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Beautiful Losers of Leonard Cohen
02.13.05 (2:17 pm) [edit]Jyri-Pekka Luoma
Masculinity in Leonard Cohen’s novel Beautiful Losers
An Essay in New Literatures in English
Leonard Cohen (b. 1934) is better known as a singer-songwriter and a poet. Yet, Beautiful Losers, “his controversial and brilliant novel”, as the Panther paperback cover claims, has sold over million copies. It was first published in 1966, in the times of general discontent, social upheaval, the Vietnam War, and the sexual revolution. Throughout the novel, dealing with sexual, racial, and political questions, Cohen is on a quest for self-expression and identity. ‘Masculinity’ is explicitly present in the novel as a part of that quest, but in the same time, the roles of gender are questioned, and sometimes consciously ridiculed.
Cohen was born in Montreal, and he is part of the Canadian metropolitan literature. In contradistinction to what Elleke Boehmer calls postcolonial settler writing, Cohen shares the definition of African, Caribbean, and Indian writers who searched for “a self-constituted identity” (Boehmer 1995: 213), and as Boehmer states, such a quest is not limited to third-world countries. Cohen’s novel is structured as a flow of parallel realities. Historical roots, i.e. the French colonization of Canada in 1663, and the Iroquois war, are mingled together with the modern-day distress of an urban male of the 1960s. Many sequences in the novel are addressed to a 17th-century Iroquois woman, Catherine Tekawitha, almost as to show that the narrator is not searching for his past out of simple curiosity, but to give substance, or an obscure ‘other’ to his own identity.
Stylistically, the novel is experimental, utilising an almost James Joycean fragmentary structure, but there is also manifested a strong influence of the stream-of-consciousness technique of the Beatnik generation poets. The experimental style seems to hint at two conspicuous elements: firstly, to demonstrate masculinity that is in control over the literary conventions; the novel may suddenly be interrupted by a magazine advert or a Greek language lesson. Secondly, that the function of the novel is not to tell a story, but to reveal a subjective reality, that of a cosmic troubadour. In connection to the latter, there is also a sense of the fragmentary nature of urban reality, and especially that of a metropolitan Canadian.
When, according to Margaret Laurence, Canadian writers had the need to write about that which was “truly theirs” (Boehmer 1995: 215), the imperialist ‘there’ had to be changed into a ‘here’. In this context, it can be argued that Cohen does just that. By deconstructing the conventional form, and by sticking to the first-person narrative with its subjective conception of the realities, Cohen has created his own empire and is unconcerned about the society. The protagonist (if there is one) is well satisfied with his seeming rootlessness (his roots are artistic not societal); by abandoning the idea of regional variety (that is, telling a universal story in a regional setting, as if it was somehow unique). The novel is not so much a ‘report of incidents’ as it is a ‘mishmash’ of personal recollections. Thus, Cohen turns another forced gender stereotype upside down: his narrative is not really stereotypically ‘masculine’, but even ‘feminine’, for his fictional ontology is based, not on regional or personal, and not even on historical variation (for Catherine Tekawitha is as much in the ‘present’ as the narrator), but on a whole, the experience of reality is timeless, boundless, eternally human. Everything is, in a way, linked to the first-hand experience.
Cohen does not share with George Woodcock’s “the rising up of national pride” (Boehmer 1995: 213). On the contrary, Cohen’s masculinity rises from the opposition, the rebellious force of individualism and separateness. It is similar to Boehmer’s definition of Canadian self-consciousness from the 1950s onwards as a “perception of non-identity” (Id.: 213). Cohen’s isolation is not that of a ‘Briton abroad’ (Id.: 214), but that of a freethinker and artist not belonging to the pre-structured society with its narrow expressions. The isolation is akin to the wandering male protagonists of Henry Miller or William Burroughs, that exist on a more abstract level of subjectivity, where the narrative voice becomes the protagonist. The basic narrative structure of Beautiful Losers represents a basic quality of masculinity that the man is always in control of his situation. The narrative voice becomes entangled with the incidents, if it is, indeed, within the territory of using such a term as ‘incident’ in Cohen’s case.
The first-person narrator openly defines other people as well as himself, not excluding bad habits and weaknesses. Thus, in fact, he does the very thing the ultra-feminist theory claims men incapable of; he is ‘sharing his emotions’. Cohen’s male protagonist is well aware of his ‘inner emotions’; he is also fully capable of ‘seeing through’ the social fabrications. The male identity in Cohen’s novel is free from the harness of political correctness that sometimes prevents men from honest self-expression.
For feminists in the 70s, according to Boehmer, literature “was a powerful medium through which self-definition was sought” (1995: 225). This is also true of Cohen’s masculinity.
I have let women lead me anywhere, and I am not sorry. Convents, kitchens, perfumed telephone booths, poetry courses – I followed women anywhere. I followed women into Parliament because I know how they love power. (Cohen 146).
This is closely linked to the claims made by Boehmer that “The feminization of the male colonized under Empire had produced, as a kind of reflex, an aggressive masculinity in the men who opposed colonialism.” (1995: 224). Furthermore, there is the sense of lacking a history, the protagonist of the novel proclaiming: “Give us back our History! The English have stolen our History!” (Cohen 1972: 122). If there is no non-colonial history, someone must have stolen it.
The novel parodies strict gender consciousness. The mysterious F. in a dialogue with the protagonist:
- You mustn’t feel guilty about any of this because it isn’t strictly homosexual.
- I know it isn’t, I –
- Shut up. It isn’t strictly homosexual because I am not strictly male. The truth is, I had a Swedish operation, I used to be a girl.
- Nobody’s perfect. (Cohen 1972: 26).
Cohen, thus, makes fun of the non-heterosexual male. There is a strong sense of control over the themes of sexuality in the novel. Punch-lining sexual discussions may be the most prominent theme of masculine behaviour. Sexuality, especially the threat of ‘non-maleness’, is a constant source of repressed jokes, and Cohen makes no exception:
All parts of the body are erotogenic. Assholes can be trained with whips and kisses, that’s elementary. Pricks and cunts have become monstrous! Down with genital imperialism! All flesh can come! Don’t you see what we have lost? Why have we abdicated so much pleasure to that which lives in our underwear? Orgasms in the shoulder! Knees going off like firecrackers! Hair in motion! (Cohen 1972: 39). Of course, here Cohen does not only demonstrate his fear of sexual threats, but also forms a clever parody of the sexual liberation of his age. In Book One there is a discussion of ‘The World’s Most Flawlessly Formed Man’ as pictured in an advert. The male ideal, named Charles Axis, is muscular, but looked at more closely lacks hair and is, in reality, described as “the worst nuisance on the beach” (Cohen 1972: 78). Whether this is Cohen’s idea of masculinity in a nutshell, is not evident, but at least it is an allegory of it; a man cannot look up to another man, especially an idealized one, without feeling the threat of unmanliness.
In conclusion, masculinity is pertinent to Cohen in creating an identity in a fragmented reality. The protagonist looks back to his past, not to the colonial invaders, not to the men in charge, but to an obscure Iroquois woman. Cohen shows that reality is not reliable, since history is wrong. His masculine man cannot look up to the male oppressors of its history – it is in fact the history of masculinity more than the history of a nation that Cohen is concerned with – as he cannot look up to the ‘worst nuisance on the beach’. His masculine man is singular; he is the very foundation of the New Empire of subjectivity.
WORKS CITED
Boehmer, Elleke (1995). Colonial & Postcolonial Literature. Oxford:
OUP.
Cohen, Leonard (1972). Beautiful Losers. 2nd edition of the Panther
paperback. London: Panther.
"I thought-but I am half a child . . ." The Victorian Ideal of Women in the Poetry of Elizabeth Barr
02.13.05 (2:13 pm) [edit]Jyri-Pekka Luoma
“I thought–but I am half a child . . .”
The Victorian Ideal of Women in the Poetry of
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Seminar on Literatures in English, 2004.
1 Introduction
An eminent Victorian, and a late-Romantic poet, Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806–1861) is often left in the shadow of her husband Robert Browning, or, in the worst, is regarded only as a passive muse in conjunction with his poetic genius. Yet, in her time her poetry was widely read and, according to Angela Leighton, “very often received high acclaim” (1986: 2). However, although Gilbert & Gubar state that she is “the most frequently analyzed, criticized, praised, and blamed woman poet of her day” (1984: 543), in the twentieth century, her poetry would largely fall into disregard. Not until “the growth of feminist publishing and criticism in the late 1970s” was her poetry “read again, discussed and put in its place” (Leighton 1986: 2). In 1962, her poetry was dismissed as “women’s poetry” only serving as “the revelation of an adoring love, and a confident integrity of emotion” (Batho & Dobrée 1962: 35). Although esteemed English literature editors, Edith Batho and Bonamy Dobrée do not rank Barrett Browning among the ‘immortals’; on the contrary, they argue that “there is little of hers that can now [in 1962] be read with more than vague suggestions of pleasure” (1962: 33). Hence, the ‘Victorian’ ideal of women, on which this paper concentrates, is not strictly limited to the Victorian era but can as well be traced in other time contexts.
The Victorian ideal of women assumes a certain code of conduct on how ‘proper’ women should behave. This ideal perceives women as the weaker sex, with childlike innocence and chastity. In that respect, it can be argued, the ideal did not really deliver any new angles to the precedent and traditional views over the role of women. In the words of Deborah Bialeschki, “the traditional Victorian stereotype of femininity [was] based on weakness, passiveness and concern with propriety, attractiveness, and modesty” (1992: 53). As my theoretical background I will primarily concentrate on Sandra M. Gilbert & Susan Gubar’s The Madwoman in the Attic (1979), a staple work on the subject of nineteenth century English women writers. The aim of this paper is to study how the Victorian ideal of women is present in Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s poems in the form of spiritualised and archetypical images of women. In this study we are not concerned with the longer verse-novel Aurora Leigh for the reason that it has already been extensively scrutinised as a clearly feminist text so that it has almost left Barrett Browning’s other poems not researched into.
Moreover, I will look at the ways in which Barrett Browning as a woman writer relates to her ‘muses’, based on Harold Bloom’s theories postulated in his Anxiety of Influence; and finally, based on Peter Ackroyd’s insights on female mysticism, how the silences of women may turn provocatively anarchistic. I will argue that the Victorian ideal of women, which Barrett Browning understood to be a spiritualised stereotype, coupled with the marginalised position she shared with other nineteenth-century woman poets, did not simply oppress her, but, on the contrary, as with many Romantic authors, through her Victorian sensibilities of agony and self-loathing, shaped her artistic vision and aided her to ‘ascend the poetic throne’.
2 Victorian Women, Imagined or Real
In 1956, Henry Charles Duffin dismantled Betty Miller’s contemporary biography on the Brownings as “a perverse book” for it largely concentrated on their private life, an area traditionally regarded as feminine (1956: 308), and then he escaped into criticising the Victorian era: "[The Brownings] lived in an age when influential women publicly proclaimed that woman’s desire was to be inferior to men, and a writer so clear-visioned as Ruskin limited the education of women to that which would enable them to share their husbands’ interests" (1956: 44).
According to Roberta B. Powell, the Victorian view of women as prudes needing protection was widely supported even by medical experts: "Medical theories and practices continually execrated women’s abilities to operate effectively outside the home. Theories also ‘proved’ women’s biological differences meant natural inferiority intellectually, emotionally, and physically; in addition, fashion and diet reinforced stereotypes of women’s incapabilities by handicapping her movements and causing bodily harm." (1982: 27).
This has of course not completely changed. Women are continuously oppressed with fashion and diet. The inferior position to men was generally taken as a ‘God-given’ fact of life, and, consequently, even women themselves came to believe they were inferior. It comes as no surprise, then, that the women who wanted to gain any power would try to hide their true sex; some authors would go as far as change their name. It is therefore important to look at some of the prevalent attitudes towards the Victorian women, as well as to reveal the actual cultural environment where Barrett Browning wrote her poems.
2.1 ‘The Angel in the House’
Gilbert & Gubar list Coventry Patmore’s The Angel in the House as “the middle nineteenth century most popular book of poems” (1984: 22). The title perfectly describes the Victorian attitudes towards women. In Victorian Woman, Duncan Crow quotes a central figure in the Victorian women’s movement, Florence Nightingale, “Very few people lead such an impoverishing and confusing and weakening life as the women of the richer classes” (1972: 42). Stuart Curran sees ‘the angel in the house’ as ". . . part of the bourgeois domestic myth the nineteenth century hallowed for its ethos. But as the case of Elizabeth Barrett exemplifies, the major women writers themselves went far to create and authenticate this privileged position." (1993: 193).
Whereas the women’s movement of the Victorian age, being the age of industrial and social revolution, wanted to get women out of the homes, from domestic labours and limitations, Barrett Browning belonged to the female bourgeois literary culture and was in fact satisfied with her seclusion. ‘The privileged position’ refers to the fact that some of the women writers actually preferred to sustain the Victorian ideal of ‘the angel in the house’. This view may seem contradicting to the later claims of Virginia Woolf that a woman can become an author only when she is in possession of ‘a room of her own’ (see: 1998). The room should of course be a private space that is connected to society, and not a vacuous prison whose only function is to keep women in the margins.
Chase Stafford portrays in his essay the Victorian ideal of women as “the spiritual center of the household” (2003: 4). Women were supposed to look after their husband and children, and they were not supposed to have any life beyond the domestic structures. Of course such suppositions may be little else than idealised generalisations, but indisputably that which meant imprisonment for one, constituted a release to another.
2.2 ‘Feminism’ in the Nineteenth Century
The term ‘feminism’ was not introduced before the late nineteenth century, but throughout the century there was a women’s movement fighting for equality. Not until 1870s women were allowed to enter Oxford and Cambridge. (Manzano 1999). Clearly this also affected the views towards any female authors before that time. If women were ineligible for a higher education, then how could they be respected as literary authors? According to Peter Ackroyd: "The women of nineteenth-century London were also marginalised and restricted. They were given roles, in other words, to which they were forced to adapt. The culture of the period is permeated by images of saint and sinner, angel and whore, pure and fallen, but this is only one aspect of a fixed network of expression." (2000: 634).
Barrett Browning had read and been affected by Mary Wollstonecraft’s The Rights of Woman when she was twelve years old (Miller 1958: 98). Yet she thought herself not as a ‘feminist’ [the concept of feminism was, of course, not yet invented]. In her youth, however, she had a dream “of equality, of feminine emancipation”, but that dream depended on the support of her brother Edward. When alone, “she had to accept in herself the inescapable realities of her own femininity.” (Ibid.) She despised herself as a human being. From a letter: “[Apart from the poetry] the rest of me is a root fit for the ground and the dark” (Miller 1958: 85). This is not a rare view in the Victorian context. The long line of oppression towards women had distorted the self-image and feelings of inferiority persisted. At the same time, however, women as readers and authors of literary works were essential to the development of a heterogeneous literary polysystem.
2.3 Victorian Women and Poetry
In A Linguistic History of English Poetry, Richard Bradford infers from W. H. Auden, the acclaimed twentieth-century poet, that poetry “is the only medium in which the uneasy relationship between our register of events and our primary means of mediating them can be properly tested and reexamined” (Bradford 1993: 98). Unifying features in Victorian verse, according to Bradford, are “the Romantic affiliation to poetry as the supremely subjective medium for expression and poetry as a particular system of prescribed devices” (1993: 133). In this we can see the heterogeneity of poetry: at the same time it is regarded as feminine, for it is purportedly a means to express feelings, but also it is a complex and regulated art of composition, whose history is essentially male.
Traditionally, rooting from the ancient Greece, poetry was seen as a distinctly masculine art, and, through medieval to Victorian times, women were seen as incapable of producing original works of art. In this sense, the Victorian ideal of women was not a new one, and in the nineteenth-century Britain poetry was still regarded as a male-centred art. Yet, women have always produced works of art, including poetry. Peter Ackroyd strives to revitalise the overlooked past in his Albion – the Origins of English Imagination, mentioning many medieval women authors now most fallen into obscurity. Certainly, there is a long line of women’s writing, more than a blank space, between the ancient Sappho and the Victorian Barrett Browning, but women have remained in an invisible position outside the canon. In the nineteenth century, the attitudes towards poetry changed, and to some extent, in the words of Gilbert & Gubar, “verse-writing became a genteel accomplishment in the Victorian period, an elegant hobby like sketching, piano-playing, or needlepoint” (1984: 559). Unlike the previous century, women could now take part in ‘the holy art’ of poetry, but as to diminish the whole importance of poetry after women had accessed it, the attitudes towards poetry as somehow feminine had begun to emerge.
It comes as no surprise that the recognition of women authors correlates with the social changes in women’s position. According to Gilbert & Gubar, “by the nineteenth century there was a rich and clearly defined female literary subculture, a community in which women consciously read and related to each other’s works” (1984: xii). The existence of such a subculture, and critical readership was essential in changing the cultural position of women. In this view, it can be argued that the Victorian era was not simply oppressive towards women, but it was also, to some extent, more diverse and ‘open-minded’ than the first half of the following century, when the World Wars again put women largely in their ‘traditional’ place as ‘the weaker sex’, passive muses, and angels in the house.
3 Barrett Browning’s Poetic Voices
From the feminist point of view of Angela Leighton, the process of writing for Barrett Browning was “always marked by the vulnerability, ambition and difference of being a woman” (1986: 9). She took morphine regularly to ease the pains of her permanent lung ailment and spinal injury since she was 15 (Miller 1958: 103). Whereas drugs for some nineteenth-century male authors enhanced libidinal dreams, in Barrett Browning they deepened her resignation from social life. In the words of Miller, she was “Shut up, year after year, in a single room, ‘face to face’ with her own spirit” (1958: 85). However, as stated earlier, her poetry also necessitated that resignation, and only partly was it due to external reasons. Her ‘imprisonment’ made it possible for her to gain an extensive classical knowledge, so it was as much her prison as it was her liberation and ‘university’.
In many ways, Barrett Browning personifies the Victorian ideal of women: she was domestic and physically weak because of her invalid condition, she was moral in her religious chastity, and ultimately, she was a Muse to his spouse. Miller compares her to Harriet Taylor, J. S. Mill’s wife, with whom Barrett Browning had a literary friendship. According to Miller, they were “frail women”, but they also shared “an identical influence over the men they loved” (1958: 60). In other words, they were perfect and emblematic Victorian women as musa for their husbands.
As a woman, Barrett Browning felt she was a solitary creature among poets. According to Leighton, she looked for ‘grandmothers’ but could “see none” (1986: 11). However, she does mention Sappho in a poem as the exception, a “poet-woman” (Barrett Browning 1912: 15). In print, there were few women predecessors she could assimilate to, although there were many contemporary ones. All in all, the poetic influences were male. The fact that Barrett Browning had a wide knowledge of the classical poetry, according to Gilbert & Gubar, “was barely noticed in her own day and has been almost completely forgotten in ours” (1984: 547). Barrett Browning, thus, absorbs the male hierarchy, the poetical classicism and the potent, often more physical than symbolical God. Her position becomes asexual even. In her usurpation of the male poet’s throne, the ‘poetess’ has, according to Gilbert & Gubar, “found it necessary to act out male metaphors in [her] own texts as if trying to understand their implications”, and before a woman writer can reach “literary autonomy”, she has to overcome the “mythic masks male artists have fastened over her human face (1984: xii, 16). In other words: the aesthetic ideal of women must be reconsidered. Yet it does not need to be overthrown.
Despite Barrett Browning’s own sense of uniqueness of position, there are similarities to other nineteenth-century women authors; most pertinently to Christina Rossetti. Both are characterised by seclusion, finiteness, and spirituality. According to Leighton, both were “liberal and Christian” (1986: 15). To some extent they were almost religious hermits. Such a solitudinal standpoint may be interpreted as subordination, but more so it can be seen as a form of spiritual and individual strength. In Albion – the Origins of the English Imagination, Peter Ackroyd discusses such a “manifestation of a female sensibility” as ". . . a sacred area where the privileges of the male hierarchy do not apply, and where female authority can plausibly be asserted. It is the context for the succession of female mystics and prophets . . . who oppose themselves to the dispensations of male power." (2002: 189).
Batho and Dobrée, who could not find ‘Mrs Browning’ of much value, nevertheless praised Rossetti for her “quietude” and her “extraordinarily pure spirituality” whatever they thought that was (1962: 44–45). Both of these qualities, of course, epitomise the Victorian stereotypes of spiritualised women, but as is the case with poets of either sex, idealisations on the whole are pertinent to their creative position.
3.1 A Tyrant Dethroned? – Daughter and Father
Although Barrett Browning’s poetic voices are recurrently ‘male’ by form – even the daughter in Aurora Leigh is, according to Gilbert & Gubar, a suggestion of “the mysterious variety female artists perceive in male imagery of women” (1984: 18) – the gendering is not in any case simple. More aptly, Barrett Browning’s women are poetic idealisations, classical, mythical archetypes that ascend the boundaries of ‘mere mortals’ but that still belong to the male tradition. Nevertheless, there are clear, although subtle references to gender issues in her poems. In “A Rhapsody of Life’s Progress”, the subordinated self-esteem of the ‘weaker sex’ surfaces to shriek: “Help me, God–help me, man! I am low, I am weak” (275). She claims to be “strong in the spirit”, but the body is weak (Ibid). The poetic voice, although not clearly female, asks men and God to accept ‘the other sex’. The author is wary of being explicitly pro-women, and in fact, she grows more concerned with the relationship between “this world” and the beyond:
We lie in the dark here, swathed doubly around
With our sensual relations and social conventions,
Yet are ‘ware of a sight, yet are ‘ware of a sound
Beyond Hearing and Seeing (273)
The world-weary voice resigned to the void is doubled with a totally different one in the same poem, that of a god-like tyrant, resembling the more extreme forms of twentieth-century feminism:'
Let us sit on the thrones
In a purple sublimity,
And grind down men’s bones
To a pale unanimity.
Speed me, God!–serve me, man!–I am god over
men;
When I speak in my cloud, none shall answer again.
‘Neath the stripe and the bond,
Lie and mourn at my feet!– (273)
Barrett Browning’s own father was a strong, even tyrannical, authority. For her “it is the father who stands for that ‘Other’ against which her poetry shapes itself and grows strong” (Leighton 1986: 22). Leighton wishes to see in Elizabeth and her father a case of “a larger seductive ideology of fatherhood, which predominated in the nineteenth century, and which was particularly strong in the writings of Victorian women” (Id.: 25). In Barrett Browning’s poems, the father is at the same time a tyrant and a ‘Muse’ who lends her with authority. Her absorption of male poetic history and a new critical yet acknowledgeable and accepting view over it supersedes the traditional boundaries of either-or. ‘The poetess’ absorbs the influence of her poetic fathers, but also of her spiritual mothers, and, still citing from Leighton, “While she fears to lose the oppressive but inspiring authority of the father, this daughter poet is glad to repudiate the colder commands of the mother” (Id.: 61). Thus the daughter poet does not only usurp her father, but by assimilation, she gains control over the whole ‘kingdom’.
3.2 Das Ewig-Weibliche – Mother and Children
Motherhood in Barrett Browning’s poems is always linked with death, although it must not be ignored that most of her poems per se are linked with that eternal theme. The association of motherhood with death is symbolically pregnant. According to Bernard Bergonzi, “the Victorian ideal of the feminine . . . was too much fixated on a frail version of the Ewig-Weibliche [a concept from Goethe’s Faust], the passive, yielding, tender, feminine image, and was too little aware of the militant aspects of femininity” (1969: 49). The tradition saw women primarily as child-bearers, and motherhood was supposed to be the highest ambition of every woman.
Opposing to this tradition, Barrett Browning paints her poems with frequent images of retreating not only from the world but also from Nature, and the necessity of bearing children in order to be regarded as a woman. In “The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim’s Point”, the black slave mother kills her own child in fear of punishment, because the father is white. In addition to being a commentary on racial injustice, the underlying significance of the poem is that having children in the first place is in a way submitting to the tradition, and the fear of being ‘trapped’ in it. In the child, the woman sees not a baby but a reflection of her master, who will control her: “I saw a look that made me mad! / The master’s look, that used to fall” (168). The metaphor of the slave mother can be seen as referring to the myth of Adam’s first wife, the ‘proto-woman’, Lilith, who was
. . . locked into a vengeance (child-killing) which can only bring her more suffering (the killing of her own children). And even the nature of her one-woman revolution emphasizes her helplessness and her isolation, for her protest takes the form of a refusal and a departure. . . (Gilbert & Gubar 1984: 35).
Children in Barrett Browning’s poems are associated with the colour white which symbolically represents characteristics such as purity and innocence, ideal traits for Victorian women, but also the spirit world and timelessness. Thus the colour can incidentally be taken as the symbol for the many-sided character of Barrett Browning herself. Moreover, children are not only a metaphor for eternal life and continuity but also timeliness and finiteness. Certainly children in the poems reflect the Victorian ideal of women who were seen as pretty and child-like dolls. Metaphorically, the ‘children’ can also stand for the poems themselves that will outlive their author.
I called the child to me, and said,
‘What are your palms for?’–‘To be spread,’
He answered, ‘on a poet dead (31).
As the author states, “Life is perfected by Death” (33). The main function of the children in the poems, as ultimately in life, is to carry the dead to their graves.
The roles can of course switch so that the child is the one to die before her parents. For instance, in “Isobel’s Child” the mother and the sleeping child are first depicted in a Catholic posture. The biblical narrative introduces God who saves the life of the baby, only to take it away later. The narrator sees in the infant “the undeveloped mystery” (64) and freedom from suffering. She portrays the unity:
In the pure loves of a child and mother!
Two human loves make one divine (68).
In this poem, too, Barrett Browning reverses the order, embracing the reverted, or cancelled, miracle of God. The finiteness of life is enhanced by the notion that the natural chain of generations can easily be broken by a sudden demise of the child.
3.3 Muses for Women? – the Question of Gender
Harold Bloom in his Anxiety of Influence suggests that “the Muse is mother and harlot at once, for the largest phantasmagoria most of us weave from our necessarily egoistic interests in the family romance, which might be called the only poem that even unpoetical natures continue to compose” (1975: 63). Gilbert & Gubar point out that “Bloom’s model of literary history is intensely (even exclusively) male, and necessarily patriarchal”, and they also pose the question where “does the female poet fit in? . . . Does she have a muse, and what is its sex?” (1984: 47).
In “A Lament for Adonis”, Cytherea has “lost her fair spouse, and / so lost her fair smile” (1). The powerful Grecian symbolism of the poem alludes beyond the obvious interpretation of the loss of a loved one, in that by losing “her fair spouse”, she has also lost the image of herself. As argued earlier in the paper, the Victorian ideal persists in women not existing out of the familial context. In the same poem the revealing lines are heard: “My husband!–thou’rt better and brighter than I” (3). The notion is remarkable, not only because the husband referred to is already dead, but because it shows the integrated belief in the female narrator to be inferior to her male counterpart.
In the eulogy “A Vision of Poets”, the emerging ‘male’ poet is ridiculed. The Muse of the poem is a ‘female’ angel, and there we meet the traditional Greek ‘fair nymph’ of the woods guiding the poet. The ‘female’ angel appears to be the opposite of the Victorian ideal: masculine, loud, and outspoken, almost as a fiery beast-god from the Old Testament shouting:
Rise up! be strong!
And learn how right avenges wrong (11)
On the other hand, the ‘male’ poet is depicted as sweet-talking, feminine: “As sweet, in short, as perfumed shroud / Which the gay [pun not intended] Roman maidens sewed / For English Keats, singing aloud.” (7). The gender roles have turned. The ‘poet’ is not an image of Barrett Browning, but rather an object of fancy, he has become the Muse. In this poem, as in many others, Barrett Browning does not use a distinctly female poetic voice, or at least not a ‘flesh and blood’ point of view of a woman. Again, it is the male history of poets that speaks, or then we are to believe Virginia Woolf, when she wrote in A Room of One’s Own: “Women are hard on women. Women dislike women.” (1998: 145). Whichever the case, Barrett Browning seems to avoid clearly female perspectives.
3.4 The Silent Revolt – Barrett Browning’s Feminism and Femicriticism
Barrett Browning frequently shares the Victorian ideal of women as the weaker sex, but it is more the ideal-mythical woman that she portrays than the woman referring back to the level of everyday reality. It may be argued that her poetic voices spring primarily from her classicist knowledge, so in fact they are akin to traditional male perspectives towards stereotypical female characters. In “The Poet’s Vow”, the medieval figure of Rosalind is depicted as the passive object of love, “with large, doubting eyes” she is “like a child that never knew but love” (41). Rosalind of the poem does not trust in her own capabilities, but reflects on Sir Roland. A good example of the Victorian ideal:
I thought–but I am half a child,
And very sage art thou–
The teachings of the heaven and earth
Should keep us soft and low (41).
These lines remind of the Victorian principle that women should be seen, not heard, and that they should subordinate themselves to their spouses. Also the idea of women as next to children is provocatively present. The medieval character of Rosalind, frail and about to die, is typically Victorian, as is the whole palette of medievalism: “In death-sheets lieth Rosalind, / As white and still as they” (46). The dying maiden to a great extent is the ideal of woman of the Victorian age: silent, moral, in agony, pale and frail. The words of Rosalind’s scroll reveal that she thought herself better dead. The words, thus, present us with a sterling critique of the futility of the Victorian ideal of women:
I left thee last, a child at heart, / A woman scarce in years: / I come to thee, a solemn corpse, / Which neither feels nor fears. / I have no breath to use in sighs; / They laid the death-weights on mine eyes / To seal them safe from tears. (50).
The complete immobility and the bordering on the brink of non-existence would, then, be the only way to fully conform to the Victorian ideal. Barrett Browning’s most openly feministic poem is interestingly also a striking critique towards the vanities of her own sex. The narrator of “Lady Geraldine’s Courtship” becomes infuriated towards the irritating Lady Geraldine, and speaks out:
What right have you, madam, gazing in your palace
mirror daily.
Getting so by heart your beauty which all others must
adore (158).
Although the narrator confesses to be a man, it is clearly the female voice that speaks.
As can be inferred, Barrett Browning’s views were far from being in the category of either-or. On the contrary, the image of women and their position in society she portrays stands above any narrow perceptions. Instead of making accusations or dramatising for no end, her image is at the same time the image of the Victorian ideal of women, but it also stands against the subterfuge of making a social comment without first looking at the mirror. She portrays women, as well as men, as individual beings that are responsible for their own actions, but who are altogether controlled by greater forces. By accepting this she ascends the petty everyday structures of society and reaches for a more timeless vision where images of power and powerlessness intertwine to create strong yet chaotic and ambiguous mixtures of beauty and death, spirit and the body, subject and object, torment and liberation; the life-in-death aesthetics that would dominate art and literature in the latter part of the nineteenth century. In fact, the individual torments of an artist would then occasionally constitute the whole concept of art. The question remains: how far can we assume Barrett Browning’s inner struggles to have been due to her being a woman, and to what extent due to her being an internally tormented visionary? Why should she be limited to the struggles of her biological sex, not acquiring an artistic standpoint which frequently has been known to ignore the ‘normal’ bounds of humanity?
4 Conclusion
In this paper I have argued that although Barrett Browning does assimilate and subordinate herself to many of the prevalent Victorian attitudes on how women should, and more particularly should not behave, there is another level to her, disregarded by Batho and Dobrée, regarded by Ackroyd, which ascends the strict social norms. In her poetry, the voices are thunderous and intelligent, knowledgeable of the outer circumstances, but also anarchistically neglecting the necessity of the outside world.
Such is the case with gender, which is rarely explicitly clear in the poetry of Barrett Browning. Although present throughout her shorter poems, she frequently subordinates or ‘fictionalises’ her female identity, giving it a traditional male form. The women in Barrett Browning’s poems are objectified, often frail creatures on deathbeds, or alternately they are suffocating under the pressure of recognising the expectations and the ‘weaknesses of their sex’. Yet, in contradistinction from the idealistic beauty and decadence of the ‘dying maiden’ and the purity of Virgin Mary, there is the strong philosopher, the angry ‘woman’, there is the ‘cross-dressing poet’ purportedly male, but female under the disguise, and there are the biblical voices of fire. In other words, not only Barrett Browning’s female characters but also her male characters are archetypical and poetic idealisations.
Although varying and free in her poetic outlets, Barrett Browning does not seem to become liberated from her anxieties through her poetry. She draws heavily from the Victorian idealisation of the ethereal-spectral quality of women as well as from Britain’s fascination and escapism into the medieval past seeking to find a voice of her own, which due to her wide knowledge of classicism or possibly the lack of ‘grandmothers’, seems to be eternally echoed by male perspectives. Nevertheless, no artist can escape the influences of history, but each artist, irrespective of her/his/its biological sex, can rearrange the historical content, and assume an individual position. Why should a female poet be free from anxiety, when in fact the very presence of anxiety seems to ‘father’ [sic] most poetic experience, male or female? To assume that women write primarily as women and not as artists and individuals is ultimately a sexist view purported, perhaps unconsciously, by many feminist critics.
Works Cited
Primary Sources
Barrett Browning, Elizabeth. 1912. Poems. Ed. Henry Frowde. London: Oxford UP.
Secondary Sources
Ackroyd, Peter. 2002. Albion – the Origins of the English Imagination. London: Chatto & Windus.
Ackroyd, Peter. 2000. London: a Biography. London: Chatto & Windus.
Batho, Edith & Bonamy Dobrée. 1962. The Victorians and After 1830–1914. 3 ed. London: Cresset Press.
Bergonzi, Bernard. 1969. “Feminism and Femininity in ‘The Princess’”. In Major Victorian Poets: Reconsiderations. Ed. Isobel Armstrong. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul.
Bialeschki, Deborah. 1992. “We said ‘why not?’ – A Historical Perspective on Women’s Outdoor Pursuit.” In Journal of Physical Education, Recreation & Dance, 63:2, Pp. 52–55.
Bloom, Harold. 1975. The Anxiety of Influence – a Theory of Poetry. London: Oxford UP.
Bradford, Richard. 1993. A Linguistic History of English Poetry. London: Routledge.
Crow, Duncan. 1972. The Victorian Woman. New York: Stein & Day.
Curran, Stuart. 1993. “Women Readers, Women Writers”. In Cambridge Companion to British Romanticism. Ed. Stuart Curran. Pp. 177–195. Cambridge: Cambridge UP.
Duffin, Henry Charles. 1956. Amphibian – A Reconsideration of [Robert] Browning. London: Bowes & Bowes.
Gilbert, Sandra M. & Susan Gubar. 1984. Madwoman in the Attic – the Woman Writer and the Nineteenth-century Literary Imagination. New Haven & London: Yale UP.
Leighton, Angela. 1986. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Key Women Writers. Ed. Sue Roe. Sussex: Harvester Press.
Manzano, Yanet. 1999. “Feminism before the 20th Century”. Online [cited 20 Jan, 2004]: http://ww2.cs.fsu.edu/~manzano/Writing/papers/h istory/feminism2.html
Miller, Betty. 1958. Robert Browning: A Portrait. Middlesex: Penguin.
Powell, Roberta B. 1982. “Those Who Dared: Victorian Sportswomen”. In NASSH Proceedings 1982. Pp. 27–28. Online [cited 20 Jan, 2004]: http://www.aafla.org/SportsLi...
Stafford, Chase. 2003. “A Spiritual Understanding of Death”. 8 pages. Unpublished. Online [cited 20 Jan, 2004): http://www.stanford.edu/~chasta/death%20essay2.doc
Woolf, Virginia. 1998. A Room of One’s Own [first published in 1928]. Published with Three Guineas in the “Oxford World’s Classics”. London: Oxford UP.
Monty Python Translated
02.13.05 (1:54 pm) [edit]Jyri-Pekka Luoma
A seminar paper, 2004.
The title: “But where is the ambiguity? It’s over there in the box.”
Ambiguity and the Meaning Potential in the Finnish Subtitling of Monty Python’s Flying Circus
1 INTRODUCTION
Ambiguity pertains to human languages. The ambiguity of language is, for instance, one of the reasons for the fact that the current interlingual machine translations, or MTs, are not fully adequate; in other words, the problem is that meanings are not fixed, but they can be interpreted in many ways (Seasly). For MTs, lexical ambiguity is already a major difficulty, but ambiguity can also be structural, in phrases and sentences. With structural ambiguity, according to Seasly, a proper semantic interpretation “requires a deep understanding of the speaker’s intention, and we can often not be certain of what exactly the speaker meant” (ibid.). The intention is, of course, not always known to the translator.
It is exactly the open-ended ambiguity of meaning that enables a multiple readings of the same source text, and this does not only set problems for machines, but for human translators as well. Meaning itself can be lexical, grammatical or rhetorical (Hatim and Mason 22). In this view, the concepts of meaning and ambiguity are closely related, and sometimes even identical. In the present study I will define ambiguity as a variety of meanings inherent, or at least possible, in the source text. I will also try to find out how the variety of possible meanings, or to use Hatim and Mason’s concept of ‘the meaning potential’ (11), should be translated, so that the translation would meet, at least on some level, the ideal of adequacy.
I will concentrate particularly on the Finnish translation of a well-known British comedy series Monty Python’s Flying Circus. I will begin with defining the concepts of ambiguity and adequacy. Then I will move to the constraints of screen translation. On these grounds I will base my analysis on the ways in which ambiguity is dealt with in the Finnish subtitles of Monty Python.
The transfer of the meaning potential set against the constraints of TV subtitling becomes important for understanding the various challenges in this specific form of translation. My hypothesis is that when the ambiguity of the source text is omitted or changed in the translation, also the original meaning potential becomes lost and therefore the translation renders inadequate.
1.1 The Satirical Comedy of Monty Python
There is a high tolerance for ambiguity in comedy, and according to some theorists, ambiguity is precisely the element that enables comedy in the first place (Morreall). The idea of Monty Python started in Cambridge & Oxford universities where the members of the group – Graham Chapman, John Cleese, Terry Gilliam, Eric Idle, Terry Jones, and Michael Palin – first met one another. They were, with the exception of the American Python Gilliam, all part of university amateur theatre groups and took part in university revues. Their brand of humour is known as satire, which has a long tradition in the British universities. According to Terry Jones, “the satire movement was making fun of the government. It actually had targets, so you could see that comedy wasn’t just something that was simply funny ha-ha.” (Pythons 2003: 85). Their type of satirical comedy is full of irony and ambiguity, which is why Monty Python’s Flying Circus was chosen for the present study.
The first episode was broadcast on 5th of October 1969. The original audience, who at first consisted mostly of elderly people thinking they had come to see an actual circus, did not know how to react (Chapman et al. 166). Presently, Monty Python is deemed a cult classic, and people all over the world know its lines by heart. It is a mixture of intellectual and naïve humour, and thus, in view of translation strategies, its ambiguity becomes of a central interest.
1.2 Material
My material consists of the four series that were made of Monty Python’s Flying Circus (1969–1974), a total of 45 half-hour episodes. In 1992, the second and third series of the show were broadcast on the Finnish nationwide television channel YLE. The series was translated into Finnish by Kalle Niemi, who is still currently an acknowledged translator for the nationwide broadcasting company YLE. It remains a mystery why YLE decided to broadcast only the second and third series. A possible answer would be that the first series was deemed too experimental for the prime time audience, since the show was broadcast on Friday evenings at 8 pm. The fourth series was basically a reheating of the old material made without John Cleese. The whole series was released on video in 1994 by BMG Finland, and the translations of Kalle Niemi were used, so the video releases are identical with the TV translations. I am using series 2 and 3, as they were broadcast on YLE, and for series 1 and 4 I am using the video releases. References to the series are throughout the paper given in brackets so that first is mentioned the series, and then the episode in question.
1.3 Method: Adequate Transfer of Meaning
As the framework for this study I will primarily use Hatim and Mason’s concept of adequate transfer of meaning in translation. Hatim and Mason acknowledge “the problem of achieving an adequate translation of irony” (99). However, I will not concentrate on the polar division of adequacy versus acceptability as postulated by Gideon Toury (1995), but I will compare the concept of adequacy to its logical counterpart: inadequacy. In screen translation the source culture norm of faithfulness, as postulated by Toury, seems indeed more important than discussions on the target culture norms, especially so since the ideal of faithfulness “would seem particularly difficult to achieve in subtitling, where television as a medium imposes its own constraints on the outcome” (Jaskanen 3). Also, ambiguity is above all a source culture phenomenon, and therefore the method of translational adequacy is better suited. However, the audio-visual medium may in fact allow a higher level of tolerance for inadequacy, since the original messages are simultaneously present with the translation. The constraints set by the medium of television, as well as the special difficulties in translating and transferring ambiguity will be discussed in detail. In addition, I will compare some of Antoine Berman’s ‘deformations of translation’ to the specific problems of translating for the screen.
The method is to locate source ambiguities, whenever they become conspicuous in the translation, and to examine whether the ambiguities have been lost or altered in the translation. If they are not restored, then the hypothesis is that also the meaning potential is lost. I will follow Paul Rankin’s view on translating comedy as a textual element; hence, for this study, the exact definitions of comedy, humour, laughter, or even satire are not particularly important. The study concentrates on ambiguity which does not always – although it usually does – correlate with humour or comedy. Humour is mainly regarded as a part of a textual whole, a part that nonetheless may present special difficulties in translating. Adequacy is an important aspect when the transfer of meaning and the transfer of ambiguity are explored.
2 STRATEGIES FOR SUBTITLING AMBIGUITY
2.1 The Constraints of Subtitling
Henrik Gottlieb (1998) distinguishes between two kinds of constraints in subtitling. Firstly, there is the textual or qualitative constraint; in other words the subtitles must follow the dialogue and the visual channel on the screen. Secondly, there is the formal or quantitative constraint: the actual limitation of space for the subtitles. (qtd. in Schwarz.) As Schwarz points out, both of these constraints may require a reduction of the text. Subtitles need to be read in the limited duration of time they appear on the screen, and they should always remain subordinate to the other visual and oral stimuli. (Schwarz.)
In contradistinction from the “complete” translations, which replace the original, and stand as independent units, subtitling is more strictly bound by limitations. Unlike for instance a translated novel, subtitling coexists throughout with the source text, or, as is the case with subtitling, the audio-visual channels. In fact, the word ‘text’ in TV translation, is used loosely, since it does not refer to actual text, but to spoken language, which is however taken textually. The actual presence of the original channels can limit the translator’s choices, but it can also make the translator’s work easier. On one hand, impossible or ambiguous contents cannot simply be omitted from the translation, and recontextualisation is difficult to carry exactly because of the immediacy of the original messages. For this reason, a screen translation is ideally source culture oriented. According to Jaskanen, a target culture oriented approach “may be considered inappropriate in television, where both visual and audial cues point to the source culture” (5). On the other hand, though, subtitles are not required to replace the original and stand on their own.
A distinction between four semiotic channels is made: 1) the verbal auditory channel, that is, dialogue, background voices, and lyrics; 2) the non-verbal auditory channel; 3) the verbal visual channel, which means the subtitles and any other writing on the screen, and 4) the non-verbal visual channel, that is, the image. This polysemiotic environment can both support and work as a constraint for the subtitles (Baker qtd. in Schwarz.)
There are many verbal or nonverbal “clues” that the translator must be aware of. From these Schwarz lists regional dialects, class accent, register of speech, slow speech, as well as facial expressions, hand gestures and body language. (Schwarz). Jaskanen points out that the audiovisual constraints of television make it difficult for a translation to fulfil the ideals of invisibility, readability and faithfulness, especially in translating humour (3). Apart from humour, the ideal of faithfulness, or Adequacy, is especially important for the present study.
Sometimes the only available method of translating is to ignore the intended meaning, when an equivalent is impossible to find in the target language, or when it cannot fit into the limited space on the screen. In these situations, the translator may be forced to submit to adaptation, “having to mediate or recreate much of the Source Text” (Rankin 28). However, especially in screen translation, this is rarely possible to adequately accomplish.
2.2 Defining Ambiguity
Henri Bergson (1859–1941) saw ambiguity as an essential part of comedy. In Laughter (1900) he wrote: "A situation is always comic if it participates simultaneously in two series of events which are absolutely independent of each other, and if it can be interpreted in two quite different meanings." (qtd in “Bergson”.) In the title of this paper, there is a quotation from a line spoken by a TV announcer in a Monty Python sketch. The announcer asks: “But where is the ambiguity?” and replies to the question himself: “It’s over there in the box.” (2:11.) In order to apply any translation strategies to the problematic issue of ambiguity, first the concept of ambiguity needs to be defined. On the contrary to the suggestion in the quotation, finding a sufficient definition for ambiguity and to clarify where exactly the ambiguity is, may prove difficult.
According to Hatim and Mason, “the translator’s task should be to preserve, as far as possible, the range of possible responses”, in other words the ‘meaning potential’ of the source text should be preserved (11). Modifying style may lead to adaptation, and the producer of the source text, as well as the characters, can risk of becoming “someone else”. This would then affect the “unstated undercurrents of meaning”. In some cases the ‘style’ is the ‘meaning’. (Hatim and Mason 9.) Above all, ambiguity means restoring the open-endedness and the variety of possible interpretations or connotations. I will also use my own term ‘parallel connotation’ which simply means that a given lexical, grammatical, or rhetorical unit may be interpreted in at least two different ways. This is especially pertinent to irony and satirical comedy.
The ideal is then to transfer any ambiguity, any meaning potential, from the source text, so that it also exists in the target text. There are many reasons – most importantly the constraints of the media in addition to linguistic and cultural differences – why this ideal is not always realised in TV subtitling. A distinction between cultural and linguistic ambiguity, although not always a separable division, can at least answer the question ‘where’. Ambiguity is, in the frame of this study, a cultural and/or a linguistic phenomenon, and therefore to translate these ambiguities adequately is also to translate the cultural and linguistic meanings of the source text.
In the quotation of the title, ambiguity is said to be found in a box, which on one hand symbolises television as a medium, but on the other hand, also the element of surprise that according to some scholars is important in creating comedy. For instance, Robert Lew, who wrote his doctoral dissertation in 1996 on ambiguity in linguistic verbal jokes, based on a corpus of over 16 000 British and American jokes, argues that linguistic ambiguity “is a crucial element in the majority of linguistic jokes”, and moreover, that funniness increases when the amount of ambiguity increases. (Lew.) The view that ambiguity is necessary for the existence of humour is not shared by all theorists. Jim Lyttle accepts that “strong emotional ambiguities have been shown to enhance the ferocity of laughter”, but he does not agree that ambiguity would systematically lead to humour (Lyttle).
Hatim and Mason define irony, which is a crucial element of satirical comedy, in the context of translation strategies so that “the speaker dissociates self from view expressed”, and “that the speaker is echoing a point of view in order to display some attitude towards it” (98–99). This is elementary to satire, and the problems in translating irony are similar to the problems in translating ambiguity.
Paul Rankin sees humour, as well as ambiguity, in a text as any other element in it, and therefore the translator has to be able to “recognise and recreate the function of each instance of humour”. Otherwise, the translator distorts the function and thus also the meaning. (Rankin 28.) Thus the grounding idea in the present study is that ambiguity must be translated as much as any other important element of the source text. Based on Rankin, in the present study, ambiguity is compared to inadequacy, because when the meaning potential is not adequately transferred into the target text, the ambiguity becomes, in the target text, conspicuous. The study commences from these target text conspicuous elements, ambiguities that are inadequately translated. Although not all of these were due to ambiguity level difficulties, it can be argued that to translate ambiguity is to translate the meaning, and to translate the meaning(s) is to translate adequately.
2.3 Adequacy Considered
The opposing concepts of acceptability and adequacy, launched by Gideon Toury, can be criticised as too mechanistic and even confusing. When grouped together, these ideals seem to rip the poor translator in two, since they can never be completely followed. Adequacy, or “adhering to the norms of the source language” (Toury 56–57), is the best policy for a TV translation that strives to remain faithful to the original. Yet, it is open to question, how exactly can adequacy be measured. Adequate translation, to make it simple, means that the translator ably and adequately transfers the variety of connotations, intended or not, that can be read in the source text. This, however, may contradict with the target culture norm of acceptability, and thus, according to Philip E. Lewis:
the conventional view of translation puts the translator under pressure not simply to produce a version of the original that reads well or sounds right in the target language, but also to understand and interpret the original masterfully so as to reproduce its messages faithfully. (268)
Hatim and Mason discuss the transfer of lexical, grammatical, and rhetorical meaning (22). In fact, their view on adequacy is more practical than the abstract and idealistic formulations of Toury. According to Hatim & Mason, the assessment of target text follows three ‘rules’:
a) readability
b) conforming to generic and discoursal TL conventions
c) judging adequacy of translation for specified purpose (ibid.)
Thus Hatim & Mason do not abandon the target-text oriented strategy, and do not claim that translation is accomplished in a vacuum but indeed requires consideration of both the source and the target culture norms and conventions. Hatim and Mason state that the concept of adequacy is more useful in translation studies than the idea of ‘equivalence’ (8). Ultimately, it can be argued that acceptability is already inherent in the idea of adequacy.
3 THE TRANSFER OF AMBIGUITY IN THE FINNISH SUBTITLING OF MONTY PYTHON’S FLYING CIRCUS
A way to preserve ambiguities in the target text, more precisely in the subtitles, is to find equivalent or similar structures in the target language. Yet, subtitling is not merely translating between the source and the target language, but it is also translating the semantic structures and possible meanings inherent in the original. When the ‘equivalent’ is a restoration of ambiguity, a mixture of at least two different readings of the same message should appear in the translation. In the constraints of television as a media, such an ‘equivalent’ is not always manageable to contain in the subtitles.
In the whole series of Monty Python’s Flying Circus there were 25 cases of conspicuous ambiguities, in other words, cases of ‘inadequate’ translations of ambiguities. For this study only the inadequately translated ambiguities were chosen. The ambiguities are divided into linguistic and cultural, although the division is not always that clear. All in all, linguistic ambiguity is more intralingual, whereas cultural ambiguity is fundamentally extralingual. Seven of these can be distinguished as cultural, and 18 as linguistic ambiguities. In the majority of cases, 15 out of 25, it can be inferred that the meaning potential was lost due to the loss of ambiguity (with the addition of one borderline case). In only two cases, the meaning potential was lost although the ambiguity was preserved. In only two cases ambiguity was lost, but the meaning was preserved. In five cases both ambiguity and the meaning potential were preserved, but in three of these the equivalent was stylistically a poor one although intelligible.
3.1 Linguistic Ambiguity
Linguistic ambiguity is distinguishable from cultural ambiguity, because it is based on parallel connotations or double meanings that, when combined, create a comical situation; in other words the part of the dialogue defined as ambiguous refers to more than one meaning. Linguistic parallel connotations are markedly intentional, for instance wordplays that twist more than one meaning. The parallel connotations can be further divided into obscured and restored connotations, based on the fact whether their translation has been successful or not.
3.1.1 Obscured Parallel Connotations
In the satirical comedy of Monty Python, humour is frequently fuelled by paradoxical discrepancies between two or more references. For instance the visual reference may contradict the auditory reference, or what is said may contradict the way it is said. Monty Python consciously avoid punchlines in the sketches. According to Chapman: “Our biggest thing really was getting rid of the punchline” (Chapman et al. 132). In order to accomplish this they use links that are usually somehow associated with the previous and the following sketch, forming a bridge between them. Such transitions are evidently bad news for the translator. An example of such a link that does not work in the target language is the scene where an arrow points at the bottom of a man and there is the narrative voice: “Number 31: the end” Translation becomes impossible, because of the immediate transition and because on the screen the episode comes to a closure with the text “The end”. A difficult ambiguity has been translated “Numero 31: peräpää” which does as much as keeps the association with the bottom, but looses the association with the show actually ending (2:9).
Another case where the double reference does not translate into Finnish is the brief linking animation, where a sign stating “Pit stop” directs into a woman’s armpit. The translation has dropped the ambiguity, and the sign simply states “Varikkokäynti”, which is a direct translation of ‘pit stop’ (2:9). Since the space is limited, it is better that the sign drops the ambiguity than the meaning. As a translation “Varikkokäynti” is, ironically, at the same time correct, but also only partly sufficient. This simple example demonstrates one of the difficulties in translating ambiguous messages that make a linkage between both the verbal and visual signifiers.
The transfer of meaning becomes inadequate, when the translator emphasises only a fragment of possible or intended meanings. An ambiguous message can become lost in translation when a phrase that in the source language is ambiguous, is not ambiguous in the target language. The reasons for this may vary. In a sketch where an art critic confesses to actually eating paintings there is a fine example of how the simple ambiguity of the original becomes almost impossible to translate into Finnish:
I think Utrillo’s brushwork is fantastic, but he doesn’t always agree with me.
Utrillon sivellintyö on mainiota, mutta hän ei ole aina samaa mieltä. (1:4).
The original phrase ‘to agree with’ clearly refers to the problem of indigestion that eating paintings will inarguably induce. Alternately, it refers to a value professed by the critic. Not only does the translation lose the ambiguous meaning of the phrase, but in fact it misses the whole point of the sentence and reduces its meaning to ‘not being of the same opinion’. Thus this example aptly demonstrates the level of difficulty in translating linguistic ambiguity. The meaning parallelism can be recreated in the target text, but it would disrupt the fluency and therefore make the translation claim a central position. In this case, then, inadequacy may follow whichever strategy is used: preserving the meaning parallelism would destroy one very fundamental meaning: that the parallelism is supposed to be funny. If it is forced in the translation, instead of being witty, it would be clumsy.
In many cases, ambiguous phrases can be translated only partially, so that the ambiguity, or the meaning parallelism, is lost, but at least some of the meaning is restored. This has happened for instance, in the expression “Are you part of the scene?” uttered by a ‘hippie chick’, which is literally translated as “Kuulutteko tähän kohtaukseen?” [A back-translation: ‘Do you belong to this scene?’] (1:9). The question does of course refer as much to the actual scene that is being filmed as it is a late 1960s ‘flower power’ slang expression that does not adequately translate into Finnish in a way that would also retain the reference to the actual filming scene. Once again, when the ambiguity of the phrase is lost, also the meaning potential is lost, and only part of the meaning parallel is restored.
Words or word pairs that contain in themselves a meaning parallel are especially difficult to translate, particularly in jokes based on linguistic ambiguity. This is because the different connotations that are included may not be referable in both the source and the target language. A good example of such a difficulty is the term “blue cheese film” which in the Finnish translation has turned into “pornojuustofilmi” (1:2). This is clearly too strongly expressed. The association between ‘blue cheese’ and ‘blue film’ is replaced with the new pairs of ‘porn cheese’ and ‘cheese film’ do not refer to anything intelligible. The Finnish translation only delivers the idea and not the actual ambiguity. There is an equivalent of ‘blue cheese’ in Finnish (‘sinihomejuusto’), but not of the concept ‘blue film’, so instead of the original double connotation based on the colour blue, Kalle Niemi has been forced to find another parallelism in the target language. He has simply united some of both meanings. The translation does not make sense, but there is no doubt that it is still funny, and thus the translation can be deemed successful. Nevertheless, the parallel connotation, or the linguistic ambiguity, is lost and also thus the meaning potential.
3.1.2 Restored Parallel Connotations
In order to find equally meaningful pairs in the target language, a translator may be tempted to force the parallel meanings. For instance, in a simple case of misunderstanding a question, or actually understanding it in a different sense, such pairs can be detected:
[NURSE:] Where were you injured?
[CYCLIST:] Oh, just where A237…
[NURSE:] On your body?
[SAIRAANHOITAJA:] Missä kohdin sattui?
[PYÖRÄILIJÄ:] A 237:n kohdalla…
[SAIRAANHOITAJA:] Missä kohdin kehoa? (3:9)
The mechanistic form of speech is forced to hide the weakness of the pairing in Finnish. Although grammatically correct, it is doubtful the nurse would actually speak like that, so the pun does not really work in Finnish. The linguistic ambiguity is transferred in the translation, but otherwise the structure is stylistically poor. The point of the double meaning can be understood, but the joke simply does not work. However, the meaning potential, although forced, is restored.
A translation strategy relying on the equivalence between the source and the target language can cause problems that are beyond solving. Occasionally, however, a puzzle of translating a cross-referential verbal pun can be overcome by chance, when there is a similar wordplay in both the source and the target language. A good example of such chance is in the sketch where a man teaches the other in the art of using the phrase “No time to loose”, which in the translation is replaced with the Finnish close equivalent “Aika on rahaa” [Time is money] (3:12). Incidentally, the translator has found another Finnish equivalent that actually retains the phonetic pun:
To loose. Like Toulouse in France
Rahaa. Ihan kuin Prahaa, mutta ilman p:tä
In this case the cross-reference works between the expressions in source and target language as well as between Toulouse and Praha (the Finnish for Prague). This is of course not always the case. If there is not both a linguistic and cultural equivalent in the TL, the translator must decide whether to drop the linguistic or the cultural sign, since “alterations in the linguistic sign in order to reproduce the function in the TL creates a parallel alteration in the cultural reality portrayed (Rankin 40). However, the ambiguity in this case is linguistic and not cultural, because the double connotation is not semantically, but only linguistically linked, and therefore a Finnish equivalent is not impossible to reproduce. Thus, the meaning potential, as well as the ambiguity, are restored in the translation.
Wordplays, although they may seem proper, are rarely befitting in screen translation, since they simply distract the viewer. Especial difficulties arise with puns that rely on a brief punchline, and therefore have extra limited space:
-What’s brown and sounds like a bell? -Dung!
Mikä on ruskea ja kelluu?
-Lortti vessanpytyssä (1:10)
Thus the onomatopoetic pun, and in fact the whole joke, becomes unintelligible, and the sonorous ambiguity between the meaning of ‘shit’ and the sound of a bell cannot be recreated in the target text. However, the meaning potential is restored, albeit forcefully. The translation has also suffered quantitative impoverishment, in Berman’s terms, since it has more than doubled in length.
3.2 Cultural Ambiguity
A translator needs culture-specific, localised knowledge. According to Rankin, each culture has specific knowledge about itself and also about other cultures. For instance, the Englishman/Scotsman/Irish man format of a joke is instantly recognised in England (Rankin 35). The original audience participation is an important signifier of that which is thought as pertinently funny in the source culture. When the source-culture audience laughs, the target-culture audience may laugh with them without actually knowing what they are laughing at.
Monty Python’s Flying Circus is above all a British comedy series, and ‘Britishness’ is an essential part in its satirical conjectures despite the fact that many of its characters can be defined as universal archetypes. This ‘Britishness’ however is only an illusion. In view of translating Monty Python, naturalisation definitely breaks the invisibility of the translation. Mostly the translation is successful in maintaining the source-culture specificity, but occasionally there are lapses into naturalisation that distort the illusion of the Britishness in the translation. Freeman, Hardy & Willis translates into Vaatehuone, and the magazine Nova becomes Apu (1:9). Such Finnish “equivalents” are a distraction from the demands of Britishness. Naturalisations in screen translation may be dictated by the necessity of limitation.
The problematic areas of cultural connotation are not so much in naturalisation, but in the ways in which the cultural codes, and their ambiguity, are interpreted. Thus cultural ambiguity means reading cultural codes that however are not always necessary to recreate in the translation. Whereas linguistic ambiguity, or a set of parallel meanings, often forms the basis of jokes, and thus ambiguous elements cannot be omitted, cultural ambiguities are more frequently omittable, and in fact, occasionally they may even not be in the source text at all, but in the specific reading of the source text.
3.2.1 The Semantic Ambiguity of Dialect
In Monty Python, the most frequently spoken language is the ‘standard’ British English, since with the exception of one American, Terry Gilliam, the rest of the group were Oxbridge educated. For their demand of ‘Britishness’, the American Gilliam is not given many speaking roles. Nevertheless, a variety of dialects are also spoken, and the style of language used is an essential factor in the group’s comedy. Unlike the ‘xenophobic’ comedies that use foreign accents in order to present stereotypical features and stress the foreignity, and yet unlike ‘regional’ comedies that access only one dialect from within that social discourse, Monty Python use the diversity of voices as part of their commentary that underlines the heterogeneity of society. The function of the dialects in their comedy is not to point out a regional perspective; the language only goes so far as reveals the “strangeness” not only in speech but also in behaviour. However, ‘standard’ English is also frequently ridiculed as is the whole societal power structure, the people who do not realise their own silliness: stockbrokers, lawyers, psychiatrists, judges, the police, etc.
Hatim and Mason see accent as a common source of problems, since the ideological and political implications are problematic and ambiguous (40). According to Hatim and Mason:
Principles of equivalence demand that we attempt to relay the full impact of social dialect, including whatever discoursal force it may carry. . . . But how far can the interpreter legitimately go in attenuating the ideological significance of social dialect? (42)
How is it possible to translate let’s say a Scotsman who may speak in a different way to standard English, but who does not use dialectal expressions, but only the Scottish accent? Occasionally he may not speak even that, which is the case with the ‘Scotsman on a horse’, a ‘sidekick’ of a Scotsman simply riding a horse. The signifying features of a dialect can be translated when the target language does make a similar distinction between a standard and a peripheral use of the language. As Berman states, “Translation can occur only between ‘cultivated’ languages” (294). Additionally the translation is mostly in neutral and standard Finnish, and thus it assumes a position of invisibility and allows the original audio-visual references more space.
Exceptions to this rule occur mainly when the speech is particularly displaced, for instance with cockney speech whose cultural signification is too clear to be ignored. Bordering on illiteracy, Constable Pan Am has written a confession that, although it is allegedly written by the defendant, resembles Pan Am’s own colloquial style:
It’s a fair cop. I done it all. No doubt about that… thing
Syyllinen oon mää, ei epäilystäkää (3:1)
Cockney English is not in any way more appropriately translatable to another language than the Scottish accent, but by its reference to London, in other words, to a central position at least on the map, Cockney becomes less suspicious to translate because of its “networks of signification” (Berman 287). Instead of translating the whole cultural linguistic network, what is transmitted is merely the ‘universal’ dualism between dialect and standard language – to which Berman refers as “common language” (ibid.), but the word ‘common’ in the context of London adapts an entirely different signal, and refers to Cockney rather than standard English.
3.2.2 The Problem of Emphasis
Culturally specific concepts that relate to a given socio-political context are definite areas of difficulty, especially when, as in the case of Monty Python’s Flying Circus, there is not only the cultural distance between Britain and Finland, but there is also the distance of time between the original and the translation. In a little more than two decades, specific cultural codes may have already become obscure not only to a translator living in another culture, but also to the people of the same culture. In the translation of Monty Python, the ‘title’ of an episode, “Full Frontal Nudity”, is translated into “Etupuoli täysin paljaana” (1:8) [the Front Completely Bared]. Now we are dealing with more subtle areas of translation, where a specific cultural code has become a general notion, delivering an altered, if not wrong cultural signification. This word-for-word translation exemplifies Berman’s “destruction of underlying networks of signification” (Berman 287). The title “Full Frontal Nudity” in the original is supposed to be a wry legal phrase, a technical term for contents censored and not tolerated in films, and not intended as openly sexual as the translation suggests. The translation does not emphasise the complexity, or ambiguity, of the phrase, and thus the meaning potential becomes lost.
In Monty Python, there are continuous ‘hints’ and subtleties belonging to the development of the sketches that may cause a certain emphasis, which in turn will impose an effect on the way ambiguity, or open-endedness, is either restored or lost. Translation can easily become too ‘colourful’ when the original for instance sticks to a repetitive formula. In the beginning of each Monty Python episode the show is presented by the “It’s” man, who only utters “It’s…” which is decidedly not translated. The repetitive nature of the phrase is highlighted in the very first episode, but in fact the repetition is continuously varied by Niemi. “It’s Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart” (name of a sketch) turns into “Se on Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart”, “It’s the Arts” (another name for a sketch) becomes, “Nyt on kyse taiteesta” (1:1), and in another episode “It’s the Mind” translates into “Mielen mielettömyyksiä” (2:3). Such elegant variation may seem appropriate in the context of a comedy series, but the variation of the phrase turns an open meaning into a fixed one.
More conspicuously, emphasis changes the signification when ambiguous-sounding proper names are translated explicitly. “Monsignor Edward Gay” becomes “Eetu Hinttarimäki”, “Doctor Tom Jack” becomes “Tri Calu Stondari” (1:2). ‘Gay’ is a good example of an ambiguous word: it alternately refers to homosexuality but in turn, it may simply mean ‘being glad’. ‘Tom Jack’ refers, again, to homosexuality, but on the other hand it is just an innocent mixing of proper names. The point is that although both cases clearly hint at homosexuality, however, they do not, to use Berman’s word, ‘explicitate’ it. Thus the names are overemphasised, and the ambiguity is lost.
Some proper names, however, are not translated, although they include obvious ambiguities: the ordinary people requesting a death of a famous person are called Mr and Mrs Violet Stebbing (1:1), but the close resemblance to “violent stabbing” is not emphasised. A clearly off-the-wall name of Mr and Mrs Brainsample is also not translated (1:7), but although funny, the name is not exactly ambiguous, and for this reason translating it literally as “Herra ja rouva Aivonäyte” would be entirely adequate. Niemi has, in fact, preserved a possible ambiguity of the name, as if there was one, by choosing not to translate it.
On the other hand, undertranslation of any strong emphasis in the source text can be seen as failing to read the messages adequately. Not being able to deliver the messages properly, the translator may cause the jokes to become flat and seemingly meaningless, but since the television audience already laughs, the home viewer ‘trusts the crowd’ and does not need to understand every joke and detail. Undertranslation, or under-emphasis, can destroy a whole sketch. In the following statement, the obvious pun of the original is lost in the translation:
[PSYCHOTIC BARBER:] I always preferred the outdoor life: hunting, shooting, fishing… Getting out there with a gun, slaughtering a few of God’s creatures
[PSYKOOTTINEN PARTURI:] Pidin aina enemmän metsästyksestä, kalastuksesta… Kun pääsi luontoon aseen kanssa, sai teurastaa muutaman eläimen (1:10).
Firstly, the double of hunting and shooting is not stressed. Secondly, the paradox of the phrase “slaughtering God’s creatures” is lost and is replaced with the laconic “muutaman eläimen” [a few animals] that fails to demonstrate the heavy contrast between the notions that a) God created animals, and b) it is great to shoot them.
Similarly, in a sketch where a woman is in a canoe with Pantomime Horse acting as a secret agent, she retorts: “Oh, I’m so bleeding happy!” which is translated “Että olen onnellinen” (3:5). The utterance is followed by studio audience laughter. However, in the Finnish translation, there seems to be nothing particularly funny. The modifier ’bleeding’ is too strong for the mellow and peaceful situation, but this is left unnoticed by the translator. The paradoxical ambiguity between the language and the context is lost, and the meaning potential or the connotation is radically changed.
3.2.3 (Mis)readings of Cultural Signs
As one of the ‘deformations’ of translation, Berman mentions ‘explicitation’ which means that the translator aims to “render ‘clear’ what does not wish to be clear in the original” (289). The original does not enforce one fixed way of interpretation, but it claims dual connections, for instance between the physical, stereotyping comedy and intellectual, subtle satire, as in Monty Python.
A translator can, occasionally, add new meanings to the source text. In those cases the meaning potential of the source text becomes distorted, and thus the translation becomes inadequate. However, the additions may otherwise be completely plausible, especially in comedy, because the source and the target cultures may read cultural signs differently. When two judges walking in the street state that “We like dressing up, yes” and are translated “Pidämme naamiaisasuista” (1:6), both ambiguity and any clear reference to the actual situation is lost. Instead of the obvious association with cross-dressing, the translator has added a completely new meaning of ‘being fond of masquerade costumes’, which borders between a naturalisation and a mere translation gaffe. The Finnish audience is not as familiar with the wigged judges as the original British audience, and therefore the reference to masquerade has replaced the reference to cross-dressing.
A parallel connotation can also be read into the target text, even when, in the actual fact, there is none in the source text. Thus the meaning potential is extended and therefore the translation is not adequate, but confusing. Sometimes an ambiguity which is clearly meant to be explicit does not become explicit in the translation. For instance, when a public school pupil is interviewed and given the opportunity to say a rude word into the microphone he states: “Bottom”, which for some odd reason translates “Pohjat”, strangely devoid of significance to the sketch (1:3). A strange association can be assumed: the Finnish equivalent of the expression ‘Bottoms up’ is ‘Pohjanmaan kautta’ [untranslatable to English, it literally means ‘Via Ostrobothnia’]. Consequently, ‘Bottom’ has become ‘Pohjat’, a word that refers to the bottom side for example of a shoe. In any case, an utterance explicitly meant as a ‘naughty word’ renders a sidetrack into obscurity. The ambiguity of the word ‘bottom’ is emphasised, although in the particular situation, there is only one possible contextual reading of the word, and thus the ambiguity is not linguistic, but cultural, and the meaning potential is expanded. Then, as this example suggests, the meaning potential can also be lost when ambiguity that does not exist in the source text is superimposed in the target text.
Translation gaffes, or errors, become important objects of study, when they actually blur the original meaning(s). For instance, in the case of the Piranha brothers, the heads of a criminal organisation:
[The Piranha brothers] were found by an army board to be too mentally unstable even for national service.
Lautakunta piti heitä liian häiriintyneinä asepalvelukseen (2:1).
It is worthwhile to observe in this isolated case of a subtitling gaffe the way the whole point of the sentence has been changed. In the original it is insinuated that mentally unstable people should go to the army, but the meaning in the Finnish translation is that the Piranha brothers were ‘too mentally unstable for national service’. Thus omitting the important signifier of the word ‘even’, the meaning is devoid of any subversive humour content. The viewer in the Source culture would wait to hear a critical remark, whereas in the target culture the remark does not apply because of the compulsory national military service. In this light it can be inferred that satire is indeed culture-specific.
4 CONCLUSIONS
In this paper, I have examined the particular problem of translating ambiguity in the field of television comedy, and how the meaning potential of the source text is not always manageable to adequately transfer into the target text, which in this case means the subtitles, within the constraints of television as a medium. My hypothesis, that when the ambiguity of the source text is omitted or changed in the translation, also the meaning potential of the ST becomes lost and therefore the translation is not adequate, was proven correct. In the majority of cases of inadequate translations of ambiguities, the original meaning potential was not transferred, when the original ambiguity was lost. However, in the case of the satirical comedy of Monty Python’s Flying Circus, although the translation is occasionally inadequate in the formal sense, nevertheless it may still deliver the comedy content – especially since the subtitles are supported by the original semiotic channels – and thus follows the generic and discoursal TL conventions, as postulated by Hatim and Mason.
Ambiguities were divided into linguistic and cultural ambiguities, although the division is not always clearly distinguishable. The majority of conspicuous ambiguities, or ambiguities that were inadequately translated, consisted of linguistic ambiguities. In conclusion, it can be said that the main difference between the two categories is that the former primarily demands translator’s choice, in cases where parallel connotations cannot be adequately transferred, and the latter primarily demands translator’s interpretation, which may or may not adequately convey the meaning potential of the ST. Cultural referential connectors, although intelligible, may not be easily, or at all, translatable to another cultural setting. Yet, remaining in the original-supportive position, the translator can direct the attention from the subtitles back to the original, and despite the constraints set by the original audio-visual semiotic channels, these semiotic channels can also support the translation. The subtitles are not supposed to steal the show, and therefore they can occasionally escape the demands of adequacy; and indeed, for the sake of adequacy, relying on one interpretation of the source text may occasionally as much distort the ambiguities – inherent or imagined in the source text – as recreate them.
WORKS CITED
“Bergson.” Online. Finnish library page. 6 May 2004
Lewis, Philip E. “The Measure of Translation.” Translation Studies Reader. Ed. Lawrence Venuti. London: Routledge, 2000. 264–283.
Lyttle, Jim. “Theories of Humor.” 2003. Online. 6 May 2004
Monty Pythonin lentävä sirkus [Monty Python’s Flying Circus]. Series 1–4. British Broadcasting Company. Trans. Kalle Niemi. Helsinki: BMG Finland, 1994.
Morreall, John. “Characteristics of Tragedy & Comedy.” Originally in Comedy, Tragedy, and Religion. New York: Albany State UP, 1999. 6 May 2004
Schwarz, Barbara. “Translation in a Confined Space – Film Sub-titling with Special Reference to Dennis Potter’s ‘Lipstick on Your Collar’ Part 1.” Translational Journal 6.4 (2002). Online. 6 May 2004
Seasly, Joseph. “Machine Translation: A Survey of Approaches.” Ann Arbor: University of Michigan, 2004. Online. 6 May 2004 31 Comments
Machination called life
02.13.05 (1:41 pm) [edit]Sounds make Portals into Dimensions! That is True. But NOT all sounds do that. I used to believe that there was something special in Vinyl Records and the way they were manufactured pre-1975. Quite possibly there were space-alien-codes recorded on the records, who can tell. Sometimes it seems that the medium is important, but also I think it is not the time-span either. It may be wise not to ask too many questions. You know: the people in the films who claim they know the truth are the ones to get into trouble. The Force leaves those who join up with the Ignorance. It is better not to speak about, but speak as. Hawkwind and Pink Floyd – I think they genuinely were (of course, not always) a Gateway, a Real One. Their pre-1975 records work like Psilocybin or Marihuana, they open layers extensively. Are they music? Was Stacia just a dancer? Was there something else going on? Yes, and there STILL is. These time-captions were not temporal.
The Illusion may indeed crack.
“Normally I find the neoist alliance newsletters a bore,” the old lady whispered into the heavy clouds of Jack the Wise. I actually read Re:Action No.9 Autumn Equinox 399 titled “The Margins of Theosophy: An Invocation of the Silent Bard”. I must say that I have never understood Baudrillard, but maybe he is better suited for the nerd-men who play the intellectual games with glasses on. Was it Georges Bataille who started this whole French obsc-geneity movement? I find the French intellectuals usually quite hard to follow. It may just be a bit too much. What I find more annoying, though, is the way these nerd-men make it all seem like some bachelor party joke. Media studies bore me tremendously, and so does media(neo)criticism. All politics interrupt my dream. But one thing caught my eye, and that was the mention of Crowley idea of Books as Talismans.
I have grown completely tired with the idea of the Underground. It does not exist, at least not for product flows. I think the Internet is basically okay as a medium, although at this point it still is VERY chaotic and people do not know what to do with all those possibilities which are unlimited.
Charlie Manson still has a lot to offer for the New Millenium seeds: especially the idea of mind-prison outside the physique-prison. That is a scary scenario but oh so true. People are entrapped by their machinations. I think that is the reason why there are all these social categories and subcategories people need to religiously follow. The Habit Control. Even an anarchist is always imprisoned by his or her being the anarchist he is. I think only rare artists and visionaries have reached beyond the machinations. Sometimes it works. Burroughs made a machine out of himself and people found this a funny statement, but indeed, that he was, and we all are Robots! The Soft Machine ideas are enthralling… We the people ALWAYS have the need to serve someone, even if it is just our own selves. That is crazy. I think that only the real Madmen and -women can escape this prison. That is why Surrealism/Dadaism/Beatni k -cultures are so interesting. They actually manage to break some of these “codes” successfully. Freedom is the Key.
Who then are the People who have freed themselves from the Robotics of Humanity? Oh no, not Gandhi, not Che Guevara, not Adolf Hitler. Not Castaneda. In fact, only the Real Artists who can be addressed to BOTH as referring to their proper name identity AND as their antithesis. You cannot declare Gandhi can sometimes be Non-Gandhi, or Anti-Gandhi. Adolf Hitler is always Adolf Hitler. He believed this himself (“I am Adolf Hitler”) and the people around him believed this (“He is Adolf Hitler, Der Fuhrer”). Anybody on the street today believes this (“Yes, Adolf Hitler, I know him”). The same goes with the regular Joes and Joannas. The Machinations of the Ego are vast.
How is it possible to “kick the habit” of this personal imprisonment? Not to do the same pre-programmed things over and over again… That is the Question. I suppose the only way to break the habit is by the techniques of Art. Deconstructions of the Myth; the Ultimate Cut-ups of Humanity. The “There is Nothing” T-Shirts getting printed. “Nothing is True, Everything Is Permitted (but never Acted on)” –
Does the house burn? So be it.
The World, a film which men devise (Jim Morrison)
I still find Jim Morrison as one who actually accomplished the opening of Layers. Also, he COULD escape his own role to another parallel role. I think he really was a Lizard King playing the fiddles of humanity. Nothing to do with the Band/Image/60s Harpies/Herpes/JimiHendri xCouldPlayTheGuitar spheres… Morrison is truly interesting. It is bizarre that I still find him interesting after all these years.
Time does not exist. There is no time. Time is a straight plantation.
Porn is usually not the answer. It disrupts the atmospheric side, ideological/philosophical aggrandisement & enhancing of Lust is turned into a simple animalistic mechanism that does not LEAD anywhere. There is no art in that. I am not anti-porn obviously, but the distinction becomes clear when one compares for instance Jean Rollin’s porn films to non-porn films, which of them are more erotic? Of course, not a lot of money or enthusiasm was involved in the former, which were quick cash-ins to raise money for the real pictures. The situation is not that simple, however. I think that the Eurosleaze directors frequently succeeded in using hardcore porn as ONE ELEMENT in the films; it surely is surprising that suddenly for instance in Malabimba, the Excorcist rip-off, there are scenes of penetration. In that way it all works perfectly. But the point is: there has to be something else and not JUST the reproductive procedures. John Waters thought that porn looked like an autopsy. I think that Richard Kern accomplishes this in at least ONE of his films: Fingered. That is pure smut, but not all thanks to its hardcore segments. Personally I like to watch 1970s big breasts or alternatively the Pale Goth Skinny Women in Black Vampiric Costumes. The problem with porn is usually very simple: there are not enough WOMEN but the camera is too obsessed with the male face and genitals, the hairy chest bits… in that sense most of the “heterosexual” porn is simply too gay for occultist/aesthetic viewing.