I came across a curious passage in Twain's A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court a couple days ago, while on the road. The book itself is interesting set of contradictions, between its embrace of the terror of the French Revolution, and a blind acceptance of evolutionary progress. I suspect that this rich set of symptoms have been written about quite extensively, but, to be honest, it's not really in my field of study. However, I thought I would present one of the more interesting passages within the text, although without much commentary. Historically, the notion of 'whiteness' or white privilege has its origins in the work of W.E.B. DuBois, however we can find a fairly crude version of the hypothesis in Twain's 1889 work, or perhaps more specifically, it poses the problem that DuBois offers a solution to, why did 'poor whites' support the 'slave-lords', rather than those in a similar, although worse condition? Twain captures the structures of privilege and rank within the feudal society of the 7th century, arguing that these hierarchical structures hold the entire structure in place, but the analogy is never made explicit in the text, left to the reader to make the connection. As a matter of fact, in the passage below, Twain implies that the structure had been abolished with the Civil War, something Twain should have known better about given the results of the compromise of 1877, which ended the Reconstruction, and the terror that came afterwards. Nonetheless, the passage is certainly evocative, and gestures towards the fact that DuBois' insight was in response to a long history of inquiry, which has its origins, in a certain sense, to the work of Montaigne and others.
" I was just expecting he would come out with that. For a moment
the man and his wife showed an eager interest in this news and an
impatience to go out and spread it; then a sudden something else
betrayed itself in their faces, and they began to ask questions. I
answered the questions myself, and narrowly watched the effects
produced. I was soon satisfied that the knowledge of who these three
prisoners were had somehow changed the atmosphere; that our hosts'
continued eagerness to go and spread the news was now only pretended
and not real. The king did not notice the change, and I was glad of
that. I worked the conversation around toward other details of the
night's proceedings, and noted that these people were relieved to
have it take that direction.
The painful thing observable
about all this business was the alacrity with which this oppressed
community had turned their cruel hands against their own class in
the interest of the common oppressor. This man and woman seemed to
feel that in a quarrel between a person of their own class and his
lord, it was the natural and proper and rightful thing for that poor
devil's whole caste to side with the master and fight his battle for
him, without ever stopping to inquire into the rights or wrongs of the
matter. This man had been out helping to hang his neighbors, and had
done his work with zeal, and yet was aware that there was nothing
against them but a mere suspicion, with nothing back of it describable
as evidence, still neither he nor his wife seemed to see anything horrible about it
This
was depressing -- to a man with the dream of a republic in
his head. It reminded me of a time thirteen centuries away, when the
"poor whites" of our South who were always despised and frequently
insulted by the slave-lords around them, and who owed their base
condition simply to the presence of slavery in their midst, were yet
pusillanimously ready to side with the slave-lords in all political
moves for the upholding and perpetuating of slavery, and did also
finally shoulder their muskets and pour out their lives in an effort
to prevent the destruction of that very institution which degraded
them. And there was only one redeeming feature connected with that
pitiful piece of history; and that was, that secretly the "poor white"
did detest the slave-lord, and did feel his own shame. That
feeling was not brought to the surface, but the fact that it was there
and could have been brought out, under favoring circumstances, was
something -- in fact, it was enough; for it showed that a man
is at bottom a man, after all, even if it doesn't show on the outside."
--Mark Twain, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court
Showing posts with label alternative history. Show all posts
Showing posts with label alternative history. Show all posts
Monday, July 16, 2012
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Terry Bisson's Fire on the Mountain, opened with a couple other thoughts
I've been caught up with the second of my reviews for more formal publication. Hopefully, it will get accepted without much in the way of revision. I feel a curious lack of focus right now concerning the blog. I have a set of formal issues that relate to the dissertation, but not much that can translate into a set of interesting short postings. Additionally, my current readings are focused on material for the upcoming budget cuts fights, which might translate into future posting, but the entire topic feels extremely distant despite the fact we will be entering into this fight in less than three months. Finally, the factional conflicts that defined a lot of my focus on the blog over the past couple months have reduced significantly without getting rid of the basic dimensions of the post-election stalemate, nor leading to the substantial transformation of the parties involved. There might be something to write about after the next Joint Council meeting, but until that date later in the month, there isn't much to discuss on that front either... despite the fact that we still need to put a great deal of intellectual energy as well as ground work before we begin the school year.
Perhaps the only other thing worth mentioning despite this long series of negatives is the recent alternative history that I just read. Terry Bisson's Fire on the Mountain was originally published in 1988, and recently republished by leftist publishers, PM Press. Bisson's alternative history operates on the premise that John Brown's raid on Harper's Ferry succeeded because of the aid given to him by Harriet Tubman, who missed the actual raid due to illness. The success of the raid radically transforms the history of the country leading to a series of revolution that begins with the formation of the south as a separate history, Nova Africa, and the eventual transformation of it and the rest of the country into a set of socialist republics. Reminiscent of the two alternative histories constructed by Steven Barnes, Lion's Blood and Zulu Heart, the novel offers an alternative Afrocentric history of the nation, defined by living shoes, structures of collectivization, and fast Egyptian cars, albeit with a far more utopian tone than the Barnes novels.
The narrative is divided between the time period of 1959, where the socialist nation of Nova Africa is about to launch a successful space flight to Mars, and the twin narratives of a young slave who joined Brown in the insurrection as a memoir later in life, and the letters of a northern doctor who joins the struggle due to his abolitionist views. The two narratives are stitched together by the journey made by the great-granddaughter of the former in order to deliver the papers to a museum of the relatively recently formed USSA. The split narrative allows for the exploration of the complexities and ambiguities of the revolutionary process, gesturing to a long history of conflict, continued issues of sexism, as well as the ordinary issues of loss and alienation. The recently formed second socialist nation is still haunted by the poverty created by the long revolutionary struggle, and the revolutionaries are still negotiating the long legacy of white supremacy that defined the earlier era. In this sense, despite its later publication, the novel strongly aligns with the 'ambiguous utopias' of the 1970's such as The Female Man and The Dispossessed.
In spite of that, the narrative is more deeply haunted by the double catastrophe contained in the collapse of the project of the reconstruction, as well as the implicit second reconstruction of the civil rights era. The narrative imagines a radical alliance of abolitionists, Jacobins, Haitian and Italian revolutionaries, as well as the red republican supporters of Marx. If this gestures to the ability to resist the historical collapse of the revolutionary movement of the mid-19th century, which Marx sees the fight against slavery as central to that narrative, it also gestures towards a different future for the New Left coalitions that had recently collapsed under the weight of neo-liberalism, backlash, as well as their own contradictions. Which was, it should be noted, a movement that Bisson played a role in. The act of mourning contained in the novel becomes most evident within the description of the underground white supremacist and dystopian novel, John Brown's Body. The narrative of our present is returned to us as a grotesque and unrealistic fantasy, a cheap and despicable reactionary pulp novel. The utopian narrative reminds us more the catastrophe of our present, defined by the domination and exploitation of imperialism and capitalism, and perhaps more bluntly, the driving force of white supremacy a contributing structural factor for both.
In this sense, Bisson's novel sits comfortably besides the historical novels of Luther Blissett and Umberto Eco's The Name of the Rose, novels that invert the historical teleology of the historical novels explored by Georg Luxacs. These novels explore the transition of history, not as progress, but as catastrophe. The narratives attempt to explore the revolutionary trace contained within that wreckage, a trace always contained in the failed possibilities of those times.
Perhaps the only other thing worth mentioning despite this long series of negatives is the recent alternative history that I just read. Terry Bisson's Fire on the Mountain was originally published in 1988, and recently republished by leftist publishers, PM Press. Bisson's alternative history operates on the premise that John Brown's raid on Harper's Ferry succeeded because of the aid given to him by Harriet Tubman, who missed the actual raid due to illness. The success of the raid radically transforms the history of the country leading to a series of revolution that begins with the formation of the south as a separate history, Nova Africa, and the eventual transformation of it and the rest of the country into a set of socialist republics. Reminiscent of the two alternative histories constructed by Steven Barnes, Lion's Blood and Zulu Heart, the novel offers an alternative Afrocentric history of the nation, defined by living shoes, structures of collectivization, and fast Egyptian cars, albeit with a far more utopian tone than the Barnes novels.
The narrative is divided between the time period of 1959, where the socialist nation of Nova Africa is about to launch a successful space flight to Mars, and the twin narratives of a young slave who joined Brown in the insurrection as a memoir later in life, and the letters of a northern doctor who joins the struggle due to his abolitionist views. The two narratives are stitched together by the journey made by the great-granddaughter of the former in order to deliver the papers to a museum of the relatively recently formed USSA. The split narrative allows for the exploration of the complexities and ambiguities of the revolutionary process, gesturing to a long history of conflict, continued issues of sexism, as well as the ordinary issues of loss and alienation. The recently formed second socialist nation is still haunted by the poverty created by the long revolutionary struggle, and the revolutionaries are still negotiating the long legacy of white supremacy that defined the earlier era. In this sense, despite its later publication, the novel strongly aligns with the 'ambiguous utopias' of the 1970's such as The Female Man and The Dispossessed.
In spite of that, the narrative is more deeply haunted by the double catastrophe contained in the collapse of the project of the reconstruction, as well as the implicit second reconstruction of the civil rights era. The narrative imagines a radical alliance of abolitionists, Jacobins, Haitian and Italian revolutionaries, as well as the red republican supporters of Marx. If this gestures to the ability to resist the historical collapse of the revolutionary movement of the mid-19th century, which Marx sees the fight against slavery as central to that narrative, it also gestures towards a different future for the New Left coalitions that had recently collapsed under the weight of neo-liberalism, backlash, as well as their own contradictions. Which was, it should be noted, a movement that Bisson played a role in. The act of mourning contained in the novel becomes most evident within the description of the underground white supremacist and dystopian novel, John Brown's Body. The narrative of our present is returned to us as a grotesque and unrealistic fantasy, a cheap and despicable reactionary pulp novel. The utopian narrative reminds us more the catastrophe of our present, defined by the domination and exploitation of imperialism and capitalism, and perhaps more bluntly, the driving force of white supremacy a contributing structural factor for both.
In this sense, Bisson's novel sits comfortably besides the historical novels of Luther Blissett and Umberto Eco's The Name of the Rose, novels that invert the historical teleology of the historical novels explored by Georg Luxacs. These novels explore the transition of history, not as progress, but as catastrophe. The narratives attempt to explore the revolutionary trace contained within that wreckage, a trace always contained in the failed possibilities of those times.
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