1/3/2017
Public Books — Tales of the Interwar
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TALES OF THE INTERWAR
JAN MIESZKOWSKI
TENSE FUTURE:
MODERNISM, TOTAL
WAR, ENCYCLOPEDIC
FORM
Paul K. SaintAmour
Oxford University
Press, 2015
BUY
THE EVENING CHORUS
Helen Humphreys
Mariner, 2015
BUY
ALI AND HIS RUSSIAN
MOTHER
Alexandra Chreiteh,
translated from the
Arabic by Michelle
Hartman
Interlink, 2015
July 1, 2016 — Today, the onceprovocative suggestion that we live in an age of
interminable warfare has become a truism. The claim often takes the form of an
observation about the post9/11 syndrome that drives an endless War on Terror.
Alternatively, it can become a description of our era as yet another chapter in the
history of the militaryindustrial complex, or a wholesale condemnation of capitalist
imperialism and the destruction it has visited upon the planet for half a millennium.
At the same time, the very selfevidence of war’s tireless march invites further
reflection. What if the violence of modern conflicts cannot be fully explained by a
notion of ceaseless strife or with a simple opposition between clashing armies and
the cessation of hostilities?
In Tense Future: Modernism, Total War, Encyclopedic Form, Paul K. Saint
Amour argues that the ideas of “permanent” and “total” war are part of the
ideological program of the Western nationstate. For centuries, SaintAmour
maintains, governments have sought to monopolize violence—the right to exercise it
and the right to explain what it means—by dictating which conflicts are worthy of
the name “war” and how militarism’s impact on individual and collective experience
is to be understood.
Focusing on Western Europe between the First and Second World Wars,
SaintAmour begins by noting that analyses of war’s psychological consequences
have largely concentrated on memory, the proverbial nightmare of the past weighing
upon the present. His provocative proposal is that trauma may equally be a product
of the conflicts of the future. “Violence anticipated,” he writes, “is already violence
unleashed.”
From this perspective, Tense Future describes the forms of collective injury,
foreboding, and dread that shaped the interwar European populace’s relationship to
both the cataclysms it had endured between 1914 and 1918 and the even worse
conflicts looming on the horizon. Having unsettled the very distinction between
being “at” war and being “between” wars, SaintAmour enjoins us to move beyond
the totalwar paradigm and explore a notion of perpetual interwar, an overtly
paradoxical concept that disrupts any linear model of historical development.
Suggesting that critiques of hegemonic social and cultural forces emerge most
powerfully when the future is most uncertain, SaintAmour allies his project with
contemporary theoretical discourses that have embraced “dissident temporalities,”
including nuclear criticism, queer theory, and the burgeoning field of
ecocriticism.1 Such “critical futurities” work to demonstrate that the control of the
present is predicated on controlling expectations for—and fears of—the future.
Optimism, pessimism, and fatalism are themselves ideological constructs whose
accounts of the relationships between past, present, and future must be resisted.
One of the central claims of Tense Future is that the novels of the interwar
generation offer an alternative to the nationstate’s own vision of the thoroughgoing
militarization of social and historical experience. Virginia Woolf, James Joyce, and
Ford Madox Ford take center stage here, but SaintAmour stresses that many of
their contemporaries, including Thomas Mann, Marcel Proust, and Italo Svevo,
could be part of this discussion as well. If this is the case, we should hope that a
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second volume of Tense Future is in the works, because SaintAmour’s readings are
sterling examples of exacting analysis.
Woolf, who is known for her opposition to suspense narratives, is shown to be
a fullfledged anatomist of apprehension. Invoking a memorable line near the start
of Mrs. Dalloway—“The world has raised its whip; where will it descend?”—Saint
Amour argues that such remarks index the foreboding transmitted between the
novel’s characters, a process that comes to define their capacity to relate to one
another as they communally anticipate imminent shock. In this vein, Woolf’s
pacifist sympathies manifest themselves not only in her overt statements against war,
but also in more subtle reflections on “the prospect of new collectivities, intimacies,
and forms of expression [that emerge] under threat.”
Rejecting the standard classification of Joyce’s Ulysses and Ford’s fourvolume
Parade’s End as epics (or antiepics), SaintAmour declares these works to be
“encyclopedic,” a term he understands in a very precise way. While epics proclaim
their own monumentality and permanence, these novels betray an awareness of
their own limits. They are encyclopedic not because they are comprehensive
inventories of all extant information and wisdom, but because they stage the
production of knowledge via competing systems of thought, all without any
guarantee that the project can be completed or that the resulting insights will be
accurate, much less coherent. One can readily see how this could be the case with
Ulysses, which has long been celebrated for the unique ways in which it experiments
with—and abandons—different epistemological paradigms. SaintAmour goes
further, however, and shows that Joyce’s text offers a more radical depiction of
colonial space as the nationstate’s testing ground for new forms of violence.
Ford’s tetralogy explicitly thematizes the precarious relationship between
interwar life and the archive. The protagonist occupies himself by compiling errors
in the Encyclopaedia Britannica, only to have to rely on this very reference work to
aid his failing memory when he is beset by traumatic amnesia during the First
World War. This irony is emblematic of the clash in Ford between realist and
experimental paradigms, neither of which ever gains the upper hand. In the end, the
very ambition to document the past may be more a threat than an aid to future
survival.
If the premise of total war is that the military has everyone and everything in
its sights, Ulysses and Parade’s End repeatedly remind us that the sum of their gazes
is partial. They strive to archive what must be grasped outside of rather than within
established categories of knowledge; they are encyclopedias of the contingent, the
hypothetical, or the impossible as much as the actual or the necessary.
Today, haunted as we are by past and future wars, SaintAmour’s notion of
perpetual interwar appears to have considerable explanatory power. Does this mean
that contemporary novels follow their modernist forerunners in offering sites of
resistance to the militarism of the state? While SaintAmour’s discussion ends with
Thomas Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow (1973), reading it as a novelistic antecedent
to Tense Future itself, we would be well served in our efforts to answer this question
by turning to two novels published in English in the past year.
Set during and after the Second World
War, Helen Humphreys’s The Evening
ARE THEMSELVES IDEOLOGICAL
Chorus tells the story of James Hunter, an
CONSTRUCTS WHOSE ACCOUNTS OF THE
English airman struggling to survive in a
RELATIONSHIPS BETWEEN PAST, PRESENT,
German POW camp while his wife, Rose,
AND FUTURE MUST BE RESISTED.
and his sister, Enid, endure the trials and
deprivations of the home front. While the
wartime disruption of the social order holds out the possibility of new freedoms for
women—the same kind of opportunities that Woolf saw emerging during the First
World War—the social mores of the status quo quickly reimpose themselves when
the fighting draws to a close. Rose will later reflect that this period of unparalleled
human suffering was a uniquely joyous time in her life: “Who would have thought
OPTIMISM, PESSIMISM, AND FATALISM
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that she would long for the war years, that they would be the height of happiness for
her?”
Juxtaposing terrifying violence that appears and vanishes in a single sentence
with the sustained anticipation of something equally terrible that never actually
occurs, the novel presents us with a world in which the future is the source of all
significance and yet something to which one may nonetheless have no relationship.
While James and the other POWs are treated reasonably well, their sense of quasi
security is periodically shattered by horrible events, as when a prisoner named
Carmichael annoys everyone around him with his whistling until “a German guard
who is standing against the wall of the bunkhouse not twenty feet away unbuttons
the holster of his Luger, walks up to Carmichael, and shoots him through the
temple.” There is no description of how the witnesses react. The scene ends, and
we move immediately to the following morning when James fears—unnecessarily, as
it turns out—that the execution of his comrade is about to be repeated, this time
with him as the victim.
James’s response to these horrors is to become obsessed with a family of birds
called redstarts. He records their behavior meticulously, work that ultimately
becomes a book as well as the basis for his postwar career. In 1950, we find him
writing a second book about ocean birds, which he observes from a hut by the sea
where he lives as a hermit, but the success of his particular brand of escapism is
tempered by the sense that he has merely traded one prison for another.
Intriguingly, his sister confronts the challenges of the war by embarking on a
similar project. Having sought refuge from Blitzravaged London at James and
Rose’s home in the countryside, Enid passes her time gathering samples of native
flowers and ferns and recording the names of the birds and animals she encounters.
The result is anything but a dry compendium of information. Each entry in her text
is a miniature essay that goes well beyond a naturalist’s standard purview in order to
explore etymologies, describe the role of various flora or fauna in fairy tales, and link
individual motifs to the details of her own life, as if fashioning a personal mythology.
Whereas James’s quest to document every last feature of the birds’ lives
represents a totalizing approach to the natural world, his sister resembles one of
SaintAmour’s encyclopedists, weaving together different—and potentially quite
disparate—discourses. The internal crossreferencing of Enid’s work is mirrored by
the internal organization of the novel itself, with each chapter named for a natural
figure that will play a role in it (“Rabbit,” “Dragonfly,” “Arctic Tern”).
Bomb Damage in London during the Second World War. Wikimedia Commons
As Tense Future would predict, however, there is no sense that the parts
coalesce into a whole, and the significance of each sibling’s engagement with the
natural world remains ambiguous. If they try to take solace in natural forces that lie
outside the influence of human beings and their wars, their prospects for success are
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never confirmed. Even before birds have been introduced as a key element of the
plot, avian motifs proliferate in the language of the text, muddling its graceful tone.
In one of the first scenes from the prison camp, the Kommandant struts up and
down during morning roll call, “his chest puffed out like a winter robin’s.” Similar
formulations continue well after birds have become a focus of the narrative, as when
the laughter of James’s guards “spools like birdsong through the air towards him.” It
is hard to decide whether we should attribute the profusion of such similes to an
overly precious style, the interpenetration of military and naturalist thinking, or even
selfparody.
In the end, the texts that this brother and sister write about the natural world
may be as much allegories of loss and death as chapters in the book of life. When
James begins to fill his letters to his wife with detailed observations about the
redstarts, she finds them unreadable, and the last vestiges of their marriage start to
dissolve. When the truth of one of the novel’s most tragic events is communicated
solely by the appearance of a “lucky” rabbit’s foot, Enid’s notebook is
retrospectively revealed to be neither a memorial to the past nor a monument to a
timeless natural present, but rather a collection of fossils from a dead future.
In tone and style, Alexandra Chreiteh’s Ali and His Russian Mother is a very
different book. In this firstperson narrative, an unnamed female university student
describes her flight from Lebanon in July 2006 at the start of the 34day “Israel
Hezbollah” War. En route to Moscow via Syria, she reconnects with Ali, an old
schoolmate whose family has marked similarities to her own: both are the children
of Slavic mothers who married Lebanese men. As we quickly see, they primarily
experience the totalizing reach of war not as the threat of missiles that can target
anyone anywhere, but as the shocks of postcolonialism and globalization.
In the course of Chreiteh’s short novel, we
encounter poignant ruminations on sexual
ORDER HOLDS OUT THE POSSIBILITY OF
mores, the changing status of religion, and
NEW FREEDOMS FOR WOMEN.
strife between different ethnic and national
groups. These themes, however, remain
oddly abstract, even when they directly involve the principal characters. Although in
due course we learn that Ali is gay and Jewish, these revelations are foreshadowed to
such a degree that one has little sense of gaining insight into the psychological and
historical forces at work when the information is finally made explicit. The book’s
closing scene—in which Ali violently denounces Israel in front of journalists—feels
at once predictable and out of place, underscoring the extent to which both he and
the narrator remain somewhat schematic figures.
Some of the elusiveness of Chreiteh’s main characters has to do with the
casualness, even flippancy, of the narrator herself. Her snide, at times mocking
posture keeps us slightly off balance, never entirely sure where her real concerns lie.
In her Translator’s Note, Michelle Hartman stresses the difficulty of rendering the
text in English. The book was written in Modern Standard Arabic, creating a
disjunction between its formal style and the often glaringly informal content,
material that would typically be discussed in colloquial Lebanese Arabic. Hartman’s
translation is successful in producing the “gently snarky tone” for which she aims,
and there are undoubtedly funny moments in the story. Nonetheless, she seems
uncertain how to characterize the comedy she is trying to impart to the English
language audience, in the space of two sentences deeming it to be both “dryly subtle
humor” and “a devastatingly humorous take” on the characters.
The question of what is and isn’t a joke is complicated by the narrator’s
frequent reminders of just how macabre the psychopathology of life in a warzone
can be. In an almost gratuitous juxtaposition of the horrific and the mundane, we
are told that “the picture of a little girl’s mutilated corpse flashed across the
[television] screen, and I spun around, opened the refrigerator behind me, and took
out another package of cheese.” As with the prisoner Carmichael’s execution in The
Evening Chorus, the next sentence immediately moves on to a new incident. But
whereas in Humphreys’s narrative the killing creates a direct threat to the
THE WARTIME DISRUPTION OF THE SOCIAL
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protagonist, there is no intimation that Chreiteh’s heroine is fated to become a
corpse on TV herself.
A similar mingling of the consequential and the quotidian occurs when the
narrator resolves to leave for Russia right after having mistaken the sound of
fireworks at a wedding for Israeli bombs. Though her decision to depart is
unquestionably a crucial element of the plot, it has a curious air of insignificance, as
if from the beginning there was never any possibility that the story might be a
tragedy. This is not wartime as perpetual anxiety about what may soon befall us, but
wartime as everydayness.
Refugees in South Lebanon, July 27, 2006. Photograph by Masser / Flickr
In her Author’s Afterword, Chreiteh addresses the degree to which her novel
is autobiographical, a question that permits of no easy answer. The writing here is
more intense and dynamic than in the first part of the book. In addition to reflecting
on her fictional story, she offers a rich discussion of the challenges facing people
whose experience of sectarianism and immigration is shaped by their status as
multiethnic, multinational, and multilingual.
Chreiteh paints a compelling picture of the way in which “the line between
war and peace in Lebanon is weaved by the smoke of guns.” Noting that the
Lebanese survivors of the 15year civil war—which she is too young to remember—
live on “a diet of bitterness and PTSD tucked under the glossy cover of collective
amnesia,” she relates that when the 2006 war came, she knew instinctively what to
do, as if she had absorbed the relevant skills via osmosis. “Under the bombs,” she
says, in a line that testifies to the abiding influence of the concerns that preoccupy
SaintAmour, “I saw my future before me, reflected in the lusterless eyes of the
past’s embodied ghosts.” This section of the book could well have been expanded
into a fullfledged essay.
What would it mean, asks SaintAmour, to stop waging interwar? The fear
that we are fated to fight endlessly with the ghosts of conflicts past and future
haunts both novels. While Humphreys’s book tentatively delineates a form of
interwar life that is more than a living death, Chreiteh shows how difficult it is to
survive in a thoroughly militarized environment without allowing the significance of
one’s experiences to be defined by the clichés of conventional war stories.
In the last decade, visions of humanity’s fate have grown ever more
frightening as a steady stream of new books about war has been complemented by
fictional and nonfictional reflections on planetwide ecological disaster. The
anticipation of global annihilation recalls the height of the Cold War—indeed,
today’s fatalism may be even more acute. As we have seen, SaintAmour maintains
that it is precisely when the future appears most uncertain that new kinds of
emancipatory thinking become possible. If these two novels do not show us the way
out of interwar, they remind us why it is important to affirm that its power may one
day wane.
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RELATED
Jan Mieszkowski,
“War Stories,”
Public Books, April
8, 2013
Harvey Molotch,
“How the 9/11
Museum Gets Us,”
Public Books,
September 1, 2014
Jan Mieszkowski,
“Streetwise in
Weimar,” Public
Books, October 15,
2015
1 One of the foundational texts of nuclear criticism is
Jacques Derrida’s “No Apocalypse, Not Now (full
speed ahead, seven missiles, seven missives),”
diacritics, vol. 14, no. 2 (1984), pp. 20–31. Other
works include J. Fisher Solomon’s Discourse and
Reference in the Nuclear Age (University of
Oklahoma Press, 1988), Peter Schwenger’s Letter
Bomb: Nuclear Holocaust and the Exploding Word
(Johns Hopkins University Press, 1992), and Ken
Ruthven’s Nuclear Criticism (Melbourne University
Press, 1989). The rubric of “queer temporalities”
was consolidated in a 2007 issue of GLQ: A Journal
of Lesbian and Gay Studies edited by Elizabeth
Freeman. Key works in this field foregrounded by
Saint-Amour include Lee Edelman’s No Future:
Queer Theory and the Death Drive (Duke University
Press, 2004), Carolyn Dinshaw’s Getting Medieval:
Sexualities and Communities, Pre- and
Postmodern (Duke University Press, 1999), and Leo
Bersani’s “Is the Rectum a Grave?”
Jan Mieszkowski is Professor of German and Comparative Literature at Reed College. He is the author of Watching
War (2012) and Labors of Imagination: Aesthetics and Political Economy from Kant to Althusser (2006). He is
currently completing a new book entitled “Crises of the Sentence.”
Tags: Europe, Globalization, Memory, Middle East, Military, Modernism, Modernity, Postcolonial, Trauma,
Violence, War
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COMMENTS (2)
U
APOLOGUES
Jul 2, 7:04 p.m.
REPLY
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VERTIGLIONE
Jul 23, 11:22 a.m.
REPLY
If reviewers best serve us readers by giving us an accurate sense of the book under
discussion, such that we feel confident that we now have all the information we need to
decide whether to buy it or not, Jan Mieszkowski has succeeded admirably, with me at
least. I won't go near this book. Academic discourse like this gives me a case of what Mark
Twain called "the fantods." I've done all I can do for the professors just to have read
"Ulysses," every word of it. If "Joyce's text offers a more radical depiction of colonial
space as the nation-state's testing ground for new forms of violence," then I'm a monkey's
uncle.
And why should anybody care what you think, monkey's uncle? You deface a
perfectly good article with your egotism for what purpose? Go throw feces at
other walls, you solipsistic troglodyte.
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