLem’sgreat novel. Solaris, likeCalvino,possessesthepowerofseeingintothedeepestrecessesofhumanmindsand then bringing their dreams to life. Reading Calvino, you are constantlyassailed by the notion that he is writing downwhat you have always known,

exceptthatyou’veneverthoughtofitbefore.ThefirstmessagefromtheplanetCalvinowasreceivedonEarthaslongago

as1947.ThiswasThePathto theNestofSpiders,awarstorysiredbyErnestHemingwayoutof Italianneo-realistcinemaaboutacobbler’sapprenticewhojoinsthepartisansandwhofinallyfindsthefriendhehasalwayslongedtohave.In spiteof itsmarvellous title, thenovel isnobetter thanworthy, and the lastsentenceappearstohavedippeditsfeetinslush:‘Andtheywalkon,thebigmanandthechild,intothenight,amidthefireflies,holdingeachotherbythehand.’

IhavequotedthislineinfullbecauseitisthelastexampleonrecordofabadsentencebyItaloCalvino.AfterSpiders,hetellsus,‘InsteadofmakingmyselfwritethebookIought towrite, the[‘neo-realistic’]novelthatwasexpectedofme, I conjured up the book Imyselfwould have liked to read, the sort by anunknownwriter,fromanotherageandanothercountry,discoveredinanattic.’

Instant metamorphosis, caterpillar into butterfly, Samsa into giant bug. In1952,hepublishedTheClovenViscount,which, alongwith its successorsTheBaron in the Trees andThe NonExistent Knight, he has now collected in thevolumeentitledOurAncestors.TheClovenViscountisaboutaclovenviscount,vertically bisected by a cannonball in medieval Bohemia. The two halvescontinuetolive,theonefiendishlyevil,theotherimpossiblygood.Bothhalvesareunbearable.Intheendtheyfightaduel;theBad‘UnandtheGood‘Uneachmanage tosliceeachotherat theveryedges, reopening the terriblewoundsoftheir bisection, and are sewn back together by the story’s most appealingcharacter,hisnameahomagetoCalvino’sfavouritewriter,R.L.Stevenson:DrTrelawneyitiswhoperformstheoperation.Thisisahappyending,butforthestory’syouthfulnarratoritisalsothemomentofchildhood’send;DrTrelawney,thetipplingmedic,leavesonaBritishship,‘hitchedonboardastrideabarrelofcancarone wine,’ ‘and I was left behind, in this world of ours full ofresponsibilitiesandwills-o-the-wisp.’

The Baron in the Trees is the story of Cosimo Piovasco di Rondo, whorefuses toeat the repellent snail souppreparedbyhis sisterBattista (whoalsocooks ‘some pâté toast, really exquisite, of rats’ livers;… and somegrasshoppers’claws,…laidonanopentartinamosaic;andpigs’tailsroastedas if they were little cakes’), is ordered from the table by his crusty father,climbsatreeattheageoftwelveandneversetsfootonsolidgroundfortherestof his life. His affair with the capricious Viola, his adventures with the localbandits, his encounter with a group of exiled Spanish grandees and hismeticulous strategies for making a successful life in the trees twine and

intertwinetoformthickforestsofmarvellousideas,andmakeTheBaronintheTreesoneof themosthaunting imagesof rebellion,ofdeterminednay-saying,thatexistsintheliteratureofthisrebelliouscentury.

InTheBaron,andinthethirdbookinthetrilogy,TheNonExistentKnight,Calvinoisalsogettinginterestedinnarrationasaprocess.Tocontinuewithmypresentationoflastsentences,hereisTheBaron’s:

Ombrosanolongerexists…perhapsitwas…embroideredonnothing,like this thread of ink which I have let run on for page after page,swarming with cancellations, corrections, doodles, blots and gaps,burstingattimesintoclearbigberries,coagulatingatothersintopilesoftiny starry seeds, then twisting away, forking off, surrounding buds ofphraseswithframeworksofleavesandclouds,theninterweavingagain,andsorunningonandonandonuntil itspluttersandbursts intoa lastsenselessclusterofwords,ideas,dreams,andsoends.

TheNonExistentKnight,whichisthestoryofanemptysuitofarmourthatthinksit’saknightoftheEmperorCharlemagneandkeepsitself/himselfgoingbysheerwillpower,disciplineanddevotiontoduty,isalsoavery‘narrated’tale,toldbySisterTheodora,anunlockedupinaconvent,whocanhavenopossibleexperience,assheisverywellaware,ofthescenesofchivalrysheisrequiredtodescribe. As she says: ‘Apart from religious ceremonies, triduums, novenas,gardening, harvesting, vintaging, whippings, slavery, incest, fires, hangings,invasions, sacking, rape and pestilence… what can a poor nun know of theworld?’

And yet, heroically, she writes on and on, inventing the unknown andmaking it seem truer than the truth, and providingCalvinowith amarvellousmetaphorforhimself.ThisgrowingpreoccupationwiththeBookasopposedtotheWorldwillcometoitstruefruitioninIfonawinter’snightatraveller.

‘Worldconditionswerestillconfusedintheerawhenthistookplace,’writesTheodora/Calvino. ‘Itwasnot rare then to findnamesand thoughtsand formsandinstitutionsthatcorrespondedtonothinginexistence.Butatthesametimetheworldwas pullulatingwith objects and capacities and personswho lackedany name or distinguishing mark. It was a period when the will anddeterminationtoexist,toleaveatrace…wasnotwhollyusedup.’Butsixyearslater,Calvino published a collection of stories about an evenmore fluid time.ThetwelveCosmicomicstake,fortheirmodesttheme,nothingmoreorlessthan

the creation of the universe, as narrated by a polymorphous, immortal beingmasqueradingunderthemuffled,splutteringtitleofQfwfq.IntheCosmicomics,wediscoverthattheMoonwas,infact,madeofcheese:‘Moon-milkwasverythick, like a kind of cream cheese. It formed… through the fermentation ofvariousbodiesandsubstancesofterrestrialoriginwhichhadflownupfromtheprairiesand forestsand lakes,as theMoonsailedover them. Itwascomposedchiefly of vegetal juices, tadpoles, bitumen, lentils, honey, starch crystals,sturgeon eggs, moulds, pollens, gelatinous matter, worms, resins, pepper,mineral salts, combustion residue.’ (Likeall fabulists,Calvino loves lists.)Wesee thegalaxies form,wesee lifecrawloutof thewatersof theearth;but themiracle of these stories is that somehow Calvino gives it all a richly comic,human scale. InTheAquaticUncle’, for instance,Qfwfq and his family havejust‘abandonedaquaticlifeforterrestrial,’andQfwfqisinlovewithafellow-landcreature.But: ‘Yes,wehadagreat-unclewhowasa fish,onmypaternalgrandmother’s side, tobeprecise,of theCoelacanthus familyof theDevonianperiod’;andthisUncleN’baN’gaobstinatelyrefusestogiveuphiswaterylife.What’s more, when an embarrassed Qfwfq is forced by his loved one tointroducehertohisstubbornlyprimitiverelative,theaquaticuncleseducesherbackintothewater.

Whatdoyoudowhenyou’ve justreinventedtheworld?WhatCalvinodidwastoturnhimselfintoMarcoPoloandgotravellinginit.InvisibleCitiesisnotreallyanovelatall,butasortoffugueonthenatureoftheCity.PoloandKublaiKhan are the only attempts at ‘characters’ in this book; but its true star isCalvino’sdescriptiveprose.GoreVidalhascalledthisCalvino’s‘mostbeautifulwork’,andsoitis.

Here the reader may discover Octavia, a city hung like a spider’s webbetweentwomountains:‘ThelifeofOctavia’sinhabitantsislessuncertainthaninothercities.Theyknowthenetwilllastonlysolong.’AndAria,which‘hasearth instead of air.’ And Thekla, the eternally unfinished city, for which thestar-filled sky is the blueprint, andwhose completion is eternally delayed ‘sothatitsdestructioncannotbegin.’

Next,CalvinoturnedhimselfintotwopacksofTarotcardsandusedthemasthebasesof thestories inTheCastleofCrossedDestinies, theonlyoneofhisbookswhichsucceedsinbeingtooclevertolike.Travellersmeetbychance,inthe first part, in a castle and in the second, in a tavern, and fallmiraculouslydumb, so that they are obliged to tell their travellers’ tales by laying out theTarotcards.Calvinousesthesecard-sequencesastextwhichhetheninterprets

forus,tellingusthestorieswhichthecardsmayormaynotbeintendingtotell:aform,Isuppose,ofmysticalstructuralism.

Ifonawinter’snightatraveller,however,isabooktopraisewithoutbuts.This isCalvino rampant in theworldofbooks,Calvino joyouslyplayingwiththe possibilities of fiction, of story-telling, which is, after all, also a nurseryeuphemism for lying; You, the Reader, is (or are) a sort of dogged LemmyCaution figure trying to find Your way through the literary labyrinths ofCalvino’scityofwords,hisAlphabetaville.

You buy ‘the new Calvino’. You begin reading a story called ‘If on awinter’snightatraveler’.(Inotethatan‘l’hasfallenoutofthislastwordinitsjourney from the dustjacket.) The story is a thriller set at a train station. ButsuddenlyYouhavetostopreading:thereisabindingerrorinYourcopy.Youtakeitbacktothebookshopandfindthat thestoryYoubeganwasn’t thenewCalvinoatall.Thewrongpages,thebooksellertellsYou,wereboundbetweenthewrongcovers.WhatYoustarted (andnowwant to finish)wasOutside thetownofMalborkbyoneTazioBazakbal.You,andYournewfriendLudmilla,whohashadthesameproblemwithhercopyoftheCalvino,goofftoreadthissecondbook.Butitturnsouttobeanentirelydifferentstory,somekindofruralnovel,andthenanotherbindingmistakeisdiscoveredjustwhenYou’regettinginterested: blank pages have been bound in by mistake. You ring Ludmilla,speakfirsttohersisterLotaria,eventuallytothisgirlinwhomYouhavebecomeveryinterestedindeed.YoufindthatwhatyoubelievedtobeOutsidethetownofMalborkisinfact(anotherpublisher’scock-up)apartofanoldbookwritteninCimmerian, thelanguageofanextinctEastEuropeanculture.Yougooff toProfessorUzzi-Tuziiat theUniversityandhe tellsYou theoriginalwascalledLeaning froma steep slope. Painfully, hebegins to translate for you.Thenhegets more and more fluent as the story weaves its spell. It is, of course, acompletelydifferent story,nothing todowithMalbork, aboutayoungmanofexcessive soulfulness who gets caught up in a prison escape plot. SuddenlyUzzi-Tuzii stops reading.He tellsYou that the author,UkkoAhti, committedsuicideafterreachingthispointinthestory.ButnowLotariaappearswithoneGalligani, Professor of Erulo-Altaic languages. Galligani, an enemy of Uzzi-Tuzii’s, claims that Leaning from a steep slope is in fact derived from aCimbrianoriginal,Withoutfearofwindorvertigo,byVortsViljandi.

Without fear, etc., turns out to be yet another, and completely unrelatedwork,aboutspiesandcounterspiesinacityinthethroesofacoup.Butagain,onlyafragmentremains,becauseLotariahasgivenawaymostofthepages.

Two things need to be said right away: first, that all the fragments arewonderfullyreadable,andsomehowdon’tseemfragmentaryatall;second,thatYou, the Reader, have been getting less and less peripheral, and YourinvolvementwithLudmillaandLotariamoreandmoreimportant.

You now cease to be merely a passive reader. You act. You go to thepublishers themselves, determined to find a copy ofWithout fear of wind orvertigo, which is what you now want to continue with. Here you meet MrCavedagna,whospeaks,forthefirsttime,theominousnameofErmesMarana,translator,whohasapparentlybeenpassingoffasPolish,Cimmerian,Cimbrianwhat is actually a Belgian novel, Looks down in the gathering shadow, byBertrandVandervelde.Yougoofftoreadthisnewbook,whichinevitablybearsnorelationshiptoanyoftheotherfragmentsyou’veseen,butissoexcitingthatitdoesn’tmatter.Looksdown…isasortoffilmnoirspoof,aboutacrookandhismolltryingtogetridofabodyinaplasticbag.You(therealyouthistime)willprobablyagreewithYou(notthereal…)andLudmillathatthisisthemostgrippingthingyou’vereadyet.Butthis,too,breaksoff…Cavedagnahasn’tlentYou thewhole typescript.You return to seehim. ‘Ah,’ he tellsYou, ‘Heavenknowswhereit’sgotto.’

Now,indespair,CavedagnashowsYouthefileonErmesMarana,whohasmanagedtothrowtheentireaffairsofthispublishinghouseintoturmoil…and,because I don’twant to give away thewhole plot, Iwill contentmyselfwithtellingyou that there are fivemore extracts from stories, and that the storyofYou,LudmillaandLotarianowbecomesdeeplyembroiled in the fictionsYouaretryingtoread.

Ifonawinter’snightatravellerisquitepossiblythemostcomplicatedbookyou(andYou,too)willeverread.ButCalvino’sconjuringtrickworksbecausehemakesthecomplicationssofunny,andmakesyou(thoughnotYou)sharethejoke. The ten transformations of the eternally beginning story are carried offwithaninventivenessthatneverbecomestiresome;thegradualinweavingofthetextsandtheirreadersisnothinglessthan—touseanappropriatelyarchaicpieceof slang—wizard. Calvino has left Stevenson far behind; he has avoidedsoundinglikeimitationBorges,whichiswhathappenstohimwhenheisn’tonpeak form; and his great gift, the ability to give credibility to the mostextravagant of his inventions, has never beenmore in evidence. In If…, themost outrageous fiction about fiction ever conceived, we stumble in everyparagraphovernuggetsofhard,irreducibletruth:

‘Nobodythesedaysholdsthewrittenwordinsuchhighesteemaspolicestates do,’ Arkadian Porphyrich says. ‘What statistic allows one toidentifythenationswhereliteratureenjoystrueconsiderationbetterthanthesumsappropriatedforcontrollingitandsuppressingit?’

Why,finally,shouldwebotherwithaCalvino,aword-juggler,afantasist?What does itmean towrite about nonexistent knights, or the formationof themoon, or how a reader reads, while the neutron bomb gets the go-ahead inWashington,andplansaremade tostationgerm-warfareweaponry inEurope?Notescapism,becausealthoughthereaderofItaloCalvinowillbetakenfurtheroutofhimselfthanmostreaders,hewillalsodiscoverthattheexperienceisnotaflightfrom,butanenrichmentofhimself.No,thereasonwhyCalvinoissuchanindispensablewriterispreciselythathetellsus,joyfully,wickedly,thattherearethingsintheworldworthlovingaswellashating;andthatsuchthingsexistin people, too. I can think of no finer writer to have beside me while Italyexplodes,whileBritainburns,whiletheworldends.

1981

STEPHENHAWKING

ThemostappealingaccountoftheBigBangI’veeverreadwaswrittenbyItaloCalvino in his marvellous Cosmicomics. In the beginning, we’re told byCalvino’snarrator,theproto-beingQfwfq,‘Everypointofeachofuscoincidedwitheverypointofeachoftheothersinasinglepoint,whichwaswhereweallwere…itwasn’tthesortofsituationthatencouragessociability.’ThenacertainMrs Ph(i)Nk0 cried out, ‘Oh, if only I had some room, how I’d like tomakesomenoodlesforyouboys!’Andatonce—bam!—there itwas:spacetime, thecosmos.Room.

The idea that theuniversemighthavebeen set inmotionby the first trulygenerous impulse, the first expression of love, is rather wonderful, but it’scertainly unscientific, and these days the creation of Creation is primarily thework of scientific, rather than literary or theological, imaginations. It’s a hotstory,andProfessorHawking’sbook,ABriefHistoryofTime,isonlythelatestofastringofpopularizingbestsellersonthesubject—fascinatingbooks,fullofexclamations.

Toreadthisrapidlyexpandinguniverseofbooksistocometoseephysicistsasahighlyexclamatorybreed,longingaboveallforthemomentwhentheygetto cry ‘Eureka!’ It’s tempting to use a variant of the anthropic principle (theworldiswhatitisbecausewereitotherwisewewouldn’tbeheretoobservethatit was so) and propose that it’s not surprising that such persons should havecreatedacosmosthatbeginswiththebiggestexclamationofthemall.

Let us quickly concede, however, that there have been many astonishingdiscoveries, many genuine Eureka-opportunities, since Einstein’s GeneralRelativityTheorychangedtheworld.ProfessorHawking,strikingafinebalancebetween the need to address himself to non-scientists and the danger ofcondescendingover-simplification,takesusforacanterovertheterritory.HereisGeneralRelativity itself, andHubble’sdiscoveryof theexpandinguniverse.Over there is thedefeatof theSteady-stateTheoryby theBig-Bangers,and totheright(ormaybetotheleft)isHeisenberg’sUncertaintyPrinciple.Justaheadarethegreatvoyagesintotheheartoftheatom,andouttowardstheblackholes.

Hawking’snear-legendarystatusconfersimmenseauthorityonthetext.Notonlyishethefellowwhoshowedthatblackholesleak,butitwashis1970paperthat‘proved’thattheuniversemusthavebegunasasingularity,thatis,athingnot unlike Calvino’s single point. But the reason that this book gets steadilymoreengrossingasitapproachestheheartofthesubjectisthatitturnsoutthatonthequestionofGenesis,theProfessorhaschangedhismind.Havingappliedtheideasofquantummechanics—thestudyofthefrequentlyirrationalworldofinfinitely tiny things—to theconditionof theuniversebefore theBang,hehasdecidedthatthesingularitywhoseexistencehe‘proved’in1970needn’treallyhaveexistedatall.

He now proposes that instead of a ‘beginning’ there was what RichardFeynman called a ‘sum over histories’—a situation in which time wasindistinguishable from directions in space, making redundant the concept ofsomethingoutofnothing,ofbefore andafter. If thiswere so,he tellsus, ‘theuniverse…would neither be created nor destroyed. It would just BE.’ It’s adazzlingargument,endingwiththedismissalofGodhimself:‘Whatplace,then,foracreator?’Manproposes,Godisdisposedof;andHawkingis,ashemakesclear,makingnomorethanaproposal,atheoryaboutatheorywhichhethinkswillsoonbeworkedout.

Heisprepared,however,todrawanastonishingconclusionfromhissurveyof his field.He suggests thatwe’re actually quite near the endof ‘humanity’sintellectual struggle to understand the universe.’ There’s a good chance,apparently, that a complete unified theory of everythingwill be found ‘withinthe lifetime of some of uswho are around today, always presumingwe don’tblowourselvesupfirst.’

Thissounds,I’mafraid,likeaparticularlybadcaseofPrematureEurekitis.AnyonewhohasfollowedProfessorHawkingthroughhisownchangesofmind;who has learned, through him, the implications of the Uncertainty Principle(‘onecertainlycannotpredictfutureeventsexactlyifonecannotevenmeasurethe present state of the universe precisely’) or who has even the mostrudimentaryawarenessofthehistoryofhumanknowledge,willfindthisnotionoftheproximityoftheUltimateTruthhardtoswallow.

And,anyway,toallofuswhoaren’tscientists—whoarelayreaders,orevenwriters—the real value of the ideas of the new physics and of quantummechanics isprecisely the sameas thatofCalvino’s stories:namely, that theymake it possible for us to dream new dreams, of ourselves as well as theuniverse.

It is impossible, however, not to admire the grand Quixotic conviction ofStephenHawking’squestfortheendofknowledge;whilecontinuingtobelievethat the only permanent discoveries are those of the imagination.All theorieseventuallypassaway,andarereplacedbynewones;onlyMrsPh(i)Nk0livesforever.

1988

ANDREISAKHAROV

Comparedto themightofaState,especiallyaStateasruthlessas theSovietUnionhasbeenformostofthiscentury,itiseasytothinkoftheindividualasaridiculouslyweak,evenhelplessentity.Evenwhentheindividualinquestionisas distinguished and influential a scientist as Andrei Sakharov, he can bescoopedupoutofhislife,thewaytheKGBseizedSakharovafterhecriticizedtheSovietinvasionofAfghanistan,andhurledontothegarbageheapofhistory,inthiscasetheremotetownofGorky.

AndyetthemeaningofalifelikeSakharov’sisthatindividualweaknesscanbeturnedtostrength,ifonehasthewillandmoralcouragetodoso.NowthatthepowerofSovietcommunismiscrumbling,whiletheideasandprinciplestowhichSakharovdedicatedhis days are changing the faceofEurope, thegreatphysicist’senduranceandrefusaltobebrokengivehisautobiographythestatusofanexemplarylife.

This first volume of Sakharov’smemoirs takes the story up to his releasefrominternalexilebyPresidentGorbachevin1986;asecondbook,detailinghislast years, including his frequent clashes with Gorbachev in the Congress ofPeople’sDeputies, is promised.Sectionsof the typescriptwere confiscatedonfour occasions (one time he lost 1,400 pages ofwork). That it exists at all isproofofthedeterminationwithwhichitsauthorkeptatit.

Itisn’teasytoliveasymbolic,eveniconic,life;itisn’teasytowriteaboutoneeither.AndreiSakharov’sratherflatstylecanbeheavygoing.Hisdesiretowrite as a witness, to detail just about every dissident cause in which heparticipated,everybattlehefought,resultsinmanyturgid(ifunfailinglynoble)passages.Itwasclearlydifficultforhimtowriteaboutpersonalmatters,andthatreticence, too, can be frustrating, as can its opposite, the understandablyidealizinggushinesswhichsometimesovercomeshimwhenhewritesabouthisbeloved secondwife, ‘Lusia’, the formidable ElenaBonner.He speaks at onepoint in these memoirs of his dislike of books thick enough to be used asdoorstops. This extremely thick doorstopwould have been amore vivid self-portrait,thoughalesscompletetestament,athalfthelength.Asitis,whatwe’re

givenisanaccount‘fortherecord’,athorough,oftenploddingversionofagreatlife.

TheSakharovwho emerges from these pages is a boywho loved science-fictionnovels,UncleTom’sCabinandMarkTwain,whowassomethingofanawkward character andmade few friends. The boy grew up to be, likemanyscientists,betterathisworkthanathisprivatelife.Inoneoftherelativelyrareintimate passages in his book, he faces up to this: ‘Inmy private life, inmyrelationswithKlava[hisfirstwife]andwiththechildrenaftershedied,Ialwaystended to avoid confrontations, feelingmyself psychologically unable to copewith them… in all honesty, I never sparedmy time ormy physical strength.Afterwards I suffered. I felt guilty, and then made new mistakes, since guilthardly improves one’s judgement.’ After Klava’s death, his growinginvolvementwithhumanrightsandhisnewlovefor‘Lusia’werethethingsthatturnedhimoutwardstowardtheworld,andmadehimwhole.Hisdescriptionoffalling in love is,however,characteristically laconic. ‘Formonths,Lusiaand Ihadbeendrawingcloseranditwasbecomingmoreandmoredificultforustohideourfeelings.Finally…weconfessedourlove.’That’sit.

AlexanderSolzhenitsyn,amongothers,hassuggestedthatSakharovwasaninnocent, unworldly figurewhowasmanipulated by the ferociously articulateand highly motivated Elena Bonner, and Sakharov repeatedly defends heragainst these charges. Perhaps the truth lies somewhere in the middle. It isimpossibletoreadthesememoirswithoutbelievingthatSakharovknewexactlywhathewasdoingwhenheespousedhumanrightscausesintheUSSR;butonealsogainsastrongimpressionofareserved,inwardpersonalitywhoneeded,orfeltheneeded,hiswifetohelphimwithhispublicutterances.

It was Elena Bonner who insisted, ‘My husband is a physicist, not adissident,’butofcoursehewasboth.Hismemoirsfallroughlyintotwohalves,the physicist’s book and the dissident’s book, and each half really needs adifferent reviewer.Asascientist,Sakharovwas in thesameleagueasStephenHawking,butasawriterhemakesfarfewerconcessionstothelayreader.Asaresult, his long and important descriptions of the Soviet nuclear weaponsprogramme,andalsoofhistheoreticalwork,canbebewildering,evenforthosenon-scientistswithakeeninterestinsuchmatters.Nevertheless, thesechaptersareinmanywaysthemostinformativeinthebook,inthesenseofopeninguptous aworldwe knew almost nothing about—for example, the secret city, ‘TheInstallation’,wheretheSoviethydrogenbombwasbuilt.It’salsoclearthatthetheories Sakharov developed around the notion of ‘baryon asymmetry’—

crudely, the relationship betweenmatter and antimatter—prefigured theGrandUnifiedTheoriesof the1970s. (Sakharovplainly regrettednothavingbecomeinvolvedintheGUTs.)

Sakharovwas, in a sense, aRussian version of J. RobertOppenheimer. The‘father of the Russian hydrogen bomb’, he came passionately to oppose thetestingandproliferationof theseweapons.Whatmakeshimfascinating is thatthere was also a part of him that was a Russian version of Edward Teller,Oppenheimer’smorehawkishcolleagueandopponent,whobelievedthatinthelate 1940s and 1950s ‘only American military strength could restrain thesocialist camp from an expansion that … might trigger a third world war.’Sakharov is almost lyrical about the theoretical beauty of thermonuclearexplosions. For him, to participate in suchworkwas to be able towitness, inmicrocosm, the unleashing of the same forces that created the universe. Thecruel paradox that these might also be the forces by which life could bedestroyed was not lost on him; but the ambiguity of his position allows us aricher understanding of nuclear issues than any simple hawk/dove antithesis.Sakharovwasbothhawkanddove.

Thereismuchmoreinformationofgreatvalue,bothscientificandpolitical,in these pages: Sakharov’s attack on the absurd Stalin-endorsed theories ofTrofimLysenko,whobelievedthat‘modified’plantsandanimalscouldpassontheir new characteristics to succeeding generations, thus offering a ‘quick fix’forSovietagriculture;hiscampaigntosaveLakeBaikalfrompollution;portraitsof Beria, Khrushchev and other Soviet bosses; and a notably unsentimentalaccount of the dissidentmovement, especially of the emergence of a breed of‘professional dissidents’ with whom Sakharov plainly felt he had little incommon.HisdisputewithSolzhenitsyninwhichherejectsthewriter’sultraistreligiousideasanddissentsfromSolzhenitsyn’scontemptforWesternvalues,isone in which this reviewer’s sympathies, at least, are firmly on the Sakharovside.

Ultimately,however,thisbookisamonumenttothetriumphofthehumanspirit over adversity. But Sakharov’s victory was not complete (perhaps noindividual victories ever are). There are many Russians today who blamePresidentGorbachevforthescientist’sdeathinDecemberoflastyear.TheysaythatGorbachevmayhaveendedSakharov’slongexileinGorky,butthathethen

hastenedthegreatman’sdemisebyhisharshandhumiliatingpubliccriticismsofSakharovintheCongressofPeople’sDeputies.We’llhavetowaitforvolumetwo of these memoirs to find out how Sakharov felt about Gorbachev’sbehaviour.Butwhether the story is true or not, the fact that people believe itemphasizesthewidespreadRussiandistrustofGorbachev,andalsotheextentofpublicsympathyfortheéliteacademicianwhobecametheSovietsystem’smostdistinguisheddissident,theboywhomadefriendswithdifficultybutwhogrewuptobe,astheEstoniandeputyMarjuLauristinsaidathisfuneralservice,‘theincarnationofintellectualcourageandconscience,ofthetrueRussianspirit’.

1990

UMBERTOECO

AbouttwentyyearsagothebookshopsseemedtobefullofvolumeswithtitleslikeIlluminatus,inwhichitwassuggestedthattheworldwasrunbythisorthatoccultconspiracy.IntheaftermathoftheKennedyassassination,thenotionthat‘visible’historywasafictioncreatedbythepowerful,andthatthese‘invisible’orsubterraneanhistoriescontainedthe‘real’truthsoftheage,hadbecomefairlygenerally plausible. The onlywriter who evermanaged to transmute the basemetaloftheilluminatus-novelintoartwasThomasPynchon,whosucceededinmaking thenecessaryconnectionsbetween theoccultandpoliticalworlds,andwhoconstructedarichmetaphoricalframeworkinwhichtwoopposedgroupsofideasstruggledfortextualandglobalsupremacy:ontheonehand,Entropy(theidea that things fall apart, which we can call ‘pessimism’, but which is alsoconnected, in Pynchon, to the profane, democratic spirit); and in the oppositecorner,Paranoia(theideathateverythinghasameaning,aPlan,it’sjustthatwedon’tknowwhatitis…whichwecancall‘optimism’becauseofitsoppositiontomeaninglessness; butwhich is also linked to the religious, even totalitarianspirit,becausemeaning,inPynchon,isinthehandsofthehiddenadepts).

WhatgavePynchontheedgeoverall theothercabalisticbabblerswasthathewas funny, he could create vivid, belching, hilariously unstrung characters(Benny Profane, Tyrone Slothrop), and that his awareness of genuinelysuppressedhistories—of thegenocideof theHereropeople insouthernAfrica,forexample,orof thecollaborationbetweenUSandNazi industrialistsduringWorldWarII—alwaysinformedhistreatmentofevenhismostlunaticfictionalconspiracies.

Pynchon once wrote a short story called ‘Under the Rose’, its title anEnglishingof theLatinsubrosa.Foucault’sPendulum, theobesenewvolumefromUmbertoEco, is an illuminatus-novel for the endof the eighties, a post-modernistconspiracyfictionabout,Isuppose,theworldunderthenameoftherose. It is, I regret to report, a very faintEco indeed of those old Pynchonianhighjinks.Itishumourless,devoidofcharacterization,entirelyfreeofanythingresemblingacrediblespokenword,andmind-numbinglyfullofgobbledygook

ofallsorts.Reader:Ihatedit.The plot ofFoucault’s Pendulum (which begins on page 367 of this 629-

pagebook)issurprisinglyuncomplicated.Threeweirdpublishers,Belbo(namedafter a typeface), Diotallevi and Casaubon (‘wasn’t he a character inMiddlemarch?’), are employees of a two-faced publishing house,Garamond/Manutius, whose visible Garamond face is that of a straight, up-market company, butwhose trueManutius nature is that of a vanity press forself-financingauthors(‘SFAs’).Tiredofreceivinganendlessstreamofcrankymanuscripts about Templars andRosicrucians and suchlike twaddle, our threeheroes decide to make up the ultimate conspiracy theory, their own privatetotalizationofoccultknowledge.‘IfthePlanexists,itmustinvolveeverything,’they decide. Their invention, the bad fiction within this fiction, is fed into acomputer named Abulafia after a medieval Jewish cabalist. Then, in aridiculously melodramatic finale involving the eponymous pendulum (norelation, incidentally, tothephilosopher)andmassedhordesofcrazedmystics,the fictionalPlanstarts tocome true…EdgarAllanPoe isamong themyriadreferencesinthisbook,butitdoesn’thelp.ThisPendulumisthepits.

It’s just possible that, inside this whale, there’s an enjoyable smaller fishtryingtogetout.Theunscrupulousworldofthevanitypressandthefleecingofitsfeebleauthorsisdepictedwithsomeverve,andtherearemomentswhentheponderous narrative sparks into life. But the spark is instantly snuffed out bypageafterpageofHigherBullshit.Hereisatypicalparagraph:

‘Sothoseare theMassalians,alsoknownasStratioticsandPhibionites,or Barbelites, who aremade up ofNasseans and Phemionites. But forotherfathersofthechurch,theBarbeliteswerelatterdayGnostics…andtheirinitiatesinturncalledtheBorboritesHylics,orChildrenofMatter,as distinct from the Psychics, who were already a step up, and thePneumatics,whowerethetrulyelect…ButmaybetheStratioticswereonlytheHylicsoftheMithraists.’‘Soundsabitconfused,’Belbosaid.

Andthisiswhatpassesfordialogue:“‘AreyousayingI’msuperficial?”“No…whatotherscallprofundity isonlya tesseract,a four-dimensionalcube.”’Andthis,Iassureyou,isalovescene:

‘Amparo,thesun’scomingup.’‘Wemustbecrazy.’‘Rosy-fingereddawngentlycaressesthewaves…’‘Yes,goon.It’sYemanjà.Listen.She’scoming.’‘Oh,Tintinnabulum!’

‘Oh,Tintinnabulum!’‘YouaremyAtalantaFugiens…’‘Oh,TurrisBabel…’

Irestmycase.Eco, the consummate post-modernist, is perfectly aware of all possible

criticisms of his text, and lets us know that he knows. ‘We’re talking instereotypes here,’ one of his characters astutely observes. And, ‘Maybe onlycheap fictiongivesus themeasureof reality,’Belbomuses; that’sEcohintingthat he intends to play deliberatelywith the formof the penny dreadful.And,becausehe’senoughofanintellectualtoknowthathokumishokum,hehasnotwritten an ‘innocent’ late-sixties illuminatus-novel, but a ‘knowing’ version, afictionaboutthecreationofapieceofjunkfictionthatthenturnsknowinglyintothatpieceofjunkfiction.Foucault’sPendulum isnotanovel.It isacomputergame.

One way of playing it is to spot the references. Apart from Pynchon,MiddlemarchandPoe,therearetouchesofTheMalteseFalcon,RaidersoftheLost Ark, Ghostbusters, The Lord of the Rings (Belbo/Bilbo),Gone with theWind,TheMagus,007andaclassicSFstoryentitled‘TheNineBillionNamesofGod’. And at the very end, in Casaubon’s conclusion (‘I have understood.And the certainty that there is nothing to understand should bemy peace,mytriumph’), there’smore than a touch of the ancient Japanese poet Bashowhotravelledtotheseatofwisdom,theDeepNorth,tolearnthattherewasnothingtolearnintheDeepNorth.

Unfortunately,thejourneytothistruthissoturgidthatit’simpossibletocareabout reaching the goal. This is Spielbergerywithout the action or bullwhips,andif,asAnthonyBurgessthreatensonthejacket,‘thisisthewaytheEuropeannovel isgoing,’we shouldall catchabus in theoppositedirectionas soonaspossible.

1989

GÜNTERGRASS

TheMeetingatTelgte

When the Thirty Years War ended, one word was sufficient to describeGermany: rubble. And in our own century, after a warwhich did its work atapproximately six times the speed: once again, nothing to be seen but rubble.‘The thing that hath been tomorrow,’ reads the opening sentence of GünterGrass’snewnovel,‘isthatwhichshallbeyesterday.’

Grass’s subject is how German writers responded to ruination; how, afterHitler,Germanpensre-wroteGenesistoread:Aftertheendwastheword.Howthey tore their language down and rebuilt it anew; how they used words toassault,excoriate,accept,encompassandregenerate;howthephoenixpokeditsbeakoutof the fire.Rubble, afterWorldWarTwo,gavebirth towhatwas atfirst disparagingly termed ‘rubble literature’. Heinrich Böll, defending thesebooksofwarandhomecoming,wrote:‘Wehavenoreasontobeashamedofthislabel…weseethingsthewaytheyare,withahumaneyethatnormallyisnotquite dry and not quitewet, but damp, for let us not forget that the Latin fordampness ishumor.’AndnowGünterGrasshas taken the storyofagroupofwriterswhosetaboutthetaskofseeingsharply,butwithasenseofhumor,andprojecteditthreehundredyearsbackwardsintime;whichofcourse,GrassbeingGrass,enableshimtotellthetalemorehumorously.

Onthecoverofhisbook,drawnbyhimself,istheimageofahandholdingagoosequillrisingtriumphantfromaheapofstones…takingarms,sotospeak,againstthatseaofrubble.

In1947,suchameetingofwritersdidinfacttakeplace:thatwaswhenH.W. Richter first convened the famous Group 47. Its mirror-meeting, the oneGrassdescribes,neverhappened,atTelgteoranywhereelseexcept inhisownCroesus-richimagination;butitseemsnonethelessactualforthat.

Thereassemble,intheBridgeTavernatTelgte,atownlocatedinthemidstof the 1647 peace negotiations, diverswriters, publishers and evenmusicians,

‘for the purpose of giving new force to the last remaining bond between allGermans, namely the German language … Everything had been laid waste,wordsalonekepttheirlustre.’Asamatteroffact,eventhewordsthemselvesaresomewhat tarnished: the great composer Schütz tells theMeeting, ‘When thefatherlandwas laid low, poetry could hardly be expected to flower.’And in acomic-opera parallel to the twentieth-century pollution of Germany by theterribledeadlanguageofNazism,wefindthetongueoftheseventeenthcenturypolluted,too:allmannerofarmies,trampingandBabelingacrosstheland,haveleft their bootmarks on the common speech, so thoroughly that the landlady,Libuschka,inTheMeetingatTelgteismoved,atonepoint,toasktheassembledbards‘whetherthesignoreswouldcareforaboccolinoofrouge.’

TheBridgeTavern is, of course, symbolically named;Grass the snail, theSocialDemocrat, the‘irenicist’,hasalwaysbeenamanforbridges.Andwhenthe inn burns down, its destruction seems to signify the failure of thewriters’hopes.Butbeforethefire,wehavebeengivenamarvellouslycredibleportraitof a bunch of bitching, pedantic, devout, bawdy, gloomy and innocent menstrugglingtobuildanewworldfromtheflawedfabricoftheirminds.

At the centre of the book stands Christoffel Gelnhausen, a version of thewriter Grimmelshausen, whose novel Simplicissimus is the rumbustious,iconoclastic ancestor ofThe Tin Drum; riotous, self-taught, amoral, Stoffel isalsoGrasshimself ingreendoublet and featheredhat. InTheFlounder,Grassgave himself the starring role and popped up, disguised as all sorts of folk,throughout German history; in The Meeting, which is a sort of chip off thatmightyfish,heisonceagainhisownbestcharacter.Stoffellies,cheats,steals,puncheswomenintheeye;heemptiestheBridgeTaverntomakeroomforthepoets by telling its residents that the scribblers have the plague, which is ‘norespecter of wealth’. But after the book’s great set-piece, a feast provided byGelnhausen which turns out to be the product of a looting trip, he defendshimselfagainsttherageoftherhymersbypointingoutthattheyare,infact,alsocorrupt, and precisely because they do respect wealth too much: ‘He and hishorsemen had acted in the spirit of the times, just as the gentlemen hereassembled…whentheywrotepoemsinpraiseofprincestowhommurderandarsoncameasnaturallyastheirdailyprayers.’WhatenragesthepoetsmostofallaboutStoffel,ofcourse,isneitherhislyingnorhislootingbuthisdecisiontocompetewiththematwriting.

To balance Gelnhausen, we have the landlady Libuschka, or Courage,veteranofumpteenbattles,giverandreceiverofthepox(theGermanCourasche

isanoldslangtermforsyphilis),literaryknow-allandproviderofmuchpoorerfare than we’re used to in Grass novels. (Stoffel complains bitterly about thefood.)ThisCourageisalsoavisitorfromGrimmelshausen;Brechthasborrowedherbefore.TheexplosiverelationshipofCourageandStoffel(‘whatstirredthemtogetherwasanexcessoflove,orcallithate’)iswhatbreathesgenuine,Grassylifeintoanotherwiseastonishinglyrestrainedbook.

BecauseTelgteisGünterGrassinsecondgear.Thebookiswritteninhonourof the seventiethbirthdayofH.W.Richter;TheFlounderwasGrass’s fiftiethbirthday present to himself. Perhaps it’s time all these celebrations stopped;Grassunthinkablethought—isindangerofsoundingaweebitcosy.Butenoughcarping;eveninaminorkey,he’sstilloneofthefewgreatonesaround,andhaswritten a fascinating, entertaining book. You may wish to consider, whilereading it,why the rubble of theGerman cities yielded up the likes ofGrass,BöllandLenz,whileBritishrubbleproducedonlycarparks.

1981

Essays

Inthesummerof1967,whentheWestwas—perhapsforthelasttime—intheclutches of the optimism disease, when the microscopic invisible bacilli ofoptimismmade its youngpeoplebelieve that theywouldovercome someday,whenunemploymentwasanirrelevanceandthefuturestillexisted,andwhenIwas twentyyearsold, IboughtapaperbackcopyofRalphManheim’sEnglishtranslationofTheTinDrumfromabookshopinCambridge,England.Inthosedayseverybodyhadbetterthingstodothanread.Therewasthemusicandtherewere the movies and there was also, don’t forget, the world to change. LikemanyofmycontemporariesIspentmystudentyearsunderthespellofBuñuel,Godard, Ray,Wajda,Welles, Bergman, Kurosawa, Jancsó, Antonioni, Dylan,Lennon, Jagger,Laing,Marcuseand, inevitably, the two-headed fellowknowntoGrassreadersasMarxengels.Inspiteofallthesedistractions,however,OskarMatzerath’s autobiography had me hooked, and I stayed hooked all the wayfromgrandmotherAnnaKoljaiczek’swide skirt, past fizz powder and horse’sheadfullofeels,rightuptoAnna’sdarkopposite,thewickedBlackWitch.

Therearebooks thatopendoors for their readers,doors in thehead,doors

whoseexistence theyhadnotpreviouslysuspected.And then thereare readerswhodreamofbecomingwriters;theyaresearchingforthestrangestdoorofall,schemingupwaystotravelthroughthepage,toendupinsideandalsobehindthewriting,tolurkbetweenthelines;whileotherreaders,intheirturn,pickupbooksandbegin todream.For theseAlices, thesewould-bemigrants fromtheWorld to the Book, there are (if they are lucky) books which give thempermissiontotravel,sotospeak,permissiontobecomethesortofwriterstheyhaveitinthemselvestobe.Abookisakindofpassport.Andmypassports,theworks that gaveme the permits I needed, includedThe Film Sense by SergeiEisenstein,theCrowpoemsofTedHughes,Borges’sFictions,Sterne’sTristramShandy,Ionesco’splayRhinoceros—and,thatsummerof1967,TheTinDrum.

ThisiswhatGrass’sgreatnovelsaidtomeinitsdrumbeats:Goforbroke.Always try and do too much. Dispense with safety nets. Take a deep breathbeforeyoubegintalking.Aimfor thestars.Keepgrinning.Bebloody-minded.Arguewith the world. And never forget that writing is as close as we get tokeeping a hold on the thousand and one things—childhood, certainties, cities,doubts,dreams,instants,phrases,parents,loves—thatgoonslipping,likesand,throughourfingers.Ihavetriedtolearnthelessonsofthemidgetdrummer.Andonemore,whichIgotfromthatother,immensework,DogYears:Whenyou’vedoneitonce,startalloveragainanddoitbetter.

Günter Grass, Danzig’s most famous son (Lech Walesa, the only othercontender for the title, inhabits—it is important to insist—not Danzig butGdańsk), who now lives partly in Berlin, a city which itself seems to havemigratedtoanewandstarkerlocation,andpartlyinaNorthGermanlandscapewhich remindshimof thewide,dikedvistasofhiswritingandhisyouth, isafigure of central importance in the literature ofmigration, and themigrant is,perhaps, the central or defining figure of the twentieth century. Like manymigrants,likemanypeoplewhohavelostacity,hehasfounditinhisluggage,packed in an old tin box. Kundera’s Prague, Joyce’s Dublin, Grass’s Danzig:exiles, refugees, migrants have carried many cities in their bedrolls in thiscentury of wandering. And let nobody underestimate the obstinacy of suchwriters;theywillnottoleratetheGdanskingoftheirpast.InGrass’stransportedcity, Labesweg is still Labesweg and the shipyard which saw the birth ofSolidarity is not called Lenin, but Schichau. (Here, once again, I feel a smallaffinity.IgrewuponWardenRoad,Bombay;nowit’sBhulabhaiDesaiRoad.IwenttoschoolnearFloraFountain;nowtheschoolisnearHutatmaChowk.Ofcourse, the new decolonized names tell of a confident, assertive spirit in the

independentState;butthelossofpastattachmentsremainsaloss.Whattodo?Shrug.Andpicklethepastinbooks.)

In one sense, Grass is only approximately half a migrant. A full migrantsuffers,traditionally,atripledisruption:heloseshisplace,heentersintoanalienlanguage,andhefindshimselfsurroundedbybeingswhosesocialbehaviourandcodes are very unlike, and sometimes even offensive to, his own.And this iswhatmakesmigrantssuchimportantfigures:becauseroots,languageandsocialnormshavebeenthreeofthemostimportantpartsofthedefinitionofwhatitistobeahumanbeing.Themigrant,deniedallthree,isobligedtofindnewwaysofdescribinghimself,newwaysofbeinghuman.

Well, Grass certainly lost his place (and, as I suggested, found that he’dbrought it along with him). It’s possible to argue that he lost a part of hislanguage,theKashubiandialectsofhisyouthwhichheattemptedtopreserveinhisliterature;buthereI’monthinice,asmyknowledgeofGermanisprobablyabout as great as Grass’s knowledge of Urdu. At any rate, apart from thedialects,itseemsdifficulttosuggestthatGrassisawriteroutoflanguage,andcertainlyhehasremainedwithinasocietywhosesocialmoresareknowntohim.Indeed,ashisessaysshow,hisdedication to the ideaofaGermancivilizationwhich embraces both West and East Germany and which finds its trueexpressionintheGermanlanguage,iscomplete.Onemaythereforelegitimatelyask how useful this notion of a half-migrant Grass, a maybe-only-one-third-migrantGrass,reallyis.

Ithinkitisuseful,becausethereareothersensesinwhichGrassseemstometobeverymuchmorethanmerelyafragmentorpercentageofamigrantwriter.Migration across national frontiers is by no means the only form of thephenomenon. In many ways, given the international and increasinglyhomogeneous nature of metropolitan culture, the journey from, for example,ruralAmericatoNewYorkCityisamoreextremeactofmigrationthanamovefrom, say,Bombay.But Iwant to go further than such literalistic discussions;becausemigration also offers us one of the richestmetaphors of our age.Thevery word metaphor, with its roots in the Greek words for bearing across,describes a sort of migration, the migration of ideas into images.Migrants—borne-across humans—are metaphorical beings in their very essence; andmigration,seenasametaphor,iseverywherearoundus.Weallcrossfrontiers;inthatsense,weareallmigrantpeoples.

Günter Grass is amigrant from his past, and now I am no longer talkingaboutDanzig.Hegrewup,ashehassaid,inahouseandamilieuinwhichthe

Naziviewoftheworldwastreatedquitesimplyasobjectivereality.OnlywhentheAmericans cameat thewar’s endand theyoungGrassbegan tohearhowthingshadreallybeeninGermanydidheunderstandthattheliesanddistortionsoftheNaziswerenottheplaintruth.Whatanexperience:todiscoverthatone’sentire picture of the world is false, and not only false, but based upon amonstrosity.What a task for any individual: the reconstructionof reality fromrubble.

Iamsuggestingthatwecanseethisprocessasanactofmigration,fromanoldselfintoanewone.ThattheendofWorldWarTwowasforGrass,asitwasforGermany,astoughanddisruptingafrontiertocrossasanyonecanimagine.AndifwecallGrassamigrantof this type,wequicklydiscoverthat thetripledislocationclassicallysufferedbymigrantshasindeedbeeninoperationinthecase of Migrant Grass, the man who migrated across history. The firstdislocation,remember, is thelossofroots.AndGrass lostnotonlyDanzig;helost—hemusthavelost—thesenseofhomeasasafe,‘good’place.Howcoulditretainthatfeelinginthelightofwhathelearnedaboutitatthewar’send?Theseconddislocationislinguistic.Andweknow—andGrasshaswrittenoftenandeloquently—of the effect of the Nazi period on the German language, of theneed for the language to be rebuilt, pebble by pebble, from the wreckage;because a language in which evil finds so expressive a voice is a dangeroustongue.Thepractitionersof‘rubbleliterature’—Grasshimselfbeingoneofthemost prominent of these—took upon themselves the Herculean task ofreinventing theGerman language, of tearing it apart, ripping out the poisonedparts,andputtingitbacktogether.

And the third disruption is social. Once again we can argue that thetransformation inGerman society, or, rather, in theGermany that thegrowingGrass knew and experienced, was of the same order as the change in socialcodes that a migrant from one country to another experiences: that NaziGermanywas,insomeways,anothercountry.Grasshadtounlearnthatcountry,thatwayofthinkingaboutsociety,andlearnanewone.

IseeGrass,then,asadoublemigrant:atravelleracrossbordersintheself,andinTime.Andthevisionunderlyinghiswriting,bothfictionandnon-fiction,is,Ibelieve,inmanywaysamigrant’svision.

Thisiswhatthetripledisruptionofrealityteachesmigrants:thatrealityisanartefact,thatitdoesnotexistuntilitismade,andthat,likeanyotherartefact,itcan bemadewell or badly, and that it can also, of course, be unmade.WhatGrasslearnedonhisjourneyacrossthefrontiersofhistorywasDoubt.Nowhe

distrusts all those who claim to possess absolute forms of knowledge; hesuspects all total explanations, all systems of thought which purport to becomplete.Amongsttheworld’sgreatwriters,heisquintessentiallytheartistofuncertainty,whosesymbolmighteasilyhavebeenthequestionmarkif itwerenot the Snail. To experience any form of migration is to get a lesson in theimportance of tolerating others’ points of view. One might almost say thatmigrationoughttobeessentialtrainingforallwould-bedemocrats.

About that Snail. This social-democratic mollusc, under whose spirallingshell are housed the ideas of hurrying slowly, caution, circumspection, andgradualism, has servedGrasswell, and also earned himhis share of brickbatsfromthosewhoadvocatemorerapidratesofadvance.Idon’twanttoenterthatdisputehere,notingonlythattherearetimes—forinstanceduringhisadvocacyofnucleardisarmament—whenGrasshimselfappearsfarfromSnailesque.ButIshould like to use the Snail as evidence thatGrass livesmore comfortably inimages,inideas,thaninplaces.This,too,isacharacteristicofmigrants.Heis,afterall,ametaphoricalbeing.

Themigrant intellectroots itself in itself, in itsowncapacityfor imaginingandreimaginingtheworld.Thiscanleadtodifficulties:IsitbecausetheUnitedStates is amigrants’ culture that its citizenscan, at times (electioncampaigns,for instance),appear toprefer imagetosubstance?But theloveof imagesalsocontains great potential. When the world is seen through ideas, throughmetaphors, it becomes a richer place. When Grass looks at Czechoslovakiathrough thewritingofKafka, or contemporary Japanese urban sprawl throughtheimagesofAlfredDöblin,hehelpsusseemore,andmoreclearly.

A writer who understands the artificial nature of reality is more or lessobliged to enter the process of making it. This is perhaps why Grass has sodeterminedlysoughtapublicrole,whyhehasusedhisgreatfameasanovelistasaplatformfromwhichtospeakonthemanyissues—thebomb,theinvasionof our privacy by data banks, the relationship between the nations of the richNorthandthepoorSouth—whichconcernhim.Andsincetoargueaboutrealityistobeatoncecreativeandpolitical,itisnotsurprisingthatwhenGrasswritesabout literature he finds himselfwriting about politics, andwhenhe discussespoliticalissues,thequirkyperspectivesofliteraturehaveahabitofcreepingin.

Inhisessay‘TheDestructionofMankindHasBegun’Grassmakesthepointthat,forthefirsttimeinthehistoryofthespecies,writerscannolongerassumetheexistenceofposterity.Hesaysthat,asaresult,‘ThebookIamplanningtowrite … will have to include a farewell to the damaged world, to wounded

creatures,tousandourminds,whichhavethoughtofeverythingandtheendaswell.’Andthecompositionofelegiesisindeedoneoftheproperresponsesforawritertomakewhennightisdrawingin.Butoutsidehisfiction,inhispoliticalactivities and writings, Grass is also making a second, and equally properresponse.Whatthisworksaysis:wearen’tdeadyet.Wemaybeindeeptroublebutwearen’tdonefor.Andwhilethereislife,theremustbeanalysis,struggle,persuasion,argument,polemic, rethinking,andall theother longishwords thatadduptooneveryshortword:hope.

1984

HEINRICHBÖLL

HeinrichBöll has never lacked courage.Whenmost goodGerman burgherswerereactingtothewords‘Baader-Meinhof’asiftheywerethenamesofHell’smost fearsome demons, Böll attempted to explain, in print, why some ofGermany’smostbrilliantpeoplehadchosentheleft-handpathofterrorism.It’salwayseasiertocondemnthantounderstand,andBölltookafairamountofflakforhavingassumedtheroleofdevil’sadvocate(althoughhenevercondonedtheviolence of the Baader-Meinhof group, or of anyone else, for that matter).AndreasBaader,UlrikeMeinhof,GudrunEnsslin,HolgerMeinsandtheresthadgiven the German ruling class its biggest fright in years; the burghers didn’tenjoy being told that incomprehensible actsmay arise out of comprehensible,evenrationalmotivations.

TheSafetyNet is about the effects of that fright on the frightened.BaaderandMeinhofappearinit,thinlydisguisedas‘HeinrichBeverloh’and‘VeronicaTolm’; but until the novel’s chillingly orchestrated, thriller-like climax, theyhoverhighabovetheaction,likecirclingFuries,waitingtostrike.(Thecentralcharacter, Fritz Tolm, actually speculates on the possibility of his beingassassinated by an airborne bomb disguised as a bird.) The foreground isoccupied bymore or less ‘respectable’ people and by the security forces—the‘safetynet’ofthetitle—whomustprotectthem;andBöll’smessage,forthisiscertainlyamessage-novel,isthatthissecuritysystemisasdestructiveaforceastheterrorists itseekstoresist.IfBeverlohandVeronicaarethenovel’sdevils,thesecuritypoliceareitsdeepbluesea.

The plot is pretty simple, even schematic. Tolm, a newspaper owner,becomesPresidentof‘theAssociation’andthusaprimetargetfortheassassins.He isobliged tosubmit to theministrationsof thesecuritypolice,althoughheremainsconvincedthatabsolutesecuritydoesnotexist,andthatthekillerswillcertainly get him. The safety net closes around his whole family, tappingtelephones, destroying privacy, suspecting everyone, turning the most trivialeventsintoakindofbattleagainstaninvisibleenemy—avisittoanartgalleryisreferredtobythesecuritychiefas‘theMadonnafront’.Allthelivesheldinthis

netarecorruptedinprofoundandsubtleways.MeanwhileTolmknows thathisnewspaperempirewill shortlybegobbled

upbyhisrivalZummerling(anAxelSpringerfigure),whilehisownhouseandlands will be swallowed by the open-cast mining machines that are alreadynibblingathishorizon—sothatheisdoomedtoendupthevictimofthatsameomnipotent force, Money, which is precisely the entity against which theterroristsarestruggling.Thisisoneofthenovel’sdarkestironies.

Andintheend,ofcourse,theterrorists…butitwouldbewrongtospoilaclimaxasgrippingasthisone.

Thisfine,meticulousnovelshowsBöllathismosteffectivelyruminant.Hismethodhasalwaysbeen tochewawayatpeople,details,places, turning themoverandoveruntiltheyyieldupeverylastiotaofmeaning.TheTolmfamilyisperhapsalittletoorepresentativeacross-sectionoftheGermanmiddleclasses:Tolmhimselfisawearyfellowgrippedby‘capitalistmelancholy’;thenthere’shis‘ultra-capitalistic’daughterSabine;hisreformedradicalsonRolfandRolf’scommunistwife;evenahippie-ishson,Herbert,ratherquaintlydescribedintheListofCharactersas‘oneof the“alternatesociety”’.ButBöllworriesawayatthemalltosuchrevealingeffectthatit’seasytoforgivethetoo-programmaticalstructureofthebook.

‘It’stheeraofnicemonsters,Käthe’Tolmtellshiswife,‘andwemustcountourselves amongst them.’ And really, just about everyone here is alarminglynice.Thesecuritypolicemenarenice. (WhenSabinehasanaffairwithoneofherguards,Böllgoestogreatpainstopresenthimasadecent,troubledchap.Inhis fair-mindedway, he’smaking the useful point that the guardians, too, aredamagedbytheirroles.)Bleibl,theex-Nazinewspaperman,turnsouttohaveahumanside.OnlyZummerling,themediaczar,andhiscreature,Amplanger,arenotnice.EvenBeverlohandVeronicaseemniceenough,particularlyVeronica,whokeepsringingupwithwarningsaboutherowngroup’sactivities.Toomuchniceness, youmay think; but it has the advantageof allowingBöll to present,sympathetically,averywiderangeofpointsofview.TheSafetyNetisasortofinteriorpanorama:itsprimarypurposeisnottojudge,buttounderstand.

Thereis,however,ajudgement.‘ItisBeverloh’seraandAmplanger’sera…figuring,figuring,figuring’saysTolm,andyousensethatBöllagrees;thattherealtragedyforBöllisthereplacementoftheoldkindnesses,ofhumanvalues,bytheremorseless,amoralworldofthetechnologists.Thepress,thepoliceandthebombersareallaspects(orvictims)ofthissickness;anditisinbringingustothisperceptionthattheachievementofthisbrave,painednovelreallylies.

1982

SIEGFRIEDLENZ

‘Pardonme?Adetestableword?Awordwithadarkhistory?…Irealizethatthewordhasabadreputation,thatithasbeensoseriouslyabusedthatonecanhardly use it nowadays … But could we not try to rid the word of its badconnotations?Giveitbackasortofpurity?’

The word is Heimat, ‘Homeland’, and the speaker is Zygmunt Rogalla,masterweaverbothofrugsandof thenarrativeofSiegfriedLenz’sepicfable,The Heritage, whose original title, literally translated, was The HomelandMuseum,andwhosethemeisthecreationofavastgulfbetweenGermany’spastandpresent:agulfcreatedbytheunscrupuloususeofthesenseofhome,rootsandhistorytojustifyandlegitimizexenophobia,tyrannyandthedreadsyntaxofethnicpurity.TheNazisdirtiedmanywords,butSiegfriedLenzisnotwillingtoleaveitatthat.TheHeritageis,amongmanyotherthings,anattempttorescuethepastfromitsexploiters:afableofreclamation,theverywritingofwhichisakindofheroism,andwhichrevealsLenzasbeingagooddealmoreoptimisticthanhisnarrator.ForthenovelbeginswhenRogalladeliberatelyburnsdowntheirreplaceablemuseuminwhich,formostofhislife,hehasnurturedtherelicsofhis homeland’s past, in order, as we finally learn, ‘to bring the collectedwitnesses…intosafety…fromwhichtheywouldneveragainissueforth,butwheretheycouldneveragainbeexploitedforthiscauseorthat.’Thisseemslikea deeply pessimistic conclusion; but then again, ‘in ourmemory things lead apurerexistence,’andthroughZygmuntRogalla’sfeatoftotalrecall,history,thelost homeland, is indeed restored to us, neither sentimentalized nor distorted,madeneitherquaintnorrisible;theheritageisgivenbackitsinnocence.

SiegfriedLenz’snovelisacolossalachievementineverysense.Itcontainsaseemingly endless parade of striking images, vivid detail and characters whoseem mythical and larger than life precisely because they are so beautifullyrooted in real life. We meet Jan Rogalla, Zygmunt’s father, the elixir man,closeted in his laboratory like a German José Arcadio Buendia, dreaming ofinventing a universal panacea, half-asphyxiating his family with his vapourcloudsandtryingtoselltheRussianArmyapotionwhichpreventsfunkonthe

battle-field; the jailbirdEugenLavrenzwhoknowsa story foreachoneofhishomeland’s ninety-two lakes; and Zygmunt’s blood brother, Conny Karrasch,who as a child was fond of sabotaging history plays; and Zygmunt’s UncleAdam, digging for relics in the local peat bogs,who grows up to believe thehomeland idea is ‘nothing but the sanctuary of arrogance’, and whosetransformation,afterthewar,intoanunlikelyrecruittotheranksofnostalgiaisone of the book’s few unconvincing notes. (Another is the too-coincidentalchapter inwhichConny discovers the racially impure past of a localNazi bybumpingintohislong-lostbrotheratahorsefair.)

ThehomelandofTheHeritageiscalledMasuria,andismadeasrealtous,inthesepages,asGrass’sKashubia.Goodnews,incidentally,forallfansofthatmarvellous trinity of pagan gods, Perkunos, Pikollos and Potrimpos: havingpresidedovertheoutrageouscomedyofGrass’sDanzignovels,theyhavenowturned up in Lenz’s pages, to preside over wedding rituals in which people’sshoes are hidden but vast numbers of hats are brought out and displayed, inwhichtrain-loadsofPolishgeesearedive-bombedbytheLuftwaffe,andavestmadefromthehairofahoundcalledHoggoiscapableofwarningitswearerofimminentdanger,becauseallthehairstandsuponend.It’struetosaythattheprevailingmoodofTheHeritageismoresombrethanGrassevergets,however.Whichisnottosayit’slessmemorable:IdefyanyonewhoreadsthedescriptionofLucknowinthelast,darkdaysoftheSecondWorldWartogetitoutoftheirheads: ‘The horses bucked and sank knee-deep into the drifts…One wagonafter another lurched off the road … People were pinned underneath, loadslandedinthesnow…thecrackingofwhipswasdrownedoutbyshouts…Ah,allthoselosses,thatlongtrailofruinsandlostpossessions!Youcouldtracethefortunesoftherefugeesbythegoodstheyleftbehind.’

I see that the English-language edition has been ‘shortened with the co-operationoftheauthor’;perhapsthisaccountsfortheoccasionaljerkinessofthestory-line,andforcertainunsolvedmysteries,suchaswhyZygmuntcallsConny‘thegreatKonradKarrasch’withouteverreallyjustifyingtheepithet.Itseemsashametohavegoneat thisbookwithscissors; it feels likebeing inamuseumfromwhichsomeoftheexhibitshavebeenarbitrarilyremoved.

Thebookhassurvivedthesurgery,however.Itremainsagenuinelyfabuloustale,anotherdemonstrationofthefactthatthefableisnowthecentral,themostvital form in Western literature; and it should be read by anyone who takespleasure inenteringaworldsobeautifullyandcompletelyrealized that, forallitsapparentalienness,itrapidlybecomesourown.

1981

PETERSCHNEIDER

InBerlin,theyevenexhibitwallsinthemuseums.InEastBerlin’sPergamumMuseum,theastonishedvisitorisfacedwithhugeRomantriumphalarchesandavastsegmentofthewallsofBabylon,containingtheblue-and-gold-tiledIshtarGate.Wallsandgates:antiquityprefiguringthecity’spartitionedpresent.BerlinwearsGermanhistoryintheformofaconcreteandwirescar,‘theonlystructureonearth,’asPeterSchneidersays,‘apartfromtheGreatWallofChina,thatcanbeseenfromthemoonwiththenakedeye.’

I was told, inWest Berlin, the story of the couple who got divorced anddecided,insteadofsellingthemaritalhomeandmovingtonewaddresses, thattheywouldbuildawall.Thehousewasslicedintwofromtoptobottomandthecouplestill live in it,oneithersideof thenewpartition,moreor less ignoringeachother’sexistence.Berliners,itseems,liketellingeachotherparablesofthecity and swearing that they are true stories. Mr Schneider’s book The WallJumperisfullofsuchtruths.

TheWallJumperisdescribedonitstitlepageasanovel.Ifitisanovel,itistrying very hard not to look like one. It purports to be an account by aWestBerlinwriter,ananonymous‘I’whomitisimpossiblenottoidentifywithPeterSchneider, of his attempt to write a novel about the Berlin Wall; of hisrelationshipwithandvisionofthedividedcityinwhichhehaslivedfortwentyyears;andofhisfriendshipswiththreeEastBerliners,twoofwhom,RobertandLena,nowliveintheWest,whilethethird,Pommerer,isstillintheEast.Itisabookabouttheinvisiblewallsaswellasvisibleones:‘ItwilltakeuslongertoteardowntheWallinourheads,’Schneiderwrites,‘thananywreckingcompanywillneedfortheWallwecansee.’

RobertandPommerertellthenamelessnarratoranumberof‘Wallstories’.AboutKabe,whojumpedtheWallfifteentimes,apparentlyfornoreasonexceptthat,likeEverest,itwasthere:‘Sometimesit’ssoquietintheapartmentandsogrey and cloudy outside and nothing’s happening and I think tomyself:Hey,let’sgoandjumptheWallagain.’Aboutthethreemoviegoers,LutzandthetwoWillys,whojumpedtheWalltoseeWesternmoviesandthenjumpedbackEast

again after the show. About Michael Gartenschläger, who found a way todismantle the robot mines he called his ‘22,000 comrades’. These stories aremarvellous, balanced between themythic and the plausible, boundary-walkingtalesthatcreate,inveryfewwords,theunrealrealityofBerlin.

Schneider is excellent, too, at describing ‘theWall in our heads’. To EastBerliners, even those settled in theWest, likeRobert andLena, everythingonboth sides of the Wall seems ‘pre-programmed, monitored, controlled’. Ademonstration in the streets, an ice-hockey game between the USA and theSovietUnion,newscastsaboutAfghanistan,allprovethepoint.Lenaalsohatesirony.Itseemstohertobeakindoftrick.

But Schneider is nothing if not even-handed, and he analyses his own‘delusion’ as well as his friends’. HisWestern belief in spontaneity, personalinitiative, free choice is, as he knows, nomore or less real than the beliefs ofRobert and Lena. This even-handedness is vital; it iswhat preventsTheWallJumperfromturningintoameretract.

PerhapsthebestthingsinthebookareSchneider’smanyacuteinsightsintothelifeof thecity.OnthecrampedatmosphereofBerlin,anislandinaseaofland:‘Berlinersdrive likemurderers.Theyseemin thecentreof thecity tobeseizedby theneed formovement thatWestGermandriversworkouton theirhighwaysandturnpikes.’Oncitymaps,hepointsoutthatWesternmapsindicatetheWallonlybyadelicatepinkdottedband.Whereas ‘on a citymap inEastBerlin,theworldendsattheWall…untenantedgeographysetsin.’OntheWallas language: he tells us that Pommerer’s first English sentence was ‘Ami[Yankee],gohome.’Hisnarrator’swas: ‘Haveyouchewing-gum?’There isafine moment when Lena visits her family in the East and the narrator,accompanying her, is at once aware that ‘the family had become Lena’shomeland’—itslosshadneverbeencompensatedfor.Andtoherfamily,Lena’srestlessnessduringhervisitproved that ‘shehadreturnedempty-handed’ fromtheWall.

ThetroublewithTheWallJumperisthatPeterSchneiderwillnotletittakeoff.Hecandescribe,hecananalyse,hecanevokeplace,hecancreatemythicimages and credible characters; but he scarcely ever lets the fiction rip. Theresult is amaddeningbook:maddeningbecause of the hints it contains of thebookitmighthavebeen.Thenarratortellsusatonepointthathethinkshehasfound the storyhe is looking for, the storyofaboundary-walker, a ‘manwhofeelsathomeonlyon theborder.’Andhegoeson: ‘If thephilosopher is rightthatajokeisalwaysanepitaphforafeelingthathasdied,theboundary-walker’s

storymustturnouttobeacomedy.’Iwishwehadhadthatstory.There’snotmuch comedy inTheWall Jumper, although there is the odd good, bleak gag(‘You know theRussian formula for concrete: a third cement, a third sand, athirdmicrophone.’)Andweneverreallygettheboundary-walker’stale.

So, finally,TheWall Jumper remainsunsatisfying, in spiteof all thegoodthings it contains. The casual, random tone, the distrust of the narrative,undermines all the intelligence, all the image-making, all the evocativeanecdotes. I was, however, pleased to learn that even after the East Germanauthorities had banned all sports that might lead to border crossing—scubadiving, ballooning, etc.—the human impulse to rise to such challenges hasresultedintheavailabilityofexcellentlyimprovised,homemadedivingmasks.

1983

CHRISTOPHRANSMAYR

Of all the opposed pairs of ideas by which human beings have sought tounderstand themselves, perhaps the oldest and deepest-rooted are the eternallywarringmythsofstasisandofmetamorphosis.Stasis,thedreamofeternity,ofafixedorderinhumanaffairs,isthefavouredmythoftyrants;metamorphosis,theknowledgethatnothingholdsitsform,isthedrivingforceofart.

WedonotknowwhyAugustusCaesarbanishedOvidtoalifetimeofbitterexile inTomison the shoresof theBlackSea,but thedestructionof thegreatauthoroftheMetamorphosesbytheEmperor-Godcanbeseenasonebattleinthewarofthemythsforwhichtheystood.ItisoneofthegreatparadoxesofthiswarthattheSwordwinsalmostallthebattles,butthePeneventuallyrewritesallthese victories as defeats. Which is not, of course, much consolation for theauthorintheruinofhislife;notevenwhen,likeOvid,heisproudanddefiantenoughtoendhismasterpiecewiththewords:

ButthroughthisWorkIwillliveonandliftmyselfhighabovethestarsandmyNamewillbeIndestructible.

ChristophRansmayr’sTheLastWorld isa reimaginingof the smashingofOvid,aparableoftheabilityofarttosurvivethebreakingoftheartist.Ittakesplace in a hybrid time inwhich theEmpire of theCaesars holds sway over arusting iron city visited by travelling movie projectionists and the occasionalclatteringbus.Thecity,de-Latinized,haschangedfromTomistoTomi,anditspeoplearedirt-poor,oftenbrutalpeasantsleadingnarrow,violentlives.ButtheyarealsofiguresfromthelegendsaroundwhichOvidwovehisMetamorphoses.ArachneandEchoarehere;Tereusisthelocalbutcher,andthebloodystoryofhis rape andmutilation of his sister-in-law Philomela is re-enacted in Tomi’smeanstreets.

Ransmayr’s time-jumbling may seem excessively tricksy to some readers,but it’s no more than a literary version of the common theatrical device of

playing theclassics inmoderndress.Ransmayr is suggesting thatwe live inadebased, rotting, rusting time(a timeafter thedeathofart,perhaps);a time inwhichtheonlypossibilitiesthatremaintousaretheseharshlyunpoeticshredsofold poetic glories. Like the citizens of Tomi,we are the rotten echoes of ourpasts.Evenourstoriescanonlybecrudeeffigiesofthegreatworksoflongago.

A youngRoman,Cotta, comes to Tomi in search ofOvid. InRansmayr’sversion,thepoetisbanishedbecausehebeginsapublicoration,standinginfrontofa‘bouquetofmicrophones’,byomittingtheusualverbalgenuflectionstotheEmperor, and simply saying ‘Citizens of Rome’. This Ovid is an accidentaldemocrat, who responds to his banishment by burning his masterpiece, theMetamorphoses.(The‘real’Ovidprobablydidburnhisbook,butitwasn’ttheonlycopy.)Ransmayrcallshimthroughoutbyhissurname,Naso,andsuggeststhatthiswasanicknamegivenhimonaccountofhisbignose,thusplacinghiminalongtraditionofbig-nosedtragic(andcomic)heroesincludingCyranoandPinocchio.But thepoet remainsoff-stage throughout thenovel except for onebrief, phantom appearance. Cotta finds only his traces, the marks he has leftuponhisrock-hard,barrenworldofexileanddefeat.

Cotta is a youngdissident, one of a groupknown as fugitives of the state,who hopes to rediscover theMetamorphoses, which is, for him, the ultimatedissident work. He finds no book, but discovers its imprint on everyone hemeets. One of Tomi’s inhabitants remembers all Naso’s stories oftransformationsof livingbeings intostones;another recallsonlyhisvisionsofflight,ofpeopleturningintobirds.ThetravellingprojectionistshowsmoviesinwhichmoreOvidiantalesarerecounted.Andtheverylivesof thepeople, too,havebeeninfectedbythegreatbook.TheFamaofthisstoryisnottheOvidiangoddessofrumours,butsheisanincessantgossip,andhersonBattusdoesturn,oneday,tostone,justliketheshepherdofthatnameintheMetamorphoseswhocouldnotkeepMercury’ssecrets.

Ransmayr’sbookisdistinguishedbythelyricismwithwhichitexplorestheworld’s ugliness, but dissatisfactions creep in. The troublewith hismethod isthatthereaderworksoutwhat’sgoingonlongbeforetheprotagonist,Cotta;sothatwhen at lengthCotta understands thatNaso has transformed ‘this barren,craggycoast…intohiscoast,thesebarbarians…intohischaracters’,andthusgainedhisimmortality,youcan’thelpbeingirritatedthatit’stakenhimsolongtocomeupwithsolittle.

BehindTheLastWorld therestandsafargreaterworkof literature;behindChristoph Ransmayr, a fine novelist, there stands one of the most important

figures in the whole of literature. Too much of the power of this novel isborrowed;toomuchdependsontheintimatenetworkofallusionsandreferencesthatconnect the twoworks. (There’sa twenty-five-page ‘Ovidian repertory’atthebackofthebooktohelpnon-classicalreaderspicksomeoftheseup.)Thiswebbecomesatrap;ittiesdownthecharactersandpreventsthemfromcomingfullytolife.Itisabrilliantlycleverartifice,andfullofthepainofrejectedart,butitismorestonethanbird.

AsforRansmayr’svisionofartconqueringdefeatbyremakingtheworldinits own image, one can celebrate its optimism, while continuing to feelmoreconcernedaboutPubliusOvidiusNaso,banishedfromhisownpeople,buriedbya strange sea in an unknowngrave.Art can look after itself.Artists, even thehighestandfinestofall,canbecrushedeffortlesslyatanyoldtyrant’swhim.

1990

MAURICESENDAKANDWILHELMGRIMM

In1816,WilhelmGrimmwroteamostunusualletterofcondolencetoayounggirl whose mother had just died. It begins with a lush Romantic passagesuggesting that it iseasierforflowers, floatingdownastream, to‘kiss’,orforbirds to flyovermountains tomeet eachother, than it is for humanbeings tocome together. ‘But onehumanheart goes out to another, undeterredbywhatliesbetween.Thusdoesmyheartgoouttoyou…andthinksitissittingbesideyou. And you say: “Tell me a story.” And it replies: “Yes, dear Mili, justlisten.”’Nowthesentimentalityofallthismayverywellhavebeenproperandcomforting in such a letter, but in book form it’s somewhat cloying. Whatfollows, however, is as beautiful a tale as any inWilhelm and Jakob’s greatcollectionofKinder-undHausmärchen.

Thesubjectofthestoryisdeath:deathasanever-presentfactoflife.Ofthetwocentralcharacterstowhomweareintroducedatthestart,one,themother,isawidow,while the other, the daughter, is the sole survivor ofmany children,whohasonly survived, or sohermotherbelieves, because shehas aguardianangel.Theylive—whereelse?—inavillageattheedgeoftheforest;anddeathisapproachingthemintheformofawar:cloudsofsmoke,cannonfire,wickedmen.Notknowinghowtosaveherdaughter,themothersendsherintotheforestwithapieceofcake. ‘Wait threedaysandcomehome;God inhismercywillshowyoutheway.’ButGodseemsnottooblige,andthelittlegirlgetsterriblylost.

Atlength,however,shecomesuponasmallhouse,inwhichsheiscaredforbyStJosephandbyherguardianangel,whoisalittlegirljustlikeherself,onlywith blonde hair. And after three days the guardian angel guides her backthroughtheforesttohervillage,butnotbeforeStJosephhasgivenherarosebudand a promise: ‘When this blooms, youwill bewithme again.’ She finds thevillagemuchchanged,andhermothergrownancient; for in theworldoutsidetheforest, thirtyyearshavepassedinthethreedaysbetweenherentryintotheforest(her‘death’)andherreturn(or‘resurrection’).Thatnight,themotheranddaughterdie together in theirsleep, ‘andbetween themlayStJoseph’s rose in

fullbloom.’ It isapartof thesmallmiracleof thisstory thatdeathbecomesahappyending,anactorpactoflove.

Ahauntingtaleintended,nodoubt,tohelpalittlegirllookintothedarknessofherorphaningand find in it somethingmore thanavoid.Onecannotknowwhether Wilhelm Grimm made it up, or whether he found it growing like amushroom in the forestwhen hewent gathering fictionswith his brother. Nomatter;it’sasmalltreasure,andgoodtohave.Butperhapswewouldnothaveit,perhaps not in book form (asDearMili), certainly not in a printing of some200,000copies,wereitnotforMauriceSendak.Peoplewillbeattractedtothisbookbytheskillandreputationofitsillustrator;yet,inmyview,thewordsmaylingerintheirmindslongerthanMrSendak’sillustrations.

ThisisnottosaythatMrSendakhaslostanyofhisextraordinarygifts;themannerofthesepictureswillbefamiliartoalladmirersofthebrilliantOutsideOver There, strangest of Sendak tales, with its explorations of the hatred andlovethatexistsbetweensiblings, itsworldofgoblinbabiesandanotherabsentfather.IndeedSendakhassaidthat,forhim,thegirlinDearMiliisnoneotherthan Ida’s sister, grown up, and Ida is one of the childrenwho died. The girlcertainlyhassomethingofIda’swise,old-younglook.

AndallaroundarethefamiliarmotifsofSendak’sart:‘dogsandMozart’,toquotethemanhimself.That’ssomeoftheproblem;there’sjust toomuchherethat is familiar, done before, even a little stale. There are no surprises in thedrawing, no babies made of ice; only Sendak coming dangerously close toimitatinghimself.

Thegreatest disappointment of all isSendak’s failure to create a fairy-taleforestpossessedofgenuinelymagicalpower,andgenuinelyfearsome,too.Thestory’schild-heroineis,afterall,asscaredasHanselandGretel:‘Whenthornstook hold of her dress, shewas terrified, for she thought thatwild beasts hadseizedherintheirjawsandwouldtearhertopieces…ateverystepsharpstonescutherfeet.Shetrembledwithfear.’YetinSendak’spicturesherdressremainsuntornandclean;sheloseshershoes,butherfeetdonotbleed;andinsteadofbeing scared todeath she looksmerelymorose,while for someunaccountablereason,inonedouble-pagepicture,weseesevendwarfish,stick-carryingfigurescrossingawoodenbridgebehindher(hasshebecomeSnowWhite?)amidtreesthatwritheandgnarlbutdonotmanagetolookfierce.Thisistooprettyaforest,and even though Sendak has spoken of the ‘shadows’ in what he does, it’spreciselythedarknessthat’smissinghere.

‘Ifeelthatthisismine.I’llshareDearMiliwithWilhelm,butIswearI’ve

gottenintohisskin,’Sendaksays;andagain,‘GrimmcomesclosetobeingwhatI wish I had written.’ This may be no more than forgivably enthusiasticempathizing,but theharshtruthis thatSendakhasnot‘gotten’ intoWilhelm’sskin,that—withtheexceptionoftheverylastpicture,inwhichthechildreturnsto her agedmother—he has only very partially captured the sombre, glowingqualityofthetale,andthatitisprobablytimehegaveuponMozartanddogs.

1988

10

GABRIELGARCÍAMÁRQUEZ

MARIOVARGASLLOSA

GABRIELGARCÍAMÁRQUEZ

ChronicleofaDeathForetold

We had suspected for a long time that the man Gabriel was capable ofmiracles,so thatwhenthemiracleof theprintingpressesoccurredwenoddedour heads knowingly, but of course the foreknowledge of his sorcery did notrelease us from its power, and under the spell of that nostalgicwitchcraftwearose from our wooden benches and garden swings and ran without oncedrawingbreathtotheplacewherethedementedprintingpresseswerebreedingbooksfasterthanfruit-flies,andthebooksleaptintoourhandswithoutourevenhavingtostretchoutourarms,thefloodofbooksspilledoutoftheprintroomandknockeddownthefirstarrivalsatthepresses,whosuccumbeddeliriouslytothatterribledelugeofnarrativeasitcoveredthestreetsandthesidewalksandrose lap-high in theground-floorroomsofall thehouses formilesaround, sothattherewasnoonewhocouldescapefromthatstory,ifyouwereblindorshutyour eyes it did younogoodbecause therewerealways voices readingaloudwithinearshot,wehadallbeenravishedlikewillingvirginsbythattale,whichhad the quality of convincing each reader that it was his personalautobiography,andthenthebookfilledupourcountryandheadedout tosea,andweunderstoodthatthephenomenonwouldnotceaseuntiltheentiresurfaceoftheglobehadbeencovered,untilseas,mountains,undergroundrailwaysanddesertshadbeencompletelycloggedupbytheendlesscopiesemergingfromthebewitchedprintingpress…

It is now fifteen years since Gabriel García Márquez first published OneHundredYearsofSolitude.Duringthattimeithassoldoverfourmillioncopiesin the Spanish language alone, and I don’t know howmanymillionsmore intranslation. The news of a new Márquez book takes over the front pages ofSpanish-American dailies. Barrow-boys hawk copies in the streets. Critics

commit suicide for lack of fresh superlatives. His latest book,Chronicle of aDeathForetold, had a first printing inSpanish of considerablymore than onemillioncopies.Nottheleastextraordinaryaspectoftheworkof‘AngelGabriel’is its ability to make the real world behave in precisely the improbablyhyperbolicfashionofaMárquezstory.

It seems that the greatest force at work on the imagination of Márquezhimselfisthememoryofhisgrandmother.Many,moreformalantecedentshavebeen suggested for his art: he has himself admitted the influence of Faulkner,andtheworldofhisfabulousMacondoisatleastpartlyYoknapatawphaCountytransported into the Colombian jungles. Then there’s Borges, and behind theBorges the fons and origo of it all, Machado de Assis, author of three greatnovels,EpitaphofaSmallWinner,QuincasBorbaandDomCasmurrothatwerefar inadvanceof their times(1880,1892and1900), light in touchandclearlythe product of a proto-Márquezian imagination (see, for example, the useMachado makes of an ‘anti-melancholy plaster’ in Epitaph). And Márquez’sgenius for the unforgettably visual hyperbole—the Americans forcing a Latindictatortogivethemtheseainpaymentofhisdebts,forinstance,inTheAutumnofthePatriarch:‘theytookawaytheCaribbeaninApril,AmbassadorEwing’snautical engineers carried it off in numbered pieces to plant it far from thehurricanesintheblood-reddawnsofArizona’—maywellhavebeensharpenedbyhisyearsofwriting for themovies.But thegrandmother ismore importantthananyofthese.

Inan interviewwithLuisHarssandBarbaraDohmann,Márquezgiveshercreditforhislanguage.‘Shespokethatway.’‘Shewasagreatstoryteller.’AnitaDesaihassaidofIndianhouseholdsthatthewomenarethekeepersofthetales,andthesameappears tobethecaseinSouthAmerica.Márquezwasraisedbyhis grandparents,meeting hismother for the first timewhen hewas seven oreightyearsold.Hisremark thatnothing interestingeverhappened tohimaftertheageofeightbecomes,therefore,particularlyrevealing.Ofhisgrandparents,Márquez said to Harss and Dohmann: ‘They had an enormous house, full ofghosts.Theywereverysuperstitiousandimpressionablepeople.Ineverycornertherewereskeletonsandmemories,andaftersixintheeveningyoudidn’tdareleaveyourroom.Itwasaworldoffantastic terrors.’Fromthememoryof thathouse, and using his grandmother’s narrative voice as his own linguisticlodestone,MárquezbeganthebuildingofMacondo.

But of course there ismore to him than his granny.He left his childhoodvillageofAracatacawhenstillveryyoung,andfoundhimselfinanurbanworld

whosedefinitionsofrealityweresodifferentfromthoseprevalentinthejungleas to be virtually incompatible. In One Hundred Years of Solitude, theassumptionintoheavenofRemediostheBeauty,theloveliestgirlintheworld,istreatedasacompletelyexpectedoccurrence,butthearrivalofthefirstrailwaytrain to reachMacondo sends a woman screaming down the high street. ‘It’scoming,’shecries.‘Somethingfrightful,likeakitchendraggingavillagebehindit.’ Needless to say, the reactions of city folk to these two events would beexactly reversed.Márquezdecided toelevate thevillageworld-viewabove theurbanone;thisisthesourceofhisfabulism.

The damage to reality in South America is at least as much political ascultural.InMárquez’sexperience,truthhasbeencontrolledtothepointatwhichithasceasedtobepossibletofindoutwhatitis.Theonlytruthisthatyouarebeing lied toall the time.Márquezhasalwaysbeen intenselypolitical;buthisbooksareonlyobliquelytodowithpolitics,dealingwithpublicaffairsonlyinterms of grandmetaphors likeColonelAurelianoBuendia’smilitary career orthecolossallyoverblownfigureofthePatriarch,whohasoneofhisrivalsservedupasthemaincourseatabanquet,andwho,havingoversleptoneday,decidesthattheafternoonisreallythemorning,sothatpeoplehavetostandoutsidehiswindowsatnightholdingupcardboardcut-outsofthesun.

El realismomagical,magic realism, at least as practised byMárquez, is adevelopment out of Surrealism that expresses a genuinely ‘Third World’consciousness. It deals with what Naipaul has called ‘half-made’ societies, inwhichtheimpossiblyoldstrugglesagainsttheappallinglynew,inwhichpubliccorruptions and private anguishes are somehowmore garish and extreme thantheyevergetintheso-called‘North’,wherecenturiesofwealthandpowerhaveformedthicklayersoverthesurfaceofwhat’sreallygoingon.IntheworksofMárquez,asintheworldhedescribes,impossiblethingshappenconstantly,andquiteplausibly,outintheopenunderthemiddaysun.Itwouldbeamistaketothink of Márquez’s literary universe as an invented, self-referential, closedsystem.HeisnotwritingaboutMiddle-earth,butabout theoneweall inhabit.Macondoexists.Thatisitsmagic.

It sometimes seems, however, thatMárquez is consciously trying to foster amyth of ‘Garcíaland’. Compare the first sentence of One Hundred Years ofSolitudewiththefirstsentenceofChronicleofaDeathForetold:‘Manyyears

later,ashefacedthefiringsquad,ColonelAurelianoBuendiawastorememberthatdistantafternoonwhenhis father tookhim todiscover ice’ (OneHundredYears).And:‘Onthedaytheyweregoingtokillhim,SantiagoNasargotupatfive-thirty in the morning to wait for the boat the bishop was coming on’(Chronicle).Bothbooksbeginbyinvokingaviolentdeathinthefutureandthenretreating to consider an earlier, extraordinary event. The Autumn of thePatriarch,too,beginswithadeathandthencirclesbackandaroundalife.It’sasthoughMárquezisaskingus to linkthebooks, toconsidereachin the lightofthe other. This suggestion is underlined by his use of certain types of stockcharacter: the old soldier, the loose woman, the matriarch, the compromisedpriest, theanguisheddoctor.Theplotof InEvilHour, inwhicha townallowsoneperson to become the scapegoat forwhat is in fact a crime committed bymanyhands—thefly-postingofsatiriclampoonsduringthenights—isechoedinChronicleofaDeathForetold,inwhichthecitizensofanothertown,caughtinthe grip of a terrible disbelieving inertia, once again fail to prevent a killing,eventhoughithasbeenendlessly‘announced’or‘foretold’.TheseassonancesintheMárquezœuvre aresopronounced that it’seasy to let themoverpower theconsiderabledifferencesofintentandachievementinhisbooks.

FornotonlyisMárquezbiggerthanhisgrandmother;heisalsobiggerthanMacondo.Theearlywritings look, in retrospect, likepreparationsfor thegreatflightofOneHundredYearsofSolitude,buteven in thosedaysMárquezwaswriting about two towns:Macondo and another, nameless one,which ismorethan just a sort of not-Macondo, but amuch lessmythologized place, amore‘naturalistic’one,insofarasanythingisnaturalisticinMárquez.ThisisthetownofLosFuneralesde laMamáGrande (theEnglish title,BigMama’sFuneral,makesitsoundlikesomethingoutofDamonRunyon),andmanyofthestoriesinthiscollection,withtheexceptionofthetitlestory,inwhichthePopecomestothefuneral,arecloserinfeelingtoearlyHemingwaythanlaterMárquez.Andeversincehisgreatbook,Márquezhasbeenmakingahugeeffort togetawayfromhismesmericjunglesettlement,tocontinue.

InTheAutumnof thePatriarch, the interminable sentences are the formalexpressionoftheinterminabletyrannythatisthebook’ssubject;adictatorshipso oppressive that all change, all possibility of development, is stifled. Thepowerofthepatriarchstopstime,andthetextproceedstoswirlandeddyaroundthe stories of his reign, its non-linear formproviding an exact analogy for thefeelingofendlessstasis.AndinChronicleofaDeathForetold,whichlooksatfirst sight like a reversion to the manner of his earlier days, he is in fact

innovatingagain.

The Chronicle is about honour and its opposite, that is to say, dishonour,shame.ThemarriageofBayardoSanRomanandAngelaVicarioendsontheirweddingnightwhenshenamestheyoungArab,SantiagoNasar,asherpreviouslover.Sheisreturnedtoherparents’houseandherbrothers,thetwinsPedroandPabloVicario,are thusfacedwith theobligationofkillingSantiago tosalvagetheir family’s good name. It is giving nothing away to reveal that themurderdoestakeplace.Buttheoddnessandthequalityofthisunforgettableshortfableliesinthetwins’reluctancetodowhatmustbedone.Theyboastcontinuallyoftheir intentions,so that it isasortofmiracle thatSantiagoNasarnevergets tohearaboutit;andthetown’ssilenceeventuallyforcesthetwinstoperformtheirterrible deed. Bayardo San Roman, whose honour required him to reject thewomanwithwhomhewasbesotted, enters a terribledecline after hedoes so;‘honourislove,’oneofthecharacterssays,butforBayardothisisnotthecase.AngelaVicario, the source of it all, appears to survive the tragedywithmorecalmthanmost.

Themanner inwhich this story is revealed is somethingnewforMárquez.Heuses the deviceof anunnamed, shadowynarrator visiting the sceneof thekillings many years later, and beginning an investigation into the past. Thisnarrator, the text hints, isMárquez himself—at least, he has an auntwith thatsurname. And the town has many echoes of Macondo: Gerineldo Márquezmakes a guest appearance here, and one of the characters has the evocativename,forfansoftheearlierbook,ofCotes.ButwhetheritbeMacondoorno,Márquezis, in thesepages,writingatagreaterdistancefromhismaterial thaneverbefore.Thebookanditsnarratorprobeslowly,painfully,throughthemistsof half-accurate memories, equivocations, contradicting versions, trying toestablishwhat happened andwhy; and achieve only provisional answers. TheeffectofthisretrospectivemethodistomaketheChroniclestrangelyelegiacintone,as ifMárquezfeels thathehasdriftedawayfromhisroots,andcanonlywriteaboutthemnowthroughveilsofformaldifficulty.Whereallhispreviousbooks exude an air of absolute authority over the material, this one reeks ofdoubt.Andthetriumphofthebookisthatthisnewhesitancy,thisabdicationofOlympus,isturnedtosuchexcellentaccount,andbecomesasourceofstrength;Chronicle of a Death Foretold, with its uncertainties, with its case-history

format,isashauntingandastrueasanythingMárquezhaswrittenbefore.It is also rathermoredidactic.Márquezhas, in thepast, taken sides inhis

fictions onlywhere affairs ofStatewere concerned: there are nogoodbananacompany bosses in his stories, and the idea of the masses, ‘the people’, isoccasionally—forinstanceinthelastfewpagesofTheAutumnofthePatriarch—romanticized.Butwhenhehaswrittenaboutthelivesof‘thepeople’,hehasthusfarforbornetojudge.InChronicle,however,thedistancinghastheeffectofmaking it clear thatMárquez is launching an attack on themacho ethic, on anarrowsocietyinwhichterriblethingshappenwiththeinevitabilityofdreams.Hehasneverwrittensodisapprovinglybefore.

Chronicle of a Death Foretold is speech after long silence. For a timeMárquez abjured fiction; we can only be grateful that he is back, his geniusunaffectedbythelay-off.TherewillnotbeabetterbookpublishedinEnglandthisyear.

1982

ClandestineinChile

The first time Márquez wrote the true story of a man’s life, in Story of aShipwreckedSailor,theman,previouslyanationalhero,losthisreputation,andthenewspaperinwhichthestorywaspublishedcloseddown.

It took a braveman to agree to beMárquez’s second nonfictional subject.OnecanonlysupposethatafterthedangerstowhichMiguelLittínhadexposedhimselfduringhisChileanadventure,thisliteraryriskdidn’tseemsogreat.

‘One’shomelandiswhereoneisborn,butit’salsotheplacewhereonehasafriend,theplacewherethereisinjustice,theplacewhereonecancontributewithone’sart,’Littínoncesaid.AfteradozenyearsinexilefromPinochet’sChile,thisdistinguishedfilmdirectorchosetomakeanunusualartisticcontributiontohisforbiddenhomeland.‘Theimportantthing,’hischildrenhadtoldhim,‘isforyoutopinagreatlongdonkey’stailonPinochet.’Hepromisedthemhewould,andthatitwouldbeatail20,000feetlong.Heunderestimatedhisabilities.Thetailgrewto105,000feet.

Itwas,ofcourse,afilm,anuncensoredportraitofChileafteroveradecadeoftyranny,madeclandestinelybyamanforwhomdiscoverywouldhavemeant

death. To make the film he had to change his appearance completely,remembering not to laugh (his laugh, he confesses, proved impossible todisguise).LittínworkedinChileforsixweeks,helpedbytheresistanceandbyfriends,andevenmanaged to film insidePinochet’sprivateoffice,pinninghiscelluloidtail,sotospeak,totheveryseatofpower.

It’seasytoseehowtheoutsizedramaofLittín’sstory,thestorybehindthefilm,appealedtoGarcíaMárquez,awriterwhohasturnedexaggerationintoanartform.ClandestineinChile isnot,however,written,as theblurbclaims,‘inthevoiceweknowfromthenovels.’(Youcan’tentirelyblametheblurbist;theauthorhimselfassertssomethingsimilarinhispreface.)ThisisMárquezathisleastbaroqueandmostself-effacing;understandingthatthestoryhasnoneedofmagical realist embellishment, he tells it plainly, in the form of Littín’s first-personnarrative.Thatistosay:heactsasLittín’sghost.ItisalittlestrangethatLittíndoesn’tevengettosharethewritingcreditwithhisillustriousshadow,butthereitis.

Anyhow, Márquez’s restraint proves extremely effective. Littín’s storycomes across with startling directness and force. Littín, transformed into aUruguayan businessman or momio—‘a person so resistant to change that hemightaswellbedead…amummy’—bumpsintohismother-in-lawand,later,his mother, and in both cases the ladies fail to recognize him. He rebelsconstantly against the requirements of security, to the fury of his resistance‘wife’ Elena and the tolerant irritation of the Chilean underground. And hecompleteshisfilm.

Thisshort, intensebookoffersasuccessionofextraordinaryfilmicimages.Thereisastoryofthemanwhoburnshimselftodeathtosavehischildrenfromthegovernment’storturers.Thereisabriefbutpotentaccountofthecontinuingcults of Allende and Neruda. ‘This is a shitty government, but it’s mygovernment,’ reads a signparadedbeforeAllende in ademonstration.Allendeapplauded, and went down to shake the protester by the hand. Even now, atNeruda’shouseatIslaNegra,thegraffitiremember:‘Generals:Loveneverdies.AllendeandNerudalive.Oneminuteofdarknesswillnotmakeusblind.’Andthereare, it is true,acoupleof imageswecanrecognizeasclassicalMárquez,for example when Littín pays a surprise visit to his mother and finds that,without knowing why, she has prepared a great feast; or when Littín findsSantiago, formerly ‘a city of private sentiments’, full of highly demonstrativeyoung lovers. ‘I thought of something I had heard not long before inMadrid:“Loveblossomsintimesoftheplague.”’

Márquez once rashly swore never to publish a novel until Pinochet fell.SincethenhehaspublishedChronicleofaDeathForetold,LoveintheTimeofCholera andanewwork,TheGeneral inhisLabyrinth, aboutSimónBólivar.Thebrokenpromisewillnodoubthavemadethisbookfeelallthesweeter;he,too, had a tail to pin on the donkey. It clearly had the desired effect. ‘On 28November1986,inValparaiso,’wearetold,‘theChileanauthoritiesimpoundedandburned15,000copiesofthisbook.’

The book continues to exist, however; while Pinochet is, at long last,tottering on his plinth. To burn a book is not to destroy it. One minute ofdarknesswillnotmakeusblind.

1989

MARIOVARGASLLOSA

TheWaroftheEndoftheWorld

Peru’smostimportantlivingnovelist,MarioVargasLlosa,hasformanyyearsplayedasignificantpartinhiscountry’spolitics.InthisrespectheislikemanywritersoftheSouthandunlikethegreatmajorityofhisNortherncolleagues.Hemaywell, for example, be the only novelist to have been offered the post ofPrimeMinister, and to have turned it down—at any rate, the number of suchwriters must be very small—and he remains one of the most influentialsupportersofPeru’sPresident,BelaùndeTerry.ForbackingBelaùnde,VargasLlosahascomeinforacertainamountofcriticism,forinstancefromleftgroupsandwriterswhohaveobjectedtohiscritiqueoftheSenderoLuminosoguerrillasin thehills.Hehas in turnarguedthatwhile theworldseemsalmost toexpectthehistoryofSouthAmericatobewhollycomposedofviolentrevolutionsandrepressivedictatorships,hisowninclinationistowardsalessglamorousmethodof regulating human affairs—that is, some locally adapted variant of the old,flawed, battered idea of democracy, perhaps still the only idea by which thedeadly cycle of coup and counter-coup can be broken. It is undeniably apersuasivepointofview.

Inhis loudlyacclaimednovelTheWarof theEndof theWorld,whichhasarrived inEnglish ina fine, fluent translationbyHelenR.Lane,VargasLlosasets down with appalling and ferocious clarity his vision of the tragicconsequences for ordinary people ofmillenarianism ofwhatever kind.He haswrittenbefore,inthenovelCaptainPantojaandtheSpecialService,abouttheemergence in remote rural parts of an ascetic figurewho becomes a focus ofresistancetoamilitaristicState;butthatwasprimarilyacomicnovel,whereasthenewbookisasdarkasspilledblood.Andwhileitismostimpressivelygotup as an historical novel—based,we are told, on a ‘real’ episode inBrazilianhistory—its value as a text is entirely contemporary. In an age such as ours,plaguedbybloodthirstyarmiesandequallyviolentgods,anaccountofafightto

thefinishbetweenGodandMammoncouldbenothingelsebutcontemporary,eventhoughVargasLlosahasplacedhiswarinoneofthemostremotecorners—the ‘ends’—of the world, that is, the north-eastern part of Brazil in thenineteenthcentury.HisimaginaryMessiah, theCounselor,prefigures—toofferjustonerecentexample—theSikhleader,SantJarnailSinghBhindranwale,shotdeadbytheIndianArmyinAmritsar’sfamousGoldenTemple,itselfareal-lifeversionofVargasLlosa’sfictive,Christian,Canudos.

The Counselor—Antonio Conselheiro—is a thin, awe-inspiring holy manwhowandersthebacklandsoftheprovinceofBahiainthelastdecadeorsoofthenineteenthcentury,advising thepeonsof theirspiritualobligations inclearandcomprehensiblelanguage,encouragingthemtohelphimrepairtheregion’smany dilapidated and priestless churches, slowly gathering about himself aninner circle or band of apostles, and warning eloquently of the fearsomeapocalypsethatistoarrivewiththemillennium:

In1900 thesourcesof lightwouldbeextinguishedand thestarswouldrain down. But, before that, extraordinary things would happen… In1896…theseawouldturnintothebacklandsandthebacklandsintothesea…In1898hatswouldincreaseinsizeandheadsgrowsmaller,andin1899theriverswouldturnredandanewplanetwouldcirclethroughspace.Itwasnecessary,therefore,tobeprepared.

Thepointofnoreturnarrives,however,beforeanyoftheseapparitionshavehadanopportunitytomanifestthemselves.Bahia,inwhichslaveryhasnotbeenabolished forvery long andwhich remains in the two-fistedgripof autocraticfeudal landowners and extreme ignorance of the outsideworld, begins to hearaboutominousdevelopments.ARepublichasbeenproclaimed,anditintendstomakeacensusand,worse,tolevytaxes.Thesearethelaststrawsforthepeopleof the backlands. Why would the Republic want everyone counted anddescribed, if not to reimpose slavery? And, again, ‘Animal instinct, commonsenseandcenturiesofexperiencemadethetownspeoplerealizeimmediately…thatthetaxcollectorswouldbegreedierthanthevulturesandthebandits.’TheCounselor gives expression to their worst fears. He announces that ‘theAntichristwasabroadintheworld;hisnamewasRepublic.’Thenhewithdraws,withallwhowishtofollowhim,tothefastnessofCanudos,partofthelandsofthe Baron de Canabrava, the largest of the feudal landlords and chief of theBahian Autonomist Party—which, ironically, is just as hostile to the new

Republic,thoughforwhollyprofanereasonsofself-interest.In Canudos the Counselor sets about the construction and fortification of

‘BeloMonte’,acityandachurch,anewJerusalemagainstwhichtheAntichristmust hurl his armies. There will be four fires, the Counselor tells his flock(whichnumbers,atitspeak,morethan30,000souls),andhewillquenchthreeandpermitthefourthtoconsumethem.SothefourbattlesofthewarofCanudosareprophesiedinadvance.Whatfollowshastheslow,sombreinevitabilityofaGreek tragedy—albeit one played out in a jungle—our knowledge of the endservesonlytoincreaseourpain.

Vargas Llosa’s writing has, in a way, been working up to this bookthroughouthisremarkablecareer;theprosehasbeengettingsimpler,theformsclearer. It’s a long way from the structural complexities and the sometimeswilful-seemingobscurityofhisverystrikingearlynovelsTheTimeoftheHeroand The Green House via the comic accessibility, even zaniness, ofCaptainPantoja andAunt Julia and the Scriptwriter, to themuchmore solid, crafted,traditionalvirtuesofthepresentnovel.Itmustnotbesupposed,though,thatthisrepresentssomekindofdescent intopopulism;rather thatVargasLlosawouldappear to havebeenmoving, gradually, fromone formof complexity towardsanother.Or,tobeprecise,fromcomplexityofformtothatofideas.TheWaroftheEndoftheWorlddoescertainlyoffermanyoftheconventionalsatisfactionsof the long, meticulous historical novel—the re-creation of a lost world;leisurely, well-paced exposition; a sense of elbow-room; and of being in safehands—but it also gives us a fictional universe bursting with intellectualargument,onewhoseinhabitantsareperfectlywillingandabletodisputemattersbothpoliticalandspiritualatgreatlengthandwithconsiderableverve.

But the greatest qualities of this excellent novel are, I believe, neither itsinexorableGreekprogress towardstheslaughterof theinnocentswithwhichitclimaxes,noritsintellectualrigour.Theyare,rather,itsrefusalevertoabandonthehumandimensioninastorythatcouldsoeasilyhavebecomegrandiose;alsoasenseofambiguity,whichenablesVargasLlosatokeephischaractersthree-dimensional,andnotmerelytherepresentativesofGood,orEvil,orsomesuchabstraction;andfinally,aprofoundawarenessofthetragicironythatmakestensofthousandsofordinarywomenandmendiefightingagainsttheRepublicthatwas set up, in theory, precisely to serve them and to protect them against therapacityoftheirprevious,feudaloverlords.

Muchof the story is seen from the point of viewof a groupof characterscentred on the peasantwoman Jurema. She is thewife of the tracker Rufino,

feudalbondsmanoftheBarondeCanabrava,andwhensheisrapedbythenaïfrevolutionaryGalileoGallandtakenoffwithhimbyacircustroupe,RufinoisobligedbythelawsofhonourtofollowGalileoandkillhim.Whenthetwomenhaveinfactdoneeachotherin,JuremaarrivesatCanudosinthecompanyofadwarf,thetelleroffairy-taleswhoisthesolesurvivorofthecircustroupe;andof a character known only as ‘the nearsighted journalist’ whose growth fromchildlike innocence to bruisedmaturity is at the emotional heart of the novel.Jurema is thus accompanied by representatives of both oral and writtenliterature,andneitherisabletocopewithCanudos.Nobodymuchwantstopayfor theDwarf’sstories;and the journalistbreakshisglassesandsees thegreateventsasaseriesofshadows,oreventuallyofshards,becausehepiecestogetheramonoclefromthebrokenlenses.Aneyewitnessdeprivedofhiseyesisasadimage,andthejournalistisindeedamovingfigure.ItisJuremawhokeepsthemenofwordsalive,partlybecauseoneofthechiefsofCanudos,theex-banditPajeù,falls in lovewithher.Herplace in thenarrative issomewhatartificiallycentralized,it’strue;towardstheend,theBarondeCanabrava,hearingthetaleofthefallofCanudosfromthejournalist,isamazedtolearnthatthefellowhasmarried Rufino’s wife (the two are among the handful of survivors of themassacre):

All these happenstances, coincidences, fortuitous encounters … [Thebaron] suddenly had the absurd feeling that the formermaidservant ofCalumbíwastheonlywomaninthesertão,afemaleunderwhosefatefulspellall themenwithanysortofconnectiontoCanudosunconsciouslyfellsoonerorlater.

It is a bit like that; but perhaps just because Jurema is such an unlikely, evenbanalcentre,theartificedoesnotjartoobadly.Andthebenefitstothenovel,intermsofkeepingoureyesonindividuallives,areconsiderable.

As to ambiguity: it was a fine stroke to make the Counselor’s innermostdisciples so badly flawed in somanyways. Some of them—scar-faced Pajeù,Pedrão,AbbotJoão—areformerbanditsandmassmurderers;evenholyMariaQuadrado,‘MotherofMen’,turnsouttobenoneotherthantheonce-notoriousFilicide of Salvador; and the closest disciple of all, the St Peter of this band,knownas theLittleBlessedOne, finally(and likePeter)betrayshisChrist,bybreakingthesolemnoathhehimselfmadeeveryonetake,thattheywouldneverreveal the dead Counselor’s burial place. These flaws do more than make

crediblecharactersoftheapostles:theymaketheimportantpointthattheleadersof thisbizarreuprisingare innoway‘better’ than their followers;bybeing inmanyways‘worse’,theydonotbecometherepositoriesofmorality.Thatroleislefttothemassofthefaithfulasawhole.

Oneambiguityislesspleasing.TheBarondeCanabrava’swifeEstelagoesmad when the rebels burn her beloved home, Calumbí, and for a while thefallingfeudalistsseemalmostsympatheticfigures.ThentheBaronquiteforfeitsthe readers’ sympathy (and tobehonest, in the caseof this reader, so, nearly,does theBaron’s creator)when he rapes hiswife’s servant as away of beingclosetodearEstelaagain.‘Ialwayswantedtoshareherwithyou,mydarling,’he‘stammers’,andmadEstelamakesnodemur.Theservant,Sebastiana,isnotasked to comment. It is an uglymoment in a bookwhich, for themost part,avoidscoarsenessatthemostbrutaloftimes.

ThepoliticalvisionofTheWaroftheEndoftheWorldisbleak,anditwouldbepossibletotakeissuewiththatabsolutebleakness.Butitishardforawriterin the late years of this savage century not to have a tragic view of life, andMarioVargasLlosahaswrittenamoderntragedyonthegrandscale,thoughnot,mercifully, in the grand manner. At the end of its 550 pages, two imagesdominateitsseethingportraitofdeath,corruptionandfaith.OneisofthetrackerRufino,andtheanarchistGalileoGall,eachthesomewhatabsurdservantofanidea,hackingoneanotherslowlytodeath;thisimagewouldseemtocrystallizeVargas Llosa’s political vision. The second is redemptive. Thirty thousandpeopledieinCanudos,anditwouldbeeasytothinkthataGodwhodemandedsuchsacrificeswasaGodtoavoidlike theplague.ButVargasLlosa,with thegenerosityofspiritthatinformstheentirenovel,iswillingtoallowthelastwordtosomeonewhoacceptsthatthecatastrophewasalsoakindoftriumph.

The victorious soldiers, mopping-up after the levelling of Canudos, areanxious toaccount for theone leaderwhosebodyhasnotbeen found.AnoldwomanasksColonelMacedoifhewantstoknowwhathappenedtoAbbotJoãoandtheColonelnodseagerly.

‘“Archangelstookhimuptoheaven,”shesays,clackinghertongue.“Isawthem.”’

1984

TheRealLifeofAlejandroMayta

For apolitical ‘moderate’,MarioVargasLlosahasbeenmaking someprettyimmoderate remarks lately. To call Gabriel GarcíaMárquez ‘the courtesan ofCastro’wasnotexactlyrestrained.AndwhenGünterGrasstookissuewiththeuseofsuchlanguage,he,too,waslumpedinwiththeextremeleftistswhofiguremore andmore inVargas Llosa’s personal demonology. ThatGrass the arch-gradualist, the political Snail, should seem extreme to Vargas Llosa is anindication of how far to the right the great Peruvian novelist’s notion of thecentrereallylies.

Nevertheless,he isagreatnovelist.His last twobooks,AuntJuliaand theScriptwriterandTheWaroftheEndoftheWorld,wererespectivelycomicandtragicmasterpieces.Heisalsoapublicnovelistofa typeIhavelongadmired,for whom literature is a quarrel with, and about, the world. I came toMaytaentirely prepared to disagreewith all those, in Spain and in CentralAmerica,whohadtoldme,sadly,thatVargasLlosahadwrittenhisfirstovertlyright-wingtract.Havingreadit,Ican’tdisagreewiththemafterall.Butinmanywaysthenovel’sliteraryweaknessesaremoredisappointingthanthepoliticalslant.

Mayta takes place in a Peru of the near future, in which an apocalypticconfrontationbetweenaCuba-backedrevolutionandagovernmentproppedupbyUSmarines is imminent.VargasLlosahasgone togreat,evenexaggeratedlengths to seem even-handed here. Government aircraft napalm the mountaincommunityofChunán;theguerrillasmassacrethevillagersatnearbyRicrán.Akindofbalanceofevilisimplied.

Againstthisviolentbackdrop,ananonymousnarrator,awriteraboutwhomwe learn littleexcept thathe’seminentenough tohaveaprison librarynamedafterhim,istryingtopiecetogetherthestoryofapatheticandcalamitousearlierattempt at revolution, back in the 1950s, by his old schoolfellow, AlejandroMayta. The novel moves seamlessly between investigation and flashback,sometimesinmid-sentence,ouronlyguidebeingachangefrompresenttopasttense.

For at least half the novel, this is brilliantly done; the reader is neverconfused, and as reminiscence and re-creation mingle, Vargas Llosa’s pointabouttheimpossibilityofarrivingata‘reallife’isperfectlydemonstratedbyhisform. All versions ofMayta’s life are suspect; the witnesses’ histories are as

unreliableashistoryitselfhasbecomeinanagewhenfalsificationisthenorm.Thenarratorhimselfisaself-declaredliar,hispurposebeingtoinventafictionalMaytaratherthantobethebiographerofthe‘real’one(adistinctionmadeevenmorecomplexbyourknowledgethatthereisnorealone,anyway).

Within this Citizen Kane-like structure of retrospective investigation, afurther balancing act is performed. Those witnesses who slanderMayta mostvirulentlyhavetheirownmotivescalledintoquestion:theSenatorwhosaystheold Trot was a government informer, on the CIA payroll, turns out to be theyouth, Anatolio, whom Mayta once taught to ‘screw like a man’, and whobetrayed him even though theywere lovers. Contradictory descriptions of thepast struggle in the text; and the narrating ‘I’, camera-like, records themneutrally.

Alejandro Mayta, the ageing Trotskyist, is not drawn without sympathy.Mostmarginalofmen,hischancemeetingwithanenthusiasticsecondlieutenantin the army, a certain Vallejos who is secretly planning an uprising in themountain townofJauja,sealshis fate.ForMayta,Vallejos representshisonlychance of real action after a lifetime spent in impotent theoretical disputes inrented garages, and in the debilitating faction-strife of the far-left grouplets ofPeru. Needless to say, their plans go hopelessly, even comically wrong, andMayta ends up a broken, betrayed figure, selling ice-cream and pretending toforget.

Vargas Llosa possesses a formidable gift for realism of the non-magicalkind, a gift that can remind one of Stendhal. When Mayta arrives in themountains for his life’s greatest event, he is almost crippled by ‘mountainsickness’, amarvellous, ironic detail. The descriptions—of city and landscapealike—areunfailinglyexact,andthemachinationsoftheRWP(r),theminuscule,seven-manTrotskyist cell towhichMaytabelongs,have the ringof truth.TheRealLifeofAlejandroMaytaoughttobeasplendidnovel.Itisn’t.

The failure is, unquestionably, inpart polemic.ThatVargasLlosa’s leftiesarewithout exception fanatics, weak, incurably romantic, party hacks, narrowideologues, stupid, or opportunistic, is some of it. That he portrays therevolutionaryimpulseasbeinginvariablydivorcedfromthereallives(ifImayuse the term) of the people, is simply unhistorical.Whatever one’s politics, itwouldbehardtolookattwentieth-centuryLatinAmericanhistoryandcometosuchaconclusion.

Foranovelaboutthenatureofhistory,Maytadoesn’thavemuchinthewayof an historical sense.Why is the apocalypse imminent in this fictional Peru?

What great forces are in collision?Only blind ideologies. Itwon’t do. InTheWaroftheEndoftheWorld,VargasLlosagaveusagenuinehistoricaltragedy,inwhich theeconomicandmilitarypowerofaStatecollidedwith,andfinallycrushed,thereligiousfervourofthedowntroddenpoor.That‘endoftheworld’feltreal;Mayta’sgarbage-mountainPeruisacomic-strip.

No, it’s worse. Because Vargas Llosa clearly lays the blame for theapocalypseat the feetofhishaplessanti-hero.His feebleuprising‘charted theprocess that has ended in what we are all living through now.’ So therevolutionaries are the reason why the State has to call in the marines. As adistortionofhistory,thistakessomebeating.

But such disputes are secondary. Mayta’s clumsy adventure is not funnyenough, sad enough or just plain exciting enough to hold our interest.As thenovelprogresses,VargasLlosaseemstorealizethethinnessofhismaterial,andthe telling of the tale grows more frenzied. The witnesses proliferate, untilalmosteveryparagraphistoldbyanewvoice;thedistinctionbetweenpastandpresent blurs, so that the ‘I’ is sometimes the narrator and sometimes,bewilderingly, Mayta himself. This isKane without Kane (Mayta is a ratherhollow centre, after all), and—although the ‘real’ Mayta, in his last-chaptermeetingwiththenarrator,doesrevealalong-concealedsecret,whichinevitablyshowsupthenovel’sTrotsasbeingevennastierthanwehadhithertosupposed—withoutRosebud,either.

Thisfinalmeetingbetweeninvestigatorandinvestigateduncoverswhat,forme,isthenovel’sdeepestflaw.TochangetheSpanishHistoriadeMaytatotheEnglishRealLifeofAlejandroMayta (andwho,by theway,was responsible?Thebooknamesnotranslator)istoinvitecomparisonwithaverysimilarnovelwithaverysimilarname,Nabokov’sRealLifeofSebastianKnight.Nabokov’snarrator, too,pursuesanelusivesubject,and in factnevermeetshim.He, too,seeks to conceal himself from the reader. But Nabokov’s genius reveals himanyway, and shows him, at the last, losing his identity in his subject. (‘I amSebastian,orSebastianisI,orperhapswearebothsomeonewhomneitherofusknows.’)Thepointis,somethinghappenstothenarrator.Heisdrawnintothetale he uncovers, and becomes its meaning. Vargas Llosa’s narrator, neverdropping the mask of objective neutrality while his creator loads the dice,opposes the hollowness of Mayta with an emptiness of his own. In place ofNabokov’smergedidentities,wehaveonlyapairofbadlycrossedIs.

1986

11

THELANGUAGEOFTHEPACK

DEBRETTGOESTOHOLLYWOOD

E.L.DOCTOROW

MICHAELHERR:ANINTERVIEW

RICHARDFORD

RAYMONDCARVER

ISAACBASHEVISSINGER

PHILIPROTH

SAULBELLOW

THOMASPYNCHON

KURTVONNEGUT

GRACEPALEY

TRAVELSWITHAGOLDENASS

THEDIVINESUPERMARKET

THELANGUAGEOFTHEPACK

Nowitisathingwellknowntoanycitizenwhoeversitsdowntoaneveningofactionthatadeckofcardsrepresentsavocabularyassuppleasmaybefoundinanydictionary;and,accordingly,thattheplayingofalittlepokerorginisasabsorbingadialogueasanyheateddisputeover theburning issuesof theday;andthat,duringsuchadialogue,thecitizencomestodiscoverafairamountwithregard to the innermost nature of his companions and himself also, includinghandyinformationastowhichofthemisthemostfoolhardyandwhichthemostcautious,andwhoisapersonoftruesophisticationandwho,eventhoughheisdressed to beat the band, is at bottom nomore than a common rube. And aslanguagesgoagameof cards is superior inone respect to allother languagespresentlyinemployment,viz.thatthepersonwhospeaksitbest,demonstratingthe greatest fluency and the fanciest subordinate clauses, most likely ends upgoinghomeholdingasizeablesackofpotatoes,unless ithappens thathis lessarticulatecolleaguespursuehimtosomeshadyquarterandbeathimstupidandrobhimblind.

Andsoit isnaturalthatthelanguageofcardsspillsoverintooureverydayspeech,sothatwhenweareshootingthebreezewecanmakementionofhowacertainattribute, forexamplehonesty, isnotSo-and-So’s longsuit;or if facedwithaguyofanunpredictabledispositionwecanmarkhimdownasthejokerinthepack.Evencitizenswhogetnoactionwhatsoevercan readilycomprehendwhatitistobedealtabumhandinthegameoflife,orwhensomegranddesignfor the future turns out to be a busted flush. The uninitiated civilian does notknow thatacesandeightsare termedTheDeadMan’sHand,as it is thehandheldbyWildBillHickockwhentheydrillhim,butheisfullyconversantwithuppingtheanteandevenfinessingandwhenheissittingprettyheknowsheisholdingalltheacesormaybecominguptrumps.

Whatismoresurprising,ifyouaregiventobeingsurprisedbylife,inwhichcase you are very likely not a card-player, is that an activitywherein chance,skill,drama,intrigue,deception,crime,violence,moneyandwildfluctuationsoffortune are so intimately conjoined, an activity at once literal, symbolic, and

even allegorical, should feature so relatively rarely in literature. There is TheRapeof theLock, it is true, and there isAlice inWonderland, and there is thecharacter of FrankieMachine, the dope-fiend card-player, in Nelson Algren’sTheManwith theGoldenArm.There is ItaloCalvino’sTheCastleofCrossedDestinies, in which tarot cards are used to tell stories, and there is VladimirNabokov’sKing, Queen, Knave. Then you start to scratch around. There is aPushkin story of which I do not recall the title. In the cinema, there is TheCincinnatiKid,butTheJokerisWildisamoviethatisnotaboutcards,inspiteofitsname.One-EyedJackslikewise;alsoAcesHigh.

Gamblingingeneralcropsupnowandagain,inDostoevskyandevenintheMahabharata,inwhichPrinceYudhisthiraloseshisentirekingdomtohisarch-enemiesbecauseofhisfondnessforthetumblingdice.Butcards?Theyarethinontheground.Itisasthoughthesetwolanguages,thelanguageofcardsandthatofliterature,areincompatible,anditistoughertotranslatetheoneintotheotherthanitseems.

The reason for thismay be that the really interesting thing about cards ischeating.DamonRunyon(whosemannersomewhatinfectedtheopeningofthispiece, though it will be resisted henceforward) wrote what may be the twogreatest stories about card-players, and cheating is central to both. In ‘TheLacework Kid’, the eponymous Kid, a genius at all card games except ginrummy, is obliged, during a wartime sojourn in a prison camp, to play ginagainsttheGermancampcommandant.TheKidwins,theGermanisfoundwithabulletinhishead,andtheKiduseshiswinningstobribetheguardsintolettingall the prisoners escape. Years later, it turns out that the Kid used his magicdealingfingers ina less thanstraightforwardway. ‘In fact,’weare toldbyhisold mentor, Kidneyfoot, ‘The Lacework Kid is a rank sucker at gin until Iinstructhiminonemanoeuvrethatgivesyouagreatadvantage,whichistodropanyonecardto theflooraccidentallyonpurpose.’Cheatingatcards, thestorysuggests,canbethoughtofasacreativeact.Youachieveyourendbysteppingoutsidetheframe.WhichisOKaslongasyougetawaywithit.

Runyon’sothergreat taleof cardsandgambling, ‘The IdyllofMissSarahBrown’,whichwasthebasisforGuysandDolls,containsthemostmemorablecautionary passage ever written about card-sharping. Not surprisingly, it isquoted at length (twice!) by Anthony Holden in Big Deal, his entertainingaccountofayearspentplayingprofessionalpoker:

‘Son,’theoldguy[SkyMasterson’sfather]says,‘youarenowgoingout

intothewide,wideworldtomakeyourownway,anditisaverygoodthingtodo,astherearenomoreopportunitiesforyouinthisburg.Iamonlysorry,’hesays, ‘that Iamnotable tobankrollyou toavery largestart,but,’hesays,‘nothavinganypotatoes togiveyou,Iamgoingtostakeyou to someveryvaluable advice…Son,’ theoldguy says, ‘nomatterhowfaryoutravel,orhowsmartyouget,alwaysrememberthis:Someday,somewhere,’hesays,‘aguyisgoingtocometoyouandshowyouanicebrand-newdeckofcardsonwhich theseal isneverbroken,andthisguyisgoingtooffertobetyouthatthejackofspadeswilljumpoutofthisdeckandsquirtciderinyourear.But,son,’theoldguysays,‘donotbethim,forassureasyoudoyouaregoingtogetanearfullofcider.’

The Oxford Guide to Card Games, by David Parlett, has disappointinglylittletotellusaboutcheating.ItrefersustoGirolamoCardano’sLiberdeludoaleae (‘Book on Games of Chance’), written in 1564, and containing,apparently, a detailed examination of the ‘inexorable logic’ of cheating—alas,however,Parlettdoesnotquote.Hedoes tellusabout the seventeenth-centuryviewofwhistas‘alow-classgame…wickedbyassociationwithcheating,’andquotesCharlesCotton(1674):‘ThereisawaytodiscovertotheirpartnerswhatHonours they have; as by the wink of one eye, … it signifies one honour;shuttingboth theeyes, two;placing threeor four fingerson the table, threeorfour honours.’ And in a later (1734) edition of Cotton, the editor, Seymour,added somemore sophisticated variations: ‘piping’, ameans of indicating theHonourcardsheldbythedispositionofthecheat’sfingersuponhispipewhilesmoking;andverbalcheating,too.‘“Indeed”signifiesdiamonds;“truly”,hearts;“Uponmyword”,clubs;“Iassureyou”,spades.’

Inspiteofitsrelativereticenceonthissubject,TheOxfordGuideisahandyand erudite volume. Parlett has absorbed the work of his great predecessors,ancientandmodern,fromHoyletoDummett,andwrittenwhatisneitherarule-booknoraguidetobetterplay,butasortofeagermeditationonthewholefieldofactivity.Heisexcellentonhistory,demonstratingthatcardsdidnotarriveinEurope, as so often supposed, fromChina, possibly inMarco Polo’s luggage,because trade with China had ‘petered out long before John of Rheinfeldendescribed [playing cards] as new’ in 1377; nor were they brought back bycrusadersreturningfromtheEast.Thetruesource,asprovedbytheprovenanceand dating of a twelfth-or thirteenth-century pack now held in the Topkapi

MuseuminIstanbul,wasMamelukeEgypt.Parlettisstrongonpoker,sketchyonbridge,andfascinatingonavastrange

of minor games, which he groups into categories of technique—‘Happyfamilies’, ‘vying and bragging’, ‘matching and cribbing’.But for a portrait ofcardgames inaction,of theplayersaswellas theplay, it isHolden’sbook towhichonemustturn.

HoldenisnoRunyonorAlgren,thoughclearlyundertheinfluenceofboth.Heisanexcellentjournalistandapokermaniac,whoseverynameissocloseinsoundtotheproversionofpoker(‘Hold’em’)thathekeepsthinkingthepublicaddresssystemsofLasVegasarecalling itout.Hisbook isvivid,engrossing,and,alongwithhisfriendA.Alvarez’sbookTheBiggestGameinTown(1983),the best description of world-class poker we’ve been given. (Alvarez is thededicatee ofBig Deal, and also appears in it as The Crony.) Not much hereaboutcheating,either,butnobody’sperfect.WhatHoldencapturessuperbly isthe madness of the committed card-player, which Runyon, in ‘The LaceworkKid’,summarizedthus:

Iwillnotattempttodescribeginrummyinanydetailasyoucancallupanyinsaneasylumandgetanypatientonthephoneandlearnaboutitinno time, as all lunatics are bound to be gin players, and in fact thechancesareitisginrummythatmakesthemlunatics.

ThereisahilltopparkinKarachiinwhich,astheheatofthedaycoolsintoevening,mengatherinhappygroupstositcross-leggedonthegrassandbreakoutthedecks.Thesoftslapsofcardsbeingplayedintriumphorresignationfilltheair.EvenattheheightoftheZiadictatorship’spuritanism,whennight-clubswent out of business and theKarachi drive-in, that traditional site of youthfullust,wascloseddown,themoralguardiansofthenationdidnotdaretopreventthe people from playing their card-games. There could be no more strikingtribute to theobduratemaniaof thecard-player,andto theenduringvitalityofthelanguageofcards.

1990

DEBRETTGOESTOHOLLYWOOD

InTimesSquare, a fewyearsback,NewYorkerswerealarmedbyagiganticposter that asked, in large white letters on a black background, a somewhatunsettling question: PATHETIC HUMANS, WHO CAN SAVE YOU NOW? A couple ofweekslater,theanswerwentupinthequestion’splace.Itread:FLASHGORDON.

Hollywoodalwaysdidseeusaspathetichumans,didn’tit,aslesserbreedsin need of the profane demigods up there in VistaVision, Todd-AO orCinemaScope.Ourplacewasaseatinthedark,fromwhichwecouldlookuptothe stars andwatch them shine.Banalitymadeour lives unreal; theywere theones who were fully alive. So we munched our popcorn and grew confusedaboutreality.Asthemoderncitybecamethenegationofnature,sothemovieswere the perfectmetropolitan form,mythologies of the unreal, and they camecompletewithanewreligion:fame.

‘Fame!Iwannaliveforever,’runsthesong.Thegameis,hasalwaysbeen,immortality.OnceyouhadtobeaRomanemperor,aprophet,ahero,orattheveryleastagenius,toqualifyforthatparticularcurse.Hollywoodpretendedtodemocratizedeification.IfyouwereLucilleLeSueur,youcouldstepawayfromyour sleazy, poor, unhappy past, say themagicword, and shazam!There youwere:JoanCrawford.

Butthecinemaistheleastdemocratic,mosthierarchicalandstatus-riddenofworlds,andHollywoodhasalwaysbeenaplaceofdespots(Goldwyn,Thalberg,Cohn),Kings(Gable)andQueens(Pickford).Ofcoursethestarsweresnobs.Ofcoursetheywantedtobearistocrats.Butmaybetheyneverquitebelievedtheyreally truly were, because when Rita Hayworthmarried Aly Khan, she cried,‘I’msoexcited,Icanhardlythink,I’msortoflostinadreamworld.’AndwhenGrace Kelly married Monaco’s Rainier, an even dizzier pinnacle had beenattained.

DebrettGoes toHollywood sets out to chart the dynasties ofGoldenAgeHollywood,offeringusbothfamily treesand‘webs’atwhoseheart thesacredmonsterssit:ElizabethTaylorofthesixhusbands,ConstanceBennett,HowardHawks.It’sabizarrebook,itsnoseatoncehighintheairanddeepinthedirt.

Itsauthor,CharlesKidd,seems tornbetween theposhgenealogicaldelightsofrevealing the connection between Tyrone Power and EvelynWaugh, and thepleasuresofgossip-columnscandal-mongering.

That isn’t surprising. Scandal and Hollywood were always difficult toseparate.Maybewe alwayswanted the stars to fall.Wewanted their divinitytarnished.SowhenCharlesKiddevokes‘anageofglamournevertoreturn’,heconjures up theBennett sisters,who ‘totalled twelve husbands, eight divorcesand twelve children.Their stories include anunsolvedmystery, the tragedyofmentalillness,andascandalthatnearlyendedacareer.’

If that’s glamour, his book is full of it: alcoholism, syphilis, suicide.‘Unhappy Sapphic affairs’ were the undoing of one Pepi Lederer.Heterosexuality didn’t have much better results. ‘I hope they blast the livingdaylightsoutofthatElizabethTaylor,’murmuredDebbieReynolds’smumafterLiz ran offwithDebbie’s Eddie,whom she later ditched forDick. ‘Everyoneknowsexactlywhatsheis.’Takethat.

Whoarethereallypathetichumans,IthoughtmorethanonceasIread;andwhocansavethemnow?

Oneofthe(unintentional)revelationsofDebrettGoestoHollywoodis,afterall,thatstarsdodim,fadeandgoout;that,exceptinaveryfewcases,fameisn’tforever,andthepromiseofimmortalityisacon.Manyofthe‘legends’inthiscollection no longer seem quite so legendary. Does it interest you that JoanBennett’s daughter was once the sister-in-law of Gloria Swanson’s daughter?Howmuchdoyou care aboutFranchotTone?Whoon earthwere theRankinandDavenportdynasties?SictransitGloriaGrahame,evenifshedoesturnouttobedescendedfromEdwardIII.

Many of the old-time stars whose immortality still seems assured aremissing.NoMaeWest,noW.C.Fields,noKeaton.EvenMonroeonlyratesaphotograph. It’s significant, too, that themost interesting connections CharlesKiddhasmanagedtounearthcatchtheeyebecausetheyare linksbetweenthemovieworldandfamouspeoplefromthe‘real’world.

OneoftheseconnectionsisthatbetweenHumphreyBogartandPrincessDi(Bogey’s mother was an eighth cousin of the Princess’s great-grandmother;pretty close, no?). The other is even more startling. Groucho Marx’s wife’ssister’s husband’s ex-wife’s ex-husband’s ex-wife’s husband was RandolphChurchill,whose fatherwas, of course,Winston himself. Thus are two of theworld’sgreatestcigar-smokersjoinedbyindissoluble(well,sortof)ties.

Veryfewstars,nowadays,cangenerateenoughpowertodazzleus.TVhas

madethemsmallerthanweare.Wenolongergototheirdarkenedtemples;nolongerlargerthanlife,theyvisitusinstead.Wechannel-hopwhiletheykiss,wepush the fast-forward button on our videos when they bore us. Even theirscandalsfailtoraiseoureyebrows.

ButmaybeHollywoodgetsthelastlaugh,afterall.Thestarsmaynolongercommand our devotion, but the religion whose first deities they were hasconquered the earth. In The Big Room, Michael Herr and Guy Peellaert’sportraitsofcelebrityrevealedthattherealstars,today,canbegangsters(MeyerLansky),gamblers (Nick theGreek)orhoteliers (ConradHilton).Theycanbeused-car salesmen likeRichardNixon, or, like John FitzgeraldKennedy, theycanbePresidentoftheUnitedStates.

Whenmurderers start becoming stars, you know that something has gonebadlywrong.Whenordinaryfolkqueueuptosubmittothediversehumiliationsofgame-showsjusttogettheirfiveminutesinthespotlight,yourealizehowfarthe disease has spread.Andwhen the techniques of starmaking, or image andillusion,becomethestaplesofpolitics,youunderstand:weareallidolatersnow,andtheredon’tseemtobemanyiconoclastsaround.

At least the oldmovie stars, flickering up there at twenty-four frames persecond,weregodswhoknewthemselvestobefalse.Comeback,FlashGordon;allisforgiven.

1986

E.L.DOCTOROW

TheideaoftheStar,ofthehumanindividualwhoradiatescelestiallight,isaquintessentiallyAmericanone,becauseAmericaisinlovewithlight;justlistento its national anthem, star-spangled banner, dawn’s early light, twilight’s lastgleaming,rocket’sredglare,wasthereeversuchanodetoillumination?ButifAmericaseesitselfastheLightIncarnateitknows,too,itsDarkness,andlovesitsdarkstarsalso,lovesthemallthemorebecauseitfearsthemso:AlCapone,Don Corleone, Legs Diamond and the demon-god of E. L. Doctorow’s BillyBathgate,thebarbarianArthurFlegenheimer,whostoleadeadman’snameandbecameDutchSchultz.Asecularnationhungryforgods,Americamadeofmenlike the Dutchman dark deities in whom it desperately wanted to believe, asfifteen-year-old Billy, Doctorow’s narrator, wants to believe in Schultz. Butwhat America loves most, needs most, more than light, more than darkness,more thangodsordemons, is themythof itself.MythicalAmerica, itswriterstellusconstantly, is therealAmerica,andmythdemands,amongother things,that heroes fall aswell as rise.Billy Bathgate is the story of theDutchman’slong,lastdive.

It’s also the story of Billy’s rise. Billy the punk, the ‘capable boy’ whocatches the great hood’s eye by juggling objects of different weight on thesidewalkoutsideoneoftheracketeer’sbeerdrops.Billywiththecrazymotherwhonailedherdepartedhusband’ssuittothefloorofherroom,spread-eagledasifitwereaman.BillywhosebestfriendisascavengernamedArnoldGarbageand who, at fifteen, takes fourteen-year-old Rebecca up to the roof of theorphanageandfuckshertwiceforadollar.Billywhodreamsofgreatness,andpursues it thewayhe tells thestory, inagreat rushof languageandschemingandloveofdangerandfearofdeathanddeterminationtosurvive;andforwhomhisonechanceofgreatnesslieswiththeSchultzganganddependsontheboss’smurderouswhim.Knowinghecoulddieatanymoment,forseeingtoomuchorlearning too little, Billy seizes his chancewith all the hunger of the street. ‘Ithinkthesedaysfortherealtrainingyougottogorighttothetop,’hedarestosayrightintotheDutchman’sface,andgetsawaywithit.

He is apprenticed to the gang, and during one of the most unsentimentaleducations in literature he certainly seesmuch toomuch and learns plenty byway of compensation. What he sees includes the execution of the killer BoWeinberg,whomDutchtakesoutintoNewYorkharbourwithhisfeetinabowlofhardeningcement,which slopsbackand forth ina ‘slow-witteddiagramofthe sea,’ and who goes to feed the fishes, singing ‘Bye, Bye, Blackbird’. Itincludes the hideous murders of a fire inspector and a union boss, killed bySchultzoutoftherageofhispower’scollapse.ItincludesthevisitoftheMafiadonwith thedroopingeyeandbadskinand, later, thevisitpaid toSchultzbythis gentleman’s employees. What he learns: how to shoot a gun, and (fromSchultz’sfinancialgeniusAbbadabbaBerman)thesecretsofnumbers,includingthenumbersracket,andwhatyoufeelwhenyourgodarrangestohaveyournosebroken,andhowsomepeople feedondeath,andwhat itmeans toa racketeerwhen the bent politicians refuse to take Schultz’s money any more (‘It is amomentous thing when the money won’t flow’), and how dying gangsters,gaspingouttheirlastwords,willgiveuptheirgreatestsecretsifyouknowhowtolistenright.Helearnshowtofallinlove,and,aboveall,howtolivetotellhistale.

LovecomestoBillyintheformofDrewPreston,societybeautyandtramp,inheritedbySchultzfromcementedBo.DrewmakesherselfavailabletoBillyaswell,andalthoughshe isbeautifulasallhellandtheDutchmaniscrazyabouther and she almost splits the gang and Billy winds up saving her life at theSaratoga racetrack by an ingenious scheme involving bouquets of flowers andboxes of candy and also her husband Harvey, the fact is that she’s the leastconvincinglydrawncharacterinanotherwiseflawlessbook;shereadslikeshe’swaitingforMichellePfeiffertoplayherinthemovie.Thetruthisthebookdoesreadattimestoomuchlikethemovieitwillobviouslybeprettysoonbutwhatthehell,thestoryissoterrificyoureallydon’tcaretocomplain.

American novelists have always been readier than their Europeancounterparts todemonstrate that the art of literature can adopt the formof thepopularentertainmentwithoutlosinganiotaofseriousness,andBillyBathgateisDoctorow’s most brilliant proof of it to date. In fact, were it not as robustlyvulgar as it is, it would fail as art, because Billy himself is in truth theincarnation of the street. He has named himself after BathgateAvenue in theBronx, ‘this bazaar of life, Bathgate’, and so it is right that he and his bookshould be as pellmell and clattering as that raucous thoroughfare.Doctorow’sgift forevoking theactualityof street-life isunrivalled, andhebrings tovivid

life Bathgate, the market street, where the barrowboys sell grapefruit andGeorgia peaches, and ‘the aristocracy of the business’ have real stores selling‘your chickens still in their feathers’, and lox and whitefish and pickles andeverything else aswell.And just as vivid asBathgateAvenue is theboywhotakes its name, and is like it dedicated to money, to the pursuit of money inAmerica,andtothegangsterswhoaretheparadigmsofthatsingle-mindedandruthlesspursuit,whoareitsmostexaltedandmalignembodiments,whoaretoBathgateAvenueasthemonarchistothepunk.

‘Thecityhasalwaysgivenmeassurances,’saysBillyBathgate,‘wheneverIhaveaskedforthem.’ThegangstersinDoctorow’snovel,likeJackDiamondinWilliam Kennedy’s equally potent Legs, draw their self-belief, their sense ofsolidity and permanence, from the metropolis itself, which suggests that onlythosewho can believe in the permanence of the city are able tomaster it; orperhapsthatit’sonlywhenyoubelieveinthatpermanencethatyoucansurvivethe city’s transformations, its tricksy changes of light and lethal shadowplays,becauseit’sbeliefthatkeepsyouonestepahead,withmoneyinyourpocketandtheworldatyourfeet,untilyoucomeupagainstsomebodywhobelievesevenharderthanyou.

1989

MICHAELHERR:ANINTERVIEW

‘Vietnam?Wasthatawarorwhat?’ThisisSergeantBensonspeaking.She’sacharacterinastorybyRichardFord,andit’snotthatshedoesn’tknowaboutVietnam,it’sthatshedoesn’twanttoknow.She’stalkingtoaVietnamveteranonatrain.‘Youwereprobablyonaboatthatpatrolledtheriversblindlyinthejungle day and night, and you don’t want to discuss it now because of yournightmares, right?’Whowants yesterday’s papers, theRolling Stones used toask,andthat’sVietnam:yesterday’sapocalypse.

It’smorethanadecade,now,sinceMichaelHerrfinishedworkonthebestbook to come out of themadness, and readingDispatches again after all thistimeI’mstruckmostofallbythelanguageinit,becauseVietnamwaslanguageaswellaseverythingelse: thedead languageof jargon that layover theeventandtriedtoconcealit,frontiersealing,censusgrievance,theVietnamWarwillbe an economyWar, and one I’ve never forgotten, a USmilitary spokesmandescribing a bombing raid ‘north of the Dee Em Zee’ as having ‘obtained a100%mortalityresponse.’Setagainst that languageinDispatches is the livingargotof theenlistedmen, thegrunts. ‘Ibeenscaled,man, I’msmoothnow,’ablackparatrooper toldHerr, ‘leavingme towonderwherehe’dbeen togethislanguage.’Andthenthere’sthethirdlanguage.Rock‘n’roll.Thesixties…itswaranditsmusichadrunpoweroffthesamecircuitforsolongtheydidn’tevenhavetofuse.

I’msittingwithHerr inhisSouthKensingtonapartment talkingabouthowVietnam was invaded by Hendrix, by Sam the Sham, by Zappa as well assoldiers, by GeneralWaste-More-Land. He says: ‘The grunts were consciousthat they were involved in a drug-and-rock ‘n’ roll extension. Most of thecombatants, black andwhite, came from theworking class.For them, thewarwasanextensionoftheirstreetlives.Rock‘n’rollhadacurrencyinthosedaysithasn’thadsince1970.Thewardidn’tsurviverock‘n’roll,inaway.’Thosewerethedaysofheadsandfreaks.Andifgettinghighwaswhereitwasat,thenVietnam was the ultimate trip. When the grunts went into battle, Herrremembers,they‘puttheirgunsonrock‘n’roll.’

It’seasy tosay thatVietnamwasbadcraziness,muchharder toadmit thatthecrazinesswasworkinginsideyou,youweren’tjustanobserver.ThathonestyiswhatmakesDispatchesspecial,what’smadeitlast.‘Iwantedtobeintimatewiththewar,’saysHerr.‘Ialsowantedtomaintaincontrol,aseveryonedoesinthematterofintimacy,butIcouldn’t.Circumstancesarose.’Therewerecriticalmomentswhenhehadtocrosstheline,pickupagun,shoot.‘IfeltIhadalmostcertainlytakenanotherlifetopreservemyownlife.’Inthebookhewrotedownhisfeelingsastruthfullyashecould.Theyincludedhappiness.‘IwasjusthappyIwasalive.IwentthroughanunbelievablyterriblenightandwhenthesuncameupIwasstillthere.’Now,tenyearsafterthebook,heis‘essentiallyapacifist.’To take another human life was, as the saying went, a very heavy piece ofkarma.‘Ithinkthatsomewherealongthelineit’sgoingtohavetobeaccountedfor.’

Accounting for Vietnam: and yes, Sergeant Benson, there are nightmares.When heworked onApocalypseNow, and ten years later, writingFullMetalJacket, thedreamsreturned. ‘All thewrongpeoplerememberVietnam.I thinkallthepeoplewhorememberitshouldforgetit,andallthepeoplewhoforgotitshouldremember it.’Vietnamisascaron theAmericanpsyche thathasneverbeenhealedbecause‘thepropermedicationwasneverused.’Andwhat’sthat?‘Meditation. The American media still deflect Americans from any truemeditation about what happened there.’ No collective act of understanding ispossibleinsuchaclimate;onlyindividualactsofunderstandingremain.‘I’mahardcorePascalian.Allthesufferingintheworldcomesfrompeoplenotbeingabletobealoneinaroom.’Aclassicsixtiessolution,maybe,foraquintessentialsixtiescrime.

He’sworkedontwoofthebestVietnammovies,doesn’tthinkmuchoftheothers,butwaybackthen,inVietnam,themovieswerealreadyawayforhimtoexperiencethewar.‘I’machildofmytimeandamanofmyculture.Igrewupinthemovies.DonQuixoteexperienceshistravelsinthelanguageofromances.Butwhenhedies,heknowswhat’shappenedtohim.He’sveryclear.Asmanyofusknew that thewarwasnotamovie. Itwas real.’Nowadays, though, theVietnammoviesmostlycreate‘falserepresentations.Youknow:wantingtolookand notwanting to look. Peoplewant it authentic but not too authentic. Theywanttheirpainstirredup,butnottoomuch,andthentheywantittakenaway.’

Therealtragedyisthatthere’s‘noapparatustodeflecttheguiltofthegrunts.Thoseguyshavebeensetadrift.Theyweresimultaneouslysoinnocentandeviloutthere,likeAldenPyle[Greene’s‘quietAmerican’].Therewasnowaytosort

thatoutforthemwhentheycameback.’Nowadays,heresiststalkingpoliticsaboutthewar.‘Iwaspoliticizedbythe

warandthenwenttoastagebeyondpolitics.Itbecamecriticallynullifiedbytheoverwhelming experience of being there. The war was behaviour. Archetypalbehaviour beyond judgement.’ But is there such a thing? Isn’t that a kind ofexoneration?‘Idon’twanttoexoneratethem.It’sjustthatfromtheoutsidethewar was perceived as an exclusively political event. On the inside it wasfundamentallyandeternallyahumanevent.Andit’sgoingtobeahumaneventmuchlongerthanapoliticalone.’

For the grunts, therewas theWorld, and therewasVietnam. InVietnam,after thedeathofMartinLutherKing, therewereraceriotsatmanyAmericanbases.But then thingsquieteneddown. ‘Menneeded eachother.Theyneededeachothermorethantheyneededtheirprejudice.’InVietnam,Herrlearnedthattruecouragewasrefusingtofight.‘Onceyou’veruninfrontofamachine-gunafewtimes,tryfacingyourwifeandkids.’InVietnam,heacceptedthatwarwasglamorous, because of its intimacy with death. ‘Nothing else can move thatmuchadrenalin.I’mrathergratefulthat’sso,becausenowIknowhowtoavoidthatlevelofdrama.’HardenedforeigncorrespondentslikeRyszardKapuścińskiadmit they need revolutions, wars; they’re addicts. ‘It’s wonderful ofKapuściński to know and say that. But I’m no classic war correspondent.Vietnamwas a one-off. I don’t ever want to seewar again, or to go back toVietnam.’VietnamVietnamVietnam,we’veallbeen there,hisbookends.Butthesedays,theWorldisenough.

1988

RICHARDFORD

Itisthesummerof1960andallaroundthetownofGreatFalls,Montana,forestfires are burning. The forestwildlife flees the blaze.A bear is seen emergingfrom the fire, its furblazing.Amoosewanders into themainstreetofa smalltownship, bewildered. The animals don’t understand the fire. Its causes aremysterious.Butitchangestheirlives.

Humanbeingsarenotsodifferent.Thefirechangesthingsforthemalso.‘Itwassometimesagoodthingtobenearathingsouncontrollableandoutofallscalethatyoufeltreducedandknewyourpositionintheworld.’Thefiredrawsmentofightit,andthewomenleftbehindaccusethemoftakingIndianwomenforlovers.Thefiremakessudden,unpredictablechangesofdirection,andwhenit dies down to a smoulder it’s still treacherous. It can blaze up again at anymoment,withoutwarning.

There’sasortoffireinpeople’shearts,too,andwhenitflaresupit’stoobiga thing to resist, you feel reduced.Take Jerry.He’s agolf prowhodrifts intoGreatFallswithhiswifeJeanetteandsixteen-year-oldsonJoe.Heloseshisjob,unjustly accused of putting his fingers in the club till, and falls into a slump,until thefiresummonshimtofight it. ‘I’vegot thishuminmyheadnow,’hesays.‘I’vegot todosomethingabout it.’Againsthiswife’swishes, inspiteofhisknowledgeofherdiscontents,hegoes.

OrtakeJeanette.She’sdriftedwithJerryacrossAmerica.‘WehadlivedinCoeurd’AleneandMcCall,Idaho,andinEndicottandPascoandWallaWalla.’SheneverexpectedtobelivinginGreatFallsandtoseeherhusbandgoofftoriskhislifelikeachild,standingupagainstablaze.Jeanettehasreachedtheendof some sort of line.Shewants better.Better turns out to be a local richguy,WarrenMiller,andinthethreedaysherhusband’sawayshedressesupinher‘desperationdress’andgoes toMiller’shouse todanceadrunkencha-chaandletshimintohermaritalbedatnightandthengoes to liewithhiminhispinkautomobile.Thingsarechangingforher,shelets themdrift intoirreversibility,sherunsbeforetheflames.Shedoesall this inadreamysortofway,as if it’sbeingdonethroughherandnotbyher.‘I’mafraidofbecomingsomebodyelse

now, Iguess,’ she says. ‘That’sprobablyhow theworldworks.We justdon’tknow it until it happens. “Ha-ha”, I guess is what we should say. “Haha.”’Here’s what Jerry says to his boy Joe when he finds out Jeanette has beensteppingoutonhim:‘Thisisawildlife,isn’tit,son?’

It’sJoewhotellsthestory.Andiftheadultsheredon’tfullyunderstandwhytheydowhat theydo,half-formedJoe,on theedgeof theadultworld,doesn’tfullyunderstandgrown-ups,either.He is ‘in limbo,between thecaresofotherpeoplewithonlymyowncarestoshowmewhattodo.’

Wildlife,RichardFord’sfirstnovel-lengthfictionsincethemagnificentstorycollectionRockSprings,can’treallybecalledanadvanceonthatearliervolume.It’smore like a continuation of the world he built there, an America withouthistory, peopled by men and women of small ambition, small dreams, smalldisappointments. The town in this bookmay be calledGreat Falls but all thefallsinit,Fordmakesclear,arelittleones.‘Intheend,notverymuchhappened’is a typical Ford sentence, but the not very much that happens is so wellobserved,feltanddescribedthatFordeffortlesslypullsoffthetrickofmakingusthink that the lives he shows us mean a great deal, while also making usrememberthattheydon’treallymeanmuchatall.

Ford’sworkhasoftenbeenbracketedwithandlikenedtothewritingofhisfriend, the late Raymond Carver, and he hasn’t always benefited by thecomparison.‘Dirtyrealism’ isa label thatcontainsaboutasmuchtruthasyoucan fit on to a label, but Ford andCarver’s unlikenesses aremore interestingthantheirsimilarities.ThecharacteristicFordtoneofvoiceisagooddealmoredistancedthanCarver’swas,andthepeoplehedescribesarelikewisedistancedfrom their own experience, like Jerry and Jeanette and Joe, all of them doingthingswithoutquiteknowingthey’regoingto, justwaitingfor thingstorevealtheirneedtobedone.There’smorepassioninCarver;there’smoredispassioninFord.

Wildlife isa finenovelbyafinewriter.At times itbrought tomindDavidByrne’s movie about another American Nowheresville,True Stories, a moviewhich, like Ford’s book, observes the human animal with friendship,understanding, and an almost clinical detachment. There’s a scene in TrueStoriesinwhichthepeopleofthetowntaketurnsatamike,singingbriefversesof autobiography, trying, again like Ford’s characters, to sing themselves intoexistence and significance,wearing theirdesperationdresses.Thenameof thesongtheysingis‘Wild,WildLife’.

1990

RAYMONDCARVER

Anddidyougetwhatyouwantedfromthislife,evenso?Idid.

Andwhatdidyouwant?Tocallmyselfbeloved,tofeelmyselfbelovedontheearth.

OneSunday lastNovember, in somesuitably ‘high tacky’club inLondon,abunchofusreadoutpiecesfor,andby,andinmemoryof,RaymondCarver.Atone moment I looked along my row and the truth is we were all blubberingaway,orclosetoit,anyhow,exceptforRay’swidow,thepoetTessGallagher,who loved himmost andwho remindedme then ofmy grandmother refusingtearsaftermygrandfatherdied.Tessgaveoutanironserenityandevenakindofjoy,andit’s thereagain inANewPathto theWaterfall, their lastbook, inherbeautiful,scrupulous,unflinchingintroductionandinhisownlastpoems.

I’maluckyman.I’vehadtenyearslongerthanIoranyoneexpected.Puregravy.Anddon’tforgetit.

It’s a hard fate to beat the booze and then lose out, a decade later, to thecigarettes, but then again ten years of good and plenteous work, ten years offeeling yourself beloved on the earth, that’s more thanmost of us get, more,even,thanwelearntoexpect.RaymondCarverwasagreatwriterand,asANewPathtotheWaterfalltellsusheknew,aprettyluckyman.

‘Memorydoesn’tcarewhereitlives,’Carverwrites.Thememoryofaslim,gayyouthasadébutantewhoranoff to theFoliesBergèrescansurvivein thedirty,300-poundbodyofadyingbaglady.Thememoryofoldwretchednessandruined love can haunt a happyman.Raynever stoppedwriting about that oldwretchedness, that ruined love,his firstmarriage.Maniccallsonanansweringmachine, suddenbeatingsonanaeroplane, the lossof trust in the ideaof loveitself,themoneyproblems,theterriblerelationshipswiththechildren(‘Oh,son,inthosedaysIwantedyoudead/ahundred—no,athousand—differenttimes’):

this old violence, as much as the late serenity, creates the distinctive Carvervoice,anduniverse.There’snocensorshipinCarver,whichcanlayhimopentothe charge of writing ‘list poetry’, but which recognizes, too, the dark andclutteredactualityoftheheart.Heisapoetofinclusion,ofcapaciousness:Thefaintsoundofrockandroll,TheredFerrariinmyhead,Thewomanbumping

Drunkenlyaroundinthekitchen…Putitallin,Makeuse.

ScatteredthroughthisbookarepassagesofChekhovlaidoutasverse.ThesuccessofthesearrangementsguidesustoseethatinCarver’swork,too,eventhemostnarrativeand‘prosaic’ofhispoems,eventheonesthatlookmostlikechopped-upstories,gainaddedresonancefromtheirform.‘Suspenders’,whichdescribes a nightmarish childhoodmoment,would ‘work’ as prose, butwouldloseitsformal,distancedair,whichseemsalmostlikeatruce,likethequietthatsettles on the quarrelling family in the poem, the ‘quiet that comes to ahouse/wherenobodycansleep’.

Intwoconsecutivepoems,‘Miracle’,theoneaboutthebeatinghesuffersontheaeroplaneatthehandsofhisfirstwife,and‘MyWife’,inwhichshehaslefthim,wefindtheideaofhavingto‘accountfor’one’slife:‘It’snow/theyhavetoaccount for, the blood/on his collar, the dark smudge of it/staining her cuff’;‘Sheleftbehindtwonylonstockings,and/ahairbrushoverlookedbehindthebed… It is only the bed/that seems strange and impossible to account for.’ Thephrasecontainsboththeideaofnarrationandthatofbalancesheets,andmanyofCarver’spoemsseemtousenarrationasaprocessofarrivingataprofit-and-lossunderstandingoflife,completewithbottomline.

Thebottomline,forRay,waslungcancer.Thelastgroupofpoemsinthisvolume, poems strong enough to turn inevitable death into art, have a simple,declaratory honesty that makes them almost unbearable to read. This is thebeginning of ‘What theDoctor Said’:He said it doesn’t look goodhe said itlooks bad in fact real bad he said I counted thirty-two of them on one lungbefore

Iquitcountingthem

And the ending is, if anything, evenmore shocking: ‘I jumped up and shookhandswith thismanwho’d just givenme/somethingnoone else on earth hadevergivenme/Imayevenhavethankedhimhabitbeingsostrong.’

ButinwritingthestoryofhisdeathRaymondCarveralsowrotethestoryof

hislove.Thereisapoemaboutgettingmarried,TessandRay’sRenowedding,aweddinginthattownofdivorceesandgamblers,‘asifwe’dfoundananswerto/that question of what’s left/when there’s no more hope.’ There is a poemwhich sets love explicitly against death: ‘Saying it then, against/what comes:wife,while I can,whilemy breath, each hurried petal/can still find her’.Andtherearepoemsoffarewell,ofwhichatleastone,‘NoNeed’,isagreatpoem,ofa perfection that makes me unwilling to quote. Read it. Read everythingRaymondCarverwrote.Hisdeathishardtoaccept,butatleasthelived.

1989

ISAACBASHEVISSINGER

Inawriterwhohasjustbeenmadepainfullyawareoftheextremeintoleranceofsomemembersofhisownreligioustradition,theeasyirreverencewithwhichIsaacBashevisSingercontinuestotreatthegreatsubjectsofGodandtheDevilarouses a kind of envy: no fundamentalists are after him, no government hasbannedhisbookforblasphemy.Lookatwhatthefellowgetsawaywith!This,for instance, in the brief Author’s Note with which he prefaces his newcollection of stories: ‘Art … can also in its small way attempt to mend themistakes of the eternal builder in whose image man was created.’ God’smistakes?That’sdirtytalk.

NorisSinger’sversionofSatanbyanymeansallbad.(Religiousornot,heseemslikemanywriters, fromMiltononwards, tobesomewhat‘of thedevil’sparty’.) In the title storyof this superb collection, ‘TheDeathofMethuselah’,the969-year-oldMethuselahistakenonavisittoHell,‘Cain’scity’,andfindsthatithasitspositiveside:‘SatanandhisbrotherAsmodeusaregodsofpassion,and so is their spouse, the goddess Lilith. They enjoy themselves and allowotherstheirenjoyment.’While,attheotherendofthebook,acertainKaddish,‘TheJewfromBabylon’,whohasspenthislifecastingoutdemons,iscapturedby them at the moment of his death and borne off to the depths, where heactuallygetstomarryLilith,the‘QueenoftheAbyss’.

God’swork and theDevil’s,Singer suggests here, aren’t all that far apart.Gehenna itself, in the comic parable ‘Sabbath in Gehenna’, is a distinctlyworldly spot, in which the condemned of the earth talk about demandingimprovements in their condition, dream of revolution, contemplate starting amagazine. (‘When you sign a petition the angels throw it away … But amagazine they would read. The righteous in paradise expire from boredom.’)There is even a ‘liberal group among the angels’whowant the condemned tohaveweekendsoffandaweek’svacationintheWorldofIllusions.

Singerhasobviouslynotheardthatthesmartmoneynowconsidersthistypeofmagicrealismtobeyesterday’shorse.This,too,isfortunate,bothforhimandforus,becauseTheDeathofMethuselahisthemostsheerlyenjoyablebookI’ve

read all year, full ofwisdom,history andwit. In themajority of the stories, aversionoftheauthorappearsnotasthestory-tellerbutastherecipientofstories;thesearetalescompulsivelytoldbytheircharacters,agalleryofhumanbeingsforwhomtheactofstory-tellingisakintothatofcoming-to-be.Theytalkthattheymightexist.

ThefrustratedpainterMaxSteinconfesseshispenchant(shared,onegathersfrom elsewhere, byGeorgeBernardShaw) for becoming a ‘house friend’, the‘otherman’ in aménage á trois. Prisoners in jail tell each other the story ofanother triangle thatgoesmurderouslywrongonaboat toAmerica,andat theend‘burstintothehilariouslaughterofthosewhohavenothinglefttolose’;forthemthestoryofthemisfortunesofothersisawayofbriefly,bleakly,cheeringthemselvesup.OnasteamertoSouthAmerica,achanceacquaintancetellsthe‘author’thetaleofhowanaccidentalglimpseofhisfiancéekissinganothermanpoisonedtherestofhislife.Thislaststory,‘APeepholeintheGate’,istomymindtheveryfinestinthisfinecollection.

Whathappensbetweenmenandwomeninthisbookis,mostly,trouble.Themencheatbutcannotstand it if they think thewomenaredoing thesame; theverywomenwithwhomtheycheatdestroytheirfaithinwomankindasawhole;althoughtheirownactionsdonot,naturally,makethemthinkanytheworseoftheir own sex. Jealousy, treachery, abandonment, cuckoldry: all human life ishere.Inonebeautifulstory,awoman’slifeisruinedbythediscovery,afterhermarriage,thatherhusbandhasnosenseofhumour.Inanother,acertainZeinvel,who is a frequenter of whorehouses, rediscovers his old friend Shmerl (whoisn’t), only to find that Shmerl’s perfect and demurewifewas once the ‘mostsalaciousof strumpets’.Heartbreakingly,Zeinvel isobliged to leavehis friendfor ever rather than tell him the truth, condemnedby friendship to the tediumandlonelinessofhispaltrylife.

Manyofthesestoriesarestructureslikeold-fashionedfables,evendowntothecapsuleofwisdomattheend:‘Adayaftertheweddingbothsidesbegintosearch,thehusbandaswellasthewife.’‘OfonethingI’mconvinced—thathereonearthtruthandjusticeareforeverandabsolutelybeyondourgrasp.’AndinmanyofthemthereistroublebetweenManandGodaswellasmenandwomen;butbehindthetroublethereisamischievousserenity,adisenchantedjoyinlifethatcompensatesforallthedifficultieslifecreates.Thisisanirresistiblebook.

1988

PHILIPROTH

InBorges’sstory‘TheGardenofForkingPaths’, thegardenturnsout tobeafantasticandimpossiblenovelbyacertainTs’uiPeninwhichthecharactersliveoutalltheirpossiblelives:‘Inallfiction,whenamanisfacedwithalternativeshechoosesoneat theexpenseof theothers. In thealmostunfathomableTs’uiPen,hechooses—simultaneously—allofthem.Hethuscreatesvariousfutures,varioustimeswhichstartothersthatwillintheirturnbranchoutandbifurcate…The hero dies in the third chapter, while in the fourth he is alive.’ Like thefictionalTs’uiPen, the real—orperhaps ‘real’—PhilipRothhas longbeen thecreator of counterlives: Portnoy, Tarnopol, Kepesh, Zuckerman. He isaccordingly well aware that his readers will approach his autobiography—his‘novelist’sautobiography’—withameasureofsuspicion.ThathehascalledthebookTheFacts isnomore thanhiswayofupping theante.Factsareslipperycreatures, as we know, and Rothian facts are likely to be more slippery thanmost.

The Facts is, in fact, addressed not to us, the readers, but to the fictionalNathanZuckerman,Roth’s long-servingcounterself.Apart fromthis,however,itbeginsfactuallyenough:‘Iwilltellyouthatinthespringof1987,attheheightofa ten-yearperiodofcreativity,whatwas tohavebeenminorsurgery turnedintoaprolongedphysicalordeal that led to anextremedepression that carriedme right to the edgeof emotional andmental dissolution.’After the crack-up,Rothbeganto‘renderexperienceuntransformed’so thathecould‘retrievemyvitality,transformmyselfintomyself’;or,perhaps,begantobereborn,likehischaracters, ‘like you, Zuckerman, who are reborn in The Counterlife throughyourEnglishwife,likeyourbrotherHenry,whoseeksrebirthinIsraelwithhisWest Bank fundamentalists.’ The book he gives us is much more than meretherapy, however. It’s a vivid and often touching account of a writer’sbeginnings,whichdeservesaplacebesideEudoraWelty’srecent,marvellouslyevocativebookonthesametheme.

Twopassagesareparticularlystriking.OneisRoth’saccountofhow,afterthepublicationofGoodbye,Columbus,hewasaccusedofbeinganti-Semitic,a

self-hatingJew,andhow,ataconferenceatYeshivaUniversityinNewYork,he‘realized that I was not just opposed but hated.’ His responses to being sovilified have been—if Imay be forgiven a personal note—verymoving, evenhelpful, to this similarlybeleagueredwriter. Iwas able to recognize inmyselfthecuriouslethargy,thesoporifictorporthatovercomesRothwhileheisunderattack; torecognize, too, thestupid,humiliatedrage that leadshimtocry: ‘I’llneverwriteaboutJewsagain!’Andwhentheangerpasses,andheunderstandsthat‘themostbruisingpublicexchangeofmylifeconstitutednottheendofmyimagination’sinvolvementwiththeJews,letaloneanexcommunication,buttherealbeginningofmythralldom…Thisgroupwhoseembraceoncehadofferedmesomuchsecuritywasitselffanaticallyinsecure.Myhumiliation…wastheluckiestbreak Icouldhavehad. Iwasbranded’—then, too,heseems tospeakdirectly,profoundly,notonlyto,butfor,me.

Thesecondpassage is theoneabouthis first, terriblemarriage to Josie,orpossibly‘Josie’,whocameclosetodestroyinghim,hetellsus,andwhosefakingof a pregnancy to forcehim intowedlockheusedunchanged inMyLife as aMan. Josie is theone realmonster in this book, theone ‘character’ forwhomRothfeelsthekindofangerthathasmotivatedsomuchofhisbestwork.Sosheisnotonlyamonster,butthebook’smostunforgettablecharacter.

It’strue,though,thatyoubegintofeelalittleuneasyaboutRoth’sphilippicagainsthisfirstwife,whoisdead,afterall,killedinamotoraccidentandunabletodefendherselfagainsthisportraitofher.AndwereitnotforRoth’slastandbest counterpunch, these doubts could have been substantial enough tounderminethebook.

ThestrokethatsavesitisRoth’sdecisiontohandTheFactsovertoNathanZuckerman, whose reply to his author is brilliant and savage. Roth hasmadehimselfandhisfamilytoonice,andasforJosie,shemusthavebeen‘bothbetterand worse’ than Roth allows: his true equal. Zuckerman, Roth’s male other,recognizes in Josie his female counterpart. As for the book itself, ‘Don’tpublish,’ Zuckerman advises. The autobiography doesn’t explain the mostimportantthings:therage,andthework.ZuckermanandhisEnglishwifeMarianeedRothtogoongivingthemlife(eventhoughtheyarefilledwithtrepidationatwhatmightlieinstoreforthem);Roth’sflirtationwith‘reallife’won’tdo.

As for the reader (thisone, anyhow)heendsupvoting for theZuckermanversion, but it’s a close-run thing. As Maria says of Roth: ‘The only personcapableofcommentingonhis life ishis imagination.Because the inhibition isjust too tremendous in this form … He’s not telling the truth.’ The Truth,

however,wouldprobablyhavebeenlessinterestingthanTheFacts.

1989

SAULBELLOW

Corde, the Chicagoan dean of journalism whose winter of discontent is thematter ofTheDean’sDecember bySaulBellow, is in part theDanglingManreincarnated.Formuchofthebookhehangsaboutwhilevariousnoosestightenaroundhisneck.(Hisnameissurelynorandomchoice.)CordehasaccompaniedhiswifeMinna,adistinguishedastronomerandadefector,backtoBucharesttobepresentbeside thedeathbedofhermotherValeria.There isn’tmuchhecando. ‘Language was a problem.’ Valeria, the fallen matriarch, is in the Statehospital. Difficulties are being made to prevent her family from seeing her.Cordehelpshiswifeandherauntstrugglewiththesystem,buthiseffortsdon’tdo much good. Most of the time he is left to his own devices, observing,thinking, worrying, remembering. And Romania, a precisely, almost lyricallydescribed place of pollarded trees and informing concierges, comes to seemmorelikeaprojectionofCorde’sinneranguishesthana‘real’country;agrey,repressiveRomaniaofthemind,inwhichtheStatesets‘thepainlevels’forallitscitizens.

Back inChicago,amurder trial is takingplace.TwoblacksareaccusedofhavingkilledoneofCorde’sstudents.Cordeisboundupinthetrial;hehashadahandinbringingthedefendantstocourt,andisbeingattackedandvilifiedasaresult.Hehas recentlywrittena seriesof articlesaboutChicago.Thesepieceshave made many powerful people angry, and embarrassed the college whosedeanhe is.Dangling inRomania,Cordeawaits theresult in thecase,which isalso,metaphorically,acaseinwhichheistheaccused.

This is an extraordinary book in that almost all its action takes place off-stage. ‘Of courseAmerica is where the real action is,’ says Corde’s boyhoodfriend,DeweySpangler,nowabig-timeLippmanesquejournalistwhomCorderunsintoinBucharest.Thisisterriblenewstohavetotellhumankind,butwhatelseistheretosay?’Corde’sAmericanlifeunfoldsintheformofrecollections,conversations, flashbacks, letters, rumours. Even in Romania, the matriarchValeriamustdoherdyinginthewings;thenovelisonlypermittedtovisitheracoupleoftimes.Thiscurioustechniquehasapurpose.Itclearsthecentreofthe

stageforCorde’sinnermonologue;anditisCorde’smind,agitated,relentlesslyprobing, analysing, thinking the world into being, that dominates the novel.Mere events become aspects of perception. It’s impossible to overstate theenergetic brilliance with which Bellow invests the world-according-to-Corde.Thisisanastoundinglywell-writtenbook.

Corde ranges overmanydifferent themes.And at first the selection seemsalmost arbitrary: astronomy (Minna), race, Chicago, communism, journalism,humanism,prisonconditions,motherhood,evenenvironmentalism, in theformofthescientistPeechwhobelievestheworld’sillsarecausedbythebuild-upoflead in the atmosphere—apocalypse caused by ‘chronic lead insult’. But thenyou see how intricately Bellow has worked to shape these elements into anartistic whole. There are parallels, connections everywhere. Apparently ‘leadinsult’was also responsible for the fall of theRomanEmpire,when leadwasusedtoadulteratewines;andwearenowinRomania,andleadisdescribedas‘the Stalin of the metals’ … And many more elegant correspondences arerevealed:Minna’s stars are the exalted opposites of the depths of theChicagojails; Dewey Spangler’s column about Corde, which costs him his job, is theechoofchildhoodletterswhichalsogotCordeintodeeptrouble;andthenovel’smanywomen, bothAmerican andRomanian, are connected and contrasted inendlessly subtle ways The Dean’s December seeks to be nothing less than aredescription, free from jargon, of received ideas and the whole accumulateddetritusoftheage,ofWesterncivilizationitself:thewholeshooting-match,theworks.Itisathrillinglyambitiousbook.

Nevermindthatitdoesn’tquiteachieveitsimpossibleaim.Thatitsstructuresometimes seems too ponderous and at others too shadowy. Never mind thatBellow’ssupremegift,thatofinvestinghisfictionwiththeabsoluteauthorityofreality,poses itsownproblems: is the lead insult theory ‘really’ true?Haven’tthedicebeenloadedtooheavilyagainstthenovel’sblacks?Shouldanallegoryabout the fall of the new Romes (Eastern and Western) be so magnificentlydisguisedasnaturalism?

Thisremainsapugnacious,feisty,quarrelsome,fiercebook.It isabooktofightwith,tobeinfuriatedby;butitisalsoabookthatwillcreateinitsreadersthekindofpassionateexcitementandinvolvementthatonlyrealartcaninspire.Likehisdean,Bellowlooksuptothestarswithawe;butheknowsthestarsarenothisjob.Hisplace,andhissubject,istheearth.

1982

THOMASPYNCHON

So, he’s back, and the question that occurs to you on finishingVineland is,whattookhimsolong?Becausethisdoesn’tfeellikeabookwrittentobreakablock,itisn’tcongestedorstop-startorstiff,matteroffactit’sfree-flowingandlightandfunnyandmaybethemostreadilyaccessiblepieceofwritingtheoldInvisibleMan ever came upwith. It is also not the bookwe thought ThomasPynchon was writing. We heard he was doing something about Lewis andClark?MasonandDixon?AJapanesesciencefictionnovel?AndonespringinLondon a magazine announced the publication of a 900-page PynchonmegabookabouttheAmericanCivilWar,publishedintruePynchonianstylebya small press nobody ever heard of, and I was halfway to the door before Irememberedwhatdateitwas,Aprilthefirst,hohoho.Whathappenedtothosespectral books? Did they never exist? Are we about to get a great rush ofPynchonnovels?Theanswerisblowin’inthewind.

Because one thing that has not changed about Mr P. is his love ofmystification. The secrecy surrounding the publication of this book—his firstnovel sinceGravity’s Rainbow in 1973—has been, let’s face it, ridiculous. Imean,asoneofhischaractersmightputit,rilly.Sohewantsaprivatelifeandnophotographsandnobodytoknowhishomeaddress,Icandigit,Icanrelatetothat(but,like,heshouldtryitwhenit’scompulsoryinsteadofafree-choiceoption).Butforhispublisherstowithholdcopiesandgivecriticsmaybeaweekto deal with what took him almost two decades, now, that’s truly weird, badcraziness,giveitup.

Otherthings,too,haveremainedconstantinthePynchonianuniverse,wherethesearedaysofmiracleandwonder,likeDoonesburywrittenbyDukeinsteadofGarryTrudeau,andtheparanoiarunshigh,becausebehindtheheavyscenesandbad tripsandKarmicAdjustmentsmove the shadowy invisible forces, thetrueMasters of theUniverse, ‘the unrelenting forces that leaned ever after…intoTime’swind, impassive in pursuit, usually gaining, the faceless predators[who]had simplypersisted, stone-humorless, beyondcauseor effect, rejectingallattemptstobargainoraccommodate,followingthroughpoolsofnightwhere

nothingelsemovedwrongsforgottenbyallbutthedirelypossessed,continuingasabody to refuse tobeboughtoff foranybut the fullprice,which theyhadnevernamed.’

That’s what we’re up against, folks, and what Mr Pynchon used to setagainstitintheolddayswasEntropy,seenasaslow,debauched,never-endingparty, a perpetual coming-down, shapeless and meaningless and thereforeunshapedanduncontrolled: freedomischaos,he toldus,but so isdestruction,andthat’sthehigh-wire,walkit ifyoucan.AndnowhereweareinVineland,andtheentropy’sstillflowing,butthere’ssomethingnewtoreport,somefaintpossibilityof redemption, some fleetinghintsofhappiness andgrace;ThomasPynchon,likePaulSimon’sgirlinNewYorkCitywhocallsherselftheHumanTrampoline,bouncingintoGraceland.

It’s1984inVinelandCounty,NorthernCalifornia.Datesreallymatterinthisbook.Eventhemoviescomewithdatesattached,e.g.,ReturnoftheJedi(1983),Friday the 13th (1980) (‘Everybody was Jason that year’), Gidget GoesHawaiian (1961),Godzilla, King of the Monsters (1956): we’re talking massculturehere,andmallculture,too,becausethisisa1984flowingwithdesignerseltzerbyAlaïaandBlassandYves,andthemallshavenameslikeNoirCenter(as in filmnoir) and themall ratshavenames likeChé.And in this1984 thatOrwellcouldneverhaveimaginedtheskiescontainmarauderswhocanremovepeople from commercial airlines inmid-air, and a research lab belonging to a‘shadowy world conglomerate’ named Chipco can be stomped into Totality,flattened beneath a gigantic and inexplicable animal footprint, size 20,000 orthereabouts.This1984isalsoRonaldReagan’sre-electionyear,andthat,forallthe left-over hippies and sixties activists and survivors and casualties, couldmeanit’stimeforthe‘lastroundup’.

Listencloselynow:ZoydWheeler,fatherofbeautifulteenagePrairie,whosemotherFrenesiGateswentoffwitharch-baddieBrockVond,FederalProsecutorand psychopath, collectsmental disability cheques from the State by jumpingthroughplate-glasswindowsonce ayear.Thenovel beginswith such a jump,andthereafterfragmentsintoamyriaddifferentnarrativeshards(but,attheend,thepiecesall leapoff thefloorandfitmiraculously together,as ifa filmwerebeing runbackwards). Prairie is obsessedwith her vanishedmother, and so iseveryoneelseinthenovel:soisZoyd,soisBrockVondwhowasherloverandwho turnedher froma radical film-maker, thechildofablacklist-and-Wobblyfamily, into an FBI sting specialist, turned her towards her own dark side.Frenesi,meanwhile,isoutofsight,havingbeenaxedbyReaganomicsfromthe

slashedFBIbudget,sothatatthecentreofthisnovelbythemasterofvanishingactsisalargelyinvisiblewoman,whomwelearnthroughtheeyesofothers.

Now then: Vond appears to be after Prairie, maybe to use her againstFrenesi,soZoyd,ashedivesforcover,sendsherintohidingaswell.Prairie’sodyssey takes her closer and closer to Frenesi, byway of a band calledBillyBarfandtheVomitones,whomshefollowstoaMobweddingwhereshemeetshermother’soldfriend,theNinjetteDarrylLouise(DL)Chastain,whowasonceobliged,bytheMobbossRalphWayvone,totryandassassinateBrockVondbyusing, during the sexual act, the Ninja Death Touch known as the VibratingPalm, which its victims never feel andwhich kills them twelvemonths later,whilethekillerishavinglunchwiththePoliceChief—exceptthatVond,skilledineludingDeath(‘He’stheRoad-runner,’saysWayvone,admiringly)managestosendalong,inhisplace,theJapaneseprivateeyeTakeshiFumimota,whogetsthe Vibrating Palm by mistake; and as if that weren’t enough trouble forTakeshi,he’salsobeingchasedby thesamemalign forcesasarranged for theChipcostomping,whichheinvestigated.

And,anyhow,throughDLandTakeshi,Prairiegetstofindthedoorstohermother’s past, on computer records and film archives and in the memory ofFrenesi’soldfriends,andwereachthestory’sdarkheart,namelytheeventsthattookplaceinthe1960satTraseroCounty’sCollegeoftheSurf,whichrenameditselfafterthefashionofthoseloon-panteddaysthePeople’sRepublicofRock‘n’Roll;andwehear,asPrairiehearsit,howhermotherbetrayedtheleaderofthis littlerevolution,whorejoiced in thenameofWeedAtman,andwhonow,after death, still roams the forests of Northern California as a Thanatoid, amemberof theundead,unable tofindpeace…andeventuallyPrairie’ssearchforFrenesi,andBrock’ssearch forPrairieandFrenesiwhich takeshim,alongwith a huge strike force, to Vineland, comes to a climax complete withhelicopters andThanatoids and family reunions and anoldwomanand anoldmanwhocan removeyourbones and leave the rest of you alive.Youget thepicture.

It either grabs you or it doesn’t, I guess; it grabbedme. I laughed, manytimes, out loud, often at Pynchon’s absurdly brilliant way with names (amanufacturerofmicrochipmusicalgimmickryiscalledTokkata&Fuji,whichtomymind isas funnyas theGerman town inGravity’sRainbownamedBadKarma);andatthelittlesongswithwhichI’mhappytoreporthe’sstilllitteringhistexts,highpointsofthisparticularsetbeingtheDesiArnaz-stylecroon,‘Esposible’,andBillyBarfs‘three-noteblues’,‘I’maCop’:

Fuckyou,mister,Fuckyoursister,Fuckyourbrother,Fuckyourmother,Fuckyourpop—Hey!I’macop!

ThereisenoughinVinelandtoobsessthetrue,mainliningPynchomaneforagoodlytime.Onecouldconsider,forexample,thesignificanceoftheletterVinPynchon’sœuvre;hisnovelVwasactuallyV-shaped,twonarrativeszeroinginon a point, and Gravity’s Rainbow, being the flight path of a V-2 rocket,followedadeadlyparabolawhichcouldalsobedescribedasaninvertedV;andhere’s the letter again,what does it mean, with all the death-imagery in thisnovel, with its use of old Amerindian death-myths: are we being told thatAmerica,1984,isinfactthelandofthedead,V-land,theuniversebeyondthezero?Andonecoulddoanumberoffurtherriffsonthemoreallegoricalofthenames,e.g.,Weed=marijuana+Atman=soul,andhey,‘Frenesi’turnsouttobeananagramofFree+Sin,thetwosidesofhernature,lightanddark,justasthe hero ofGravity’s Rainbow, Tyrone Slothrop, could bemade to reveal hisessence anagrammatically, turning into ‘Sloth or Entropy’; sure, it’s stillworking, thatoldanagrammar. ‘Frenesi’moreconventionallyderives from theOld French frenesie, meaning frenzy or madness. Frenesi Gates: insanity’sentrance,derangement’sdoorway.

Butwhatisperhapsmostinteresting,finally,aboutPynchon’snoveliswhatis different about it.What is newhere is thewillingnesswithwhichPynchonaddresses,directly,thepoliticaldevelopmentoftheUnitedStates,andtheslow(butnottotal)steamrolleringofaradicaltraditionmanygenerationsanddecadesolder than flower-power. There is amarvellously tellingmomentwhenBrockVond’sbrainchild,hisschoolforsubversioninwhichleftiesarereeducatedandturnedintotoolsoftheState, iscloseddownbecauseinReagan’sAmericatheyoungthinklikethattobeginwith,theydon’tneedreeducation.

Wehavebefore us, at the endof theGreedDecade, that rarest of birds: amajorpoliticalnovelaboutwhatAmericahasbeendoingtoitself,toitschildren,all these many years. And as Thomas Pynchon turns his attention to thenightmaresofthepresentratherthanthepast,histouchbecomeslighter,funnier,more deadly. And most satisfying of all is that aforementioned hint ofredemption,because this timeentropy isnot theonly counterweight topower;community, it is suggested, might be another; and individuality; and family.These are the values theNixon-Reagan era stole from the sixties andwarped,

aiming them back at America as weapons of control. They are values whichVinelandseekstorecapture,byrememberingwhattheymeantbeforethedirtgotthrownalloverthem,byrecallingthebeautyofFrenesiGatesbeforesheturned.

Thomas Pynchon is no sentimentalist, however, and the balance betweenlightanddarkisexpertlyheldthroughoutthisnovel,sothatweremainuncertainuntilthefinalpagesastowhichwillprevail,hippieheavenorFederalnemesis;andare left,at the last,withan imageofsuchshockinglyaptmoralambiguitythatitwouldbequitewrongtorevealithere.

Vineland,MrPynchon’smythicalpieceofNorthernCalifornia,isofcoursealso ‘Vinland’, the countrydiscoveredby theVikingLeifErikson longbeforeColumbus, ‘Vineland theGood’; that is to say, this crazedpatchofCaliforniastandsforAmericaitself.Anditishere,toVineland,thatoneofAmerica’sgreatwritershas,afterlongwanderingsdownhisunchartedroads,cometriumphantlyhome.

1990

KURTVONNEGUT

In Kurt Vonnegut’s most famous novel, Slaughterhouse 5, the hero BillyPilgrim ends up as an exhibit in a zoo on the planet Tralfamadore,where hiscouplingswithafamousmoviestararefoundmildlydiverting.InTheSirensofTitan, the entire course of human history is subverted by a Tralfamadoreanenvoywhosespaceshiphasbrokendownonthemoon.TheGreatWallofChina,thePyramids,Stonehengeturnouttobehisdemandsforspareparts.Theenvoyis carrying a message from Tralfamadore to another super-advanced speciesacross the galaxy. This message is deemed important enough to justifymanipulatingthousandsofyearsofhumandevelopment.

Themessagereads:‘Hello.’Vonnegut’sreadershave longbeenaware that theviewfromTralfamadore

is, to say the least, unflattering. And these days, Vonnegut’s own attitude tohomosapiens is increasinglyTralfamadorean.Humankind,asreadersofHocusPocusarefrequentlyinformed,isaprettypoorspecies,notnearlyasbrightasitthinksitis,andalotmorecruel.Americanhumankindisprobablyevenworse.Kurt Vonnegut’s response is a sort of hip, cynical world-weariness, his tonehalfway between jeremiad and shrug. He is the only important and originalwriterintheworldwhoseentireœuvrecanbesummedupinthreewords:‘Soitgoes.’

InHocusPocus,Vonnegut’soldweakness for so-it-goescatch-phraseshasinfected many of his characters, whose responses to life on the planet haveshrunkalarmingly.Onecharacterfaceseverythinginlife,love,waranddeathbysaying,‘Ihadtolaughlikehell.’Anotherlikestoendsentencesbyasking,‘Sowhat,sowhat?’Ablackconvict’sdefiningphraseisharsher:‘SeetheNiggerflytheairplane.’Andsoon.Theentirenovel,itswholewebofeventandsymbol,canbeexplainedbytwowords,bothplace-names.

‘America.’‘Vietnam.’The narrator, EugeneDebsHartke, named after an oldAmerican socialist

politician, is a Vietnam veteran and the experience has damaged his soul, ofcourse. Lest we miss this, one of his lovers suggests that he should tell any

woman fool enough to fall in love with him, ‘Welcome to Vietnam.’ He isconcernedtoenumerate(1)thewomenhehassleptwith,and(2)theVietnamesehe has killed. These two numberswill turn out to be (you’ll never guess) thesamenumber.

Soitgoes.CominghomefromVietnamiscomparedtoanillicitvisittoBloomingdale’s

department store in New York City. The American presence in Vietnam iscompared to the present-day Japanese ‘invasion’ of the American economy.DollarsarecomparedtoVietnamesecorpses.Thesecomparisonstellusnothingmuch about Vietnam, Bloomingdale’s, the Japanese or money. They aresupposedtotellusthathumanbeings/Americansarebeyondhopeandtragedy,washedup,sunkinakindofmoralentropy.Whattheyactuallytellus,alas,isthatKurtVonnegutisgettingalittletired.

Eugene Debs Hartke teaches at a college for the educationally subnormalchildrenoftheeconomicallysuper-affluent.Whatdoesthiscollegesymbolize?

‘America.’Across the lake is the Athena ‘correctional facility’, or nick, full of

underprivilegedblackprisonerswhoescape,namethemselvesFreedomFighters,and attack the college. What do the prisoners represent, and what is theallegoricalmeaningoftheirfutilelittlebreak-out?

‘Vietnam.’‘TheVietnamWar.’Theconvictsareonlyallowed towatchout-of-date televisionprogrammes.

Theycanwatchanythingaslongasitisn’trelevanttotheirlives.(Inthiscase,theconvictsmean‘America’.)ThereisacomputergamenamedGRIOT,awordfororalstoryteller,whichpredictshumanlives.Somethingisbeingsaid,havenodoubt,abouttheInfluenceofComputersinAmerica.AndTralfamadoreishere,too,appearinginastorybyananonymousscience-fictionwriter,publishedinagirliemagazine.Onceagain,humanhistoryisbeingsubverted,thistimeforthebenefit of the planet’s germs, which are more valuable to the aliens than thehumanrace.Itmakesapersonfeelprettydamsmall.

Andsoon.Thethemeofthisnovelisdamage,humandamage,socialdamage,theawful

damage of war, but it is itself damaged by a loss of the gaiety, the brilliantlinguistic invention and intellectual sprightliness that used to be the upside ofVonnegut’s deep pessimism. This is the writer who thought up ice-nine, thesubstancethatfrozeallthewateronearthinCat’sCradle.ThisisthecreatorofKilgoreTrout,thescience-fictiongeniuswho,inHocusPocus,nolongermerits

aname,butwhooncetoldusunforgettablefables,suchastheoneinwhichGodapologizes to the reader for starting an experiment that went wrong. Theexperimentwas theUniverse. The purpose of the experimentwas to see howfreewill worked. So everything in theUniverse is amachine, except for onebeingwithfreewill.Thatbeingisthereaderofthestory.ThisiswhatGodhastosaytothereader:‘Sorry.’

Thatoldhocus-pocus,language,justisn’tworkinginthisnovel.Toreaditistoexperience thesadpleasureofhearinga favouritevoice trying tosing in itsold, swooping,magicalmanner, occasionally reminding one of its old glories,butrevealing,mostly,itsdecline.Onlyonelongsequence—whenEugeneDebsHartkeisfiredfromhisteachingjobbecausehehasbeenutteringun-Americanthoughts,suggesting,forexample,that‘thetwoprincipalcurrenciesoftheworldweretheYenandfellatio’,andthusallegedlyunderminingtheconfidenceofhisdamaged students, who stand, don’t forget, for America—has the authentic,sharp,funnyVonneguttouch.Iwishthereweremoresuchscenes.

Manyyearsago,KurtVonnegutaskedme if Iwasseriousaboutwriting. IsaidIwas.Hethensaid, ifIremembercorrectly, that therewastroubleahead,thatonedayIwouldnothaveabooktowriteandIwouldstillhavetowriteabook.

Itwasasad,andsaddening,remark,becauseIdon’tthink,thoughImaybewrong,thatitwasreallyaboutme.

PS: There’s a little maths test at the end of Hocus Pocus, designed toestablish whether or not the reader has been paying attention. By adding andsubtractingvariousdatesandfiguresscatteredthroughthetext,wearriveatthenumberofHartke’sloversandvictims.

IfIhavebeenpayingattentionproperly,thenumberis82.‘Sowhat,sowhat?’

1990

GRACEPALEY

In the Art Foods Deli frequented by Grace Paley’s character Faith, thesandwichesarenamedafter localresidents.‘SelenaandMaxarejustdivorced,but their sandwich will probably go on for another few years.’ From anotherstory,welearnthatattheoldpeople’shomewhereFaith’sredoubtablefatherMrDarwinlives(theChildrenofJudea,Homefor theGoldenAges,ConeyIslandBranch), thebenchesaround the treeshavebeensimilarlynamed. ‘Thatbenchthere,myfavorite, isnamedJerome(Jerry)Katzoff,sixyearsold,’MrDarwinsays.‘It’saterriblethingtodieyoung.Still,itsavesalotoftime.’

The passing away of things is very much the theme of Grace Paley’scollectionLatertheSameDay.MarriageslikethatofSelenaandMaxRetelof;oldloves;thedreamofVicentewhowantedtobeadoctorandwaspersuadedtobe an engineer; parents; old hopes. It is a book full of endings, endings facedwiththefirm,mild,ruefulhonestythatmakesGracePaleyspecial.Shewritesaswellofthedeathofafriend,SelenaRetelof,whoseendingistreatedwithasortof passionate scrupulousness, as she does about the ridiculous immortality ofSelena’s sandwich. It is good to hear again the voice of thismost sparing ofwriters(justthreevolumesofstoriesinaquarter-century),avoiceasdeterminedasevertocallthingsbytheirtruenames.

In Later the Same Day, Grace Paley has become, if anything, even moresparing, her storiesmore concentrated, purer. (She has described herworkingmethodasbeingoneofcontinualrevisingand‘takingoutthelies’.)Thereareanumberofexamplesofthemosttechnicallydemandingofallshortfictions,theVeryVeryShortStory.Thetitlepagesofthesestoriesconsumeasmuchpaperasthetexts.Andyetthesebrief,eyeblinktalesrevealfullyformedworlds,full-blowntragediesoflove,wasteanddeath.

There is a fine, small parable ofAmerica in the story ofGeorge, themanwhothoughthecouldimprovethedesignofthepinballmachine.Andanother,femaleimmigrant(somethingveryRussianhoversbehindmuchofthiswork)isportrayed in all the unspoken anguish of one whose lover died young, in theVVSSwith the roguishly Very Long Title, ‘In This Country, But in Another

Language,MyAuntRefusestoMarrytheMenEveryoneWantsHerTo’.GracePaleyhasalwaysbeengoodatone-liners.There’sa fine joke in the

wonderful ‘Dreamer in a Dead Language’ about an old Jew trying to fleeGermanyin1939.Hepointstocountryaftercountryonthetravelagent’sglobeandistoldthey’reallfullup.‘Hepushestheglobeaway,disgusted.Buthegothope. He says, So this one is used up, Herr Agent. Listen—you got anotherone?’ But she is not to be put down as a merely wry, shoulder-shrugging,worldly-wiseandworld-wearylady.Thesestories,briefandextended,burnwithahigh-energycommitmenttothegreatworkofbeingalive.

Theyarestoriesfullofthestorieswealltellandliveby,tallstoriesaswellasshort.Theyarestorieswhosecharacterscanenterintodisputewiththeauthor,or at least her alter ego,most notably at the very end of the book, when thelesbianCassie (in ‘Listening’) points out that Faith never tellsher story. ‘It’sbeenwomenandmen,womenandmen,fucking,fucking.Goddamnit,whereismy woman and woman, woman-loving life in all this?’ Faith, admitting herfault,asksforforgiveness,andreceivesasharpanswer.‘“Youaremyfriend,Iknowthat,Faith,butIpromiseyou,Iwon’tforgiveyou,”shesaid.“Fromnowon,I’llwatchyoulikeahawk.Idonotforgiveyou.”’

Andtheyarestoriesinwhichthewholeofaworld,itschildren,itsdead,itsfurniture, its snacks, is lovingly and unsentimentally named. Named, and notforgiven.

1985

TRAVELSWITHAGOLDENASS

There’s a supernova exploding on the cover ofTime. NASAwants to put amanonMars (no,don’tmention the ‘Challenger’ shuttle).ThePresident isonTV,apologizing, forgetting,having tocorrecthimself thenextday.Polyps forReagan,thegraffitisay.

Representative Mario Biaggi of the Bronx and Meade H. Esposito, onceleader of Brooklyn’s Democrats, are being indicted for bribery, fraud andconspiracy. Bess Myerson, 1946’s Miss America and New York’s culturalaffairscommissioner, resignsafter reportsofseriousmisconduct.TheCIAhasgiven the Contras ground plans, blueprints and maps of key Nicaraguaninstallations,tohelpthemwiththeirterroristprogramme.

UpinhisPrayerTowerinTulsa, theevangelistOralRoberts threatens thatGodwill ‘recall’ himunlesshis fans coughup$8million. (The fans comeupwiththecash.)InNewYork,it’sStPatrick’sDay,sotheentirecityisdressedingreenandcanbefoundthrowingupalloverFifthAvenue.California,ofcourse,has its own religions. The Committee for Self-Esteem has just held its firstmeeting. I thought Garry Trudeau had made it up, but there it actually is,publiclyfundedandeverything,seekingtocuredrugaddiction,sex-crimesandsoforthbymakingpeoplefeelbetteraboutthemselves.

ThisisRomeneartheendofitspower,afamousNewYorkmagazineeditortellsme.Western civilizationhasn’t long togo. Islam is coming, theChinese,thedarkness.Wemayaswellcelebratethebrightnessthatwewere.Improbableas this sounds to an outsider, forwhom the power of theUnited States is themost glaring aspect of the place, many Americans imagine themselves to belivingintheirtwilight’slastgleaming.

Itmakes them act strangely. ‘Now that I like you,’ I am informed by oneManhattanintellectual,‘IcantellyouIthoughtIwouldn’t.Ididn’tthinkIcouldlikeaMuslim.’Anditmakesthemtouchy.‘Salman,asIgrowolder,Ilovethiscountrymoreandmore,andIdon’tliketohearitcriticized.’

DuringmyfortnightintheUS(Pittsburgh,NewYork,SanFrancisco),IpassmuchtimeintheexcellentcompanyofaMoroccanwriterofthesecondcentury

AD, LuciusApuleius, a colonial of the oldRomanEmpire, and I find that hisportraitofthatRomanworlddoesindeedbegintolookratherlikecontemporaryAmerica,butnotquiteinthewaytheeditormeant.

The narrator of The Golden Ass*, also named Lucius, is transformed bywitchcraft into thetale’seponymousdonkey,andhisass’s-eyeviewofhisagereveals a world of ubiquitous cynicism, great brutality, fearsome sorcery,religiouscultism,banditry,murder.Friendsbetrayfriends,sistersbetraysisters;corpsesriseupandaccusetheirwivesofpoisoningthem.Thereareomensandcurses.

Eighteen centuries later, with a portentous supernova in the sky, cynicismseepsallthewaydownfromtheWhiteHousetoaChinesecabbie,whotellsmeof his hatred for communism and for poor countries, which adds up toNicaragua. ‘Always the same.Poor countriesmake trouble for the rest of us.’Three years out of Hong Kong, he’s taken to abusing Manhattan’s PuertoRicans.Doesn’thefeelthatsuchbigotrysitsuneasilyinthemouthofafellow-immigrant? ‘Excuse me, but these people like to steal.’ The morning papercarries a story about Chinese involvement in heroin smuggling, but he’sunimpressed.‘Haveaniceday.’

There have been several race killings of late, blacks murdered by whitessparking revenge-murdersbyblacks.Meanwhile, at theUNbuilding, there’sademonstrationprotestingpoliceviolenceagainstblacks inNewYorkCity.AllthisisfamiliartotheAss.

For sorcery, one need look no further than the mumbo-jumbo of the StarWars schemes; cultism and JerryFalwell are everywhere; and as for banditry,Calero and his FDN, let’s call them the ‘Contrabandits’, are more dangerousthananythinginApuleius’sbook.Nowthattheso-called‘moderates’,CruzandRobelo,havelefttheContraleadership,certainrevisionistprocesseshavebegun.Conservative columnistWilliam Safire demands thatAmerica support Calero;while,onradio,IhearArturoCruzdescribedasthe‘leftistwing’oftheContra.Sowecandowithouthim,thepinko.

Pittsburgh reveals a different American malaise. It’s pleasant, spacious,‘America’s most livable city’, a place where the main university building isactually named the Cathedral of Learning. (Inside you find representativeclassrooms from around the world. The English Classroom boasts desks likechurch pews and stained-glass windows bearing coats of arms: City ofLiverpool.JaneAusten.CharlesDickens.CityofBootle.Thatsortofthing.)

But there’s another Pittsburgh, too.Mile uponmile of defunct steelworks

bear witness to the collapse of a once-great industry. Unemployment is high.Pittsburgh’ssuperrich,theCarnegiesandMellons,longagoceasedtodependonsteel;theirfortunesfloat,now,ontheoceansofpurefinance.Thepoorweren’tso lucky,andmany, Ihear,nowearnacrustbyservicing themansionsof therich.

InSanFrancisco,twentyyearsafterflower-power,thefeelingofbeinginaplague city is difficult to avoid. Theworst thing aboutAIDS, I’m told, is thespeed at which it mutates. The most common symptoms used to be those ofpneumonia, but already that’s changing. New symptoms, new strains of theplague.

SusanSontagrecentlypublished,intheNewYorker,abrilliant,movingshortstory, ‘TheWayWeLiveNow’,about livingwith the illness.Neither thesickman,northeillness,isnamed;thestoryistoldbyacrowdofvoices,thevoicesofthepatient’sfriends,ofhisentireworld,voicestakingonthestoryfromoneanother,ofteninmid-sentence,creatinganunforgettablevisionofthediseaseasacrisisinallourlives.IhavereadnothingaboutAIDSthatstrikesdeeperthanSontag’sfiction.Perhaps,then,thereisstillaplace,eveninAmerica,forart.

The picture of America emerging from these notes is, of course, in somesense ‘unfair’. What you see depends on where you look. But the ApuleianAmericadoesexist,andImakenoapologyforlookingatit.

Thetroubleis,whatcanapoorassdo?Heobserves,butcannotact.Whendonkey-Luciusseesabandofeunuch-priestsassaultingayounglabourer(andIcan’tresistdrawingaparallelherewiththeUSaggressionagainstNicaragua)hetriestoshout,‘Help,help!Rape,rape!Arrestthesehe-whores!’

‘But,’writesApuleius, ‘all thatcameoutwas“He-whore”,“He-whore”, infineringingtonesthatwouldhavedonecredittoanyassalive.’

1985

*TheGoldenAssbyApuleius,translatedbyRobertGraves,Penguin,1950.

THEDIVINESUPERMARKET

Some years ago in South India I encountered the curious and unforgettablefigure of Duane Gish, an American creationist scientist whose lectures wereaccompaniedbyajollyslideshow:whenaslideofachimpanzeecameup,he’dsay,‘Oops,that’smygrandfather.’GishgavemethemodelforthecharacterofEugeneDumsdayinTheSatanicVerses,andalsogotmeinterestedinAmericanfundamentalism, so when he cropped up on page 198 of The DivineSupermarket,itwaslikemeetinganoldfriend.‘Ifyouteachyoungpeoplethateverything started out as hydrogen gas, they will soon conclude that theirultimatedestinyisapileofdust,’burbledDuane.MaliseRuthvenheardhimout,cametoafastidiouslydisapprovingconclusion(‘ThetroublewithDr.Gishandhiskindwasnot just that theydidn’tunderstandscience: theyappearednot tounderstandChristianityeither’),climbedintohiscamperanddroveaway.

TheGishencounterexemplifieswhat’sbestandworstaboutthisaccountofa voyage across religious America, a journey to all the New Zions andRajneeshpuramsandAppalachiansnakechurchesthatmakeupthemetaphoricalshoppingmallinwhichtheAmericansoul,liketheAmericanbody(Ruthvenhasquitea thinggoingagainst fatpeople), finds itself spoiled forchoice.Ruthvenhas certainly covered a lot of ground, and unearthed all manner of bizarrecreaturesintheprocess.ApartfromGish,thereareneo-NazisattheChurchofJesusChrist-AryanNations,andaChristiancounselloronaradiophone-inshowwhois‘stumpedforadvice’whenacallercomplainsthathiswifeisinfacthislonglostsister,andtheleftoversixtiesfigureofLoveIsraelwhofirstsawJesusonanacidtrip(‘theGodIsawwasreallynice’).Butinclusivenessalltoooftenresultsinsuperficiality.WeneverfindoutwhatmakesDuaneGishtick;there’sjusttimeforhimtomakehispitch,bejudgedbyRuthven,andthenit’sofftothenextplace.Ruthvencanbebreathtakinglyperfunctory:halfapageonMalcolmX?Atsuchtimes,TheDivineSupermarketreadsmorelikeatouristguidethanatravelbook:akindofFodor’sGuidetoGod.

Readers new to the subject will surely be impressed by the inexhaustiblevitalityofreligioninAmerica:68newsectsfoundedinthe1950s,andnoless

than184inthe1960s.AndRuthvenisapleasantlyjauntytravellingcompanion,eruditeenoughtoinformusthat‘weowethewordfundamentalismindirectlytotwoLosAngeles businessmen,Lyman andMiltonStewart,’who financed thedistributionofthreemillioncopiesofthetwelvevolumesofreligiousdiscussionknown as The Fundamentals. ‘The word “fundamentalist” first appeared in1919.’ He also possesses the fine, sceptical intelligence of the scholar he is:‘Any form of learning is, at heart, inimical to fundamentalist certitudes,’ hewrites,while,ataBaptistrally,apreacherrailsagainstthe‘highercriticism’thatisgrowing‘likeaparasiteinouruniversities’.Andhe’sclearabouthow,forthemajority of believers, a religious book (in this case, the Bible) means ‘not arecordofspiritualtruth,orevenofGod’srevelationtomankind,butatotemorshibboleth,aflagtobewavedattheforcesofmodernity,hatedbecausedeeplyfeared.’

Suchclarity is tobewelcomed; andyet thedisappointmentsmount and intheendoutnumberthepleasures.Thebookdoesn’tseemtoknowwhatitis.Inspiteof its subtitle, there isn’tmuchof aquest for the soul here.SaulBellowonce suggested that the very success of American materialism destroyed thepossibility of a genuine spiritual life for the American people; no suchmeditationsaretobefoundinRuthven’sbook.Norishe,asatravelwriter, intheclassofChatwinorTheroux.

Heoftenseemsdominatedbyatimetable;becausehehasfriendstomeetinSan Francisco, or because he wants to be home for Christmas, he hurriesonward.Helistenstoinnumerableofficialguidesatvariousshrines,buttherearefewrealcharacters inhisbook:whenhespendsaneveningwithapolygamistMormon andhis threewives, he tells us nothing at all about anyof them.Hemissesout, too,onall thebignames.AtRajneeshpuramhe is too late forMaSheelaandRajneesh.At JerryFalwell’sheadquartershe fails tomeetFalwell,and inBakker territory hemeets neither Jim nor Tammy. Jimmy Swaggart isseen only on TV. There’s no encounter with Billy Graham, and scarcely amentionofLouisFarrakhan.

Ruthven is well aware of the linear connections between religion andtotalitarianism,butTheDivineSupermarketdoesn’treallyget togripswiththeissue of power. No mention here of book burnings (Kurt Vonnegut’sSlaughterhouse5 isoneofthetitlestobeincineratedinrecentyears)oroftheclose connections between religion and the political power centres. Ruthvenconcludes that the proliferation of religious sects in America is the ‘price ofpeace’.ButwhenanAmericanPresidentbelieves(asRonaldReaganclaimedto

believe) that Armageddon will take place in his lifetime, then religiosity inAmericabeginstolookmorewarlikethanpeaceful.

IfallnationspossessaNationalDelusion(theFrenchhavelagloire,Britainhas itsGreatness), then the greatAmerican delusion is that theNewWorld isUtopia,whatMelvillecalledanation‘predestinatedatcreation’,alandinwhichNewJerusalemscanandshouldbecreated.Themostvividandpenetratingbookyet written about this is Frances Fitzgerald’s brilliant Cities on a Hill.Fitzgerald’sportraitsoftheempiresofRajneeshandFalwellareeverythingthatRuthven’s arenot; theyhavedepth,detail, characterization, time for reflectionandakeenpoliticaledge.Bycomparison,Ruthvenlooksnaïve.Describingtheneo-NaziChristians,heannounces:‘InBritain…thesepeoplewouldhavebeensilenced by the civil law, and rightly so. Freedom of speech stops short ofincitementtomurder.’Whichmakesonewonderwherehe’sbeenforthelastsixmonths. One can only hope that his next book, A Satanic Affair, is morecarefullyconsidered.As it’sbeingrushedout,however,onecan’thelp fearingthatMrRuthvenmay,onceagain,betravellingtoofast.

1989

12

NAIPAULAMONGTHEBELIEVERS

‘INGODWETRUST’

INGOODFAITH

ISNOTHINGSACRED?

ONETHOUSANDDAYSINABALLOON

NAIPAULAMONGTHEBELIEVERS

Whilewatching the Iranian revolution on TV in ConnecticutV. S.NaipaulhadtheideaofjourneyingtofourMuslimcountries—Iran,Pakistan,Malaysia,Indonesia—to write about the new Islam being born there with varyingintensitiesoflabourpain.

Among the Believers is the result.And, becauseNaipaul’s is a formidabletalent, the book is studded with good things: the surrealist humour (whollyunintentional)withwhichayoungMalaysianfundamentalistexplainstoNaipaulthe solemn differences, in Islam, between mandatory, encourageable, non-encourageable, forbidden and discretionary coughing; the delicately drawnportraitsofBehzad,theyoungcommunistadriftintheIranofthemullahs,andofShafi,whodreamsof aMalaysia restored, through Islam, to thewaste-freesimplicitiesofvillage life—butavillage lifepurgedof its ‘pagan’,pre-Islamicaspects; the hypocrisy of Pakistan’s arch-fundamentalist Maulana Maudoodi,lifelong opponent of Western materialism, who died in a Boston hospital towhichhehadgone‘to lookforhealth…toreapwherehehadnotwantedhispeople to sow’; and above all, a devastating portrait of Khomeini’s hangingjudge,AyatollahKhalkhali, jokingandboastingaboutthekillingoftheShah’sprimeminister,Hoveyda.

But this is no ordinary travel book: it has theses to expound. The Islamicrevival,Naipaul says, is a throwback tomedieval timeswhich seeks to create‘abstractmenofthefaith,menwhowouldbenothingmorethantherules.’Its‘actofrenunciation’oftheWestisafatalflaw,becauseitdependson‘thealien,necessarycivilizationgoingon’—Shafi’sidealvillagestillneedsabus,aroad,machinery; and in Indonesia,Naipaul is astonished to find a photocopier in arural Islamic school. Finally, Naipaul sees communism and Islam as‘interchangeable revolutions’, both springing from hate and rage: ‘Behzad thecommunist spoke like Khomeini’, and both wished to kill people. These arepowerfulindictments,andthereismuchtruthinthem.

The trouble is that it’s a highly selective truth, a novelist’s truthmasqueradingasobjectivereality.TakeIran:nohint in thesepages that in the

newIslamthereisagooddealmorethanKhomeinism,orthatthemullocracy’shold on the people is actually very fragile. Naipaul never mentions theMujahideen-e-Khalq, whose leader Rajavi is committed to a ‘multi-partydemocraticsystemofgovernment’;buttheMujahideenarecertainly‘believers’.And what of (or have we forgotten him already?) the Shah of Iran? Naipaulquotesjusttwocriticismsofhim:AyatollahShariatmadarisays,‘TheShahwasbad.He had forbidden polygamy and had thereby damagedwomen.’And theBombaybusinessmanwhoattackstheShah(‘Hedrainedthecountryofbillions…ThepeopleofIranfelttheyhadlosttheircountry’)isimmediatelydiscreditedbytherevelationthat‘hewasleavingIran,afterhistwentygoodyearsunderthebad Shah, and going back to Bombay.’ Are these really the only MuslimsNaipaul could find to speak against the Shah?Did SAVAK get rid of all therest?

Sins of omission … Naipaul is so anxious to prove the existence of anIslamicstrangleholdonthesecountriesthat, inthePakistansection,thereisnodiscussionofthearmyatall.AndyettheviewthatPakistanishaveneverbeenamullah-dominatedpeople,thatamilitarydictatoriscurrentlyusingIslamizationasameansofshoringuphisunpopularregime,surelydeservesalittleairtime.In my experience of Pakistan, it is not difficult to find people who will talkopenlyintheseterms.Naipaulactuallyfindsone,ajeep-driverinKaghanwhotells him: ‘Thesemaulanas are using Islam as a tool…Theywant to destroyPakistan.’Thissamejeep-driverhaspreviouslymentionedthatitisnowhardertogetpassports than itwasunderMrBhutto;andNaipaul, refusing todiscussthedriver’sattackonthetheocracy,contentshimselfwithacheapgibeaboutthepassports:‘Isn’titstrangethattheonlyfreedomhewantsisthefreedomtoleavethe country?’… attacking the poor fellow forwanting something, a passport,thatNaipaul himself takes for granted. The very thing, in fact, that hasmadeNaipaul’sjourneypossible.

TerriblethingsarebeingdonetodayinthenameofIslam;butsimplificationoftheissues,whenitinvolvesomittingeverythingthatcan’teasilybeblisteredbyNaipaul’s famousOlympiandisgust, isnohelp.Atonepoint,Naipaul tellshisfriendShafi:‘IthinkthatbecauseyoutravelledtoAmericawithafixedidea,youmight havemissed some things.’ The criticism holds good for Naipaul’sownjourneyintheoppositedirection,andmakesAmongtheBelievers,forallitsbrillianceofobservationanddepiction,arathersuperficialbook.

1981

‘INGODWETRUST’

We stand at amoment inhistory inwhich, aswe look around theplanet, itappearsthatGod—or,rather,formalreligion—hasbegunonceagaintoinsistonoccupying a central role in public life. There could scarcely be a moreappropriatetimetoexplorethesubjectoftherelationshipsbetweenpoliticsandreligions.

Iamneitheratrainedtheologiannoraprofessionalinpolitics,soIcanmakenoclaimtoanyexpertise.However,Ihavefoundmyself,inmyfiction,unabletoavoidpoliticalissues;thedistancebetweenindividualsandaffairsofStateisnow so small that it no longer seems possible towrite novels that ignore thepublic sphere. Sometimes one envies Jane Austen her fine disregard for theNapoleonicWars.Today,withthetelevisionbringingvisionsoftheworldintoevery home, it seems somehow false to try and shut out the noise of gunfire,screams, weeping, to stop our ears against the inexorable ticking of thedoomsdayclock.Asforreligion,mywork,muchofwhichhasbeenconcernedwith India and Pakistan, hasmade it essential forme to confront the issue ofreligious faith.Even the formofmywritingwasaffected. Ifone is to attempthonestly to describe reality as it is experiencedby religiouspeople, forwhomGod isnosymbolbutaneverydayfact, then theconventionsofwhat iscalledrealismarequiteinadequate.Therationalismofthatformcomestoseemlikeajudgement upon, an invalidation of, the religious faith of the characters beingdescribed. A form must be created which allows the miraculous and themundanetoco-existatthesamelevel—asthesameorderofevent.IfoundthistobeessentialeventhoughIamnot,myself,areligiousman.

Myrelationshipwithformalreligiousbeliefhasbeensomewhatchequered.IwasbroughtupinanIndianMuslimhousehold,butwhilebothmyparentswerebelieversneitherwas insistentordoctrinaire.Twoor three timesayear,at thebigEid festivals, Iwouldwakeup to find new clothes at the foot ofmybed,dress and go with my father to the great prayer-maidan outside the FridayMosque in Bombay, and rise and fall with the multitude, mumbling my waythroughtheuncomprehendedArabicmuchasCatholicchildrendo—orusedto

do—withLatin.Therestoftheyearreligiontookabackseat.IhadaChristianayah (nanny), forwhom atChristmaswewould put up a tree and sing carolsaboutbabyJesuswithoutfeelingintheleastill-at-ease.MyfriendswereHindus,Sikhs,Parsis,andnoneofthisstruckmeasbeingparticularlyimportant.

God, Satan, Paradise and Hell all vanished one day in my fifteenth year,whenIquiteabruptlylostmyfaith.Irecallitvividly.IwasatschoolinEnglandbythen.Themomentofawakeninghappened,infact,duringaLatinlesson,andafterwards, toprovemynew-foundatheism, I boughtmyself a rather tastelessham sandwich, and so partook for the first time of the forbidden flesh of theswine.No thunderbolt arrived to strikeme down. I remember feeling thatmysurvivalconfirmedthecorrectnessofmynewposition.Ididslightlyregret thelossofParadise,though.TheIslamicheaven,atleastasIhadcometoconceiveit,hadseemedveryappealingtomyadolescentself.Iexpectedtobeprovided,formypersonalpleasure,withfourbeautifulfemalespirits,orhouris,untouchedbymanordjinn.Thejoysoftheperfumedgarden;itseemedashametohavetogivethemup.

Fromthatdayto this, Ihavethoughtofmyselfasawhollysecularperson,and have been drawn towards the great traditions of secular radicalism—inpolitics,socialism;inthearts,modernismanditsoffspring—thathavebeenthedrivingforcesbehindmuchofthehistoryofthetwentiethcentury.ButperhapsIwrite,inpart,tofillupthatemptiedGod-chamberwithotherdreams.Becauseitis,afterall,aroomfordreamingin.

Thedreamispartofourveryessence.Giventhegiftofself-consciousness,we can dream versions of ourselves, new selves for old. Waking as well assleeping, our response to theworld is essentially imaginative: that is, picture-making. We live in our pictures, our ideas. I mean this literally. We firstconstructpicturesoftheworldandthenwestepinsidetheframes.Wecometoequatethepicturewiththeworld,sothat,incertaincircumstances,wewillevengotowarbecausewefindsomeoneelse’spicturelesspleasingthanourown.Itis tempting tosay that thisbehaviourconformsverywell to theHindu ideaofmaya,theveilofillusionthathangsbeforeourlimitedhumaneyesandpreventsusfromseeingthingsas theytrulyare—sothatwemistaketheveil,maya, forreality.Dreamingisourgift;itmayalsobeourtragicflaw.

Whichever it be, it is unquestionably our nature, and, perhaps, ourexplanation. And politics and religion, both in theory and in practice, are, Iwould suggest,manifestations of our dreaming selves. In political thoughtweseek to express our dreams of improvement, of betterment, of progress—our

dreams,somemayfeel,ofdreams.Weseektogivelifetothesegrandvisions,andweassumethatwecandoso;thatourdreamsareattainable,thattheworldcanbemadewhatwewishifwewishitenough,thatwearecapableofmakinghistory. Thusmost political discourse, because it places the human spirit in aposition of power over events, can be seen as a dream of adequacy. Anoptimisticdream.Thegreatuniversalreligions,bycontrast,askustoacceptourinferiority to a non-corporeal, omnipresent, omnipotent supremebeing,who isbothour creator and judge.Theword ‘Islam’means submission, andnotonlyIslambutChristianityandJudaism,too,classicallyrequireofbelieversanactofsubmissiontothewillofGod.Thatis,religiondemandsthatGod’swill,notoursmall vanity, must prevail over history. To make it plain, we could say thatreligionplaceshumanbeingsbeneathhistory.Inthisworldwearenotmasters,butservants;soperhapswecanseereligion,inthiscontrast,asadreamofourinadequacy,asavisionofourlessness.

Ofcoursethisistoosimple,andso,contrariwise,asTweedledeewouldsay,letmecounter-proposethatthepracticeandexperienceofpoliticsisverylargelyshapedby the hard reality of limitations—boundaries in space, time, resource,willandpossibility.Onecannotseriouslyproposethe‘artof thepossible’asawholly optimistic enterprise; whereas religious systems offer, in place of theearthbound limitationsand imperfectionsofpolitical life, the transcendent joysof faith—eternity, immortality, everlasting bliss. So in this formulation ourpotentialseemsfarsmallerwhenseenthroughthelensofpracticalpoliticsthanwhen observed through the glass of transcendent faith.Now it is religion thatseemslikethegooddream,andpoliticsthenightmare.

We are entering a tricky, contradictory zone, full of paradoxes and blindalleys. Nevertheless, let me suggest that if political thought places us in an‘adult’ relation to the historical process,whereas religion obliges us to be the‘children’ofawiserGod,thenreligion,conversely,isalsocapableofspeakingto and arousing our sense of the marvellous, in a manner to which politicallanguage can only occasionally aspire. And then there is the matter ofdisappointment.Anygoodadvertisingmanwilltellyouthataproductorservicemustneverbeoversold,becausetoclaimtoomuchforitincreasesthelikelihoodofconsumerdisappointment,ofwhattheycalla‘cognitivedissonance’betweenwhatyousayandhowtheproductperforms.Consumerdisappointmentgreatlyreduces the likelihoodofbrand loyalty. In this respect religionshave thegreatadvantage of not having their most important promise tested until after theconsumer is dead;whereas the promises of politicians, of political parties and

movements and theorists, go wrong while we, in growing disillusion, watch.Even those ideas which have been, for a time, the most uplifting andgalvanizing,endbyinducingcognitivedissonancesanddamagingbrandloyalty.Itisadisillusionedage.Soitisnotsurprisingthatsomeofusturnbacktowardsbelief-systemswhichat leasthavenevermade themistakeofpromisingus anearthlyparadise.

ItisimmediatelynecessarytomakesomedistinctionsbetweentheWestandthe East, because in certain important respects the starting-points are sodifferent. A few years ago, I came across a rather brave and also slightlyludicrous attempt at enumerating the total numberof gods at present extant inIndia,fromthemostminortree-orwater-spritetoBrahmaandAllahthemselves.Thefigurearrivedatwas,astoundingly,330million,thatis,roughlyonegodforeverytwoandaquarterhumanbeings.TheoverwhelmingfactaboutlifeinIndiais that this vastmultitude of deities co-exists in everyday lifewith the doublyvast multitude of people. You bump into gods in the streets. You jostle pastthem,youstepovertheirsleepingforms.Theytakeyourseatinthebus.WhatImean is that thesegods areno abstractions.They are as real to the faithful astheirfamiliesandfriends.(And,sincethedivinepopulationis,wecanpresume,reasonablystable,whereasthehumanshaverapidlyincreasedinnumber,wecansee by projecting backwards that it is only relatively recently that the humanpopulationinIndiaovertookthesupernaturalone…)Thepointisthattheideaof large numbers of persons going back towards religion is an essentiallyWesternone.IntheEast,relativelyfewpeopleeverlefttheirfaiths.Sowhenwespeakofareligious‘revival’,arevivalof‘fundamentalism’or‘communalism’,wearenotspeakingofareligiousevent,aswewouldbeifweweredescribinganeventinaWesterncountry.Weare,infact,speakingofapoliticaleventthatisalmostalwaysnationalistinitstruecharacter.

Christianity, which arose as a fusion of Jewish monotheism and Romanuniversalism, was radical in matters of the spirit—offering everyone, and notjust theChosenPeople, thechanceof salvation;but,under the influenceofStPaul,ittookgreatcaretoavoidpoliticalconfrontations.TherenderuntoCaesarformula is, obviously, significant here.Thus from the earliest timeswe see inChristianityawillingnesstoseparateChurchandState,andadmissionthatsuchaseparationispossibleandmaybeevendesirable.IntheworldofIslam,nosuchseparationhaseveroccurredattheleveloftheory.OfallthegreatsacredtextstheQur’an ismostconcernedwith the law,andIslamhasalways remainedanovertly social, organizing, political creed which, again theoretically, has

somethingtosayabouteveryaspectofanindividuallife.It is, in a way, ironic that Pauline Christianity turned away from politics

towards mysticism, for, as historians such as Hyam Maccoby have recentlyremindedus,crucifixionwasatthetimeofChristapenaltyreservedexclusivelyforpersonsfoundguiltyofactsofpolitical—nottheological—subversion.Christdied as a political revolutionary, butwas largely depoliticized andwrapped inmysteries by Paul; Muhammad has never been ‘withdrawn’ from the publicarena in this fashion. Thus the assumptions about the inter-penetration ofpoliticalandreligiousaffairsareverydifferentinthetwospheres.

But—and it’s a big ‘but’, which bringsme back to the point I alluded toabouttheconnectionsofthepresent-dayreligious‘revivals’withnationalismsofvarious types—we cannot discuss religion in themodernworld, even in suchsocietiesasIndiaortheUmmah-Islam,asifitstilloperatedintheworldjustasitdidintheagebeforetheriseofthenation-state.Then,asBenedictAndersontells us in his book, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin andSpread of Nationalism, Christendom and Islam were communities of this‘imagined’type,internationalgroupingswhoseunityexistedinthemindsofthebelievers.Andwhatenabledthemtobeimaginedasunitieswastheexistenceofsacred languages through which the religions could be mediated to manydifferentpeoplesspeakingmanydifferenttongues.Theselanguages,andtheroleofliterateélitesasthemediatorsofthelanguagestothelargelyilliteratemasses(IamrememberingmyownmumbledparrotingofArabicprayers)providedtheunderpinningsubstructureofthegreatuniversalfaiths.Thedeclineinpowerofthesacredlanguagesandtheirinterpreters,andtheparallelriseintheideaofthenation, changed the world’s relationship to religious belief in the mostfundamentalway.

Andersonwarnsusagainsttheideathattheimaginedcommunitiesofnationssimply grewout of the decaying bodies of the imagined communities of faithand the dynastic realms that supported them.Rather, he argues, quotingErichAuerbachandWalterBenjamin, thecrucialchangewasinourapprehensionoftime.Time,intheimaginedcommunityofChristendom,washeldtobenearitsend; and also contained the idea of simultaneity—God’s eye could see allmoments,past,presentandfuture,sothatthehereandnowwasonlypartoftheeternal.Benjamincalls this ‘Messianic time’.Ourmodernconceptof time,bycontrast, is guided by ticking clocks. Itmoves forward. It is a ‘homogeneous,empty time’, in Benjamin’s phrase. And, says Anderson, ‘the idea of asociologicalorganismmovingcalendrically throughhomogeneous, empty time

isapreciseanalogueoftheideaofthenation.’Thisisimportantstuffforanovelist,becausewhatwearebeingtoldisthat

the idea of sequence, of narrative, of society as a story, is essential to thecreationofnations.Butwritersinsist,ifthey’reanygood,inhavingitbothways—tobeboth linearandGodlike, toexpressboth the truthsofsimultaneityandthoseoflinearity.JohnBergerhassaidthatManistwoevents:thereistheeventofhisbiologyand theeventofhisconsciousness.Thefirst is linear, temporal.Thesecondissimultaneous,multiform,protean.

Iamsuggestingthatintheworldsincetheideaofthenation-statebegantobethought,thebiologicaleventofmanhasbecomedominant;thatoursenseoftheworld isnowclock-ridden,so thatwecannot—exceptbriefly, in theactofcreation or contemplation—regain the sense ofMessianic time.When religionentersthepoliticalarenatoday,then,itdoessoasaneventinlineartime;thatis,asapartoftheworldofthenation-state,andnotarejectionofit.

Consider theso-called‘Islamicrevival’or ‘fundamentalist Islamicrevival’.The sloganizing of the term ‘Islam’ by the West in recent years has beenextensivelyexaminedbyEdwardSaidinhisbookCoveringIslam.What‘Islam’now means in the West is an idea that is not merely medieval, barbarous,repressive and hostile to Western civilization, but also united, unified,homogeneous, and thereforedangerous: an IslamicPeril toputbeside theRedandYellowones.NotmuchhaschangedsincetheCrusades,exceptthatnowweare not even permitted a single, leavening image of a ‘good Muslim’ of theSaladinvariety.Wearebackin thedemonizingprocesswhichtransformedtheProphet Muhammad, all those years ago, into the frightful and fiendish‘Mahound’.

Whereas—and,likeSaid,Imustmakeclearthatitisnopartofmyintentionto excuse or apologize for the deeds of many ‘Islamic’ regimes—anyexaminationofthefactswilldemonstratetherifts,thelackofhomogeneityandunity,characteristicofpresent-dayIslam.ThemurkywarbetweenIranandIraqreveals, if it reveals nothing else, the primarily nationalistic character of theStates involved. That both sides claimed the support of the Almighty is, ofcourse,nothingnew.IntheEnglishCivilWar,botharmiesmarchedintobattlesinging hymns. Soldiers have always been encouraged to die by the idea thattheyhaveGodontheirside.

Khomeini’s revolutionwas intenselynationalistic incharacter.Theunity itforgedbetweenmanywidelydisparateelementsofIraniansociety,fromthehighbourgeoisietotheoil-workers,wasbuiltuponthedesiretodeposeadespot, to

liberateanation.WhydidKhomeini, anexiledandarchaiccleric,become thefocusofthisnationaleffort?Theanswermustbesoughtinthetorturechambersof the Shah, where the paid killers of the SAVAK forces broke all politicalopponentsoftheShah’sregime.ButPahlevineverdaredtomoveasruthlesslyagainstthemosques,againsttheclergy,ashedidagainsthissecularenemies.Asaresultoppositiongravitatedtothetheologians;therewasapowervacuum,andKhomeini stepped into it withmassive authority. That his revolution,when ittriumphed,beganatoncetodevouritsmakersdoesnotinvalidatetheessentiallynationalist impetus that lay behind it. And even today, after that auto-cannibalism, it must be admitted that the power of the glowering figure ofKhomeiniisnotpurelytheproductofhis‘holiness’,oroffear.Hedoes,inarealsense, embody an ideaof the Iraniannation.Perhapshewouldhave fallenbynowifhedidnot.

I am reminded of a key phrase describing the Iranian revolution. It wascoined by one of the revolution’smain ideologues,Ali Shariati.He describedwhatwashappeningasa‘revoltagainsthistory’.Whataphrase!Inthesethreeunforgettable words, history is characterized as a colossal error, and therevolutionsetsoutquiteliterallytoturnbacktheclock.Timemustbereversed.Can it be that Shariati wished to restore, in place of calendar-time, the old‘Messianic’ time-sense of the imagined community of faith? I think not.Rhetoric, even when memorable, remains rhetoric. And in spite of all thepedantry,alltherestorationofancientlaws,timeinIranhaspersistedinrunningforward.Tobelieveotherwisewouldbetosuccumbtoobscurantistillusions.

Tom Nairn has suggested that nationalism progresses in a two-faced, aJanus-headed manner; that, in plain terms, it always moves forward whileclaiming to lookback, in akindofprogress-by-regression.This, or somethinglikethis,istomymindadescriptionofwhatistakingplaceinIran.AndthereisoneresonanceofthisJanustheorythatIwanttoexplore,becauseitisheardattheverybeginningofIslam.

Arabia in the seventh century after Christ was undergoing a period oftransitionfromtheoldnomadicculturetoanew,urbanized,mercantileculture.WhatMaxime Rodinson calls the ‘old tribal humanism’ of the Bedouins wasdecaying under the pressure of the new, business-based ethics of a city likeMecca. Muhammad, an orphan himself at an early age, was in an excellentposition to appreciate theway inwhichMeccan culture failed to care for theweakasdutifullyasthenomadswouldhave.Andtheethicoftherevelationhereceivedwhen,at theageofforty,havingmarriedawealthyolderwomanand

madehisfortune,heclimbedMountHiraandfoundtheretheArchangelGabrielorGibrilorderinghimtorecite(thewordAl-Qur’anmeanstherecitation),hasoftenbeenseen,atleastinpart,asapleaforareturntothecodeofthenomadicBedouin.SowemaysaythattheideasoftheQur’anareinthissensebackward-looking, nostalgic, against the current.But the people onwhomMuhammad’swords made the strongest initial impression were the poor, the people of thebazaar,thelowerclassesofMeccansociety—preciselythosepeoplewhoknewthattheywouldhavebeenbetteroffundertheoldnomadicsystem.ThusearlyIslaminstantlyacquiredthecharacterofasubversive,radicalmovement.WhenKhomeinispeaksofarevoltagainsthistory,wecanarguethatheechoes,inhisfashion, the Prophet himself; for Muhammad’s revelation, too, was a revoltagainsthistime.Yet,plainly,historydidmoveforward;nomadismdidnotonceagainbecome theArabnorm,nor,obviouslywas that trulyMuhammad’saim.ThebirthofIslamwaspresidedoverbytwogods:Allah,andalsoJanus.

TurningnowtorecenteventsintheIndiansub-continent,wefind,onceagain,nationalistic and religious ideas inextricably intertwined. In independent India,the ideaof secularnationalismhasaparticular importance. ItwouldnotbeanexaggerationtosaythatthesurvivaloftheStatemaydependuponit.‘Wehaveto build the noble mansion of free India,’ Pandit Nehru said in his famousindependencenightspeech,‘whereallherchildrenmaydwell.’Aftertheterriblecommunalkillingsof thePartitionriots, itwasplainer thanever that if India’sremaining Muslims, Sikhs, Buddhists, Jains, Christians, Jews and Harijans(untouchables),aswellastheHindumajority,weretobeabletolivetogetherinpeace,theideaofagodlessStatemustbeelevatedaboveallofthe330milliondeities.Thevery idea that aHindu imperiummight ever take the place of theBritishRajwould—itwas feared—provoke civil unrest on a scale thatwoulddwarfthePartitiontroubles.Itwas,therefore,ofgreatvalueandimportancethatthe Congress Party under Nehru based its electoral appeal firmly onsafeguarding the rights of minorities. It forged a unique electoral coalitionbetween India’s Muslims, Harijans and Brahmin Hindus—the only large,nationwidegroupings—andforalongtimeseemedinvincibleasaresult.

NowitcanbearguedforcefullythattheideaofsecularisminIndiahasneverbeenmuchmorethanaslogan;thattheveryfactofreligiousblockvotingprovesthistobeso;thatthedivisionsbetweenthecommunitieshavebynomeansbeen

subsumed in a common ‘Indian’ or national identity; and that it is strange tospeak of nationalismwhen themain impetus in present-day India comes fromregionalist, even separatist political groups. And there is much truth in thesecriticisms.Stilltheunion’ssurvivalisananswerofasort,aroughandimperfectanswer,butatleastanindicationthatformanyIndianstheideaofthegiganticnation-statehastakenroot.

Iamnottryingtobrushthecriticismsaside.ThereisacrisisofnationalisminIndia.In thePunjab, inBombay, inAssam,inKashmir,communalviolencehas been breaking out once more; many Indian observers feel that thisheighteningofviolencemaynotbeapassingphenomenon.ThepointIwanttomakeisthatmuchofthepresentreligioussectarianism,manyofthecentrifugalstresses in Indiansociety,canbe traced topolitical,not religious,origins.AndwewillhavetobeginwiththeEmergency,andwithSanjayGandhi.BecauseitwasinthetimeofSanjaythattheCongress,andthegovernmentofMrsGandhi,abandoned its policy of representing the coalition ofminorities, and began totransformitselfintoanovertlyHinduparty.NotonlyHindu,butHindi:attemptsto impose this language on the whole of India created much resentment,particularly in theSouth.Suchactions invariablybringforthreactions;and thegrowthof communalist politics in India stemmed from this shift by the rulingparty.FromHindunationalismsprangseparatismofallsorts;ifHindustanwasreallytobeturnedintothehomeoftheHindus,nowondersomeSikhsbegantotalk of a homeland.But nobodypaid themmuch attention until, in the 1980s,MrsGandhiandSanjayhadactuallyhelpedtofinanceafirebrandSikhpolitico-religious figure called Sant Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale; they were quiteprepared,intheinterestofastrongCentralgovernment,tofostercommunalism,anduseBhindranwaletosplitthevoteoftheregionalistAkaliDalParty.So,aswenowknow,MrsGandhi’smurderwasapartofachainofeventswhichshehelped to forge. It is a tragic irony. But it cannot be understood in purelyreligiousterms;moreimportant,perhaps,isthestruggleforpowerbetweentheCentreandtheStates.Andmosttragic—withmoreprofoundimplicationseventhan theassassination—is theprogressivealienationofminoritygroupswhich,liketheSikhs,havebeeninthemainextremelyloyaltothenation-state.Intheaftermathoftherevenge-killingsofSikhsthatfollowedMrsGandhi’sdeath,theideaofKhalistan,theseparateSikhState,ceasedtoseemlikethepipe-dreamofa few, and a little more like a safe haven to some of the many traumatizedmembers of the Sikh community who had wanted nothing to do withBhindranwale, who abhorred the assassination, but who had been held

responsibleforitbytheCongress-ledmobs.Across the frontier in Pakistan, we find a very clear demonstration of the

impracticabilityoftryingtoplacereligiousbeliefsatthecentreofcontemporarypolitics.Here,afterall,isaStatethatwasbasedonafaith;andtheproblemsthathavebesetiteversinceitsbirtharethoseofhavingbeen—asI’vesaidelsewhere—insufficiently imagined. Inotherwords,whatPakistanhasbeendiscovering,verypainfully, is thatno religion isany longera sufficientbasis fora society.Theworldhaschangedtoomuchforthat.Asaresult,piecesoftheStatehavebeguntobreakoff;andtheZiadictatorshiphasdoneitsbesttobreakupwhat’sleft. We can perhaps best understand the tensions of modern Pakistan as theresult of the resurgence of the old, suppressed nationalisms—Punjabi, Sindhi,Baloch—and the new, and inadequate, ideological unity. The Benazir Bhuttogovernment has inherited a derelict State—a militarized, gangster-infestedtheocracy. Ms Bhutto must construct, at high speed and in unfavourablecircumstances, nothing less than the institutions and processes of a modernnation-state. That is, history must be excavated from beneath the rubble ofdogmatismandtyranny.HerbesthopeforsuccessmaylieintherealizationofallPakistan’scitizens,SindhisaswellasPathans,PunjabisaswellasBalochis,thatnothingistobegainedfromBalkanization.Therealpossibilityofsuchanoutcomemaybe,strangely,whatpreventsitfromhappening.Andifenlightenedself-interest does guide Pakistanis to back away from that precipice, then thefirstconstructivestepwillhavebeentakentowardsthemakingofaStatewitharealreasonforbeing—letussay,apost-IslamicPakistan.

Fromthepowerful,wealthy,confidentcertaintiesofthenineteenthcentury,theWest has arrived at a moment beyond consensus, a fractured time, in whichdoubt,anxiety,andakindofrudderlessnessdominatelife.Thislossofcertaintyhas been inmany ways—for example, in the arts—of great value. Just as anatom, when split, releases colossal energy, so the old, rigid orthodoxies ofcolonialEuropeproduced,bybeingbroken,theunparalleledoutburstofnewnessandexcitementthatthemodernistmovementhasbeen.Butsuchaneventis,ofcourse,ambiguous.

In thesameperiod, the languageofpoliticshasbecomemorematerialistic.Bothontherightandtheleft,politicianshavelearnedtospeakinthenewspeakof economics. If an airport is to be built in the midst of sleepy villages, the

distress of the locals is calculated, astoundingly, in cash terms, and thenbalanced against other figures. The increasing mechanization of society hascreated a mechanical politics; one which no longer asks ‘why’ or ‘whither’questions, but only ‘how’. As a result, the world of politics no longerencompassesmuchofwhat realhumanbeings actually care about. It doesnotaskwhatkindofworldwewishtolivein;itdoesnotanalysetheconsequencesofthechoicesthataremadeforus;nor,butperhapsitneverdid,doesitaddressitselftothegrievancesandachingsofthesoul—ofthatothereventthatweare,the one that perceives existence not as one-thing-after-another, but aseverything-at-once.Politicshascome tonarrow theworlddown to things,andtheidea,theonlyidea,whichisofferedtomakeusacceptthisawfullimitation,iscalledprogress.Progress:thedreamofheavenonearth.

ButWesternpolitical systems,bothof the liberal capitalist andcommunistvariety, have simply failed to deliver progress. We now know the ever-expandingcaketobeamyth;thecitizensoftheWestfacefuturesofnarrowinghorizons,diminishingprospects.OnecouldsaythattheWesthaslostthefuture;and without the future, the one validating concept of its political systems isremoved.

Poland’s religious fervour, for example, seems deeply nationalistic; thosewhomournthedeathofafallenpriestmournhisfalling,inapoliticalstruggle.WehaveaPopewhoismorepoliticallyinvolvedthanmost—althoughwhenhispriests join forces with radical politics in South America, he brings intensepressureonthemtobackoff.AndintheburningarenasofNorthernIrelandandtheMiddleEast, religious fervour cloaks equally fierce nationalist aspirations.Wearenearamillennium;onceagain,wehavetheideaofstandingneartheendoftime.Itisperhapsunsurprisingthatsomanyofus,awakingfromthedreamofpolitics, choose to fall into the dreamofGod.But that dream, today, is not ameans of cancelling politics; it does not and cannot turn back the clock. Thereligiousrevivalsoftheworldarecontinuationsofthepoliticalprocessbyothermeans.

Atfirstglance thestateofaffairs in theUnitedStatesofAmericadoesnotseemtobearoutthesortofideasI’vebeenpropounding.InAmerica,afterall,thevisionofthematerial,earthlyparadisehasnotyetfaded.TheUSAremainsformidablywealthyandpowerful,anditoftenappearsthatitspoliticallanguagestillcommandsthebeliefoflargenumbersofitscitizens.Andyet,allovertheland of the free, strange gods rule. Evangelists stalk the land and men andwomen walk forward for Christ. Such devout persons as John DeLorean are

‘born again’ into Christ. The followers of the Bhagwan Shree Rajneeshproliferate, and their livery, the colours of the sunset and the dawn, iseverywhere to be seen. It is a time of Falwells and book-burnings.TherewasevenaPresidentwhobelievedthattheApocalypsemightverywellcomeinhislifetime, and who had the button to prove it. In its way, the religiousfundamentalism of the United States is as alarming as anything in the muchfearedworldofIslam.Howso?Wheredoesitcomefrom?

In the twenty-sevenyearssince thekillingofPresidentKennedy, therehasbeen a good deal of disturbance in the American dream. The cult ofindividualism, of a man’s (not so often a woman’s) ability and right to pullhimselfupbyhisownbootstrapsandwit,whichliesattheheartofthatdream,hasproducedmoreOswalds,moreSirhans,moreMansonsandJimJoneses,thanLincolns, of late. The representative figure of American individualism is nolonger that log-cabin-to-White-House President, but rather a lone man with agun,seekingvengeanceagainstaworldthatwillnotconformtohisownsenseofwhathasworth. It isRobertdeNiro inTaxiDriver, orCharlesBronson inanything, or, in real life, the murderer Goetz who walked free after shootingdownthemanwhoaskedhimforafive-dollarbillonthesubway.Thatistosay:themythoftheAmericanherohasturnedsour.Thedisorientingeffectsofsuchatransformationshouldnotbeunderestimated.

Inmanyotherrespects, too, ithasbeenabruisingtimetobeanAmerican.Fifteenyearsago,VictorCharlie,theslope,thegeek,inflictedontheUSArmyahumiliatingdefeat.Sincethen,Americahaslostfurtherbattles.SuchloyalalliesasSomozainNicaraguaandtheShahofIranhavebeenoverthrown.AndletusnotforgetthetakingofthehostagesinIranandtheLebanon.

The historian F. J. Turner’s ‘frontier thesis’—the idea that a country bornwith theurge topusha frontierwestwardshasneeded,constantly, to findnewfrontiers,eversinceitreachedthePacific—haslongbeenausefullensthroughwhich toviewAmericanhistory.Thespacerace isonlyonesubjectwhich thethesisilluminates.InthelasttwodecadesmanyAmericanshaveturnedinwardsin search of that new frontier. The enormous influences of psychiatry andpsychotherapycanbeadducedasevidenceforthis,ascantheenormousbodyofliteratureaboutself-improvement.

Whenwe examine theAmerican self of this period, however,what dowefind?Wefind that ithasbeen theageof thegreatburn-out.Both radicalsandconservatives—thosewhoplayedwiththedrugsandgreatcausesofthesixtiesandseventiesontheonehand,and,say,thereturningwarveteransontheother

—haveenteredatimeofshock.ItisinterestingthatsomanywritersinAmericatodaywriteverylargelyaboutthisburn-out.Aboveall,inthespare,deliberatelynarrow-horizoned world of Raymond Carver, we sense a desire to turn awayfromthelargecanvas,fromthegreatissuesandeventsandtheboldexperimentsthat got America into such a mess, and to concentrate on minutiae, on thesimplestthings,onthefirstbuildingblocksoflife;togobacktobasics,andtry,bystartingagain,tosalvagesomething:honesty,perhaps.Integrity.Truth.

I am arguing that in spite of America’s continued affluence, the idea of‘progress’, which is very close to a nation’s sense of itself, has been badlydamagedinAmerica,too.Andreligionentersthestory,onceagain,asameansof shoringup the crumblingpatriotismof theAmericanpeople—that is, as anaspect of the nationalist impulse, and not a replacement for it. Religion andpatriotismhavealwaysgonehandinhandinacountryinwhichschoolchildrenare asked daily to perform an act ofworship before the national flag.And intoday’sAmerica,thereisanewpatriotismwhoselinkswiththereligiousrevivalareexplicit.GodisAmerica’sanswertoitscrisisofidentity.

Myth,RolandBarthes tells us, is statistically on the right. If the left seeksalwaystode-mystify, theninatimewhenpeopleneedcertainties,absolutes, itoften fails tooffer themwhat theyask for.Theresultingcrisisof liberalism iswithus everywhere, andnowheremore than in theUSA.Historyhasdone itsbesttoshakeAmerica’scertaintythatitwasright.AmericareactsbyburyingitsheadinthelapofGod.

JohnSchlesinger’s filmTheFalcon and the Snowman deals valuablywithAmerica’schosenblindness.ItisthestoryoftwoyoungAmericans,oneadrugdealer,theotheranemployeeinahigh-securityinstallation,whoteamuptosellsecrets to theRussians,becomingwhatarecalled ‘traitors’.The ‘Falcon’—theoneofthepairwhohastheaccesstothesecrets—hasaratherdifferentviewoftreason.HedecidestobecomeaspywhenhelearnsaboutCIAactivitiesagainstAllende’s Chilean government and the Whitlam government in Australia. Tohim, it is the CIA that is the traitor; it is the CIAwhich betrays the spirit ofAmerica.Memorably,hecomparestheactivitiesofAmericaasasuperpowertothose of predators (he owns a pet falcon, and knows a lot about the habits ofsuchbirds).Ifpredatorsarenotcloselycontrolled,theyswalloweverythingtheycaneat.

The ‘traitors’ also know that things have become so bad that not even ajournalistic exposé can alter anything.EvenwhenAmericans knowwhat theirgovernmentisdoing—evenwhentheyaretoldaboutAllendeorWhitlam—they

choosenottocare.AmericahaschosentobeaStateinwhich,forexample,itispossibleforaPresidenttodenounceanelectedgovernment(inNicaragua)asatyranny,whileitisconvenientlyforgottenthatforthepreviousfiftyyearsitwasAmericawhosupportedthereal,full-bloodedSomozatyranny.

When the activities of a nation’s representatives begin to diverge sodramatically from its self-imageas theguardianof freedomanddecency, thenthecountryhastofindwaysofturningawayfromthetruthintocosysimplicities(God,patriotism),inordernottoseeitselftooplainly;inordernottoseethatitspictureofitselfisinmanywaysafalseone.

Andifreligionistheblindfold,soitisalsothebedrockonwhich,failinganyothercertainty,manyAmericansbuildtheirsensethattheyareright tobe,anddo,astheyare,andastheydo.

‘InGodWeTrust’:thissentimentisnotfromthewallsofanychurch,butonthe currency of the United States: God and Mammon, in the service of theworld’smostpowerfulnation,unitedatlast.

1985,1990

INGOODFAITH

IthasbeenayearsinceIlastspokeindefenceofmynovelTheSatanicVerses.Ihave remained silent, though silence is againstmynature,because I felt thatmy voice was simply not loud enough to be heard above the clamour of thevoicesraisedagainstme.

Ihopedthatotherswouldspeakforme,andmanyhavedonesoeloquently,amongthemanadmittedlysmallbutgrowingnumberofMuslimreaders,writersandscholars.Others,includingbigotsandracists,havetriedtoexploitmycase(usingmynametotauntMuslimandnon-MuslimAsianchildrenandadults,forexample)inamannerIhavefoundrepulsive,defilingandhumiliating.

Atthecentreofthestormstandsanovel,aworkoffiction,onethataspirestotheconditionofliterature.Ithasoftenseemedtomethatpeopleonallsidesofthe argument have lost sight of this simple fact.The Satanic Verses has beendescribed,andtreated,asaworkofbadhistory,asananti-religiouspamphlet,astheproductofaninternationalcapitalist-Jewishconspiracy,asanactofmurder(‘hehasmurderedourhearts’),astheproductofapersoncomparabletoHitlerand Attila the Hun. It felt impossible, amid such a hubbub, to insist on thefictionalityoffiction.

Letmebe clear: I amnot trying to say thatTheSatanicVerses is ‘only anovel’ and thus need not be taken seriously, even disputed with the utmostpassion. I do not believe that novels are trivialmatters. The ones I caremostabout are those which attempt radical reformulations of language, form andideas,thosethatattempttodowhatthewordnovelseemstoinsistupon:toseetheworld anew. I amwell aware that this can be a hackle-raising, infuriatingattempt.

WhatIhavewishedtosay,however,isthatthepointofviewfromwhichIhave,allmylife,attemptedthisprocessofliteraryrenewalistheresultnotoftheself-hating, deracinated Uncle-Tomism of which some have accused me, butpreciselyofmydeterminationtocreatealiterarylanguageandliteraryformsinwhich the experience of formerly colonized, still-disadvantaged peoplesmightfindfullexpression.IfTheSatanicVersesisanything,itisamigrant’s-eyeview

oftheworld.Itiswrittenfromtheveryexperienceofuprooting,disjunctureandmetamorphosis (slow or rapid, painful or pleasurable) that is the migrantcondition, and from which, I believe, can be derived a metaphor for allhumanity.

StandingatthecentreofthenovelisagroupofcharactersmostofwhomareBritishMuslims, or not particularly religious persons ofMuslim background,strugglingwith just thesortofgreatproblems thathavearisen tosurround thebook,problemsofhybridizationandghettoization,ofreconcilingtheoldandthenew.Thosewho oppose the novelmost vociferously today are of the opinionthatinterminglingwithadifferentculturewillinevitablyweakenandruintheirown. I am of the opposite opinion. The Satanic Verses celebrates hybridity,impurity, intermingling, the transformation that comes of new and unexpectedcombinations of human beings, cultures, ideas, politics, movies, songs. Itrejoices in mongrelization and fears the absolutism of the Pure. Mélange,hotchpotch,abitofthisandabitofthatishownewnessenterstheworld.Itisthe great possibility that mass migration gives the world, and I have tried toembraceit.TheSatanicVersesisforchange-by-fusion,change-by-conjoining.Itisalove-songtoourmongrelselves.

Throughouthumanhistory,theapostlesofpurity,thosewhohaveclaimedtopossessa totalexplanation,havewroughthavocamongmeremixed-uphumanbeings.Likemanymillionsofpeople, Iamabastardchildofhistory.Perhapsweallare,blackandbrownandwhite,leakingintooneanother,asacharacterofmineoncesaid,likeflavourswhenyoucook.

The argument between purity and impurity, which is also the argumentbetween Robespierre and Danton, the argument between the monk and theroaring boy, between primness and impropriety, between the stultifications ofexcessive respect and the scandals of impropriety, is an old one; I say, let itcontinue. Human beings understand themselves and shape their futures byarguing and challenging and questioning and saying the unsayable; not bybowingtheknee,whethertogodsortomen.

The Satanic Verses is, I profoundly hope, a work of radical dissent andquestioningandreimagining.Itisnot,however,thebookithasbeenmadeouttobe, that book containing ‘nothing but filth and insults and abuse’ that hasbroughtpeopleoutontothestreetsacrosstheworld.

Thatbooksimplydoesnotexist.ThisiswhatIwanttosaytothegreatmassofordinary,decent,fair-minded

Muslims,ofthesortIhaveknownallmylife,andwhohaveprovidedmuchof

theinspirationformywork:toberejectedandreviledby,sotospeak,one’sowncharacters isashockingandpainfulexperienceforanywriter. I recognize thatmanyMuslimshavefeltshockedandpained,too.Perhapsawayforwardmightbefoundthroughthemutual recognitionof thatmutualpain.Letusattempt tobelieveineachother’sgoodfaith.

Iamawarethatthisisaskingagooddeal.Therehasbeentoomuchname-calling.Muslimshavebeencalledsavagesandbarbariansandworse.I,too,havereceived my share of invective. Yet I still believe—perhaps I must—thatunderstandingremainspossible,andcanbeachievedwithoutthesuppressionoftheprincipleoffreespeech.

What it requires isamomentofgoodwill;amoment inwhichwemayallacceptthattheotherpartiesareacting,haveacted,ingoodfaith.

You see, it’smy opinion that ifwe could only dispose of the ‘insults andabuse’accusation,whichpreventsthosewhobelieveitfromacceptingthatTheSatanic Verses is a work of any serious intent or merit whatsoever, then wemightbeable,attheveryleast,toagreetodifferaboutthebook’srealthemes,abouttherelativevalueofthesacredandtheprofane,aboutthemeritsofpurityand those of hotchpotch, and about how human beings really become whole:throughtheloveofGodorthroughtheloveoftheirfellowmenandwomen.

Andtodisposeoftheargument,wemustreturnforamomenttotheactuallyexistingbook,not thebookdescribed in thevariouspamphlets thathavebeencirculated to the faithful, not the ‘unreadable’ text of legend, not twochaptersdraggedoutofthewhole;notapieceofblubber,butthewholewretchedwhale.

Letmesaythisfirst:IhaveneverseenthiscontroversyasastrugglebetweenWesternfreedomsandEasternunfreedom.ThefreedomsoftheWestarerightlyvaunted, but many minorities—racial, sexual, political—just as rightly feelexcludedfromfullpossessionoftheseliberties;while,inmylifelongexperienceoftheEast,fromTurkeyandIrantoIndiaandPakistan,Ihavefoundpeopletobe every bit as passionate for freedom as any Czech, Romanian, German,HungarianorPole.

Howisfreedomgained?Itistaken:nevergiven.Tobefree,youmustfirstassumeyour right to freedom.InwritingTheSatanicVerses, Iwrote fromtheassumptionthatIwas,andam,afreeman.

Whatisfreedomofexpression?Withoutthefreedomtooffend,itceasestoexist. Without the freedom to challenge, even to satirize all orthodoxies,includingreligiousorthodoxies,itceasestoexist.Languageandtheimaginationcannot be imprisoned, or art will die, and with it, a little of what makes us

human. The Satanic Verses is, in part, a secular man’s reckoning with thereligiousspirit.Itisbynomeansalwayshostiletofaith.‘Ifwewriteinsuchawayastopre-judgesuchbeliefasinsomewaydeludedorfalse,thenarewenotguilty of élitism, of imposing ourworld-view on themasses?’ asks one of itsIndiancharacters.Yetthenoveldoescontaindoubts,uncertainties,evenshocksthatmaywellnotbetothelikingof thedevout.Suchmethodshave,however,longbeenalegitimatepartevenofIslamicliterature.

Whatdoesthenoveldissentfrom?Certainlynotfrompeople’srighttofaith,though I have none. It dissents most clearly from imposed orthodoxies of alltypes,fromtheviewthattheworldisquiteclearlyThisandnotThat.Itdissentsfromtheendofdebate,ofdispute,ofdissent.Hinducommunalistsectarianism,thekindofSikh terrorism thatblowsupplanes, the fatuousnessesofChristiancreationismaredissentedfromaswellasthenarrowerdefinitionsofIslam.Butsuchdissentisalongwayfrom‘insultsandabuse’.IdonotbelievethatmostoftheMuslimsIknowwouldhaveanytroublewithit.

What they have trouble with are statements like these: ‘Rushdie calls theProphet Muhammad a homosexual.’ ‘Rushdie says the Prophet MuhammadaskedGodforpermissiontofornicatewitheverywomanintheworld.’‘Rushdiesays the Prophet’swives arewhores.’ ‘Rushdie calls the Prophet by a devil’sname.’‘RushdiecallstheCompanionsoftheProphetscumandbums.’‘RushdiesaysthatthewholeQur’anwastheDevil’swork.’Andsoforth.

Ithasbeenbewilderingtowatchtheproliferationofsuchstatements,andtowatchthemacquiretheauthorityoftruthbyvirtueofthepowerofrepetition.Ithasbeenbewilderingtolearnthatpeople,millionsuponmillionsofpeople,havebeen willing to judge The Satanic Verses and its author, without reading it,without findingoutwhatmannerofman this fellowmight be, on thebasis ofsuchallegationsasthese.Ithasbeenbewilderingtolearnthatpeopledonotcareaboutart.Yet theonlyway I can explainmatters, theonlyway I can try andreplacethenon-existentnovelwiththeoneIactuallywrote,istotellyouastory.

TheSatanicVersesisthestoryoftwopainfullydividedselves.Inthecaseofone,SaladinChamcha, thedivision is secularandsocietal:he is torn, toput itplainly, betweenBombay andLondon, betweenEast andWest. For the other,GibreelFarishta,thedivisionisspiritual,ariftinthesoul.Hehaslosthisfaithandisstrungoutbetweenhisimmenseneedtobelieveandhisnewinabilitytodoso.Thenovelis‘about’theirquestforwholeness.

Why‘GibreelFarishta’(GabrielAngel)?Notto‘insultandabuse’the‘real’ArchangelGabriel.Gibreelisamoviestar,andmoviestarshangaboveusinthe

darkness,largerthanlife,halfwaytothedivine.TogiveGibreelanangel’snamewastogivehimasecularequivalentofangelichalf-divinity.Whenheloseshisfaith,however,thisnamebecomesthesourceofallhistorments.

Chamcha survives.Hemakes himselfwhole by returning to his roots and,moreimportantly,byfacingupto,andlearningtodealwith,thegreatveritiesoflove and death.Gibreel does not survive.He can neither return to the love ofGod, nor succeed in replacing it by earthly love. In the end he kills himself,unabletobearhistormentanylonger.

His greatest torments have come to him in the form of dreams. In thesedreamsheiscastintheroleofhisnamesake,theArchangel,andwitnessesandparticipates in the unfolding of various epic and tragic narratives dealingwiththe nature and consequences of revelation and belief. These dreams are notuniformly sceptical. Inone, anonbelieving landownerwhohas seenhis entirevillage,andhisownwife,drownintheArabianSeaatthebehestofagirl-seerwho claimed the waters would open so that the pilgrims might undertake ajourneytoMecca,experiencesthetruthofamiracleat themomentofhisowndeath,whenheopenshishearttoGod,and‘sees’thewaterspart.Allthedreamsdo,however,dramatizethestrugglebetweenfaithanddoubt.

Gibreel’s most painful dreams, the ones at the centre of the controversy,depictthebirthandgrowthofareligionsomethinglikeIslam,inamagicalcityofsandnamedJahilia(thatis‘ignorance’,thenamegivenbyArabstotheperiodbefore Islam).Almost all the alleged ‘insults and abuse’ are taken from thesedreamsequences.

The first thing to be said about these dreams is that they are agonizinglypainfultothedreamer.Theyarea‘nocturnalretribution,apunishment’forhisloss of faith. This man, desperate to regain belief, is haunted, possessed, byvisions of doubt, visions of scepticism and questions and faith-shakingallegationsthatgrowmoreandmoreextremeastheygoon.Hetriesinvaintoescapethem,fightingagainstsleep;butthenthevisionscrossovertheboundarybetweenhiswakingandsleepingself,theyinfecthisdaytimes:thatis,theydrivehim mad. The dream-city is called ‘Jahilia’ not to ‘insult and abuse’ MeccaSharif,butbecause thedreamer,Gibreel,hasbeenplungedbyhisbrokenfaithbackintotheconditiontheworddescribes.Thefirstpurposeofthesesequencesisnottovilifyor‘disprove’Islam,buttoportrayasoulincrisis, toshowhowthelossofGodcandestroyaman’slife.

See the ‘offensive’ chapters through this lens, and many things may seemclearer. The use of the so-called ‘incident of the satanic verses’, the quasi-historical tale of howMuhammad’s revelation seemed briefly to flirtwith thepossibilityofadmittingthreepaganandfemaledeitiesintothepantheon,atthesemi-divine,intercessorylevelofthearchangels,andofhowhethenrepudiatedtheseversesasbeingsatanicallyinspired—is,firstofall,akeymomentofdoubtindreamswhichpersecuteadreamerbymakingvividthedoubtsheloathesbutcannolongerescape.

Themost extreme passage of doubting in the novel is when the character‘SalmanthePersian’—namednotto‘insultandabuse’Muhammad’scompanionSalmanal-Farisi,butmoreasanironicreferencetothenovel’sauthor—voiceshismanyscepticisms.Itisquitetruethatthelanguagehereisforceful,satirical,and strong meat for some tastes, but it must be remembered that the wakingGibreel is a coarse-mouthed fellow, and it would be surprising if the dream-figures he conjures up did not sometimes speak as rough and even obscene alanguage as their dreamer. It must also be remembered that this sequencehappenslateinthedream,whenthedreamer’smindiscrumblingalongwithhiscertainties,andwhenhisderangement,towhichtheseviolentlyexpresseddoubtscontribute,iswelladvanced.

Letmenotbedisingenuous,however.Therejectionofthethreegoddessesinthenovel’sdream-versionofthe‘satanicverses’storyisalsointendedtomakeotherpoints,forexampleaboutthereligion’sattitudetowomen.‘ShallHe[God]havedaughterswhileyouhavesons?Thatwouldbeanunjustdivision,’readtheversesstilltobefoundintheQur’an.Ithoughtitwasatleastworthpointingoutthatoneofthereasonsforrejectingthesegoddesseswasthattheywerefemale.Therejectionhasimplicationsthatareworththinkingabout.Isuggestthatsuchhighlightingisaproperfunctionofliterature.

Or again, when Salman the Persian, Gibreel’s dream-figment, fulminatesagainstthedream-religion’saimofproviding‘rulesforeverydamnthing’,heisnotonlytormentingthedreamer,butaskingthereadertothinkaboutthevalidityofreligion’srules.TothoseparticipantsinthecontroversywhohavefeltabletojustifythemostextremeMuslimthreatstowardsmeandothersbysayingthatIhavebrokenanIslamicrule,Iwouldaskthefollowingquestion:arealltheruleslaiddownatareligion’soriginimmutableforever?Howaboutthepenaltiesforprostitution (stoning to death) or thieving (mutilation)? How about theprohibitionofhomosexuality?HowabouttheIslamiclawofinheritance,which

allowsawidowtoinheritonlyaneighthshare,andwhichgivestosonstwiceasmuchasitdoestodaughters?WhatoftheIslamiclawofevidence,whichmakesawoman’stestimonyworthonlyhalfthatofaman?Arethese,too,tobegivenunquestioning respect: or may writers and intellectuals ask the awkwardquestionsthatareapartoftheirreasonforbeingwhattheyare?

Let no one suppose that such disputes about rules do not take place dailythroughout the Muslim world. Muslim religious leaders may wish femalechildren ofMuslim households to be educated in segregated schools, but thegirls,astheysayeverytimeanybodyasksthem,donotwishtogo.(TheLabourPartydoesn’taskthem,andplanstodeliverthemintothehandsofthemullahs.)Likewise,Muslimdivinesmayinsistthatwomendress‘modestly’,accordingtotheHijab code, coveringmore of their bodies thanmen because they possesswhat one Muslim recently and absurdly described on television as ‘moreadorable parts’; but the Muslim world is full of women who reject suchstrictures. Islammay teach thatwomenshouldbeconfined to thehomeand tochild-rearing, but Muslim women everywhere insist on leaving the home towork. IfMuslim society questions its own rules daily—andmake nomistake,Muslims are as accustomed to satire as anyone else—why must a novel beproscribedfordoingthesame?

But to return to the text.Certain supposed ‘insults’need specific rebuttals.Forexample,thesceneinwhichtheProphet’scompanionsarecalled‘scum’and‘bums’ is a depiction of the early persecution of the believers, and the insultsquotedareclearlynotminebutthosehurledatthefaithfulbytheungodly.How,onewonders,couldabookportraypersecutionwithoutallowingthepersecutorsto be seen persecuting? (Or again: how could a book portray doubt withoutallowingtheuncertaintoarticulatetheiruncertainties?)

AstothematteroftheProphet’swives:whathappensinGibreel’sdreamsisthatthewhoresofabrotheltakethenamesofthewivesoftheProphetMahoundin order to arouse their customers. The ‘real’ wives are clearly stated to be‘livingchastely’ in theirharem.Butwhy introducesoshockingan image?Forthis reason: throughout the novel, I sought images that crystallized theoppositionbetween the sacred andprofaneworlds.Theharemand the brothelprovidesuchanopposition.Bothareplaceswherewomenaresequestered,intheharem to keep them from all men except their husband and close familymembers, in the brothel for the use of strange males. Harem and brothel areantitheticalworlds,andthepresenceintheharemoftheProphet,thereceiverofa sacred text, is likewise contrasted with the presence in the brothel of the

clapped-outpoet,Baal,thecreatorofprofanetexts.Thetwostrugglingworlds,pureand impure, chasteandcoarse, are juxtaposedbymaking themechoesofoneanother;and,finally,thepureeradicatestheimpure.Whoresandwriter(‘Iseenodifferencehere,’remarksMahound)areexecuted.Whetheronefindsthisahappyorsadconclusiondependsonone’spointofview.

Thepurposeofthe‘brothelsequence’,then,wasnotto‘insultandabuse’theProphet’s wives, but to dramatize certain ideas aboutmorality; and sexuality,too, because what happens in the brothel—called Hijab after the name for‘modest’ dress as an ironic means of further highlighting the inverted echobetween the twoworlds—is that themenof ‘Jahilia’areenabled toactoutanancientdreamofpowerandpossession,thedreamofpossessingthequeen.Thatmen should be so aroused by the great ladies’ whorish counterfeits sayssomethingaboutthem,notthegreatladies,andabouttheextenttowhichsexualrelationshavetodowithpossession.

I must have known, my accusers say, that my use of the old devil-name‘Mahound’, amedievalEuropean demonization of ‘Muhammad’,would causeoffence. In fact, this isan instance inwhichde-contextualizationhascreatedacompletereversalofmeaning.Apartoftherelevantcontextisonpageninety-threeofthenovel.‘Toturninsultsintostrengths,whigs,tories,Blacksallchosetowearwithpridethenamestheyweregiveninscorn;likewise,ourmountain-climbing, prophet-motivated solitary is to be themedieval baby-frightener, theDevil’s synonym:Mahound.’Central to thepurposesofTheSatanicVerses isthe process of reclaiming language from one’s opponents. (Elsewhere in thenovelwefindthepoetJumpyJoshitryingtoreclaimEnochPowell’snotorious‘riversofblood’simile.Humanityitselfcanbethoughtofasariverofblood,heargues; the river flows in our bodies, andwe, as a collectivity, are a river ofbloodflowingdowntheages.Whyabandonsopotentandevocativeanimagetotheracists?)‘Trotsky’wasTrotsky’sjailer’sname.Bytakingitforhisown,hesymbolicallyconqueredhiscaptorandsethimselffree.Somethingofthesamespiritlaybehindmyuseofthename‘Mahound’.

The attempt at reclamation goes even further than this. When SaladinChamchafindshimselftransformedintoagoatish,hornedandhoofydemon,inabizarresanatoriumfullofothermonstrousbeings,he’stoldthattheyareall,likehim, aliens and migrants, demonized by the ‘host culture’s’ attitude to them.‘They have the power of description, and we succumb to the pictures theyconstruct.’ If migrant groups are called devils by others, that does not reallymakethemdemonic.Andifdevilsarenotnecessarilydevilish,angelsmaynot

necessarilybeangelic…Fromthispremise,thenovel’sexplorationofmoralityasinternalandshifting(ratherthanexternal,divinelysanctioned,absolute)maybesaidtoemerge.

Theverytitle,TheSatanicVerses,isanaspectofthisattemptatreclamation.Youcallusdevils?itseemstoask.Verywell,then,hereisthedevil’sversionoftheworld,of‘your’world,theversionwrittenfromtheexperienceofthosewhohavebeendemonizedbyvirtueoftheirotherness.JustastheAsiankidsinthenovelwear toydevil-hornsproudly, as anassertionofpride in identity, so thenovel proudly wears its demonic title. The purpose is not to suggest that theQur’aniswrittenbythedevil;itistoattemptthesortofactofaffirmationthat,intheUnitedStates,transformedthewordblackfromthestandardtermofracistabuseintoa‘beautiful’expressionofculturalpride.

And so on.There are timeswhen I feel that the original intentions ofTheSatanicVerses have been so thoroughly scrambled by events as to be lost forever.TherearetimeswhenIfeelfrustratedthatthetermsinwhichthenovelisdiscussedseemtohavebeensetexclusivelybyMuslimleaders(includingthose,likeSherAzamof theBradfordCouncilofMosques,whocanblithely sayontelevision, ‘Books are not my thing’). After all, the process of hybridizationwhichisthenovel’smostcrucialdynamicmeansthatitsideasderivefrommanysourcesotherthanIslamicones.

There is, for example, the pre-Christian belief, expressed in the Books ofAmos andDeutero-Isaiah andquoted inTheSatanicVerses, thatGod and theDevil were one and the same: ‘It isn’t until the Book of Chronicles, merelyfourthcenturyBC,thatthewordSatanisusedtomeanabeing,andnotonlyanattribute of God.’ It should also be said that the two books that were mostinfluential on the shape this novel took do not include the Qur’an. One wasWilliam Blake’sMarriage of Heaven and Hell, the classic meditation on theinterpenetration of good and evil; the other The Master and Margarita byMikhail Bulgakov, the great Russian lyrical and comical novel in which theDevil descendsuponMoscowandwreakshavocupon the corrupt,materialist,decadent inhabitantsand turnsout,by theend,not tobesuchabadchapafterall. The Master and Margarita and its author were persecuted by Soviettotalitarianism.Itisextraordinarytofindmynovel’slifeechoingthatofoneofitsgreatestmodels.

Norarethesetheonlynon-Musliminfluencesatwork.IwasbornanIndian,and not only an Indian, but a Bombayite—Bombay,most cosmopolitan,mosthybrid,mosthotchpotchofIndiancities.Mywritingandthoughthavetherefore

beenasdeeplyinfluencedbyHindumythsandattitudesasMuslimones(andmymovie star Gibreel is also a figure of inter-religious tolerance, playing Hindugodswithoutcausingoffence, inspiteofhisMuslimorigins).Nor is theWestabsent from Bombay. I was already a mongrel self, history’s bastard, beforeLondonaggravatedthecondition.

To be an Indian of my generation was also to be convinced of the vitalimportance of Jawaharlal Nehru’s vision of a secular India. Secularism, forIndia,isnotsimplyapointofview;itisaquestionofsurvival.IfwhatIndianscall ‘communalism’, sectarian religious politics, were to be allowed to takecontrol of the polity, the results would be too horrifying to imagine. ManyIndians fear that that moment may now be very near. I have fought againstcommunalpoliticsallmyadultlife.TheLabourPartyinBritainwoulddowellto look at the consequences of Indian politicians’ willingness to play thecommunalist card, and consider whether some Labour politicians’ apparentwillingness to do the same in Britain, for the same reason (votes), is entirelywise.

TobeaBombayite(andafterwardsaLondoner)wasalsotofallinlovewiththemetropolis.The city as reality and as ametaphor is at the heart of allmywork. ‘Themodern city,’ says a character inTheSatanicVerses, ‘is the locusclassicusofincompatiblerealities.’Well,thatturnedouttobetrue.‘Aslongasthey pass in the night, it’s not so bad. But if they meet! It’s uranium andplutonium,eachmakestheotherdecompose,boom.’Itishardtoexpresshowitfeelstohaveattemptedtoportrayanobjectiverealityandthentohavebecomeitssubject…

Thepointisthis:Muslimculturehasbeenveryimportanttome,butitisnotbyanymeanstheonlyshapingfactor.Iamamodern,andmodernist,urbanman,accepting uncertainty as the only constant, change as the only sure thing. Ibelieve in no god, and have done so since I was a young adolescent. I havespiritualneeds,andmyworkhas,Ihope,amoralandspiritualdimension,butIamcontenttotryandsatisfythoseneedswithoutrecoursetoanyideaofaPrimeMoverorultimatearbiter.

To put it as simply as possible: I am not a Muslim. It feels bizarre, andwhollyinappropriate, tobedescribedassomesortofhereticafterhavinglivedmy life as a secular, pluralist, eclectic man. I am being enveloped in, anddescribed by, a language that does not fit me. I do not accept the charge ofblasphemy,because,assomebodysaysinTheSatanicVerses,‘wherethereisnobelief,thereisnoblasphemy.’Idonotacceptthechargeofapostasy,becauseI

haveneverinmyadult lifeaffirmedanybelief,andwhatonehasnotaffirmedonecannotbesaidtohaveapostasizedfrom.TheIslamIknowstatesclearlythat‘therecanbenocoercion inmattersof religion’.ThemanyMuslims I respectwouldbehorrifiedbytheideathattheybelongtotheirfaithpurelybyvirtueofbirth, and that anypersonsobornwho freelychosenot tobeaMuslimcouldthereforebeputtodeath.

When I am described as an apostate Muslim, I feel as if I have beenconcealedbehindafalseself,asifashadowhasbecomesubstancewhileIhavebeenrelegated to theshadows.Sectionsof thenon-MuslimBritishmediahavehelped in the creation of other aspects of this false self, portraying me asegomaniacal, insolent, greedy, hypocritical anddisloyal. It has been suggestedthat Iprefer tobeknownbyanAnglicizationofmyname (‘SimonRushton’).And,toperfectthedoublebind,thisSalmanRushdieisalso‘thin-skinned’and‘paranoid’, so that any attempt by him to protest against falsificationswill beseenasfurtherproofoftherealityofthefalseself,thegolem.

TheMuslimattack againstmehas beengreatly assistedby the creationofthisfalseself.‘SimonRushton’hasfeaturedinseveralMuslimportrayalsofmydebased,deracinatedpersonality.My‘greed’fitswellintotheconspiracytheory,thatIsoldmysoultotheWestandwroteacarefullyplannedattackonIslaminreturn forpotsofmoney. ‘Disloyalty’ isuseful in thiscontext, too. JorgeLuisBorges,GrahamGreeneandotherwritershavewrittenabout their senseofanOtherwhogoesabouttheworldbearingtheirname.TherearemomentswhenIworrythatmyOthermaysucceedinobliteratingme.

On14February1989,withinhoursofthedreadnewsfromIran,IreceivedatelephonecallfromKeithVaz,MP,duringwhichhevehementlyexpressedhisfullsupportformeandmywork,andhishorroratthethreatagainstmylife.Afew weeks later, this same gentleman was to be found addressing ademonstrationfullofmendemandingmydeath,andofchildrenfestoonedwithmurderous placards. By now Mr Vaz wanted my work banned, and threatsagainstmylifeseemednottotroublehimanylonger.

Ithasbeen thatsortofyear.Twelvemonthsago, theGuardian’sesteemedcolumnist,HugoYoung,teeteredontheedgeofracismwhenhetoldallBritishMuslims that if they didn’t like the way things were in Britain, they couldalwaysleave(‘ifnotDagenham,whynotTehran?’);nowthissameMrYoung

preferstolaytheblameforthecontroversyatmydoor.(Ihave,afterall,fewerbattalionsatmydisposal.)Nodoubt,MrYoungwouldnowberelievedifIwentbackwhereIcamefrom.

And,and,and.LordDacrethoughtitmightbeagoodideaifIwerebeatenup inadarkalley.RanaKabbaniannouncedwithperfectStalinist fervour thatwriters should be ‘accountable’ to the community. Brian Clark (the author,ironically enough, ofWhose Life Is It Anyway?), claiming to be on my side,wrote an execrable playwhich,mercifully, nobodyhas yet agreed to produce,entitled Who Killed Salman Rushdie?, and sent it along in case I neededsomethingtoread.

AndBritainwitnessed abrutalizationofpublicdebate that seemedhard tobelieve. Incitement tomurderwas toleratedon thenation’s streets. (InEuropeand theUnitedStates, swift government actionprevented such incitement at avery early stage.) On TV shows, studio audiences were asked for a show ofhandson thequestionofwhether I should liveordie.Aman’smurder (mine)becamea legitimate subject for a national opinionpoll.And slowly, slowly, apoint of view grew up, and was given voice by mountebanks and bishops,fundamentalistsandMrJohnleCarré,whichheldthatIknewexactlywhatIwasdoing. Imusthaveknownwhatwouldhappen; therefore,did itonpurpose, toprofitbythenotorietythatwouldresult.Thisaccusationis,today,infairlywidecirculation,andsoImustdefendmyselfagainstit,too.

I findmyself wanting to ask questions: whenOsipMandelstamwrote hispoemagainstStalin,didhe‘knowwhathewasdoing’andsodeservehisdeath?When the students filledTiananmenSquare to ask for freedom,were theynotalso, and knowingly, asking for themurderous repression that resulted?WhenTerryWaite was taken hostage, hadn’t he been ‘asking for it’? I findmyselfthinking of Jodie Foster in her Oscar-winning role inThe Accused. Even if Iweretoconcede(andIdonotconcedeit)thatwhatIdidinTheSatanicVerseswas the literary equivalent of flauntingoneself shamelessly before the eyes ofarousedmen,isthatreallyajustificationforbeing,sotospeak,gang-banged?Isanyprovocationajustificationforrape?

Threats of violence ought not to coerce us into believing the victims ofintimidationtoberesponsiblefortheviolencethreatened.Iamaware,however,thatrhetoricisaninsufficientresponse.Norisitenoughtopointoutthatnothingon the scale of this controversy has, to my knowledge, ever happened in thehistory of literature. If I had told anyone before publication that such eventswouldoccurasaresultofmybook,Iwouldinstantlyhaveprovedthetruthof

theaccusationsofegomania…It’s true that some passages in The Satanic Verses have now acquired a

prophetic quality that alarms even me. ‘Your blasphemy, Salman, can’t beforgiven…TosetyourwordsagainsttheWordofGod.’Etcetera.Buttowritea dream based around events that took place in the seventh century of theChristianera,andtocreatemetaphorsoftheconflictbetweendifferentsortsof‘author’ and different types of ‘text’—to say that literature and religion, likeliterature and politics, fight for the same territory—is very different fromsomehowknowing, inadvance, thatyourdreamisabout tocometrue, that themetaphorisabouttobemadeflesh,thattheconflictyourworkseekstoexploreisabouttoengulfit,anditspublishersandbooksellers;andyou.

Atleast(smallcomfort)Iwasn’twrong.Bookschoosetheirauthors;theactofcreationisnotentirelyarationaland

conscious one.But this, as honestly as I can set it down, is, in respect of thenovel’streatmentofreligion,what‘IknewIwasdoing’.

I setout toexplore, through theprocessof fiction, thenatureof revelationand the power of faith. Themystical, revelatory experience is quite clearly agenuine one. This statement poses a problem to the nonbeliever: ifwe acceptthat themystic, theprophet, is sincerelyundergoing somesortof transcendentexperience, butwe cannot believe in a supernaturalworld, thenwhat is goingon? To answer this question, among others, I began work on the story of‘Mahound’. Iwasaware that the ‘satanicverses’ incident ismuchdisputedbyMuslimtheologians;thatthelifeofMuhammadhasbecometheobjectofakindof veneration that somewould consider un-Islamic, sinceMuhammad himselfalways insisted that he was merely a messenger, an ordinary man; and that,therefore, great sensitivitieswere involved. I genuinelybelieved thatmyovertuseoffabulationwouldmakeitcleartoanyreaderthatIwasnotattemptingtofalsifyhistory,buttoallowafictiontotakeofffromhistory.Theuseofdreams,fantasy, etc. was intended to say: the point is not whether this is ‘really’supposed to be Muhammad, or whether the satanic verses incident ‘really’happened;thepointistoexaminewhatsuchanincidentmightrevealaboutwhatrevelation is, about the extent to which the mystic’s conscious personalityinformsandinteractswiththemysticalevent;thepointistotryandunderstandthehumaneventofrevelation.Theuseoffictionwasawayofcreatingthesortofdistancefromactuality thatIfeltwouldpreventoffencefrombeingtaken.Iwaswrong.

Jahilia,touseonceagaintheancientArabstory-tellers’formulaIusedoften

inThe Satanic Verses, both ‘is and is not’Mecca.Many of the details of itssociallifearedrawnfromhistoricalresearch;butitisalsoadreamofanIndiancity (its concentric street-plan deliberately recallsNewDelhi), and, asGibreelspends time in England, it becomes a dream of London, too. Likewise, thereligionof‘Submission’bothisandisnotIslam.Fictionusesfactsasastarting-place and then spirals away to explore its real concerns, which are onlytangentiallyhistorical.Nottoseethis,totreatfictionasifitwerefact,istomakeaseriousmistakeofcategories.ThecaseofTheSatanicVersesmaybeoneofthebiggestcategorymistakesinliteraryhistory.

Here ismoreofwhat I knew: I knew that stories ofMuhammad’s doubts,uncertainties, errors, fondness for women abound in and around Muslimtradition. To me, they seemed to make him more vivid, more human, andthereforemoreinteresting,evenmoreworthyofadmiration.Thegreatesthumanbeingsmust struggle against themselves aswell as theworld. I never doubtedMuhammad’sgreatness,nor, Ibelieve, is the ‘Mahound’ofmynovelbelittledbybeingportrayedashuman.

IknewthatIslamisbynomeanshomogeneous,orasabsolutistassomeofits championsmake it out to be. Islam contains the doubts of Iqbal, Ghazali,Khayyám aswell as the narrow certainties of ShabbirAkhtar of theBradfordCouncil of Mosques and Kalim Siddiqui, director of the pro-Iranian MuslimInstitute. Islam contains ribaldry as well as solemnity, irreverence as well asabsolutism. I knew much about Islam that I admired, and still admire,immensely;IalsoknewthatIslam,likealltheworld’sgreatreligions,hadseenterriblethingsdoneinitsname.

TheoriginalincidentonwhichthedreamofthevillagerswhodrownintheArabianSeaisbasedisalsoapartofwhatI‘knew’.Thestoryawedme,becauseofwhatittoldmeaboutthehugepoweroffaith.IwrotethispartofthenoveltoseeifIcouldunderstand,bygettinginsidetheirskins,peopleforwhomdevotionwasasgreatasthis.

Hedid it on purpose is one of the strangest accusations ever levelled at awriter.OfcourseIdiditonpurpose.Thequestionis,anditiswhatIhavetriedtoanswer:whatisthe‘it’thatIdid?

WhatIdidnotdowasconspireagainstIslam;orwrite—afteryearsandyearsofanti-racistworkandwriting—atextofincitementtoracialhatred;oranythingofthesort.Mygolem,myfalseOther,maybecapableofsuchdeeds,butIamnot.

Would I have written differently if I had known what would happen?

Truthfully,Idon’tknow.WouldIchangeanyofthetextnow?Iwouldnot.It’stoolate.AsFriedrichDürrenmattwroteinThePhysicists:‘Whathasoncebeenthoughtcannotbeunthought.’

ThecontroversyoverTheSatanicVersesneeds tobe lookedat asapoliticalevent, not purely a theological one. In India, where the trouble started, theMuslim fundamentalistMP Syed Shahabuddin usedmy novel as a stick withwhich to threaten thewobblingRajivGandhigovernment.Thedemandfor thebook’s banning was a power-play to demonstrate the strength of theMuslimvote,onwhichCongresshastraditionallyreliedandwhichitcouldillaffordtolose. (In spiteof theban,Congress lost theMuslimsand theelectionanyway.PutnotyourtrustinShahabuddins.)

InSouthAfrica,therowoverthebookservedthepurposeoftheregimebydrivingawedgebetweentheMuslimandnon-MuslimmembersoftheUDF.InPakistan, it was a way for the fundamentalists to try and regain the politicalinitiative after their trouncing in thegeneral election. In Iran, too, the incidentcould only be properly understood when seen in the context of the country’sinternal political struggles.And inBritain,where secular and religious leadershadbeenvyingforpowerinthecommunityforoveradecade,andwhere,foralongtime,largelysecularorganizationssuchastheIndianWorkersAssociation(IWA)hadbeenintheascendant,the‘affair’swungthebalanceofpowerbacktowardsthemosques.Smallwonder,then,thatthevariouscouncilsofmosquesarereluctanttobringtheprotest toanend,eventhoughmanyMuslimsupanddownthecountryfinditembarrassing,evenshameful,tobeassociatedwithsuchilliberalismandviolence.

Theresponsibilityforviolencelieswiththosewhoperpetrateit. Inthepasttwelvemonths, bookshopworkers have beenmanhandled, spat upon, verballyabused, bookshop premises have been threatened and, on several occasions,actuallyfire-bombed.Publishingstaffhavehadtofaceacampaignofhatemail,menacingphonecalls,deaththreatsandbombscares.Demonstrationshave,onoccasion, turned violent, too. During the big march in London last summer,peaceful counterdemonstrations on behalf of humanism and secularism wereknockedtothegroundbymarchers,andacounterdemobythecourageous(andlargely Muslim) Women Against Fundamentalism group was threatened andabused.

There is no conceivable reason why such behaviour should be privilegedbecause it isdone in thenameofanaffronted religion. Ifweare to talkabout‘insults’, ‘abuse’, ‘offence’, then the campaign againstTheSatanicVerses hasbeen,veryoften,asinsulting,abusiveandoffensiveasit’spossibletobe.

Asaresult,racistattitudeshavehardened.IdidnotinventBritishracism,nordidTheSatanicVerses.TheCommissionforRacialEquality(CRE),whichnowaccusesmeofharmingracerelations,knowsthatforyearsitlentoutmyvideo-tapedanti-racistChannel4broadcasttoallsortsofblackandwhitegroupsandseminars. Readers ofThe Satanic Verses will not be able to help noticing itsextremely strong anti-racist line. I have never given the least comfort orencouragement to racists;but the leadersof thecampaignagainstmecertainlyhave,byreinforcingtheworstraciststereotypesofMuslimsasrepressive,anti-liberal, censoring zealots. If Norman Tebbit has taken up the old Powelliterefrains and if his laments about the multi-cultural society find favour in theland, thenapartof the responsibilityat leastmustbe laidat thedoorof thosewhoburn,andwouldban,books.

Iamnot the firstwriter tobepersecutedbyIslamic fundamentalismin themodern period; among the greatest names so victimized are the IranianwriterAhmadKasravi, stabbed todeathby fanatics, and theEgyptianNobel laureateNaguibMahfouz,often threatenedbut still,happily,withus. Iamnot the firstartist tobeaccusedofblasphemyandapostasy; theseare, infact,probably themost common weapons with which fundamentalism has sought to shacklecreativityinthemodernage.Itissad,then,thatsolittleattentionhasbeenpaidto this crucial literary context; and thatWestern critics like JohnBerger,whoonce spoke messianically of the need for new ways of seeing, should nowexpress theirwillingness to privilege one suchway over another, to protect areligionboastingonebillionbelieversfromthesolitaryfigureofasinglewriterbrandishingan‘unreadable’book.

As for the British Muslim ‘leaders’, they cannot have it both ways.Sometimes they say I am entirely unimportant, and only the bookmatters; onotherdaystheyholdmeetingsatmosquesacrossthenationandendorsethecallformykilling.Theysaytheyholdtothelawsofthiscountry,buttheyalsosaythatIslamiclawhasmoralprimacyforthem.TheysaytheydonotwishtobreakBritish laws, but only a very few are willing openly to repudiate the threatagainstme.Theyshouldmaketheirpositionclear;aretheydemocraticcitizensofafreesocietyoraretheynot?Dotheyrejectviolenceordotheynot?

Afterayear,itistimeforalittleclarity.

To theMuslim community at large, inBritain and India and Pakistan andeverywhereelse,Iwouldliketosay:donotaskyourwriterstocreatetypicalorrepresentative fictions. Such books are almost invariably dead books. Theliveliness of literature lies in its exceptionality, in being the individual,idiosyncratic vision of one human being, in which, to our delight and greatsurprise,wemayfindourownimagereflected.Abookisaversionoftheworld.Ifyoudonotlikeit,ignoreit;orofferyourownversioninreturn.

And Iwould like to say this: lifewithoutGod seems tobelievers tobe anidiocy, pointless, beneath contempt. It does not seem so to non-believers. Toaccept that the world, here, is all there is; to go through it, towards and intodeath,without the consolations of religion seems,well, at least as courageousandrigoroustousastheespousaloffaithseemstoyou.Secularismanditsworkdeserveyourrespect,notyourcontempt.

Agreatwaveoffreedomhasbeenwashingovertheworld.Thosewhoresist—inChina, inRomania—findthemselvesbathedinblood.IshouldliketoaskMuslims—thatgreatmassofordinary,decent,fair-mindedMuslimstowhomIhave imaginedmyself tobespeakingformostof thispiece—tochoose toridethewave;torenounceblood;nottoletMuslimleadersmakeMuslimsseemlesstolerant than they are. The Satanic Verses is a serious work, written from anonbeliever’spointofview.Letbelieversacceptthat,andletitbe.

In the meantime, I am asked, how do I feel? I feel grateful to the Britishgovernment for defending me. I hope that such a defence would be madeavailable to any citizen so threatened, but that doesn’t lessen my gratitude. Ineededit,anditwasprovided.(I’mstillnoTory,butthat’sdemocracy.)

Ifeelgrateful,too,tomyprotectors,whohavedonesuchamagnificentjob,andwhohavebecomemyfriends.

Ifeelgratefultoeveryonewhohasofferedmesupport.Theonerealgainformeinthisbadtimehasbeenthediscoveryofbeingcaredforbysomanypeople.Theonlyantidotetohatredislove.

Above all, I feel gratitude towards, solidarity with and pride in all thepublishingpeople andbookstoreworkers around theworldwhohaveheld thelineagainstintimidation,andwhowill,Iamsure,continuetodosoaslongasitremainsnecessary.

I feel as if I have been plunged, like Alice, into the world beyond the

looking-glass,wherenonsense is theonlyavailablesense.AndIwonder if I’lleverbeabletoclimbbackthroughthemirror.

Do I feel regret? Of course I do: regret that such offence has been takenagainst my work when it was not intended—when dispute was intended, anddissent,andeven,attimes,satire,andcriticismofintolerance,andthelike,butnot the thing of which I’m most often accused, not ‘filth’, not ‘insult’, not‘abuse’.Iregretthatsomanypeoplewhomighthavetakenpleasureinfindingtheirrealitygivenprideofplaceinanovelwillnownotreaditbecauseofwhattheybelieveittobe,orwillcometoitwiththeirmindsalreadymadeup.

And I feel sad to be so grievously separated from my community, fromIndia,fromeverydaylife,fromtheworld.

Please understand, however: Imake no complaint. I am awriter. I do notacceptmy condition. Iwill strive to change it; but I inhabit it, I am trying tolearnfromit.

Ourlivesteachuswhoweare.

1990

ISNOTHINGSACRED?

Igrewupkissingbooksandbread.In our house, whenever anyone dropped a book or let fall a chapati or a

‘slice’,whichwasourwordforatriangleofbutteredleavenedbread,thefallenobjectwasrequirednotonlytobepickedupbutalsokissed,bywayofapologyfortheactofclumsydisrespect.Iwasascarelessandbutterfingeredasanychildand,accordingly,duringmychildhoodyears,Ikissedalargenumberof‘slices’andalsomyfairshareofbooks.

DevouthouseholdsinIndiaoftencontained,andstillcontain,personsinthehabit of kissing holy books.Butwe kissed everything.We kissed dictionariesand atlases.We kissed Enid Blyton novels and Superman comics. If I’d everdroppedthetelephonedirectoryI’dprobablyhavekissedthat,too.

AllthishappenedbeforeIhadeverkissedagirl.Infactitwouldalmostbetrue,trueenoughforafictionwriter,anyhow,tosaythatonceIstartedkissinggirls, my activities with regard to bread and books lost some of their specialexcitement.Butoneneverforgetsone’sfirstloves.

Bread andbooks: food for thebody and food for the soul—what couldbemoreworthyofourrespect,andevenlove?

Ithasalwaysbeenashocktometomeetpeopleforwhombookssimplydonotmatter,andpeoplewhoarescornfuloftheactofreading,letalonewriting.Itis perhaps always astonishing to learn that yourbeloved is not as attractive toothersas she is toyou.Mymostbelovedbookshavebeen fictions,and in thelast twelve months I have been obliged to accept that for many millions ofhuman beings, these books are entirely without attraction or value. We havebeenwitnessinganattackuponaparticularworkoffictionthatisalsoanattackupontheveryideasofthenovelform,anattackofsuchbewilderingferocitythatit has become necessary to restate what is most precious about the art ofliterature—toanswertheattack,notbyanattack,butbyadeclarationoflove.

Lovecanleadtodevotion,butthedevotionoftheloverisunlikethatoftheTrueBeliever in that it is notmilitant. Imaybe surprised—even shocked—tofind that you do not feel as I do about a given book or work of art or even

person; Imayverywellattempt tochangeyourmind;but Iwill finallyacceptthatyourtastes,yourloves,areyourbusinessandnotmine.TheTrueBelieverknowsnosuchrestraints.TheTrueBelieverknowsthatheissimplyright,andyouarewrong.Hewillseektoconvertyou,evenbyforce,andifhecannothewill,attheveryleast,despiseyouforyourunbelief.

Loveneednotbeblind.Faithmust,ultimately,bealeapinthedark.

The title of this lecture is a questionusually asked, in tonesof horror,whensomepersonageorideaorvalueorplacehelddearbythequestioneristreatedtoadoseof iconoclasm.White cricketballs fornight cricket?Femalepriests?AJapanesetakeoverofRolls-Roycecars?Isnothingsacred?

Until recently, however, it was a question to which I thought I knew theanswer.TheanswerwasNo.

No,nothing is sacred inandof itself, Iwouldhavesaid. Ideas, texts,evenpeoplecanbemadesacred—thewordisfromtheLatinsacrare,‘tosetapartasholy’—buteventhoughsuchentities,oncetheirsacrednessisestablished,seektoproclaimandtopreservetheirownabsoluteness,theirinviolability,theactofmakingsacredis intruthanevent inhistory.It is theproductof themanyandcomplex pressures of the time inwhich the act occurs.And events in historymust always be subject to questioning, deconstruction, even to declarations oftheirobsolescence.Torespectthesacredistobeparalysedbyit.Theideaofthesacred is quite simply one of the most conservative notions in any culture,because it seeks to turn other ideas—Uncertainty, Progress, Change—intocrimes.

Totakeonlyonesuchdeclarationofobsolescence:Iwouldhavedescribedmyselfaslivingintheaftermathofthedeathofgod.OnthesubjectofthedeathofGod, theAmerican novelist and criticWilliamH.Gass had this to say, asrecentlyas1984:

Thedeathofgodrepresentsnotonlytherealizationthatgodshaveneverexisted,butthecontentionthatsuchabeliefisnolongerevenirrationallypossible: that neither reason nor the taste and temper of the timescondoneit.Thebelieflingerson,ofcourse,butitdoessolikeastrologyorafaithinaflatearth.

I have somedifficultywith the uncompromising bluntness of this obituary

notice.IthasalwaysbeencleartomethatGodisunlikehumanbeingsinthatitcandie,sotospeak,inparts.Inotherparts,forexampleIndia,Godcontinuestoflourish, in literally thousands of forms. So that if I speak of living after thisdeath, I amspeaking ina limited,personal sense—mysenseofGodceased toexist long ago, and as a result I was drawn towards the great creativepossibilities offered by surrealism, modernism and their successors, thosephilosophiesandaestheticsbornof the realization that,asKarlMarxsaid, ‘allthatissolidmeltsintoair.’

It did not seem to me, however, that my ungodliness, or rather my post-godliness,neednecessarilybringmeintoconflictwithbelief.Indeed,onereasonfor my attempt to develop a form of fiction in which the miraculous mightcoexistwiththemundanewaspreciselymyacceptancethatnotionsofthesacredand the profane both needed to be explored, as far as possible without pre-judgement,inanyhonestliteraryportraitofthewayweare.

Thatistosay:themostsecularofauthorsoughttobecapableofpresentingasympatheticportraitofadevoutbeliever.Or,toputitanotherway:Ihadneverfelttheneedtototemizemylackofbelief,andsomakeitsomethingtogotowarabout.

Now, however, I find my entire world-picture under fire. And as I findmyself obliged to defend the assumptions and processes of literature,which Ihadbelievedthatallfreemenandwomencouldtakeforgranted,andforwhichallunfreemenandwomencontinueeverydaytostruggle,soIamobligedtoaskmyselfquestionsIadmittofindingsomewhatunnerving.

DoI,perhaps,findsomethingsacredafterall?AmIpreparedtosetasideasholy the idea of the absolute freedom of the imagination and alongside itmyownnotionsoftheWorld,theTextandtheGood?Doesthisadduptowhattheapologistsofreligionhavestartedcalling‘secularfundamentalism’?Andifso,mustIacceptthatthis‘secularfundamentalism’isaslikelytoleadtoexcesses,abusesandoppressionsasthecanonsofreligiousfaith?

AlectureinmemoryofHerbertReadisahighlyappropriateoccasionforsuchan exploration, and I am honoured to have been asked to deliver it. HerbertRead, one of the leading British advocates of the modernist and surrealistmovements,wasadistinguished representativeof theculturalvaluesclosest tomyheart.‘Artisnevertransfixed,’Readwrote.‘Changeistheconditionofart

remaining art.’ This principle is also mine. Art, too, is an event in history,subject to the historical process. But it is also about that process, and mustconstantly strive to find new forms tomirror an endlessly renewedworld.Noaestheticcanbeaconstant,exceptanaestheticbasedontheideaofinconstancy,metamorphosis,or,toborrowatermfrompolitics,‘perpetualrevolution’.

Thestrugglebetweensuchideasandtheeternal,revealedtruthsofreligionisdramatized this evening, as I hope Imay be excused for pointing out, bymyabsence. Imust apologize for this. I did, in fact, askmy admirable protectorshow theywould feel if Iwere to delivermy text in person. The answerwas,moreorless,‘Whathavewedonetodeservethis?’Withregret,Itookthepoint.

Itisanagonyandafrustrationnotbeabletore-entermyoldlife,notevenforsuchamoment.However,Ishouldliketo thankHaroldPinter, throughhisownmouth,forstandinginmyplace.*Perhapsthiseventcouldbethoughtofasaformofsecularrevelation:amanreceivesatextbymysteriousprocessesfromElsewhere—above?below?NewScotlandYard?—andbrings itoutbefore thepeople,andrecites…

More than twenty years ago, I stood packed in at the back of this theatre,listeningtoalecturebyArthurKoestler.Hepropoundedthethesisthatlanguage,notterritory,wastheprimecauseofaggression,becauseoncelanguagereachedthelevelofsophisticationatwhichitcouldexpressabstractconcepts,itacquiredthepoweroftotemization;andoncepeopleshaderectedtotems,theywouldgotowartodefendthem.(IaskpardonofKoestler’sghost.Iamrelyingonanoldmemory,andthat’sanuntrustworthyshouldertoleanon.)

Insupportofhistheory,hetoldusabouttwotribesofmonkeyslivingon,Ithink, one of the northern islands of Japan. The two tribes lived in closeproximityinthewoodsnearacertainstream,andsubsisted,notunusually,onadietofbananas.Oneofthetribes,however,haddevelopedthecurioushabitofwashing its bananas in the stream before eating them, while the other tribecontinued to be non-banana-washers. And yet, said Koestler, the two tribescontinuedtolivecontentedlyasneighbours,withoutquarrelling.Andwhywasthis?Itwasbecausetheirlanguagewastooprimitivetopermitthemtototemizeeither the act of banana-washing or that of eating bananas unwashed.With amore sophisticated language at their disposal, bothwet anddrybananas couldhavebecomethesacredobjectsattheheartofareligion,andthen,lookout!—

Holywar.AyoungmanrosefromtheaudiencetoaskKoestleraquestion.Perhapsthe

real reasonwhy the two tribesdidnot fight,hesuggested,was that therewereenoughbananas to go round.Koestler became extremely angry.He refused toanswersuchapieceofMarxistclaptrap.And,inaway,hewasright.Koestlerandhisquestionerwerespeakingdifferentlanguages,andtheirlanguageswerein conflict. Their disagreement could even be seen as the proof of Koestler’spoint. If he, Koestler, were to be considered the banana-washer and hisquestionerthedry-bananaman,thentheircommandofalanguagemorecomplexthantheJapanesemonkeys’hadindeedresultedin totemizations.Noweachofthem had a totem to defend: the primacy of language versus the primacy ofeconomics:anddialoguethereforebecameimpossible.Theywereatwar.

Betweenreligionandliterature,asbetweenpoliticsandliterature,thereisalinguisticallybaseddispute.Butitisnotadisputeofsimpleopposites.Becausewhereas religion seeks to privilege one language above all others, one set ofvalues above all others, one text above all others, the novel has always beenabout theway inwhichdifferent languages,valuesandnarrativesquarrel, andabout the shifting relations between them, which are relations of power. Thenovel does not seek to establish a privileged language, but it insists upon thefreedomtoportrayandanalysethestrugglebetweenthedifferentcontestantsforsuchprivileges.

CarlosFuenteshascalledthenovel‘aprivilegedarena’.Bythishedoesnotmean that it is the kind of holy spacewhich onemust put off one’s shoes toenter;itisnotanarenatorevere;itclaimsnospecialrightsexcepttherighttobethestageuponwhichthegreatdebatesofsocietycanbeconducted.‘Thenovel,’Fuentes writes, ‘is born from the very fact that we do not understand oneanother, because unitary, orthodox language has broken down. Quixote andSancho,theShandybrothers,MrandMrsKarenin:theirnovelsarethecomedy(or thedrama)of theirmisunderstandings. Imposeaunitary language:youkillthenovel,butyoualsokillthesociety.’

HethenposesthequestionIhavebeenaskingmyselfthroughoutmylifeasawriter: Can the religious mentality survive outside of religious dogma andhierarchy?Whichistosay:Canartbethethirdprinciplethatmediatesbetweenthematerialandspiritualworlds;mightit,by‘swallowing’bothworlds,offerussomething new—something that might even be called a secular definition oftranscendence?

Ibelieveitcan.Ibelieveitmust.AndIbelievethat,atitsbest,itdoes.

What Imean by transcendence is that flight of the human spirit outside theconfinesofitsmaterial,physicalexistencewhichallofus,secularorreligious,experience on at least a few occasions. Birth is a moment of transcendencewhichwespendourlivestryingtounderstand.Theexaltationoftheactoflove,the experience of joy and very possibly the moment of death are other suchmoments. The soaring quality of transcendence, the sense of beingmore thanoneself,ofbeinginsomewayjoinedtothewholeoflife,isbyitsnatureshort-lived.Noteventhevisionaryormysticalexperienceeverlastsverylong.Itisforarttocapturethatexperience,toofferitto,inthecaseofliterature,itsreaders;tobe,forasecular,materialistculture,somesortofreplacementforwhattheloveofgodoffersintheworldoffaith.

Itisimportantthatweunderstandhowprofoundlyweallfeeltheneedsthatreligion, down the ages, has satisfied. Iwould suggest that these needs are ofthree types: firstly, the need to be given an articulation of our half-glimpsedknowledgeofexaltation,ofawe,ofwonder;lifeisanawesomeexperience,andreligionhelpsusunderstandwhylifesooftenmakesusfeelsmall,bytellinguswhatwe are smaller than; and, contrariwise, becausewe also have a sense ofbeingspecial,ofbeingchosen,religionhelpsusbytellinguswhatwehavebeenchosenby,andwhatfor.Secondly,weneedanswerstotheunanswerable:Howdidwegethere?Howdid‘here’gethereinthefirstplace?Isthis,thisbrieflife,all thereis?Howcanitbe?Whatwouldbethepointofthat?And,thirdly,weneedcodestoliveby,‘rulesforeverydamnthing’.Theideaofgodisatoncearepository for our awestruck wonderment at life and an answer to the greatquestions of existence, and a rule book, too. The soul needs all theseexplanations—notsimplyrationalexplanations,butexplanationsoftheheart.

It is also important to understand how often the language of secular,rationalistmaterialismhasfailedtoanswertheseneeds.AswewitnessthedeathofcommunisminCentralEurope,wecannot fail toobserve thedeepreligiousspiritwithwhichsomanyofthemakersoftheserevolutionsareimbued,andwemustconcedethatitisnotonlyaparticularpoliticalideologythathasfailed,buttheideathatmenandwomencouldeverdefinethemselvesintermsthatexcludetheirspiritualneeds.

It seems obvious, but relevant, to point out that in all the countries nowmovingtowardsfreedom,artwasrepressedasviciouslyaswasreligion.ThattheCzech revolution began in the theatres and is led by a writer is proof thatpeople’s spiritual needs, more than their material needs, have driven the

commissarsfrompower.Whatappearsplain is that itwillbeaverylongtimebefore thepeoplesof

Europe will accept any ideology that claims to have a complete, totalizedexplanationoftheworld.Religiousfaith,profoundasitis,mustsurelyremainaprivatematter.Thisrejectionoftotalizedexplanationsisthemoderncondition.And this iswhere the novel, the form created to discuss the fragmentation oftruth,comesin.ThefilmdirectorLuisBuñuelusedtosay:‘Iwouldgivemylifeforamanwhoislookingforthetruth.ButIwouldgladlykillamanwhothinkshehasfoundthetruth.’(Thisiswhatweusedtocallajoke,beforekillingpeoplefor their ideasreturned to theagenda.)Theelevationof thequest for theGrailovertheGrailitself,theacceptancethatallthatissolidhasmeltedintoair,thatrealityandmoralityarenotgivensbutimperfecthumanconstructs,isthepointfrom which fiction begins. This is what J.-F. Lyotard called, in 1979, LaConditionPostmoderne. The challenge of literature is to start from this point,andstillfindawayoffulfillingourunalteredspiritualrequirements.

Moby Dick meets that challenge by offering us a dark, almost Manicheanvisionofauniverse(thePequod)inthegripofonedemon,Ahab,andheadinginexorably towards another; namely the Whale. The ocean always was ourOther, manifesting itself to us in the form of beasts—the worm Ouroboros,Kraken,Leviathan.HermanMelville delves into these darkwaters in order tooffer us a very modern parable: Ahab, gripped by his possession, perishes;Ishmael, a man without strong feeling or powerful affiliations, survives. Theself-interestedmodernmanisthesolesurvivor;thosewhoworshiptheWhale—forpursuitisaformofworship—perishbytheWhale.

Joyce’swanderers,Beckett’s tramps,Gogol’s tricksters,Bulgakov’sdevils,Bellow’shigh-energymeditationsonthestiflingofthesoulbythetriumphsofmaterialism; these, andmanymore, arewhatwehave insteadofprophets andsuffering saints. But while the novel answers our need for wonderment andunderstanding,itbringsusharshandunpalatablenewsaswell.

Ittellsustherearenorules.Ithandsdownnocommandments.Wehavetomakeupourownrulesasbestwecan,makethemupaswegoalong.

And it tells us there are no answers; or, rather, it tells us that answers areeasier tocomeby,and less reliable, thanquestions. If religion isananswer, ifpolitical ideologyisananswer, thenliteratureisaninquiry;great literature,by

askingextraordinaryquestions,opensnewdoorsinourminds.Richard Rorty, in Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature, insists on the

importance of historicity, of giving up the illusions of being in contact withEternity.Forhim, thegreaterror iswhathecalls ‘foundationalism’,which thetheologianDonCupitt,commentingonRorty,calls‘theattempt,asoldas(andevenmucholderthan)Plato,togivepermanenceandauthoritytoourknowledgeand values by purporting to found them in some unchanging cosmic realm,natural or noumenal, outside the flux of our human conversation.’ It is better,Cupittconcludes,‘tobeanadaptablepragmatist,anomad.’

MichelFoucault,alsoaconfirmedhistoricist,discussestheroleoftheauthorinchallengingsacralizedabsolutesinhisessay,‘WhatisanAuthor?’Thisessayargues,inpart,that‘texts,booksanddiscoursesreallybegantohaveauthors…totheextentthatauthorsbecamesubjecttopunishment,thatis,totheextentthatdiscourses could be transgressive.’ This is an extraordinary, provocative idea,evenifitisstatedwithFoucault’scharacteristicairinessandacompleteabsenceofsupportingevidence:thatauthorswerenamedonlywhenitwasnecessarytofindsomebodytoblame.Foucaultcontinues:

In our culture (and doubtless in many others), discourse was notoriginallyaproduct,athing,akindofgoods;itwasessentiallyanact—anactplacedinthebipolarfieldof thesacredandtheprofane, thelicitand the illicit, the religious and the blasphemous.Historically itwas agesturefraughtwithrisks…

In our beginnings we find our essences. To understand a religion, look at itsearliestmoments.(ItisregrettablethatIslam,ofallreligionstheeasiesttostudyin thisway,becauseof its birthduring the ageof recordedhistory, has set itsface so resolutely against the idea that it, like all ideas, is an event insidehistory.)And tounderstandanartistic form, too,Foucault suggests, lookat itsorigins. Ifhe is rightabout thenovel, then literature is,ofall thearts, theonebestsuited tochallengingabsolutesofallkinds;and,because it is in itsoriginthe schismatic Other of the sacred (and authorless) text, so it is also the artmostlylikelytofillourgod-shapedholes.

Thereareotherreasons,too,forproposingthenovelasthecrucialartformof what I can no longer avoid calling the post-modern age. For one thing,literatureistheartleastsubjecttoexternalcontrol,becauseitismadeinprivate.Theactofmakingitrequiresonlyoneperson,onepen,oneroom,somepaper.

(Even the room is not absolutely essential.) Literature is the most low-technologyoftheartforms.Itrequiresneitherastagenorascreen.Itcallsfornointerpreters,noactors,producers,cameracrews,costumiers,musicians. Itdoesnot even require the traditional apparatus of publishing, as the long-runningsuccess of samizdat literature demonstrates. The Foucault essay suggests thatliteratureisasmuchatriskfromtheenveloping,smotheringforcesofthemarketeconomy,whichreducesbooks tomereproducts.Thisdanger is real,andIdonot want to seem to be minimizing it. But the truth is that of all the forms,literaturecanstillbethemostfree.Themoremoneyapieceofworkcosts,theeasier it is tocontrol it.Film,themostexpensiveofartforms, isalsotheleastsubversive.This iswhy,althoughCarlosFuentescites theworkof filmmakerslikeBuñuel,BergmanandFelliniasinstancesofsuccessfulsecularrevoltsintotheterritoryofthesacred,Icontinuetobelieveinthegreaterpossibilitiesofthenovel.Itssingularityisitsbestprotection.

Among the childhoodbooks I devoured and kissedwere large numbers ofcheapcomicsofamostunliterarynature.Theheroesofthesecomicbookswere,or so it seemed, almost always mutants or hybrids or freaks: as well as theBatman and the Spiderman there was Aquaman, who was half-fish, and ofcourseSuperman,whocouldeasilybemistakenforabirdoraplane. In thosedays,themiddle1950s,thesuperheroeswereall,intheirvariousways,hawkishlaw-and-order conservatives, leaping to work in response to the PoliceCommissioner’s Bat-Signal, banding together to form the Justice League ofAmerica, defending what Superman called ‘truth, justice and the Americanway’.But in spite of this extreme emphasis on crime-busting, the lesson theytaught children—or this child, at any rate—was the perhaps unintentionallyradicaltruththatexceptionalitywasthegreatestandmostheroicofvalues;thatthosewhowere unlike the crowdwere to be treasured themost lovingly; andthatthisexceptionalitywasatreasuresogreatandsoeasilymisunderstoodthatithad tobeconcealed, inordinary life,beneathwhat thecomicbookscalleda‘secret identity’. Superman could not have survived without ‘mild-mannered’Clark Kent; ‘millionaire socialite’ Bruce Wayne made possible the nocturnalactivitiesoftheBatman.

Now it is obviously true that those other freakish, hybrid, mutant,exceptionalbeings—novelists—thosecreatorsof themost freakish,hybrid andmetamorphicof forms, thenovel,have frequentlybeenobliged tohidebehindsecretidentities,whetherforreasonsofgenderorterror.Butthemostwonderfulofthemanywonderfultruthsaboutthenovelformisthatthegreaterthewriter,

thegreaterhisorherexceptionality.Thegeniusesofthenovelarethosewhosevoices are fully and undisguisably their own,who, to borrowWilliamGass’simage, sign every word they write.What draws us to an author is his or her‘unlikeness’, even if the apparatus of literary criticism then sets to work todemonstratethatheorsheisreallynomorethananaccumulationofinfluences.Unlikeness, the thing that makes it impossible for a writer to stand in anyregimented line, is a quality novelists share with the Caped Crusaders of thecomics,thoughtheyareonlyrarelycapableofleapingtallbuildingsinasinglestride.

Whatismore,thewriteristhere,inhiswork,inthereader’shands,utterlyexposed,utterlydefenceless,entirelywithoutthebenefitofanalteregotohidebehind.Whatisforged,inthesecretactofreading,isadifferentkindofidentity,as the reader andwritermerge, through themedium of the text, to become acollectivebeing thatbothwritesas it readsand readsas itwrites, andcreates,jointly,thatuniquework,‘their’novel.This‘secretidentity’ofwriterandreaderisthenovelform’sgreatestandmostsubversivegift.

And this, finally, iswhy I elevate thenovel aboveother forms,why ithasalways been, and remains,my first love: not only is it the art involving leastcompromises, but it is also the only one that takes the ‘privileged arena’ ofconflicting discourses right inside our heads. The interior space of ourimaginationisatheatrethatcanneverbecloseddown;theimagescreatedtheremakeupamoviethatcanneverbedestroyed.

Inthislastdecadeofthemillennium,astheforcesofreligionarerenewedinstrength and as the all-pervasive power ofmaterialismwraps its ownweightychains around the human spirit, where should the novel be looking? It seemsclear that therenewalof theold,bipolarfieldofdiscourse,betweenthesacredandtheprofane,whichMichelFoucaultproposes,willbeofcentralimportance.Itseemsprobable,too,thatwemaybeheadingtowardsaworldinwhichtherewillbenorealalternativetotheliberal-capitalistsocialmodel(except,perhaps,the theocratic, foundationalist model of Islam). In this situation, liberalcapitalismordemocracyorthefreeworldwillrequirenovelists’mostrigorousattention,willrequirereimaginingandquestioninganddoubtingasneverbefore.‘Ourantagonistisourhelper,’saidEdmundBurke,andifdemocracynolongerhascommunismtohelp itclarify,byopposition, itsownideas, thenperhaps itwillhavetohaveliteratureasanadversaryinstead.

Ihavemadealargenumberofsweepingclaimsforliteratureduringthecourseofthispiece,andIamawareofaslightlymessianictoneinmuchofwhatI’vewritten.Thereverencingofbooksandwriters,bywriters,isnothingparticularlynew, of course. ‘Since the early 19th century,’ writes Cupitt, ‘imaginativewritershaveclaimed—have indeedenjoyed—aguidingand representative roleinourculture.Ourpreachersarenovelists,poets,dramatists,filmmakersandthelike,purveyorsoffiction,ambiguouspeople,deceivers.Yetwecontinuetothinkofourselvesasrational.’

ButnowI findmyselfbackingaway from the ideaof sacralizing literaturewithwhich I flirtedat thebeginningof this text; I cannotbear the ideaof thewriterassecularprophet;Iamrememberingthatoneoftheverygreatestwritersof the century, Samuel Beckett, believed that all art must inevitably end infailure.Thisis,clearly,noreasonforsurrender.‘Evertried.Everfailed.Nevermind.Tryagain.Failbetter.’

Literatureisaninterimreportfromtheconsciousnessoftheartist,andsoitcanneverbe‘finished’or‘perfect’.Literatureismadeatthefrontierbetweentheself and the world, and in the act of creation that frontier softens, becomespermeable,allowstheworldtoflowintotheartistandtheartisttoflowintotheworld.Nothingso inexact,soeasilyandfrequentlymisconceived,deserves theprotectionofbeingdeclaredsacrosanct.Weshalljusthavetogetalongwithouttheshieldofsacralization,andagoodthing,too.Wemustnotbecomewhatweoppose.

Theonlyprivilegeliteraturedeserves—andthisprivilegeitrequiresinorderto exist—is the privilege of being the arena of discourse, the placewhere thestruggleoflanguagescanbeactedout.

Imaginethis.Youwakeuponemorningandfindyourselfinalarge,ramblinghouse. As you wander through it you realize it is so enormous that you willneverknowitall. In thehousearepeopleyouknow,familymembers, friends,lovers, colleagues; alsomany strangers.Thehouse is full of activity: conflictsandseductions,celebrationsandwakes.Atsomepointyouunderstandthatthereisnowayout.Youfind thatyoucanaccept this.Thehouse isnotwhatyou’dhavechosen, it’s in fairlybadcondition, thecorridorsareoften fullofbullies,but it will have to do. Then one day you enter an unimportant-looking little

room. The room is empty, but there are voices in it, voices that seem to bewhisperingjusttoyou.Yourecognizesomeofthevoices,othersarecompletelyunknown toyou.Thevoicesare talkingabout thehouse,abouteveryone in it,abouteverythingthatishappeningandhashappenedandshouldhappen.Someof them speak exclusively in obscenities. Some are bitchy. Some are loving.Somearefunny.Somearesad.Themostinterestingvoicesareallthesethingsatonce.Youbegintogototheroommoreandmoreoften.Slowlyyoulearnthatmostofthepeopleinthehouseusesuchroomssometimes.Yettheroomsarealldiscreetlypositionedandunimportant-looking.

Now imagine that youwakeuponemorning andyou are still in the largehouse,butallthevoice-roomshavedisappeared.Itisasiftheyhavebeenwipedout.Nowthereisnowhereinthewholehousewhereyoucangotohearvoicestalkingabouteverythingineverypossibleway.Thereisnowheretogofor thevoicesthatcanbefunnyoneminuteandsadthenext,thatcansoundraucousandmelodicinthecourseofthesamesentence.Nowyouremember:thereisnowayoutof thishouse.Now this factbegins to seemunbearable.You look into theeyes of the people in the corridors—family, lovers, friends, colleagues,strangers,bullies,priests.Youseethesamethingineverybody’seyes.Howdowegetoutofhere?Itbecomesclearthatthehouseisaprison.Peoplebegintoscream,andpoundthewalls.Menarrivewithguns.Thehousebeginstoshake.Youdonotwakeup.Youarealreadyawake.

Literatureistheoneplaceinanysocietywhere,withinthesecrecyofourownheads,wecanhearvoices talkingabouteverything ineverypossibleway.Thereasonforensuringthatthatprivilegedarenaispreservedisnotthatwriterswanttheabsolutefreedomtosayanddowhatevertheyplease.Itisthatwe,allofus,readers and writers and citizens and generals and godmen, need that little,unimportant-lookingroom.Wedonotneedtocallitsacred,butwedoneedtorememberthatitisnecessary.

‘Everybodyknows,’wroteSaulBellowinTheAdventuresofAugieMarch,‘thereisnofinenessoraccuracyofsuppression.Ifyouholddownonething,youholddowntheadjoining.’

Whereverintheworldthelittleroomofliteraturehasbeenclosed,soonerorlaterthewallshavecometumblingdown.

1990

*IsNothingSacred?wastheHerbertReadMemorialLecturefor1990,deliveredontheauthor’sbehalfbyHaroldPinterattheInstituteofContemporaryArts,London,on6February1990.

ONETHOUSANDDAYSINABALLOON

A hot-air balloon drifts slowly over a bottomless chasm, carrying severalpassengers. A leak develops; the balloon starts losing height. The pit, a darkyawn, comes closer. Good grief! The wounded balloon can bear just onepassengertosafety;themanymustbesacrificedtosavetheone!Butwhoshouldlive,whoshoulddie?Andwhocouldmakesuchachoice?

Inpointoffact,debatingsocietieseverywhereregularlymakesuchchoiceswithoutqualms,forofcoursewhatI’vedescribedis thegivensituationof thatevergreenfavourite,theBalloonDebate,inwhich,asthespeakersargueovertherelative merits and demerits of the well-known figures they have placed indisaster’smouth,theassembledcompanyblithelyacceptsthefaintlyunpleasantidea thatahumanbeing’s right to life is increasedordiminishedbyhisorhervirtues or vices—that we may be born equal but thereafter our lives weighdifferentlyinthescales.

It’sonlymake-believe,afterall.Andwhileitmaynotbeverynice,itdoesreflecthowpeopleactuallythink.

Ihavenowspentoverathousanddaysinjustsuchaballoon;but,alas,thisisn’tagame.Formostofthesethousanddays,myfellow-travellersincludedtheWestern hostages in the Lebanon, and the British businessmen imprisoned inIran and Iraq, Roger Cooper and Ian Richter. And I had to accept, and didaccept, thatformostofmycountrymenandcountrywomen,myplightcountedforlessthantheothers’.Inanychoicebetweenus,I’dhavebeenthefirsttobepitchedoutofthebasketandintotheabyss.‘Ourlivesteachuswhoweare,’Iwrote at the endofmyessay ‘InGoodFaith’.Someof the lessonshavebeenharsh,anddifficulttolearn.

Trappedinsideametaphor,I’veoftenfelttheneedtoredescribeit,tochangetheterms.Thisisn’tsomuchaballoon,I’vewantedtosay,asabubble,withinwhichI’msimultaneouslyexposedandsealedoff.Thebubblefloatsaboveandthrough theworld, deprivingmeof reality, reducingme to an abstraction.Formanypeople,I’veceasedtobeahumanbeing.I’vebecomeanissue,abother,an‘affair’.Bullet-proofbubbles,likethisone,arereality-proof,too.Thosewho

travel in them, like those who wear Tolkien’s rings of invisibility, becomewraith-likeifthey’renotcareful.Theygetlost.Inthisphantomspaceamanmaybecome the bubble that encases him, and then one day—pop!—he’s goneforever.

It’sridiculous—isn’tit?—tohavetosay,ButIamahumanbeing,unjustlyaccused, unjustly embubbled.Or is it Iwho ambeing ridiculous, as I call outfrommybubble,I’mstilltrappedinhere,folks;somebody,please,getmeout?

Out therewhere you are, in the rich and powerful and luckyWest, has itreallybeensolongsincereligionspersecutedpeople,burningthemasheretics,drowningthemaswitches, thatyoucan’trecognizereligiouspersecutionwhenyou see it?… The original metaphor has reasserted itself. I’m back in theballoon,askingfortherighttolive.

Whatismysinglelifeworth?Despairwhispersinmyear:‘Notalot.’ButIrefusetogiveintodespair.

IrefusetogiveintodespairbecauseI’vebeenshownloveaswellashatred.Iknow thatmanypeopledocare, andare appalledby the crazy,upside-downlogic of the post-fatwa world, in which a single novelist can be accused ofhaving savaged or ‘mugged’ a whole community, becoming its tormentor(instead of its tarred and feathered victim) and the scapegoat for all itsdiscontents.Manypeople do ask, for example:When awhite pop-star-turned-Islamic-fanaticspeaksapprovinglyaboutkillinganIndianimmigrant,howdoestheIndianimmigrantendupbeingcalledtheracist?

Or,again:Whatminorityissmallerandweakerthanaminorityofone?Irefusetogiveintodespaireventhough,forathousanddaysandmore,I’ve

been put through a degree course in worthlessness, my own personal andspecificworthlessness.Myfirstteacherswerethemobsmarchingdowndistantboulevards, baying for my blood, and finding, soon enough, their echoes onEnglish streets. I could not understand the force that makes parents hangmurderousslogansaroundtheirchildren’snecks.Ihavelearnedtounderstandit.Itburnsbooksandeffigiesandthinks itselfholy.Butat first,asIwatchedthemarchers,Ifeltthemtramplingonmyheart.

Onceagain,however,Ihavebeensavedbyinstancesoffair-mindedness,ofgoodness.EverytimeIlearnthatareadersomewherehasbeentouchedbyTheSatanic Verses, moved and entertained and stimulated by it, it arouses deepfeelingsinme.Andtherearemoreandmoresuchreadersnowadays,mypost-bag tellsme, readers (includingMuslims)who arewilling to givemyburned,spurned child a fair hearing at long last.MilanKunderawrites to say that he

finds great tenderness towards Muslim culture in the book, and I’m stupidlygrateful.AMuslimwrites to say that in spite of the book’s ‘shock tactics’ itsideasabout thebirthof Islamareverypositive;atonce, I findmyselfwishingupon a star that her co-religionists may somehow, impossibly, come to agreewithher.

SometimesIthinkthat,oneday,MuslimswillbeashamedofwhatMuslimsdidinthesetimes,willfindthe‘Rushdieaffair’asimprobableastheWestnowfinds martyr-burning. One day they may agree that—as the EuropeanEnlightenment demonstrated—freedom of thought is precisely freedom fromreligiouscontrol,freedomfromaccusationsofblasphemy.Maybethey’llagree,too,thattherowoverTheSatanicVerseswasatbottomanargumentaboutwhoshould have power over the grand narrative, the Story of Islam, and that thatpower must belong equally to everyone. That even if my novel wereincompetent,itsattempttoretelltheStorywouldstillbeimportant.ThatifI’vefailed,othersmustsucceed,becausethosewhodonothavepoweroverthestorythatdominatestheirlives,powertoretellit,rethinkit,deconstructit,jokeaboutit,andchangeitastimeschange,trulyarepowerless,becausetheycannotthinknewthoughts.

Oneday.Maybe.Butnottoday.Today, my education in worthlessness continues, and what Saul Bellow

wouldcallmy‘realityinstructors’include:themediapunditwhosuggeststhatamanlydeathwouldbebetterformethanhidinglikearat;theletter-writerwhopointsoutthatofcoursethetroubleisthatIlookliketheDevil,andwondersifIhavehairyshanksandclovenhooves;the‘moderate’MuslimwhowritestosaythatMuslimsfindit‘revolting’whenIspeakabouttheIraniandeaththreats(it’snotthefatwathat’srevolting,youunderstand,butmymentionofit);therathermore immoderateMuslimwho tellsme to ‘shutup’, explaining that if a fly iscaughtinaspider’sweb,itshouldnotattracttheattentionofthespider.Iaskthereader to imagine how it might feel to be intellectually and emotionallybludgeoned,fromathousanddifferentdirections,everydayforathousanddaysandmore.

Back in the balloon, something longed-for and heartening has happened.Onthisoccasion,mirabiledictu,themanyhavenotbeensacrificed,butsaved.Thatis to say, my companions, the Western hostages and the jailed businessmen,

have by good fortune and the efforts of others managed to descend safely toearth,andhavebeenreunitedwiththeirfamiliesandfriends,withtheirown,freelives.Irejoiceforthem,andadmiretheircourage,theirresilience.AndnowI’maloneintheballoon.

Surely I’ll be safenow?Surely, now, theballoonwill drop safely towardssomenearbyhaven,andI,too,willbereunitedwithmylife?Surelyit’smyturnnow?

Buttheballoonisover thechasmagain;andit’sstillsinking.Irealize thatit’scarryingagreatdealofvaluablefreight.Tradingrelations,armamentsdeals,thebalanceofpowerintheGulf—theseandothermattersofgreatmomentareweighingdown theballoon. Ihearvoices suggesting that if I stayaboard, thispreciouscargowillbeendangered.Thenationalinterestisbeingredefined;amIbeingredefinedoutofit?AmItobejettisoned,afterall?

WhenBritainrenewedrelationswithIranattheUnitedNationsin1990,theseniorBritishofficialinchargeofthenegotiationsassuredmeinunambiguouslanguagethatsomethingverysubstantialhadbeenachievedonmybehalf.TheIranians,laughingmerrily,hadsecretlyagreedtoforgetthefatwa.(ThediplomattellingmethestoryputgreatstressonthischeeryIranianlaughter.)Theywould‘neitherencouragenorallow’theircitizens,surrogates,orproxiestoactagainstme.Oh,howIwantedtobelievethat!Butintheyear-and-a-bitthatfollowed,wesaw the fatwa restated in Iran, the bounty money doubled, the book’s Italiantranslatorseverelywounded, itsJapanesetranslatorstabbedtodeath; therewasnewsofanattempttofindandkillmebycontractkillersworkingdirectlyfortheIraniangovernmentthroughitsEuropeanembassies.Anothersuchcontractwassuccessfully carried out in Paris, the victim being the harmless and aged ex-PrimeMinisterofIran,ShapourBakhtiar.

ItseemsreasonabletodeducethatthesecretdealmadeattheUnitedNationshasn’t worked. Dismayingly, however, the talk as I write is all of improvingrelationswithIranstillfurther,whilethe‘Rushdiecase’isdescribedasaside-issue.

IsthisaballoonI’min,orthedustbinofhistory?Letmebeclear:thereisnothingIcandotobreakthisimpasse.Thefatwa

waspoliticallymotivatedtobeginwith,itremainsabreachofinternationallaw,and it can only be solved at the political level. To effect the release of theWestern hostages in theLebanon, great leversweremoved; great forceswerebroughtintoplay;forMrRichter,seventymillionpoundsinfrozenIraqiassetswere‘thawed’.What,then,isanovelistunderterroristattackworth?

Despairmurmurs,onceagain:‘Notapluggednickel.’ButIrefusetogiveintodespair.YoumayaskwhyI’msosurethere’snothingIcandotohelpmyselfoutof

thisjam.At the end of 1990, dispirited and demoralized, feeling abandoned, even

then, in consequence of the BritishGovernment’s decision to patch things upwith Iran, and with my marriage at an end, I faced my deepest grief, myunquenchable sorrow at having been torn away from, cast out of, the culturesandsocietiesfromwhichI’dalwaysdrawnmystrengthandinspiration—thatis,the broad community ofBritishAsians, and the broader community of IndianMuslims. I determined tomakemy peacewith Islam, even at the cost ofmypride.ThosewhoweresurprisedanddispleasedbywhatIdidperhapsfailedtosee that Iwas not some deracinatedUncleTomWog.To these people itwasapparently incomprehensible that I should seek to make peace between thewarringhalvesof theworld,whichwerealso thewarringhalvesofmysoul—andthatIshouldseektodosoinaspiritofhumility,insteadofthearrogancesooftenattributedtome.

In‘InGoodFaith’Iwrote:‘Perhapsawayforwardmightbefoundthroughthemutual recognition of [our]mutual pain,’ but evenmoderateMuslims hadtroublewiththisnotion:whatpain,theyasked,couldIpossiblyhavesuffered?WhatwasItalkingabout?Asaresult,thereallyimportantconversationsIhadinthisperiodwerewithmyself.

Isaid:Salman,youmustsendamessageloudenoughtobeheardallovertheworld.YoumustmakeordinaryMuslims see thatyouaren’t their enemy, andmaketheWestunderstandalittlemoreofthecomplexityofMuslimculture.ItwasmyhopethatWesternersmightsay,well,ifhe’stheoneindanger,andyethe’swilling to acknowledge the importanceofhisMuslim roots, thenperhapsweought tostart thinkinga little lessstereotypicallyourselves. (Nosuch luck,though.Themessageyousendisn’talwaystheonethat’sreceived.)

And I said to myself: Admit it, Salman, the Story of Islam has a deepermeaning for you than any of the other grand narratives. Of course you’re nomystic,mister,andwhenyouwroteIamnotaMuslim that’swhatyoumeant.Nosupernaturalism,noliteralistorthodoxies,noformalrulesforyou.ButIslamdoesn’t have to mean blind faith. It can mean what it always meant in yourfamily, a culture, a civilization, as open-minded as your grandfather was, asdelightedlydisputatiousasyourfatherwas,as intellectualandphilosophicalasyou like.Don’t let thezealotsmakeMuslim a terrifyingword, Iurgedmyself;

rememberwhenitmeantfamilyandlight.IremindedmyselfthatIhadalwaysarguedthatitwasnecessarytodevelop

thenascentconceptofthe‘secularMuslim’,who,likethesecularJews,affirmedhis membership of the culture while being separate from the theology. I hadrecentlyreadthecontemporaryMuslimphilosopherFouadZakariya’sLaïcitéouIslamisme, and been encouraged by Zakariya’s attempt to modernize Islamicthought.But,Salman, I toldmyself,youcan’targuefromoutside thedebatingchamber.You’vegot tocross the threshold,go inside theroom,and then fightforyourhumanized,historicized,secularizedwayofbeingaMuslim.Irecalledmynear-namesake,thetwelfth-centuryphilosopherIbnRushd(Averroës),whoarguedthat(toquotethegreatArabhistorianAlbertHourani),‘notallthewordsof theQu’ran should be taken literally.When the literalmeaning ofQu’ranicverses appeared to contradict the truths to which philosophers arrived by theexercise of reason, those verses needed to be interpretedmetaphorically.’ ButIbnRushdwasasnob.Havingpropoundedanideafarinadvanceofitstimehequalified it by saying that such sophistication was only suitable for the élite;literalismwoulddoforthemasses.Salman,Iaskedmyself,isittimetopickupIbnRushd’sbannerandcarryitforward;tosay,nowadayssuchideasarefitforeverybody,forthebeggaraswellastheprince?

Itwaswithsuch things inmind—andwithmy thoughts ina stateof someconfusionandtorment—thatIspoketheMuslimcreedbeforewitnesses.Butmyfantasy of joining the fight for the modernization of Muslim thought, forfreedomfromtheshacklesof theThoughtPolice,wasstillborn. Itnever reallyhadachance.ToomanypeoplehadspenttoolongdemonizingortotemizingmetolistenseriouslytowhatIhadtosay.IntheWest,some‘friends’turnedagainstme, calling me by yet another set of insulting names. Now I was spineless,pathetic, debased; I had betrayedmyself,myCause; above all, I had betrayedthem.

I also foundmyselfupagainst thegranite, heartless certaintiesofActuallyExisting Islam,bywhich Imean thepoliticalandpriestlypower structure thatpresently dominates and stiflesMuslim societies. Actually Existing Islam hasfailedtocreateafreesocietyanywhereonEarth,anditwasn’tabouttoletme,of all people, argue in favour of one. Suddenly Iwas (metaphorically) amongpeoplewhosesocialattitudesI’dfoughtallmylife—forexample,theirattitudesaboutwomen(oneIslamicistboastedtomethathiswifewouldcuthistoe-nailswhilehemade telephonecalls, and suggested I found sucha spouse)or aboutgays (oneof the Imams Imet inDecember1990wasonTVsoonafterwards,

denouncingMuslimgaysassickcreatureswhobroughtshameontheirfamiliesandwhooughttoseekmedicalandpsychiatrichelp).HadItrulyfalleninamongsuchpeople?ThatwasnotwhatImeantatall.

Facing the utter intransigence, the philistine scorn of somuch ofActuallyExisting Islam, I reluctantly concluded that there was no way for me to helpbringintobeingtheMuslimcultureI’ddreamedof,theprogressive,irreverent,sceptical,argumentative,playfulandunafraidculturewhichiswhatI’vealwaysunderstoodasfreedom.Notme,notinthislifetime,nochance.ActuallyExistingIslam, which has all but deified its Prophet, a man who always foughtpassionatelyagainstsuchdeification;whichhassupplantedapriest-freereligionby a priest-ridden one;whichmakes literalism aweapon and redescriptions acrime,willneverletthelikesofmein.

IbnRushd’s ideaswere silenced in their time.And throughout theMuslimworld today, progressive ideas are in retreat. Actually Existing Islam reignssupreme,andjustastherecentlydestroyed‘ActuallyExistingSocialism’oftheSoviet terror-state was horrifically unlike the utopia of peace and equality ofwhichdemocraticsocialistshavedreamed,soalso isActuallyExistingIslamaforcetowhichIhavenevergivenin,towhichIcannotsubmit.

There isapointbeyondwhichconciliation looks likecapitulation. IdonotbelieveIpassedthatpoint,butothershavethoughtotherwise.

Ihaveneverdisownedmybook,norregrettedwritingit.IsaidIwassorrytohaveoffendedpeople,becauseIhadnotsetouttodoso,andsoIam.Iexplainedthatwritersdonotagreewitheverywordspokenbyeverycharactertheycreate—a truism in the world of books, but a continuing mystery to The SatanicVerses’opponents.Ihavealwayssaidthatthisnovelhasbeentraduced.Indeed,thechiefbenefitofmymeetingwiththesixIslamicscholarsonChristmasEve1990wasthattheyagreedthatthenovelhadnoinsultingmotives.‘InIslam,itisaman’s intention that counts,’ Iwas told. ‘Nowwewill launch aworld-widecampaignonyourbehalftoexplainthattherehasbeenagreatmistake.’Allthiswithmuchsmilingandfriendlinessandhandshaking.ItwasinthiscontextthatIagreed to suspend—not cancel—apaperback edition, to createwhat I called aspaceforreconciliation.

Alas,Ioverestimatedthesemen.Withindays,allbutoneofthemhadbrokentheir promises, and recommenced to vilifyme andmywork as ifwe had notshakenhands.Ifelt(mostprobablyIhadbeen)agreatfool.Thesuspensionofthe paperback began at once to look like a surrender. In the aftermath of theattacksonmytranslators,itlooksevenmorecraven.Ithasnowbeenmorethan

threeyearssinceTheSatanicVerseswaspublished;that’salong,long‘spaceforreconciliation’.Longenough. I accept that Iwaswrong tohavegivenwayonthispoint.TheSatanicVersesmustbefreelyavailableandeasilyaffordable,ifonlybecauseifitisnotreadandstudied,thentheseyearswillhavenomeaning.Thosewhoforgetthepastarecondemnedtorepeatit.

‘Ourlivesteachuswhoweare.’Ihavelearnedthehardwaythatwhenyoupermit anyone else’s description of reality to supplant your own—and suchdescriptions have been raining down on me, from security advisers,governments, journalists, Archbishops, friends, enemies, mullahs—then youmightaswellbedead.Obviously,arigid,blinkered,absolutistworld-viewistheeasiest tokeepholdof;whereas the fluid,uncertain,metamorphicpicture I’vealways carried about is rather more vulnerable. Yet I must cling with all mymight to that chameleon, that chimera, that shape-shifter, my own soul; musthold on to itsmischievous, iconoclastic, out-of-step clown-instincts, nomatterhowgreatthestorm.Andifthatplungesmeintocontradictionandparadox,sobeit;I’velivedinthatmessyoceanallmylife.I’vefishedinitformyart.ThisturbulentseawastheseaoutsidemybedroomwindowinBombay.ItistheseabywhichIwasborn,andwhichIcarrywithinmewhereverIgo.

‘Freespeech isanon-starter,’saysoneofmyIslamicextremistopponents.No, sir, it is not. Free speech is the whole thing, the whole ball game. Freespeechislifeitself.

That’stheendofmyspeechfromthisailingballoon.Nowit’stimetoanswerthequestion.Whatismysinglelifeworth?

Isitworthmoreorlessthanthefatcontractsandpoliticaltreatiesthatareinherewithme?Isitworthmoreorlessthangoodrelationswithacountrywhich,inApril1991,gave800womenseventy-fourlasheseachfornotwearingaveil;inwhich theeighty-year-oldwriterMariamFirouz is still in jail,andhasbeentortured; and whose Foreign Minister says, in response to criticism of hiscountry’s lamentable human rights record, ‘International monitoring of thehumanrightssituationinIranshouldnotcontinueindefinitely…Irancouldnottoleratesuchmonitoringforlong’?

Youmustdecidewhatyou thinka friend isworth tohis friends,whatyouthinkasonisworthtohismother,orafathertohisson.Youmustdecidewhataman’sconscienceandheartandsoulareworth.Youmustdecidewhatyouthink

awriterisworth,whatvalueyouplaceonamakerofstories,andanarguerwiththeworld.

Ladiesandgentlemen,theballoonissinkingintotheabyss.

1991