Untitled

UDK 82.0:821+398+7(082) 

Li 848 

Galvenâ redaktore Dr. philol., prof. Ausma Cimdiòa 

Redkolçìija: 

Dr. habil. philol., prof. Juris Krastiòð – LU Pedagoìijas un psiholoìijas fakultâte 

Dr. habil. philol., prof. Sigma Ankrava – LU Moderno valodu fakultâte 

Dr. habil. philol., prof. Janîna Kursîte – LU Filoloìijas fakultâte 

Dr. philol., prof. Ilze Rûmniece – LU Filoloìijas fakultâte 

Dr. philol., prof. Ludmila Sproìe – LU Filoloìijas fakultâte 

Dr. habil. art. / Dr. philol. philol., prof. Silvija Radzobe – LU Filoloìijas fakultâte 

Dr. art., prof. Valdis Muktupâvels – LU Filoloìijas fakultâte 

Dr. philol., prof. Viktors Freibergs – LU Moderno valodu fakultâte 

Dr. philol. Helmuts Vinters – Vâcija 

Dr. habil. philol. Irina Belobrovceva – Tallinas Universitâte (Igaunija) 

Prof. Kârlis Raèevskis – Ohaio Universitâte (ASV) 

Prof. Lalita Muiþniece – Rietummièiganas Universitâte, Kalamazû (ASV) 

Jurate Sprindîte – Lietuvieðu literatûras un mâkslas institûts (Lietuva) 

Nijole Laurinkiene – Lietuvieðu literatûras un mâkslas institûts (Lietuva) 

Ïubova Kiseïova – Tartu Universitâte (Igaunija) 

Pâvels Ðtols – Prâgas Universitâte (Èehija) 

Literârâ redaktore Vija Kaòepe 

Maketu veidojis Arnis Èakstiòð 

Visi krâjumâ ievietotie raksti ir recenzçti. 

Pârpublicçðanas gadîjumâ nepiecieðama Latvijas Universitâtes atïauja. 

Citçjot atsauce uz izdevumu obligâta. 

ISSN 1407-2157 

ISBN 9984-770-53-2 

© Latvijas Universitâte, 2004

Saturs 

THE TWINS MEET 

DVÎÒU SATIKÐANÂS 

Viktors Ivbulis (Latvia) ...................................................................................................... 9 

DER NEUE TURM ZU BABEL 

THE NEW TOWER OF BABEL 

JAUNAIS BÂBELES TORNIS 

Klaus Hammer (Germany) ................................................................................................ 17 

THE POSTCOLONIAL SYNDROME AND 

IDENTITY CRISIS IN LATVIA 

PÇCKOLONIÂLAIS SINDROMS UN IDENTITÂTES KRÎZE LATVIJÂ 

Sigma Ankrava (Latvia) ...................................................................................................... 24 

A CASE OF MIXED IDENTITY: SIMONE DE BEAUVOIR’S 

“THE SECOND SEX” IN ESTONIAN TRANSLATION 

IDENTITÂTES SAJAUKUMA GADÎJUMS: SIMONAS DE BOVUÂRAS 

ROMÂNA ”OTRAIS DZIMUMS” TULKOJUMÂ IGAUÒU VALODÂ 

Raili Põldsaar (Estonia) ..................................................................................................... 36 

ÇÄÎÐÎÂÜÅ È ÊÐÀÑÎÒÀ: ÊÐÓÃ «ÌÓÆÑÊÈÕ» ÒÅÌ ÏÎÏÎËÍÈËÑß 

HEALTH AND BEAUTY: THE RANGE OF MASCULINE THEMES IS 

REPELONISHED 

VESELÎBA UN SKAISTUMS: VÎRIEÐU TÇMU LOKS IR PAPILDINÂJIES 

Íàòàëüÿ Êóëèíêà (Áåëîðóññèÿ) ................................................................................ 43 

MÄNNER IM FRAUENLAND: MÄNNERDARSTELLUNGEN IN EINER 

OSTDEUTSCHEN FRAUENZEITSCHRIFT 

MEN IN THE WOMENLAND: REPRESENTATIONS OF MEN IN POPULAR 

WOMEN’S MAGAZINES IN GDR 

VÎRIEÐI SIEVIEÐU ZEMÇ: VÎRIEÐU ATTÇLOJUMS VDR 

POPULÂRAJOS SIEVIEÐU ÞURNÂLOS 

Alice Weinreb (USA–Germany) ........................................................................................ 50 

FEMALE IDENTITY IN THE POSTCOLONIAL SITUATION: 

THE CASE OF THE UKRAINE 

SIEVIEÐU IDENTITÂTE POSTKOLONIÂLÂ SITUÂCIJÂ: 

UKRAINAS GADÎJUMS 

Natalia Monakhova (Ukraine) ........................................................................................... 59 

HOMELINESS AND LONELINESS IN AFRO–GERMAN WOMEN NARRATIVES 

VIENTULÎBA UN ILGAS PÇC MÂJÂM AFROVÂCU RAKSTNIEÈU 

LITERÂRAJOS DARBOS 

Aija Poikâne (Latvia–Germany) ........................................................................................ 68 

ALTERNATIVE LANGUAGES IN “GUT SYMMETRIES” BY JEANETTE 

WINTERSON: A COMBINATION OF LINGUISTIC SELF–CONSCIOUSNESS 

AND ÉCRITURE FEMININE 

ALTERNATÎVÂ VALODA DÞENETES VINTERSONES ROMÂNÂ 

“GUT SYMMETRIES”: LINGVISTISKÂ PAÐAPZINÂÐANÂS 

UN SIEVIEÐU SARAKSTÎTÂ LITERATÛRA 

Helen Talalaev (Estonia) .................................................................................................... 75

6 LITERATÛRZINÂTNE, FOLKLORISTIKA, MÂKSLA 

GENDER AND AUTOBIOGRAPHY IN CONTEMPORARY 

RUSSIAN LITERATURE 

DZIMUMS UN AUTOBIOGRÂFIJA MÛSDIENU KRIEVU LITERATÛRÂ 

Marja Rytkönen (Finland) ................................................................................................. 84 

PECULIARITIES OF LATVIAN WOMEN’S AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL WRITING 

IN THE 1990S. 

1990. GADU LATVIEÐU RAKSTNIEÈU AUTOBIOGRÂFISKÂS LITERATÛRAS 

RAKSTUROJUMS 

Sandra Meðkova (Latvia) ................................................................................................... 91 

FRAUENTAGEBUCH DER “WIENER MODERNE”: ALMA MAHLER–WERFELS 

“TAGEBUCH–SUITEN” 

WOMEN DIARIES IN THE “WIENER MODERNE”: “TAGEBUCH–SUITEN” 

BY ALMA MAHLER–WERFEL 

SIEVIEÐU DIENASGRÂMATAS “WIENER MODERNE” LAIKÂ: 

ALMAS MÂLERES–VERFELES “TAGEBUCH–SUITEN” 

Tatjana Kuharenoka (Latvia) ............................................................................................. 98 

ÃÐÀÆÄÀÍÑÊÎÅ ÌÓÆÅÑÒÂÎ ÒÅÀÒÐÎÂÅÄÀ Á. ÐÅÉÕÀ Â ÈÍÒÅÐÏÐÅÒÀÖÈÈ 

ÏÜÅÑÛ Ô. ØÈËËÅÐÀ «ÌÀÐÈß ÑÒÞÀÐÒ» Â ÑÎÂÅÒÑÊÎÉ ÐÎÑÑÈÈ ÂÐÅÌÅÍ 

ÌÀÑÑÎÂÎÃÎ ÒÅÐÐÎÐÀ 

B. REICHS CIVIL COURAGE IN THE INTERPRETATION OF SCHILLERS PLAY 

“MARIA STUART” IN SOVIET RUSSIA DURING THE YEARS OF MASS TERROR 

B. REIHA PILSONISKÂ DROSME F. ÐILLERA LUGAS “MARIJA STJUARTE” 

INTERPRETÇJUMÂ PADOMJU KRIEVIJÂ MASU TERORA APSTÂKÏOS 

Beâte Paðkevica (Latvija) ................................................................................................... 106 

MÎÑÊÎÂÑÊÀß ÑÖÅÍÀ Â ÏÀÐÀÄÈÃÌÅ ÑÎÂÐÅÌÅÍÍÎÉ ÊÓËÜÒÓÐÛ 

MOSCOWER STAGE IN THE PARADIGM OF CONTEMPORARY 

CULTURE: THE RUSSIAN THEATER AT THE TURN OF THE MILLENIUM 

MASKAVAS SKATUVE MÛSDIENU KULTÛRAS PARADIGMÂ: 

KRIEVIJAS TEÂTRIS TÛKSTOÐGADES MAIÒÂ 

Anna Vislova (Russia) ....................................................................................................... 113 

“DER ROMAN ZUM FILM”, ODER: BÜCHER IM MEDIENWETTBEWERB 

FILM–BOOK 

BOOKS AS COMPETITORS OF OTHER MEDIA “ROMAN ZUM FILM” JEB 

GRÂMATAS MEDIJU KONKURENCES APSTÂKÏOS 

Sandija Iesalniece (Latvija) ................................................................................................. 122 

THE HANDELSGEIST AND COSMOPOLITANISM: KANT 

AND HERDER TODAY 

TIRDZNIECÎBAS GARS UN KOSMOPOLÎTISMS: KANTS 

UN HERDERS ÐODIEN 

Dr. Diane Morgan (Great Britain) ..................................................................................... 129 

THE SPACE OF DIFFERENCES: CONSTRUCTING THE IMAGES THROUGH 

THE MULTICULTURAL DIALOGUE 

ATÐÍIRÎBU TELPA: TÇLU RADÎÐANA MULTIKULTÛRU DIALOGÂ 

Slavica Srbinovska (Macedonia) ........................................................................................ 137 

AMERICANIZATION OF ESTONIA: SOCIAL MECHANISMS AND LITERARY 

MANIFESTATIONS 

IGAUNIJAS AMERIKANIZÂCIJA: SOCIÂLAIS MEHÂNISMS UN LITERÂRIE 

MANIFESTI 

Krista Vogelberg (Estonia) ................................................................................................. 149

BORDERCROSSINGS IN JANICE KULYK–KEEFER’S NOVEL 

“HONEY AND ASHES” 

ROBEÞPÂREJAS DÞENISAS KUÏIKAS–KÎFERES ROMÂNÂ 

“MEDUS UN PELNI” 

Edgars Oðiòð (Latvia) ........................................................................................................ 158 

NARATÎVA ATTIECÎBAS AR PAÐREFERENCI LATVIEÐU KULTÛRAS 

TEKSTUÂLAJÂ TELPÂ 

NARRATIVE RELATION WITH SELFREFERENCE 

IN LATVIAN TEXTUAL ROOM 

Dagmâra Beitnere (Latvija) ................................................................................................ 164 

OJÂRS VÂCIETIS KÂ LATVIEÐU PADOMJU DZEJAS INTERTEKSTS 

AN INTERTEXT IN THE LATVIAN SOVIET POETRY: OJARS VACIETIS 

Ausma Cimdiòa (Latvija) ................................................................................................... 172 

LITHUANIA AND LITHUANIANS IN THE YIDDISH LITERATURE 

OF INTER–WAR LITHUANIA 

LIETUVA UN LIETUVIEÐI JIDIÐA LITERATÛRÂ STARPKARU LIETUVÂ 

Tina Lunson (USA) ........................................................................................................... 180 

DAÞAS PARALÇLES HERMAÒA ZÛDERMAÒA UN RÛDOLFA BLAUMAÒA 

DAIÏRADÇ A FEW PARALLELS BETWEEN HERMANN SUDERMANN’S 

WORKS AND THE WRITINGS OF RÛDOLFS BLAUMANIS 

Ieva Kalniòa (Latvija) ........................................................................................................ 188 

MORPHOSYNTACTIC FEATURES OF ENGLISH AND LATVIAN 

LINGUISTIC STRUCTURES THAT SERVE POLITENESS FUNCTION 

PIEKLÂJÎBAS FORMU IZTEIKÐANAI ANGÏU UN LATVIEÐU VALODÂ LIETO 

LINGVISTISKO STRUKTÛRU MERFOSINTAKTISKÂS ÎPAÐÎBAS 

Linda Apse (Latvia) ........................................................................................................... 194 

RETHINKING JANE AUSTEN’S PERSUASION: A NOVEL OF ITS TIME 

PÂRDOMÂJOT DÞEINAS OSTINAS DARBU “PÂRLIECÎBA”: 

SAVA LAIKA ROMÂNS 

Katri Sirkel (Estonia) ......................................................................................................... 199 

RE–THINKING THE ENLIGHTENMENT IN POSTMODERN 

FICTION: HAWKSMOOR BY PETER ACKROYD 

PÂRDOMAS PAR APGAISMÎBAS LAIKMETA NOZÎMI POSTMODERNAJÂ 

DAIÏLITERATÛRÂ: PÎTERA EKROIDA ROMÂNS “HAWKSMOOR” 

Alex Taube (Latvia) ........................................................................................................... 205 

NEW DUBLINERS OF J. O’CONNOR: COHERENCE OF 

THE IRISH LITERARY TRADITION 

DÞ. KONORA JAUNIE DUBLINIEÐI: ÎRIJAS LITERÂRÂS 

TRADÎCIJAS PÇCTECÎBA 

Tatjana Bicjutko (Latvia) ................................................................................................... 213 

IS T.S. ELIOT’S OBJECTIVE CORRELATIVE 

NECESSARILY A MALE CORRELATIVE? 

VAI TOMASA STÇRMA ELJOTA MÇRÍA KORELATÎVS IR OBLIGÂTI 

VÎRIEÐU KORELATÎVS? 

Gunnar Arrias (Sweden) .................................................................................................... 222 

DAS EIGENE UND DAS FREMDE – LAND UND FOLK IN EINIGEN 

KULTURHISTORISCHEN SCHRRIFTEN BALTISCHER HERKUNFT 

7


THE OWN AND THE FOREIGN: LAND AND PEOPLE IN SOME 

BALTIC WRITINGS OF CULTURAL HISTORICAL IMPORTANCE 

SAVÇJAIS UN SVEÐAIS – ZEME UN ÏAUDIS DAÞOS BALTIEÐU IZCELSMES 

KULTÛRVÇSTURISKOS TEKSTOS 

Ivars Orehovs (Latvia) ....................................................................................................... 230 

FROM LLAREGGUB TO LONDON AND BACK AGAIN: PROVINCE 

AND METROPOLIS IN DYLAN THOMAS’ WRITING 

NO LAREGIBAS UZ LONDONU UN ATPAKAÏ: PROVINCE 

UN METROPOLE DILANA TOMASA DARBOS 

Elita Saliòa (Latvia) ............................................................................................................ 239 

NATIVE AMERICAN MYTHOLOGIES 

AMERIKAS INDIÂÒU MÎTI 

Margarita Spirida (Latvia) ................................................................................................. 245 

QUR’AN 102:8. IRONY? 

KORÂNS 102:8. IRONIJA? 

Uldis Bçrziòð (Latvija) ...................................................................................................... 251 

ÌÈÔÎËÎÃÈ×ÅÑÊÈÅ ÃÅÐÎÈ Â ÌÎÍÃÎËÜÑÊÎÉ, ÒÈÁÅÒÑÊÎÉ 

È ÁÓÐßÒÑÊÎÉ ÂÅÐÑÈßÕ «ÃÅÑÅÐÀ» 

MYTHOLOGICAL CHARACTERS IN MONGOL, TIBETAN 

AND BURJAT VERSIONS OF “GESER” 

MITOLOÌISKIE TÇLI EPA “GESER” MONGOÏU, TIBETIEÐU UN BURJATU 

VARIANTÂ 

Àííà Êîññå (Russia–Latvia) ...................................................................................... 254 

THE IDEA OF SYNTHESIS OF CULTURES: R. TAGORE’S INFLUENCE ON 

N. ROERICH’S THOUGHT 

KULTÛRU SINTÇZES IDEJA: RABINDRANÂTA TAGORES IETEKME 

UZ NIKOLAJA RÇRIHA FILOZOFIJU 

Anita Staðulâne (Latvija) ................................................................................................... 258 

JAPÂNA PASAULES KULTÛRAS KONTEKSTÂ: KULTÛRAS INTERPRETÂCIJA 

VACUDZI TECURO AGRÎNAJOS DARBOS 

JAPAN IN THE CONTEXT OF WORLD CULTURE: INTERPRETATION 

OF CULTURE IN EARLY WRITINGS OF WATSUJI TETSURO 

Ilze Paegle (Latvija) ........................................................................................................... 265 

RETHINKING THE METHODOLOGICAL APPROACHES OF CROSS–CULTURAL 

HERMENEUTICS 

PÂRDOMAS PAR STARPKULTÛRU HERMENEITIKAS METODOLOÌIJU 

Kaspars Eihmanis (Latvia) ................................................................................................ 273

LATVIJAS UNIVERSITÂTES RAKSTI. 2004. 666. sçj.: LITERATÛRZINÂTNE, FOLKLORISTIKA, 

MÂKSLA, 9.–16. lpp. 

The Twins Meet 

Dvîòu satikðanâs 

(In defence of worldly Hindu ethics) 

Viktors Ivbulis (Latvia) 

Fakulty of Modern Lanquages, University of Latvia 

Visvalza iela 4a, Riga, LV 1050 

The sacred Hindu books can be read in such a way that the complete surrender of the ego in 

order to achieve moksha, which seems unacceptable from the the point of view of humanistic 

goals, remains only as a theoretical possibility whereas purely worldly interests guide the 

people’s everyday existence. Just as it is in the West. 

Keywords: Hindu ethics, Hinduism testimonies, spirituality. 

Rudyard Kipling once stated that East is East and the West is West– the twins will 

never meet. And indeed our living conditions sometimes differ very much due to climate 

peculiarities, geographical situation, historical development, the state of economy and 

so on. It is a well– known fact that most civilisations have words denoting those outside 

their lap and therefore to be treated as lower– “barbarians” in ancient Rome or 

“mlecchas” in India. For many of today’s santals– one of the so–called tribal peoples in 

India – the word “man” in its full meaning is often attributed only to a santal. 

On the other hand, there are innumerable arguments in favour of the idea, that man 

is the same everywhere and that differences between people are of a superficial character. 

If that were not so we Europeans would not be able to read, understand and appreciate 

the greatness of Buddha or Confucius or to enjoy Chinese, Indian, Arab belles– 

lettres. If Rabindranath Tagore as a human being would be very much different from the 

rest, he would not have become the most widely published poet in the world in the early 

nineteen twenties, goods produced in one part of the world would not have found eager 

buyers elsewhere since most ancient times. Buddha, Jesus Christ, Mohammed in their 

teachings would not have addressed the whole of humanity. 

Having in mind the generally human values and morality quite a few leading Indian 

intellectuals increasingly start finding faults in what their sacred books teach. 

This criticism also proves that the twins– the East and the West– have very much in 

common and practically everything that is not acceptable to a Bengali critic of Indian 

traditions as expressed in the very good literary magazine “Desh” will be hardly acceptable 

to rational minds anywhere in the world. The issue of 22 June, 1991 was 

called “Brainwashing” and so was also entitled the article, in which Dipangkar Ray 

wrote: “One shudders thinking that “Gîtâ” proves how a certain shrewd person induces 

a relatively humble intellect (Arjuna–V.I.) to kill and that as a result of this instigation 

countless people were massacred. Arjuna’s brains were washed.”(p.17). On 

November 15, 1997 we could read about Krishna: “It is the greatest mystery in what 

way such a character, being the embodiment of adharma, could become the avatâra of 

the supreme god Vishnu.” (p.11).


On the whole such judgements are not very original. Harsh attacks on the most 

powerful gods– usually through the mouths of demons can be found already in the 

Purânas– very bulky writings that perhaps are the main sources for today’s Hinduism. 

The daitya Târaka in “Ðiva Purâna”, for instance, is allowed to say: “You gods 

are shameless, especially Indra and Vishnu…Vishnu is deceptive, defective and 

indiscreet…Taking birth as Râma he killed a woman…Sinful as he was he forsook 

his own wife (Sîtâ – V.I.)…In the sixth incarnation (as Paraðurâma – V.I.) he cut off 

the head of his own mother…Incarnating as Krishna he defiled the wives of others 

and forced them to violate the traditional virtues of the family.” 1 . Even taking into 

account that judgements about Vishnu occur in a shivaistic source, still it is remarkable 

that this happens within the fold of the same religion. One may agree here with 

the widely spread opinion that Hinduism is an extremely tolerant religion in all aspects. 

But a different interpretation is also possible: as morality in India was always 

regarded as part of the natural order of the Universe, authors in one way or another 

couldn’t escape making gods act as people are acting. 

The main task of this paper is to find in authoritative sources of Hinduism testimonies 

to the fact that strong mundane individual and social ethics in them have always 

coexisted with spiritual strivings and that India does not really need to import 

Kant’s or some other Westerner’s ideas to tackle contemporary ethical problems. The 

preoccupation with moksha or liberation as the supreme goal, the identification of 

one’s innermost soul with the Soul of the Universe, at the cost of enjoying pleasures 

provided by the senses, seems to dominate all traditional Indian thinking, including 

literature, theatre and other arts. But there is also a genuine striving to advise the 

human individual to concentrate his efforts mainly on artha (worldly success) and 

kâma (mainly love) at the expense of dharma (religious ends). 

This idea may be rooted in the commonplace assertions that being one of the 

many living beings man still stands above them and even above the devas– lower 

gods. “Mahâbhârata” declares that “there is nothing higher than the human being” and 

in “Shiva Purâna” we read: “Even to the god and the asuras the birth of the human 

being is very rare to be achieved…Human birth is glorified as the root cause fot the 

four aims of life.” 2 . One can say that Vivekânanda even sneers at gods by saying: “For 

instance, Indra and Varuna are not the names of certain persons, but the names of 

positions as governors and so on. These are certain positions, which are filled successively 

by human souls who have raised themselves to the conditions of gods, and 

yet even they die.” 3 . And indeed we do know from the Purânas that even the great 

triad– Brahmâ, Viðhnu and Ðiva die whereas the person’s karma which is not exhausted, 

survives through all pralayas (regular dissolutions of the world) when everything 

else is reduced to the primeaval state. 

Karma, which affects all beings, operates without the intervention of any great 

supernatural authority but with absolute inevitability. In theory we get in this life what 

we deserve for our good or bad deeds in the previous ones and there no escape from 

the possible misfortune. Yet, interestingly, karma which often is also dharma sometimes 

becomes destiny– a notion which is easily understandable to anyone anywhere. 

Even the powerful Shiva, admitting his own helplesness in fighting the anonymous 

superforce behind the world order says: “What should happen necessarily must happen. 

There is none to stop it.” 4 . The incarnation of Visnu– Râma acknowledges: “Hap-

Viktors Ivbulis. Dvîòu satikðanâs 

piness and sadness, fear and anger, gain and loss, birth and death– all things such as 

these must surely be the affects of fate.” 5 . Kuntî (the mother of several princes –V.I.) 

in “Mahâbhârata” is also convinced: “The Kurus will meet distruction, o Karna, destiny 

is the most powerful.” 6 . 

The leading – Vedantic philosophy teaches that the entire reality is spiritually 

meaningful, that not only all living creatures but also material objects have a role in 

the general scheme of existence. Therefore it is difficult to say what does not belong 

to dharma in its aspect as a cosmic moral order. “The Bhâgavata Purâna” comments 

on what happened after Krishna’s death: “…Finding the spread of a number irreligious 

tendencies such as avarice, untruthfulness, crookedness, violence in houses, 

towns, the nation, and in his own self, the wise Judhisthira (the emperor– V.I.) decided 

to go away from the wordly life…Clad in the tree–barks, abstemious in food, 

desisting from speech, with dishevelled hair, showing himself like a dullard, madman 

or a goblin, expecting nothing (or without waiting for anyone) he went out (of the 

palace and the capital) like a deaf incapable of hearing (anything) “ 7 . As the fate of 

gods is intertwined with that of the humans the divine Krishna himself dies due to 

Gandhârî’s curse, who condemned him for not preventing the horrible carnage at the 

Kurukshetra field, where her all hundred sons died. That is, Krishna, who proclaims 

in “Bhagavadgîtâ” that he fulfills even the functions of Brahman – the only Absolute, 

dies as a result of a curse of a human being who as mother has been true to her 

dharma. 

It is clear that the individual’s thirst for life, manifested by all living beings, also 

makes him naturally hold onto whatever sustains his/her existence. The conception of 

moksha being reached at the expense of fully developed earthly life runs counter to 

this common human desire. Therefore there is such a divergence in instructions how 

one is supposed to live. It is thought that the Indians have enjoyed being told their 

duties more than other people. Not in vain the shâstras teach: “To live according to 

the rule of conduct is doubtlessly the highest duty of all men. He whose soul is defiled 

by vile conduct perishes in this world and in the next.” 8 . That is, spiritual ends 

are foremost among duties. Yet there is enough in “Manu Laws”, the epics or Purânas 

that does not always conform to this view. What noble spiritual or human goals has 

in view ashwamedha in “Mahâbhârata” or elsewhere? The sacrifice of a horse in such 

a way is the declaration of war of a king to his neighbours without any provocation 

on their part– they have either to fight or submit to a powerful conquerer who sends 

a white horse before his army. To a person, who is not a Hindu and, consequently, 

who can afford not to believe every word the religious literature teaches, it seems 

very much that the authors of “Mahâbhârata” are not particularly glad in describing 

Arjuna’s exploits following the horse and devote to them only a sufferficial attention 

and that they are at least as much on the side of women in the “Strî parva” of the 

epic, who accuse Krishna of instigating the carnage of their beloved ones, as on the 

god’s intention to eradicate the evil Kuru race by all means. What good can teach 

Krishna’s complicated sex with 16.000 women at once even if we believe that this a 

metaphorical way of showing the god’s love of people? In quite a few places in the 

Purânas or “Manu Laws” we see such exaggerations (including Krishna’s sexual exploits) 

that it seems– they were intended only to cause laugh. Perhaps a good– hearted 

one. After all, those who made up all those plots, were talented people of flesh and 

11


blood. And perhaps not always they were so much god – fearing as it may seem to us 

today. 

In this author’s view, it is most interesting to look into the many “commandments” 

of human behaviour offered by different Sanscrit texts. On the whole they by 

far do not always particularly conform to what one understands by dharma, karma or 

moksha notions. It is obvious what was intended by the dying Bhîshma’s lecturing to 

Judhisthira: “They who fear no obligation of returning to this world (after death), they 

who have no fear of the next world, they who do not take animal food and who have 

no liking for what is agreeable and no dislike for what is otherwise, they to whom 

good conduct is always dear, they who practise self– restraint, they who consider pleasure 

and pain as same, they who have truth for their refuge, they who give but not 

take, they who have mercy, they who adore, Pitris, gods, and guests, they who are 

always ready to work (for the behoof of others), they who are universal benefectors, 

they who are endued with great courage (of mind), they who follow all the duties 

sanctioned by scriptures, they who are devoted to well– being of all, they who can 

give their all and sacrifice their very lives for others, are considered as good and virtuous, 

o Bharata.” 9 . Even stronger the supremacy of the spiritual over the mundane is 

stressed in some places of “Manu Laws”: “Refraining from oppressing any living 

being, so that they might become his companions in the other world, he should 

gradualy pile up his religeous merit just as ants pile up an ant hill. For there (in that 

world) father, mother, wife, son and relative do not endure as his companion; religion 

alone endures. A living creature is borne alone and alone he dies; he alone reaps the 

benefits of good deeds and the consequences of bad deeds.” 10 . 

In the teachings of the very influential Upanishads we find a well expressed negligence 

of a person’s body and worldly life. But in practical precepts to a student, 

who has finished his Veda learning, in the same Upanishads a teacher includes also 

fully worldly instructions, such as: “One should not be negligent of virtue. One should 

not be negligent of welfare. One should not be negligent of prosperity…Be one to 

whom a mother is a god. Be one to whom a father is a god. Be one to whom a teacher 

is a god. Be one to whom a guest is a god.” 11 . Who among the Non–hindus can object 

to such a set of advices? The authors of “Mahâbhârata”, omitting guest, about 

the adoration of mother, father, and preceptor say: “They are the three worlds. They 

are the three modes of life. They are the three Vedas. They are the sacred fires.” 12 . 

Râma proves in practise what the parents’ decision concerning their child means, by 

leaving the castle and without slightest objections facing the enormous difficulties of 

life in the forest. He tells Sîtâ: “But it is righteousness, my smooth– limbed wife, the 

righteousness good men in the past have practised, that I am set on following today, 

as its radiance follows the sun. And righteousness is this, my fair – hipped wife: submission 

to one’s mother and ones father. I could not bear to live were I to disobey 

their command.” 13 . Manu raises this adoration to the highest possible level: “The 

teacher is the physical form of the ultimate reality, the father the physical form of the 

Lord of Creatures, the mother the physical form of the earth, and one’s own brother 

the physical form of ones’s own self.” 14 . Whatever differences between those assertions, 

mother, father, teacher and brother are purely earthly notions for each person. 

The authors of the Upanishads state: “Now the man who does not desire– he who 

is without desire, who is freed from desire, whose desire is satisfied, whose desire is


the Soul– his breaths do not depart…As the slough of snake lies on an ant–hill, dead, 

cast off, even so lies his body. But this incorporal, immortal Life (prâna) is Brahma 

indeed, is light indeed. 15 . From this idea it naturally follows that there is no joy in the 

finite– be it even one’s own son. Yet Manu, by far not being the defender of the importance 

of wordly life, indicates: “Acting out of desire is not aproved of, but here 

on earth there is no such thing as no desire; for even studying the Veda and engaging 

in the rituals enjoined in the Veda are based upon desire.” 16 Long life as a reward for 

good behaviour also cannot be regarded but as the satisfaction of every living being’s 

most basic desire: “A man who follows the conduct of the virtuous, has faith and is 

free from envy, lives a hundred years, though he be entirely destitute of auspicious 

marks.” 17 It is also Manu – the spiritual teacher who establishes the ratio between 

highest and lowest wages as six to one. In what contemporary country is anything 

like that established? The same law– giver also declares: “Anything that a man does 

with the eye on the afterlife, and that is done at the expense of his dependants, has an 

unhappy consequence for him both while he is living and after he dies.” 18 One also 

should remember that both Shiva and Vishnu’s heaven offers its happy inhabitants by 

far not only spiritual but also wordly pleasures. So much so that one starts wandering 

how, for instance, a person whose body has been discarded (obligatorily cremated if 

he is not a sanyâsî) can enjoy the pleauses offered by heavenly beauties. 

It seems at least to me that in the enumerations of duties or among the traits of 

recommended good behaviour almost purely mundane and generally human aspects 

even in later religeous literature often predominate. What else can be said about 

“Vishnu Purâna’s” mentioning the obligations of all four varnas: “These are, the acquisition 

of property, for the suport of their families; cohabitation with their wives, 

for the sake of progeny; tenderness towards all creatures, patience, humility, truth, 

purity, contentment, decency of decoration, gentleness of speech, friendliness; and 

freedom from envy and repining, from avarice, and from detraction. These are also 

the duties of every condition of life.” 19 . Different but hardly more otherwordly are the 

ten sins mentioned by another Purâna: “Not giving a gift on auspicious days, doing 

forbidden things, violence, commiting adultery, speaking harsh words, uttering falsehood, 

scandalising words, nonsensical words, coveting another man’s death, wishing 

evil of others” 20 . 

There is much supernatural “Mahâbhârata”. Yet the main action is driven ahead 

by purely worldly motives, it is only superficially covered by a veil of religious injunctions. 

The Pândavas and Kauravas fight for power, the enlargement of the state 

and personal gains, be it wealth or fame. Even to us – people of different cultural 

background is understandable what Bhîshma tells Yudhisthira: “Pride, malice, slander, 

wiliness and incapacity to hear other peoples good, are vices, o Kuru chief, that 

are to be seen in persons of impure soul under the influence of covetousness.” 21 . 

Regardless of Judhisthira’s pious but unconvincing speeches and Bhîshmas sermons, 

which were hardly a part of the original epic, artha – worldly gains practically is the 

only aim of the warrior varna. This is well revealed in Arjuna’s, Bhîma’s, Draupadî’s 

and even Krishna’s utterances at the end of the epic. The warriors of both sides know 

that if they die, the heaven will keep its doors open to them, yet none is ready to part 

with his body and to end the supposed sufferings it causes. All Krishna’s tricks with 

the help of which Arjuna kills his most outstanding enemies are also of a purely 

13


mundane nature. Purely human and even noble is Karna’s attitude to the three older 

Pândavas after he hears from his mother Kuntî that Judhisthitira, Bhîmasena and 

Arjuna are his half– brothers. Karna promises to her: “I shall not kill such of your 

sons as are capable of being withstood and killed by me, in the battle. There are 

Yudhisthira, Bhîma and the twins, in fact everyone save Arjuna; Arjuna alone in the 

army of Yudhisthira is worthy to fight with me. Having killed Arjuna I shall achieve 

a reputation for great prowess; or being myself killed by Savyasachin I shall be endued 

with renown.” 22 . “Mahâbhârata”, reflecting, indeed, natural human weaknesses 

as much as merits, may not always be an example of military nobleness. Yet Manu 

asks any soldier: “Fighting in a battle, he should not kill his enemies with weapons 

that are concealed, barbed or smeared with poison or whose points blaze with fire. 

He should not kill anyone who has climbed on a mound, or an impotent man, or 

whose hair is unbound, or anyone who is seated or who says: “I am yours”; nor anyone 

asleep, without armour, naked, without a weapon, not fighting, looking on, or 

engaged with someone else; nor anyone whose weapons have been broken, or who is 

in pain, badly wounded, terrified, or fleeing– for he should remember duties of good 

men.’’ 23 . Is this not purely wordly ethics? One only should note: if such injunctions 

were at least partly observed in the many battles Indian kings fought against each 

other, then that was something positively and humanely unique in world history. Especially 

in so very ancient times. 

As one could expect, earthly aims in human life most ardently are defended by 

Kautilya in his famous “Arthashâstra”, written in the beginning of our era. After declaring 

that it is necessary for the people to fix the bounds of the Aryan rule of life, 

to establish securely the varnas and the stages of life, follow the assertion that material 

well–being alone is supreme. We meet with phrases like “wealth is the root of 

virtue”, “virtue is attained by wealth and wealth by virtue”, “morality as means to 

serve political ends”, “strengh is power, success is happiness”. Duties common to all 

are: abstaining from injury (to living beings), truthfulness, uprightness, freedom from 

malice, compassionatness, and forbearance. 

Even more than in “Arthashâstra”, whose influence on the Hindu’s everyday life 

may be very much questioned, worldly values predominate in the wonderful beast 

fables of “Pancatantra” and “Hitopadesha”. Their philosophy, which must have been 

true to life, was acceptable not only to Indians, but also to many other nationalities. 

Not in vain in Europe it was once thougt that all fairy–tales originated in India. 

It is extremely easy to find evidences in literature that women were regarded to 

be much lower than men and that wives could be treated as something like the property 

of their husbands. In this connection Manu – a specific authority on the questions 

of marriage and family life– says: “Horses and chariots, elephants, parasols, 

money, grain, livestock, women, all sorts of things and non–precious materials belong 

to the man who wins them.” 24 We know well how the widows of the three upper 

varnas are treated even now or what the child marriage means for a girl. At the same 

time, if we regard Hinduism as an ancient creed, it is obvious that women’s position 

in China or Greece, for example, was hardly better. The very humane Indian injunction 

not to kill a woman in any circumstances seems to have been strictly observed. 

Bhîshma allowed himself to be slaughtered because he thought that he had to fight a 

person whom he knew as a woman. For killing of a woman capital punishment is


prescribed. To die in the defense of a woman meant to go to heaven. There are prescriptions 

involving harsh punishments even for what we would call today sexual 

harassment. Mother is until now adored in many families by men even after their 

marriage. 

The strangest thing is that both the respect and disrespect for women are often 

expressed in the same work and by the same person. A good example of this are 

Bhîshma’s very long sermons when he lies as in bed on Arjuna’s arrows. He informs 

that “Women are deities of prosperity. The person that desires affluence and prosperity 

should honour them. By cherishing women, O Bharata, (Yudisthira– V.I.) one 

cherishes the goddess of prosperity herself, and by afflicting her, one is said to pain 

the goddess of prosperity. Honour, good treatment should be given to the maiden 

whose hand is taken in marriage. “The virtue of men depend on women.” 25 . But in 

the same most authoritative source we read: “Women, o King, are fierce. They are 

gifted with fierce powers. They have none whom they love or like, so much as them 

that have sexual intercourse with them.” 26 

REFERENCES 

1 The Shiva Purâna, tr. by a board of scholars. Part 1–4, Delhi, 1970; part 2, pp. 750–751. 

2 Ibid, part 3, p. 1535. 

3 The Complete Works of Vivekananda. – Calcutta, 1976, vol. 2, p. 176. 

4 The Shiva Purana, part 2, p. 717. 

5 The Râmâjana of Vâlmikî. Introduction and translation by R.P.Goldman, Princeton, 1986, 

vol. 2, p. 125. 

6 The Mahâbhârata, tr. by K.M.Ganguli, vol. 1–12, New Delhi, 1981; vol.3, p. 201. 

7 The Bhâgavata Purâna, tr. by G. V.Tagare. Delhi, 1970, vol. 1, p. 123. 

8 The Sacred Laws of Aryas, tr. by G.Buehler, Delhi, 1965, part 2, p. 3. 

9 The Mahâbhârata, vol. 6, p. 237. 

10 The Laws of Manu, tr. by Wendy Donigen, New Delhi, 1991, p. 96. 

11 Thirteen Principal Upanishads, tr. by R. E. Hulme, Delhi, 1990, pp. 281–282. 


13 The Râmâjana, vol. 2, p. 141. 

14 The Laws of Manu, p. 40. 

15 Thirteen Principal Upanishads, p. 141. 


17 Ibid, 153. 

18 Ibid, 252. 

19 The Vishnu Purana, tr. by H.H.Wilson. – Calcutta, 1961, p. 236. 

20 The Garuda Purâna, Delhi, 1978, p. 625. 


22 Ibid, vol. 3., p. 201. 


24 Ibid, p. 8, 138. 

25 The Mahâbhârata, vol. 7, 115. 

26 Ibid, 110. 

15


Kopsavilkums 

Hindu svçtos rakstus ir iespçjams lasît, pilnîgi pakïaujot savu ego, lai sasniegtu 

moksha stâvokli, taèu tas ðíiet nepieòemami no humânistisko mçríu viedokïa un kïûst 

vienîgi par teorçtisku iespçju, jo tîri sadzîviskâs intereses nosaka cilvçku ikdienas 

dzîvi. Tieði tâpat ir arî Rietumos.



Der neue Turm zu Babel 

Zur polyglotten Signatur der postmodernen Erzählprosa der letzten Jahre 

The New Tower of Babel 

Notices to the Polyglot Signature of the Post–Modern Narrative Prose in the last Years 

Jaunais Bâbeles tornis 

Piezîmes par daudzvalodîbas ietekmi postmodernisma vçstîjuma prozâ pçdçjo gadu laikâ 

Klaus Hammer (Germany) 

e–mail: Prof.Klaus.Hammer@gmx.de 

Jacques Derrida hat sie an der Erzählung vom Turmbau zu Babel verdeutlicht, der er einen 

neuen Sinn unterlegte. Im Turmbau wollte die Moderne sich im Geiste einer alles 

beherrschenden Einheitssprache verewigen. Die Einheitssprache ist in eine Fülle von Sprachen 

zerfallen, die alle das gleiche Recht für sich beanspruchen. Das ist die “polyglotte” Signatur 

der Postmoderne. Der Text produziert seine eigenen Sinnverbindungen. Alle Bücher sind nur 

“Echos der Intertextualität”(Umberto Eco). Sie alle sprechen von anderen Büchern und jede 

Geschichte erzählt eine längst schon erzählte Geschichte. Der Beitrag untersucht „Patchwork” 

–Struktur in der deutschen Prosa der Postmoderne. 

Keywords: Jacques Derrida, Jürgen Habermas, polyglotte Signatur. 

Wenn Literatur tatsächlich, wie behauptet wird, das kollektive Gedächtnis der 

Menschheit spiegelt, dann erfahren wir beim Vergleich zwischen der Literatur der 

1960er/70er Jahre und der 1980er/90er Jahre des gerade abgelaufenen Jahrhunderts 

eine überraschende Tatsache. Jacques Derrida hat sie an der Erzählung vom Turmbau 

zu Babel verdeutlicht, der er einen neuen Sinn unterlegte1 . Im Turmbau wollte die 

Moderne sich im Geiste einer alles beherrschenden Einheitssprache verewigen. Doch 

der Bau ist an seiner Vermessenheit und Überspitzung gescheitert. Die 

Einheitssprache ist in eine Fülle von Sprachen zerfallen, die alle das gleiche Recht 

für sich beanspruchen. Das ist die “polyglotte” Signatur der Postmoderne. Die 

Zustimmung zur Pluralität und die Verabschiedung restriktiver Einheitsperspektiven – 

Inklusivität statt Exklusivität – ist weit über den ästhetischen Bereich zu einer 

Grundtendenz zeitgenössischer Philosophie und Weltanschauung geworden. 

Jürgen Habermas hat für die disparaten Tendenzen unserer Zeit mit dem Titel 

seiner Aufsatzsammlung “Die neue Unübersichtlichkeit” Mitte der 1980er Jahre ein 

treffendes Charakterisierungsmerkmal gegeben2 . Simultaneität und Simulation 

erhalten eine neue Zauberkraft. Die simultane Verfügbarkeit der Traditionsbestände 

in der Kunst der Postmoderne führt zur Wiederkehr des gegenstandes, zur 

Neubewertung des Sinnlich– Gestischen, des Interesses am Mythos in der Malerei – 

und nicht nur dort –, zur Wiederaufnahme der Schmuck– und Redeformen in der 

Architektur, zur Collage verschiedener Stile in allen Medien, tonaler Mittel in der 

Musik, des auf Spannung bedachten Erzählens, der Lust am Narrativen in der 

Literatur. Die Tradition wird zur abermaligen Avantgarde. Phänomene und 

Erfahrungen, die vom modernen Denken negativ bewertet worden sind, wie


Unbestimmtheit, Pluralität, Sontaneität, Beliebigkeit, Synkretismus, Trivialität, erfahren 

in der Theorie der Postmoderne Anerkennung als menschliche Schlüsselerfahrungen 

und soziale wie ästhetische Grundphänomene. Die modisch–inflationäre Verwendung 

droht den Terminus Postmoderne geradezu zum sinnentleerten “Passepartoutbegriff” 

– so warnte Umberto Eco – zu machen3 . 

Als typischer Ausdruck postmodernen Selbstverständnisses kann der Autor Bod 

Kirchhoff zitiert werden: “Der Intellektuelle und die aus allen Fugen geratene Welt 

des 20. Jahrhunderts – dazu gibt es längst unübertreffliche Gedanken und Bilder, das 

wichtigste ist gesagt. Dem Epigonen, der sich jetzt noch äußern soll, bleibt nur, 

wichtig zu tun und dies zu erkennen...Mein Tschernobyl ist die Medienmaschine, die 

lägnst das sogenannte Ernste geschluckt hat – mir droht der Unterhaltungs–GAU. Das 

Schicksal meiner Eltern hieß Krieg, mein ‘Schicksal’ heißt Banalität” 4 . 

Den postmodernen Schriftstellern geht es nicht mehr um eine 

erkenntnisorientierte Wltinterpretation oder die Problematisierung des herkömmlichen 

Geschichtenerzählens. Ihre Romane wie Sten Nadolnys Die Entdeckung der 

Langsamkeit” (1983), Patrick Süskinds “Das Parfum” (1985), Christoph Ransmayrs 

“Die letzte Welt” (1988) oder Bodo Kirchhoffs in diesem Jahr erschienener 

“Schundroman” lassen sich auf der Textoberfläche fast durchgängig als 

Unterhaltungsliteratur, bisweilen an der Grenze zum Trivialen, lesen. Ihr Stoff ist 

reizvoll, die Handlung spannend konstruiert und die sprachliche Darbietung voller 

Effekte. Sie zeigen die Welt ohne Mittelpunkt, ohne Ich. Der Identitätsbegriff wird 

gänzlich aufgelöst. Der postmoderne Roman wird als großes Vernetzungswerk, als 

Flickwerkstruktur gesehen. Er bietet für jeden etwas: historische Belehrung, 

phantastische Geschichte, Sex and rime im virtuosen Bestsellermix. Er ist ein 

Mimikry ohne Original. 

Patrick Süskinds Erfolgsroman “Das Parfum – Die Geschichte eines Mörders” 

(1985) distanziert sich nicht nur von der oftmals larmoyanten 

Selbstbeobachtungsliteratur der 1970er und beginnenden 1980er Jahre, sondern 

imitiert ironisch zitierend traditionelle Erzählhaltungen und fügt literarische Motive 

aus vergangenen Epochen bei: “Das Parfum” greift zurück auf das Kleistsche 

Kohlhaas–Motiv, auf das romantische La Belle–et–la–Bete–Thema, auf Erzählungen 

E.T.A. Hoffmanns, das Musical “Phantom der Oper” von A.L. Webber, auf die 

besonderen Fähigkeiten Oskar Matzeraths im Grass–Roman “Die Blechtrommel”, den 

Film “Rosemary’s Baby” von Roman Polanski, auf berlegungen Friedrich Nietzsches, 

George Batailles, Albert Camus’, Elias Canettis und Michel Foucaults, dessen 

analytische Untersuchungen zur Zivilisationsgeschichte dem Postmodernismus 

zugeordnet worden sind, und vieles andere mehr. 

Süskinds “Das Parfum” ist Bildungsroman (besser: Verbildungsroman), 

biographischer Roman, historischer Roman, Kriminalroman, Reiseroman, phantastischer 

Roman, Parabel und Gedankenspiel in einem. Verschiedene Erzähltraditionen 

werden hier virtuos miteinander kombiniert; verschiedene Stilelemente, die für das 

Märchen, den historischen Bericht, die Bibel, das Drama u.a. charakteristisch sind, 

werden variiert. Im Zentrum des Romans steht das Paris des 18. Jahrhunderts und die 

Gestalt des Jean–Baptiste Grenouille, eines häßlichen Gnoms, der die Fähigkeit besitz, 

Tausende von Düften zu identifizieren, und der menschenmordend den “absoluten

Klaus Hammer. Jaunais Bâbeles tornis 

Duft” erfindet: Aus dem Duft junger Mädchen, die er ermordet hat. Grenouille wird 

zum Tod auf dem Schafott verurteilt, versetzt mit dem geheimnisvollen Parfüm die zu 

seiner Hinrichtung herbeiströmenden Schaulustigen in einen ekstatischen Taumel und 

wird so Opfer seiner eigenen Erfindung. Geschickt verbindet der Roman triviale, 

unterhaltende und ernste Elemente. “Das Parfum”, dieser Pastiche–Roman (Pastiche 

hier als Flickwerkstruktur) ist vielschichtig konstruiert und bietet dem Leser eine Fülle 

ironisch gebrochener, intertextueller Anspielungen an, deren Erkennen aber für das 

Verfolgen der Handlung nicht unbedingt erforderlich ist. 

Dagegen mischt Christoph Ransmayr in seinem Roman “Die letzte Welt” (1988) 

mythische Geschichten aus der Vergangenheit mit dem Wissen aus der Gegenwart, 

so daß die Verflechtungen der Zeiten und die damit verbundenen Anachronismen eine 

neue Art von Lesevergnügen sichern sollen. Obwohl – ähnlich wie in Umberto Ecos 

Erfolgsroman “Der Name der Rose” – Geschichten (hier um Ovid) erzählt werden, 

entspricht dieses Buch nicht dem Typus des Geschichtsromans. Er produziert 

vielmehr eine neue, mit historischen Elementen durchsetzte Wirklichkeit. Erzählt wird, 

wie der Römer Cotta sein Interesse auf Ovids “Metamorphosen” lenkt, die vernichtet 

sind und rekonstruiert werden müssen. Gestalten aus Ovids Dichtung treten auf und 

werden aus mythischer Vorzeit in die Epoche Cottas und in die Zeit des Autors 

Ransmayr versetzt. Ovids Verfehlung besteht darin, “das zum Staat verblaßte Rom an 

archaische, unbändige Leidenschaften erinnert” zu haben5 . 

Cotta, der Amateurdetektiv, kann am obskuren Zufluchtsort Ovids – dessen 

Bewohner ihre Gestalt ständig ändern und die deshalb ebenso ungreifbar wie 

unbegreifbar sind – weder einen Hinweis auf den Gesuchten – Ovid – ausfindig 

machen noch auf dessen Manuskript “Metamorphosen”, das zu verbrennen Ovid 

angekündigt hat. Ransmayr verbindet so das Thema der vergeblichen Recherche mit 

einem anderen postmodernen Lieblingstops: mit dem des verlorenen, verschollenen 

Buches – also mit einer Metapher für den Verlust des Sinns, des codifizierten 

geistigen Zusammenhangs. Eigentlich geht es um das Buch heute, um die Frage, 

was Literatur heute vermag, um “Poesie” als “letzte” Welt. Dieser Lesart zufolge 

steht die “letzte Welt” also hier nicht primär als apokalyptisches, sondern als 

utopisches Kürzel. 

Aus der scheinbar bloßen Stasi–Geschichte “Ich” (1993) von Wolfgang Hilbig 

wird die brillante Umkehrung des Bildungsromans und der “postmoderne” 

Gesellschaftsroman über die Endzeit der DDR. Wirklichkeit entblößt sich als Simulation 

und entpuppt sich gerade darin als wirklich. Der Identitätsbegriff ist aufgelöst 

und das “postmoderne” Sprachspiel soll dem Leser durchaus Unterhaltung und 

Vergnügen bereiten, das bald aber in bitterbösen Sarkasmus umschlägt. Hilbig 

schreibt über einen jungen Mann namens M. W., den die allgegenwärtige Stasi durch 

Verführung, durch Druck, durch versteckte Intrige und offenbarte Intelligenz zu einem 

Dichter und einem IM (informellen Mitarbeiter der Staatssicherheit) macht. Wenn er 

schon einmal schreibt, kann er auch Berichte schreiben. Zwischen “IL” (Inoffizielle, 

unerwünschte Literatur) und IM liegt im Alphabet nur eine winzige Leerstelle.Die 

Selbstverwirklichung beginnt als Selbstauslöschung. Obwohl M.W. zu fliehen 

versucht, nach Ostberlin, das damals Hauptstadt der DDR hieß, in die Szene, in den 

Kelleruntergrund, entkommt er der Stasi nicht. Er wird geführt, er wird beobachtet, er 

19


beobachtet selbst. Alle wichtigen Personen des Romans, auch die unwahrscheinlichsten, 

enthüllen sich schließlich als Informanten des Ministeriums für 

Staatssicherheit, verstrickt in ein Spiel, das niemand beherrscht, niemand überblickt 

und das dennoch einen Staat ergibt: “Ziel des Dienstes war es, alle...Ich sagte alle! 

dachte er. Ausnahmslos alle...zu Mitarbeitern des Dienstes zu machen, auch wenn 

dieser Gedanke wahnsinnig klang. Damit alle von allen überwacht werden 

konnten...War dies nicht das unausgesprochene Ziel aller großen Utopien, von Platon 

über Bacon bis Marx und Lenin? Daß jeder jeden in der Hand hatte, vielleicht war 

dies das letztendliche Ziel des utopischen Denkens...” 6 . 

Die in unendlich vielen Anläufen durchgespielte Idee Hilbigs: Der Gegensatz von 

Geist und Macht ist eine Chimäre, tausendfach ausgebeutet von der Stasi wie von 

den Dichtern. Im gegenteil: Dichter und Staatsschützer sind sich ähnlich, aufeinander 

verwiesen, sie agieren in ähnlichen Strukturen. M. W. wird Schriftsteller, weil die Stasi 

Opposition braucht wie die Opposition den Staatsschutz. Stasi wie Dichter sind 

abwesend hinter ihren papiernen Entwürfen; beide hegen ein tiefes Mißtrauen gegen 

die Wirklichkeit; beide können nicht mit Menschen umgehen, können sie nur 

erforschen, ausforschen; beide kommunizieren nicht, sondern leben hinter den 

Zeichen; beide ersetzen Reales durch beliebige Kopfgeburten. Der Dichter ist “der 

Wahrnehmungsmensch, dessen Sinn darauf trainiert war, seine Beobachtungen in 

methodisch aussehende Sprachraster zu fügen” 7 . Der IM auch. Der Dichter lebt in 

der Welt der Zeichen. Der IM auch. Beide sind Simulationsagenten. Atemberaubend 

ist diese Hypothese, die dem Ganzen zugrundeliegt. 

Der Ich–Zerfall in einer Welt verlorener Sicherheit und vorgefertigter Normen ist 

die Voraussetzung für den postmodernen Roman. Norbert Niemanns Roman “Wie 

man’s nimmt” (1998) handelt von jungen desolaten Figuren, die nach sich selbst 

suchen, aber bei dieser Suche immer nur auf vorgestanzte Meinungshülsen stoßen. 

Eigentlich ist an den Figuren, die wie aus Fertigbauteilen zusammengesetzt sind, 

nichts Eigenes mehr. Und eigentlich wiederholt auch Niemanns Sprache das 

Phrasenhafte und will so die Ohnmacht vor der phrasenhaften Welt zeigen. Die 

Medialisierung und Vernetzung ist so allgegenwärtig, daß es überhaupt keinen 

Zugang mehr zum Echten gibt. Verkürzt also: Die Welt ist eine riesige Konserve, was 

man wiederum nur mit Konservensätzen zeigen könne. 

Auch Steffen Kopetzky läßt in seiner Prosaarbeit “Einbruch und Wahn” einen 

jungen Dichter den Boden unter dem Denken verlieren. Seine aberwitzig 

verschachtelten Sätze, deren Teile sich ständig selbst ins Wort fallen, sich durch die 

Form schon der Lüge bezichtigen, führen in einen geschlossenen, realitätsleeren 

Wahnkosmos, der sich selbstgenügsam und nach dem Schneeballprinzip ins 

Gewaltige fortspinnt. Sowohl Niemann als auch Kopetzky inszenieruen und 

verabsolutieren die Unwahrheit. Beide Texte richten sich im Unechten, im 

Uneigentlichen, im “uneigentlichen Konservenschreiben” ein. 

Gerade die Tendenz des “uneigentlichen Konservenschreibens” löst ein Motiv 

ab, das die Literatur noch bis in die 1980er Jahre bestimmt hat: die Eigentlichkeit. 

Schaut man auf die Themen und Motive, trifft man immer wieder auf die damaligen 

Themen und Motive, trifft man immer wieder auf die Eigentlichkeit und die Sehnsucht 

nach dem Unvermittelten, dem Echten. Und zwar nicht nur bei Peter Handke und


Botho Strauß, sondern auch in Großstadtromanen von Ulrich Woelk, Ulrich Peltzer 

und Richard Wagner, die einem absoluten Gegenwartsmoment hinterherjagen. In den 

virtuellen Räumen der Computerliteratur, bei der die Entwirklichung der Welt auf die 

Spitze getrieben wird, um dann in einen ganz wirklichen Moment zu kippen. 

Jochen Beyses Erzählung “Ultraviolett” (1990) handelt von einem Börsenmakler, 

für den die Welt längst zum Bildschirm geworden ist: Zahlenkombinationen und 

oberflächliches Bildgeflimmer, das man beliebig steuern kann. Die Figur selbst ist eine 

Art Hih–Tech–Bewußtseinsmaschine, ein hochsensibler Wahrnehmungsapparat, 

sonst allerdings ziemlich leblos. Der plötzliche Augenblick hat bei diesem Spiel eine 

entscheidende Funktion. Er bezeichnet den Augenblick, in dem die Figur bestimmt, 

auf welche Taktik sie umschaltet. Permanent spielt sie diverse Handlungs– und 

Sprechmöglichkeiten durch, um im richtigen Augenblick die richtigen Entscheidungen 

zu treffen, die genau dann richtig sind, wenn sie der Figur das Gefühl geben, die 

größte Kontrolle über sich zu behalten. Diese permanenten Entscheidungen halten 

das Lebensspiel in Fluß, und dieser Fluß suggeriert das Gefühl von Sinn. In Wahrheit 

ist es aber genau umgekehrt. Der Fluß läßt keine Ruhe und keinen wirklichen 

Gedanken zu. Die ohnehin künstliche Welt wird luftdicht verfugt und perpetuiert ein 

Gefühl der Leere, das um so größer wird, je virtuoser der Erzähler seine Erzählung 

beherrscht. Wirklich an dieser Figur ist nur die Leere. Die Angst vor ihr treibt die Figur 

zu ihren Inszenierungen an, und die Leere schwebt ihr letztlich auch als 

Erlösungsvision vor. Der Makler jagt sein Bewußtseinsspiel auf solche Touren, daß 

die Maschine endlich heiß läuft und schließlich versagt: Absoluter Kontrollverlust ist 

das Ergebnis. Der Makler betritt das knirschende Eis eines zugefrorenen Kanals: “Du 

bist wirr, dachte er, verrückt, du setzt dein Leben aufs Spiel – und jetzt brach der 

Schirm, endlich, endlich” 8 . Der ekstatische Augenblick, in dem sein Bildschirm bricht 

und die Welt als eigentliche Wirklichkeit ihn endlich umspült, führt zum Tod. Ein Tod, 

der wie eine Erlösung wirkt. 

Das Spiel mit den Identitäten war in den 1980er Jahren wirklich nur ein Spiel 

gewesen. Ein rein ästhetisches Problem, das inzwischen zum existentiellen geworden 

ist, weil die Diskurse, mit denen man im achten Jahrzehnt noch spielerisch jongliert 

hatte, sich als Vernetzung und Medialisierung inzwischen bis in die kleinsten 

Lebensbereiche hineingefressen haben. Während die Literatur der 1980er Jahre noch 

damit kokettierte, daß Ich jeder sein kann, weiß Ich in den 1990er Jahren tatsächlich 

nicht mehr, wer und was Ich ist. 

Stirner, von Beruf Innenarchitekt, der Erzähler in Ulrich Woelks Berlin–Roman 

“Rückspiel” (1993), verwechselt ständig Leben mit Konstruieren. Er fühlt sich wie in 

einem unwirklichen Secondhand–Leben. Eine Sehnsucht nach Direktheit hat auch er, 

und da man in den 1990ern am meisten Gegenwart im konfliktreichen berlin findet, 

schickt Woelk seinen Helden über die Mitfahrzentrale mit der weniger gehemmten 

Lucca dorthin. Die beiden verlieben sich ineinander, und Stirner kann mit Lucca 

wenigstens für kurze Zeit seine Verkrampfung vergessen. Denn sein Problem wird er 

nicht los, überall dort, wo etwas lebendig ist, automatisch auch ein Konstrukt 

hineinzulesen. Sein Hirn hat eine eingebaute Fiktionalisierungsautomatik und bastelt 

aus sich, Lucca und noch anderen Figuren eine wahnhafte Liebes– und 

Kriminalgeschichte, die der wirklichen Liebe zu Lucca das Leben nimmt. Im 

verzweifelten Rettungsversuch greift Stirner auf einer Silvesterparty zum Speed, das 

21


seine Hirnverkrampfung aufsprengt und ihn endlich in die ersehnte Jetztzeit befördert: 

“...und ich bekam kaum Luft, aber wir hopsten und hopsten, ich war glücklich, wir alle 

waren glücklich, und jetzt war der richtige Zeitpunkt...weil jetzt der Jüngste Tag war” 9 . 

Nur weilt Lucca längst in einer anderen Gegenwart und schläft gerade mit einem 

Künstler. Das ist die Ironie: Im Rausch der Jetztzeit ist man utopisch mit allem 

verbunden und kann doch so entsetztlich allein sein. 

Die Autoren der 1990er Jahre wissen, daß sich der Moment der Jetztzeit nicht 

einstellt, sondern er muß virtuell hergestellt werden. Durch Sex, Musik, 

Liebesromantik oder Drogen. Freilich ein Paradox: das Eigentliche, also nicht 

Inszenierte wird möglich nur in der Inszenierung, und der absolute Glücksmoment 

ist, wie Stirner erfährt, eben nur an der inszenierten Oberfläche absolut und wirklich 

und geht ansonsten schmerzhaft an der wirklichkeit vorbei. Auch muß man wohl 

unterscheiden zwischen dem Willen zum absoluten Augenblick der Autoren und dem, 

was ihre Sprache zu vermitteln vermag. 

Der Cyberroman “Die Quotenmaschine” (1996) von Norman Ohler spielt in New 

York und reflektiert das Lebensgefühl von Techno und der sogenannten Internetter. 

Das Ziel ist auch hier Jetztzeit, absolutes im–Fluß–Sein, was für den Detektiv Maxx 

Rutenberg vor allem Ich–Auflösung bedeutet. Im Square Park verliert er sich auf 

Techno–Parties, und in “Maxxenx Kopf schwammen die Worte Ja Ja Ja Ja” 10 . 

Daneben verliert er sich auch im Internet. Er schickt die Geschichte, an der er 

recherchiert, ins Netz, aus dem sie kommentiert zurückkommt. Der Text wird also 

ortlos, was Maxx als totale Befreiung erlebt. Und das ist ja auch die Paradoxie an der 

Sache. In dem Augenblick, in dem er sich, sein Ich losgeworden ist, fühlt Maxx sich 

erst eigentlich bei sich angekommen. 

Das postmoderne Sprachspiel soll – um es noch einmal zu wiederholen – dem 

Leser nicht nur Erkenntnis vermitteln, sondern durchaus auch Unterhaltung und 

Vergnügen bereiten. Das gesellschaftliche Engagement als der entscheidende Impuls 

zur Produktion von Literatur wird ausgeschlossen. Umberto Eco sagte nach dem 

Welterfolg von “Der Name der Rose”: “Ich habe einen Roman geschrieben, weil ich 

Lust dazu hatte. Ich halte das für einen hinreichenden Grund, sich ans Erzählen zu 

machen. Der Mensch ist von Natur aus ein animal fabulator” 11 . Der Text also 

produziert seine eigenen Sinnverbindungen. Alle Bücher sind nur “Echos der 

Intertextualität” 12 . Denn sie alle sprechen von anderen Büchern und jede Geschichte 

erzählt eine längst schon erzählte Geschichte. 

ANMERKUNGEN 

1 vgl. Derrida Jacques. Die Schrift und die Differenz. 1967; Die Wahrheit in der Malerei. 

1978. 

2 Habermas Jürgen. Die neue Unübersichtlichkeit. 1985. 

3 Eco Umberto. Nachschrift zum “Namen der Rose”. – München, 1986, S. 77. 

4 Kirchhoff Bodo. Ich bin ein Möchtegernschriftsteller, in: Martin Lüdke und Delf Schmidt 

Hg.): Rowohlt Literaturmagazin 19, Reinbek bei Hamburg 1987, S. 68 f. 

5 Ransmayr Christoph. Die letzte Welt. – Frankfurt/M, 1988, S. 173.


6 Hilbig Wolfgang. Ich. Roman. – Frankfurt/M, 1993, S. 75. 

7 Ebenda, S. 335. 

8 Beyse Jochen. Ultraviolett. Erzählung. – Frankfurt/M, 1990, S. 135. 

9 Woelk Ulrich. Rückspiel. Roman. – Frankfurt/M, 1993, S. 272. 

10 Ohler Norman. Die Quotenmaschine. Roman. – Hamburg, 1996, S. 211. 

11 Eco Umberto. A.a.O., S. 21. 

12 Ebenda, S. 21. 

Summary 

Jacques Derrida has attached a new meaning to the tale of the construction of the 

Tower of Babel. The modern men wanted to perpetuate the ruling language of unity 

in the construction of the Tower. But the fact that the language of unity has divided 

into a copiousness of languages, and that all of them demand the same rights, means 

the polyglot signature of post–modern. The text produces his connections of sense. 

All books would be “responses of the intertextual” (Umberto Eco), then all writers 

talk about ot 

her books and each story tells a tale that was told long ago. The Post–modern 

roman is seen as a great network. The patchwork structures of the post–modern narration 

in Germany should be researched in this paper. 

Kopsavilkums 

Þaks Derida ir pieðíîris jaunu nozîmi stâstam par Bâbeles toròa celtniecîbu. 

Modernais cilvçks vçlçjâs iemûþinât valdoðo un vienojoðo valodu Bâbeles toròa 

celtniecîbâ. Taèu fakts, ka vienojoðâ valoda ir sadalîjusies valodu daudzveidîbâ , kur 

katra no tâm pieprasa vienâdas tiesîbas, ir viena no svarîgâkajâm postmodernisma 

poliglotiskajâm iezîmçm. Teksts rada savas jçgpilnas sakarîbas. Tâdçjâdi visas 

grâmatas ir “responses of the intertextual” (Umberto Eko), visi rakstnieki runâ par 

citu sarakstîtajâm grâmatâm un ikviens stâsts atkârto jau sen uzrakstîto. 

Postmodernais româns ir uzskatâms par lielu sakarîbu tîklu. Referâtâ tiek aplûkotas 

Vâcijas postmodernâ vçstîjuma mozaîkas struktûras. 

23



The Postcolonial Syndrome and 

Identity Crisis in Latvia 

Pçckoloniâlais sindroms un identitâtes krîze Latvijâ 

Sigma Ankrava (Latvia) 

Latvijas Universitâtes Moderno valodu fakultâte 

Visvalþa iela 4a, Rîga, LV 1011 

e–pasts: Sigma Ankrava@lu.lv 

The society in contemporary Latvia experiences the same problems other Asian or Afraican 

countries had had after regaining independence. Thus the statement is valid that Latvia is in a 

postcolonial situation characterised by the postcolonial syndrome and crisis of identities. A 

succfessful integration of society in the future is possible only rehabilitating the principle of 

historic justice, attributing a contemporary content to the notion of “national” and continuing 

to build Latvian state structures on the basis of principles of parliamentary democracy. 

Keywords: Identity, post–colonialism, society integration. 

The modern world influenced by globalisation has created a number of problems. 

One of these problems is preserving the identity. This problem has affected not only 

a mere individual, but also the state. To solve this problem states establish relevant 

institutions and hire professional image makers. Individuals had to cope with this 

problem by themselves since the beginning of time. The philosophers of antiquity 

and Orient were encouraging people to it by teaching: “Know thyself!” Even today 

the individual who was raised from his anonymous existence and turned into a personality 

by the ideology of the Renaissance risks losing this identity in the modern 

world. In Latvia both these problems – the problem of preserving the identity of the 

state and the problem of preserving one’s personal identity – are equally important. 

They are closely intertwined. 

Presently Latvia finds itself in a postcolonial situation. In the twentieth century 

Latvia has liberated itself from colonial regimes twice. In 1918 it proclaimed its independence 

for the first time liberating itself from seven hundred years of German 

and two hundred years of Russian/German rule, and for the second time in 1991 when 

it broke away from the Soviet system. In the postcolonial discourse this topic is often 

neglected. There are many reasons for this. In the 1950s ies these reasons were well 

described by Czeslaw Milosz in his “The Captive Mind”. Recently I found a profound 

analysis of this problem in an article by Dr. Kârlis Racevskis called “Toward a 

Postcolonial Perspective on the Baltic States”. In Latvia the philosopher Vilnis Zariòð 

has analysed the topic in a most interesting way. 

As the former minister of foreign affairs Georgs Andrejevs has stated, on the 

official level the evidence suggests that there can be no doubt about the fact that the 

Soviet regime was imposed on Latvia first by occupation and then by the following 

colonisation of an independent state. 1 The first document to state the occupation was 

the report by Marie Antoinette von Lowzow (Doc. 1173) presented to the Consultant 

(now Parliamentary) Assembly of the Council of Europe on its 19th session September 

28, 1960 on the situation in the Baltics to commemorate the 20th anniversary of the

Sigma Ankrava. Pçckoloniâlais sindroms un identitâtes krîze Latvijâ 

loss of independence of the three Baltic states. The day after the Assembly approved 

Resolution189 “On the Situation in the Baltic States on the twentieth anniversary of 

their forcible incorporation into the Soviet Union” in which the Soviet military occupation 

of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania was denounced, and which stated that the 

illegal annexation was carried out without the consent of the people of these three 

states. Along with this document three more resolutions on this topic were passed in 

the following years: Doc. 1665 “On the Present Situation in the Baltic States”, Sept.19, 

1963, in which the colonization of Latvia under the Soviet rule was analysed and 

denounced. On Jan.13, 1983, the Parliament of Europe discussed the report of the 

Political Commission (Doc. 1–656/82) about the situation in the Baltics and passed a 

“Resolution about the Situation in Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania” which was later 

published in the official newspaper of the European Union “Journal officiel des 

Communautes europeennes” Febr. 14, 1983 (No C 42/77). In this document, in paragraph 

D of the Statement, it is stressed that the Parliament of Europe denounces the 

occupation of the formerly independent and neutral three Baltic states that started in 

1940 as the result of Molotov–Ribbentrop pact and continues still now. Paragraph F 

states that during the 8 years of local resistance more than 665 000 Estonian. Latvian 

and Lithuanian civilians were killed or deported to the labour camps of Siberia. This 

figure does not include the thousands of those who were killed in the war or during 

the guerilla movement after the war. It should be noted that in the coming years 

around one and a half million people from other the territories of the Soviet Union 

were were brought to the Baltic states. Up to this day Latvia seems to be the only 

European state that has not restored its pre–war human resources. 

In the Recommending part in paragraph 2 European Parliament encourages the 

foreign ministers of the member states to bring the question of the Baltic States to the 

attention of the UNO Special Sub–Commission on of Decolonisation. This appeal was 

signed by 10 member states: United Kingdom, Belgium, Denmark, France, Greece, 

Italy, Ireland, Luxembourg, Netherlands, Germany. 

The last document in this line is Resolution (No 872.) On the Situation of the 

Baltic Peoples on (Jan.28, 1987), adopted by the Parliamentary Assembly of the 

Council of Europe. Paragraph 6 expresses regret about the policy of assimilation of 

the Baltic nations. By this time the European Union had expanded to 21 states, all of 

which signed this document. 

It does not seem that the world community is particularly well informed about of 

the situation the Baltic states are facing at present. We still feel that scholars rarely 

deal with these countries in terms of the postcolonial discourse. Is this because the 

idea of colonisation is normally associated with white people “who carried their burden” 

to other races on different continents, in previous centuries? And does the idea 

about white people colonizing white people seem absurd? To the reasons stated here 

I would like to add a certain uneasiness or reticence of a victim to speak about being 

victimized. This rather complex moral problem is made even more difficult by the 

philosophy of libertarianism and an ethical relativism which is typical of the modern 

world. It is also generally believed that the leftist or Marxist movement was essentially 

anti–colonial. One of the first voices raised against this erroneous assumption 

was that of Czeslaw Milosz. Why was he not heard by western intellectuals? Was it 

because they thought that they “knew better”? 

25


Dr Kârlis Racevskis gives a detailed analysis of the reasons for this neglect. In 

the introduction to his article he writes: 

The idea that the Baltic states might be considered as a former colonies 

of the Soviet Union is clearly a vexing one – untenable in some quarters, 

irrecusable in others, but mostly ignored or deemed irrelevant. The theme 

certainly appears incongruous in the context of the ever–expanding field 

of postcolonial studies. …One notable exception to this neglect is a recent 

article by David Chioni Moore, in which he observes “first, how 

extraordinarily postcolonial the societies of the former Soviet regions 

are, and, second how extraordinarily little attention is paid to this fact, at 

least in these terms”. He argues further that “ it should be clear that the 

term ’postcolonial’, and everything that goes with it – language, 

economy, resistance, liberation and its hangover – might be reasonably 

applied to the formerly Russo–and Soviet–controlled regions post–1989 

and –1991, just as it has been applied to South Asia post–1947 or Africa 

post–1958. 2 

The common traits that make the situation in present day Latvia comparable to the 

situation in South Asia or Africa in the respective period of time, colorfully described by 

D.Ch. Moore as “hangover of liberation”, I shall call the “postcolonial syndrome”. 

The postcolonial syndrome is more or less typical of all the countries that have regained 

their independence. The postcolonial syndrome is characterized by a variety of 

emotions, ranging from euphoria brought about by the belief that freedom would automatically 

solve all problems created by the previous regime, down to a complete loss of 

illusions, bitter disappointment and depression when it turns out that things do not happen 

automatically. This feeling of disillusionment is aggravated by the discovery that 

capitalism in its formative stage is not very humane, and it is simply not possible to jump 

from the Soviet type socialism right into the welfare state. Even more: to our great surprise 

we found in many cases that people corrupted and deformed by the previous regime 

had come to power again. J. Nehru has described such a situation, writing about 

the first years of the Independence of India. After all, they were the only people in India 

who had at least some knowledge of the state and society management. 

In 1993, when I happened to meet colleagues from the School of East European 

and Slavic Studies at the University of London, I asked the Head of the School, Professor 

Michael Branch, “What do you think, when will the people of Latvia start living 

normal human lives?” Smiling, and not hesitating for a moment, he replied: “In 

35 years.” “But why in exactly 35 years?”, wondered I. “Because only then will you 

start electing people to your Parliament who were born in freedom.” 

During those twelve years of independence we all had moments when we were 

proud and happy to witness these years of great changes, but there were also moments 

when we felt frustrated and miserable. “God save you from living in times of 

great changes”, the ancient Chinese saying goes. People in all countries of the former 

Eastern Block have experienced this feeling. 

Characterizing the present situation in Poland, Marcian Krul, Professor of History 

at the University of Warszaw, writes:


The Soviet–type economies could pretend that they were the very embodiment 

of industrial modernization, still in most parts of the former 

USSR satellite states the Marxist–Leninist economy imprisoned an enormous 

number of people on in their farms. Today this reserve army creates 

the most serious political conflicts in Poland since the fall of communism 

and right at in the time when the country is trying to become an 

EU member state. 3 

The postcolonial syndrome is essentially a chain of effects provoked by drastic 

changes of social roles and identities. On a personal level it may often result in a 

profound identity crisis. Such is the case with the Polish farmers. The situation in 

Latvia can be characterized in similar terms. 

After independence was restored, the indigenous population, at least in theory, had 

their former rights restored, whereas the new–comers, who had arrived with the Soviet 

occupation troops or later, suddenly turned from ‘liberators’—a role they identified themselves 

with—into ‘colonizers’. Neither of the groups was ready for this kind of change. 

Independence this time had come to Latvia faster than people had expected. Actually, 

the coup of August 1991 solved the problem in a couple of days. This was the time 

when many non–ethnic Latvians living in Latvia supported the idea of independence, 

and that is why this though unofficial change of their social role was painful to them. In 

the past those people had arrived in in Latvia quite differently. The first group came to 

Latvia at the end of World War II, along with the Soviet army, convinced of their mission 

as li-berators, though for the local people they were just another occupation army. Then 

there followed the retired officers who, just in the tradition of the Roman Empire, were 

allowed to settle down in its the colonies and enjoy certain privileges. It is those two 

groups of settlers to whom it would be politically correct to apply the term ‘colonizers’. 

They were followed by economical refugees, – initially from regions ruined by the war, 

and later from regions ruined by mismanagement, and then by those who were sent there 

by warrants after graduating from high schools and universities. This process intensified 

after 1959 – it might be called the secret colonization of Latvia. Although these new– 

comers enjoyed the kind of privileges the local population had been denied, for instance 

language (Latvian at that time was a kind of a second class language), accommodation, 

work, career opportunities etc., they were brought to Latvia in such large numbers that 

the regime could not provide them with normal living conditions. They were pining away 

for decades in hostels and communal flats, waiting for a flat of their own, and when they 

were confronted with the bureaucratic state machinery their lack of rights brought them 

together with the local people, though the fundamental difference between the two 

groups remained, the difference of the psychology of a grinding–stone and a grain. 

Not just the people of Baltic states, but also the inhabitants of other Soviet satellite 

states felt like grain between grinding stones, though colonization there was 

more of a spiritual type. Karlis Racevskis characterised this method of colonization, 

i.e. the colonization of people’s minds, when he quoted Vaclav Havel: 

Vaclav Havel provides a most compelling description of the method that 

was perfected during the years of Soviet occupation in Eastern Europe. 

In order to suggest the insidious subtlety of a system that remained to- 

27


talitarian while pretending to be something else entirely, Havel terms it 

post–totalitarian: 

The post–totalitarian system touches people at every step, but does so 

with its ideological gloves on. This is why life in the system is so thoroughly 

permeated with hypocrisy and lies: government by bureaucracy 

is called popular government; the working class is enslaved in the name 

of the working class; the complete degradation of the individual is pretended 

as his ultimate liberation; depriving people of information is 

called making it available; the use of power to manipulate is called the 

public control of power, and the arbitrary abuse of power is called observing 

the legal code; the repression of culture is called its development; 

the expansion of imperial influence is presented as support for the oppressed; 

the lack of free expression becomes the highest form of freedom; 

farcical elections become the highest form of democracy; banning 

independent thought becomes the most scientific of world views; military 

occupation becomes fraternal assistance. Because the regime is captive 

to its own lies, it must falsify everything. It falsifies its past. It falsifies 

the present, and it falsifies the future. It falsifies statistics. It pretends 

not to possess an omnipotent and unprincipled police apparatus. It pretends 

to respect human rights. It pretends to persecute no one. It pretends 

to fear nothing. It pretends to pretend nothing. 4 

The main difference in the psychology of the newcomers and the basic indigenous 

population of Latvia was the fact that the former believed into this ideology and the 

latter did not. The question that emerges is this: if they believed in this ideology, was 

it because it was convenient to believe in it, or was it the result of naiveté and lack of 

education? This is a very delicate question. One can answer it frankly only deep down 

in one’s own heart. If the belief in this ideology was genuine, it grew out of insufficient 

knowledge, or lack of education. It proves that Russia was colonising neighboring 

territories that had generally reached a higher level of development than Russia 

itself. If, on the other hand, the answer is that it was a matter of convenience to believe 

in this ideology, then the talk about theory of “liberation” and “rendering fraternal 

help” collapses automatically. This brings about the feeling of uneasiness that 

occasionally springs up between two groups: one of whom has been telling lies, and 

the other one who was forced to pretend to believe them. 

This is why the postcolonial syndrome in Latvia has its own specific features: 

1. After Latvia regained its independence the new–comers did not leave the country, 

like in “classical” colonial states such as India, Algeria etc. Instead they remained, 

trying to live on keeping appearances, pretending that nothing has happened, 

that they are still living in the same country as before (i.e. USSR). This 

feeling is supported by the informative space they live in. And that is why they 

often keep presenting the loss of their privileges as the oppression of minorities, 

or a violation of human rights. 

2. The native population in its turn is also caught up in deception. They treat the 

new–comers as if they do not exist at all and ignore them, regarding their prob-


lems as their problems, and not the problems of Latvia. There is no dialogue 

between the two groups of inhabitants, just as there is no real dialogue between 

Latvia and Russia. It seems that the shortest way were if Russia brought forth its 

apologies for what it has done to the Baltic states, to acknowledge their borders 

officially, and to start a constructive dialogue, instead of blackmailing them periodically. 

Russia will have to dissociate herself from the former USSR and to 

open a new page in its relationship with the Baltic states. 

3. The former metropolis does not need its own people back. Their children who 

were born in Latvia regard this country as their only homeland. 

4. After the independence was restored, the political powers was wielded by the 

indigenous inhabitants, but the economic powers, to a large extent, was wielded 

by the new–comers. Making skilful use of their contacts and the privileged positions 

which they had enjoyed in the Soviet times, as well as of the financial 

assets of the former Communist party and Komsomol they got hold of, they created 

the most powerful private capital structures of the new Latvia and its 

shadow economy. 

5. In many cases this situation provided the basis for corruption, smuggling, and 

tax evasion, that is for attempts to avoid paying taxes etc.. This was often stimulated 

by a the lack of experience and knowledge in legislation and state administration. 

6. A poorly developed feeling of statehood among vast layers of the population explains 

the inability to identify themselves with the state of Latvia. It is “rising to 

power and welfare of morally inferior people, demoralization of vast layers of 

the society” (7, 130) that should be regarded as the most tragic aftereffect of 

colonization. The people who came to power immediately after independence 

were often the same people who were brought to the fore by the colonial apparatus. 

They have been splendidly described by J. Nehru (on the basis of India): 

As was natural under the circumstances, they became arrogant and overbearing 

and contemptuous of public opinion. Narrow and limited in outlook, 

they began to look upon themselves as the wisest people on earth. 

The good of India meant to them primarily the good of their own service. 

They formed a kind of mutual admiration society and were continuously 

praising each other. Unchecked power and authority inevitably lead to this, 

and the Indian Civil Service were practically masters of India. 5 

This quotation can easily be applied to the present society in Latvia. It is less 

topical than 10 years ago, but the fact that morally inferior people have acquired 

power and wealth is one of the most appalling consequences of the colonial regime. 

7. The fact that the indigenous population of Latvia for centuries was deprived of 

the rights to set up their own state and that the Latvian nobility was wiped out 

in the fourteenth century (around the time when national states emerged in Western 

Europe) was a serious loss to the Latvian society. It had been the nobility 

that which had played an important role in the creation of the idea of statehood; 

in Western Europe those were the representatives of the nobility who had from 

generation to generation established a tradition of professional diplomacy and 

the principles of strategic state loyalty. 

29


8. It was not untill the middle of the nineteenth century that Latvians were allowed 

to practise the rights to deal with law, religion, professional arts and 

commerce. In the Soviet times Latvians were not allowed to practise seafaring 

professions that had been a traditional source of livelihood engagement 

for the native population since “time out of mind.” (Blackstone)ever. It was 

the new–comers and not the indigenous inhabitants of Latvia who took these 

niches. And that is why there still is no strong tradition among Latvians in 

these fields yet. As a result, we often witness insufficient ability of Latvia to 

defend her national interests on an international level and incapablity of creating 

an internationally recognizable image. 

9. The Soviet style of communication greatly has been preserved i.e.: 1) directing 

oneself to corporative or party–oriented interests instead of national interests; 2) 

misinterpretation of the term “national” to mean “ethnic” instead of “belonging 

to the state” or “stately”, with the ensuing problems; 3) groundless suspicion and 

the prevalence of conspiracy theories, popularity of the theory of conspiracy 

among the population as a consequence of the experience of numerous political 

treasons in the 20th century and the Soviet totalitarian system; 4) secrecy of decision 

making and implementation ; 5) lack of interpersonal skills and distrust 

of team work; 6) rudeness and bossiness towards the subordinates; 7) a loud and 

aggressive manner of speech. 

In a larger context Latvia occupies a unique place. Estonia has formed a close 

partnership with Finland partly because of a common ancestry. Lithuania, due to its 

history and a strong Catholic tradition, is closer to the traditional Catholic countries. 

As the contemporary Latvian poet and ex–President of the PEN Club of Latvia Knuts 

Skujenieks points out: 

If the Baltic states take a very special place in the panorama of Europe 

then Latvia takes a very special place in the Baltics. Historically Latvia 

had been lying on the crossroads not only of the Baltics but on the 

whole of East Europe. In ancient times it was here that the top people of 

Baltic and Finno–Ugrian tribes met, whereas the bulk of the tribes was 

living in neighboring areas which ethnically were more monolithic. It is a 

fact of historical importance that this conglomeration of ethnic diversity 

eventually became the Latvian nation. The echo of these remote times is 

still felt in the multicultural panorama of Latvia. For centuries the neighboring 

big powers had been partitioning and dividing our land and our 

people. And it was only in the twentieth century right after the First 

World War that Latvia became independent and united. 6 

It was starting from the thirteenth century the that tribes and clans who lived on 

the territory of Latvia built the Latvian nation by defending themselves against foreign 

invaders. Foreign invasion, on the one hand, stimulated the formation of the 

Latvian nation; whereas, on the other, it hindered its development by enslaveding its 

the people. In the fourteenth century Latvia marked the borderline between the western 

Hanseatic Union and the oriental Golden Horde, which actually was the genuine 

border between the West and the East. In a broader sense it was the demarcation line 

between the psychology of farmers and cattle–breeders. Farmer psychology is characterized 

by “the respect for any object of nature or a living being; no need to take


up more space in the world as necessary; the balance of positive and negative forces 

in nature and in the human soul” 7 . Out of this approach there grows the tradition of 

onkeeping one’s environment in order and protecting it. The farmer’s way of life has 

created monogamous relationships that encourage consequent partnership and mutual 

respect between man and woman in all aspects of life. 

The psychology of the cattle–breeders is quite different. For cattle–breeders it is 

important to take up and use as much space as possible, and then move on with their 

flock. Consequently, much attention is given to the comfort of the dwelling place, whereas 

the environment is more or less neglected. Cattle breeders could afford more than one 

wife and more children than farmers, because cattle–breeding provides people with food 

more solidly than farming. Women were less engaged in cattle breeding than men, and 

were accordingly treated as less important members of the society. 

Psychologically this demarcation line between the West and the East runs 

through Latvia right up to the present day. It can be traced in the present discussion 

about the relations between the individual and the state. Some people in this country 

believe that there should be a kind of “social contract” between the state and the 

people, with clearly defined duties and rights on both sides, whereas other people 

are more concerned with their own rights. Actually, there is a debate whethera Latvia 

should remain a country of Parliamentary democracy or should become a Presidential 

democracy. In the latter case the President would be elected by the people and would 

become a powerful executive. Thus in a country without a well–functioning lasting 

democratic tradition the President would have the potential of becoming despot. The 

fact that this issue has been raised speaks for itself. It may mean 1) that the people of 

Latvia do not trust the representatives they have elected to Parliament themselves (a 

TV poll quiz after the last elections in October 2002 when the results of the elections 

were not yet known showed that only 1:10 of the population believes that the recently 

elected MPs are not going to pursue selfish goals in their new post); 2) they 

believe that everybody is corrupt and if elected to MP themselves they would pursue 

selfish goals. 3) It may mean that under totalitarian/authoritarian regimes people can 

turn into a mob and then long for someone to take care of and be responsible for 

them.. Ha-ving been deprived of participation in policy making for a long period of 

time, they have lost all confidence belief that they could ever affect and shape it. 

This is the worst thing that totalitarian /authoritarian regimes do to people, but it is 

far from new; the same problem has been depicted by Shakespeare in “Julius Caesar” 

and “ Henry VIII” in its full complexity. 

The relations between the individual and the state have a lot to do within 

the role of the church and its tradition. In the West, historically speaking, in the 

course of time the Church has defended the principles of humanity against the interests 

of separate states. Later the idea of free choice and individual responsibility 

emerged, leading to the formation of the principles of fraternity, equality and liberty. 

It is important to note that these principles are arranged exactly in this order, because 

that is how they still shape contemporary democracy. Freedom is impossible without 

equality. 

The Christian Orthodox Church developed along a different lines in Eastern Europe. 

There it was shaped and developed in the form of national churches. It created 

31


the idea of a national church, being part of a national state. Thus serving to the state 

simultaneously becomes servinging to the Church, at the same time; this was regarded 

as an act of piety. In contemporary Latvia one can find both of these attitudes. 

The identity of Latvia as a state in the future will be highly dependent on what 

kind of society model the people of Latvia are going to develop. The population of 

Latvia has to solve several dilemmas: are non–Latvians able to identify themselves 

with the state of Latvia, or do they perceive this country as a temporary homeland 

before moving on? The dilemma for Latvians is to grasp the fact that the term “national” 

in the modern world has the connotation of “belonging to the state” (not 

merely based on ethnic identification) and open their society to the people loyal to 

Latvia. 

The Russian journalist Alexander Shabanov in his article “The Russians of 

Latvia, What Kind of People Are We?” (10,2) has taken a courageous step: he is one 

of the first to discuss this problem openly – eleven years after the independence was 

restored: 

… our society (at least the Russian–speaking people of Latvia) is still 

very much Soviet and totalitarian. Though historically, geographically 

and with regard to the life–style belonging to the West, people still hesitate 

to admit it. 

The Russian – speaking people are against the language policy of Latvia 

and the introduction of Latvian in the secondary schools in 2004, trying 

to explain it by the fear of losing their (ethnic – S.A.) identity. To my 

mind this identity is neither Russian nor Slavic, but essentially Soviet, or 

totalitarian. There are lots of Russian features in this Soviet attitude and 

totalitarianism. But the Soviet Union does not exist anymore, its identity 

is about to disappear, and from this emerges the spiritual suffering of the 

‘Soviet man’. Yes, the Soviet Union is still alive in Bielorussia and the 

Republic of Pridnester. Yes, it does exist in a large part of Latvia. But 

for how long? 

Why am I describing the mentality of the people living in Latvia as “Soviet”? 

I do not want to hurt anybody`s feelings but Soviet is the celebration 

of the May 9 th , with the red flags of the Soviet Union at the statue 

of Victory, the speeches, songs and the rest of entourage of the Soviet 

time. On that day and in that place it seems that nothing has changed in 

the last 11 years, and the organizers and participants of this affair promote 

this feeling deliberately. It is clear to any objective observer that 

this is nostalgia for the USSR, just as the features of despotism in songs 

and speeches. sVictory in WWII accounts for the means (as the song “ 

Mi za cenoj ne postoim” says it. (We are ready to pay any price – transl. 

SA). Obviously the victors are not tried. 

I understand the necessity to conquer fascism – there was no other way, 

and there will be no other way. But the time has come to analyze this


victory and to say that not every detail in this victory was good. And 

the major bad thing in the victory of the USSR was the complete disregard 

of a human life. 8 

To prove his point the author examplifies it with the fact that among all the war 

films created by the Russian cinema there is not a single one resembling in its ideology 

the American movie “Saving Private Ryan” in its basic assumptions. Russian war 

films are based on a completely different ideology which is still ruling in that part of 

the world. A. Shabanov touches on the problem of Latvians who were affected by 

the Soviet totalitarian regime and retained many features of it. And here he delicately 

does not go any further, saying that he is not an ethnic Latvian. As I am an ethnic 

Latvian myself, I have tried to pursue this topic. 

Contemporary Latvians should be aware of the strong and week weak spots of 

their identity. To their “weak spots” I would attribute the fact that their identity got 

strongly deformed under the Soviet regime: a degradation of virtues, especially the 

virtue of diligence, is undeniable. Latvians are often outwardly reticent about their 

ethnicity, or –they are haughty, as if being a Latvian is it their own achievement, or 

merit. At the same time they pollute their language with the slang that arrived along 

with the Soviet occupation. V. Zariòð, who has gone deeper into this topic, writes: 

One of the drawbacks that has formed itself in the character of the 

Latvian nation as the result of extended lasting foreign rule is the lack of 

refinement so often found among the wealthy and ruling elite of Latvia. 

Those layers of Latvian society which might have reached and maintained 

high standards of education, professional qualification and culture, 

and which were independent enough as to their material well–being as 

well as to their spiritual development in order to maintain the sovereignty 

of their judgement, simply could not emerge during the long years of 

dependency. They were assimilated or destroyed already in their embryonic 

stage. That is why Latvians have not produced the spiritual aristocracy 

and the social elite that would have acquired the tradition of high 

culture. Latvians often have bad manners and unrefined taste. They often 

offer little resistance to alcoholism, drug addiction and other social 

vices, and there is a lot of inertness and a general lack of initiative. To 

their weaknesses one should also attribute the slow emancipation of their 

conscience which is a result of being a minority and a subjected nation 

and insufficient determination to fight for their own interests. 

In some of the people who belong to the ruling elite of Latvia one can 

find the thinking of a lackey being developed in the long period of dependency 

– it is a desire to gratify hostile foreign powers and get satisfaction 

from demonstrating an upstart’s attitude to the world i.e. desire 

for luxury cars, pretentious private houses, debauchery, carousal and lavish 

trips. Tthough it is not something typical to Latvia and to the Latvian 

nation exclusively. Imitation of the lifestyle of the ruling elite of other 

nations in the behavior of the Latvian parvenus is as common as in the 

33


behavior of the upstarts of other European nations and the first generation 

of the ruling circles of the African states after they their regained 

independence. The lifestyle of other ‘nouveaux riches’ who belong to 

other ethnic groups and live in Latvia is just as uncivilized. When smugglers 

and drug–dealers are punished in accordance with the law and according 

to their misdeeds, the number of uncultured people among the 

wealthy surely will go down. 

There are also other vices which are wide–spread widely spreading 

among Latvians and which are typical of young societies after their liberation 

from a the colonial regime. For example like: an insufficient 

grasp of the concept of statehood, a strong desire to be in opposition, 

being irresponsible and inefficient. If people get into a top position or 

have to carry out public tasks of importance, they often demonstrate 

a striking inability to think strategically. In vast layers of society the 

ability to fight for ideals, no matter how realistic or unrealistic they are, 

is still alive. The belief in beautiful promises amounts to sheer credulity. 

Still, if the democratic society in Latvia is going to develop for a few 

more years, it may happen that the understanding among the people 

will grow faster than the virtues of the ruling elite and those who try to 

join it. 9 

It seems that this has happened even faster than was predicted in the 

articlespublished in the spring of 2002. In the October elections it became clear that 

the majority of the people had voted against all the ruling political parties. 

To one of the “weak spots” of Latvian ethnic identity I would also attribute the 

cultivation of a restrictive social shyness and the timidity of children. Actually, it is 

the excessive desire not to take up too much space which is typical for the farmer 

psychology; when it is exaggerated, it may well become an obstacle for Latvians in 

their quest to for self–realization and progress in the modern world. 

To the “strong spots” of Latvian identity I would attribute the multi–layeredness 

of the Latvian mentality, which explains why there are very few if any xenophobic 

tendencies in our society. Latvia’s modern culture is multi–layered, too. This multi– 

layeredness expresses itself in space and in time. German, Russian, Polish, 

ByelorussianByelorussian, Lithuanian, Estonian, Jewish influences can be traced everywhere. 

When speaking about the multi–layerdness in time it should be noted that 

alongside with modern, Christian, Greek and Roman concepts there exists a very 

ancient mythological heritage in Latvian culture that other European nations have 

already lost. Our genetic memory is strong. It has withstood the test of the twentieth 

century, its aggression, cheating, betrayals, and has cultivated in many of us the feeling 

that we can truly rely upon ourselves alone. 

Facing the prospect of joining such a huge political and economic entity as the 

European Union (to which we feel we had always belonged, but from which we had 

been artificially kept away), this feeling is gradually fading away. Here we stand, open 

to the world again.


REFERENCES 

1 Andrejevs G. The Occupation is Internationally Recognised Long Ago //Diena, April 27, 

2002, (In Latvian), 2 p. 

2 Racevskis K. Toward a Postcolonial Perspective on the Baltic States //Journal of Baltic 

Studies, XXXIII (spring 2002), 37 p. 

3 Krul M. The Mutiny of Polish Peasants //Diena, Apr. 6, 2002. (In Latvian), 2 p. 

4 Racevskis K. Toward a Postcolonial Perspective on the Baltic States //Journal of Baltic 

Studies, XXXIII (spring 2002), 38 p. 

5 Nehru J. How Britain Ruled in India; The New Map of Europe in Glimpses of World 

History. –Oxford University Press, 1995, 434 p. 

6 Skujenieks K. Standing on a Threshold (unpublished). 

7 Ibid. 

8 Ðabanovs A. The Russians of Latvia, What Kind of People Are We? //Diena, October 14, 

2002, (In Latvian), 2 p. 

9 Zariòð V. Humanism and Postcolonial Culture //Karogs, 7/2002, (In Latvian), 140 p. 

Kopsavilkums 

Mûsdienu Latvijas sabiedrîbâ vçrojamas lîdzîgas problçmas kâ citâs valstîs 

(piemçram, Âzijâ, Âfrikâ) pçc neatkarîbas atgûðanas, tâpçc ir pamats secinât, ka 

Latvija atrodas postkoloniâlisma situâcijâ, kam raksturîgs postkoloniâlisma sindroms 

un identitâðu krîze. Veiksmîga sabiedrîbas integrâcija nâkotnç iespçjama, tikai 

atjaunojot vçsturiskâ taisnîguma principus, piepildot jçdzienu “nacionâls” ar 

mûsdienîgu izpratni un turpinot veidot Latvijas valsti uz parlamentâras demokrâtijas 

principiem. 

35



A Case of Mixed Identity: Simone de Beauvoir’s 

“The Second Sex” in Estonian Translation 

Identitâtes sajaukuma gadîjums: Simonas de Bovuâras 

româna ”Otrais dzimums” tulkojumâ igauòu valodâ 

Raili Põldsaar (Estonia) 

Department of English, University of Tartu, Estonia 

Ülikooli 18, 50090 Tartu, Estonia 

e–mail: raili@ut.ee 

Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex, the first and for a long time the only significant feminist 

text published in Estonian bears the heavy and thankless burden of representing feminism 

to a very male–dominated society. It has undergone serious ideological changes in its Estonian 

translation: there are lengthy omissions in the argumentation and supporting material. This 

not only mangles Beauvoir’s arguments but may also have a lasting effect on the Estonian 

perception of feminism and women’s rights. 

Keywords: gender studies, feminism, ideology and translation, Estonia. 

Estonia is a country that has been obsessively modernizing itself in the past ten 

years in order to earn a place among the “developed” countries of the West. Thus we 

have been extremely quick to adopt radical market reforms and consumer culture that 

outdo those of most Western countries, to name but a few notable features. However, 

Estonia has exercized remarkable selectivity in the range of influences that have been 

adopted. Some features that have made an important contribution to the Western public 

discourse in the past 40 years are conspicuous in their absence, for example, 

multiculturalism or feminism. 1 

Estonia has started to develop a feminist community, if not a grassroots women’s 

movement, but the group of people interested in women’s issues remains small and 

the general public has received a rather warped image of both feminists and the feminist 

movements, one that is not much more sophisticated than the cartoons presented 

in the mass media and film. There are serious and quite successful attempts to change 

the state of affairs in mainstream media (for example, in the articles of Barbi Pilvre 

in the weekly Eesti Ekspress or the mere existence of the gender studies journal 

Ariadne Lõng) but there still is very little literature on women’s movements or feminism 

that an Estonian could read in their native tongue. 2 In addition to academic articles 

there are only three individual volumes: Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex, 

published in 1997, a collection of feminist art criticism and theory, published in 2000, 

and Evelyn Fox Keller’s Reflections on Gender and Science, published in 2001. 3 Only 

two women have been published in the around–60–book series of Western thought, 

Beauvoir and, very recently, Susan Sontag. 4 As can be seen, Beauvoir was the first 

and for a long time the only significant woman thinker published in Estonian and thus 

it is clear that her book does and will continue to influence the Estonian perception 

of feminist thought. She bore and continues to bear the heavy and thankless burden 

of representing feminism to a very male–dominated society where feminism and what 

it stands for continue to be an anathema to a sizeable proportion of society. Thus it

Raili Põldsaar. Identitâtes sajaukuma gadîjums: Simonas de Bovuâras româna ”Otrais dzimums” .. 

37 

both is and is not that surprising that the reception of the text was relatively quiet— 

it did get its share of reviews in leading cultural journals and mainstream press but 

did not spark a discussion of feminism. In fact, there seemed to be more interest in 

the visit that Beauvoir made to Estonia with Jean–Paul Sartre in 1964. 5 

The relative silence could be read as evidence of the fact that much of what 

Beauvoir was challenging has become passé in today’s world and women’s position 

in society has undergone a dramatic change since the 1940s. It was a great shock, 

therefore, to discover that the Estonian version of Beauvoir bore startlingly little family 

resemblance to her French original or even the much–lamented English version. 6 

The translator, Howard Parshley, was a zoologist with no training in philosophy and 

little fondness for feminism and thus he deleted portions of the book, distorting 

Beauvoir’s arguments on socialist feminism and existentialism. 7 As Sherry Simon has 

stated, “just as the naked woman on the cover of one of the paperback editions of 

The Second Sex misrepresents the tenor of the content, the translation of this feminist 

classic seriously distorts its scholarly underpinnings.” 8 However, the damaged 

text still proved to be immensely influential in the English–speaking world, even more 

so than in the French. 9 

The Estonian version of the book has suffered even more in the hands of translators 

and editors and thus ends up misrepresenting Beauvoir’s case and, by that, also 

affecting the Estonian reception of feminist thought as such, with potential dire consequences. 

Ideology is inevitably present in translation. In the words of Peter Fawcett, 

“throughout centuries, individuals and institutions have applied their particular beliefs 

to the production of certain effects in translation.” 10 He cites a set of questions, the last 

of which, “How is the material translated (what is omitted, added, altered, to control the 

message?”, is of special relevance in this context. 11 If a prominent feminist text is misrepresented 

in a culture, it will affect the responses to feminism as a philosophy and maybe 

even women as thinkers. The following paper does not aim to prove the presence of a 

grand conspiracy but just to discuss, on the basis of omissions and alterations, the 

possible consequences of the “re–written” Beauvoir in the Estonian cultural space. The 

two flawed editions, English and Estonian, are placed side by side to tease out ideological 

differences in their stance towards the text. 

The first and most marked divergence of the two works is their length—the English 

translation covers 767 pages, without references and index, while the Estonian 

book is only 482 pages—and that at a wider line spacing and larger font size. It should 

also be stated right away that the Estonian translation mentions the fact that the text 

has been presented in an abridged form only in a very fine print on the reverse side 

of the title page—something that many readers would not notice. Even more disturbing 

is the fact that the book lacks the translators’/editors’ commentary on the translation/editorial 

choices. Omissions and changes have not been indicated inside the 

text in any way. This could have been easily done with the help of either footnotes 

or even more simple punctuation marks or spacing. Although feminist translation 

theory calls for an active engagement with the text, misrepresentation is not what it 

has in mind. 

A closer reading reveals that omissions occur not only on the level of chapters 

but also inside paragraphs. What more, paragraph boundaries are violated, not as an


exception to smooth the sections that would have remained uneven after heavy surgery 

but, rather, as a rule. Paragraphs are blended at will which, in addition to violating 

the original, also makes the text more difficult to follow. Again, it is not the 

invisible editors who take the blame but the author. Also, the dubious editorial 

practices cannot be explained away by space limits—other books in the same series, 

often bulkier than Beauvoir’s, have not suffered a similar fate. 

Since such cutting and blending is so frequent, one is led to suspect that the 

translation has been done not from the French original, as the title page claims, but 

from an abridged version in some other language. 12 The next stage in the current 

project will involve a close study of the Finnish translation as a possible source of 

“inspiration”. As Marek Tamm has suggested, the translators and editors have lacked 

respect for both the author and the reader. 13 That is, they have attempted to do the 

thinking and selecting for the reader and limited their freedom of interpretation, blocking 

out certain choices and fronting others. Damage to the author is more than clear. 

A feature that catches the eye all through the text is the disrespectful handling of 

the references to source material. The copious notes of the original have been 

squeezed to 4.5 pages in the Estonian translation. What more, the references have 

been deleted rather arbitrarily—sometimes references are missing even from the text 

that has not been omitted. Again, no explanation has been given. Since the book was 

published in a philosophy series the primary audience of which is not the TV–dazed 

everyman with a limited attention span, it is odd that the staple of academic literature 

has been sacrificed without regret. Aristotle and Freud, also published in the same 

series around the same time, have not suffered the same fate—comparable in length, 

they are supplied with ample commentaries as well as a bibliography. In the case of 

Beauvoir, the readers have also been denied access to the material that informed 

Beauvoir. Dated or not, the references are indispensable in appreciating the line of 

reasoning of the author and her dialogue with the thinkers of the past and her contemporaries. 

One can only speculate about whether the reason for such manhandling 

is the relegation of Beauvoir into the lower tiers of contemporary thought and a consequent 

disregard for her intellectual apparatus. 

This omission is made even more glaring by the fact that the translation has systematically 

erased references throughout the text. Thus we lose much of de 

Beauvoir’s support material—philosophers like Merleau–Ponty, Levinas, Heidegger, 

even Sartre, historical figures from all time periods, anthropological examples, references 

to natural sciences. Again, the only rational explanation could be the editors’ 

desire to make the reading easier. Yet, consciously or unconsciously, the translation 

actually succeeds in watering down Beauvoir’s thought and reducing her credibility 

as an academic. (This was one of the first features that bothered me on my first reading 

of the Estonian text and led me to criticize her for sloppy arguments that might 

not have made it through freshman course in academic writing.) Also, the omissions 

do not result in a text that is easier to consume—instead, the lack of examples, parallels 

and illustrations makes the argumentation hard to follow and many passages remain 

abstruse or even demagogic. 

The indiscriminate editing and the omission of references are visible all through 

the book. However, there are several chapters that are omitted in full. The following


39 

will try to speculate about the rationale of the editorial choices in all the chapters. 

Thus Book I, Part I: Destiny includes sections on biology and historical materialism 

(in however flawed form) but lacks the psychoanalytical point of view. Psychoanalysis 

has not acquired a prominent position in the Estonian public discourse. However, 

this lack of a Freudian background system in Estonian intellectual landscape should 

not be taken as a valid justification of the omission. It lifts Beauvoir from her historical 

context and also distorts her intellectual lineage. Odder still, even Engels, whose 

presence in our mindscapes can be resented but cannot be disputed, has fallen victim 

to a boisterous editing spree. 

Outside the chapter on psychoanalysis, Beauvoir’s argumentation on the danger 

of equating biology and sexuality has been stunted. Beauvoir denies simple and easy 

equations between sexuality and reproduction—but an Estonian reader will never see 

her discussion of parthenogenesis or intersexuality, among other nuances in the discussion. 

Instead, the Estonian version lays a more noticeable emphasis on the chromosomal 

differences between the active sperm and the passive egg as the sources of 

sexual difference as well as situation of the woman as the de–individuated procreator 

of the species. Although de Beauvoir dwells on the enslavement of the woman for 

the sake of her species, she does concede, by comparing humans with lower life 

forms, such as crustacea or termites, that in humans the individuation of individual 

members of the species is higher than in lower animals and that also gives women 

roles outside the reproductive cycle. Again, these qualifying features do not appear 

in the Estonian text that is focused on male–female differences and the subjugation 

of the woman to her sex. Although the material is all there in the original Beauvoir, the 

lack of the surrounding discussion increases the determinist stance of the claims— 

and is thus in perfect harmony with the Estonian public discourse. 

Part II: History loses all its sub–chapters and acquires new and seemingly quite 

random divisions that erase the Jewish, Islamic and Greek experience and blend Rome 

with the Middle Ages, to mention some examples of proliferating random choices. 

The whole part is characterized by a very hurried overview, which has resulted in the 

loss of the famous women who are mentioned throughout the text. The impression of 

the Middle Ages is especially vague, although there has been enough room for all 

the misogynist church fathers from St. Paul onwards. Interestingly, the losses have 

been the greatest when single or widowed women and prostitutes are concerned and 

the smallest in connection with marriage. Again, this may reflect the attempt of the 

editors to “domesticate” Beauvoir and reduce her conflict with the “traditional” gender 

roles and thus make her arguments seem less frightening. Indeed, the Estonian 

Beauvoir is certainly more domestic and family centered and less involved in the 

public sphere than the origial. 

Part III: Myths has suffered from heavy editing—the only section that is left 

deals with dreams, fears and idols. Yet, owing to the peculiar idiom of the volume, we 

are presented with a collection of fragmentary thoughts without the illustrating anthropological 

detail and discussion. Even if the anthropology is dated to today’s 

audiences, the shortcomings could have been easily clarified with an apt choice of 

footnotes and a brief consultation with an anthropologist—surely not an impossible 

feat. Sections “The Myth of Woman in Five Authors” and, most notably “Myth and 

Reality” have been deleted completely. Although the editors may have thought that


lengthy literary examples are inappropriate in a philosophical treatise, they once again 

destroy the integrity of the argument as well as the style of Beauvoir. Since none of 

the analyzed authors, with the exception of Montherlant, is an unknown on the Estonian 

literary scene (others are Lawrence, Claudel, Breton and Stendhal), their presence 

would have added to Beauvoir’s interdisciplinary breadth and allowed the Estonian 

reader to appreciate the elegance of her original style. 

The omission of the discussion of myths in the changing 20th –century reality remains 

a mystery. Here Beauvoir repeats her idea that the myth is considered the absolute 

to which individual mortal women have to conform and, in general, explains 

how myths derive from the interests of men. However, she also comes to her central 

belief that considering women human beings, not mythological creatures does not 

impoverish men but allows them, too, a more satisfying form of human interaction. 

Beauvoir does see considerable hope in the life of the 20th century but also has to 

acknowledge that it is still difficult for a woman to accept both her status as an autonomous 

individual and womanly destiny. Again, this discussion is missing from the 

Estonian version—one can only guess whether the editors deem such de–mystified 

state inappropriate to Estonian women or whether we are just dealing with carelessness. 

The first option certainly harmonizes with the values that are prominent in the 

Estonian public discourse and thus the omission seems to perpetuate the ideologically 

laden myths of womanhood. 

The structure of Book II bears closer semblance to the original but here, too, 

significant cuts have been made. A certain method can be detected in the seemingly 

irrational shearing of the text. Thus the Estonian text gives access to the development 

of woman from childhood to youth and sexual initiation but is bashfully silent 

on lesbianism. The only rational explanation might be an attempt to “protect” the 

reputation of Beauvoir from associations with sexual preference that is still stigmatized 

in Estonia. This omission might also reflect an attempt to protect feminism from 

its stereotypical yoking with lesbianism—however, in the light of the editorial choices 

of the rest of the volume, this interpretation seems unlikely. 

The “domestic” Beauvoir is visible also in the next section that records the roles 

of women in marriage, motherhood and old age, thus faithfully reflecting the predestined 

life–cycle of a woman in her roles in the private sphere. Quite tellingly, the sections 

that are conspicuous by their absence deal with social life and prostitution and, 

later on, with narcissism, love and mysticism. The impression one gets is that a 

woman’s access to sexuality and pleasure is limited and associated with family circle 

only. Indeed, short excerpts from The Second Sex were first translated in the leading 

housewife–oriented women’s magazine Eesti Naine (Estonian Woman) in 1992, side 

by side with an article that told women what they should wear on their heads. The 

headgear certainly did not include feminist ideas. 14 

Thus, although we get the last sections of the book that deal with women’s movement 

towards liberation and independence, the Estonian public does not get to share 

Beauvoir’s conclusions. This should not be surprising in the light of the editing in 

the previous sections—since the translation does not grant the readers access to 

Beauvoir’s philosophical argumentation, it also does not deem it necessary to let us 

read her own conclusions, indebted as they are to Karl Marx who still seems to be


41 

relegated to a pariah status in the neo–liberalist Estonia. The conclusion of the Estonian 

The Second Sex, thus, calls for the liberation of women and celebrates their 

equality with men but without the thoughtful supporting material and well–reasoned 

argumentation, the text resembles a political pamphlet and not a serious work of philosophy, 

like the original. It does plant some troubling thoughts in the mind of the 

reader about the role and fate of women but it does not fully persuade the reader that 

a woman can be a serious public intellectual—a troubling conclusion, considering 

the prevalent negative stereotype of feminists as angry and ill–reasoned hot–heads. 

Simone de Beauvoir deserves better and so does the Estonian reading public. 

Any translation reflects its time and so we can also trace the lines of the neo– 

liberalist patriarchal Estonia of the late 1990s in the editorial choices of The Second 

Sex. The Estonian de Beauvoir differs significantly from her French mother and English 

step–sister. Unfortunately, with a small publishing market as ours, it is unlikely 

that a new translation would appear any time soon. After all, the often criticized English 

translation still waits for revisions 50 years since its original publication. Thus 

it can only be hoped that academic analyses like the present one would alert readers 

to the flaws and maybe help countries that still have to undertake the challenge of 

translating Beauvoir avoid the traps. 

REFERENCES 

1 Raili Põldsaar. American Cultural Influence and the Re–Construction of Gender in Recent 

Estonian Public Discourse. Unpublished MA thesis. – Tartu: University of Tartu, 

2000. 

2 Examples of Pilvre’s work can be found in the following collection: Barbi Pilvre. 

Formaat. Valitud tekste klassivõitlusest ja naisküsimusest 1996–2002. – Tallinn: Eesti 

Ekspressi Kirjastus, 2002. 

3 Simone de Beauvoir. Teine sugupool. – Tallinn: Vagabund, 1997; Linda Nochlin et al. 

Pandora laegas. Feministliku kunstikriitika võtmetekste. – Tallinn: Kunst, 2000; Evelyn 

Fox Keller. Mõtisklusi soost ja teadusest. – Tartu: Tartu Ülikooli Kirjastus, 2001. 

4 Susan Sontag. Haigus kui metafoor. AIDS ja selle metafoorid. – Tallinn: Varrak, 2002. 

5 Marek Tamm. Sartre ja de Beauvoir Nõukogude Eestis //Vikerkaar, 10/11, 1998: 148–156. 

6 Simone de Beauvoir. The Second Sex. – London: Everyman’s Library, 1993 [1953]. 

7 For analyses of the English translation, see Margaret A. Simons The Silencing of Simone 

de Beauvoir: Guess What’s Missing from The Second Sex //Women’s Studies International 

Forum, 6, 1983: 559–564 or Luise von Flotow. Translation and Gender: Translating 

in the “Era of Feminism”. – Ottawa: St. Jerome Publishing, 1997. 

8 Sherry Simon. Gender in Translation: Cultural Identity and the Politics of Transmission. 

– London and New York, 1996: 91. 

9 Ample evidence can be found in the articles of, for example, Elizabeth Fallaize, ed. 

Simone de Beauvoir. A Critical Reader. – London and New York: Routledge, 1998. 

10 Peter Fawcett, “Ideology and translation” in Mona Baker, ed. The Routledge Encyclopedia 

of Translation Studies. – London and New York: Routledge, 1998: 107. 

11 Ibid. 

12 For a similar opinion, see also Marek Tamm, “Miks naine on Teine?” //Vikerkaar, 12, 

1997: 93.


13 Ibid. 

14 Simone de Beauvoir, Feminismi piibel //Eesti Naine, No. 8/9, 1992: 28–29, 32; Simone de 

Beauvoir. Naise olukord ja iseloom //Eesti Naine, No. 10, 1992:14–16; continued //Eesti 

Naine, No. 11/12, 1992:22–23. 

Kopsavilkums 

Simonas de Bovuâras românam “Otrais dzimums” – pirmajam un ilgu laiku arî 

vienîgajam igauòu valodâ publicçtajam nozîmîgajam feministu tekstam – ir bijis 

smagais un nepateicîgais uzdevums pârstâvçt feminismu vîrieðu dominçtajâ 

sabiedrîbâ. Igauòu tulkojumâ tajâ ir notikuðas nopietnas ideoloìiskas izmaiòas: tâ 

argumentâcijâ un papildu materiâlos ir plaði îsinâjumi. Tie ne tikai izkropïo Bovuâras 

argumentus, bet, iespçjams, atstâs arî ilgstoðu iespaidu uz feminisma un sievieðu 

tiesîbu uztveri Igaunijâ.



Çäîðîâüå è êðàñîòà: êðóã «ìóæñêèõ» òåì ïîïîëíèëñÿ 

Health and Beauty: the Range of Masculine 

Themes is Repelonished 

Veselîba un skaistums: vîrieðu tçmu loks ir papildinâjies 

Æóðíàë «Men’s Health» êàê èíñòðóìåíò ïðîäâèæåíèÿ «íîâîãî» ñòèëÿ æèçíè 

Íàòàëüÿ Êóëèíêà (Áåëîðóññèÿ) 

Ôàêóëüòåò æóðíàëèñòèêè, 

Áåëîðóññêèé ãîñóäàðñòâåííûé óíèâåðñèòåò, Ìèíñê 

220136 Áåëàðóñü, Ìèíñê, óë. Ëîáàíêà, 28–II–12 

Ýë. àäðåñ: nkulinka@yahoo.com 

Â ïðåäëàãàåìîé ðàáîòå àíàëèçèðóåòñÿ ôîðìèðîâàíèå «íîâîé» ìóæñêîé èäåíòè÷íîñòè 

÷åðåç ïðèçìó òåêñòîâîé ðåàëüíîñòè æóðíàëà ðóññêîé âåðñè Men’s Health. Ïîêàçûâàåòñÿ, 

êàê òåêñòîâàÿ ðåàëüíîñòü âëèÿåò íà ïðîöåññ ôîðìèðîâàíèÿ ñîçíàíèÿ äîáàâëÿÿ «ñòàðûå» 

ìàñêóëèííûå öåííîñòè – «ôèçè÷åñêàÿ ñèëà», «ñòàòóñíàÿ è âûñîêîîïëà÷èâàåìàÿ 

ðàáîòà», «ñåêñ» ê «íîâûì», íàïðèìåð, «ñèëà», «çäîðîâüå», «óìåíèå ðàäîâàòüñÿ æèçíè», 

«èíòåðåñíàÿ ðàáîòà» è «ãàðìîíè÷íûå îòíîøåíèÿ ñ æåíùèíàìè». 

Keywords: Ïåðèîäè÷åñêîå èçäàíèå êàê òåêñò, òåêñòîâàÿ ðåàëüíîñòü, ïðîöåññ îçíà÷èâàíèÿ, 

êîíñòðóèðîâàíèå ñîöèàëüíîé ðåàëüíîñòè. 

Ïîñëå ïîÿâëåíèÿ íà ðîññèéñêîì è áåëîðóññêîì1 ðûíêå ïåðèîäè÷åñêîé 

ïå÷àòè òðàíñíàöèîíàëüíûõ è ðîññèéñêèõ èçäàíèé äëÿ ìóæ÷èí, ýòè æóðíàëû íå 

ðàç ñòàíîâèëèñü îáúåêòîì èññëåäîâàòåëüñêîãî âíèìàíèÿ2 . Âìåñòå ñ òåì, 

ïðîáëåìà òåêñòà êàê ñàìîäîñòàòî÷íîé ðåàëüíîñòè â èçäàíèÿõ òàêîãî ðîäà äî ñèõ 

ïîð íå ïîïàäàëà â ïîëå çðåíèÿ èññëåäîâàòåëåé. Â ïðåäëàãàåìîé ðàáîòå 

ôîðìèðîâàíèå «íîâîé» ìóæñêîé èäåíòè÷íîñòè ðàññìàòðèâàåòñÿ ÷åðåç ïðèçìó 

òåêñòîâîé ðåàëüíîñòè æóðíàëà Men’s Health3 . 

Â ôèëîñîôèè ïîñòìîäåðíèçìà ïîíÿòèå òåêñòà êîíñòèòóèðóåòñÿ ÷åðåç îòêàç 

îò ðåôåðåíöèàëüíîé îïðåäåëåííîñòè, îäíîçíà÷íîñòè, âíåòåêñòîâîé îíòîëîãè÷åñêîé 

çàäàííîñòè è ãàðàíòèðîâàííîñòè òåêñòîâîé ñåìàíòèêè. Ïîñëåäíÿÿ 

ôóíäèðóåòñÿ ïîíèìàíèåì ÿçûêîâîé ñðåäû êàê èñ÷åðïûâàþùå ñàìîäîñòàòî÷íîé 

è îòíîøåíèåì ê òåêñòó êàê ê òîòàëüíîñòè, â êîòîðóþ âêëþ÷åí ñóáúåêò, è çà 

ïðåäåëàìè êîòîðîé íè÷åãî íå ñóùåñòâóåò. Ýòî ïðèâîäèò ê ïåðåîñìûñëåíèþ 

ñàìîãî ïðîöåññà ñìûñëîïðîèçâîäñòâà. Âìåñòå ñ ïðîâîçãëàøåíèåì «ñìåðòè 

Àâòîðà» óõîäèò â íåáûòèå è ìîíîïîëèÿ íà ñìûñë, èñ÷åçàåò ñàìà âîçìîæíîñòü 

ãîâîðèòü î ïîëíîì èëè íåïîëíîì, ïðàâèëüíîì èëè íå ïðàâèëüíîì ïîíèìàíèè 

òåêñòà. Â äàííîé ñèñòåìå îòñ÷åòà àêöåíò ñìåùàåòñÿ íà ×èòàòåëÿ, êîòîðûé, 

âïðî÷åì, íå çàíèìàåò ìåñòî Àâòîðà â ïðîöåññå ñìûñëîïðîèçâîäñòâà, íî, áóäó÷è, 

ïî ôîðìóëèðîâêå Æ. Äåððèäû, íå áîëåå ÷åì òåêñòîì, ñîòêàííûì èç êóëüòóðíûõ 

óíèâåðñàëèé è äèñêóðñèâíûõ ìàòðèö, êóëüòóðíûõ êîäîâ è èíòåðïðåòàöèîííûõ 

êîíâåíöèé, ëèøü ïðèâíîñèò â òåêñò êóëüòóðíî àíãàæèðîâàííûå ñìûñëû, 

ñîçäàâàÿ åãî ñåìàíòèêó. Ïî ìûñëè Æ. Äåððèäû, ñàì çíàê ñòàíîâèòñÿ 

ïðîáëåìàòè÷íûì, êàê òîëüêî ìû ñòàâèì ïîä ñîìíåíèå âîçìîæíîñòü îçíà÷àåìîãî


è ïðèçíàåì, ÷òî âñÿêîå îçíà÷àåìîå åñòü òàêæå íå÷òî ñòîÿùåå â ïîëîæåíèè 

îçíà÷àþùåãî. Ïî ìíåíèþ ýòîãî æå àâòîðà, îçíà÷àåìîå íèêîãäà íå ïðåäñòàâëåíî 

â çíàêå ñàìî ïî ñåáå, â òîé ôîðìå ïðèñóòñòâèÿ, êîãäà îíî ñîîòíîñèòñÿ ëèøü 

ñ ñàìèì ñîáîé. Ëþáîå ïîíÿòèå îïèñûâàåòñÿ â íåêîòîðîé öåïî÷êå èëè ñèñòåìå, 

â ðàìêàõ êîòîðîé îíî ñîîòíîñèòñÿ ïîñðåäñòâîì óïîðÿäî÷åííîé èãðû ðàçëè÷èé 

ñ äðóãèìè ïîíÿòèÿìè4 . 

Èíûìè ñëîâàìè, ÷åëîâåê æèâåò âíóòðè âåðáàëèçîâàííûõ è âèçóàëèçèðîâàííûõ 

ôåíîìåíîâ ñîöèàëüíîé ðåàëüíîñòè. Ñâîè çíàíèÿ îá ýòîé ðåàëüíîñòè îí 

ïîëó÷àåò ÷åðåç ðàçëè÷íûå òåêñòû (ëèòåðàòóðà, êèíî, ìàññîâàÿ ìóçûêàëüíàÿ 

êóëüòóðà è ò.ï.), â êîòîðûõ îïèñûâàþòñÿ/êîíñòðóèðóþòñÿ óäîâîëüñòâèÿ, æåëàíèÿ 

è ôîðìû èõ óäîâëåòâîðåíèÿ. Ýòî ïîçâîëÿåò ãîâîðèòü î ïîãðóæåííîñòè ÷åëîâåêà 

â ïîòîê îçíà÷àþùèõ, êîòîðûå íå èìåþò èíîãî ðåôåðåíòà, êðîìå êàê äðóãèå 

îçíà÷àþùèå. Âíå êîíêðåòíîãî òåêñòà ëþáîìó îçíà÷àþùåìó ìîæåò 

ñîîòâåòñòâîâàòü ëþáîå îçíà÷àåìîå5 . È òîëüêî èìïåðàòèâíûé õàðàêòåð òåêñòà 

íàêëàäûâàåò îãðàíè÷åíèÿ íà ýòî âçàèìîäâèæåíèå, âçàèìîïðåâðàùåíèå 

îçíà÷àþùèõ/îçíà÷àåìûõ. Òàêèì îáðàçîì, â ñâîåì àíàëèçå òåêñòîâîé ðåàëüíîñòè 

æóðíàëà Men’s Health ìû èñõîäèì èç ïðåäñòàâëåíèÿ î òåêñòå êàê èãðå 

îçíà÷àþùèõ. 

Îòëè÷èòåëüíîé îñîáåííîñòüþ ïåðèîäè÷åñêîãî èçäàíèÿ êàê òåêñòà ÿâëÿåòñÿ 

íåîäíîðîäíîñòü åãî ýëåìåíòîâ. Âåðáàëüíûé òåêñò, èëëþñòðàòèâíûé ðÿä, 

êîëîðèñòè÷åñêàÿ è øðèôòîâàÿ ãàììà, ðåêëàìà – òå ñîñòàâëÿþùèå ïåðèîäè÷åñêîãî 

èçäàíèÿ–òåêñòà, âçàèìîäåéñòâèå êîòîðûõ çàäàåò íàïðàâëåíèå, ïðî÷åð÷èâàåò 

ñìûñëîâûå ëèíèè. Ýòè ýëåìåíòû, âûñòóïàÿ â òåêñòîâîé ðåàëüíîñòè ïåðèîäè- 

÷åñêèõ èçäàíèé â êà÷åñòâå íàððàöèè, ñïîñîáà ðàññêàçûâàíèÿ, ïîä÷èíåííîãî 

îïðåäåëåííîé öåëè, êîíñòðóèðóþò ðåàëüíîñòü íà èõ ñòðàíèöàõ. 

Äëÿ æóðíàëà Men’s Health òàêîé öåëüþ ÿâëÿåòñÿ âîñïèòàíèå ïîòðåáèòåëÿ– 

ìóæ÷èíû. Ýòî ìîæåò áûòü âûÿâëåíî óæå íà óðîâíå êîíòåíò–àíàëèçà 

ðàñïðåäåëåíèÿ æóðíàëüíîé ïëîùàäè (àâãóñò 2001 ã.): 

Ñîâåòû, ðåêîìåíäàöèè, ÷àñòî ñîäåðæàùèå ñêðûòóþ ðåêëàìó 58.3% 

Ðåêëàìà 31.7% 

Ïîçíàâàòåëüíàÿ îáùåêóëüòóðíàÿ èíôîðìàöèÿ 7.9% 

Ïèñüìà è âîïðîñû ÷èòàòåëåé 2.1% 

Ôàêòîì, ñâèäåòåëüñòâóþùèì â ïîëüçó ýòîãî óòâåðæäåíèÿ, ÿâëÿåòñÿ òàêæå 

âðåìÿ ïîÿâëåíèÿ ðóññêîé âåðñèè æóðíàëà. Ãëîáàëèçàöèÿ – çàêîíîìåðíûé èòîã 

êà÷åñòâåííûõ èçìåíåíèé â ìèðîâîé ýêîíîìèêå, äëÿ ñâîåãî çàêðåïëåíèÿ òðåáóåò 

íîâûõ ìåõàíèçìîâ. Îäíèì èç íèõ ÿâëÿþòñÿ òðàíñíàöèîíàëüíûå èçäàíèÿ, òàêèå 

êàê æóðíàëû Marie Claire, Cosmopolitan, Playboy, Men’s Health è äð. Ñ èõ 

ïîìîùüþ ñîçäàåòñÿ, âî–ïåðâûõ, óíèôèöèðîâàííûé ïîòðåáèòåëü, âî–âòîðûõ, 

àêòèâíî ðàñøèðÿåòñÿ êðóã ïîòðåáèòåëåé çà ñ÷åò âîâëå÷åíèÿ â ñôåðó 

ïîòðåáëåíèÿ ìóæ÷èí. 

Ïîñëå 1985 ãîäà ïðîäâèæåíèå òðàíñíàöèîíàëüíûõ êîðïîðàöèé â ñòðàíû 

áûâøåãî ÑÑÑÐ â ïîèñêàõ íîâûõ ðûíêîâ ñáûòà ïðèâåëî ê ïîÿâëåíèþ ðóññêèõ 

âåðñèé ìíîãèõ ìåæäóíàðîäíûõ èçäàíèé. Æóðíàë Men’s Health íà ðóññêîì ÿçûêå 

ïîÿâèëñÿ â 1998 ãîäó. È ñòàë çíàêîâûì ÿâëåíèåì íà ïîñò–ñîâåòñêîì ïðîñòðàíñòâå.

Íàòàëüÿ Êóëèíêà. Veselîba un skaistums: vîrieðu tçmu loks ir papildinâjies 

Ïðåæäå âñåãî ïîòîìó, ÷òî îòêðûë äëÿ «ñîâåòñêîãî» ìóæ÷èíû òåìó çäîðîâüÿ 

âîîáùå, è ìóæñêîãî çäîðîâüÿ â ÷àñòíîñòè. Æóðíàë ââåë åå â äèñêóðñ 

ìóæåñòâåííîñòè, ðåçóëüòàòîì ÷åãî ñòàëî íå òîëüêî óòâåðæäåíèå ïðåäñòàâëåíèÿ î 

çäîðîâüå êàê öåííîñòè, íî è êàê öåííîñòè, çà êîòîðóþ â îòâåòå åå âëàäåëåö. Ñ 

ïîäà÷è ýòîãî èçäàíèÿ ãðàíèöû ïîíÿòèÿ «íàñòîÿùèé ìóæ÷èíà» ðàñøèðèëèñü çà 

ñ÷åò âêëþ÷åíèÿ â íåãî ïîíÿòèé «êðàñèâîå òåëî», «óõîæåííûé âíåøíèé âèä», 

«çäîðîâûé îáðàç æèçíè», «ïðèÿòíûé, èçûñêàííûé çàïàõ», à òàêæå «èñêóññòâî 

æèòü îäíîìó». Âñå ýòî âðîäå áû ïîçâîëÿåò ãîâîðèòü î ðîæäåíèè «íîâîé» 

ìóæåñòâåííîñòè. È ïðåäëàãàåìàÿ èäåíòè÷íîñòü íà ïåðâûé âçãëÿä äåéñòâèòåëüíî 

âûãëÿäèò íîâîé. Áîëåå òîãî, êàæåòñÿ, ÷òî èçäàíèå îòâåðãàåò òðàäèöèþ, óæå 

çàôèêñèðîâàííóþ èññëåäîâàòåëÿìè. Êàê ïèøåò ðîññèéñêèé èññëåäîâàòåëü 

Ñ. Óøàêèí, àíàëèçèðóÿ ðîññèéñêèé æå æóðíàë äëÿ ìóæ÷èí «Ìåäâåäü», 

ìàñêóëèíèçàöèÿ ïîòðåáèòåëüñòâà íà Çàïàäå øëà èìåííî ïî ïóòè ìàñêèðîâêè 

«ïàññèâíîãî» (ò.å. òðàäèöèîííî «æåíñêîãî») æåëàíèÿ íàñëàæäàòüñÿ ïðåäìåòîì â 

ôîðìó àãðåññèâíîãî æåëàíèÿ îâëàäåòü èì6 . Èçó÷åíèå ðåêëàìû â æóðíàëå Men’s 

Health äàëî èíîé ðåçóëüòàò. Çäåñü ïðè îïèñàíèè òîâàðà àêöåíò äåëàåòñÿ íà åãî 

ñòèëüíîñòü è âíåøíþþ ïðèâëåêàòåëüíîñòü. Íàïðèìåð, «Äâèæåíèå ýòîãî 

õðîíîãðàôà áûëî èçìåíåíî ñ òåì, ÷òîáû ÷åðåç öèôåðáëàò ìîæíî áûëî 

ëþáîâàòüñÿ ìåõàíèçìîì êîëîííû è êîëåñèêà: î÷åâèäíîå äîêàçàòåëüñòâî 

òåõíè÷åñêîãî ñîâåðøåíñòâà», «Èçûñêàííîñòü ôîðì. Ýòî – ìàãèÿ. Ìàãèÿ 

óíèêàëüíîãî äèçàéíà «Ìåðñåäåñ–Áåíö», «Compaq – ýòî âñåãäà çàùèùåííîñòü 

èíôîðìàöèè, íàäåæíîñòü êîìïîíåíòîâ è …ïðîñòî êðàñèâàÿ âåùü», «Ñîâåðøåíñòâî 

äåòàëåé, ãàðìîíèÿ öåëîãî» (ñòîëîâàÿ ïîñóäà). Ïðåäñòàâëåíèå î «íîâîé» 

ìóæåñòâåííîñòè ôîðìèðóåòñÿ íà ñòðàíèöàõ ýòîãî æóðíàëà íå òîëüêî 

ïîñðåäñòâîì îïðåäåëåííîé ìîäàëüíîñòè ðåêëàìíûõ ñëîãàíîâ è ðàêóðñà òîâàðà, 

êîòîðûé çàïå÷àòëåâàåòñÿ â ýòèõ ñëîãàíàõ, íî è ÷åðåç âûáîð ðåêëàìèðóåìûõ 

òîâàðîâ. Òàê, ñðåäè ðåêëàìû òðàäèöèîííûõ àâòîìîáèëåé è ÷àñîâ ïîìåùåíà 

ðåêëàìà ïðåçåðâàòèâîâ, ñòèðàëüíîé ìàøèíû, ñòîëîâûõ ïðèáîðîâ è ïðîäóêòîâ 

áûñòðîãî ïðèãîòîâëåíèÿ. Ðåêëàìà ïîñëåäíèõ ñîïðîâîæäàåòñÿ ñëîãàíîì 

«Ïî÷óâñòâóé ñåáÿ ñâîáîäíûì». 

Îäíàêî âíå êîíêðåòíîãî òåêñòà âñå, ïðèâåäåííûå âûøå çíàêè, ëèøåíû 

îïðåäåëåííîñòè ñîäåðæàíèÿ. Àññîöèàöèè, êîòîðûå îíè âûçûâàþò, ïðàêòè÷åñêè íå 

îãðàíè÷åíû. Äëÿ òîãî ÷òîáû ñäåëàòü çàêëþ÷åíèå îòíîñèòåëüíî ñóòè «íîâîé» 

ìóæñêîé èäåíòè÷íîñòè, êîòîðóþ Men’s Health ïðåäëàãàåò ñâîèì ÷èòàòåëÿì, 

íåîáõîäèìî îáðàòèòüñÿ ê òåêñòîâîé ðåàëüíîñòè æóðíàëà. Âàæíûì äëÿ åå 

ïîíèìàíèÿ ÿâëÿåòñÿ öåïî÷êà îçíà÷àþùèõ, çàäàííàÿ â íîìåðå, ïîñâÿùåííîì 

äâóõëåòíåìó þáèëåþ ðóññêîé âåðñèè æóðíàëà. Åãî ðåäàêòîð íàïîìíèë òîãäà 

÷èòàòåëÿì î öåëè èçäàíèÿ: «…íèêàêèå ãåîãðàôè÷åñêèå è ïîëèòè÷åñêèå ðàçëè÷èÿ 

íå âëèÿþò íà îñíîâíûå öåííîñòè ñîâðåìåííîãî ìóæ÷èíû. Â ëþáîé ñòðàíå ìèðà 

ìû õîòèì îäíîãî è òîãî æå – áûòü çäîðîâûìè è ñèëüíûìè, óìåòü ðàäîâàòüñÿ 

æèçíè, èìåòü èíòåðåñíóþ ðàáîòó è ãàðìîíè÷íûå îòíîøåíèÿ ñ æåíùèíàìè» 7 . 

Î÷åâèäíî, ÷òî ïðîäåêëàðèðîâàííûå öåííîñòè – «ñèëà», «çäîðîâüå», «óìåíèå 

ðàäîâàòüñÿ æèçíè», «èíòåðåñíàÿ ðàáîòà» è «ãàðìîíè÷íûå îòíîøåíèÿ ñ 

æåíùèíàìè» – íå áîëåå ÷åì îçíà÷àþùèå, ïîñëåäîâàòåëüíîñòü ïóñòûõ çíàêîâ, 

êîòîðûå â ðàçíûõ òåêñòàõ ìîãóò âûçûâàòü ðàçëè÷íûå àññîöèàöèè, íàïîëíÿòüñÿ 

ðàçëè÷íûì ñîäåðæàíèåì. Îäíàêî êîíêðåòíûé òåêñò âñåãäà ñîäåðæèò â ñåáå ñàìîì 

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äåòåðìèíàíòû ñìûñëà, «ðóêîâîäèò» ïîíèìàíèåì ÷èòàòåëåé, ïðåäëàãàÿ ñêîëüçÿùåìó 

ïîòîêó îçíà÷àþùèõ âïîëíå îïðåäåëåííûå îçíà÷àåìûå, íàïîëíÿÿ èõ ñîäåðæàíèåì. 

Êàêèå æå îçíà÷àåìûå ñîîòâåòñòâóþò â òåêñòå æóðíàëà âûäåëåííûì âûøå 

îçíà÷àþùèì? 

«Ñèëà» àññîöèèðóåòñÿ ñ ôèçè÷åñêè ðàçâèòûì òåëîì. Íà÷èíàÿ ñ îáëîæêè 

æóðíàëà, ÷èòàòåëÿ ñîïðîâîæäàåò âèçóàëüíûé îáðàç ìóñêóëèñòîãî ìóæñêîãî 

òåëà. Èãðàþùèå ìûøöàìè òåëà ïðåäñòàâëåíû íå òîëüêî íà ôîòîãðàôèÿõ, íî è â 

ðèñóíêàõ. Ñîáñòâåííî ãîâîðÿ, äðóãèõ ìóæñêèõ òåë íà ñòðàíèöàõ æóðíàëà 

ïðàêòè÷åñêè íåò (íå ó÷èòûâàÿ ðåêëàìó, âèçóàëüíûå îáðàçû êîòîðîé ñëóæàò 

îçíà÷àåìûìè äëÿ äðóãèõ çíàêîâ). Âåðáàëüíûå òåêñòû îïèñûâàþò ñïîñîáû 

äîñòèæåíèÿ òàêîãî ðåçóëüòàòà è ñàì ðåçóëüòàò: «ñèëüíàÿ ãðóäü», «íàêà÷àííûå 

ðóêè», «ïëîñêèé æèâîò», «îòñóòñòâèå æèðà», «êðåïêèå íîãè», ðåçþìèðóÿ ýòî êàê 

«òåëî ÷òî íàäî» 8 . Â ïåðèîä ÑÑÑÐ ìóæ÷èíû, çàíèìàþùèåñÿ áîäè–áèëäèíãîì è 

«èãðàþùèå» ìûøöàìè, îáîçíà÷àëèñü ïðåçðèòåëüíîé êëè÷êîé «êà÷êè» è 

îòíîñèëèñü, ñêîðåå, ê ìàðãèíàëüíîé ÷àñòè íàñåëåíèÿ. Æóðíàë Men’s Health, 

èçìåíÿÿ ìîäàëüíîñòü âîñïðèÿòèÿ ìàññîâûì ñîçíàíèåì íàêà÷àííîãî ìóæñêîãî 

òåëà, ðåàáèëèòèðóåò åãî è ââîäèò â ïîíÿòèå «íîðìà». 

Ê îçíà÷àåìûì ýòîãî æå ñìûñëîâîãî ðÿäà ìîæíî îòíåñòè âåðáàëüíûå òåêñòû 

è èëëþñòðàöèè î «âå÷íî ìîëîäîì ìóæ÷èíå». Òàêîâû çàãîëîâêè ìàòåðèàëîâ: 

«Êàê ÿ èçáàâèëñÿ îò 20 êã çà 150 äíåé», «Ïî÷åìó òû âñå åùå òîëñòûé?», «Êîãî 

ñúåñòü íà çàâòðàê?», «Ñìåøíûå óïðàæíåíèÿ ñ ñàìûìè ñåðüåçíûìè 

ðåçóëüòàòàìè» 9 . À íàèáîëåå ïîêàçàòåëüíûì â ýòîì îòíîøåíèè ÿâëÿåòñÿ ìàòåðèàë 

«Òåáå ñîðîê?». Â íåì – ñîâåòû î òîì, «êàê ïåðåâåñòè ñòðåëêè íàçàä», â òîì 

÷èñëå è ñ ïîìîùüþ êîñìåòè÷åñêèõ ïðîöåäóð. Âåðáàëüíûé òåêñò ñîïðîâîæäàåò 

ñîîòâåòñòâóþùàÿ ôîòîãðàôèÿ: ìîëîæàâûé ìóæ÷èíà â äæèíñàõ è ñâèòåðå ëîìàåò 

î êîëåíî ïàëêó – ñèìâîë ñòàðîñòè è íåìîùè10 . 

Îçíà÷àåìîå «èíòåðåñíîé ðàáîòû» ïðåäñòàâëåíî ïðåæäå âñåãî ÷åðåç 

ðåêëàìó äîðîãèõ òîâàðîâ è óñëóã. Èíà÷å ãîâîðÿ, «èíòåðåñíàÿ ðàáîòà» – ýòî 

ñòàòóñ ïëþñ äåíüãè, èíòåðåñíàÿ ðàáîòà – ýòî òà, êîòîðàÿ ïîçâîëÿåò çàðàáàòûâàòü 

íà ïðèîáðåòåíèå äîðîãèõ øâåéöàðñêèõ ÷àñîâ è àâòîìîáèëåé, òóðû â äàëåêèå 

ýêçîòè÷åñêèå ñòðàíû, óñëóãè ñïîðòçàëîâ è êîñìåòè÷åñêèõ ñàëîíîâ. Ïðèìåðíûé 

ïåðå÷åíü òàêîé ðàáîòû ïðåäñòàâëåí â ìàòåðèàëå «Ïåðâûì äåëîì – ñàìîëåòû»: 

«òû – âëàäåëåö õëåáîïåêàðíè», «òû – ðàáîòíèê òóðàãåíòñòâà» 11 èëè ñ íåêîòîðîé 

äîëåé èðîíèè îïèñàí â òåêñòå «Ïîëîæåíèå: æåíùèíà ñâåðõó»: «Íàâåðíîå, öåëü 

òâîåé êàðüåðû – ñòàòü Ãëàâíûì Íà÷àëüíèêîì Âñåãî. Òàì î÷åíü ïðèëè÷íûé 

îêëàä…» 12 . Î÷åâèäíî, ÷òî íèêàêîé èíîé ðàáîòû, êðîìå êàê ñòàòóñíîé è 

äåíåæíîé, â êà÷åñòâå «ìóæñêîé» æóðíàë íå âèäèò è íå ïðåäïîëàãàåò äëÿ ñâîèõ 

÷èòàòåëåé. 

Òðè äðóãèõ îçíà÷àþùèõ: «çäîðîâüå», «óìåíèå ðàäîâàòüñÿ æèçíè» è 

«ãàðìîíè÷íûå îòíîøåíèÿ ñ æåíùèíàìè» èìåþò îäíî îáùåå îçíà÷àåìîå – ñåêñ. 

Çäîðîâüå îïðåäåëÿåòñÿ ÷åðåç ñïîñîáíîñòü çàíèìàòüñÿ ñåêñîì, èìåòü õîðîøî 

ôóíêöèîíèðóþùèé «àïïàðàò», «ïðèáîð», «Áîèíã–747», «òàíêåð», «ëèìóçèí» 13 . 

Ãàðìîíè÷íûå îòíîøåíèÿ ñ æåíùèíàìè ïðåäïîëàãàþò òîëüêî ñåêñóàëüíûå 

îòíîøåíèÿ. Ìàòåðèàë «Ýëåìåíòàðíî» äàåò ñîâåòû, êàê âåñòè ñåáÿ âî âðåìÿ 

ïåðâîãî ñâèäàíèÿ, òî÷íåå, çà ÷òî òðîãàòü è ê ÷åìó íå ïðèêàñàòüñÿ âî âðåìÿ


ïåðâîé âñòðå÷è ñ æåíùèíîé, ðåçþìèðóÿ ñîâåòû òàê: «Ïîòîìó ÷òî ñîâñåì íå 

òðîãàòü ó òåáÿ, êîíå÷íî æå, íå ïîëó÷èòñÿ» 14 . Ïðè÷åì âåðáàëüíûå òåêñòû è 

îòêðîâåííûå èëëþñòðàöèè íàâÿçûâàþò ýòî îçíà÷àåìîå àãðåññèâíî. Óæå 

öèòèðîâàííûé íàìè ìàòåðèàë «Ïîëîæåíèå: æåíùèíà ñâåðõó» â êà÷åñòâå ñîâåòà, 

êàê ñòðîèòü îòíîøåíèÿ ñ æåíùèíîé–ðóêîâîäèòåëåì âêëþ÷àåò â ñåáÿ è 

ïîäðàçäåë «Êàê åå ïðèðó÷èòü»: «Íà ñòðàñòíûå ïîöåëóè â òåíè îôèñíîãî ôèêóñà 

ìîæåøü ñìåëî ðàññ÷èòûâàòü. Ïðàâäà, íè÷åãî ñåðüåçíîãî èç ýòîãî, ñêîðåå âñåãî, 

íå ïîëó÷èòñÿ…» 15 . À â êà÷åñòâå ôàêòà æóðíàë ïðèâîäèò òàêîé: «Ìóæ÷èíà çà 

ñâîþ æèçíü èñïûòûâàåò â ñðåäíåì 6500 îðãàçìîâ îáùåé ïðîäîëæèòåëüíîñòüþ 

18 ÷àñîâ» 16 . 

Òåíäåíöèÿ ïîñëåäíèõ íîìåðîâ æóðíàëà òàêîâà (à îíà ïðîÿâëÿåòñÿ êàê â 

âåðáàëüíûõ òåêñòàõ, òàê è íà óðîâíå èëëþñòðàöèé), ÷òî îçíà÷àåìîå «ñåêñ» 

ñòàíîâèòñÿ òàêîâûì äëÿ âñåõ ïÿòè âûäåëåííûõ îçíà÷àþùèõ. Îòâåò íà âîïðîñ, 

çà÷åì áûòü ñèëüíûì, çäîðîâûì, èìåòü èíòåðåñíóþ ðàáîòó îäèí: äëÿ òîãî ÷òîáû 

çàíèìàòüñÿ ñåêñîì. Â ýòîì æå ñîñòîèò óìåíèå ðàäîâàòüñÿ æèçíè è òîëüêî ýòî 

ïîíèìàåòñÿ, êîãäà ðå÷ü çàõîäèò î ãàðìîíè÷íûõ îòíîøåíèÿõ ñ æåíùèíàìè. Â 

ñâîþ î÷åðåäü íà áîëåå âûñîêîì óðîâíå, îçíà÷àåìîå «ñåêñ» ïåðåõîäèò â ðàçðÿä 

îçíà÷àþùèõ è ñòàíîâèòñÿ çíàêîì «íàñòîÿùåãî» ìóæ÷èíû. 

Òàêèì îáðàçîì î÷åâèäíî, ÷òî ôîðìèðîâàíèå èäåîëîãèè «íîâîé» 

ìóæåñòâåííîñòè íà ñòðàíèöàõ ðóññêîé âåðñèè æóðíàëà Men’s Health èäåò ïî 

òðàäèöèîííîìó ïóòè. Êîíêðåòíàÿ òåêñòîâàÿ ðåàëüíîñòü îãðàíè÷èâàåò ïðîöåññ 

ñìûñëîïðîèçâîäñòâà è çàêðåïëÿåò çà «íîâûìè» (äëÿ äèñêóðñà ìóæåñòâåííîñòè) 

îçíà÷àþùèìè – «ñèëà», «çäîðîâüå», «óìåíèå ðàäîâàòüñÿ æèçíè», «èíòåðåñíàÿ 

ðàáîòà» è «ãàðìîíè÷íûå îòíîøåíèÿ ñ æåíùèíàìè» – «ñòàðûå» ìàñêóëèííûå 

öåííîñòè – «ôèçè÷åñêàÿ ñèëà», «ñòàòóñíàÿ è âûñîêîîïëà÷èâàåìàÿ ðàáîòà», 

«ñåêñ», «ïîòðåáèòåëüñêè–ïðåíåáðåæèòåëüíîå îòíîøåíèå ê æåíùèíå». À 

çàÿâëåííûå â ðåäàêöèîííîé ñòàòüå âñåîáùèå è îñíîâíûå öåííîñòè 

ñîâðåìåííîãî ìóæ÷èíû – íå áîëåå ÷åì èñïûòàííûé óæå ðàíåå íà æåíùèíàõ 

ïðèåì ñèìâîëèçàöèè, ìèôîëîãèçàöèè òîâàðîâ è óñëóã äëÿ íàèáîëåå 

ýôôåêòèâíîãî âîâëå÷åíèÿ ìóæ÷èí â ñôåðó àêòèâíîãî ïîòðåáëåíèÿ. Â ñóùíîñòè, 

ýòî èçäàíèå ñáëèæàåòñÿ ñ æóðíàëîì äëÿ æåíùèí Cosmopolitan â òîì, ÷òî 

ÿâëÿåòñÿ òàêèì æå êóêîëüíûì äîìîì. Íà ñòðàíèöàõ Men’s Health 

êîíñòðóèðóåòñÿ æåñòêèé ìèô, òîëüêî íà ýòîò ðàç äëÿ ìóæ÷èí. Ìèô, â êîòîðîì 

ìóæ÷èíà âñåãäà ìîëîä, êðàñèâ, çäîðîâ è «àáñîëþòíî çâåðñêèé ñåêñàïèë» 17 

ÏÐÈÌÅ×ÀÍÈß 

1 Æóðíàë Men’s Health, î êîòîðîì ïîéäåò ðå÷ü, êàê è âñå îñòàëüíûå 

òðàíñíàöèîíàëüíûå áðýíäû äëÿ ìóæ÷èí è æåíùèí, èçäàþòñÿ â Ìîñêâå. Â Áåëàðóñü 

ýòè èçäàíèÿ ïîïàäàþò ÷åðåç ÷àñòíûõ ðàñïðîñòðàíèòåëåé. 

2 Ñì.: Þð÷àê À. Íå äî ãëóïîñòåé, êîãäà êàðüåðó êóåøü; Áîðåíñòåéí Ý. Àõ, 

«Àíäðþøà», íàì ëè áûòü â ïå÷àëè…Íàöèîíàëèçì ñîâðåìåííûõ «ìóæñêèõ» 

æóðíàëîâ»; Óøàêèí Ñ. Âèäèìîñòü ìyæåñòâåííîñòè //Î ìóæå(N)ñòâåííîñòè: Ñá. ñò. 

/Ñîñò. Ñ. Óøàêèí. – Ì.: Íîâîå ëèòåðàòóðíîå îáîçðåíèå, 2002; Êóëèíêà Í. À. 

Ïðîÿâëåíèå ãåíäåðíûõ ñòåðåîòèïîâ â èçäàíèÿõ, ðàññ÷èòàííûõ íà æåíñêóþ è 

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ìóæñêóþ àóäèòîðèè: íà ïðèìåðå æóðíàëîâ //Ìåäâåäü, èþíü, 1999; Cosmopolitan, 

èþëü, 1999; //Ìàòåðèàëû 2–îé ìåæäóíàðîäíîé ìåæäèñöèïëèíàðíîé íàó÷íî–ïðàêò. 

kîíô. «Æåíùèíà. Îáðàçîâàíèå. Äåìîêðàòèÿ». Ìèíñê, 3–4 äåêàáðÿ 1999 ã. /Æåíñêèé 

íåãîñ. èíñòèòóò ÝÍÂÈËÀ. – Ìèíñê, 2000, c. 141–148; Ê âîïðîñó î òèïîëîãè÷åñêîì 

ðàçíîîáðàçèè ïðåññû äëÿ ìóæ÷èí //Ìàòýðûÿëû Ìiæíàðîäíàé íàâóêîâà–ïðàêò. êàíô. 

«Æóðíàëiñòûêà – 2000». Ìiíñê, 21 ëiñòàïàäà 2000 ã. /Áåëàðóñ. äçÿðæ. óí–ò. Ôàêóëüòýò 

æóðíàëiñòûêi. – Ìiíñê, 2000, c. 111–113; Êàðòèíû ìèðà äâóõ ìóæñêèõ æóðíàëîâ êàê 

ñïîñîá êîíñòðóèðîâàíèÿ ðåàëüíîñòè //Ìàòåðèàëû IY Ìåæäóíàðîäíîé íàó÷íîé 

êîíôåðåíöèè «ßçûê è ñîöèóì». Ìèíñê, 1–2 äåêàáðÿ 2000 ã. Â 2 ÷. ×. 1 /Áåëîðóñ. 

ãîñ. óí–ò. Ôèëîë. ôàêóëüòåò. – Ìí.: ÁÃÓ, 2001, c. 160–163; Ïåðèîäè÷åñêîå èçäàíèå 

êàê çíàê ñîöèàëüíîé è ïîëèòè÷åñêîé ðåàëüíîñòè: îïûò èññëåäîâàíèÿ ìóæñêîãî 

æóðíàëà Ìåâåäü; //Ïðèíöèïû è ìåòîäû èññëåäîâàíèÿ â ôèëîëîãèè: êîíåö XX âåêà: 

Ñá. íàó÷. ñò.: Â 3 ÷. ×. 2 /Ïîä ðåä. ä–ðà ôèëîë. íàóê, ïðîô. Ê. Ý. Øòàéí. – 

Ñ–Ïåòåðáóðã, Ñòàâðîïîëü: Èçä–âî Ñòàâðîï. ãîñ. óí–òà, 2001, c. 278–289. 

3 Ðàáîòà âûïîëíåíà íà àíàëèçå òåêñòîâ æóðíàëüíûõ íîìåðîâ çà ÿíâàðü–ôåâðàëü 2000 

ã., àâãóñò 2001 ã. è àâãóñò 2002 ã. 

4 Ñì.: Äåððèäà Æ. Ïèñüìî è ðàçëè÷èå. Àêàäåìè÷åñêèé Ïðîåêò. Ì., 2000; Äåððèäà Æ. 

Ïîçèöèè. Êèåâ, 1996; Áàðò Ð. S/Z.ÓÐÑÑ. Ì., 2001; Áàðò Ð. Èçáðàííûå ðàáîòû: 

ñåìèîòèêà. Ïîýòèêà. Ì., 1989. 

5 Îá èãðå, â êîòîðóþ âñòóïàåò îçíà÷àþùåå «ëþáîâü» ñ ðàçëè÷íûìè îçíà÷àåìûìè â 

çàâèñèìîñòè îò ïîãðóæåííîñòè â îïðåäåëåííûé êîíòåêñò, – â ðàáîòå Ëàêîôôà Äæ., 

Äæîíñîíà Ì. Ìåòàôîðû, êîòîðûìè ìû æèâåì //ßçûê è ìîäåëèðîâàíèå ñîöèàëüíîãî 

âçàèìîäåéñòâèÿ: cá. ñò. /Îáù. ðåä. Ïåòðîâà Â. Â. . – Ì.: Ïðîãðåññ, 1987. 

6 Óøàêèí Ñ. Âèäèìîñòü ìóæåñòâåííîñòè //Î ìóæå(N)ñòâåííîñòè: Ñá.ñò. /Ñîñò. 

Ñ. Óøàêèí. – Ì.: Íîâîå ëèòåðàòóðíîå îáîçðåíèå, 2002, c. 500. 

7 Men’s Health, ÿíâàðü–ôåâðàëü 2000 ã., ñ. 11. 

8 Òàì æå, ñ. 100–101. 

9 Men’s Health, àâãóñò 2001 ã. 

10 Men’s Health, àâãóñò 2001ã., ñ. 102–104. 

11 Men’s Health, ÿíâàðü–ôåâðàëü 2000 ã., ñ. 75. 

12 Men’s Health àâãóñò 2002 ã., ñ. 77. 

13 Òàì æå, ñ. 74. 

14 Òàì æå, ñ. 19. 

15 Òàì æå, ñ. 79. 

16 Òàì æå, ñ. 16. 

Summary 

This paper analyses the formation of the “new masculinity” ideology in the Russian 

version of the “Men’s Health” journal. It shows the ways in which textual reality 

shapes the process of sense–making and attaches “old” masculine values – such as 

“physical strength”, “high–status and high–paid job”, “sex”—to new signifiers, which 

include “strength”, “health”, “optimism”, “interesting job” and “harmonious relationship 

with women”.


Kopsavilkums 

Referâtâ analizçta “jaunâs vîriðíîbas” ideoloìijas veidoðana “Men’s Health” 

þurnâla krievu versijâ. Parâdîts, kâ tekstuâlâ realitâte ietekmç apziòas veidoðanas 

procesu, pievienojot “vecâs” vîriðíîbas vçrtîbas, piemçram, “fizisko spçku”, “augstu 

statusu sabiedrîbâ un augsti apmaksâtu darbu”, “seksu”, jaunajiem simboliem: 

“spçks”, “veselîba”, “optimisms”, “interesants darbs” un “harmoniskas attiecîbas ar 

sievietçm”. 

49



Männer im Frauenland: Männerdarstellungen in einer 

ostdeutschen Frauenzeitschrift 

Men in the Womenland: Representations of Men in 

Popular Women’s Magazines in GDR 

Vîrieði sievieðu zemç: vîrieðu attçlojums 

VDR populârajos sievieðu þurnâlos 

Alice Weinreb (USA–Germany) 

Humboldt Universität zu Berlin 

Manteuffelstrasse 107, Berlin 10997 

e–mail: aliceautumn@web.de 

Der Beitrag untersucht die Wandlung und die Tendenzen von Männerdarstellungen in der 

Frauenzeitschrift Für Dich, einr Zeitschrift, der in der ehmaligen DDR eine grosse Bedeutung 

zukam. Es werden einige Hauptmännerbilder untersucht, die immer wieder auftauchten, 

Figuren, die auf eine große Resonanz der Autorinnen der Zeitschrift als auch ihrer Leserinnen 

stießen: Der Vater und (Ehe)Partner, der Arbeiter und der Soldat. Es werden die Veränderungen 

und Modifikationen des Männerbildes im Laufe der Zeit verfolgt. 

Keywords: Gender in der DDR, Frauenzeitschrift, Männlichkeit in der DDR. 

Die ehemalige DDR ist in letzter Zeit zum Gegenstand mehrerer Untersuchungen 

geworden, welche Geschlecht und Geschlechterverhältnisse in Betracht nehmen. Vor 

allem im Hinblick auf die Stellung der Frau und die Entwicklung und Ausarbeitung 

einer oft gefeierten aber doch nur zweifelhaft geglückten Gleichberechtigung bietet 

das Land ein höchstinteressantes und einzigartiges Forschungsobjekt. Die Mehrheit 

dieser Studien richtet ihre Energie natürlich dann auf die Frau, auf ihre Erwartungen, 

Enttäuschungen und eigentlichen Erfahrungen im‚ anderen Deutschland.‘ Fragen 

nach ihrer Beziehung zu und Einordnung innerhalb der Gesellschaft beschäftigen 

diese Analysen, und die Ergebnisse sind sowohl faszinierend wie einleuchtend. Aber 

diese Fäden der zeitgenössischen Forschung lassen verständlicherweise etwas außer 

Acht. Zu Recht klagt DDR–Wissenschaftler Günter Kracht, “Der DDR–Mann, seine 

Männlichkeit und sein Mannsein als kulturelles Konstrukt, findet keine große 

Beachtung.” 1 Um ein ganzheitliches Bild der DDR zu entwickeln, muß tatsächlich auch 

die Frage gestellt werden, “Was hat der Sozialismus aus den Männern gemacht?” Hier 

versucht diese Arbeit, ihren kleinen Beitrag zu leisten. Durch eine Untersuchung von 

Männerdarstellungen in der Frauenzeitschrift Für Dich möchte ich näher an das 

‘Konstrukt Mann’ kommen und damit die 

Frauenzeitschriften bieten einen einzigartigen Blick in die DDR–Gesellschaft. In 

einem Land, das den wahnsinnigen Verlusten des Kriegs zufolge zum ‘Frauenland’ 

geworden war, und im Bezug auf den Sozialismus der Frau eine außerordentliche 

Wichtigkeit verlieh, spielte dieses frauenspezifische Medium eine bestimmte und sehr 

geschätzte Rolle in der Entwicklung und Verbreitung einer sozialistischen 

Öffentlichkeit. Staatlich unterstützt als wesentliches Teil des Aufbaus der DDR,

Alice Weinreb. Vîrieði sievieðu zemç: vîrieðu attçlojums VDR populârajos sievieðu þurnâlos 

gewann es hohes Prestige und Aufmerksamkeit. Seine Macht und sein Einfluß wurden 

oft politisch betont, da “als ‘Sinnstifterin,’ als Trägerin kommunikativen Inhalts, ... 

[die Frauenpresse] das Wertesystem der Gesellschaft um die Frauenperspektive 

[erweitert]: Sie bringt frauen–spezifische Wertvorstellungen, Erwartungen und 

Verhaltensweisen ins gesellschaftliche Normen– und Wertsystem ein ... die 

Frauenzeitschrift leistet soziale Orientierung und kann als Sozialisationsinstanz auch 

belehren.” 2 Im Hinblick auf diese vielfältigen und bedeutungsvollen Aspekte der 

Frauenzeitschrift, möchte ich die Frage stellen: wie wird der Mann in den Blättern 

verstanden und definiert ? 

Meine Arbeit behandelt primär die Zeitschrift Für Dich, eine Zeitschrift, der in 

der ehemaligen DDR eine große Bedeutung zukam. Als ein “Vorzeigeobjekt der 

SED,” 3 genoß die Für Dich besondere Vorteile und Unterstützungen, aber auch 

besondere Wachsamkeit und Kontrolle. Als die Frauenzeitschrift überhaupt4 sollte sie 

vor allem einem politischen Bewußtsein förderlich sein; sie “wendet sich an alle 

Frauen und sieht ihre Hauptaufgabe darin, die bei uns bestehende Gleichberechtigung 

weiter vertiefen zu helfen.” 5 Durch das staatlich gewollte Privileg wöchentlicher statt 

monatlicher oder vierteljähriger Erscheinung, deutlich billiger als andere 

Frauenzeitschriften verkauft, und mit dementsprechend höheren Auflagenzahlen und 

eine “hieran zu erkennende größere Bedeutsamkeit in den Augen der Partei,” 6 wurde 

Für Dich zu einer prägenden Stelle in den Diskursen der DDR verholfen. Aus den 

Heften stellten sich einige Hauptmännerbilder heraus, Figuren, die auf eine große 

Resonanz der Autorinnen der Zeitschrift als auch ihrer Leserinnen stießen: Der Vater 

und (Ehe)Partner, der Arbeiter und der Soldat. Dies waren die Männerkörper, die 

immer wieder auftauchten. Und sie erlebten heftige Veränderungen und 

Modifikationen im Laufe der Zeit. Ich hoffe, daß dieser offiziell propagierte aber 

immerhin oft kontroverse und uneinige Frauenblick ein anderes Licht auf den 

symbolreichen und schattenhaften Männerleib werfen kann. 

Zu erst betrachte ich die erste Für Dich von den Jahren 1948–1950. Diese 

Jahrgänge waren von einem radikalen, oft männerfeindlichen Geschlechterbild 

geprägt. In einer „grauenvoll zusammengebrochenen Männerwelt ist den Frauen eine 

Aufgabe von nie zuvor gekannter Schwere und Größe auferlegt.” 7 Die unmittelbare 

deutsche Vergangenheit wurde vor allem als eine aus Geschlechterungleichheit 

entstandene Bosheit dargestellt, und der Nationalsozialismus als eine Zeit des 

Sexismus und der weiblichen Unterdrückung verschrieben. Politik und z.B. 

rassistische oder antisemitische Aspekte der Nazis fielen weg, statt dessen, was für 

die Frauen Deutschlands wichtig zu wissen war, „die nationalsozialistische 

Weltanschauung lehrte das Primat des Mannes in allen Funktionen des gesamten 

staatlichen Lebens, anerkannte die Gleichberechtigung der Frau nicht und begrenzte 

das weibliche Geschlecht in seinen Rechten und Pflichten als Wesen minderen Wertes 

auf den engen Kreis häuslichen Lebens oder auf untergeordnete Stellungen und der 

Erwerbstätigkeit.” (1948) Der ‘Krieg aller Kriege’ wandelte sich zum 

Geschlechterkrieg, und das Leiden unter Hitlers Herrschaft ausschließlich den 

(ostdeutschen bzw. ‚uns‘) Frauen zugeordnet. Das Geschlecht war fast automatisch 

als Beweis politischer Überzeugung (gut oder böse) zu sehen. Immer wieder wurden 

die deutschen Soldaten, die diese Verbrechen verursacht hatten, uns vorgestellt. Diese 

zeitweiligen Gefangene lächeln die Leserinnen glücklich, gesund und mit reinem 

51


Gewissen an. Ein Wort des Bereuens oder Zeichen der Unsicherheit tauchte nie in 

Bezug auf diese Kriegsmitmacher auf. Diejenigen Soldaten, die noch in Lagern 

gefangen waren, wurden mit kritischen und zugleich neidischen Augen betrachtet. In 

den Artikeln der Zeitschrift sahen Leserinnen diese Männer konsequent beim 

Faullenzen, nie beim körperlichen Leiden oder strapazierender Arbeit in diesen 

östlichen bzw. Russischen Lagern. So heißt es in einem Artikel: “diejenigen, die es 

nicht vorziehen, in der Sonne zu liegen oder zu lesen, finden sich zu einem Skat 

zusammen.” Immer betont wurde auch das leckere und vor allem reichlich 

vorhandenes Essen in den Lagern. 

Der Verdacht, daß er ‘mitgemacht’ hatte, färbte fast jeden starken, gesunden 

Mann in den Augen der Redaktion. Aber diese überwiegender Verachtung des jungen 

deutschen Mannes war vorübergehend wie intensiv und absolut. Mit der formellen 

Gründung des DDR–Staates und einem demzufolge großen Bedarf an männlichen 

Arbeitskräften gewann der DDR–Mann wieder einen guten Ruf. Es kam doch 

blitzschnell in der allgemeinen DDR–Gesellschaft zu einer intensiven Umformulierung 

des Männerbildes statt; innerhalb wenigen Jahren entstand so die Figur des neuen 

ostdeutschen Arbeiters, die als positives Sinnbild der Nation fungiert. Die Muskeln 

des Arbeiters, sein Fleiß und Pflichtgefühl dienten plötzlich als Kennzeichen des 

sozialistischen Wesens, und nicht mehr als Beweis einer Verbindung zu den Nazis 

und dem Krieg darzustellen. Parallel dazu verlor die Figur der Frau als 

Alleinverantwortor für den nationalen Aufbau rasch an rhetorischer Bedeutung. 

Allerdings zeigten sich in den Frauenzeitschriften die Kompliziertheit und Ambivalenz 

dieser Entwicklung des Männerbildes. Die Seiten meiner Frauenzeitschriften waren 

keineswegs von arbeitenden Männerkörper überfüllt. Im Gegenteil schien der 

männliche Arbeiterkörper der Redaktion und Leserschaft von relativ niedrigem oder 

sehr beschränktem Interesse zu sein. 

Während des langen Lebens Für Dich tauchte der Arbeiterkörper recht selten 

auf, und wenn, dann eher als ein Symbol sexueller Potenz, welcher mit einer 

problematischen Männlichkeit sogar mit einem unausgesprochenen Sexismus 

verbunden wurde. In den Seiten der Zeitschrift wurde der arbeitende Körper mit 

traditionellen, teils doch dubiosen Eigenschaften des Männlichen verbunden, sein 

Leib mit einer verführerischen, fast verbrecherischen Romantik geladen. Sein starker, 

fleischiger Körper steht konsequent im deutlichen Vergleich zu weiblichen Gestalten, 

und sieht sowohl höchsterotisch wie auch äußerst bedrohlich aus, und sein Körper 

wurde häufiger als irgendwelche anderen zum Objekt weiblicher Kritik ausgewählt. 

“Männerbetriebe und (die damitverbundenen) hartnäckige Denkgewohnheiten” sind 

konsequent als Feinde der Frau dargestellt. Die Darstellung einer Welt, wo Frauen 

gegen Bauarbeiter kämpfen für einen berechtigten sozialistischen Staat, wurde immer 

wieder und in unterschiedlichsten Weisen aufgegriffen. Aber wahrend aber der 

männliche Arbeiterkörper sich als problematisch und schwer greifbar bewies, bot die 

Frauenzeitschrift der Leserschaft die Figur des neuen, von Frauen ‚gut–erzogenen‘ 

DDR–Mann, mit Schürze und Besen ausgerüstet als positives Alternativ. 

Der hilfsbereite Mann im Haushalt war ein stetiges und beliebtes Thema in der 

Für Dich. Sowohl Frauen wie auch Männer wiesen auf eine gleiche Verteilung der 

privaten Putz– und Kocharbeit als stolzes Beispiel einer verwirklichten


Gleichberechtigung hin. Es wurde von “Männer[n], die wir lieben,” erzählt, von 

Frauen, die sich so sehr freuen, weil sie “so einen prima Mann habe[n]. ... Der 

Haushalt ist tipptopp in Ordnung, alle Kinder gebadet und versorgt ... Unsere 12 

Fenster ... putzt mein Mann besser als manche Frau.” (1970) Männer könnten mit 

Mühe und Überzeugung doch fast so gut wie eine Frau werden, wie im glänzenden 

Beispiel von ‘Vati zu Hause,’ ein DDR Bürger, der “trotz seines unregelmäßigen 

Dienstes im Gesundheitswesen, erledigt ... alles mit einer so großen Ruhe und 

ordentlich, wie es eine Frau nicht besser machen könnte... wenn es auch draußen mal 

grau aussieht und regnet, in unserer Wohnung ist Sonnenschein!” (1970) 

Daß aber vielleicht nicht alles nur ‘Sonnenschein’ war, läßt sich auch klar 

vermuten. Böse und ‘altkapitalistische’ Gerüchte wie “Hausarbeit ist nichts für 

richtige Männer,” (1963) Meinungen, die von älteren Familienmitgliedern geäußert 

wurden und dadurch als Überreste eines vergangenen faschistischen Zeitalters implizit 

entschuldigt waren, waren den Autorinnen bekannt. Es wurde schnell klar, daß die 

neue Männlichkeitsmodell tiefste Schwierigkeiten verursachte. Die Sorge, die Männer 

würden dadurch zum Pantofffelheld verwandelt, war doch weitverbreitet in der DDR 

und demzufolge häufig thematisiert, sowohl innerhalb wie auch außerhalb der DDR. 

Eine “von der Westseite beobachteten ‘Feminisierung’ der Männer — oder jedenfalls 

eine ganz andere Art von ‘Männlichkeit,’” 

Sorgte für Aufregung auf beide Seiten der deutsch–deutschen Grenze. Männer 

fragten öfters in der Zeitschrift, “warum sollen denn Hausarbeit und Männlichkeit 

unvereinbar sein? ... ‘Bin ich ein Pantoffelheld?” (1963) Die tiefe Unsicherheit, die 

die Aufforderungen an die Männer zum Putzen verursachte, wurde zwar nicht direkt 

angesprochen aber doch thematisiert. Äußerungen wie “wir helfen gern, aber Männer 

wollen wir trotzdem bleiben,” (1963) sollten dazu dienen, ein Bild von einem 

Mannsein, das gerade auf der Kippe stand, zu verbreiten. 

Lösungssuchend und Männertröstend versuchte Für Dich eine neue, moderne 

DDR–Männlichkeit herzustellen, deren Wesen mit einer gleichen Teilung der 

Hausarbeit in Einklang kommen konnte. Die Wende in der Männlichkeit, die eine 

gleichberechtigte Lebensbeteiligung verursachen sollte, wurde in zweierlei Hinsichten 

vollzogen. Es gab viele Versuche, weiblich–konnotierte Arbeit mit männlichen 

Attributen zu belegen. Dies fand am einfachsten durch ziemlich platte Analogien statt. 

So hieß es beispielsweise, daß vielleicht der besorgte Ehemann sich in seiner 

männlichen Potenz nicht so verletzt fühlte, wenn er wissen wurde, daß “den gleichen 

Kraftaufwand, den sie in einem Jahr zum Bügeln braucht . . . muß ein Forstarbeiter 

aufbringen (muß), um 265 Bäume durchschnittlicher Stärke zu fällen,” (1963) würde 

vielleicht die männliche Potenz eines besorgten Ehemanns sich beim Abwaschen nicht 

so verletzt fühlen. Viel häufiger aber als solche Gleichnisse, proklamierte die 

Redaktion, nicht eine männlichere Weiblichkeit sondern eine neue, andere 

Männlichkeit. Die Männer, die jetzt so gern putzten, wuschen, flickten und kochten 

waren zärtlicher, nicht so muskulös, trugen oft Brillen und sahen meist verwirrt oder 

überfordert aus. 

Mehr noch als der aufgeklärte Helfer Zuhause aber gewann der verantwortliche 

und liebevolle Vater das höchste Lob des Landes. Gerade hier, in der DDR, “wo alles 

im Umdenken ist ... kann auch der Vater seine Kinder nicht mehr mit 

53


anachronistischen Gepflogenheiten und Denkarten erziehen.” (1970) Er verkörperte 

die feinsten und erstrebenswertesten Eigenschaften der neuen DDR und ihrer neuen 

Bürger, und er wurde dementsprechend thematisiert, beschrieben und analysiert. 

Männlichkeit ist zum ersten Mal durch Mütterlichkeit gebildet und bestätigt, “‘wenn 

die Kinder mit meiner Frau mal nicht einverstanden sind, sagen sie: Vater ist der 

einzig Vernünftige in der Familie, ein richtiger ‘Muttervater.’ Darüber freut sich auch 

meine Frau. Der ‘Muttervater’ ist ihr kein Konkurrent, sondern schönste Bestätigung, 

daß sie, als sie ihr Ja gab, gut für die Kinder mit entschieden hat.’” (1980) Diese 

merkwürdige DDR–Gestalt des ‘Muttervaters’ dient sowohl als Fortschrittsbeweis als 

auch Ansporn, denn schließlich “gerade als Väter haben die Männer am meisten 

aufgeholt ... Dies ist der fortgeschrittenste Bereich der Arbeitsteilung.” (1980) Der 

Für Dich zufolge konnte es im Sozialismus nicht anders sein. Familien– und 

Gesellschaftspolitik vereinigten sich in dem Vaterleib Leib. 

Durch die Jahre der Zeitschrift tauchte die Figur des Vaters zunehmend auf. Wenn 

er in den früheren Folgen als gelegentlich erwähntes Mitglied einer von Frauen 

dominierten Familie schien, wurde er in den Siebzigern zum Hauptbestandteil der 

sozialistische Gesellschaft. Immer mehr Fotos vom Vater mit Kind, oft mit auffällig 

abwesenden Müttern, wurden veröffentlicht. Die DDR wurde rasch zur Vaterparadies 

umgewandelt. Die Redaktion reichte immer öfter den symbolischen “April– 

Blumenstrauß ... der Dank für seine Mühe und Sorge, für sein Verständnis, für seine 

Liebe,” ‘einem liebevollen Vater’ entgegen; „Mit wenigen Worten – so wie es seinen 

Art ist— hat Günter Held damals seiner Frau erklärt, daß er die Kinder allein betreuen 

werde. Und er versprach, niemand werde ihnen anmerken, daß die Mutter nicht zu 

Hause ist.” (1963) 

Daß die stets aufgeforderte Zusammenarbeit sich oft als ‚Geschlechterkrieg‘ 

entpuppte, wurde erst sehr spät in der Frauenzeitschrift zugegeben. Es war erst in 

den Achtzigern das dieses Geschlechterdilemma direkt und zum Teil aus reiner 

Verzweiflung angesprochen wurde. 1980 scheint eine Wende für die 

Männerdarstellung in Für Dich zu markieren. Mit der langen und hochstrebenden, 

ziemlich willkürlich konzipierten Serie “Junge Männer Heute” sprach Für Dich die 

komplizierten und oft paradoxen Männlichkeitkonstrukten an, die sie so lange 

diskutiert und verbreitet hatte. Während es früher meistens der trostlose 

sitzengelassene Soldat oder der ratsuchende junge Vater war, der in der Zeitschrift zu 

Wort kam, lernten die Leserinnen jetzt eine neue Art Mann kennen. Jetzt kamen “junge 

Männer vom Bau zur Diskussion.” Auf der Suche nach einer Lösung der drückenden 

Männerfrage besuchten die Mitarbeiterinnen der Zeitschrift “die ‘Rüster,’ wie sie sich 

nennen, in ihrer Mittagspause. Von der Arbeit her gewohnt, alles kräftig und zügig 

anzupacken, kamen sie auch ohne Umschweife sogleich mit uns ins Gespräch.” (1980) 

Vor allem beklagten die ein Mangel eines klaren und einheitlichen Männerbildes. Die 

Leserinnen wurden aufgefordert sich zu fragen: „Weiß er denn wirklich, wie Er heute 

nun zu sein hat ... Frauen [sind] in ihrer Forderungen rigoros: Einerseits soll er ein 

‘richtiger’ Mann sein, souverän, aktiv, entscheidungsfreudig, stark – und anderseits 

wird Sensibilität, Zärtlichkeit und Versiertheit im Haushalt gefordert – also Macho und 

Softy in einem ... Aber solche Ansprüche und Forderungen verunsichern und 

desorientieren – und sie haben sicherlich auch ihren Anteil daran, daß Männer sich 

zögernder vom althergebrachten Rollenverhalten trennen als Frauen. Schließlich hatte


da alles seine unverrückbare Ordnung, über die man nicht weiter nachdenken mußte: 

ein richtiger Mann war, wer seine Familie gut versorgte und die richtigen 

Entscheidungen traf. Und heute?” (1989) 

Mit dem neuen Verständnis, daß Männer genau so viel und vielleicht noch mehr 

als Frauen unter den alten patriarchalischen Gewohnheiten litten, versuchten diese 

neuen Männerartikel vor allem den Mythos “Männer haben es einfacher” (1989) zu 

durchbrechen. Plötzlich war der Männerkörper nicht mehr das Objekt des weiblichen 

Neids, sondern des weiblichen Mitleids. Nicht mehr Konkurrenz an der Werkbank 

oder verantwortungsloser Partner, schien der ‘junge Mann von Heute’ eher ein 

verlorenes Kind, Trost– und Führungsbedürftig. Die Tatsache, daß es “offensichtlich 

... Ihm schwerer [fällt,] sich zu ändern als Ihr ...” wurde als Grund für übertriebene 

Unterstützung der Frau gesehen. Statt Vorwürfe wegen mangelnder Haushaltshilfe 

oder beruflicher Unterstützung sollte jedes beschmierte Brot oder abgeholtes Kind 

tausendmal gefeiert werden. (“kleiner Hinweis: Emphatisch jubeln ist weniger 

anstrengend als alleine putzen. Also, warum sollten wir Frauen uns nicht immer wieder 

deutlich freuen, wenn er ein Glanzstück in Küche oder Bad vollbracht hat?” (1980)) 

“So leicht ist es für Ihn nicht, sich aus seiner Bequemlichkeit zu lösen und neue 

Funktionen in der Partnerschaft und in der Familie zu übernehmen,” (1980) und ohne 

weibliche Hilfe, schafft er es überhaupt nicht. 

Die Schwierigkeiten, Vorstellungen und Verständnissen von Männlichkeit mit den 

eigentlichen Männern der DDR zusammenzubringen, ergaben ein Komplex 

uneindeutiger Bilder des männlichem Selbst. Weder weiblich genug auf die Baustelle 

noch männlich genug am Herd, blieb der DDR–Mann ungreifbar. Durchs ganze Leben 

der Zeitschrift pendelten die Redakteurinnen zwischen diesen Polen, ohne eine klare 

Lösung zu finden. Wo der DDR–Mann sich befinden soll, wie er sich gestalten und 

verhalten soll, und welche Rolle die DDR–Frau damit spielen soll, waren Fragen die 

sich als äußerst schwer zu beantworten bewiesen. Es gab aber einen anderen Körper, 

der sich völlig außerhalb dieses Dilemmas befand: der neu erfundene und ewig 

populäre DDR–Soldat. Die Zeitschrift räumte ihm einen Ort ein, wo die tiefen und 

unlösbaren Debatten um Männlichkeit nicht eindringen konnten. Auf Grund seiner 

Stellung als Schützer und Verteidiger konnte und sollte er sich außerhalb der normalen 

Geschlechtsmuster, die in den Zeitschrift sonst als allgemeingültig und wesentlich 

zum Erfolg des sozialistischen Staates propagiert waren, bewegen. Sowohl die 

weibliche wie auch männliche Öffentlichkeit schätzte den Soldat als fast mythische 

Gestalt, als letzten eigentlichen Repräsentanten des unproblematischen und nicht in 

Frage gestellten Männlichen. Der Soldat war sowohl bestmöglicher Vertreter von 

Werten und Sitten der DDR, wie auch jemand, der völlig außerhalb dieses Systems 

stand, als Grenzschützer nicht nur buchstäblich sondern auch abstrakt an seine 

Grenzen. 

Anfang der sechziger Jahren und mit der Einführung der Wehrpflicht wurde der 

DDR Soldat zum neuen Bestandteil der öffentlichen Gesellschaft. Die tiefe Abneigung 

allem Militärischen gegenüber, die die DDR–Bevölkerung früher auszeichnete, mußte 

schnell überwunden werden. Der Staat widmete dem Aufbau eines positiven Bildes 

des neuen DDR–Soldaten, ein Mann, der nicht den Krieg sondern “de[m] Frieden 

und [der] Liebe” dienen sollte, viel Energie. (1963) Diese DDR Soldaten 

55


repräsentierten eine neue Art Mann, der mit den ‘faschistischen Kämpfern’ die 

Deutschland zerstörten nichts gemeinsam hatten, und das Bedürfnis, das Dasein 

dieser ‘Friedenskämpfer’ zu rechtfertigen, war überall in der Öffentlichkeit zu spüren. 

Um eine sanfte Annahme dieser Militarisierung der Gesellschaft zu gewährleisten, 

stellte die Zeitschrift der Leserinnen u.a. Helmut Poppe vor. Dieser sympathischer 

Mann war bloß 17 1/2 Jahre alt, „als er in den furchtbarsten Krieg aller Kriege 

geschickt wurde. Er erlebte das Ende derer, die ihn betrogen hatten; doch er könnte 

sich nicht vorstellen, daß es wieder einen Anfang geben sollte ... Als Helmut Poppe 

1948 nach Hause kam, erlebte er, wie im östlichen Teil Deutschlands alles zur 

demokratischen Erneuerung getan wurde. Diejenigen, die die Völker in einen Krieg 

gestürzt, die ihm Jahre seiner Jugend geraubt hatten, die Militaristen und Junker 

wurden entmachtet. Um das neue Leben zu schützen, begann er als Wachmeister . . . 

„(1963) Solche Versuche, die ostdeutsche Armee von der abschreckenden jungen 

deutschen Vergangenheit zu distanzieren und dagegen mit dem Streben nach Frieden 

zu verbinden, prägten die ersten Jahrgängen der Zeitschrift. 

Zahlreiche kurze Berichte zeigten den Soldat zu Hause und in der Freizeit, und 

sollten dazu dienen, den Soldatenkörper ‚normal’ und ‚positiv’ zu konnotieren. Um 

den Soldaten annahbarer zu machen, richtete Für Dich überraschend viele 

Aufmerksamkeit auf die vielfältige Seiten seiner Persönlichkeit. Seine Normalität wie 

auch seine Separation von der Gesellschaft sollten gleich repräsentiert. Reportagen 

sprachen kaum über die eigentliche militärische Arbeit der Soldaten, beschränkten 

sich statt dessen auf ‘Freizeit und Glück’ in der Armee. ‘Während des Diensts’ blieb 

fast Tabuthema, aber “nach dem Dienst finden die Soldaten bei ihren 

Lieblingsbeschäftigungen Ruhe und Entspannung,” (1963) und diese ‘Lieblingsbeschäftigungen’ 

wurden dann für die weibliche Leserin in Detail aufgelistet und 

abgebildet. 

Die Für Dich versuchte, die Stellung des Soldaten in der DDR–Gesellschaft zu 

definieren und zu normalisieren. Sein Körper blieb dabei schwierig einzuordnen, da 

durch den Dienst war der Soldat von der Gesellschaft abgeschnitten, und 

untereinander bildeten die Soldaten eine Art Randgruppe, die eine offen gefeierte 

Befreiung von der Gleichberechtigungserwartungen beinhaltete. Soldaten waren die 

einzigen Männer in Für Dich, die von weiblichen Kritik oder Vorwurf verschont 

blieben. Frauen erhoben ihre Stimme, aber nicht um anzuklagen, sondern um zu 

behaupten, “inzwischen ist [mein Mann] Offizier geworden, und wir drei sind stolz 

auf ihn.” (1963). Wegen “ihre[r] Liebe zur Arbeiterklasse, ihr[es] Einsatz[es] für 

unseren sozialistischen Staat” mußte die Frau eines Soldaten “viele persönliche 

Interessen zurückstellen.” Forderungen auf Hilfe beim Abwaschen oder sogar auf die 

einmal–im–Monat–Kocherei wurden hemmungslos abgelehnt, um die Annahme eines 

soldatischen Geschlechtsmusters, das die Interessen der Frau deutlich unterordnet, 

zu vereinfachen. 

Die Spaltung zwischen ‚normale‘ DDR–Mann und ‚besondere‘ DDR–Soldat 

wurde vor allem durch seine allgegenwärtige und unvermeidbare Uniform 

ausgedrückt. In jedem Bereich eines normalen Alltags sowie bei den spezialisierten 

Aktivitäten des militärischen Diensts wurde er eifrig und häufig abgebildet, aber immer 

wurde sein Körper durch seine Kleidung hervorgehoben und abgesondert. Das 

Soldatensein definierte den Mann oder besser die Männlichkeit, es war wie eine


zweite Haut, die sich permanent am Leib sichtbar war. Schürzen bleiben seinem 

getarnten, muskulösen Körper fern, selbstbewußte und hemmungslose Bewegungen 

markierten ihn, genau so wie seine Bereitschaft zu lächeln und zu küssen, zwei 

Eigenschaften, die sonst kaum unter abgebildeten Männerfotos zu finden waren. Eine 

tiefe Zufriedenheit und eine Sicherheit sowohl in seiner sexuellen wie auch 

körperlichen Potenz trennten diese Männer von ihren Zivilistenbrüdern. 

Diese einfache Art von Männlichkeit, die sonst als sexistisch, kindisch, 

kapitalistisch oder faschistisch verschmäht wurde, war allein in der Armee zugelassen 

und toleriert. Die Armee wurde zum Männerhersteller— was als Junge reingeht, 

kommt “reifer und klüger zurück ... Jedenfalls ist er ein Mann, wenn er wieder nach 

Hause kommt.” (1963) Als der ‚echte‘ Mann der DDR, blieb der Soldat offenbar der 

einzige Körper in den Zeitschriften, dem eine deutliche und vor allem positive Erotik 

zugeordnet war. Das Liebesleben des Soldaten spielte in der Für Dich eine wichtige 

Rolle und wurde in der Mehrheit der Artikeln über die Armee behandelt. Tatsächlich 

war die Stimme des betrogenen, eifersüchtigen, oder verwirrten Soldaten die 

oftgehörteste männliche Stimme der ersten Jahre der Zeitschrift überhaupt, eine Figur, 

die vor allem als Opfer weiblicher Gleichgültigkeit, Ignoranz, oder Tücke dargestellt 

wurde. Das Sexleben des Soldaten legendär, er soll es gern und viel treiben, und war 

von jedem Tadel oder Vorwurf befreit. Er liebt, er verläßt, er geht fremd und alles mit 

der Erwartung um Verständnis und Unterstützung der Redakteurinnen der Für Dich. 

Weder Treue noch Respekt gegenüber Frauen wurde von ihm erwartet, er mußte nur 

seine Pflicht erfüllen, und dazu durfte er seinen Körper fast unbegrenzt befriedigen. 

Allein unter DDR– Männern durfte er ‘bloß ein Kerl’ sein, ohne fragen zu müssen, 

was das eigentlich hieß. 

ANMERKUNGEN 

1 Kracht, S. 132. 

2 Tonsheidt s. 157. 


4 Sie “gilt in der DDR als einzige Frauenzeitschrift. Die übrigen Zeitschriften, die an den 

weiblichen Leserkreis gerichtet sind und überwiegend Mode enthalten, fallen dem 

Sprachgebrauch in der DDR entsprechend nicht in diese Kategorie.” Mischker in 

Tonsheidt s. 227. 

5 Chefredakteurin Jutterman in Tonsheidt s. 226. 


7 Brenner in Budde, 1997, S. 247. 

Summary 

My paper, examines the shifts and trends in representations of men in Für Dich, 

the most–read women’s magazine of the former East Germany. I examined dominant 

images of men in the magazine, in an attempt to understand how masculinity and 

gender relations were constructed in one of the few media made by and for women. 

57


I show how paradoxical and difficult the construction of an East German masculinty 

seemed to be. I argue that the magazine Für Dich shows an ambivalence and insecurity 

in its discussion of masculinity. Most praise is reserved for the father and husband; 

the ‚Worker‘ on the other hand seems an object of distrust. These magazines 

dedicate much energy to instructing their audiences on how to produce the perfect 

East German Man, at the same time that they constantly acknowledge that this perfect 

masculine specimen does not exist. The actual men in the GDR are heavily criticized 

and attacked, and the idea of a successful masculinity is challenged. 

Kopsavilkums 

Referâtâ pçtîtas izmaiòas un tendences vîrieðu attçlojumâ bijuðâs Austrumvâcijas 

vispopulârâkajâ sievieðu þurnâlâ “Für Dich”. 

Es analizçju þurnâlâ dominçjoðos vîrieðu tçlus, centos noskaidrot, kâ vîriðíîba 

un dzimumu attiecîbas parâdîtas vienâ no retajiem sievieðu radîtajiem un sievietçm 

domâtajiem preses izdevumiem. Redzams, cik paradoksâla un grûta bijusi 

Austrumvâcijas vîrieðu vîriðíîbas atainoðana. Uzskatu, ka þurnâls “Für Dich” savâs 

diskusijâs par vîriðíîbu bija divkosîgs un nepârliecinoðs. Tajâ atzinîbu izpelnâs tçvs 

un vîrs, bet strâdâjoðs vîrietis bieþi tiek pieminçts ar neuzticîbu. Sievieðu þurnâli 

daudz enerìijas veltîjuði, mâcot lasîtâjus, kâ izveidot ideâlu austrumvâcu vîrieti, 

vienlaikus nepârtraukti uzsverot, ka ðâds ideâls nemaz neeksistç. Reâlie VDR vîrieði 

pastâvîgi tiek kritizçti, un tiek apðaubîta pati pozitîvâs vîriðíîbas ideja.



Female Identity in the Postcolonial Situation: 

The Case of the Ukraine 

(Field Research in Ukrainian Sex by Oksana Zabuzhko) 

Sievieðu identitâte postkoloniâlâ situâcijâ: 

Ukrainas gadîjums 

Natalia Monakhova (Ukraine) 

Kyiv Laboratory of Gender 

and PhD Program in Comparative Literature, 

National University of Kyiv–Mohyla Academy 

23/9 Khoryva str., apt. 13, Kyiv 04071 Ukraine 

e–mail: natalia@cvu.kiev.ua; nmonakhova@yahoo.com 

Using key concepts of postcolonial theory, I argue that they are applicable to the contemporary 

Ukrainian context and to Ukrainian literature. I prove this hypothesis by applying these 

concepts (in particular the notion of a subaltern) to Oksana Zabuzhko’s Field Research in 

Ukrainian Sex (1994), demonstrating that postcolonialism can provide both an explanation for 

various cultural formations in the Ukraine and a framework for interrogating and subverting 

them, as well as open space for female self–identification, which is to say for topics which 

have been traditionally marginalized and silenced. 

Keywords: postcolonial theory; Ukraine; female identity; national identity; autobiography. 

For Ukrainians, the early nineties, with the disintegration of the Soviet Union and 

rapid social and political changes in the Eastern bloc, were also a period of a radical 

reconceptualization of their national identity. What makes this a special process within 

Ukrainian culture, compared with other East European countries which underwent 

similar processes, is a strong feeling of coloniality, of a post–imperial legacy which 

still influences and deforms the mentality of the people. Field Research in Ukrainian 

Sex (1994) by Oksana Zabuzhko was a first attempt not only to reflect this feeling 

but to analyze it on a literary level and thus not only to turn the colonial powers 

against themselves but to transform them into a powerful source of the 

reconceptualization of Ukrainians, and in particular of Ukrainian women. In this paper, 

grounding my discussion in feminist postcolonial criticism and relying upon the 

notion of the “subaltern” proposed by G.C. Spivak in her essay “Can the Subaltern 

Speak?”, I will argue that the protagonist of the novel, Oksana, establishes herself as 

a representative of her own nation who tries to give voice to the experience of being 

a woman in a society disfigured by famine, purges, and a repressive colonial legacy. 

I will argue that re–constructing herself and her life as an embodiment of Ukrainian 

national identity, Oksana constructs herself as a voice coming from the margins which 

becomes a center of radical openness. 

From the very moment it was published, Field Research in Ukrainian Sex was 

regarded by the public as an account of one of the author’s love affairs because the 

novel is blatantly autobiographical. Besides, its unusual literary form which plays


around with the genres of autobiographic novel, confession, and public speech (or 

academic presentation) and presents itself as a report on a research project, interspersed 

with poetic fragments, was perceived as an insult to literary taste1 . Zabuzhko’s 

novel “breaks many of elite literature’s laws…, it is overtly political…, always pressing 

the boundaries of established genres” 2 . And indeed, this writing is an infringement 

upon the laws of the novel as a genre3 . 

That is why, while the title of the novel apparently stresses the veracity of the 

facts presented (with the allusions to academic research), the text itself erodes any 

autobiographic truthfulness. For example, the prefix “auto–”, which is always “the 

single, imperious sight of the self express” 4 , never appears in the text; this underlines 

the impossibility of establishing power relations between author and text, narrator 

and narration. This is additionally confirmed by the lack of a stable narrator in the 

text, which is also a violation of the narrative laws of autobiography as a manifestation 

of the power of a male mind over his personality and life. In the novel, the narrative 

shifts between the first, second, and third person narrators, which seem to have 

different identities and to address different issues. For example, global perspectives 

issues related to Ukraine and the Ukrainian nation, are always presented by the first 

person narrator who is quite self–conscious and self–critical. Passages which discuss 

‘Ukrainian’ issues are usually preceded by a phrase emphasizing that the text is 

actually a public speech on a research project (“…the topic of my speech today, ladies 

and gentlemen, as it is stated in the program, is “Field Research in Ukrainian Sex 

…” 5 ) – with a bitter taste of irony to it (“Ladies and gentlemen, I feel a bit uncomfortable 

touching this topic since, of course, it fits a sermon better than a serious academic 

speech, and I already see that you are – one by one – leaving the room, sarcastically 

curling your lips: crazy stuff, typical Slavic mysticism…” 6 ). Second and third 

person narrators retell the personal stories of Oksana and her lover, Mykola, and the 

story of their relationship. But however intimate the tone of the story might be, there 

is always an ironic undertone, concealing rage, or humiliation, or helplessness. 

From my point of view, a separation of the narrative voices in the novel is necessary 

to distance the protagonist from her personal experience, thus distancing Field 

Research from autobiography once again. Through the second and third person narration, 

Oksana once again relives her relationship with Mykola, joining it with her 

family experience. The first person narration functions differently: it opens up a fictional 

space for the female perspective of the community she lived, and is living, in, 

a fictional space where Oksana’s personal experience became a representation of a 

communal experience. 

The personal enters Field Research in Ukrainian Sex with sex, namely with 

‘painful intercourse’ 7 , as referred to by the protagonist herself. Introduced in this 

novel, pure sexual relations, the whole discourse on female sexuality, that was never 

a literary topic in Ukrainian literature before, 8 are related with a number of issues that 

are still not only sensitive, but painful: the Famine of 1932–33, the purges, family relations 

within society affected by the fear of purges. On the one hand, such approach 

depathosizes the history of the community. On the other hand, in Spivak’s terms, it 

can be seen as an attempt of an intellectual to voice an experience that has been 

silenced, a ‘non–literary’ experience of a female in Ukrainian society.

Natalia Monakhova. Sievieðu identitâte postkoloniâlâ situâcijâ: Ukrainas gadîjums 

One such experiences is becoming a female, a process already painful in itself, 

which is further complicated by a mother–daughter relationship in a situation where 

the traditional family gender roles are reversed. Using the words of Ketu Katrak (understanding, 

though, that her primary sphere of interest is the plight of post–colonial 

women writers from Africa, India, and the Caribbean), in her novel, Oksana Zabuzhko 

“cover[s] a range of issues that share a concern with gender – how their female 

protagonist’s self and sexuality are constructed and controlled by indigenous patriarchies 

and [the colonizer’s] colonial practices” 9 . Oksana does not construct her own 

identity in the void, for her heritage, both personal and communal, is embedded in 

every moment of her life. Besides, Oksana does not have control over the construction 

of her identity, her sexuality; it is constructed for her, on the one hand, within her 

family, by her parents, and, on the other hand, by the society she lives in. According 

to Elizabeth Grosz’s interpretation of Lucy Irigaray’s theory, “she sees the female 

body (like the male body) as sites for the inscription of social significances. Here it is 

not that the female body is silenced, but rather that it is ‘spoken through’, produced 

as such, by a wide variant of forces of social representation” 10 . 

In her novel, Zabuzhko demonstrates how the social experiences are inscribed in 

the body in the world of the protagonist. The story of Oksana’s parents, presented through 

the prism of Oksana’s enraged perception of her own childhood, of her own teenage 

years, of her own family life, can serve as a direct illustration of Irigaray’s claim. The 

protagonist states that her mother “was altogether frigid…what else could she be, if not 

frigid, – a child of famine…” 11 . From the protagonist’s point of view, women of that 

generation did not possess sexualized body; they did not exist bodily but through food. 

As I see it, the frigidity of her mother is yet another reason for Oksana’s painful teenage 

search for sexual identity. The bodily does not come to Oksana naturally; it is transformed 

into an incomprehensible, unrecognizable sickness, for the feminine lineage in 

their family has been disrupted by the socially caused frigidity. 

The social had a different influence on Oksana’s father. As Oksana describes 

him, …he was a guy, a talker, with a good sense of humor, who 

liked life a lot, and women liked him, and he would easily find how to 

break his fast outside the house, why then did he guard his virginity that 

strictly…, because my mama got married with him, when he still was not 

rehabilitated, isn’t it so, and his whole life he shivered inside, being 

afraid to hear aloud from her what he was eating himself with, – that he 

ruined her life, but to stay himself, without her, – again, he was afraid?.. 12 

The fact that her father went through the camps as an ‘anti–Soviet propagator’ reversed 

the traditional gender roles in their family, for he was not able to support the family. 

It was the mother who became a breadwinner in this family, and who, at the same 

time, attempted to make a career in academia (which was later closed to her as a wife of 

‘the unreliable’). From Oksana’s point of view, in her father this produced a dependency 

from his frigid wife which firstly was grounded in guilt and secondly locked him in himself, 

prohibiting him to open up his sexuality. Thus, in her parents’ family, it was not 

only female body that was produced as silent, but the male body, too. But while the silencing 

of the female body turns out to be a result of historical conditions, it is the socially 

constructed feeling of guilt and helplessness that silences the male body. 

61


The only way for her father’s sexuality to emerge is through his attempts to control 

Oksana’s growth. In her words, she was “the only woman in his life – the one he 

himself gave birth to” 13 . From the first glance, it seems that this is yet another point 

of reversal of gender roles in the family: it is her father who fulfils the mother’s functions, 

explaining to her, for example, what menstruation is. But here such a reversal 

serves as a tool to control the development of her identity through her sexuality, and 

her sexuality itself. Oksana describes her painful attempts to break out from that control 

(mascara, stolen from an open bag belonging to the older girl, rock bands, first 

attempts at truancy, the refusal to undress in front of the father) – admitting at the 

same her inability to break away. This inability to break with her family as well as the 

constant demand for submission from her father, produce, in my view, in the protagonist 

the necessity to submit, something which she clearly recognizes herself. 

Thus it is her body that becomes a map of control. It is first fully controlled by 

her father (“she will manage to lose [virginity] only after her daddy’s death)…” 14 ). 

Later, when she becomes a woman, this control transforms all her sexual relations 

into some form of incest, committed on the level of her feelings: “…and later, each 

time, – the same feeling of daughterly submissiveness, completeness of patrimonial 

intercourse, from which men, not even getting where it comes from, of course, go 

crazy” 15 . From my point of view it is this very feeling of control that disallows her to 

view her body as a subject: “You are a woman. This is your limit” 16 . Therefore, she 

conceptualizes herself as an object of male control and male desire, viewing her body 

through the prism of the masculine gaze only. 

The only time that the bodily slips away from some form of control, when the 

bodily, both male and female, has a chance to speak up, to rebel against all forms of 

control, is through sickness. From the point of view of Susan Sontag, “the diseases 

around which the modern fantasies have gathered – TB, cancer – are viewed as forms 

of self–judgement, of self–betrayal” 17 . It is through the sickness of her body that 

Oksana can actually express her internal discomfort with the painful, destructive relationship 

with Mykola. And it is exactly through cancer of his sexual organs that her 

father was able to express “his panicking fear of [his daughter’s] unstoppable 

growth” 18 – his fear of the inability to control his growing daughter. 

At the same time, from the protagonist’s viewpoint, it is not simply her upbringing 

that produces the necessity of subjugation in her. For Oksana, the feeling of subjugation, 

closely tied with the feelings of fear and humiliation, comes from the feeling 

of fear, subjugation, and humiliation that her community experienced. She relates 

her own growth, her own sexual relations to the social patterns, arguing that it is not 

simply the patriarchal order in both family and society that results in a dependency 

“poured into blood” 19 , but slavery and subjugation experienced by this society. 

For the protagonist the story of her nation is a history of defeat. She regards the 

last century of her nation’s history as the history of ‘degeneration’ 20 , and it seems to 

her that her own country turns into “Cronus, who eats his children up, together with 

their little hands and feet” 21 , into a “cellar where… it was stinking with half–decayed 

talents, rotting… lives…: with Ukrainian history” 22 . 

Of course, taking into account that it is a first person narrator who brings up the 

topic of slavery as part of the national heritage, and that her reliability may be ques-


tionable in this respect, it is possible to argue that her attempts to interpret the national 

history through certain sexual patterns can be discarded as unreliable as well. 

It seems to me that the addition of irony and self–consciousness, symptoms of 

unreliability, to the narration results from Oksana’s need to achieve some distance 

from the personal. Such distance allows voicing the personal, with its attempts to 

become a woman and a personality in society, yet hostile to both, and therefore allows 

the opening up of space for history to be talked about from a position of the 

subaltern, in a way the national history had never talked about before. 

Rethinking the history of her nation, Oksana believes that history is a struggle of 

those who were humiliated and subjugated, i.e. the struggle of men (for, as Anne 

McClintock has pointed out, it is always just men who are conceptualized as representatives 

of the nation23 ) to set up themselves as victors. And the only space for that 

was the sphere of familial relations where they could gain control over the only ‘other’ 

they could find – women. Such necessity results in a violence which can either be 

violence in the relations between a father and a daughter, or violence in sexual relations. 

Thus, humility and slavery turn into a sexually transmitted disease (“Slaves 

should not have children… Because it is inherited…” 24 ) and punishment, serving as a 

tool to ensure the subjugation of women. 

Besides, the male need to dominate transforms the female body into a battlefield 

for power struggles: “You are screaming, for you are being ravished, and they think 

that your scream is because of pleasure, but maybe they don’t think this way, maybe 

it is your pain that they are coming from?” 25 In the novel, this is the only way for the 

body, besides illness, to express itself: in screams of pain. But at the same time, for 

the protagonist it is impossible to reject the existing form of relationships with Ukrainian 

men because it is the only way to pledge an allegiance with them. 

For the protagonist, the world is constructed along the line dividing the victim 

and the executioner, where the victim is always a Ukrainian man, and, in the end, it is 

her, a Ukrainian woman who carries a double burden of subjugation in a subjugated 

society. Oksana, living and experiencing such subjugation, which starts on the level 

of the family where she has been silenced in her bodiliness, views herself as doomed 

to choose between non–existence, which is everything Ukrainian for her, and the existence–that–kills, 

which is everything that subjugated her community. And placing 

herself in the ‘non–existence/existence–that–kills’ dichotomy, in spite of her successful 

attempts to break out of it (by defeating militiamen and by gaining the world 

through traveling made possible by her profession as a poet and an academic), 

Oksana accepts the national defeat as her own defeat, thus accepting the silence 

imposed upon her by society. 

The only place that claims as her own, the only home Oksana finds, is her language. 

In the novel, even though it is an ironical situation, the Ukrainian language 

(which is the language of the novel and the language of the protagonist) is defined 

according to the typical colonial formula: it is something ‘that is not’: “You mean it 

is not Russian?” 26 Accepting the Ukrainian language as her own, Oksana accepts this 

colonial heritage, which is not that much different as it is something that is not the 

dominant element. On the other hand, she accepts the Ukrainian language as a collective 

memory and “a struggle of memory against forgetting” 27 , in bell hooks’ words. 

63


But, like her choice in the ‘non–existence/existence–that–kills’ dichotomy, her choice 

of language becomes a choice imposed on her. Besides, taking into consideration “the 

general idea of the interdependence of language and identity” 28 , it is possible to presume 

that it is precisely by accepting the Ukrainian language that Oksana defines her 

own identity as Ukrainian. 

At the same time, choosing both the Ukrainian language and Ukrainian culture as 

starting points of her identity in her youth – even though later this allows her to assert 

herself in the world outside her community (she travels around the world and is accepted 

in the world community exactly because she is a Ukrainian poet) – she chooses 

the necessity to hide, to watch herself, to be careful not to betray herself. Because it 

is this identity that defines her father as ‘anti–Soviet propagandist’, and herself as 

‘unreliable’. Therefore, it is through her language that her position as the subaltern in 

the colonized society is stressed once again. 

This point can be proved by the way she uses other languages in the novel, 

Russian and English, by the way she conveys meaning through them. Russian and 

English come into the novel in what sometimes seems to be free indirect speech, violating 

integrity of the Ukrainian language text. They come into the text untranslated 

most of the time, though Russian words and phrases are transcribed. From the point 

of view of Ashcroft, Griffiths, and Tiffin, “the use of language as untranslated words 

does have an important function in inscribing difference. They signify a certain cultural 

experience which [post–colonial writers] cannot hope to reproduce but whose 

difference is validated by the new situation” 29 . Thus, for example, most English words 

in the novel can be interpreted as introducing ‘estrangement’, in Victor Shklovsky’s 

sense, into the text. Firstly, most of the time Oksana uses English words and expressions 

ironically, mocking both the community she describes and the general, Western30 

, perception of the mentality she represents herself (Slavic mysticism, Slavic 

charm, for example). Secondly, English, from my point of view, appears in the novel 

when the protagonist is trying to bring in the experience she cannot accept as her 

own, in spite of its similarity to her own experience, not seeing herself within it and 

thus denying any similarity. Oksana’s conversation with an Afro–American woman 

who tells her that in her relations with the father of her kids she has been through the 

same experience (“fear of intimacy, fear of frigidity, suicidal moods” 31 ) can be an example 

of such rejection. 

As for the Russian language, most of the times it comes into the novel hand in 

hand with the “boys in rustling cloaks” 32 , as a manifestation of power, nevertheless 

providing a chance to subvert it. It is through the use of Russian that Oksana manages 

to win over militiamen who are the representatives of power in the novel. But at 

the same time it is through a Russian word that Mykola defeats her in their relationship, 

when she says “Are you feeling yourself a winner, or what?” 33 . The word ‘a 

winner’ used ironically in its female form in Russian, as a signifier of an experience 

that could never be expressed in Ukrainian. 

Thus the protagonist of the novel accepts her own place in a society that controls 

and marginalizes her both as a Ukrainian and as a woman. Nevertheless, the novel 

itself can be interpreted in Spivakian terms as an attempt of the subaltern woman to 

voice her experience, even though it is a voice from the margin. After all, according


to bell hooks, it is margins that may become centers of radical openness, because 

only margins offer a position that is both in and out of the center. 

This is a reason why, I believe, the novel’s protagonists were not placed within 

Ukraine only, or outside Ukraine only: complicated grammatical structures allow the 

author to cross the borders back and force, yet staying within the limits of one sentence, 

creating an effect of ‘omnipresence’, breaking temporal and spatial limits, 

making freedom possible not only on the physical level, but on the intellectual, too. 

It makes freedom possible, a freedom which is further emphasized by the profession 

of the protagonist: she is a poet and an academic. Both poetry and academia are 

products of social power structures, stressing Oksana’s dependency upon her national 

cultural heritage, but at the same time, as it was mentioned before, they assert Oksana 

in the world. In the novel, even the language appears to be not just a tool of subjugation; 

it constantly reminds the woman of the social, but also of escape routes from it. 

Besides, it is the Ukrainian language (and the literature written in this language) that 

can be “a form of national therapy” 34 , as the protagonist suggests maliciously, a possibility 

to talk about the national experience and to widen its boundaries. 

That is a reason, in my view, why the protagonist rejects her dream to die in the 

sky: death is an escape towards non–existence which she rejects, too, choosing life 

instead and choosing resistance instead. Such kind of life brings hope. And so the life 

is ended with the Ukrainian life–asserting “Haj!” 35 , which recognizes the happiness 

of living and the hopes for being alive. 

The novel Field Research in Ukrainian Sex, written by the Ukrainian woman 

writer Oksana Zabuzhko, is just one attempt by a woman–intellectual to understand 

and to define herself and her place in a system of colonial powers of domination. The 

personal and the bodily aspects which the writer brings into the book open a specifically 

female perspective on national history, heritage, identity, and language in the 

novel. Voicing the female experience in colonized societies – and describing these 

societies through those experiences – creates alternative histories that allow for questioning 

and, as a result, for a reconceptualizaton of the main cultural assumptions of 

the nations involved, which are constructed as exclusively male establishments. Voicing 

the female experience provides a chance to overcome the mechanisms of 

marginalization and silencing women which were deployed by these societies, enabling 

the female voice to gain credibility. 

This reading of Field Research in Ukrainian Sex is just an attempt to put it on a 

larger scale within the postcolonial framework. Within the Ukrainian critical paradigm 

it might serve as a starting point for forming of a new understanding of the Ukrainian 

national identity, for introducing a new critical paradigm into Ukrainian literary and 

cultural studies. Therefore I believe that the introduction of postcolonial contexts into 

comparative literary studies in the Ukraine (and, on a larger scale, into the Eastern 

European context) can have wideranging consequences for the field. It would not only 

enable the establishment of a critical paradigm to encompass the literary expression 

of female experience in colonial and postcolonial situation, but also open up new 

ways for questioning and revaluating the main cultural assumptions of Ukrainian culture, 

thus providing patterns for questioning, re–defining, and re–assessing the self– 

visualization of Ukraine by discussing issues which have been socially marginalized, 

65


silenced, and thus were largely invisible. But it is also necessary to remember that 

such inquiry into the postcolonial theory will call for new discussions of some of the 

theory’s key notions and concepts. The introduction of postcolonial theory into regional 

studies will effect changes in the postcolonial discourse itself, calling for a 

redefinition of the term ‘postcolonialism’ in the first place. 

REFERENCES 

1 For example, in one of the articles the novel was called “a heap of raw semi–literary 

dough”. Zhanna Dusova. Nekulinarni Doslidzhennia z Syroho Tista //Slovo i Chas, 

N° 8–9, 1996: 68. 

2 Caren Kaplan. Resisting Autobiography. Out–law Genres and Transnational Feminist Subjects 

//Colonizing the Subject, ed. by Sidonie Smith and Julia Watson. – Minneapolis: 

University of Minnesota Press, 1992: 120. 

3 Within a dominant male discourse in literary criticism, autobiography is defined as a “retrospective 

prose narrative written by a real person concerning his own existence, where 

the focus is his individual life, in particular the story of his personality”. Philippe Lejeune. 

On Autobiography. – London/Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1989: 5. 

4 Anne McClintock. Imperial Leather: Race, Gender and Sexuality in the Colonial Context. 

– New York/London: Routledge, 1991: 313. 

5 Oksana Zabuzhko. Poliovi Doslidzhennia z Ukrayinskoho Seksu. – Kyiv: Fakt, 2000: 29. 

6 Ibid, 97. 

7 Ibid, 27. 

8 As far as I could recall the whole sexual discourse in Ukrainian literature is limited to 

the writings of five male writers: V. Vynnychenko and V. Pidmohylnyj (1920–s), 

V. Domontovych (1930–s–1940–s, a representative of a Second World War wave of 

Ukrainian emigration), D. Pavlychko, who wrote a number of erotic poems between 1970 

and 1990), and Yu. Andruhovych, a contemporary writer. Recently, erotic novels and 

poems by another male writer, Bohdan Boichuk, have been added to this list. 

9 Ketu Katrak. Post–Colonial Women Writers and Feminisms //New National and 

Postcolonial Literatures: An Introduction, ed. by B. King. – Oxford: Claredon Press, 

1996: 232. 

10 Elizabeth Grosz. Psychoanalysis and the Body //Feminist Theory and the Body: A Reader, 

ed. by Janet Price and Margrit Shildrick, – New York: Routledge, 1999: 271. 

11 Oksana Zabuzhko. Poliovi Doslidzhennia z Ukrayinskoho Seksu. – Kyiv: Fakt, 2000: 

106–107. 

12 Ibid, 110. 

13 Ibid, 108. 

14 Ibid, 105. 

15 Ibid, 105. 

16 Ibid, 20. 

17 Susan Sontag. Illness as Metaphor //Susan Sontag. Illness as Metaphor and AIDs as 

Metaphor. AnchorBooks–Doubleday, 1990: 40. 


19 Ibid, 20. 

20 Ibid, 68.


21 Ibid, 23. 

22 Ibid, 53. 

23 Anne McClintock. Imperial Leather...: 360–368. 

24 Oksana Zabuzhko. Poliovi Doslidzhennia z Ukrayinskoho Seksu. – Kyiv: Fakt, 2000: 

59. 

25 Ibid, 103. 

26 Ibid, 16. 

27 bell hooks, “Choosing the Margin as a Space of Radical Openness”, in bell hooks, Yearning: 

Race, Gender, and Cultural Politics. – Boston: South End Press, c1990: 146. 

28 Bill Ashcroft, Gareth Griffiths, Helen Tiffin. The Empire Writes Back. Theory and Practice 

in Postcolonial Literatures. – London/New York: Routledge, 1995: 54. 

29 Ibid, 53. 

30 It seems to me that the usage of the word ‘Western’ can be justified here, because the 

protagonist is writing her novel in the United States, firstly, and, secondly, because it is 

precisely Americans that she is paraphrasing when using English words. 


32 Ibid, 53. 

33 Ibid, 28. 

34 Ibid, 113. 

35 “Let it be!” 

Kopsavilkums 

Izmantojot postkoloniâlâs teorijas galvenos jçdzienus, es konstatçju, ka tie ir 

piemçrojami mûsdienu Ukrainas kontekstâ un ukraiòu literatûrâ. Hipotçzi pierâdu, 

izmantojot ðos jçdzienus (îpaði pakïautîbas jçdzienu) Oksanas Zabuþko teksta 

“Pçtîjums par dzimumu attiecîbâm Ukrainâ” (1994) izpçtei un parâdot, ka postkoloniâlisma 

teorija var sniegt gan skaidrojumus par daþâdâm kultûras formâcijâm 

Ukrainâ, gan noderçt par struktûru to apðaubîðanai un noliegumam, gan arî radît 

pietiekami plaðu telpu sievieðu paðidentifikâcijai un tâdçjâdi arî tâdu tçmu 

apsprieðanai, kas tradicionâli bijuðas marginalizçtas vai noklusçtas. 

67



Homeliness and Loneliness in Afro–German 

Women Narratives 

Vientulîba un ilgas pçc mâjâm afrovâcu rakstnieèu 

literârajos darbos 

Aija Poikâne (Latvia–Germany) 

Holder of the DAAD scholarship, 

University of Dortmund/Germany, 

Emil–Figge–Strasse 50, 44227 Dortmund, 

e–mail: apoikane@hotmail.com 

The term “Afro–Germans” often causes surprise and misunderstanding in the society of 

“white” Germans. The notion “Afro–Germans” was introduced at the end of the 20–th century 

(in 1984). With it women of African origin who were born in Germany in racially mixed 

families wanted to express their protest to racism and discrimination in everyday life. The 

main aim of Afro–German women was to create an identity of their own thus avoiding racist 

definitions, such as “mulatto”, “coloured” or “bastard” used by the society of “white” Germans. 

Speaking about the creation of Afro–German identity and literature, it is important to 

note the influence of Afro–American culture and literature. The aim of this work is to analyse 

and compare Afro–German and Afro–American literatures as well as to investigate the meaning 

of the notion of “home” in both literatures. 

Keywords: Afro–German, African Americans, home, boundaries, women literature. 

The notion of Afro–German literature may not be familiar to many people inside 

and outside of Germany. Cultural and literary initiatives of Afro–Germans that began 

in the 1980s arose as a response to the experience of marginalization. Excluded from 

the participation in the dominant white German society and perceived as strangers in 

their own homeland, Afro–Germans try to define their identity and search for role and 

home in German society. In 1984, together with an African American poet, Audre 

Lorde, black women living in Germany developed the term “Afro–German” which signified 

an affirmation of a double identity and quest for home. The fact that the term 

“Afro–German” was developed together with Audre Lorde suggests that African 

American literature presided in a sense over the birth of Afro–German identity and 

literature. 

Therefore, I want to explore the differences and similarities between African 

American and Afro–German literatures. My comparative analysis will involve the 

texts of Audre Lorde Zami and May Ayim’s poem “schwarz weiss monolog” (“black 

white monologue”) as well as the personal history of Ayim, included in the ground 

breaking book Farbe bekennen. Afro–deutsche Frauen auf den Spuren ihrer 

Geschichte, (Showing Our Colors. Afro–German Women Speak Out) produced in 

1986. The main focus of my analysis will be placed on the notion of home for I consider 

this category to be one of the most crucial features in African American and 

Afro–German texts. This statement, however, requires some explanation. African 

slaves, brought to the New World were homeless, therefore black people had a ne-

Aija Poikâne. Vientulîba un ilgas pçc mâjâm afrovâcu rakstnieèu literârajos darbos 

cessity to find and build their home in the New World. Blacks created a strong community 

and their own culture in the New World in order to fight the “peculiar institution”–slavery. 

Creating Black Christianity and producing significant literary narratives, 

African Americans “built” home where everybody could be a subject and not an object. 

Similarly Afro–Germans, although of course not enslaved, produced their narratives 

in order to create their home and claim their rights to home. 

Thus, I want to investigate what home means to African Americans and Afro– 

Germans and which literary strategies are employed to fight isolation and exclusion 

from the participation in the dominant cultures. Additionally I will examine the essay 

of Molefi Kete Asante “African Germans and the Problems of Cultural Location” 

which is my chief scholarly source. Asante, who is the leading figure in the 

Afrocentrism school explains the complexity of the situation of Afro–Germans and 

deals with such issues as the myth of blood purity and Afro–German community. 

However, before I turn to my comparative analysis I want to explore and understand 

the theoretical meaning of home. Therefore, I will examine the issues, presented 

in the works by Homi K. Bhabha The Location of Culture and Heidrun Suhr 

Ausländerliteratur: Minority Literature in Federal Republic of Germany. 

Heidrun Suhr writes: “There are no satisfactory English equivalents for “Heimat” 

or “Fremde”. Both terms imply far more than simply “homeland” or “a foreign place”. 

“Heimat” also connotes belonging and security, while “Fremde” can refer to isolation 

and alienation. This is not simply a problem of translation. Precise definitions of these 

terms cannot be given in German either, for their meaning depends to a large degree 

on context.” 1 Suhr’s statements beg the question of what is meant by “context” here. 

In her work, Suhr analyzes the development of minority literature in the Federal 

Republic of Germany, by explaining the context of the history of “Gastarbeiter” 

(guest workers). “Gastarbeiter” or guest workers first arrived in 1955 when treaties 

for the recruitment of workers were concluded with Italy and later with other South 

European and North African countries. The residence of guest workers was considered 

to be a temporary phenomena and they were expected to return to their home 

countries which means that despite mastering the German language and living in 

Germany for about twenty years these people were considered as foreigners. Now 

returning back to Suhr’s argument that the meaning of home depends to a large degree 

on context, which, of course, proves that home is a social construction, it suggests 

that context here is the way white Germans approach racial and ethnic differences. 

Thus the notion of home is shaped according to these racial and ethnic categories 

which implies that home is a place with certain boundaries. However, these 

boundaries may seem unnatural to the members of the second and third generation of 

Turkish people or Afro–Germans, for instance, who were born in Germany and speak 

German fluently, yet they are not perceived as full members of German society. They 

are expected to return home, but there is no home to return to, suggests Suhr. 

In contrast with Suhr, who views home as a place to which people are bound in 

a sense, Homi K. Bhabha in Location of Culture claims that: “...we find ourselves in 

the moment of transit where space and time cross to produce complex figures of difference 

and identity, past and present, inside and outside, inclusion and exclusion. For 

there is a disorientation, a disturbance of direction, in the “beyond”: an exploratory, 

69


restless movement caught so well in French rendition of the words au–dela – here 

and there, on all sides, fort/da, hither and thither, back and forth.” 2 Here the notion of 

“the beyond” requires an explanation. Bhabha states that “the beyond” signifies a 

spatial distance that marks progress and promises the future. “To dwell in the beyond 

is also to be part of revisionary time, a return to the present to redescribe our cultural 

contemporaneity; to reinscribe our human, historic communality; to touch the future 

on its hither side.” “ 3 Going beyond and dwelling “in the beyond” implies a constant 

movement that might produce a feeling of homelessness because the movement of 

transit prevents one from settling down into primordial polarities, emphasizes Bhabha. 

Now the question, which arises here, is: what does this have to do with the notion of 

home? To my mind, Bhabha suggests that to be part of “revisionary time” is to be at 

home. In order to explain what I mean here, I will illustrate this statement with an 

example, using the situation of Afro–Germans. 

Afro–Germans search for their home in German society; at the same time they 

investigate the history of their African or African American roots, which shows that 

they are trapped between the present and the past. They [Afro–Germans] must confront 

the history, which is thrust upon them by society in order to return back to the 

political present. This is a moment when I see that Afro–Germans are part of revisionary 

time. Still I have not answered the question: what revisionary time has to do 

with home. To be part of revisionary time denotes redescribing and recreating the 

world. In their narratives, Afro–Germans create their image of the world and home in 

order to cope with reality. Therefore, I consider that the very act of narration symbolizes 

the notion of home in the case of Afro–Germans. Afro–German women authors 

build their home in their narratives, sharing the experiences, acknowledging racism 

and developing strategies of resistance towards the dominant white society. Thus, 

Bhabha says that: “To be unhomed is not to be homeless.” 4 Although Afro–Germans 

are deprived of their home, they are not homeless for they are capable of restoring 

home in their narratives. 

However, Afro–Germans do not only fight for their home in Germany, but they 

are also forced to face the myth of blood purity according to which they are not recognized 

as Germans. This issue is analyzed by Molefi Kete Asante who is the leading 

figure in the Afrocentrism school. 

Molefi Kete Asante in his article “African Germans and the Problems of Cultural 

Location” writes that “whiteness becomes a legal and social property bestowed 

upon the population of Germans by their ancestors, and it cannot be lost except in the 

“mixing” of the blood...” 5 Thus, Asante suggests that to be German means to be German 

by ancestry and to be African German is not to be German in the German mind. 

Afro–German women writers such as Katharina Oguntoye, Ika Hügel–Marshall and 

May Ayim confront this issue in their works. For example, in her poem “schwarz 

weiss monolog”, Ayim writes: 

“du siehst 

mich hinter 

deiner pocket kamera 

erinnerungen aus ostafrika 

und das


was du gelesen hast 

darüber 

bereit es auf mir abzuladen.” 6 

“you look at me 

from behind your pocket camera 

memories from East Africa 

and the things you have read 

you are ready to load on me.” 

These very lines, though indirectly, show that Ayim is not accepted as a German 

because she is not white and because Germans are supposed to be white. Ayim is 

perceived as a stranger in her own home and I would go even farther to claim that 

she is viewed as an exotic object. The poem demonstrates the attitude of white Germans 

who are unaware that German society is not one hundred percent white anymore 

and who stick to the myth of blood purity. Therefore it appears that Afro–Germans 

are regarded as foreigners and newcomers to Germany. Here, I think, it is significant 

to point out the major difference between the situation of African Americans 

and Afro–Germans as the main emphasis of my work is to examine the similarities 

and differences between these two literatures. 

While Afro–Germans are confronted with the myth of blood purity, it is impossible 

to define who is an American in the first place. Asante considers that: “That the 

reason is that nationality of Americans does not reside in blood but in national allegiance.” 

7 He emphasizes that people born into American citizenship, whether their 

origins are Chinese or Japanese are linked to other Americans by acceptance of common 

the citizenship bestowed upon by one’s virtue of birth or allegiance. Besides all 

Americans except indigenous people are relative newcomers to America and cannot 

claim special privileges, regarding the land. Afro–Germans in contrast are supposed 

to return to their mythical home countries. I am saying “mythical home countries” 

because first of all there is no such home to return to because Afro–Germans are already 

at home in Germany and, secondly, many Afro–Germans do not have any contacts 

with Africa or their African relatives and they are not familiar with the African 

cultures and languages and the ways of life African peoples lead. Here I can trace 

one more difference between African American and African German peoples. For 

instance, bell hooks in her Bone Black Memories of Girlhood describes her grandmother 

Saru who used to tell stories about Africans who were brought as slaves to 

the New World and spoke different languages, whereas African Germans were left in 

the dark about the history of their African parent. What I mean is that many generations 

of African Americans grew up with the stories about the motherland Africa and 

the history of slavery. Today, however, it is obvious that African Americans do not 

perceive Africa as their motherland and they are not familiar with African cultures. 

Still, one should not disregard richness of African American literature which serves 

as a testimony against oppression of the dominant culture and which revives African 

American history and the development of African American community. African Germans 

in contrast with African Americans do not share this feeling of community because 

Afro–Germans are products of individual unions that exist in highly dispersed 

areas, suggests Asante. Thus, Afro–Germans are still in a process of developing a 

71


community, which could operate on a national level in a collective way. This very 

aspect certainly leads to many differences when examining African American and 

African German literatures. The differences in a size of community, history and a 

political situation shape African Americans’ and African Germans’ perception of 

home. In order to show the differences between Audre Lorde’s and May Ayim’s 

works, I have selected two main points to discuss: 

1) The first point is that both Lorde and Ayim create imaginary homelands in order 

to cope with reality. I want to explore how the imaginary homeland of Lorde 

differs from the homeland of Ayim and what are the aims for creating an imaginary 

homeland. 

2) Secondly, how Lorde and Ayim are influenced by their own created homelands. 

To start with, I will examine Lorde’s work Zami. Lorde’s imaginary world is represented 

through her mother Linda. Linda, who finds it difficult to struggle with racism 

and segregation, recreates the homeland she has lost; it is important to note that 

Lorde’s parents came to the United States in 1924 from Grenada and Barbados This 

is the very point where a conflict begins. Instead of dealing with racism and establishing 

a relationship with the new world, Linda dwells in her created homeland. Her 

knowledge of, for instance, heating a black elm leaf over the wood fire to prevent 

infection in an open cut, becomes useless because there is no black–elm in Harlem. 

Thus, the speaker in Zami says: “Trapped. There was so little that she really knew 

about the stranger’s country.” 8 

This example demonstrates that by creating her lost homeland, Linda acknowledges 

herself as unhomed. Moreover, here I see a deliberate act of isolation and unwillingness 

to deal with the outside world, for Linda clearly draws boundaries between 

home and a foreign place. The question I am interested in is: how do Linda’s 

attitude towards the outside world and her fantasies of home affect her children? The 

speaker in Zami tells that Linda’s children are made to believe that home is somewhere 

far away and that this cold country called America is just a temporary abode. 

The children are fascinated by the beautiful stories about home they have never been 

to; at the same time they are forced to come to terms with the outside world. However, 

the outside world is as obscure as the imagined home to Linda’s children. When 

Linda faces a new crisis, she changes her perceptions of reality and the children are 

made to believe that she has the world in her palms. Considering the aspect that Linda 

refuses to explain the real situation to her children, they are isolated from the outside 

world and the only home they are provided with is Linda’s fantasies. However, it does 

not mean that Linda’s children, because they are unhomed, are homeless– their home 

is the mother’s dream and stories. 

Now analyzing the works of Ayim, one can detect many differences when comparing 

with Lorde’s Zami. Ayim constructs an imaginary homeland, which fails to 

exist because she realizes that she does not belong in this imaginary homeland. Therefore, 

I want to explore Ayim’s reasons for constructing an imaginary homeland. 

In her personal history, Ayim describes her childhood. As a child she is forced to 

be an outsider because she is different. In order to cope with isolation and loneliness


Ayim constructs an imaginary homeland, Africa, where everybody looks like her. So 

what are the reasons for constructing an imaginary homeland and why does Ayim 

perceive Africa as her home? One of the reasons for constructing an imaginary homeland 

is that Ayim’s present home fails to provide a place where she is accepted and 

loved. Secondly, Ayim is obliged to construct the world where she belongs. Ayim’s 

“difference” and double heritage is forced upon her by society and because she is 

perceived as a stranger, she is supposed to have a place, which she can call “home”. 

In this case Germany cannot be her home. This aspect leads farther to the answer of 

the question: why does Ayim perceive Africa as her home? Ayim explains that because 

she is Black, she is automatically perceived as an African, therefore she is as if 

forced to identify Africa as her home. However, later Ayim understands that Africa is 

not her home because she is not familiar with African cultures and languages. This 

very aspect signifies that Ayim sits on two chairs simultaneously which means that 

Ayim is trapped between two cultures. Being trapped between two cultures, Ayim still 

searches for home. 

Concluding my work, I will point out the differences between Lorde’s and Ayim’s 

imaginary homelands: 

1) The first difference is that Lorde perceives her imaginary homeland as a place 

where it is possible to return, whereas Ayim realizes that there is no home to 

return to. 

2) The second difference is that the imaginary homeland of Lorde performs a function 

of isolation and unwillingness to deal with reality. Ayim in her turn is forced 

to invent her imaginary world in order to be able to identify her origin with a 

country, which other people consider to be her home country. The very fact that 

Ayim begins to identify herself with Africa show that Ayim has internalized the 

prejudices of white Germans. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Asante Molefi Kete. African Germans and the Problems of Cultural Location //The African 

German Experience. Critical Essays. Editor: Carol Aisha Blackshire–Belay. – United 

States of America: Praeger Publishers, 1996. 

Ayim May. Blues in schwarz weiss. – Berlin: Orlanda Frauenverlag, 1995. 

Bhabha Homi K. Location of Culture. – London: Routledge, 1997. 

hooks, bell. Bone Black. Memories of Girlhood. United States of America: Henry Holt and 

Company, Inc., 1996. 

Lorde, Audre. Zami, Sister Outsider, Undersong. United States of America: The Crossing Press 

and W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 1993. 

Oguntoye, Katharina, May Opitz, and Dagmar Schultz, eds. Farbe bekennen: Afro–deutsche 

Frauen auf den Spuren ihrer Geschichte. Berlin: Orlanda Frauenverlag, 1986. 

Suhr Heidrun. Ausläanderliteratur: Minority Literature in the Federal Republic of Germany // 

Special Issue on Minorities in German Culture. Editors: Russel A. Berman, Azade 

Seyhan, Arlene Akiko Teraoka. New German Critique 46, 1989. 

73


REFERENCES 

1 Suhr Heidrun. Ausläanderliteratur: Minority Literature in the Federal Republic of Germany 

//Special Issue on Minorities in German Culture. Editors: Russel A. Berman, Azade 

Seyhan, Arlene Akiko Teraoka. New German Critique 46, 1989, p. 72. 

2 Bhabha Homi K. Location of Culture. – London: Routledge, 1997, p.1. 

3 Ibid, p. 7. 

4 Ibid, p. 9. 

5 Asante Molefi Kete. African Germans and the Problems of Cultural Location //The African 


States of America: Praeger Publishers, 1996, p. 6. 

6 Ayim May. Blues in schwarz weiss. – Berlin: Orlanda Frauenverlag, 1995, p. 75. 

7 Asante Molefi Kete. African Germans and the Problems of Cultural Location //The African 


States of America: Praeger Publishers, 1996, p. 6. 

8 Lorde Audre. Zami. Sister Outsider, Undersong. – United States of America: The Crossing 

Press and W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 1993, p. 10. 

Kopsavilkums 

Vârds “afrovâcieði” nereti izraisa izbrînu un pârsteigumu “balto” vâcieðu 

sabiedrîbâ. Jçdziens “afro–vâcieði” tika ieviests divdesmitâ gadsimta beigâs (1984); 

tâdçjâdi afrikâòu izcelsmes sievietes, kuras ir dzimuðas Vâcijâ “jauktâs ìimençs” 

(vâcu un afrikâòu), protestçja pret rasismu un diskriminâciju ikdienâ. Afrovâcu 

sievieðu galvenie mçríi bija radît savu identitâti un nepakïauties “balto” vâcieðu 

rasistiskajiem definçjumiem: tâdiem kâ “mulate”, “jauktene” un “krâsainâ”. Runâjot 

par afrovâcu identitâtes un literatûras radîðanu, svarîgi ir atzîmçt afroamerikâòu 

kultûras un literatûras ietekmi. Tâdçjâdi mana darba mçríis ir analizçt un salîdzinât 

afrovâcu un afroamerikâòu literatûru, kâ arî pçtît jçdziena “mâjas” nozîmi ðajos 

literatûras virzienos.



Alternative Languages in “Gut Symmetries” 

by Jeanette Winterson: a Combination of Linguistic 

Self–consciousness and écriture feminine 

Alternatîvâ valoda Dþenetes Vintersones românâ 

“Gut Symmetries”: lingvistiskâ paðapzinâðanâs un 

sievieðu sarakstîtâ literatûra 

Helen Talalaev (Estonia) 

Project Manager in an advertising agency Zoom Ogilvy 

Põllu 9–12, Sõmeru 44201, Lääne–Virumaa, Estonia 

e–mail: htalalaev@hotmail.com, Phone: +372 56 499 330 

The current paper is an attempt to demonstrate how Jeannette Winterson’s novel endeavours 

to establish new discourses in language and verbal communication in order to give one a more 

efficient tool for expressing oneself and ordering one’s reality. The paper treats Gut Symmetries 

as a text that is self–conscious about its language and employs the ideas of the theory of 

écriture feminine for the analysis of Winterson’s narrative strategies. The idea of the bisexuality 

of language is used to reveal the ways in which Winterson’s novel attempts to acknowledge 

the differences between men and women and to establish a discourse that would not only 

reflect the differences between the two sexes but also help men and women communicate with 

one another. 

Keywords: metafiction, postmodern, écriture feminine, feminism, language. 

Introduction 

Walk with me. 1 

The three narrators in Jeanette Winterson’s novel Gut Symmetries (1997) acknowledge 

the need to reconceptualise language but also the necessity to create new 

languages in order to move beyond conventional ways of understanding and ordering 

of the universe. This paper is an inspired attempt to demonstrate how the novel 

endeavours to establish new discourses in language and verbal communication in 

order to have a more efficient tool for expressing oneself and ordering one’s reality. 

However, as I will show, the necessary endeavour to construct a more sufficient language 

finally fails. 

The novel itself has a simple plot that is narrated by the main characters Alice, Stella 

and Jove. Jove and Alice are physicists who meet on a ship and become lovers. Stella is 

a poet. Jove and Stella have been married for about twenty years. Then, “his wife, his 

mistress, met” 2 and Stella and Alice become lovers. All three give their views and understanding 

of the intimate relationships between them and of the universe in which they 

are positioned. The narrators intermingle elements from religion (Stella is a Jew), fairy 

tales, myths, quantum physics, alchemy, Tarot cards, the zodiac, literature. During the 

course of the narrative Jove, Alice and Stella find and lose themselves, love and passion, 

although not necessarily the kind they desired into their lives.


My analysis consists of two parts. Since the novel includes explicit thematisation 

and problematisation of language, I will discuss the notion of the prisonhouse of language3 

and following from this, theories of metafiction (theorised mainly by Patricia 

Waugh and Linda Hutcheon) are invoked to discuss how the narrators are self–conscious 

of their medium. This framework is the basis for expanding the notion of linguistic 

self–consciousness into the analysis of the novel from the point of view of 

ècriture feminine and the bisexuality of language (Luce Irigaray). The theory of 

écriture feminine, elaborated mostly by Hélène Cixous in the middle of 1970s, claims 

that due to the specificities of women’s body and sexuality, women potentially possess 

an extraordinarily special language of their own desire and pleasure that, ideally, 

is written down into the so–called feminine texts. Luce Irigaray explores a similar 

idea when she aims at redefining women’s sexuality on the basis of female pleasure 

which is supposedly fundamentally different from male pleasure. 4 

Thus I will first discuss the novel as a text that is self–conscious about its language. 

Then I will continue by analysing Gut Symmetries from the point of view of 

écriture feminine, relying on Cixous’s and Irigaray’s works on sexuality, language and 

writing, arguing that this novel itself is a piece of écriture feminine. In the end I will 

combine the two lines of argument into a whole to claim that literary self–consciousness 

and the so–called feminine writing are interdependent and rely on each other to 

a rather remarkable degree. 

Self–consciousness about Language 

As pointed out above, Gut Symmetries includes elements of linguistic self–reflexivity 

so that language becomes one of the novel’s primary themes. Narrators in Gut 

Symmetries reflect on language and its limits as well as potentials which contributes 

to their quest to go beyond the conventions of language and find alternative ways of 

expressing oneself. According to Waugh, an important conviction in metafiction is 

that “language is not simply a set of empty forms filled with meaning, but that it actually 

dictates and circumscribes what can be said and therefore what can be perceived.” 

5 That this novel is self–conscious about its own status as a piece of fiction is 

explicitly expressed by Alice: 

So I go on puzzling over new joints for words […]. Walk with me. Hand in hand 

through the nightmare of narrative, the neat sentences secret–nailed over meaning. 

[…] And if I were not telling this story to you but to someone else, would it be the 

same story? (24) […] It is just as likely that as I invent what I want to say, you will 

invent what you want to hear. (25) 

These revelations in the text underline the three basic concerns of all metafiction: 

the problematisation of narrative and linguistic structures as well as of the role of the 

reader. Here I will mainly concentrate on the linguistic structures of the novel. Alice 

is concerned about the complexity of reaching another person through language when, 

after her father’s death, she wants to communicate with her grandmother. She 

struggles with the feeling that her words cannot reach her grandmother: “Each speaks 

a private language and assumes it to be lingua franca. Sometimes words dock and 

there is a cheer at port and cargo to unload and such relief that the voyage was worth

Helen Talalaev. Alternatîvâ valoda Dþenetes Vintersones românâ “Gut Symmetries”: lingvistiskâ .. 

77 

it.” (163) Hence while being aware of the difficulty of communicating, Alice also 

acknowledges that it is still, in rare occasions, possible to connect with the other person 

by using language. When Stella and Jove are on their sailing trip and lost at sea, 

Stella starts to write a letter to Alice. She realises the limits of language: “What marvellous 

things we could say if we could? What of the stories still to be told?” (173) 

Thus in Gut Symmetries the two tendencies of recognising the extraordinary potency 

of words or perceiving language as an inadequate medium6 are intermingled. 

Several instances of word play are present in the text. Frequently metafiction 

confuses literal and figurative meaning, emphasising the contradictions in language, 

so playing with “metaphorical substitutions taking an apparently literal status.” 7 In this 

novel the metaphorical expression ‘pull yourself together’ is given a literal meaning: 

Yes. Just pass me my leg will you? It’s on top of the wardrobe where he threw it, 

and I think my right arm is leaning over by the wall. My head is in the gas oven but 

it will probably be all right, I’m told that green colour wears off. Unfortunately, I 

threw my heart to the dogs. Never mind. (43) 

Hence the narrator is reminding the reader of the textual quality of the narrative 

and therefore of the verbal constructedness of both written texts and the so–called 

‘real’ life that is also determined by language. In some examples Alice applies alliteration 

to underline the sound of words and their phonetic texture, for instance in 

“[y]es, look at her, bunioned, bulbous, hair in bulrush rolls, butt–headed, butter– 

hearted and tenacious as a buckaroo” (64) Such a strategy is also an illustration of 

poetic prose that is underlying the narrative which also aims at establishing a different 

way of using language. 

The names of the main characters serve as intertextual metafictional elements and 

thus become potential interpreting devices. According to Waugh, “proper names are 

often flaunted in their seeming arbitrariness […] or placed in an overtly metaphorical 

or adjectival relationship with the thing they name.” 8 The names Alice, Stella and Jove 

are clearly not void of meaning. Alice was originally named Alluvia but she chose to 

call herself Alice. She explains the meaning of her name: “Alluvia: the deposits collected 

and jetted by the river.” (121) Earlier in the text she also identifies herself with 

Athene, daughter of Zeus. 9 In Greek mythology Athena is a warrior goddess, goddess 

of wisdom and patroness of the craft of weaving and other handicrafts. Here there 

can be drawn a parallel between weaving and narrating as a reference to Alice’s/ 

Athene’s narrator’s role in the novel. Stella’s name was given to her by her mother. 

Stella, meaning a star, hints at a certain heavenly air around her. Whereas Alice defined 

her full name as “the deposits collected and jetted by the river” (121), Stella’s 

name refers to an idealistic and unreachable personage. At the same time the expression 

stella maris10 is often considered to refer to Virgin Mary, hence again reinforcing 

the idea of heavenly or godly importance. Here the contradiction between the 

meanings of Alluvia and Stella, earth and the sky, is revealed. Stella is depicted as 

more idealistic and even heavenly, while Alice’s name refers to dirt the river has rejected. 

Therefore from Alice’s point of view there is an opposition between herself 

and Stella, as if she was not equally relevant. 

Jove’s name also refers to God: “liked her [his mother’s] nickname for him as King 

of the Gods. He could not bring himself to disbelieve it quite, nor could he quite forget


that his real name was Giovanni.” (99) When listing three most famous seducers, Stella 

elaborates on don Juan/Giovanni as following: “A fiction/fact. Nobody knows whether 

or not he was real.” (99) The name Jove is also an alternative variant that the Romans 

had for the god Jupiter (which derives from an alteration of Jovis pater, father Jove). 

Jupiter, however, is the Roman counterpart of the Greeks’ Zeus. 11 Strangely, earlier Zeus 

was related to Alice’s father. Therefore a connection between Alice’s relationships with 

her father and Jove is clear from the elaboration on their names. By relating the names 

to the so–called real life (i.e. Greek mythology or religion), the text aims at confusing 

the conventional boundaries between fact and fiction. 

Linguistic self–reflexivity is a useful tool for becoming aware of language’s limits 

and potentials, furthermore such self–consciousness also opens up a possibility to 

move beyond conventional and frozen ways of expression as well as even find alternative 

languages. As shown above, in Gut Symmetries self–consciousness about language 

underlines the concerns about the difficulty of expressing oneself with a medium 

that so restricts its user. Since there is no other alternative to verbal language, 

the narrators endeavour to create a language that would be more adequate and efficient. 

In such a process a novel is shaped into an écriture feminine. 

Alternative Languages 

This is a sea story, a wave story, a story that breaks and ebbs, spilling the 

boat up on the beach […]. Hear me. Speak to me. Look at me. 12 

In order to have a framework for discussing Gut Symmetries as an instance of 

écriture feminine, I need now to outline the core ideas behind Irigaray’s and Cixous’s 

works on sexuality, language and writing. Both Cixous and Irigaray aim at redefining 

first women’s sexuality and pleasure and then also women’s language. “This Sex 

Which Is Not One” (1977) by Irigaray argues for the existence of innate and authentic 

sexuality. She argues that throughout history female sexuality has been constructed 

to ensure the maximum quality of male sexual pleasure. 13 Her purpose is to rethink 

women’s sexuality in relation to women themselves rather than putting their pleasure 

in the context of reinforcing dominating male sexual pleasure. Irigaray claims that 

the multiplicity of female genitalia and desire as well as the diversity of female pleasure 

create the multiplicity of women’s selves and identity. Developing from the idea 

that female genitalia and thus sexual pleasure are multiple, Irigaray wants to establish 

a new language and space for women. She declares that “hers are contradictory words, 

somewhat mad from the standpoint of reason, inaudible for whoever listens to them 

with ready–made grids, with a fully elaborated code in hand.” 14 Irigaray’s preoccupation 

with linguistic structures underlines the very immediate lack of women’s sexual 

and other experience in language. Yet, as Monique Wittig has pointed out, 

emphasising the differences between men and women and celebrating female biological 

potential might also only reinforce women’s mythical position and lesser value 

and status as compared to men. 15 Nevertheless, the importance of creating alternative 

languages for women to express themselves is extremely relevant for literary and linguistic 

analyses.


79 

Toril Moi summarises écriture feminine as writing that “strive[s] in the direction of 

difference, struggle[s] to undermine the dominant phallogocentric logic, split[s] open the 

closure of the binary opposition and revel[s] in the pleasures of open–ended textuality.” 16 

So ‘writing said to be feminine’ or ‘decipherable libidinal femininity which can be read 

in writing produced by male or a female’ 17 endeavours to go beyond the dominant patriarchal 

logic and rationality that derive from thinking based on binary oppositions. Instead, 

“her writing […] can only go on and on, without ever inscribing or distinguishing 

contours […].” 18 Despite Cixous’ somewhat idealistic position, her insistence on finding 

a new language and her idea of writing differently from the dominant discourses are 

highly relevant. Furthermore, her idea of écriture feminine being multiple, diverse and 

flowing is a resourceful tool for analysing Gut Symmetries. 

Alice, Stella and Jove are unreliable first person narrators giving their alternative 

versions of the same story that includes tales about childhood, parents, grandparents. 

Alice’s narration is the longest, intertwined with elements from quantum physics, alchemy, 

Tarot cards. Stella draws on her Jewish religion and myths as well as on water 

as the element of great importance in her identity creation. Jove narrates only one 

chapter which resembles what could be called a ‘masculine’ writing – clear–cut, without 

excesses, concise, concrete, claiming a status of both factual and actual, of knowing 

the truth and presenting it most clearly. His narration clearly contrasts with how 

Alice and Stella articulate their versions of the story. Whereas Jove as a narrator is 

presented as self–confident and secure in his words, both Alice and Stella are constantly 

in search for words, trying to get beyond clichés. For instance, Stella is pondering 

upon the weakness and potential power of words: 

I want to tell you how… and so these words are speared for you, tasted for you, 

fed one by one. […] The words go deeper, far out of reach of vessels, blood vessels 

bursting, that thick humming in the head. To find the words, just out of reach, beyond 

my hand, the coral of it, pearl of it, fish. (173) 

As in this quote, water in different forms runs through the entire narrative. First 

of all, “it began on a boat.” (9) Alice was born on a boat, Jove and Alice met first 

time on a cruiser QE2 in between Southampton and New York, the story has its main 

conclusions on the boat when Stella and Jove are on a sailing trip. Hence the story is 

constantly underlined by the emphasis on water, consciously drawing parallels between 

water as a soft, floating, changing element and language or this particular narrative 

itself. Cixous also frequently draws parallels between the sea or water and 

women’s writing, for instance when claiming that “her text knows in seeking itself 

that it is more than flesh and blood, […] a turbulent compound of flying colours, leafy 

spaces, and rivers flowing to the sea we feed.” 19 Adjectives describing écriture feminine 

– flowing, changing, unstable, contradictory, unfinished, infinite – may also be 

used for characterising the sea. Thus I would argue that the women narrators knowingly 

play with the parallel between language and writing and the sea, especially when 

overtly claiming that “this is a sea story, a wave story.” 20 

In his chapter Jove opposes Stella by disagreeing with her narration as well as 

her way of looking at what surrounds her: 

My wife believed that she had a kind of interior universe as valid and as necessary 

as her day–to–day existence in reality. This failure to make hierarchy, this failure


to recognise the primacy of fact […]. She refused to make a clear distinction between 

inner and outer. (191) 

Jove is presenting himself as void of illogic, mystery and irrationality. Hence 

while Jove opposes himself to Stella and Alice, the two women narrators have a somewhat 

similar attitude towards the universe around them. Alice’s mysticism and belief 

in magic derives from her fascination with physics and alchemy. Stella relies mostly 

on Jewish traditions, views and customs but also on her fiction readings. From their 

narratives it seems that they have in common the understanding that Alice once reveals: 

“Past. Present. Future. The rational divisions of the rational life. And always 

underneath, in dreams, in recollections, in the moment of hesitation on a busy street, 

the hunch that life is not rational, not divided.” (20) Both Alice and Stella strive for 

expressing their stories in a language that is drawn from the mixture of science, magic 

and the myth rather than remaining on the level of simplified truths that negate any 

possibility of the beyond. Often their overt quest for beauty is more relevant than fidelity 

to reason and rationality. Alice claims that 

[t]he separateness of our lives is a sham. Physics, mathematics, music, painting, my 

politics, my love for you, my work, the star–dust of my body, the spirit that impels it, 

clocks diurnal, time perpetual, the roll, rough, tender swamping, liberating, breathing, 

moving, thinking nature, human nature and the cosmos are patterned together. (98) 

Therefore what she wants to do, is to unite or rather explore the separated spheres 

of the so–called rational and irrational to achieve new beauties or truths. By moving 

beyond rationality based on the natural sciences, Alice’s narration endeavours to connect 

several discourses to reach a novel language and go beyond concentrated thought 

towards multiple, diverse and changing realities. Cixous proposes that “her libido is 

cosmic, just as her unconscious is worldwide” 21 and in Gut Symmetries narrators indeed 

relate to the wider contexts of their existence, including the galaxies, planets, 

the cosmos in general. In addition, in the quotation above an example of floating language 

and implied infinity of realities is presented. So by indicating a universe that 

consists of multiple combinations and possibilities, the text creates a feeling of the 

unbounded connectedness of everything. 

In Gut Symmetries the endeavour to get beyond the clichés, quotes and ready–made 

expressions is strongly in the foreground. Furthermore, it seems that the endeavour is 

not so much towards a women’s language as it is towards a human language that would 

connect different human beings independently of their sex. In I Love to You: Sketch of 

Possible Felicity in History, (1996) Luce Irigaray argues that the whole world is based 

on one fundamental dichotomy – two–sexed nature – that is or should be the basis of 

everything: “the natural is at least two: male and female.” 22 Here she continues her project 

of sexual difference but adds a new angle. Namely she claims that there is a “need for a 

new alliance between the female and male genders.” 23 Therefore while stressing the importance 

of acknowledging and accepting differences based on sex, she also underlines 

the relevance of redefining relationships between men and women that should move towards 

a humanity that is based on respect, love and desire. In her opinion one of the 

obstacles is that women and men do not have a language with which they can communicate 

effectively. Or as Irigaray puts it, “[i]sn’t it time for us to become capable not only 

of speech but also of speaking to one another.” 24 Such communication needs a new lan-


81 

guage, a language that would respect basic sexual difference. As Irigaray outlines, to 

develop the language of communication, “touching upon [has to] intervene, a touching 

which respects the other proffering him/her attentiveness, including carnal attentiveness.” 

25 Special attention is needed towards the tone and rhythm of speech as well as to 

semantic and phonetic choice of words. In addition, Irigaray emphasises the importance 

of changing syntax. A new syntax should choose verbs26 that do not express imperatives 

or belonging, but rather dialogue and doing together but remaining separate (also using 

prepositions like ‘to’, ‘between’, ‘with’, ‘together’ not to put the other person into the 

position of an object; the best known example here is to substitute ‘I love you’ with ‘I 

love to you’). In addition Irigaray argues for the basic duality of a subject (based on 

sexual difference) which should be represented in language as well. Hence ‘they’ and 

‘you’ should always entail in them either ‘he’ or ‘she’ as to signify the separation between 

men and women. Such an emphasis would not alienate women and men from each 

other, instead it would establish a respect for difference and other’s interior existence 

and identity. 

Therefore while écriture feminine argues for a specifically feminine language and 

writing, Irigaray’s concept from I Love to You refers to the new language of all humans 

that would respect sexual difference in everything. While the prisonhouse of 

language indicates that there is no meaningful existence outside language and 

Cixous’s écriture feminine underlines the specific linguistic prisonhouse for women, 

then Irigaray wants to argue that by acknowledging differences in a new language, 

men and women could potentially get beyond the prisonhouse and reach one another 

as well as themselves with the new language of communication. 

In Gut Symmetries there is an attempt to create new languages that would help 

people to communicate with each other. This text attempts to acknowledge and respect 

differences, especially within the bisexual relationship between Alice, Jove and 

Stella. Although there is strong effort, especially from Alice, to create an efficient 

communicative environment between them, they do not reach each other, mainly because 

the languages they speak do not match. Within the framework of écriture feminine 

as well as different feminist analyses of language, 27 women and men have basic 

difficulties in communicating because women and their experiences are not represented 

in language and so they cannot express themselves adequately. Irigaray wants 

to go beyond such views and move towards a more positive, although perhaps also 

more utopian, project of changing language in a way that would respect the differences 

between and separate identities of men and women but that would also connect 

them and at the same time help men and women to remain themselves. In Gut Symmetries 

Alice, Stella and Jove fail (in an attempt to love differently and perhaps better 

and also in trying to communicate with each other in a more effective way) and 

stay alone. Following Irigaray’s ideas, the language they had did not allow them to 

remain themselves within their relationship. Hence, they depart and remain alone as 

to be who they want to be. 

I began with the analysis of Gut Symmetries as a metafictional text that is self– 

conscious about its language and claimed that such a self–consciousness opens up a 

space for creating alternative languages that attempt to move beyond the prisonhouse 

of language. The concept of écriture feminine was used to analyse how the narrators 

strive towards different narrative and linguistic structures. The idea of the bisexuality


of language was invoked to underline the attempt in the novel to acknowledge the 

differences between men and women but, at the same time, also move beyond dichotomous 

oppositions and establish a human discourse that would respect the differences 

but also help women and men connect with each other. Nevertheless, the characters 

fail in creating a language with which they would connect but remain themselves 

at the same time. Thus in order not to lose one another into each other, they 

decide to stay alone. 

In conclusion, the inefficient language tends to result, both in fictions and the 

world outside them, in a failure to construct an integral existence for oneself. Instead, 

characters in fictions and people outside fictions tend to become lost in the universe 

where certainty and stability has ceased to exist. Despite such an unpromising statement, 

the novel also points out the importance of disregarding failure in order to reach 

perhaps short but still relevant moments of beauty. Therefore what the narrative communicates 

is that the process or development of one’s quest is more important than 

the actual end result which, as the novel demonstrated, tends to be failure anyhow. 

REFERENCES 

Winterson Jeanette. Gut Symmetries. – London: Granta Books, 1997. 

Cameron Deborah. Feminism and Linguistic Theory. – London: Macmillan, 1985. 

Cixous. Hélène. Sorties: Out and Out: Attacks/Ways Out/Forays //The Feminist Reader. Eds 

Catherine Belsey and Jane Moore. – Blackwell, 1997 (c. 1975). Pp. 91–103. 

Classical Mythology Online: Words/Phrases Glossary. 

[http://www.oup–usa.org/sc/0195143388/glossaries/phrase_b.html]. June 2002. 

Hutcheon Linda. Narcissistic Narrative: the Metafictional Paradox. – Waterloo: Wilfrid 

Laurier University Press, 1980. 

Irigaray Luce. This Sex Which Is Not One //This Sex Which Is Not One. Transl. Catherine 

Porter and Carolyn Burke. – New York: Cornell University Press, 1985. Pp. 23–33. 

I Love to You: Sketch of Possible Felicity in History. – New York and London: Routledge, 

1996. 

Jameson Fredric. PrisonHouse of Language. – Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1974. 

Moi Toril. Sexual/Textual Politics. – London and New York: Methuen, 1985. 

Spender Dale. Man Made Language. – London: Pandora, 1994. 

Waugh Patricia. Metafiction: The Theory and Practice of Self–Conscious Fiction. – London 

and New York: Routledge, 1984. 

Wittig Monique. One Is Not Born a Woman //The Straight Mind and Other Essays. – New 

York, 1992. Pp. 9–20. 

ENDNOTES 

1 Jeanette Winterson. Gut Symmetries. – London: Granta Books, 1997. P. 20. 

2 Gut Symmetries. P. 17. 

3 Term coined by Fredric Jameson in his influential work The PrisonHouse of Language. – 

Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1974); referring to the state of being conditioned 

by and within language.


83 

4 This paragraph is informed by Hélène Cixous’s text “Sorties: Out and Out: Attacks/ Ways/ 

Out/ Forays” and Luce Irigaray’s essay “This Sex Which Is Not One.” 

5 Patricia Waugh. Metafiction: The Theory and Practice of Self–Conscious Fiction. – London 

and New York: Routledge, 1984. P. 25. 

6 Narcissistic Narrative: the Metafictional Paradox. P. 29. 

7 Metafiction: The Theory and Practice of Self–Conscious Fiction. P. 140. 

8 Ibid, p. 93. 

9 There is a parallel here between Alice’s father and Zeus; why Athene is spelled like this 

instead of Athena, is unclear. 

10 In Latin: star of the sea. 

11 Information about Jove’s name comes from Classical Mythology Online: Words/Phrases 

Glossary. [http://www.oup–usa.org/sc/0195143388/glossaries/phrase_b.html]. June 2002. 


13 Luce Irigaray. This Sex Which Is Not One //This Sex Which Is Not One. Transl. Catherine 

Porter and Carolyn Burke. – New York: Cornell University Press, 1985. P. 25. 

14 This Sex Which Is Not One. P. 29. 

15 Monique Wittig. One Is Not Born a Woman //The Straight Mind and Other Essays. – 

New York, 1992. P. 13. 

16 Sexual/Textual Politics. P. 108. 

17 Moi points out the potential terms avoiding dualism feminine/masculine that Cixous her- 

self has offered. P. 108. 

18 Hélène Cixous. Sorties: Out and Out: Attacks/Ways Out/Forays //The Feminist Reader. 

Eds Catherine Belsey and Jane Moore. Blackwell, 1997 (c. 1975). P. 96. 

19 Ibid. P. 97. 


21 “Sorties.” P. 96. 

22 Luce Irigaray. I Love to You: Sketch of Possible Felicity in History. – New York and 

London: Routledge, 1996. P. 35. 

23 Ibid, p. 11. 

24 Ibid, p. 45. 

25 Ibid, p. 124. 

26 E.g. verbs like hail, praise, ask, offer, celebrate, thank. 

27 E.g. Dale Spender’s Man Made Language or Deborah Cameron’s Feminism and Linguistic 

Theory. 

Kopsavilkums 

Rakstâ atspoguïots, kâ Dþeneta Vintersone (Jeannette Winterson) savâ românâ 

cenðas panâkt jaunu izteiksmes veidu valodâ un verbâlajâ saziòâ, lai radîtu efektîvâku 

paðizpausmes un apkârtçjâs realitâtes sakârtoðanas lîdzekli. Ðajâ pçtîjumâ româns 

“Gut Symmetries” tiek uzskatîts par tekstu, kas apzinâs savu valodas vçrtîbu un 

izmanto idejas par écriture feminine, lai analizçtu Vintersones vçstîjuma stratçìiju. 

Doma par valodas biseksualitâti tiek izmantota, lai parâdîtu, kâ Vintersones româns 

mçìina atklât atðíirîbas starp vîrieðiem un sievietçm un izveidot izteiksmes veidu, kas 

ne tikai atspoguïotu atðíirîbu starp abiem dzimumiem, bet arî palîdzçtu vîrieðu un 

sievieðu savstarpçjâ saziòâ.



Gender and Autobiography in Contemporary 

Russian Literature 

Dzimums un autobiogrâfija mûsdienu krievu literatûrâ 

Marja Rytkönen (Finland) 

University of Tampere 

School of Modern Languages and Translation Studies, 

Slavonic Languages, University of Helsinki, Aleksanteri institute 

Finnish Centre for Russian and East European Studies 

Contact: School of Modern Languages and Translation Studies, Slavonic Languages, 

33014 University of Tampere, Finland, e–mail: marja.rytkonen@uta.fi 

The article analyses contemporary Russian autobiographical writing by women and men. The 

aim is to explore how gender influences the representation of life and experience in the 

genre of autobiography. By comparing textual strategies and contrasting notions of authorship 

in women’s and men’s texts, the article shows how the former are concentrated on telling 

the truth about the past, whereas the latter express disillusionment with the representation of 

reality. 

Keywords: gender and literature, Russian women’s writing, autobiography. 

Introduction 

Interrelations between genre and gender in autobiography have gained wide attention 

by feminist literary scholars, 1 but, not many of the previous studies have explored 

the national specific features of autobiography. 2 This article explores the influence 

of gender on the genre of autobiography in Russia of the 1990s. 3 The time 

scope is interesting both from the perspective of genre and gender: first, autobiography 

has become very popular among readers and writers in Russia; second, writing 

on women’s perspective on society has increased since the perestroika period. My 

discussion includes the following three questions: How are women’s life stories constructed? 

What differences are there between men’s and women’s life stories? What 

is the significance of gender in women’s autobiographies? My research material encompasses 

published texts, which have been written according to the autobiographical 

pact. 4 

Feminist theories have emphasised that it is crucial to consider that women’s relation 

to authorship is historically different from that of men’s and it has not always 

been self–evident that women have had access to agency. Scholars have pointed out 

that women’s texts have far more often than men’s remained invisible in the literary 

canon and in literary studies. 5 This holds true also in Russian literary history. 6 In 

studying women’s writing it is important not to impose on it the norms of already 

existing literary canon, which consists largely of men’s works. 

Heldt has suggested that the genre of autobiography has offered Russian women 

more freedom in the literary representation of their lives than fiction, which was dominated 

by male literary tradition especially in the 19th century. 7 Recent studies on the

Marja Rytkönen. Dzimums un autobiogrâfija mûsdienu krievu literatûrâ 

topic show, however, that the genre is not free from the prevailing models of femininity. 

Holmgren has pointed out that in her material, Russian women often conformed 

to the prevailing images of womanhood. 8 Savkina states in her study that in 

women’s autobiographies there can be detected the presence of a patriarchal censor 

influencing the inscribing of the female “I” 9 . These studies challenge Heldt’s view of 

female autobiographical tradition as a genre which could liberate women from the 

constraints of the more established male prose tradition. Russian women have used 

autobiography as a socially and culturally approved passage way to the sphere of 

literature because it apparently did not transgress the implicit boundaries for a woman 

to enter the public sphere, which was male dominated. 

In today’s Russia literature as a whole has gone through profound changes 

during and after the perestroika and glasnost period since the late 1980s. One of these 

changes is that “everything is allowed”, there is no official censorship, nor official 

literary trend, as socialist realism used to be. 10 Instead, there is a multiplicity of topics 

and modes of writing. 11 Thus, even on the basis of a relatively small number of 

autobiographies, it can be noticed that they offer diverse but rich material for 

research: they are different in form and content, which is also typical of the genre. 

What unites these texts is their concentration on the Soviet past from the point of view 

of a woman. 

Analysing women’s autobiographies in the 1990s 

The authors ground their representation of the past on their own, subjective, experiences, 

which they believe to be representative. The leitmotif in the texts is “to tell 

the truth” about the Soviet past. The texts aim at a documentary presentation: the 

authors seek to describe “how things were” and not to imagine anything. During the 

Soviet regime the documentary genre was an important vehicle in the making of the 

heroic communist past. It was also used by the anti–Soviet movement for making their 

opposition against the official regime heard in samizdat publications. 12 Even now in 

the post–Soviet period there is still a distinct meaning for telling the truth: because of 

the Soviet regime’s manipulation of history individual memory became a site for 

unofficial collective history. When reading the texts therefore I was at first surprised 

by their emphasis on remembering the past13 as I had expected to read women’s life 

stories rather than testimonies about the past events of Soviet history. As an author of 

memoirs on her imprisonment in the Gulag notes: “We have been asked many times: 

How could you live through it? This confession is an attempt to understand and answer 

the question How could we?” 14 Women write in order to commemorate the lives 

of those who were ruined by the Soviet regime. One author desribes her writing of 

memoirs as a means to transmit knowledge to children. 15 These motifs are not reducible 

to mere platitudes, as they echo the need to pass on knowledge on past events 

which had been repressed and the quest for national identity. 

The insistance on the past is expressed in phrases contending that something really 

was or happened in the past. One writer depicts her experiences under the siege 

of Leningrad during the Second World War. Her aims in writing are not literary, but, 

as she notes: “I only want to write down the course of events and to avoid delivering 

85


any literary, artistic description. That is not possible for me and it’s not my task”. 16 

Sometimes the insistence on actuality, however, is overcome by the insistance of telling 

the truth: “If you ask me: Did this happen? I will reply: No. If you ask me: Is this 

true? I will say: Of course.” 17 This points to the discursive work of representation and 

signification the subject is going through in the process of writing. The documentary 

phraseology can be interpreted as a sign of refusing to forget the past events and 

experiences. 18 

The difference in relation to previous times is that there is no one cause or ideology 

which empowers them to write. There is a situation of identity crisis and confusion 

about what to remember and what not. 19 It has brought up the question of differences 

in postsocialist societies. During the Soviet era, “We” had repressed these differences. 

The situation during and after perestroika has opened up new possibilities 

also for women to represent their experiences. 

One of the important common features of the women’s life stories is their focus on 

everyday experiences: they either reveal the truth behind the myth of a strong Soviet 

woman20 ; or represent the past relying on memories of past feelings, sounds, smells; or 

the authors contrast their public image with their hideous everyday life. These details are 

not only meant to authenticate the narrative, but to reproduce the past in the way the 

writing subjects have experienced it. They search for a unity between their past and 

present by restoring the everyday experiences in their life stories. 21 

To find out whether this is a gender–specific feature of women’s texts, or a more 

general trend in autobiographical writing in today’s Russia, I have also explored autobiographies 

by men. 

Autobiographical writings by Russian men 

Grounding the focus on a selective group of men’s autobiographies, it can be 

noticed that they also are re–interpreting the Soviet past. The means of representation, 

however, are different from women’s: for instance, one author writes in his 

memoirs mostly about his literary career and the political developments affecting it 

during the Soviet era, saying little about his family life. His text does not give many 

descriptions of everyday life. More importantly, the author declares at the beginning 

of the text, that while writing it was hard for him to distinguish between fact and fiction, 

since he had written many fictive stories based on his life. 22 By contrast, another 

author lists failures in his professional career, and informs the reader why he could 

not become successful in any particular profession. He also supposedly undermines 

the meaning of his writing by stating near the end of his autobiography: “I don’t know 

why this book has been written, whether it has been written, and whether it is a book, 

– honestly, I don’t know.” 23 This differs from the position of the women writers quoted 

earlier, who distinctly wished to tell the truth about their lives. 

My aim is not simply to compare women’s and men’s texts as such. The reason 

for referring to men’s texts is that a certain problem in exclusively researching 

women’s literature is that it remains a separate area with consequently little influence 

on the already existing literary canon. As a possible way of avoiding this, Miller sug-


gests: “To repair our sense of the literary tradition it seems necessary to reject the 

dominant monologic ... tradition and replace it with a dialogic one. This means, however, 

that we will encounter asymmetry everywhere. The challenge is to make a productive 

sense of it.” 24 With “dialogic” Miller refers to reading men’s and women’s 

texts side by side. This is necessary in order to revise literary tradition so that 

women’s texts would not remain outside this tradition. This does not mean finding 

complementarity between men’s and women’s texts. As studies on Russian women’s 

writing show, that would not be a fruitful approach because the traditions of women’s 

and men’s writing follow different patterns of influence. 25 

The following observations give an idea of just how gender can influence the 

production of literary works in contemporary Russia. I seek to bring together different 

trends and paradigms in order to contrast them in the spirit of dialogic reading of 

men’s and women’s texts. A finding that strikes me as most intriguing is that, while 

not so many professional women authors have written their autobiographies, prominent 

postmodernist men writers have done so. The attitude towards the genre of autobiography 

in these postmodernist texts is, obviously, very different from the texts of 

women autobiographers quoted above. The women’s texts concentrate on the content 

of the writing, while those of men’s concentrate on the aspects of language. Is it not, 

one can ask, problematic to compare these texts wich have totally different approaches 

to writing, and belong to different paradigms of literature? Not necessarily, 

if we do not compare the texts in themselves but look at the places where they are 

situated within the contemporary literary space by asking what their reception is like 

and what the understanding of authorship is like in them. Then, the exercise of contrasting 

could become more interesting and valuable. 

Russian postmodernism appears in literary devices: deconstruction, irony, authorial 

position, linguistic play, which have been said to reflect the spiritual situation of 

culture after the collapse of previous values and ideologies. What is deemed characteristic 

of postmodernist writers is the mixing of the borders between the author, narrator 

and protagonist, and autobiographical strategies of writing, such as the use of 

the author’s actual name in the text and the appearance of the author as a protagonist. 

26 An example of this device can be read in a text where the narrator describes, 

for example, a fire in Moscow and himself as an eyewitness of this fire. However, 

soon after the description he states: “But, everything was, of course, not like that. That 

is, everything was like that. But if one remembers differently, then, naturally, it was 

not like that”. 27 The referentiality of the narrative is deconstructed by representing 

the narrator as an unreliable source of information, and as a result, attention is oriented 

towards the manner of narrating. Postmodernist authors use linguistic play in 

order to point to the impossibility of writing the truth. 

If we look at the use of autobiography in postmodernist women writers’ texts we 

can observe that the I–narrator is used quite frequently, but, the real name of the author 

is seldom used. 28 In male–authored texts, the use of real names is typical. This is an interesting 

difference, for which I cannot claim to have found an unequivocal interpretation. 

It could be that men’s use of their own name in literary texts is more readily accepted 

as a literary device than women’s. It is a continuing stereotype that men’s use of 

autobiography is considered as an artistic device, whereas in women’s texts it is often 

evaluated as lack in artistic quality. 29 There prevails a certain dichotomy between life 

87


and art: woman’s writing is either seen negatively as a “personal document”, not literature, 

or, by contrast, the value of Russian women’s writing is seen in its simplicity and 

immediacy. 30 This is a culturally embedded space for women’s writing, where Woman 

becomes naturalized and her text equated with her life. 

Gender influences the use of autobiography in various ways: it is connected with 

the differences in social and cultural status of the writers, and the differences between 

literary traditions and the influences of women’s and men’s writing. The task of literary 

research is to make these differences visible in the interpretation of literary texts. 

Instead of a Conclusion 

The significance of gender in Russian women’s autobiographies, I suggest, can 

be sought in the specificity of female authorship as formulated in feminist literary 

studies. However, we need to situate the case in contemporary Russian culture. The 

writers of autobiographies analysed here are often considered exceptional women, 

who preserve certain cultural values through their writing. While this position gives 

them a possibility for representing their lives through a literary discourse, their writing 

is not primarily concerned with aesthetic values or literary representations; on the 

contrary, they strive to avoid literariness and desire to tell the truth about the past. 

This calls forth the function of a literary text as a means to promote moral values and 

mediate knowledge. The comparison with certain contemporary texts by men offers a 

contradiction which highlights the difference of gender in genre. In recent autobiographical 

writing by men one can decipher disillusionment with the capacity of literature 

and language to create authentic representions of reality. In their textual practices 

the so–called postmodernist authors focus on deconstructing previous literary 

discourses and questioning the status of a literary text as a medium of social reality. 

In the women’s texts the strategy in representing their lives in the context of the Soviet 

history was to give a documentary account of the individual’s everyday life, 

which had been repressed by the official representations. It is crucial to see in these 

women’s texts that there is a certain unarticulated tension between the state, the individual 

and the woman. To illustrate this line of thought further I borrow the idea of 

the Belorussian writer, Svetlana Aleksievich, on the significance of documenting the 

stories of those whose voices were not heard during the Soviet era. These stories indicate 

that the Soviet past still affects people and is an important part of their “quest 

for identity”. 31 In this connection women’s autobiographies are responding to the crisis 

after the collapse of ideologies and systems, of “We”, and represent the search for 

voicing the experience of the “I”, of the differentiated subject, and in that context, of 

the female subject.


REFERENCES 

1 See, for example, The Private Self: The Theory and Practice of Women’s Autobiographical 

Writings. S. Benstock ed. Routledge, 1988; Miller N. K. Subject to Change. Reading 

Feminist Writing. Columbia University Press, 1988; The Female Autograph. Theory and 

Practice of Autobiography from the Twentieth century. D. C. Stanton ed. The Universtity 

of Chicago Press, 1987; Weigel S. Die Stimme der Medusa. Dülmen–Hiddingsel, 1987. 

2 E. g., Holmgren B. For the Good of the Cause. Russian Women’s Autobiography in the 

Twentieth Century //Women Writers in Russian Literature. T. W. Clyman & D. Greene 

eds. Praeger, 1994, 127–148. 

3 The topic is connected with my current doctoral research on Russian women’s autobiographical 

writing in the 1990s. 

4 See Lejeune P. On Autobiography. University of Minnesota Press, 1989 (orig. 1975). 

5 Miller N. K. Subject to Change. Reading Feminist Writing. Columbia University Press 

1988, 106. 

6 Cf., for instance, Kelly C. A History of Russian Women’s Writing 1820–1992. Oxford 

Clarendon Press, 1994; Dictionary of Russian Women Writer. M. Ledkovsky, C. 

Rosenthal & M. Zirin eds. Westport et al. 1994. 

7 Heldt B. Terrible Perfection. Women and Russian Literature. – Bloomington, 1987, 66, 

102, 145. 

8 E. g., Holmgren B. For the Good of the Cause. Russian Women’s Autobiography in the 

Twentieth Century //Women Writers in Russian Literature. T. W. Clyman & D. Greene 

eds. Praeger, 1994, 140. 

9 Ñàâèíà È. Ïèøó ñåáÿ ... Àâòîäîêóìåíòàëüíûå æåíñêèå òåêñòû â ðóññêîé ëèòåðàòóðå 

ïåðâîé ïîëîâèíû XIX âeka. – Taìïeðe, 2001, 150, 254–5, 327, 338–9. 

10 ×óïðèí Ñ. Íîðìàëüíûé õîä. Ðóññêàÿ ëèòåðàòóðà ïîñëå ïåðåñòðîéêè //Çíàìÿ, 10/ 

1991, 220–234, esp. 225. 

11 Cf. Ýïøòåéí Ì. Ïîñëå áóäóùåãî. O íoâoì ñoçäàíèè â ëèòåðàòóðå //Çíàìÿ, 1/1991, 

217–230, esp. 226. 

12 Samizdat – Russian, means literally ‘self–published’; in the former Soviet Union a system 

of clandestine printing and distribution of banned or dissident literature. 

13 Cf. Skultans V. Theorizing Latvian Lives: The Quest for Identity //Journal of the Royal 

Anthropological Institute, Vol. 3, 4/1997, 761–780. 

14 Ïåòêåâè÷ Ò. Æèçíü – ñàïîæîê íåïàðíûé. Ã @3©– Ñàíêò–Ïåòåðáóðã, 1993, 497. 

15 Bonner E. Mothers and Daughters. – New York, 1992, 11 (orig. Dochki – materi 1991). 

16 Koíèññêàÿ M. Çëûå ãîäû 1941–1955 //Íîâûé ìèð, 6/1992, 79. 

17 Bonner E. Mothers and Daughters. – New York, 1992, 7. 

18 See Smith K. E. Remembering Stalin’s Victims. Popular Memory and the End of the 

USSR. Cornell University Press, 1996. 

19 See Boym S. Common Places. Mythologies of Everyday life in Russia. Harvard University 

Press, 1994. 

20 See Sandomirsky Dunham V. The Strong–Woman Motif. The Transformation of Russian 

Society. Aspects of Social Change Since 1861. C. E. Black ed. Harvard University Press, 

1960, 459–483. 

21 Rytkönen M. Russian Women’s Autobiographical Texts in the 1990s. Five Case Studies 

on the Representation of the Female ‘I’. Unpublished Licentiate Thesis. University of 

Tampere, Slavonic Languages, 2000. 

22 Ðûáàêîâ A. Ðîìàí–âoñïoìèíàíèå. – Moskva, 1997. 

89


23 Toïoðoâ Â. Äâîéíîå äíî. Ïðèçíàíèÿ ñêaíäaëèñòa. – Moñêâa, 1999, 442. 

24 Miller N. K. French Dressing, Women, Men and Ancien Régime Fiction. Routledge, 

1995, 7. 

25 Rosenholm A. Gendering Awakening. Femininity and the Russian Woman Question of the 

1860s. – Helsinki, 1999, 338–9. 

26 Huttunen T., Pesonen P. & Turoma S. Modernism and Postmodernism: Means of Understanding 

20th Century Russian Culture //Russia – More Different Than Most. 

M. Kangaspuro ed. – Helsinki, 2000, 29–44, here 40. 

27 Ïðèãîâ Ä. A. Æèâèòå â Ìîñêâå. – Ìîñêâa, 2000, 29. 

28 For an exception see Ãîðëàíîâà Í. Äîì ñî âñåìè íåóäîáñòâàìè. Ïoâåñòè, ðaññêàõû. – 

Moñêâa, 2000. 

29 Cf. Stanton D. C. Autogynography: Is the Subject Different? The Female Autograph, 

3–20, here 4. 

30 Ïàâëîâ O. Ñåíòèìàëüíàÿ ïðîçà //Ëèòåðàòóðàíàÿ óøåáà 4/1996, 106–8; Kèëÿêoâ Â. 

O æeíñêoì â ñîâðåìåííîé ëèòåðàòóðå, ibid., 108–110. 

31 See Skultans V. Theorizing Latvian Lives: The Quest for Identity //Journal of the Royal 

Anthropological Institute, Vol. 3, 4/1997. 

Kopsavilkums 

Rakstâ analizçti mûsdienu krievu rakstnieku – sievieðu un vîrieðu – autobiogrâfiskie 

darbi. Raksta mçríis ir izpçtît, kâ dzimums ietekmç dzîves atspoguïojumu 

un pieredzi autobiogrâfiskâ þanra literatûrâ. Salîdzinot teksta stratçìiju un atðíirîgos 

priekðstatus par rakstnieka darbu sievieðu un vîrieðu autoru tekstos, rakstâ parâdîts, 

ka sievietes vairâk uzmanîbas pievçrð patiesîbas atklâðanai par pagâtni, bet vîrieði 

pauþ vilðanos realitâtes atspoguïojumâ.



Peculiarities of Latvian Women’s Autobiographical 

Writing in the 1990s. 

1990. gadu latvieðu rakstnieèu autobiogrâfiskâs 

literatûras raksturojums 

Sandra Meðkova (Latvia) 

Daugavpils University 

Vienîbas iela 13–318, Daugavpils, LV 5401 

e–mail: sandram@dau.lv 

The article investigates a few important traditions of autobiographic writing at the end of the 

20 th century, taking as an example the writings of such Latvian authors as Anita Liepa, Agate 

Nesaule and others. In the introductory part of the article the findings of Jerome Brunner, 

Robert Folkenflick, Sidony Smith, Philippe Legen and others have been summed up, turning 

attention to definitions of the genre of autobiography in the context of the most recent theories 

of literary criticism – poststructuralism, feminism, postcolonialism. 

Keywords: autobiography, writing, feminine, modality, testimony. 

The autobiographical mode of writing has been a dominant form in the last decades 

of the 20th century. Critics like James Olney and Robert Folkenflik regard it as 

a general trend in postmodern times where, according to Jean–François Lyotard, the 

great narratives have experienced a crisis of legitimation and have been ousted by 

small narratives. James Olney in Metaphors of Self: the Meaning of Autobiography 

(1972) writes that the autobiographical tradition has taken the place of history. Robert 

Folkenflik in his introduction to The Culture of Autobiography: Constructions of 

Self–Representation (1993) regards autobiography as a key notion of contemporary 

culture and provides a historical survey of its institutionalization in the Western literary 

tradition from the 18th century onward. In the 1970s, autobiographical writing 

witnessed an unprecedented amount of theoretical attention from diverse theoretical 

positions – poststructuralist, psychoanalytical, postcolonial, feminist, etc. 1 This involved 

a broad array of issues, referentiality, textuality, the remembering and the 

writing subject, inscribed in the autobiographical text, the testimonial mode of relation 

to the recalled events, etc. 

The problem of autobiography as a genre is the first major issue which is raised 

and discussed in recent investigations. The basic aspect of the generic problem concerns 

the relations between autobiography, history, and fiction. In the 1970s, Philip 

Lejeune, Louis Renza, and John Sturrock located autobiography at an intersection of 

history and fiction, defending its place in the literary canon. 2 More recent critics, like 

Jerome Bruner, have revised the traditional distinction of autobiography and fiction. 

Bruner considers autobiography as an extension of fiction. He argues that the shape 

of the individual life in autobiography emerges from the imagination rather than from 

experience, and in the process of writing the author of an autobiography forges his/ 

her possible selves. 3 Hence, autobiography should be considered not as a genre, but 

as a mode of writing which spans a spectrum from ‘documentary’ texts, based on 

letters, diaries, to autobiographical fiction and poetry. 4 Moreover, it is often quite


impossible to establish clear–cut boundaries between autobiography, autobiographical 

fiction, and biography. Philip Lejeune has defined autobiography in terms of an 

‘autobiographical pact’ between author and reader. There are a number of conditions 

which the author has to observe so that the reader can treat the text as autobiographical 

and distinguish it from a fictional text. Of the four categories introduced by 

Lejeune the most compelling one is the identification of an author–narrator and the 

principal character. 5 Yet, feminist critics of women’s autobiographies have noted a 

recurrent tendency to establish a distance between female autobiographical authors 

and their protagonists, generally achieved by the 3rd person narrative. 6 

These critics, proceeding from poststructuralist and psychoanalytical positions, 

have tried to define the internal tension of autobiographical writing by analyzing ‘autobiography’ 

as a compound of 3 components: auto (Gr. authos – self) – bio (bios – 

life) – graphy (graphes – writing, from graphein – to write). They regard autobiography 

as an inherently impossible project, problematizing each component separately 

and dealing with the pressures and contradictions they inflict upon one another. 

Hence, writing mediates the space between ‘self’ and ‘life’ and makes it impossible 

to recapture the self and set up a plausible life–script, marked by closure. The term 

‘autobiographical act’ is used to express the idea of life construction within autobiography. 

Elizabeth W. Bruss defines the autobiographical act as “an interpretation of 

life that invests the past and the ‘self’ with coherence and meaning that may not have 

been evident before the act of writing itself”. 7 

Regarded as an intentional act, the construction of one’s own life–story is determined 

by a specific stance of the narrator in relation to his/her recalled and related 

experience, which determines the narrative modality of autobiographical writing as 

its crucial element. The analysis of autobiographical modality is highly problematic. 

It cannot be fully captured and analyzed by formal means, as it indicates an intentionality 

that cannot be reduced to formal or grammatical markers. At the same time, 

formal markers such as person, point of view, frame, etc., are very important, and 

their analysis is very helpful. The recurrent use of the 3rd person narration in women’s 

autobiographies is notable also in Latvian women’s autobiographical writing, e.g. 

Anita Liepa’s Exhumation, Vizma Belðevica’s Bille Trilogy. 

Latvian women’s autobiographical writing of the 1990s reveals diverse autobiographical 

acts. Produced by women authors of the generation which experienced 

World War II as the central event of 20th century European history, these texts provide 

historical evidence of a very complicated period in contemporary Latvian history. 

This entails the pre–Soviet decade of the 1930s (coincident with their childhood), 

the beginning of World War II, and Soviet–German–Soviet occupation of 

Latvia at the beginning of 1940s, as well as the end of the 50 years long Soviet occupation 

at the end of 1980s and the reconstruction of Latvian statehood at the beginning 

of 1990s. At the same time these texts function as autobiographical accounts of 

the girls’ childhood, interrupted by the war, which further determines their life, either 

under the occupational regime or in exile. Thus, Agate Nesaule in A Woman in Amber 

(1997) relates to the painful experience of a small girl who together with her family 

is driven out of her homeland, forced into exile, subjected to the horror of refugee 

camps in Germany and the difficulties of getting political asylum in the U.S. A similar 

experience is related in Margita Gûtmane’s Vçstules mâtei (Letters to Mother,

Sandra Meðkova. 1990. gadu latvieðu rakstnieèu autobiogrâfiskâs literatûras raksturojums 

1998), a book which emphasizes the hardships of living in exile and returning to one’s 

homeland, only to find it foreign as well. Anita Liepa in her autobiographical novels 

Ekshumâcija (Exhumation, 1990), Kumeïa gadi (The Colt Years, 1993), Vçjgâze 

(Windstorm, 1996) relates her life under Soviet occupation. Vizma Belševica in her 

autobiographical trilogy about Bille (1995, 1996, 1999) narrates episodes from her 

childhood in the 1930s and the early 1940s. 

The modality of these texts is determined by the fact that these authors feel compelled 

to produce historical evidence for that history which became also a part of their 

lives. Moreover, their memories fit into the ‘great project’ of rewriting history that 

Central and Eastern Europe faced during the so–called ‘transition period’ of the 

1990s. Notwithstanding this common point of departure, each individual author takes 

a different stance towards her recalled life and writes it either as a story of testimony 

(Anita Liepa), or a story of healing (Agate Nesaule), or a melancholy story (Margita 

Gûtmane, Vizma Belðevica). 

Anita Liepa’s Exhumation is a paradigmatic instance of the autobiographical tradition 

of the 1990s. Defined by the author as a documentary novel, it reveals the range 

of autobiographical writing mentioned above: from documentary literature to fiction. 

This is marked by the author’s playing around with the heroine’s name. On the one 

hand, the author disguises the relation of the heroine to her autobiographical self by 

giving her a fictitious name – Nameda Lapa. Thus she maintains a distance between 

the genuine biographical space and the literary space, foregrounding the latter so that 

the story of the Sondors family gains symbolical status. On the other hand, the enclosed 

photographs reveal the disguised relation: on the photos Nameda Lapa appears 

as Anita Liepa, reminding us that the novel presents a documentary record of her 

family history. 

The novel spans the life–stories of three generations of the Sondors family, with 

the focus on the second generation – two sons, Aleksandrs and Anatolijs, who became 

officers and took part in World War I. After that Aleksandrs remained in Soviet 

Russia, was arrested in 1937 and executed during Stalin’s campaign of ideological 

cleansing, whereas Anatolijs returned to Latvia and, after a successful military career, 

became the commander of Daugavpils fortress, a major place of dislocation of the 

Latvian infantry and cavalry corps, close to the Latvian border with Russia. Shortly 

after the Soviet occupation, Anatolijs Sondors and other Latvian army officers were 

brought to Litene military camp where most of them were shot and others were secretly 

deported to the Far East. Mass deportations of civilians and the massacre of 

Latvian army officers are two major manifestations of the violence of the Soviet regime 

against the Latvian nation. It was revealed in the period of glasnost and legally 

promoted by decrees of the Supreme Soviet of the Latvian SSR in 1989 concerning 

the rehabilitation of the politically repressed and deported citizens, as well as by the 

criminal case of the killing of officers in Litene, instigated by the Office of Public 

Prosecution of the Latvian SSR in October, 1988. On December 2, 1989, the reburial 

of the murdered officers took place in the Brethren Cemetery in Riga. The title of 

Liepa’s novel Exhumation actually refers to the reburial of the officers as an act of 

restoring their honour and status. Her novel, completed in 1988 and published in 

1990, was a highly topical book in the context of these events, which is testified by 

its wide public resonance. However, its political significance cannot be dismissed as 

93


the product of glasnost alone, as the published version of the novel was in fact the 

fifth one. The writer states in her postscript to the novel that the material for it had 

been gathered for 45 years. Thus, the history of writing the novel goes back to the 

mid–1940s; it symbolically embraces the whole period of Soviet occupation and sets 

up the author as a dissident, situating the text within the tradition of dissident memory 

evidence and resisting the enforced amnesia of the regime. The author as a dissident 

is embodied in the heroine, the author’s disguised alter ego. 

Sondor’s foster daughter Nameda is the representative of the third generation of 

the family. Her lot is to live under the Soviet regime in its everyday manifestations. 

She is made to withdraw from her studies at the department of journalism because of 

too straightforward ideas; later on she is continually persecuted by the authorities in 

her teacher’s career.She has to give up several positions because she belongs to a 

family of politically repressed people. Her most daring action is a trip to Siberia in 

1953 in search of her foster–father Anatolijs Sondors. Unluckily, the trip coincides 

with the rebellion of political prisoners in Norilsk which Nameda describes in her 

diary. Because of these notes Nameda is accused of collecting anti–Soviet information 

and collaborating with foreign intelligence services, arrested and sent to labor 

camps in Arhangelsk and the Perm region. However, Nameda’s imprisonment and the 

time spent in these camps (the autobiographical part of the text) is presented in a 

much shorter account than the fictionalized version of Anatolijs Sondors’ experiences 

in Litene and in the Far East. Instead of self–dramatizing the author prefers the imaginary 

dramatization of her foster–father’s experience, inscribing it into the masculine 

heroic plot, while organizing her own experience around the dissident figure whose 

greatest ‘betrayal’, from the standpoint of the Soviet regime, is to keep alive memories 

of previous times, thus providing a link with the past. Hence the symbolical significance 

of Nameda’s search for her father, the denial of oblivion, the resistance to 

the official image of Latvian officers as criminals and enemies. The masculine heroic 

plot employs the search for her father as a powerful life–script for the daughter. 

Nameda’s Antigone–like opposition is motivated and becomes functional first and 

foremost within the masculine heroic plot, with the father as the central figure. The 

limited functionality of the autobiographical heroine provides yet another account of 

the distance between her and the author, created by the 3rd person narrative. By refusing 

a straightforward identification with the heroine, the author situates herself as an 

actant on a higher level of the structural organization of the novel: the heroine’s message 

(the author’s story about Nameda’s opposition to the regime) is appropriated as 

part of the author’s message, encoding memory as a form of resistance. Anita Liepa 

has said in an interview that the writing of the novel was motivated by an urge to 

testify to the historical truth: “I became a witness for the defense of my heroes, I 

wanted them to be rehabilitated. Now there are others who write about those events. 

I began writing when no one else dared.” 8 

Another important formal marker is codification of the autobiographical writing 

within a certain genre specified by the author. Thus Anita Liepa subtitles her Exhumation 

a documentary novel, Colt Years a memory novel; Vizma Belðevica calls her 

Bille Trilogy a memory story; Agate Nesaule refers to her A Woman in Amber as a 

story. Consequently, the life–stories are organized according to the compositional, 

structural, etc. logic of the respective genre. This provides the author with additional


options: she can dramatize certain memories, play around and interpret them, provide 

emphases and additional nuances etc. The author’s manipulation of memory – omissions, 

silences, interruptions, additions – are ‘legitimized’ by the conventions and restrictions 

of the genre. Agate Nesaule introduces her memory story in the following 

way: “I know that memory as such is unreliable: it selects, changes, deforms. Others 

would relate the same events in a different way, while I can tell only what I remember. 

I cannot promise historical precision; I can tell just what I recall. I will have to 

imagine and guess, even invent something, so that the story becomes more fluent and 

plausible.” (Translation and italics mine – S.M.) 9 Jerome Bruner extends this argument 

even further, arguing that the shape of life as it is experienced is as much 

dependent upon the narrative skills of the autobiographer as is the story s/he tells 

about it. 10 

Agate Nesaule’s A Woman in Amber foregrounds the connection of the generic 

framing, emplotment and thematic focus of the story. The author, a Latvian émigré to 

the USA, has encoded her life–story within the psychoanalytical discourse. It is alluded 

to in the subtitle, Healing the Trauma of War and Exile, as well as in the 

author’s preface which directly brings out the features of a psychoanalytical case– 

study. The heroine’s narrative is organized as a recollection of her discussions with 

her psychoanalyst Ingeborg Casey (clinical talks) and her lover John (bed talks). The 

narrative proceeds along with the verbalization of traumatic memories of the heroine’s 

war experiences, charged with agonizing affects – shame, anger, and a sense of guilt. 

The result is defined in the preface: “My story proves that healing is possible.” 11 The 

heroine’s narrative reveals the drama of her psychic constitution against a background 

of war and exile. War is presented as a painful experience in Agate’s life when she 

and her family are driven out of their homeland and into exile, passing through the 

horror of refugee camps in Germany and the endless difficulties of getting political 

asylum in the USA. Violence, hunger and humiliation experienced in the camps are 

the trauma that is projected onto Agate’s life, turning her into a victim in her relations 

with others and life in general. The victim’s position is particularly obvious in her 

hasty marriage with Joe. Trapped in this marriage for years, Agate breaks free from 

the mysterious power of her violent American husband after she has discovered in 

Joe the features of the Russian soldiers who she saw raping women in the refugee 

camp. Only then does she realize that her marriage had been based on this violent 

scenario which she witnessed as a young girl. This episode is described like a therapeutic 

insight: as a result of specific factors (Joe’s attempt at raping her) the heroine 

is able to reconstruct the traumatic collision and to gain an insight into the history of 

accepting the role of a victim, thus finding the way to transcend it. After ending the 

unhappy marriage, Agate is reconciled with her mother (in the dream of the deceased 

mother who turns out to be alive). The recovered maternal bond leads Agate to a close 

and happy relationship with John, testifying to her capability of forming an intimate 

loving relationship. Finally she is healed from the traumas of the past. 

Taking into account the tripartite structure of autobiography, discussed above, it 

should be noted that the 3 components – authos, bios, graphe – coexist in an intricate 

dynamics. Bruner suggests that we consider an autobiographical text as a discourse 

of witness (mimesis), discourse of interpretation (diegesis, explicating the means by 

which the discourse of witness has been organized, framed and emplotted within the 

95


narrative structure), and the autobiographer’s stance or diatactics (negotiability, 

performativity, that is, how the autobiographer, by taking a certain posture to the 

world, self, fate, etc., communicates his/her organized experience). The discourse of 

witness in Nesaule’s A Woman in Amber would comprise Agate’s recalled episodes 

of her life, the discourse of interpretations determine the way these episodes are selected 

and organized (e.g. broken chronology of events, representing lengthy periods 

of life by few episodes, etc.). The principles of selection and organization are, in their 

turn, determined by the author’s diatactics, her wish to tell precisely a story of healing, 

with conventional happy ending. 

Thus, autobiographical modality should not be reduced to the focused intentionality 

of a self–present authorial voice that wants to tell his/her life–story for more or 

less obvious reasons. It is permeated with pressures and contradictions, which are 

triggered off by the act of writing which, within the poststructuralist tradition, undermines 

any illusion of self–presence in the text. At this point the poststructuralist and 

feminist positions diverge: the poststructuralist critics would reveal these pressures 

and locate the textual patterns and configurations that emerge in the process, only to 

be rewritten anew in the next reading. For feminists it would be impossible to abandon 

the attempt of a political reading of women’s voices in the text. Feminist critics 

of autobiographies, like Donna Stanton, Bella Brodzki and Sidonie Smith, make a 

point of interpreting women’s autobiographical acts as entering into writing as the 

other partner of a discourse in search of a voice and a transformative script. 12 

They treat ‘graphe’ as a voice–gaining process, in the sense that through writing 

women can gain the speaking position which otherwise is denied to them, according 

to the patriarchal definition of woman as deficient (of subjecthood, voice, speaking 

position, etc.). 

REFERENCES 

1 See Eakin P. J. Fictions in Autobiography: Studies in the Art of Self–Invention, 1985; 

Women’s Autobiographies: Essays in Criticism. Estelle C. Jelinek ed. 1980; Mehlman J. 

A Structuralist Study of Autobiography, 1974; Olney J. Metaphors of Self: the Meaning 

of Autobiography. 1972; The Uses of Autobiography. Julia Swindells ed. – Taylor & 

Francis, 1995. 

2 A special edition of ‘New Literary History’, issue 9, autumn 1977, was dedicated to autobiography. 

3 Bruner J. The Autobiographical Process //The Culture of Autobiography: Constructions 

of Self–Representation. Robert Folkenflik ed. – Stanford, California: Stanford University 

Press, 1993, p. 55. 

4 Revealing Lives: Autobiography, Biography, and Gender. Susan Groag Bell, Marylin 

Yalom eds. – State University of New York Press, 1990, p. 4. 

5 Lejeune P. On Autobiography. – Minneapolis, London: University of Minnesota Press, 

1989, pp. 4–5. 

6 See Smith S. A Poetics of Women’s Autobiography: Marginality and the Fictions of Self– 

Representation. – Bloomington, Indiana: Indiana University Press, 1987; Revealing Lives:


Autobiography, Biography, and Gender. S. G. Bell, M. Yalom eds. – State University of 

New York Press, 1990; The Culture of Autobiography: Constructions of Self–Representation. 

R. Folkenflik ed. – Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 1993; Life/ 

Lines: Theorizing Women’s Autobiograph. Bella Brodzki, Celeste Schenk eds. – Ithaca, 

London: Cornell University Press, 1988. 

7 Smith S. A Poetics of Women’s Autobiography, p. 46. 

8 Interview with Anita Liepa, cited by Biruta Gudriíe //Jaunâkâ latvieðu literatûra 1998. – 

Rîga: Zvaigzne ABC, 1999, p. 99. 

9 Nesaule A. Sieviete dzintarâ. – Rîga: Jumava, 1997, 7. lpp. 

10 Bruner J. The Autobiographical Process, p. 41. 

11 Nesaule A. Sieviete dzintarâ, 8. lpp. 

12 Watson J. Toward an Anti–Metaphysics of Autobiography //The Culture of Autobiography. 

Folkenflik ed., p. 71. 

Kopsavilkums 

Rakstâ aplûkotas daþas bûtiskâkâs autobiogrâfiskâs tradîcijas iezîmes 20. 

gadsimta nogalç latvieðu rakstnieèu – Vizmas Belðevicas, Margitas Gûtmanes, Anitas 

Liepas, Agates Nesaules un citu daiïradç. Raksta ievaddaïâ rezumçti izplatîtâkie 

atzinumi autobiogrâfiskâs tradîcijas izpçtç Dþeroma Brunera, Roberta Folkenflika, 

Sidonijas Smitas, Filipa Leþçna un citos pçtîjumos, pievçrðot uzmanîbu 

autobiogrâfiskâ þanra definçjumam un îpatnîbu apskatam jaunâko literatûrteorijas 

virzienu – poststrukturâlisma, feminisma, postkoloniâlisma kontekstâ. 

97



Frauentagebuch der “Wiener Moderne”: 

Alma Mahler–Werfels “Tagebuch–Suiten” 

Women Diaries in the “Wiener Moderne”: 

“Tagebuch–Suiten” by Alma Mahler–Werfel 

Sievieðu dienasgrâmatas “Wiener Moderne” laikâ: 

Almas Mâleres–Verfeles “Tagebuch–Suiten” 

Tatjana Kuharenoka (Lettland) 

Lehrstuhl für Literatur und Kultur 

Fakultät für Moderne Sprachen, Universität Lettlands 

Visvalþa 4a, Rîga, LV 1050 

Die “Tagebuch–Suiten”(1996) von Alma Mahler–Werfel(1879–1964) ungeachtet dessen, dass 

sie postum erscheinen, sind als Versuch des Eindringens einer Frau in das ästhetische Feld der 

“Wiener Moderne”, das um 1900 immer noch ein männliches bleibt zu deuten. Der Beitrag 

skizziert die Entstehungsgeschichte von “Tagebuch–Suiten„ und geht auf einige Probleme der 

diaristischen Struktur ein. Es zeigt sich, dass Alma Mahler– Werfel eine eigene Tagebuchform 

gestaltet, die nicht zuletzt auf die Strategien des Sich–Erinnerns hinausläuft. 

Keywords: Frauentagebuch, Alma Mahler–Werfel, Wiener Moderne. 

Alma Mahler–Werfel (1879–1964) – in ihrer Jugend als “das schönste Mädchen 

Wiens” und später in den 20er – 30er Jahren in Wien als “Femme Fatal” bezeichnet, 

war vor allem bekannt als eine der größten “professionellen” Musen der Geschichte 

und Freundin und Gefährtin berühmter Männer: Gustav Klimt, Gustav Mahler, Oskar 

Kokoschka, Walter Gropius, Franz Werfel und neben diesen Beziehungen wurden ihr 

dank solcher Berühmtheit weitere zugeschrieben. 

Es sind viele Geschichten, Legenden und Anekdoten um Alma Mahlers–Werfel 

entstanden. Ihre Zeigenossen und Lebensgefährten haben oft über sie in den 

Tagebüchern und Briefen geschrieben, haben sie in ihren Büchern oder auch in den 

Bildern zu legendären Frauen–Figur stilisiert, gleichzeitig aber ein recht widerspruchvolles 

Bild von Alma entworfen. 

Es liegt inzwischen eine Reihe romanhafter Biographien vor – Francoise Girodos 

Buch “Alma Mahler oder die Kunst geliebt zu werden”(1986), Karen Monsons “Die 

Alma oder die unbezähmbare Muse” (1986) oder Hilde Bergers Roman “Ob es Hass 

ist, solche Liebe. Oskar Kokoschka und Alma Mahler” aus dem Jahre 1999 können 

hier als Bespiele angeführt werden, die uns aufs neue beweisen, dass abgesehen 

davon, wie Alma–Mahler–Werfel–Figur im einzelnen hier akzentuirt wird, erscheint 

sie nach wie vor im Kontext ihrer “glänzender Begleiter”. Dazu kommt noch 

folgendes: Alma Mahler–Werfel hat sich immer um ihr Image gesorgt. 1915 erscheint 

zum Beispiel in Peter Altenbergs Buch “Fechsung “ eine dem Andenken Gustav 

Mahlers gewidmete Geschichte unter dem Titel “Alma”. Als Alma Mahler sie liest, 

reagiert sie darauf in einem Brief an Oskar Kokoschka sehr emotionell: “ Altenberg 

hat mich in seinem letzten Buch angenagelt.” Und resümiert etwas weiter: Von A bis

Tatjana Kuharenoka. Sievieðu dienasgrâmatas “Wiener Moderne” laikâ: Almas Mâleres–Verfeles .. 

99 

Z vollkommen verlogen” 1So blieb das Alma–Bild „ schon lang genug entstellt und 

verdunkelt” 2 . 

Dass Alma selbst eine grosse Persönlichkeit war, wurde zwar nie geleugnet, trat 

jedoch im Laufe der Geschichte kaum in den Vordergrund. Ihre Weiblichkeit und 

Schönheit wurden meistens bewundert, ihre intellektuellen Begabungen dagegen 

kaum beachtet. Relativ wenig ist bekannt, dass sie in die Geschichte des XX. 

Jahrhunderts als österreichische Komponistin eingegangen ist und Instrumentalstücke, 

den Beginn einer Oper, vorwiegend aber sensible und nuancenreiche Klavierlieder 

nach Gedichten von Richard Dehmel, Rainer Maria Rilke, Heinrich Heine, Novalis 

und Franz Werfel geschrieben hat, die aber erst in den 90er Jahren des 

XX.Jahrhundertes wieder ins Zentrum der musikwissenschftlichen Untersuchungen 

gestellt wurden3 . 

Mit der Herausgabe ihrer Selbstzeugnisse in der 2. Hälfte des XX. Jahrhunders: 

„Mein Leben” (1960) und vor allem “Tagebuch–Suiten” (1997), rückt Alma Mahler– 

Werfel auch als Autorin immer stärker in den Vordergrund. 

Die Veröffentlichung des Tagebuches nach mehr als dreissig Jahren nach dem Tod 

der Verfasserin beruht auf den handschriftlichen Tagebuchaufzeichnungen von Alma 

Schindler, die sich in der Bibliothek der University of Pennsylvania befinden und die 

einer der Herausgeber der „Tagebuch–Suiten” Antony Beaumont während der Suche 

nach Material für eine Monographie über den Komponisten Alexander Zemlinsky 

Anfang der 90er Jahre gefunden hat. Dass es fast hundert Jahre gedauert hat bis diese 

Tagebuchnotitzen an die Öffentlichkeit kamen, hängt nicht damit zusammen, dass die 

Herausgabe der “Tagebuch –Suiten” testamentarisch verordnet oder verboten war, 

sondern ist eher mit einem banalen Umstand verbunden. Antony Beaumont 

kommentiert wie folgt: “Als ich das Manuskript sah, wurde mir aber klar, warum man 

bisher einen Bogen um sie gemacht hat: Almas Schrift ist schwer, ja beinahe 

unleserlich” 4 . 

Die Aufzeichnungen beinhalten die Zeitspanne zwischen 1898 und 1902 und 

vertreten damit die um 1900 im allgemeinen sehr verbreiteten Form der literarischen 

Selbstdarstellung, die gerade in der Wiener Moderne – im Zentrum der modernen 

Idetitätskrise und der damit verbundenen Sprachkrise – mit „ausserordentlichen 

Leidenschaft und Genialität praktiziert” 5 wurde. 

Darüber hinaus sind die “Tagebuch–Suiten” als Zeugnisse aufzufassen, die von 

einer Frau geschrieben wurden, die im künstlerischem Milieu aufwächst –was in 

starkem Maß ihren Lebensentwurf bestimmt – und die sich selbst auf dem Gebiet der 

Kunst (und als Tagebuchschreiberin auch in der Literatur) zu bestätigen sucht. 

In der Forschungsliteratur über Spezifik der Wiener Moderne wird oft darauf 

hingewiesen, dass obwohl die Frauen im allgemeinen an den Rand der literarischen 

Szene geschoben wurden, in Österreich um 1900 eine markante Wende eintritt: auf 

verschiedenen Wegen versuchen die Frauen, sich einen qualitativ neuen Zugang zur 

Autorenschaft zu verschaffen. Der Übergang zum “Sprechen als Frau” vollzieht sich 

im Kontext einer für die Moderne spezifischen Situation in bezug auf die 

Geschlechterbeziehungen: die historische Rollenverteilung gerät deutlich in Krise. 

Der “Geschlechterkampf” wird dabei laut Le Rider in verschiedenen Varianten 

thematisiert: in seiner “avantgardistischen Fassung (nach dem Modell von Strinberg,


Karl Krauss), in seiner konservativen Fassung–(eine Unzahl von Romanen haben als 

Thema die emanzipierte Frau, welche die ganze Gesellschaft ins Unglück stürzt!), und 

seiner irren Fassung bei Otto Weininger.” 6 

Die Selbstzeugisse von Alma Mahler–Werfel, ungeachtet dessen, dass sie postum 

erscheinen, gehören in das Umfeld dieser Tendenzen und sind als Versuch des 

Eindringens einer Frau in das literarische Feld, das um 1900 immer noch ein männliches 

bleibt, zu deuten. So gesehen stellen die “Tagebuch–Suiten” ein wichtiges 

Untersuchungsobjekt dar. 

Einen ausdrücklichen Grund des Tagebuchschreibens gibt die Diaristin nicht an. 

Das lässt sich auch im Nachhinein kaum feststellen, jedoch könnten der frühe Tod 

des Vaters und die darauf folgende Heirat der Mutter vielleicht das treibende Motiv 

für das Schreiben sein: Einerseits wünscht sie sich die Familie als Ruhepol, 

andererseits gibt es viele Aufzeichnungen, die dafür sprechen, dass sie aus diesem 

Kreis hinaustreten möchte. Rückblickend konstatiert sie in „Mein Leben”: „Diese 

Jugendjahre trennten mich innerlich vollkommen von meiner Umgebung” 7 , „Ich ging 

jetzt allein aus, denn meine Mutter hatte Gott sei Dank wenig Zeit für mich” 8 und 

spricht etwas weiter über ihre “sogenannte Familie” 9 Oft werden in dem Tagebuch die 

Streitigkeiten in der Familie erwähnt: die Mutter beschimpft Alma in der Öffenlichkeit, 

schreit sie an, kann gewaltätig sein. Repräsentativ kommentiert sie an einer Stelle das 

Verhalten der Mutter: “Alles, was sich Mama über mich Böses dachte und denkt, kam 

da heraus gesprudelt”. 10 

Der psychische Diskomfort, der oft über ihre Beziehung zu der Mutter definiert 

wird, die problematische familiäre Situation stimulieren folglich das Tagebuchschreiben. 

Andererseits wird in den “Tagebuch–Suiten” ihre Sehnsucht nach dem 

Selbstausdruck immer wieder thematisiert. Gleich zu Beginn der Aufzeichnungen 

schreibt sie: “Ich möchte eine große That thun. Möchte eine wirklich gute Oper 

komponieren, was bei Frauen noch nicht der Fall war. Ja, das möchte ich. Mit einem 

Wort, ich möchte etwas sein und werden.” 11 Zu ihrem künstlerischen Vorbild wird in 

diesen Jahren die Sängerin Lilli Lehmann:”Große Künstlerin und große Frau!”, – 

drückt die Diaristin beinahe formelhaft ihre Begeisterung aus. 12 In dem Streben nach 

der Selbstverwirklichung –einem wichtigen Kriterium ihrer künstlerisch veranlagten 

Natur –spielt das eigene Geschlecht eine grosse Rolle. Dennoch wird von Anfang an 

die Möglichkeit angezweifelt, sich als Frau schöpferisch realisieren zu können. Nach 

einer Musikstunde bei ihrem Lehrer Josef Labor notiert sie in ihr Tagebuch: “Labor. 

Ich spielte ihm heute alle 8 Lieder vor, und er sagte: Das ist aller Ehren wert ... für ein 

Mädel. Ja, es ist ein Fluch, Mädel zu sein, man kann über seine Grenzen nicht 

hinaus” 13 Überlegungen dieser Art werden zur Obsession des Diariums. Mit dem 

Beginn der regelmässigen Aufzeichnungen sichert sich die junge Diaristin den 

eigenen freien Raum, in dem sie als weiblich artikulierendes Subjekt, ihre Innerlichkeit 

auf vielfältige Weise bewusst auszudrücken versucht. 

Der Form nach stellt dieses Tagebuch, “ein unglaublich langer Text”(XI), eine 

komplizierte vielschichtige stark gegliederte Struktur dar, was auch in dem Doppeltitel 

programmatisch angekündigt wird: Tagebuch–Suiten. Dass die Diaristin den 

musikalischen Begriff “Suite” – in den Musiktheorie soviel wie ein Instrumentalstück, 

das aus mehreren Sätzen entweder einer Oper oder eines Baletts oder aus Elementen


101 

anderer Genres bestehen kann, aber auch Zusammenstellung von einzelnen Tänzen – 

aufgreift und in den Bereich der Literatur transportiert, ist sicher nicht zufällig. Der 

Suite–Begriff erweist sich als formprägend für die Stuktur des Tagebuches. Damit wird 

auch die Freiheit des Tagebuches von jeder Art poetologischen Normen postuliert. 

Als einzelne Texteinheiten sind die Suiten mit der kapitelweisen Einteilung eines 

Romans (einige Suiten wurden mit dem Motto versehen) oder mit der Szene bzw. dem 

Akt im Drama vergleichbar14 Es sind 21 Hefte, oder 25 Suiten, d.h. einzelne Hefte, in die in Alma Schindler über 

eine Zeitspanne von vier Jahren – vom 25. Januar 1898 bis 16. Januar 1902 –ihre 

Eintragungen gemacht hat. 

Die Anlage einzelner Suiten, die Notate eines Tages unterliegen keinen Regeln. 

Sie umfassen Beschreibungen alltäglicher Begebenheiten, der familiären Verhältnisse, 

impressionistische Naturbeobachtungen, Frustrationen in ihrem Liebesleben, denn 

eben in diesem Zeitraum entfalten sich ihre Liebesbeziehungen zu Gustav Klimt, 

Alexander Zemlinsky und Gustav Mahler, die drei wichtige thematische Konzentrationspunke 

des Tagebuches bilden. Überraschend wirkt die Erlebnisintensität der 

jungen Alma: Ihre Tage sind meistenst ausgefüllt mit Lesen, Komponieren, Zeichnen, 

Klavier spielen, Theaterbesuchen und natürlich mit dem Tagebuchschreiben. Die 

Materialfülle, die die Vielseitigkeit des Lebens der Diaristin widerspiegelt, wird– und 

hier zeigt sich die Affinität zur Suite – in verschiedenen Aussageformen erfasst: 

Berichte, Parodie, literarische Porträts, Briefe, Briefentwürfe, Aphorismen, Skizzen, 

Dialoge, Träume und darüber hinaus seitenlange Reflexionen über die Kunst und 

Literatur, die sich durch Souveräinitätsgeist auszeichnen. Das Tagebuch wird für das 

schreibende Ich auf weiten Strecken zum Arbeitsjournal. 

Parallel dazu konstituirt sich eine andere Ebene im Tagebuch: Die Diaristin 

sammelt und klebt in ihre Tagebuchhefte Eintrittskarten, Theaterprogramme, 

Postkarten und Ansichtskarten, Fotographien ein, illustriert die Eintragungen mit 

eigenen Zeichnungen, meistens Selbstporträts und stellt damit visuelle Bezüge zu dem 

Geschriebenen her. 

Hier macht sich die Tradition verschiedener Formen des Stammbuches bzw. des 

Poesiealbums bemerkbar15 , die in der Rolle eines “Gedenkbuches”, eines 

Erinnerungsbüchleins auftrat und neben Notaten reichlich mit Zeichnungen, 

Scherenschnitten und inbesondere ab zweite Hälfte des 18. Jahrhunderts mit ganz 

“weiblichen Beigaben” wie gepressten Blumen, Spitzenbildern u.ä. versehen wurde. 

Gleichzeitig steht dieses Verfahren ganz im Zeichen der ästhetischen 

Bestrebungen der Wiener Moderne. Jacques Le Rider, der die Skizzen von Peter 

Altenberg als Gattung des “intimen Albums” auffasst, stellt fest, dass bei Altenberg 

die Grenzen des traditionellen Tagebuches eines Schrifstellers oder eines 

Intellektuellen, das im allgemeinen auf Schrift und Text beschränkt bleibt, gesprengt 

werden, um Bilder und Collagen von verschiedenen Dokumenten hinzuzufügen16 Darin sieht Le Ride “den entscheidenden Einfluss einer besonders in Wien gängigen 

Gattung der “Chronik”, die sich Feuilleton nannte” 17 . 

Das Tagebuch von Alma Mahler–Werfel verfügt folglich über eine Reihe von 

Mitteln und Mechanismen, die einerseits die Wahrheits–Illusion vermitteln und der 

Tagebuchaussage den Anschein der Authentizität verleihen, wodurch der Text


zusehens in die Kategorie des Zeitdokuments gerückt wird. Gleichzeitig tritt der 

Einsatz von verschiedenen Dokumenten, von Tatsachenmaterial als Erinnerungsstütze 

auf und ermöglicht die Fehlbarkeiten und Lücken der Erinnerung umzugehen. 

Das Tagebuch beginnt mit der Suite 4 – die ersten drei sind entweder nicht 

vorhanden oder verschollen – mit einer belanglosen Aufzeichnung: “Schwänzte 

Laborstunde.” 18 , was man als eine Art offenen Anfang deuten kann und was auf 

Unabgeschlossenheit und Prozesshaftigkeit der Tagebuchaufzeichnungen hinweist und 

als eine mögliche Fortzetzung der früheren Aufzeichungen zu verstehen ist. 

Am 16. Januar 1902, kurz bevor Alma Schindler Gustav Mahler heiratet (am 9. 

März 1902), werden die Aufzeichnungen abgebrochen. Ein derartiger Schluss, weist 

Sabine Voigt hin, ist durchaus für ein Frauentagebuch typisch: “Eine Heirat beendete 

häufig das Führen eines Tagebuchs, was in der Regel mehrere Gründe hatte: Zum 

ersten wurde innerhalb der Ehe die Identität der Frau über den Mann definiert, die 

Frage nach der Standortbestimmung ihres Selbstbewußtseins wurde damit zumindest 

nach gesellschaftlichen Gesichtspunkten beantwortet. Zum zweiten galt in der Ehe 

offiziell die Prämisse der Offenheit, das heißt, die Frau sollte vor ihrem Mann keine 

Geheimnisse haben, wenn sie keinen Verdacht erregen wollte.” 19 . Wenn man die 

bekannte Passage aus Gustav Mahlers Brief vom 20.Dezember 1902: “...Du mußt 

Dich mir bedingungslos hingeben, Dein zukünftiges Leben in jeder Einzelheit ganz 

nach meinen Bedürfnissen ausrichten...” 20 – in Betracht zieht, scheint dieses 

Gattungsmerkmal des Frauentagebuches leicht auf die “Tagebuch–Suiten” zu 

übertagen. Denn wenigstens auf den ersten Blick willigt Alma in diese Forderung ein. 

Dennoch funktioniert diese Besonderheit des weiblichen Diariums im Fall von 

Alma Maler–Werfel wohl kaum. Man kann annehmen, dass Alma Mahler ihre 

Aufzeichnungen zwar unterbrochen jedoch später dann weitergeführt hat. Es gibt zum 

Beispiel auch Tagebücher, die bis jetzt noch nicht veröffentlicht wurden 

(Tagebuchnotizen aus dem Jahre 1913, die sich im Privatbesitz befinden und deren 

Kopie man in Oskar –Kokoschka–Archiv finden kann21 . In “Mein Leben” kann man 

den Verweis darauf finden, dass die Verfasserung für die Beleuchtung der Ereignisse 

aus den 20er Jahren oft nach einem Tagebuch greift. Oder es wird zum Beispiel bei 

der Beschreibung der Ereignisse aus dem Sommer 1940 der Verlust des Gepäcks „mit 

allen meinen Aufzeichnungen” 22 bedauert. Aufschlussreich ist, dass der 

Autobiographie “Mein Leben”, in die u.a Fragmente des Tagebuches von Franz 

Werfel einmontiert werden, das, wenn zum Teil transformierte, Prinzip des 

Tagebuchs–Aufzeichnens zugrunde liegt. Die die Prozessualität bzw. Kontinuität des 

diaristische Schreibens von Alma Mahler–Werfel rückt das Tagebuch in die Kategorie 

des Hauptwerkes ihres Lebens. Somit wird die Schrift für Alma Mahler–Werfel zum 

Medium, in dem sie ihre Subjekivität zu behaupten versucht. Das Schreiben wird 

damit zu einer wichtigen Bedingung ihrer weiblichen Identität. 

Gattungsgemäss finden sich in den “Tagebuch–Suiten” nicht wenige 

Überlegungen in hinsichtlich des eigenen Tagebuchs. Sie werden dabei oft mit der 

Frage nach der Wahrheit verbunden, die von vielen Diaristen als Kernproblem des 

Tagebuches aufgefasst wird. Während der Italienreise im April 1899 notiert sie: 

“Gestern sprach ich mit Karlweiss über das Tagebuchführen. Er sagte, es ist gut sich 

zu gewöhnen, mit sich zu rechten, aber ganz wahr ist man nie mit sich selbst, es ist


103 

immer eine gewisse Koketterie dabei, und ich musste ihm leider rechtgeben.” Und 

stellt weiter fest: “Ich habe mich oft belogen in diesen Blättern und viele meiner 

Thaten beschönigt” 23 . Das Tagebuch –Ich fühlt sich folglich überhaupt nicht dem 

Postulat der Wahrheitsfindung verpflichtet. Es handelt sich dabei sich nicht um das 

spezifische Problem der Jahrhundertwende, etwa um das Schnitzlersche 

“Ineinanderfliessen von Wahrheit und Lüge, sondern vielmehr um das Erkennen der 

besonderen Rolle des Ich im Laufe des Tagebuchschreibens, denn laut Manfred 

Jurgensen „wo immer sich das Individuum sprachlich reflektiert, entfaltet sich ein 

Prozeß der Fiktionalisierung” 24 . Das heisst, das Ich, wenn es durch die Sprache 

ausgedrückt wird, erscheint als etwas anderes. Es kann zugleich wahr und unwahr 

sein. Damit wird das Tagebuch auch als fiktionaler Selbtsentwurf aufgefasst, was nicht 

zuletzt den Einsatz des breiten Spektrums der Techniken der Selbtstilisierung 

voraussetzt und rechtfertigt. 

Am 6. September 1898 notiert die 19–jährige Alma Schindler: “Ich schreibe 

vielleicht nicht alles in mein Tagebuch, aber ich deute alles an – meine geheimsten 

Empfindungen – und wenn ich nach Jahren nicht mehr im Stande // sein kann [bin]” 

zwischen den Zeilen “zu lesen, dann ist es gut, dass ich es noch angedeutet habe – 

denn dann bin ich nicht werth, mich je ganz und voll zu kennen. Und wenn ich mich 

je meiner Meinung schämen sollte.” 25 (116). Man kann diese Eintragung nicht nur mit 

der im allgemeinen für jeden Diaristen typischen Angst verbinden, dass ihre 

Aufzeichnungen von anderer Person gelesen werden Obwohl das Tagebuch Hinweise 

enthält, die darauf schliessen lassen, das es unter Kontrolle der Mutter stand. In “Mein 

Leben” wird rückblickend konstatiert: “Ihr Ehrenwort brechend, studierte sie(die 

Mutter– ) täglich mein Tagebuchstammeln...” 26 . Auch die Alma Mahler–Werfels oft 

zugeschriebene Sorge um das eigene Erscheinungsbild scheint von sekundärer 

Bedeutung zu sein. Vielmehr zeichnen hier sich bestimmte Strategien des 

Tagebuchschreibens ab. “Andeuten”, “nicht alles schreiben” und das sich daraus 

resultierende “zwischen den Zeilen lesen” erweisen sich als bewusst von der Diaristin 

eingesetztes Verfahren der textuellen Konstruktion. Sie entwirft damit auch die 

Vorstellung von der alles bestimmenden Rolle des Tagebuch–Ichs, das über völlige 

Freiheit einer Selbstgestaltung verfügt. 

“Andeuten” zu können, heisst auch eine eigene Sprechweise zu entwickeln, eine 

kodierte Sprache, Chiffren benutzen, um eigene Gedanken und Empfindungen bei der 

späteren im Diarium bereits “vorprogrammierten” Lektüre eigener Notitzen abrufen 

zu können. 

Die Relektüre eigener Tagebücher, eine für dieses Genre durchaus charakteristische 

Erscheinung, wird auch von Alma Mahler–Werfel ständig praktiziert. Auf 

dieses Problem macht Alma Mahler –Werfel aufmerksam in einem Gespräch mit 

Arthur Schnitzler vom 24. März 1928, das in „Mein Leben” erwähnt wird: “Ich 

erzählte Schnitzler, daß ich meine alten Tagebücher gelesen wieder hätte, daß sie mir 

gemäßer seien als die Aufzeichnungen der späteren Jahre...” 27 

Die Herausgeber weisen darauf hin, dass der Vergleich von Tinten und 

Schriftzügen des Originalmanuskripts Beweise dafür liefert, dass Alma Mahler– 

Werfel ihre Schrift zu verschiedenen Zeiten gelesen hat. Sicher hat sie das auch zu 

verschiedenen Zwecken getan. Auch in den Anmerkungen der Herausgeber zum


Tagebuchtext finden wir gelegentlich Kommentare solcher Art: “Es folgen drei kräftig 

durchgestrichene Zeilen” 28 oder: “An dieser Stelle folgen mehrere, vermutlich von 

AMW nachträglich entfernte Seiten” 29 „AS hat die folgenden 4 Zeilen unleserlich 

gemacht” 30 Karen Monson, Alma Mahler–Werfels Biographin, verweist darauf, dass 

Alma etwa ab Anfang der 30er Jahre ihre Tagebücher zu “zensieren” beginnt 31welche Tagebücher dabei gemeint sind, bleibt allerdings offen. Eigentlich macht Alma Mahler 

–Werfel auch kein Geheimniss daraus. Ihre Relektüre gibt sie als solche im Text des 

Diariums deutlich zu erkennen.Meistens sind es lakonische Kommentare 

unterschiedlichen Charakters: Von sachlich– neutraler Notiz: “Anfang Jänner 1963 

durchgeschaut” 32 über die emotional– kommentierende Aufzeichnung: “Schwerste 

Zeit überwunden! A.M.W.” 33 bis zu kühl–sezierender Bemerkung: “durchgesehen 

u.corrigiert” 34 oder: “gelesen und gekürzt A.M.W.” 35 Überprüft Anfang Jänner 1963" 36 

Hier tut sich die Frage auf nach dem Ziel der Korrektureingriffe. Ging es Alma 

Mahler–Werfel wirklich um das Retuschieren des eigenen Bildes? Man könnte 

vielleicht die Vermutung wagen, dass das redigierende Ich eher den Versuch 

unternimmt, ein klareres Bild von diesen Jahren zu geben, indem das Nebensächliche 

entfernt wird und das Wesentliche erhalten bleibt? 

Mit den “Tagebuch Suiten” gestaltet Alma Mahler–Werfel eine eigene diaristische 

Form, in deren Zentrum ein ausserordentlich dynamisches, ständig Sich–Aufbauendes 

Ich steht. 

Es zeigt sich, dass die Reflexionen der Diaristin über Möglichkeiten und 

Notwendigkeit des Tagebuches, die sich aus der eigenen diaristischen Tätigkeit 

resultieren und die auch als Ergebnisse der eigenen Schreiberfahrung präsentiert 

werden, nicht zuletzt auf die Strategien des Sich– Erinnerns hinauslaufen. 

ANMERKUNGEN 

1 Zitiert nach: Widinger A. Kokoschka und Alma Mahler. – München–New York: Prestel, 

19, S.82; Vgl.dazu auch: Barker A. Altenberg und die “Neue Musik in Wien //Lunzer H., 

Lunzer–Talos V. Peter Altenberg Extrakte des Lebens. – Salzburg–Wien–Frankfurt/Main: 

Residenz Verlag, 2003, 185. 

2 Mahler–Werfel A. Tagebuch–Suiten. Hr.v. Beaumont A. u. Rode–Breymann S. – 

Frankfurt/ Main: Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag, 2002, S. XVI. 

3 Vgl.: Rode–Breymann S. Die Komponistin Alma Mahler–Werfel. – Hannover: 

Niedersächsisches Staatstheater, 1999. 

4 Mahler–Werfel A. Tagebuch–Suiten, a.a.O., S.VII. 

5 Le Rider J. Kein Tag ohne Schreiben: Tagebuchliteratur der Wiener Moderne. – Wien: 

Passagen–Verl., 2002, S. 19. 

6 ebd., S. 14. 

7 Mahler–Werfel Alma. Mein Leben. – Frankfurt /Main: ÖS.Fischer Verlag, 1960, S. 20. 

8 ebd., S. 21. 

9 ebd., S. 26. 

10 Mahler–Werfel A. Tagebuch–Suiten, a.a.O., S. 104. 

11 ebd., S. 11. 

12 ebd., S. 55. 

13 ebd., S. 176.


105 

14 Vgl. ebd., S. XY. 

15 Dazu: Hörath H. Vom Stammbuch zum Steckbrief. Geschichtliches rund um das 

Poesiealbum. www.kinderbücher–geisenheyner.de 

16 Vgl.: Le Rider J., a.a.O., S. 132–135. 

17 ebd., S. 136. 


19 Voigt S. Die Tagebücher der Marie Bashkirtseff von 1877–1884. – Dortmund: Ed. 

Ebersbach, 1997, S. 34. 

20 Zitiert nach: Monson K. Alma Mahler– Werfel. Die unbezähmbare Muse. – München: 

Heyne Verlag, 2002, S. 56. 

21 Dazu: Widinger A., a.a.O., Anm. 28 , S. 119. 

22 Mahler–Werfel A. Mein Leben, a.a.O. S. 311. 


24 Jurgensen M. Das fiktionale Ich.Untersuchungen zum Tagebuch. – Bern u.München: 

Francke Verlag, 1979, S. 7. 


26 ebd., S. 25. 

27 ebd., S. 190. 

28 ebd., S. 811. 

29 ebd., S. 823. 

30 ebd., S. 773. 

31 Monson K. Alma Mahler–Werfel, a.a.O., S. 242. 


33 ebd., S. 245. 

34 ebd., S. 124. 

35 ebd., S. 668. 

36 ebd., S. 155. 

Summary 

The “Diaries” by Alma Mahler–Werfel (1879–1964), in spite of their publishing 

after the death of the author, depict an entering of a woman into the “Wiener 

Moderne”, which still was dominated by men at 1900. This paper shows the story of 

beginning of “Diaries” and examines several diary structure problems. It shows that 

Alma Mahler–Werfel created her own diary form, which is connected with the self– 

remembrance strategies. 

Kopsavilkums 

Lai gan Almas Mâleres–Verfeles (Alma Mahler–Werfel) dienasgrâmata 

“Tagebuch–Suiten“ (1996) bija publicçta pçc viòas nâves, to var uzlûkot par 

mçìinâjumu izprast sievietes iekïauðanos “Wiener Moderne” estçtikas laukâ, kurâ ap 

1900. gadu joprojâm valdîja vîrieðu dominante. Ðis raksts analizç “Tagebuch–Suiten” 

raðanos, kâ arî daþas dienasgrâmatu struktûras problçmas. Alma Mâlere–Verfele radîja 

pati savu dienasgrâmatas formu, kas saistîta ar paðatcerçðanâs stratçìiju.


MÂKSLA, 106.–112. lpp. 

Ãðàæäàíñêîå ìóæåñòâî òåàòðîâåäà Á. Ðåéõà â 

èíòåðïðåòàöèè ïüåñû Ô. Øèëëåðà “Ìàðèÿ Ñòþàðò” 

â Ñîâåòñêîé Ðîññèè âðåìåí ìàññîâîãî òåððîðà 

B. Reichs Civil Courage in the Interpretation of 

Schillers Play “Maria Stuart” in Soviet Russia During 

the Years of Mass Terror 

B. Reiha pilsoniskâ drosme F. Ðillera lugas “Marija 

Stjuarte” interpretçjumâ Padomju Krievijâ masu 

terora apstâkïos 

Beâte Paðkevica (Latvija) 

Latvijas Universitâte 

Vienîbas gatve 42–2, Rîga, LV 1004 

e–pasts: beatep@latnet.lv 

Ïîñòàíîâêà ïüåñû Øèëëåðà «Ìàðèÿ Ñòþàðò» âî âðåìÿ ñòàëèíñêîãî òåððîðà ïîáóäèëà 

íåìåöêîãî ðåæèññåðà è òåàòðàëüíîãî êðèòèêà åâðåéñêîãî ïðîèñõîæäåíèÿ Áåðíãàðäà 

Ðåéõà, æèâøåãî â Ñîâåòñêîì Ñîþçå, âûñêàçàòü îñóæäåíèå ðåïðåññèÿì. Ñâîåé 

èíòåðïðåòàöèåé îáðàçà Ìàðèè Ñòþàðò Áåðíãàðä Ðåéõ âñòóïàåò â äèñêóññèþ îá 

àêòóàëüíîñòè êëàññèêè, êîòîðàÿ âåëàñü óæå ñ îñíîâàíèÿ ãîñóäàðñòâà ðàáî÷èõ è êðåñòüÿí. 

Ïðåìèðÿÿ îáðàç Ìàðèè Ñòþàðò ê ñîâðåìåííûì åìó ñîáûòèÿì, Áåðíãàðä Ðåéõ ïðîâîäèò 

ïàðàëëåëè ìåæäó ñóäüáîé ýòîãî èñòîðè÷åñêîãî ïåðñîíàæà è ñóäüáîé ñïóòíèöû ñâîåé 

æèçíè è ìíîãèìè äðóãèìè ïîõîæèìè ñóäüáàìè. 

Keywords: Øèëëåð, “Ìàðèÿ Ñòþàðò”, Áåðíãàðä Ðåéõ, ñîâðåìåííîñòü êëàññèêè. 

«Ìîãóò ñ íàìè íèçêî / Çäåñü ïîñòóïàòü – 

óíèçèòü íàñ íå ìîãóò» 

Òî, ÷òî êëàññèêà ÷èòàåòñÿ è èíòåðïðåòèðóåòñÿ âíîâü è âíîâü, íå íîâîñòü. Íî 

îñîáåííî óâëåêàòåëüíà òàêàÿ èíòåðïðåòàöèÿ, êîãäà îíà ñâÿçàíà ñ ëè÷íîé ñóäüáîé 

èíòåðïðåòà. Mû ïîëó÷àåì âîçìîæíîñòü âçãëÿíóòü íà ïðîèçâåäåíèå åãî ãëàçàìè è 

âìåñòå ñ íèì îòêðûòü ðàíåå íåîñîçíàííûå âçàèìîñâÿçè â õîðîøî èçâåñòíîì íàì 

ïðîèçâåäåíèè. Òàêèì ïðèìåðîì ÿâëÿåòñÿ ïüåñà Øèëëåðà «Ìàðèÿ Ñòþàðò», 

ïîñòàâëåííàÿ òåàòðîì Ëåíñîâåòà â 1938 ãîäó1 , óâèäåííàÿ è ïðî÷óâñòâîâàííàÿ 

÷åëîâåêîì, áîÿùèìñÿ çà ñâîþ æèçíü è ïðåæäå âñåãî çà æèçíü ñâîåé 

âîçëþáëåííîé â ýïîõó ìàññîâîãî òåððîðà. Êñòàòè çàìåòèòü, ÷òî Øèëëåð áûë 

îäíèì èç íàèáîëåå èãðàííûõ àâòîðîâ íà ñöåíàõ Ñîâåòñêîãî Ñîþçà è ôàøèñòñêîé 

Ãåðìàíèè âî âòîðîé ïîëîâèíå òðèäöàòûõ ãîäîâ. 

Â èþëüñêîì íîìåðå æóðíàëà «Òåàòð» îò 1940–ãî ãîäà îïóáëèêîâàíà ñòàòüÿ 

Áåðíãàðäà Ðåéõà (1894–1972) “Êëàññèêà âñåãäà ñîâðåìåííà!”. 2 Àâñòðèéñêèé 

åâðåé, äîêòîð þðèäè÷åñêèõ íàóê, òåàòðàëüíûé ðåæèññåð, ïåðååçæàåò íà 

ïîñòîÿííîå æèòåëüñòâî â ÑÑÑÐ óæå â ñåðåäèíå äâàäöàòûõ ãîäîâ. Ýòî 

ïðîèñõîäèò èç ëþáâè ê òåàòðó Ìåéåðõîëüäà è èç ëþáâè ê æåíùèíå, ëàòûøñêîìó

Beâte Paðkevica. B. Reiha pilsoniskâ drosme F. Ðillera lugas “Marija Stjuarte” interpretçjumâ .. 

107 

ðåæèññåðó Àñå Ëàöèñ, êîòîðàÿ ïðèíèìàåò àêòèâíîå ó÷àñòèå â êóëüòóðíîé æèçíè 

Áåðëèíà è Ìîñêâû. Íåìöåâ îíà çíàêîìèò ñ íîâèíêàìè ðóññêîé ñöåíû è 

ðåæèññåðñêèìè íîâøåñòâàìè, ðóññêèì æå â ñâîþ î÷åðåäü ðàññêàçûâàåò î 

ñîâðåìåííîì íåìåöêîì òåàòðå. Á. Ðåéõ, â òî âðåìÿ ðåæèññåð â òåàòðå 

Ðåéíãàðäòà, çíàêîìèòñÿ ñ Àñåé Ëàöèñ â 1922 ãîäó â Áåðëèíå. Â 1925 ãîäó îí 

ïåðåñåëÿåòñÿ â Ìîñêâó, íåìíîãî ïîçæå òóäà æå åäåò è Ëàöèñ. Ñâÿçü îáîèõ 

ðåæèññåðîâ äëèòñÿ âñþ æèçíü, îôèöèàëüíîå îôîðìëåíèå îòíîøåíèé 

ïðîèñõîäèò òîëüêî â 1957 ãîäó ïîñëå äîëãîé ðàçëóêè, âîéíû è ÃÓËÀÃà. 

Íåìåöêîé ïóáëèêå Ðåéõ èçâåñòåí â ïåðâóþ î÷åðåäü ñâîåé êíèãîé 

âîñïîìèíàíèé «Im Wettlauf mit der Zeit» (Áåðëèí, 1970), èçäàííîé è íà ðóññêîì 

ÿçûêå, íî â íåñêîëüêî èíîì âàðèàíòå ïîä íàçâàíèåì “Âåíà. Áåðëèí. Ìîñêâà”, â 

êîòîðîé îí îïèñûâàåò ñâîå ñîòðóäíè÷åñòâî ñ Ìàêñîì Ðåéíãàðäòîì, Ýðâèíîì 

Ïèñêàòîðîì, Áåðòîëüòîì Áðåõòîì è äð. Â ÑÑÑÐ Áåðíãàðä Ðåéõ çàáîòèòñÿ îá 

èçäàíèè è ïîïóëÿðèçàöèè ñî÷èíåíèé Áåðòîëüòà Áðåõòà. Åãî âêëàä íà ýòîì 

ïîïðèùå åùå íå îöåíåí. Ïðè÷èíîé òîìó, âîçìîæíî, åãî ðîäíîé ÿçûê – 

íåìåöêèé, à íå ðóññêèé – è åâðîïåéñêàÿ îáðàçîâàííîñòü, êîòîðàÿ íå îñîáåííî 

ïðèâåòñòâóåòñÿ â ïîñëåâîåííîì Ñîâåòñêîì Ñîþçå. Ñêîëüêî åùå äðóãèõ 

ðóêîïèñåé Á. Ðåéõà ïîêîÿòñÿ â ìîñêîâñêèõ àðõèâàõ, ïîêàæåò âðåìÿ. 

Äëÿ ïîëó÷åíèÿ ðàçðåøåíèÿ íà ðàáîòó â Áåðëèíåð Àíñàìáëü, òåàòðå 

Á. Áðåõòà, êóäà åãî ïðèãëàøàë ëè÷íî Áðåõò, Ðåéõ ïèøåò â ñâîåé àâòîáèîãðàôèè: 

“Äð. Áåðíãàðä Ðåéõ, ðîæä. 20 èþíÿ 1894 ãîäà â ãîðîäå Ïðåðîâ, ×ÑÐ. Â 1915 

ãîäó çàùèòèë äèññåðòàöèþ íà ñòåïåíü êàíäèäàòà þðèäè÷åñêèõ íàóê â Âåíñêîì 

óíèâåðñèòåòå. 1914–1920 ðåæèññåð è äðàìàòóðã â ðàçëè÷íûõ âåíñêèõ òåàòðàõ. 

Â 1920 ãîäó áûë ïðèãëàøåí íà äîëæíîñòü ðåæèññåðà â òåàòð Ðåéíãàðäòà è 

ïðîðàáîòàë òàì äî 1925 ãîäà, ñ îäíèì ãîäè÷íûì ïåðåðûâîì, âî âðåìÿ êîòîðîãî 

ÿâëÿëñÿ ãëàâíûì ðåæèññåðîì Ìþíõåíñêîãî Êàìåðíîãî òåàòðà. Íàçîâó íåñêîëüêî 

íàèáîëåå âàæíûõ ïîñòàíîâîê: 

«Íà äíå» Ãîðüêîãî, «Èãðîêè» Ãîãîëÿ, «Êîðîëü Ëèð» Øåêñïèðà, «Ñòàêàí 

âîäû» Ñêðèáà è äð. 

Ñ 1925 ãîäà íàõîæóñü â Ñîâåòñêîì Ñîþçå, ãäå ðàáîòàþ ðåæèññåðîì, 

òåàòðàëüíûì êðèòèêîì è íàó÷íûì ñîòðóäíèêîì. 

Ñ 1934 ãîäà ÷ëåí Ñîþçà ïèñàòåëåé. Ñ 1942 ïî 1943 ãîä áûë â Òàøêåíòå 

ñåêðåòàðåì ãðóïïû àíòèôàøèñòñêèõ ïèñàòåëåé. Ñ 1929 ïî 1931 íàó÷íûé ñåêðåòàðü 

Òåàòðàëüíîé ñåêöèè ïðè Ëèòåðàòóðíîì èíñòèòóòå Êîììóíèñòè÷åñêîé àêàäåìèè, 

äåéñòâèòåëüíûé ÷ëåí Ãîñóäàðñòâåííîé Àêàäåìèè Èñêóññòâ, ñ 1931 ïî 34 

çàâåäóþùèé ó÷åáíîé ÷àñòüþ ÃÈÒÈÑà, ñ 1935 ïî 1937 ãëàâíûé ðåäàêòîð ÌÎÐÒà3 . 

Ñîâåòñêîå ãðàæäàíñòâî èìåþ ñ 1932 ãîäà. Ñ 1931 ãîäà êàíäèäàò â ÷ëåíû 

ÊÏÑÑ, â 1938 èñêëþ÷åí èç ïàðòèè çà çíàêîìñòâî ñ Âèëüãåëüìîì Êíîðèíûì. Â 

1943 ðåïðåññèðîâàí, îñâîáîæäåí â ÿíâàðå 1951. Ñ òåõ ïîð æèâó â ã. Âàëìèåðà è 

çàíèìàþñü ïèñàòåëüñêèì òðóäîì. 

Ìîñêâà, 25.05.1955” 4 

Â 1940 ãîäó Á. Ðåéõ íàõîäèòñÿ â Ìîñêâå, à åãî ãðàæäàíñêàÿ æåíà À. Ëàöèñ 

àðåñòîâàíà åùå â ÿíâàðå 1938 ãîäà âìåñòå ñ äðóãèìè ñîòðóäíèêàìè ëàòûøñêîãî 

ýìèãðàíòñêîãî òåàòðà «Ñêàòóâå». Äî÷ü Àñè, Äàãìàðà Êèìåëå, òîãäà åùå


øêîëüíèöà, ïèøåò â ñâîèõ âîñïîìèíàíèÿõ, èçäàííûõ â Ðèãå â 1997 ãîäó ïîä 

íàçâàíèåì «Àñÿ»: 

«Ìàòü àðåñòîâàëè 12–ãî ÿíâàðÿ 1938–ãî ãîäà. Óæå çàäîëãî äî ýòîãî 

÷óâñòâîâàëîñü, ÷òî âîçäóõà ñòàíîâèòñÿ âñå ìåíüøå. Â ëàòûøñêîì òåàòðå 

«Ñêàòóâå», ãäå Àñÿ òîãäà ðàáîòàëà, íà÷àëè àðåñòîâûâàòü ëþäåé. Îá ýòîì ãðîìêî 

íå ãîâîðèëè, îíè ïðîñòî èñ÷åçàëè. Îäèí çà äðóãèì.» 5 

Ñîãëàñíî âîñïîìèíàíèÿì Äàãìàðû Êèìåëå, Ðåéõà ïðèãëàñèëè â ÊÃÁ è 

ïðåäëîæèëè ïîäïèñàòü, ÷òî Àñÿ Ëàöèñ ñîòðóäíè÷àëà ñ àíòèñîâåòñêîé 

îðãàíèçàöèåé, è ÷òî îí îò íåå îòêàçûâàåòñÿ. Ðåéõ ýòîãî íå ñäåëàë, õîòÿ 

íàâåðíÿêà ïîíèìàë, ÷åãî åìó ýòî áóäåò ñòîèòü. Îí áîëüøå íå áûë äåêàíîì 

Òåàòðàëüíîãî ôàêóëüòåòà, íå èìåë ïðàâà ÷èòàòü ëåêöèè. Èç ìèëîñòè åìó 

ïðåäëîæèëè ðàáîòó â àðõèâå èíñòèòóòà. Êàæäóþ íî÷ü îí æäàë, ÷òî çà íèì 

ïðèäóò, è âñåãäà äåðæàë íàãîòîâå ìåøîê ñ íåîáõîäèìûìè âåùàìè. 

Ñ Äàãìàðîé îíè ñòîÿëè â èçíóðèòåëüíûõ î÷åðåäÿõ ó Áóòûðñêîé òþðüìû, ãäå 

ñíà÷àëà äåðæàëè Àñþ. Îäíàæäû ïåðåäà÷ó áîëüøå íå ïðèíÿëè. Ïîñëå äîëãèõ 

ðàññïðîñîâ Ðåéõó óäàëîñü óçíàòü, ÷òî Àñÿ îñóæäåíà è ñîñëàíà íà äåñÿòü ëåò â 

Êàçàõñòàí. Îòòóäà îíà åìó ïèñàëà. Âî âðåìÿ âîéíû ñëåäû åå çàòåðÿëèñü. 

Â 1941 ãîäó Ðåéõ îñòàëñÿ åäèíñòâåííûì èç ïðåæíèõ ðóññêèõ çíàêîìûõ 

Áðåõòà, ñ êîòîðûì îí âñòðåòèëñÿ âî âðåìÿ ïåðååçäà â Àìåðèêó. Ðåéõ 

ðàññêàçûâàë Áðåõòó î ñâîåì «íåñ÷àñòüå» 6 , íî áîëåå êîíêðåòíûõ ñâåäåíèé íåò. Â 

1943–ì ãîäó Ðåéõ ðàçäåëèë ñóäüáó Àñè Ëàöèñ, ñîñëàííîé â Êàçàõñòàí. 

Íåóäèâèòåëüíî, ÷òî â òàêîé ëè÷íîé ñèòóàöèè èäåè Ïðîñâåùåíèÿ – ñâîáîäà 

è ñàìîîïðåäåëåíèå ëè÷íîñòè – ïîëó÷àþò îñîáîå çíà÷åíèå. Íà ñïåêòàêëå 

«Ìàðèÿ Ñòþàðò» çðèòåëþ Áåðíãàðäó Ðåéõó îòêðûâàþòñÿ âçàèìîñâÿçè, êîòîðûõ 

â ñòðàíå âñåâèäÿùèõ è âñåñëûøàùèõ ñòåí ëó÷øå íå äîïóñêàòü è â ìûñëÿõ. Íî 

ìîë÷àòü è ïîõîðîíèòü â ñåáå ýòè íàâÿç÷èâûå ìûñëè – òîæå íå âûõîä. Á. Ðåéõ 

ðåøàåò ãîâîðèòü, íî ãîâîðèòü òàê, ÷òîáû ÷èòàòåëþ, à óæ òåì áîëåå öåíçîðó, íå 

äî êîíöà ñòàëî áû ÿñíî, ÷òî æå òàê âîëíóåò àâòîðà ñòàòüè â ïúåñå Øèëëåðà 

«Ìàðèÿ Ñòþàðò». 

Ðåéõ èñïîëüçóåò â ñâîåé ñòàòüå òðè ãîëîñà, êîòîðûå áëèçêè ïñèõîòåðàïåâòè÷åñêèì 

ãîëîñàì ñàìîàíàëèçà: ãîëîñ íà÷èíàþùåãî àêòåðà À, êîòîðûé 

â ñâîåé þíîøåñêîé ïûëêîñòè ïîõîæ íà îáðàç ìîëîäîãî êîììóíèñòà; äðàìàòóðãà 

Ï ñ áîãàòûì æèçíåííûì îïûòîì, êîòîðûé îõàðàêòåðèçîâàí àâòîðîì ñòàòüè êàê 

«îïïîíåíò èç ïðèíöèïà» 7 ; è õóäîæíèêà ñöåíû Ë, êîòîðûé â ñâîåé 

ýìîöèîíàëüíîé è ãóìàíèñòè÷åñêè íàïðàâëåííîé èíòåðïðåòàöèè íàèáîëåå 

áëèçîê àâòîðó. Ýòè òðè ïåðñîíàæà âåäóò â äîìå îòäûõà õóäîæíèêîâ íî÷íîé 

ðàçãîâîð îá àêòóàëüíîñòè êëàññèêè äëÿ ñîâåòñêîãî çðèòåëÿ âî âðåìÿ, êîãäà: 

«Áåçóìíûì âèõðåì íåñóòñÿ ñåé÷àñ ìèðîâûå ñîáûòèÿ. Ñóäüáû ìèëëèîíîâ 

ëþäåé ìåíÿþòñÿ ñ íåâåðîÿòíîé áûñòðîòîé, çà äåíü, çà ÷àñ. Â÷åðà, ñåãîäíÿ, 

çàâòðà ïðîèñõîäèëè è áóäóò ïðîèñõîäèòü ñîáûòèÿ, îïðåäåëÿþùèå ñóäüáû öåëûõ 

ïîêîëåíèé, åùå íå ðîäèâøèõñÿ, åùå íå çà÷àòûõ.» 8 

Íà÷èíàþùèé àêòåð íåäîâîëåí òåì, ÷òî îí äîëæåí èãðàòü â «Òðåõ ñåñòðàõ», 

â «Êàê âàì ýòî ïîíðàâèòñÿ», òîëüêî ïîòîìó, ÷òî íåò õîðîøèõ ïüåñ ñîâðåìåííûõ 

ñîâåòñêèõ àâòîðîâ. Äðàìàòóðã çàùèùàåòñÿ:


109 

«Âû êàçíèòå íàñ çà òî, ÷òî ìû íå òàê òàëàíòëèâû, êàê òå äåñÿòü–äâàäöàòü 

÷åëîâåê, êîòîðûõ ÷åëîâå÷åñòâî (çàìåòüòå, íå îäèí íàðîä, à âñå êóëüòóðíûå 

íàðîäû, âìåñòå âçÿòûå) ñ âåëè÷àéøèì òðóäîì è óñèëèÿìè ïðîèçâåëî íà ñâåò çà 

íåñêîëüêî ñòîëåòèé.» 9 

Àêòåð À ñàì íåâîëüíî ïðèõîäèò ê ìûñëè îá àêòóàëüíîñòè êëàññèêè, êîãäà 

îí ãîâîðèò î íåîáõîäèìîñòè ïîêàçûâàòü íà ñöåíå «ðåàëüíîñòü íàñòîÿùåãî». Îí 

âñïîìèíàåò î ñèëüíîé ðåàêöèè ïóáëèêè âî âðåìÿ ïðåäñòàâëåíèÿ «Ìàðèè 

Ñòþàðò» â ìåñòàõ, ãäå 

«(...) ïîëèòè÷åñêèå èíòðèãè è êîìáèíàöèè, ëèöåìåðíîå ñîáëþäåíèå 

ïðàâîâûõ ôîðì (÷óòü áûëî íå ñêàçàë: ïðàâîâûõ ôîðì áóðæóàçíîé äåìîêðàòèè) 

èñïîëüçóþòñÿ äëÿ ìàñêèðîâêè çâåðñêîãî íàñèëèÿ, æåñòîêîñòè, âîïèþùåãî 

áåççàêîíèÿ – ýòî êàïèòàëèñòè÷åñêîå ñåãîäíÿ.» 10 

Êàê è â äàëüíåéøåì â èíòåðïðåòàöèè, çäåñü âàæíû ïðèìå÷àíèÿ â ñêîáêàõ. 

Ãîâîðèòñÿ ëè çäåñü ëèøü î êàïèòàëèñòè÷åñêîé äåéñòâèòåëüíîñòè, ñóäèòü 

÷èòàòåëþ. Ïðèìå÷àòåëåí óæå òîò ôàêò, ÷òî «ïðàâîâûå ôîðìû áóðæóàçíîé 

äåìîêðàòèè» óïîìÿíóòû â ïîëîæèòåëüíîì ñìûñëå. Â äðóãîì ìåñòå Ðåéõ 

âûñêàçûâàåòñÿ áîëåå êîíêðåòíî, âêëàäûâàÿ â óñòà äðàìàòóðãà Ï ñëåäóþùóþ 

õàðàêòåðèñòèêó Ìàðèè Ñòþàðò, çâó÷àùóþ â òîãäàøíèõ óñëîâèÿõ ïî ìåíüøåé 

ìåðå äåðçêî: 

«Îíà – ãîñóäàðñòâåííàÿ ïðåñòóïíèöà. Îíà ïîääåðæèâàåò ñâÿçü ñ... (ïðîñòèòå 

çà ìîäåðíèçàöèþ, íî ýòî îïðåäåëåíèå íàïðàøèâàåòñÿ ñàìî ñîáîé) øïèîíñêèìè 

îðãàíèçàöèÿìè èíîñòðàííîé äåðæàâû è ñ çàãîâîðùè÷åñêèìè ãðóïïàìè âíóòðè 

ñòðàíû.» 11 

Íåñìîòðÿ íà òî, ÷òî èñòîðè÷åñêàÿ Ìàðèÿ Ñòþàðò ñ÷èòàåòñÿ îòðèöàòåëüíîé, 

ðåàêöèîííîé ëè÷íîñòüþ, äðàìàòóðã Ï âîñõâàëÿåò åå äóøåâíîå âåëè÷èå: 

«Ìàðèÿ îáëàäàåò ó Øèëëåðà ÷åðòàìè ïîäëèííîãî äóøåâíîãî âåëè÷èÿ: îíà 

ãîâîðèò ãîðüêèå èñòèíû Åëèçàâåòå, êîðîëåâå, îò êîòîðîé çàâèñèò åå æèçíü è 

êîòîðóþ îíà âî ÷òî áû òî íè ñòàëî äîëæíà áûëà áû ïîñòàðàòüñÿ ðàñïîëîæèòü ê 

ñåáå. Íàä ãîëîâîé åå è òàê çàíåñåí ìå÷. Îíà çíàåò ýòî, çíàåò, ÷òî ãîâîðÿ ïðàâäó, 

îíà ïîäòàëêèâàåò ðóêó, äåðæàùóþ ýòîò ìå÷, è âñå–òàêè ãîâîðèò ïðàâäó.» 12 

Ñ äðóãîé ñòîðîíû, äðàìàòóðã Ï íàçûâàåò Ìàðèþ Ñòþàðò «ðàñïóòíîé 

áàáåíêîé», «èìåâøåé òüìó ëþáîâíûõ ïðèêëþ÷åíèé è äàæå óáèâøåé îäíîãî èç 

ñâîèõ ìóæåé; èíòðèãàíòêîé ÷èñòåéøåé âîäû» 13 . Ñäåëàòü òàêóþ ëè÷íîñòü 

ãåðîèíåé ïüåñû ÿâëÿåòñÿ «ïñèõîëîãè÷åñêèì íîíñåíñîì», òàê îáúÿâëÿåò 

äðàìàòóðã Ï, ÷òîáû ñïðîâîöèðîâàòü ñâîèõ ñîáåñåäíèêîâ. Îí ïðèõîäèò ê 

ñëåäóþùåìó âûâîäó: 

«Íåñìîòðÿ íà îòäåëüíûå áëåñòÿùèå ìåñòà, íåäþæèííûé òåìïåðàìåíò è 

÷óâñòâî ñöåíû, äðàìàòóðã Ôðèäðèõ Øèëëåð íå ñïðàâèëñÿ ñî ñâîåé çàäà÷åé è 

ïîòåðïåë òâîð÷åñêîå ïîðàæåíèå.» 14 

Çäåñü ñëåäóåò çàìåòèòü, ÷òî Øèëëåð íå ïèñàë èñòîðè÷åñêóþ ïüåñó. Îí 

èñïîëüçîâàë ýòîò ñþæåò, ÷òîáû ïîêàçàòü «íåìîùíîñòü è âëàñòü îòäåëüíîãî 

èíäèâèäóóìà». Èññëåäîâàòåëü òâîð÷åñòâà Øèëëåðà Ãåëüìóò Êîîïìàí 

õàðàêòåðèçóåò ýòó äðàìó êàê «â øèðî÷àéøåì ñìûñëå ýòîãî ñëîâà ïîëèòè÷åñêóþ 

ïüåñó» 15 .


Ñêâîçü ýòè î÷êè ñìîòðåë è Á. Ðåéõ, êîãäà îí â Ìàðèè Ñòþàðò âèäåë ñâîþ 

áåçâèííî îñóæäåííóþ Àñþ. Óñòàìè õóäîæíèêà ñöåíû Ë Ðåéõ ãîâîðèò â ñâîåé 

ñòàòüå: 

«(...) Ïðåäñòàâüòå ñåáå íà ìãíîâåíèå, ÷òî Ìàðèè Ñòþàðò íèêîãäà íå 

ñóùåñòâîâàëî íà ñâåòå. Ïðåäñòàâüòå ñåáå, ÷òî ãåðîèíþ çîâóò íå Ìàðèÿ Ñòþàðò, 

à Èêñ, Èãðåê. (...) Òîãäà ïåðåä íàìè áóäåò ïðîñòî æåíùèíà, êîòîðóþ 

íåñïðàâåäëèâî äåðæàò â òþðüìå, êîòîðàÿ ñòðàñòíî æàæäåò ñâîáîäû è ëèøàåò 

ñåáÿ ïîñëåäíåãî øàíñà äîáèòüñÿ îñâîáîæäåíèÿ, ïîòîìó ÷òî íå õî÷åò, äàæå âî 

èìÿ ñâîáîäû, ïîñòóïèòüñÿ ñâîèì ÷åëîâå÷åñêèì äîñòîèíñòâîì.» 16 

Ìàðèÿ ãîâîðèò ñâîåé íÿíå Êåííåäè: «Ìîãóò ñ íàìè íèçêî / Çäåñü 

ïîñòóïàòü – óíèçèòü íàñ íå ìîãóò». 17 

Âíîâü è âíîâü â ïðîöåññå îñìûñëåíèÿ ïúåñû Ðåéõ îòêðûâàåò «ñâÿçè, 

êîòîðûõ ðàíüøå íå ïîíèìàë». 18 Òàê, åñëè ñðàâíèòü îïèñàíèå íåêîòîðûõ ñöåí ñ 

ïðàêòèêîé ñòàëèíñêèõ ïðîöåññîâ, íåëüçÿ íå çàìåòèòü ñõîäñòâà, ïðåæäå âñåãî â 

âåäåíèè ñóäà. 

Ìàðèÿ ãîâîðèò: «Óæ ñêîëüêî òÿæêèõ äíåé ïðîøëî ñ òåõ ïîð, / Êàê ñîðîê 

êîìèññàðîâ â ýòîì çàìêå / Íàïàëè íà ìåíÿ è ñ íåïðèñòîéíîé / Ïîñïåøíîñòüþ, 

íå äàâ ìíå äàæå â ïîìîùü / Çàùèòíèêà, ïîñòàâèëè íåæäàííî / Ïåðåä ñóäîì, 

äîñåëå íåáûâàëûì! / Íåïîäãîòîâëåííîé, îøåëîìëåííîé, / Ïðèøëîñü ìíå 

îòâå÷àòü íà îáâèíåíüÿ / Â íåâåäîìûõ ïîñòóïêàõ è äåëàõ. / ßâèëñÿ ñóä – è ñãèíóë, 

ñëîâíî ïðèçðàê.» 19 

Ïðîöåññ ôîðìàëåí è âåäåòñÿ òîëüêî äëÿ òîãî, ÷òîáû èìåþùóþ âëàñòü 

Åëèçàâåòó ëåãèòèìèðîâàòü ïåðåä íàðîäîì. Ïîäïèñûâàÿ ñìåðòíûé ïðèãîâîð, 

Åëèçàâåòà ïûòàåòñÿ îñâîáîäèòüñÿ îò ñîáñòâåííûõ êîìïëåêñîâ – ïî ïîâîäó òîãî, 

÷òî îíà íå ïðîèçâîäèò áîëüøîãî âïå÷àòëåíèÿ íà ìóæ÷èí, è ïðåæäå âñåãî ñâîåé 

íåçàêîííîðîæäåííîñòè: «Òàê ÿ óáëþäîê, ãîâîðèøü? Ïóñòü òàê!» 20 Åëèçàâåòà 

çàâèäóåò Ìàðèè, ïîòîìó ÷òî òà «ïèëà èç ÷àøè íàñëàæäåíèé, ïðåíåáðåãàÿ 

ãîëîñîì ðàññóäêà» 21 . 

Äëÿ ïîâîðîòà ñâîåé ñóäüáû Ìàðèÿ íàäååòñÿ íà ëè÷íóþ áåñåäó ñ êîðîëåâîé, 

êàê è ìíîãèå çàêëþ÷åííûå íàäåÿëèñü íà ëè÷íîå âìåøàòåëüñòâî Ñòàëèíà èëè 

Áåðèè. Òåàòðîâåäîì Â. Êîëÿçèíûì íàéäåíî è ïèñüìî Àñè Ëàöèñ ê Áåðèè. Ìàðèÿ 

ãîâîðèò: «Âñÿ Àíãëèÿ õðàíèò âîðîòà çàìêà! / È ðàçâå ëèøü ïðèêàç Åëèçàâåòû / 

Îòêðîåò èõ.» 22 Õóäîæíèê ñöåíû Ë æàæäåò òîãî æå: 

«Ïîãîâîðèòü ýòàê ñ ãëàçó íà ãëàç ñ êåì–íèáóäü èç âåëèêèõ ìèðà ñåãî. ß áû 

åìó ñêàçàë, íó, ñêàçàë áû âñå òî, ÷òî äîëæåí ñêàçàòü ñâèäåòåëü òåïåðåøíèõ 

óæàñîâ. Õîòÿ áû ìíå ãðîçèë àðåñò, òþðüìà, ðàññòðåë.» 23 

Â ðåøàþùèõ ñèòóàöèÿõ Åëèçàâåòà ïîñòóïàåò òàê, êàê áóäòî ñóäüáà Ìàðèè 

çàâèñåëà áû íå îò åå âîëè; îíà ïðîáóåò ñíÿòü îòâåòñòâåííîñòü ñ ñåáÿ è 

ïåðåëîæèòü åå íà ïëå÷è ãîñóäàðñòâåííîãî ñåêðåòàðÿ Äåéâèñîíà, íà âîëþ íàðîäà, 

íà ðåøåíèå ñóäà. 

Â ïüåñå çàìåòíû åùå íåêîòîðûå ïàðàëëåëè ñ ñóäüáàìè æåðòâ òåððîðà, 

êîòîðûå Á. Ðåéõ íå èìåë âîçìîæíîñòè çàìåòèòü â 1940–ì ãîäó. Â êîíöå ïüåñû 

èäåò ðå÷ü î âîçîáíîâëåíèè ïðîöåññà è âîçìîæíîé ïîñìåðòíîé ðåàáèëèòàöèè 

Ìàðèè. Êîíå÷íî, ýòî ïîìîãàåò âëàñòü èìóùèì ñìûòü ñâîþ âèíó. Ïîñêîëüêó


111 

íåêîòîðûå àñïåêòû â òî âðåìÿ åùå íå ìîãëè áûòü ðàñêðûòû, äðàìàòóðã Ï â 

çàêëþ÷åíèå íå áåç èðîíèè ïðîèçíîñèò ñëåäóþùóþ ðåïëèêó: 

«Ìû ñîâåòñêèå ëþäè – ëþäè áîëüøîãî ðàçìàõà. Íàøà èñòîðèÿ íàó÷èëà íàñ 

âåëèêîäóøèþ è øèðîòå. Íàñ âîñõèùàåò òàëàíò, ñèëà ëè÷íîñòè, ÿðêàÿ 

èíäèâèäóàëüíîñòü; ìû îõîòíî ïîçâîëÿåì ñåáÿ ðàñòðîãàòü ïðîøëûì è ìíîãîå 

ïðîùàåì êëàññèêàì. Ïîïðîáîâàë áû êàêîé–íèáóäü ñîâåòñêèé äðàìàòóðã 

íàïèñàòü òàêóþ Ìàðèþ Ñòþàðò! Òî–òî áûë áû ñêàíäàë! Ïîäóìàòü ñòðàøíî, 

÷òî áû òóò ïîäíÿëîñü. Àâòîðó èíêðèìèíèðîâàëîñü áû: à) ôàëüñèôèêàöèÿ 

èñòîðèè, ïîòîìó ÷òî Åëèçàâåòà Àíãëèéñêàÿ – èñòîðè÷åñêè ïðîãðåññèâíàÿ 

ëè÷íîñòü, à â Ìàðèè Ñòþàðò îíà ëè÷íîñòü áåçóñëîâíî îòðèöàòåëüíàÿ, 

êîâàðíàÿ, çëàÿ, æåñòîêàÿ, ìåëî÷íàÿ æåíùèíà; á) àïîëîãèÿ ïîëèòè÷åñêè 

ðåàêöèîííîé ôèãóðû Ìàðèè; â) îòñóòñòâèå âíóòðåííåé ëîãèêè.» 24 

ÏPÈÌÅ×AÍÈß 

1 Ðåæèññåð ñïåêòàêëÿ – Áðîìëåé, Åëèçàâåòà – Êóðàêèíà, Ìàðèÿ – Áóäðåéêî. 

2 Ðåéõ Áåðíãàðä. Êëàññèêà âñåãäà ñîâðåìåííà! //Òåàòð, N° 7, Ìîñêâà, 1940, ñ. 47–55. 

3 ÌÎÐÒ – Ìåæäóíàðîäíîå îáúåäèíåíèå Ðåâîëþöèîííûõ òåàòðîâ. 

4 Íåîïóáë.; Ôîíä Àêàäåìèè Èñêóññòâ Ãåðìàíèè, Àðõèâ Á. Áðåõòà 717/16. 

5 Íimele Dagmâra, Strautmane Gunta. Reþisores Annas Lâces dçkainâ dzîve. Rîga, 1997, 

146. lpp. „1938. gada 12. janvârî mâti apcietinâja. Jau labu laiku pirms tam varçja just, 

ka gaiss sabiezç. Latvieðu teâtrî Skatuve, kur Asja strâdâja, sâka apcietinât cilvçkus. Par 

to skaïi nerunâja, viòi vienkârði pazuda. Viens, otrs, treðais…” 

6 ñð. Reich Bernhard: Im Wettlauf mit der Zeit. Berlin 1970, c. 377: “Brechts erste Frage 

galt Anna Lazis. Man hatte ihm wohl schon von unserem Unglück erzählt.” 

7 Ðåéõ Áåðíãàðä. Êëàññèêà âñåãäà ñîâðåìåííà! C. 47. 

8 Taì æe, ñ. 47. 

9 Taì æe, ñ. 47. 

10 Taì æe, ñ. 48. 

11 Taì æe, ñ. 49. 

12 Taì æe, ñ. 49. 

13 Taì æe, ñ. 49. 

14 Taì æe, ñ. 49. 

15 Koopmann Helmut. Nachwort //Schiller Friedrich. Maria Stuart. Mit einem Nachwort hg. 

v. Helmut Koopmann. Paderborn u.a. 1980, S. 144. 


17 Øèëëåð Ôðèäðèõ. Ìàðèÿ Ñòþàðò //Ñîáðàíèå ñî÷èíåíèé. Ìîñêâà, 1955, ò. 2. Ïåð. 

Í. Âèëüìîíòà, I, 2, ñ. 651. 


19 Øèëëåð Ôðèäðèõ. Ìàðèÿ Ñòþàðò: I, 2, ñ. 653. 

20 Taì æe, IV, 10, ñ. 776. 

21 Taì æe, II, 9, ñ. 720. 

22 Taì æe, I, 6, ñ, 669. 


24 Taì æe, ñ. 49.


Summary 

The performance of Schiller’s play “Maria Stuart” in Russia during the period of 

Stalin’s terror and purges had urged the Jewish–German producer and theatre critic 

Bernhard Reich, at that time living in the Soviet Union, to express veiled condemnation 

of repressions. Bernhard Reich entered a discussion on topicality of classics, 

which had gone on since the time of creation of the state of proletariat and peasantry. 

He managed to single out Mary Stuart speaking about Schiller’s heroine in uncharacteristically 

bold terms for that given period, seing in the fate of Mary paralels to the 

fate of his repressed spouse and many other repressed persons. 

Kopsavilkums 

F. Ðillera lugas “Marija Stjuarte” iestudçjums rosinâja Staïina terora laikâ 

Padomju Savienîbâ dzîvojoðo ebreju izcelsmes vâcu reþisoru un teâtra kritiíi 

Bernhardu Reihu uzveduma zemtekstâ izteikt nosodîjumu represijâm. Bernhards 

Reihs uzskatâmi parâda klasikas aktualitâti, par kuru diskusijas noris jau kopð 

proletariâta un zemniecîbas valsts dibinâðanas, un aktualizç Marijas Stjuartes tçlu 

tajos apstâkïos pârsteidzoði drosmîgâ aspektâ, saskatot Marijâ savas represçtâs 

dzîvesbiedres un daudzu viòai lîdzîgo likteni.


MÂKSLA, 113.–121. lpp. 

Mîñêîâñêàÿ ñöåíà â ïàðàäèãìå ñîâðåìåííîé 

êóëüòóðû 

Moscower Stage in the Paradigm of Contemporary 

Culture: The Russian theater at the turn of the 

millenium 

Maskavas skatuve mûsdienu kultûras paradigmâ: 

Krievijas teâtris tûkstoðgades maiòâ 

Anna Vislova (Russia) 

Russian Institute for Cultural Research 

Russia, Moscow 109072 

Bersenevskaya nab., 20 

e–mail: riku@dol.ru 

Àâòîð îáðàùàåò îñîáîå âíèìàíèå íà õàðàêòåðûå îñîáåííîñòè íîâîãî ðîññèéñêîãî òåàòðà 

è íà òåíäåíöèè åãî ðàçâèòèÿ â êîíòåêñòå ñîâðåìåííîé êóëüòóðíîé ñèñòåìû. Ñîâðåìåííîå 

èñêóññòâî íàõîäèòñÿ â ïðîñòðàíñòâå ìåäèà, â ïðîñòðàíñòâå ñðåäñòâ ìàññîâîé 

èíôîðìàöèè. Êëèïîâîå èëè ýêðàííîå ñîçíàíèå âûòåñíÿåò àíàëèòè÷åñêîå. 

Îéêóìåíà íîâîãî ñöåíè÷åñêîãî ÿçûêà ïðîñòèðàåòñÿ ìåæäó ïåðôîðìàíñîì è 

õýïïåíèíãîì. Äëÿ íîâîé ðóññêîé äðàìàòóðãèè è, â îñîáåííîñòè, äëÿ ñîâðåìåííîãî 

ìîñêîâñêîãî òåàòðà õàðàêòåðíà ýñòåòèêà ýêñïåðèìåíòàëüíîãî «òåàòðà æåñòîêîñòè». 

Keywords: Ãëîáàëèçàöèÿ, òåàòð, èíäóñòðèÿ êóëüòóðû. 

Ñåãîäíÿ óæå âñåì î÷åâèäíî, ÷òî ìû æèâåì â ýïîõó òåêòîíè÷åñêîãî ñäâèãà 

âî âñåõ ñôåðàõ íàøåé æèçíè. Ñäâèã ýòîò âûçâàë ñìåíó ïàðàäèãì – íàáîðà 

öåííîñòåé, òèïîâ ñîçíàíèÿ, ìèðîâîççðåí÷åñêèõ ñòðàòåãèé è óñòàíîâîê 

ïîâñåìåñòíî. Ïîïðîáóåì ïîíÿòü ïðîèñõîäÿùèå ïåðåìåíû, ïðèáåãàÿ ê 

ñâèäåòåëüñòâó ìîñêîâñêîé òåàòðàëüíîé ñöåíû è æèçíè. Â äàííîì êîíòåêñòå 

ëþáîïûòíî âñå, íå òîëüêî âûáîð ðåïåðòóàðà, ïîñòàíîâî÷íûå íîâàöèè, íîâûå 

èìåíà äðàìàòóðãîâ è ðåæèññåðîâ, íî è íîâîå ëèöî çðèòåëüíîãî çàëà. 

Òåàòðàëüíûé çàë – ýòî òîæå ïîðòðåò ýïîõè. 

Íîâåéøàÿ ðîññèéñêàÿ òåàòðàëüíàÿ ñöåíà, êîòîðàÿ íà÷àëà ñêëàäûâàòüñÿ 

ïîñëå ðàñïàäà ÑÑÑÐ â 1991ã. íåîáû÷àéíî ìíîãîëèêà è íåîäíîçíà÷íà, êàê, 

âïðî÷åì, è âñÿ ïîñòñîâåòñêàÿ äåéñòâèòåëüíîñòü. Ñ îäíîé ñòîðîíû, «ïîñòñîâåòñêèé 

ìèð – ýòî ìèð îäèíîêèõ äåçîðèåíòèðîâàííûõ òåë» 1 . Ýòà 

ïîòåðÿííîñòü è ðàçîáùåííîñòü â êóëüòóðíîì ñîçíàíèè è â òåàòðàëüíîì 

èñêóññòâå, â ÷àñòíîñòè, ñêàçûâàåòñÿ ïðåæäå âñåãî â ïîòåðå åäèíûõ ýñòåòè÷åñêèõ 

è èäåîëîãè÷åñêèõ êðèòåðèåâ. Ñ äðóãîé ñòîðîíû, ñâÿòî ìåñòî ïóñòî íå áûâàåò, è 

ñòàðóþ èäåîëîãèþ ñåãîäíÿ çàìåíÿåò îò÷àñòè íîâàÿ èäåîëîãèÿ åäèíîãî ìèðîâîãî 

èíôîðìàöèîííîãî ïðîñòðàíñòâà. Ãëîáàëèçàöèÿ, êîììåðöèàëèçàöèÿ è 

âèðòóàëèçàöèÿ òàêîâû îäíè èç îñíîâíûõ ñîñòàâëÿþùèõ ÷åðò êàê íîâîé 

ñîöèàëüíîé, òàê è êóëüòóðíîé ïàðàäèãìû.


Òåàòðàëüíîå èñêóññòâî ïî–ñâîåìó ðåàãèðóåò íà ãëîáàëèçàöèþ. Ñàìîáûòíûå 

íàöèîíàëüíûå ÷åðòû òåàòðà, êàê è ëþáîãî äðóãîãî âèäà èñêóññòâà, ñåãîäíÿ ÷àñòî 

ëèáî óõîäÿò â îáëàñòü, áëèçêóþ ê ôîëüêëîðíî–ýòíîãðàôè÷åñêîé, ëèáî âñå áîëåå 

ñòèðàþòñÿ. Ãëîáàëèçàöèÿ ïîãðóçèëà èñêóññòâî â îáùèé êîòåë ìèðîâîãî 

ñòàíäàðòà, áåçîñòàíîâî÷íî âûðàáàòûâàåìîãî ñåãîäíÿ ìîùíîé èíäóñòðèåé 

ìàññîâîé êóëüòóðû. Â ÷àñòíîñòè, ñîâðåìåííûé ðóññêèé òåàòð â ñâîåé 

íàñòóïàòåëüíîé àáñóðäèñòñêî–èãðîâîé îðèåíòàöèè ñòàíîâèòñÿ ìàëî îòëè÷èì îò 

òåàòðîâ äðóãèõ ñòðàí. Â öåëîì â îáëàñòè èíäóñòðèè ðàçâëå÷åíèé Çàïàä è Âîñòîê 

ñòàëè óæå ïî÷òè íå ðàçëè÷èìû ìåæ ñîáîé. Èìåííî ýòà îáëàñòü îêàçàëàñü òîé 

îáùåé òî÷êîé, â êîòîðîé ñîåäèíèëèñü äâå ìèðîâûå öèâèëèçàöèè, äîñåëå 

íåñîåäèíèìûå. 

Òåàòð ðûíî÷íîé ýïîõè ïîäâåðãñÿ â ïåðâóþ î÷åðåäü ðàäèêàëüíîé 

êîììåðöèàëèçàöèè. Ìû ñåãîäíÿ ÿâëÿåìñÿ ñâèäåòåëÿìè ìîùíîãî ðàçâèòèÿ 

ìàññîâîé «èíäóñòðèè êóëüòóðû». Òåàòð íà ãëàçàõ ïåðåîðèåíòèðóåòñÿ íà âêóñû è 

çàïðîñû ïóáëèêè ñ õîðîøèì äîñòàòêîì. Òðèóìôàëüíîå (è òàê íåîæèäàííî 

òðàãè÷íî îáåðíóâøååñÿ) íàøåñòâèå íà ìîñêîâñêóþ ñöåíó ìþçèêëîâ òîìó ÿðêîå 

ïîäòâåðæäåíèå. Ñåé÷àñ â Ìîñêâå èäåò 5 ìþçèêëîâ, ÷åðåç ïîëãîäà èõ óæå áóäåò 

10, è Ìîñêâà ïî èõ êîëè÷åñòâó ñðàâíÿåòñÿ ñ Ïàðèæåì, îáîãíàâ Áåðëèí. Â 

ïåðñïåêòèâå ôîðìèðîâàíèå ñîáñòâåííîé âûñîêîòåõíîëîãè÷íîé èíäóñòðèè, 

íàöåëåííîé íà ñåðèéíîå ïðîèçâîäñòâî ìþçèêëîâ è äîëãóþ èõ ýêñïëóàòàöèþ. 

Åñëè, êîíå÷íî, ïîñëåäíèå ñîáûòèÿ íå èçìåíÿò ýòèõ ïëàíîâ. Æàíð ìþçèêëà, ñ 

îäíîé ñòîðîíû, è íîâàÿ îòå÷åñòâåííàÿ äðàìàòóðãèÿ, ñ äðóãîé, äâà ïîëþñà, 

îïðåäåëÿþùèõ ëèöî íîâîãî ðóññêîãî òåàòðà è, ïðåæäå âñåãî, ìîñêîâñêîé ñöåíû. 

Ìåæäó íèìè áüåò êëþ÷îì âñÿ îñòàëüíàÿ òåàòðàëüíàÿ æèçíü. 

Â Ðîññèè 90–õ ãîäîâ ïðîèçîøëî ðåçêîå, äîñåëå íå ñòîëü çàìåòíîå è 

çíà÷èòåëüíîå ðàçìåæåâàíèå òåàòðà íà áîëüøóþ è ìàëóþ ñöåíû. Ïåðâàÿ 

îñîáåííî ÿðêî äåìîíñòðèðóåò òó ýâîëþöèþ, î êîòîðîé áûëî ñêàçàíî âûøå. Îíà 

ñòàëà îòêðûòûì âîïëîùåíèåì ðûíî÷íîé èäåè â òåàòðå. Îñîáåííî ÿðêî ýòî 

çàìåòíî íà ïðèìåðå ãëàâíîé äðàìàòè÷åñêîé ñöåíû ñòðàíû – ÌÕÀÒà èì. ×åõîâà 

ïîä ðóêîâîäñòâîì Î. Òàáàêîâà, ñ åãî êàññîâûìè, ÷óòêî óëàâëèâàþùèìè ïîï– 

àðòîâñêóþ õóäîæåñòâåííóþ êîíúþíêòóðó âðåìåíè ñïåêòàêëÿìè. Ìàëàÿ ñöåíà, 

ìíîãî÷èñëåííîé ñåòüþ ïîêðûâ íå îäíî ëèøü ìîñêîâñêîå òåàòðàëüíîå 

ïðîñòðàíñòâî, îñòàâèëà çà ñîáîé áîëåå îùóòèìûå äåìîêðàòè÷åñêèå òåíäåíöèè 

è èìååò áîëüøóþ ñâîáîäó âûáîðà. Åñëè íà áîëüøîé ñöåíå ÷àùå áðîñàåòñÿ â 

ãëàçà êîììåð÷åñêèé ðàçìàõ, êóëüò çâåçä, îðèåíòàöèÿ íà çàêîíû øîó–áèçíåñà, 

ìîäû è ðûíî÷íîé ïñèõîëîãèè, òî ìàëàÿ ñöåíà îõîòíåå äåìîíñòðèðóåò èçíàíêó 

îáùåñòâà ïîòðåáëåíèÿ è èçîáèëèÿ, íî, êàê ïðàâèëî, ñ îáÿçàòåëüíûìè 

ýëåìåíòàìè è àòðèáóòàìè òîãî æå ïîï–àðòà. Äëÿ ìàëîé ñöåíû òîæå õàðàêòåðíà 

àãðåññèâíàÿ ñ àêöåíòîì íà çðåëèùíîñòè ðåæèññóðà, èñïîëüçîâàíèå 

ñêàíäàëüíûõ, ïîä÷àñ ñîìíèòåëüíûõ ñöåíè÷åñêèõ ïðèåìîâ è ôîðì, êîòîðûå 

èìåþò ïîêóïàòåëüñêèé ñïðîñ, óìåëîå ìàíèïóëèðîâàíèå êëèøèðîâàííûì 

ñîçíàíèåì ñåãîäíÿøíåãî çðèòåëÿ. Ñ òî÷êè çðåíèÿ çäðàâîãî ñìûñëà, êàê 

îòìå÷àþò ñåãîäíÿ îòäåëüíûå êóëüòóðîëîãè, ìàññîâàÿ êóëüòóðà â ñîâðåìåííîì 

ìèðå ÿâëÿåòñÿ íå ïðîñòî íåîòúåìëåìîé ÷àñòüþ êóëüòóðû, íî ãîñïîäñòâóþùåé 

åå ÷àñòüþ. Ãåãåìîíèÿ ìàññêóëüòóðû òàê èëè èíà÷å ñêàçûâàåòñÿ ïî÷òè 

ïîâñåìåñòíî. Èíàÿ öåííîñòíàÿ îðèåíòàöèÿ è çíà÷èòåëüíî îòëè÷íàÿ îò ïðåæíåé

Anna Vislova. Maskavas skatuve mûsdienu kultûras paradigmâ: Krievijas teâtris .. 

115 

ðàññòàíîâêà ñîäåðæàòåëüíûõ è ôîðìîîáðàçóþùèõ êîîðäèíàò, ÿâëÿåòñÿ åùå 

îäíîé ñîñòàâëÿþùåé íîâîé êóëüòóðíîé ïàðàäèãìû. 

Íîâàÿ òåàòðàëüíàÿ ýñòåòèêà àêòèâíî ïîäêðåïëÿåòñÿ íîâåéøèìè 

òåõíîëîãèÿìè. Ðåàëüíîñòü â íîâîé ïàðàäèãìå èñêóññòâåííîãî ïðîèñõîæäåíèÿ, 

îíà ñòàëà âèðòóàëüíîé, îíà ïðîèçâîäèòñÿ òåëåîáðàçàìè ïî ðàçðàáîòàííûì 

èñêóññòâîì ìåòîäàì. Ìû æèâåì â ìèðå, ãäå ìèðàæè íå îòëè÷àþòñÿ îò 

äåéñòâèòåëüíîñòè. Ñîâðåìåííîå èñêóññòâî íàõîäèòñÿ â ïðîñòðàíñòâå ìåäèà, â 

ïðîñòðàíñòâå ñðåäñòâ ìàññîâîé èíôîðìàöèè. Òåàòðàëüíîå èñêóññòâî íå 

ÿâëÿåòñÿ â ýòîì ïëàíå èñêëþ÷åíèåì. Â íàñòóïèâøåé ýêðàííîé ýðå îïðåäåëåííûå 

âèäîèçìåíåíèÿ êîñíóëèñü è êîíñåðâàòèâíîãî ïî ñàìîé ñâîåé ïðèðîäå ÿçûêà 

òåàòðà. Áóêâàëüíî íà ãëàçàõ ñîñòîÿëñÿ åãî î÷åâèäíûé çðèìûé ïðîðûâ çà 

ãðàíèöû êëàññè÷åñêîé òåàòðàëüíîé òðàäèöèè. Îéêóìåíà íîâîãî ñöåíè÷åñêîãî 

ÿçûêà ïðîñòèðàåòñÿ ìåæäó ïåðôîðìàíñîì è õýïïåíèíãîì – äåéñòâåííîé àêöèåé, 

ïðåäñòàâëåííîé àðòèñòàìè ñ ýëåìåíòàìè ñëó÷àéíîñòè è ðèñêà, à òàêæå ñ 

èñïîëüçîâàíèåì âñåõ âèäîâ èñêóññòâà è âñåõ âîîáðàæàåìûõ òåõíè÷åñêèõ 

âîçìîæíîñòåé. Ñîåäèíåíèå âèäåîàðòà ñ æèâîé èãðîé àêòåðîâ ñîçäàåò îñîáóþ 

èíòåðàêòèâíóþ ñöåíè÷åñêóþ ñðåäó è äåìîíñòðèðóåò ìíîãîîáðàçíûå 

òåõíîëîãè÷åñêèå âîçìîæíîñòè íîâîé òåàòðàëüíîé ýñòåòèêè. Â ïîñëåäíåå âðåìÿ 

ïðîèñõîäèò àêòèâíîå ñìåøåíèå è ñáëèæåíèå ÿçûêîâ èñêóññòâ, ãäå âñå 

ñïëàâëÿåòñÿ â åäèíûé ïðîäóìàííûé âèäåîðÿä: ê ïðèìåðó, ïðèâû÷íàÿ óæå 

òåàòðàëèçàöèÿ ñîâðåìåííîãî èçîáðàçèòåëüíîãî èñêóññòâà è ïîñòàíîâêà 

ñïåêòàêëåé â ïðîñòðàíñòâå âûñòàâî÷íûõ èíñòàëëÿöèé ñ èñïîëüçîâàíèåì åãî 

îñîáîé, îòëè÷íîé îò òåàòðà àóðû, èíîãäà ñ âêðàïëåíèÿìè âèäåî è àóäèî 

ìîíòàæà, ýëåìåíòîâ öèðêà, áàëåòà è ïð. Ýëåìåíòû ýêðàííîé êóëüòóðû àêòèâíî 

âíåäðÿþòñÿ â ñöåíè÷åñêîå ïðîñòðàíñòâî. 

Êèíîýêðàí äàâíî óæå äèêòóåò òåàòðàëüíîé ñöåíå íîâûå ýñòåòè÷åñêèå 

êàíîíû, îñíîâàííûå íà ñêîðîñòè ñìåíÿþùèõñÿ êàðòèíîê è îñòðîì ìîíòàæå. 

Ãîëîâîêðóæèòåëüíûì ïëàñòè÷åñêèì ìàñòåðñòâîì è ñòðåìèòåëüíî íåñóùèìñÿ 

òåìïîðèòìîì ñåãîäíÿ óæå ìàëî êîãî óäèâèøü. Ýòîò ñòèëü áûñòðî ïðåâðàòèëñÿ 

â îáùåå ìåñòî êàê ìèðîâîãî, òàê è íîâîãî ðóññêîãî òåàòðà. Óñëûøàòü æèâîé 

ãîëîñ àêòåðà ñåãîäíÿ íà áîëüøîé ñöåíå óäàåòñÿ âñå ðåæå, ëèöî àêòåðà è 

êðîøå÷íûé ìèêðîôîí âñå ÷àùå ñîñòàâëÿþò åäèíîå íåðàçäåëüíîå öåëîå, ÷òî åùå 

áîëåå óñèëèâàåò ýôôåêò ìåõàíèñòè÷íîñòè ñîâðåìåííîãî ñöåíè÷åñêîãî ÿçûêà. 

Ïðè ýòîì çðèòåëüñêèå îæèäàíèÿ òðåáóþò âñå íîâîãî äîïèíãà íåâèäàííûõ 

ñðåäñòâ òåàòðàëüíîé âûðàçèòåëüíîñòè è îáðàçíîñòè, ïîñòîÿííî áóäèðóþùèõ 

ðåæèññåðñêóþ è àêòåðñêóþ ôàíòàçèþ. Ñëåäîì çà òåàòðàìè Ëåíêîì è Ñàòèðèêîí 

íîâóþ òåàòðàëüíóþ ýñòåòèêó, îñíîâàííóþ íà îñâîåíèè ÿçûêà ìþçèêëà 

ïîäõâàòèë äàæå Ìàëûé òåàòð. Ïðèìåð òîìó íîâûé åãî ñïåêòàêëü – «Óñèëèÿ 

ëþáâè» Øåêñïèðà. 

Ñîöèàëüíî–êóëüòóðíàÿ ýíòðîïèÿ, ïåðåæèâàåìàÿ ñîâðåìåííûì ðîññèéñêèì 

îáùåñòâîì ïîâëåêëà çà ñîáîé íå òîëüêî ðàñïàä âñåé ñèñòåìû öåííîñòåé, íî è 

ðàñïàä öåëüíîñòè ìèðîâîñïðèÿòèÿ, ïîòåðþ êóëüòóðíî–ýñòåòè÷åñêîé 

îðèåíòàöèè. Ðåçóëüòàòîì ýòîãî â òåàòðå êàê è âî âñåé ïîñòñîâåòñêîé êóëüòóðå 

ÿâèëîñü òîðæåñòâî ñòèëèñòèêè ïîñòìîäåðíèçìà ñ åå óñòàíîâêîé íà 

«èðîíè÷åñêèé ìîäóñ», èëè ïàñòèø, ðåäóöèðîâàííóþ ôîðìó ïàðîäèè, öèòàòíóþ 

èíòåðòåêñòóàëüíóþ êîíôèãóðàöèþ.


Íàèáîëåå õàðàêòåðíûìè è ÿðêèìè ïðèìåðàìè, äåìîíñòðèðóþùèìè íîâîå 

ìèðîâîñïðèÿòèå, ìîæíî íàçâàòü ñïåêòàêëè Âëàäèìèðà Ìèðçîåâà, â êîòîðûõ 

ãðîòåñê ñòàë «ïðèêîëüíûì», ïîäîáíûì áåñêîíå÷íîé ìåòàôîðè÷åñêîé êëîóíàäå. 

Ñòèëü ýòîò âïåðâûå áûë îïðîáîâàí Ìèðçîåâûì íà ìîñêîâñêîé ñöåíå íåñêîëüêî 

ëåò íàçàä â ñïåêòàêëå «Õëåñòàêîâ» (1996ã.). Ñïåêòàêëü, ïîÿâèâøèéñÿ óæå íà 

îáëîìêàõ êðóøåíèÿ âñåé ïðåæíåé ýñòåòè÷åñêîé ñèñòåìû è â ðàçãàð 

ïîáåäîíîñíîãî øåñòâèÿ ýêðàííîé è ñöåíè÷åñêîé «÷åðíóõè», âïîëíå 

ïîäòâåðæäàë ãîñïîäñòâî íîâîé òþðåìíî–áëàòíîé ýñòåòèêè íà íàøåé ñöåíå. 

Ïåðñîíàæè ïüåñû âî ãëàâå ñ Õëåñòàêîâûì áûëè ïðåâðàùåíû ðåæèññåðîì â óæå 

õîðîøî çíàêîìûõ ãðàæäàíàì ñòðàíû îáèòàòåëåé òþðåìíîãî ìèðà, ñòàâøåãî â 

êîðîòêîå âðåìÿ ïî÷òè ðîäíûì è áëèçêèì ñî âñåì ïðèñóùèì åìó îáðàçîì 

ïîâåäåíèÿ è ìûøëåíèÿ. Â «Õëåñòàêîâå» Ìèðçîåâ âïåðâûå îïðîáîâàë íà 

ìîñêîâñêîé ñöåíå îïðåäåëåííóþ ñèñòåìó ïðèåìîâ, íà íåñêîëüêî ëåò ñòàâøóþ 

äëÿ íåãî àêòóàëüíîé è èìåþùóþ îïðåäåëåííûé çðèòåëüñêèé ñïðîñ. 

Áåñêîíå÷íûå èãðîâûå ïðîâîêàöèè, ÷åðåäà ñìåíÿþùèõñÿ ìàñîê, çà êîòîðûìè 

ñêðûâàåòñÿ íåóëîâèìàÿ, ðàñòåêàþùàÿñÿ ëè÷íîñòü. Èãðà çäåñü – ñàìîòâîðÿùàÿ 

ïèòàòåëüíàÿ ñðåäà, âûëèâàþùàÿñÿ â ýêñöåíòðèêó, ýïàòàæ, ïðîâîêàöèþ, 

àòòðàêöèîí, áåñêîíå÷íûå ìåòàìîðôîçû. 

Ìèðçîåâ – îäèí èç òåõ ðåæèññåðîâ, êîòîðûé íà÷àë øèðîêî èñïîëüçîâàòü íà 

ðóññêîé ñöåíå «ñò¸á» – îòëè÷èòåëüíûé ÿçûê è ñòèëü ìîëîäåæíîé ñðåäû, 

ñîñòîÿùèé â ðàäèêàëüíî–òîòàëüíîì èðîíè÷åñêîì ðåäóêöèîíèçìå. Ñò¸á – ýòî 

èðîíèÿ áåç ìûñëè. Ñåãîäíÿ ìíîãèå ìîãóò íàçâàòü ñåáÿ äåòüìè ñò¸áà. 

Ñîâðåìåííûé òåàòð, êàê è ñîâðåìåííàÿ êóëüòóðà – òîæå äèòÿ ñò¸áà. Ìû âñå 

íàõîäèìñÿ ñåãîäíÿ â ñêâîçíîì èðîíè÷íîì, íî íåìîùíîì â ïëàíå ñîáñòâåííîãî 

îñìûñëåíèÿ ñóáêóëüòóðíîì ïðîñòðàíñòâå. Ïåðåõîä íà ýòîò ÿçûê îçíà÷èë äëÿ 

îòå÷åñòâåííîãî òåàòðà âõîæäåíèå â «öèâèëèçàöèþ ìîëîäûõ», ãäå êàæäîå 

ñëåäóþùåå ïîêîëåíèå àãðåññèâíî âûòåñíÿåò ïðåäûäóùåå, ò.å. ïðèîáùåíèå ê 

îáùåìèðîâîé òåíäåíöèè âñåîáùåãî çàèãðûâàíèÿ ñ ìîëîäåæíîé êóëüòóðîé. 

Èãðîâîå áóéñòâî «ýïîõè ðåáÿ÷åñòâà» (èëè «ýïîõè ïóåðèëèçìà» – òåðìèí 

Îðòåãè=è=Ãàññåòà) åñòåñòâåííî ñî÷åòàåòñÿ ñ âñåîáùèì îñëàáëåíèåì 

ñïîñîáíîñòè ñóæäåíèÿ. Ðåæèññåð ÷óòêî óëàâëèâàåò è âîñïðîèçâîäèò â ñâîèõ 

ñïåêòàêëÿõ àòìîñôåðó ñâîåîáðàçíîãî êàðèêàòóðíîãî àíòèìèðà è, êàê ïðàâèëî, 

ïîëó÷àåò îòâåòíûé âîñòîðæåííûé îòêëèê «ñâîåé» ÷àñòè àóäèòîðèè, êîòîðóþ 

ðàäóåò õàðàêòåð «ïàðîäèéíîãî ìîäóñà ïîâåñòâîâàíèÿ» èëè ôîðìà 

«êîððåêòèðóþùåé èðîíèè», ïðèñóùèå ïîñòìîäåðíèñòñêîìó èñêóññòâó, 

ïðèíèìàþùåìó «ìèð êàê õàîñ» èëè «ìèð êàê òåêñò», ïðåâðàùåííûé â 

áåñêîíå÷íîå ïîëå äëÿ èãðû. 

Â ðóñëå âñå òîé æå ïîñòìîäåðíèñòñêîé ñòèëèñòèêè íàèáîëåå çàìåòíûì 

ÿâëåíèåì íà ìîñêîâñêîé ñöåíå 1990–õ ãîäîâ ñòàë àêöèîíèçì – èñêóññòâî æåñòîêèõ, 

ïîðîé ýêñãèáèöèîíèñòñêèõ ïåðôîðìàíñîâ, â êîòîðûõ àêòóàëèçèðîâàíû òåëåñíîñòü, 

ôèçè÷åñêàÿ àãðåññèÿ, íåíîðìàòèâíàÿ ëåêñèêà. Åãî ñåðäöåâèíà – æåñò. Ýïàòàæ, 

ïðîâîêàöèîííîñòü – îðãàíè÷íûå ñâîéñòâà ïåðôîðìàíñà. Èìåííî â ýòîé 

ñòèëèñòèêå ïðåæäå âñåãî ñîçäàåòñÿ íîâàÿ îòå÷åñòâåííàÿ äðàìàòóðãèÿ. 

Â íîâîé æåñòîêîé, íî ïðè ýòîì áåñêîíå÷íî «èãðàþùåé» ðåàëüíîñòè 

åñòåñòâåííî ïðîñíóëñÿ èíòåðåñ ê ÿçûêó è ýñòåòèêå «òåàòðà æåñòîêîñòè»


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Àíòîíåíà Àðòî, ðåæèññåðà, êñòàòè, òàê è íå âîïëîòèâøåãî ñâîè èäåè, è íå 

ïîíÿòîãî ñîâðåìåííèêàìè ïðîðîêà íîâîé òåàòðàëüíîñòè. Öåíòð èì. 

Ìåéåðõîëüäà, îòêðûâøèéñÿ â Ìîñêâå â ôåâðàëå 2001 ã., ñâîé ïåðâûé 

ïîëíîêðîâíûé ñåçîí ïðîâåë ïîä çíàêîì Àðòî. Ïðîãðàììà «Àíòîíåí Àðòî. 

Íîâûé âåê» çàäóìûâàëàñü êàê ìíîãîñòóïåí÷àòàÿ êîíñòðóêöèÿ, ñîñòîÿùàÿ èç 

òåìàòè÷åñêèõ áëîêîâ – õóäîæåñòâåííûõ è ïðîñâåòèòåëüñêèõ. Îäíèìè èç 

ïîêàçàòåëüíûõ ïðèìåðîâ ýòîé ïðîãðàììû ñòàëè ñöåíè÷åñêèå ðàáîòû óæå 

äîâîëüíî èçâåñòíîãî ìîñêîâñêîé òåàòðàëüíîé ïóáëèêå ðóêîâîäèòåëÿ «Ïðîê– 

òåàòðà» èëè Ôàáðèêè êàðäèíàëüíîãî èñêóññòâà Â. Åïèôàíöåâà, ïîêàçàâøåãî â 

ÖÈÌå ñïåêòàêëè «Ìàÿêîâñêèé» è «Ìàêáåò. Bloody Pit of Horror». Îáíàæåíèå 

ñåáÿ, âûâîðà÷èâàíèå íàèçíàíêó ñ îäíîâðåìåííûì ãðóáûì è çðèìûì óäàðîì ïî 

íåðâàì çðèòåëåé – ïðîãðàììíûé ïðèåì ðåæèññåðà. Àêöåíò íà ïåðâè÷íîñòè è 

ñàìîäîñòàòî÷íîñòè òâîð÷åñêîãî àêòà êàê òàêîâîãî. Õóäîæåñòâåííîé 

ñâåðõçàäà÷åé â ýòèõ ñïåêòàêëÿõ ÿâëÿåòñÿ óòâåðæäåíèå èäåíòè÷íîñòè òâîðöà. 

Ñïåêòàêëè ñåãîäíÿ – ýòî ÷àñòî áîäè àðò, â êîòîðîì èñïîëüçóåòñÿ òåëî àêòåðà, äëÿ 

òîãî ÷òîáû ïîäâåðãíóòü åãî îïàñíîñòè, âûñòàâèòü íàïîêàç èëè ñ öåëüþ 

ïðåäîñòàâèòü âîçìîæíîñòü çðèòåëþ ïðîñòî àíàëèçèðîâàòü åãî îáðàç. Òàê â 

ñïåêòàêëå «Ðîìåî è Äæóëüåòòà», ïîñòàâëåííîì òåì æå Â. Åïèôàíöåâûì, íà 

òåððèòîðèè íàñòîÿùåé ìîñêîâñêîé ôàáðèêè, ïåðåä çðèòåëÿìè ïðåäñòàåò 

ñîâðåìåííîå ïåðåëîæåíèå øåêñïèðîâñêîé òðàãåäèè áåç ñëîâ. Ïîëóîáíàæåííûé 

Ðîìåî çäåñü èçîáðàæàåò ñòðàäàíèÿ äèêîãî çâåðÿ, ÷åé ðûê ïåðèîäè÷åñêè 

ðàçäàåòñÿ â çàïèñè, à ïîëóîäåòàÿ Äæóëüåòòà îêàçûâàåòñÿ â ïëåíó åãî ëþáâè– 

èñòÿçàíèÿ: Ðîìåî òî ðàçëèâàåò íà åå ïðîñòåðòîì íà ñòîëå òåëå ÷àé, òî îïóñêàåò 

åå ðóêó â ãîðÿ÷èé ÷àéíèê, òî áüåò åå ìóõîáîéêîé èëè ïðîñòî íàáðàñûâàåòñÿ íà 

íåå êàê ãîëîäíûé çâåðü è ò.ä. Âîïðîñ áðóòàëüíî–àãðåññèâíîãî âòîðæåíèÿ 

òåëåñíîñòè â ñîâðåìåííûé ñöåíè÷åñêèé ÿçûê ñòàíîâèòñÿ â íîâûõ óñëîâèÿõ 

âåñüìà àêòóàëüíûì. Ñåãîäíÿ âñå òåàòðàëüíûå çâåçäû êà÷àþò ìóñêóëû è ñåëè íà 

òðåíàæåðû, çàíÿòèÿ íà êîòîðûõ ïðåâðàùàþòñÿ â îáÿçàòåëüíûå, ïî÷òè êàê ñòàíîê 

ó áàëåðèíû. Òðåíèðîâàííîñòü äóõà íûí÷å ÿâíî óñòóïàåò ìåñòî ôèçè÷åñêîé 

ïîäãîòîâêå. Âðåìÿ íåóêîñíèòåëüíî âíîñèò ñâîè êîððåêòèâû âî âñå, â ÷àñòíîñòè, 

è ìõàòîâñêàÿ øêîëà èñêóññòâà ïåðåæèâàíèÿ âðÿä ëè ñîõðàíèëàñü â òîì âèäå, êàê 

ïîíèìàë åå Ñòàíèñëàâñêèé. Ñåãîäíÿ ìû ÿâëÿåìñÿ çðèòåëÿìè è ñâèäåòåëÿìè 

íåêîåãî ñïëàâà âñåõ èçâåñòíûõ àêòåðñêèõ è ðåæèññåðñêèõ øêîë è íàïðàâëåíèé, 

÷òî âïîëíå îòâå÷àåò òîé æå âñåÿäíîé ïîñòìîäåðíèñòñêîé ñòèëèñòèêå, êîãäà âñå 

èñïîëüçóåòñÿ è íàõîäèò ïðèìåíåíèå â çàâèñèìîñòè îò ïîñòàâëåííîé çàäà÷è. Â 

ýòîò êîíòåêñò ëîãè÷íî âïèñûâàåòñÿ è íîâûé ñïåêòàêëü «Èìàãî» ïî ïüåñå 

«Ïèãìàëèîí» Á. Øîó, ïåðåëîæåííîé ìîäíûì â Ìîñêâå äðàìàòè÷åñêèì 

âèðòóîçîì Ì. Êóðî÷êèíûì âñå â òîì æå ïåðôîðìàíñíîì êëþ÷å. ßðêàÿ 

äåìîíñòðàöèÿ ñàìîïîêàçà ïðåêðàñíîé àêòðèñû – Àíàñòàñèè Âåðòèíñêîé, 

èçîáðåòàòåëüíûõ, çðåëèùíûõ êîñòþìîâ õóäîæíèêà Ï. Êàïëåâè÷à, ðîñêîøíîãî 

äåêîðàöèîííîãî îôîðìëåíèÿ Þðèÿ Êóïåðà. Çðåëèùå ðàäè çðåëèùà. Èñêóññòâî 

ìãíîâåíèÿ, áàëàíñèðóþùåå íà ãðàíè áûòèÿ è íåáûòèÿ. Ïåðôîðìàíñ â êóëüòóðå 

ïîñòìîäåðíèçìà, âîîáùå, åñòü ñèìâîë çàáâåíèÿ. 

Ñîâðåìåííûå õóäîæåñòâåííûå ïðèåìû è ýñòåòè÷åñêèå êàíîíû ðîæäàåò 

îïÿòü æå êèíî è âèäåîïðîäóêöèÿ. Ïðèìå÷àòåëåí, îäíàêî, òîò ôàêò, ÷òî ñàìà 

ôàêòóðà ÷åëîâå÷åñêîãî òåëà â ñîâðåìåííîé òåàòðàëüíîé ýñòåòèêå ïðèîáðåòàåò


íîâîå âàæíîå è ñóùåñòâåííîå çíà÷åíèå. «Òåëåñíîìó» «ôèçèîëîãè÷åñêîìó» 

êëþ÷ó, áóäåò ïîääàâàòüñÿ â çíà÷èòåëüíîé ñòåïåíè óæå âñå èñêóññòâî êîíöà ÕÕ 

âåêà. Ýòà î÷åâèäíàÿ ïîáåäà òåëà íàä äóõîì ïîçâîëèò, ê ïðèìåðó, ïèñàòåëþ Â. 

Åðîôååâó óòâåðæäàòü, ÷òî ÕÕI âåê â ðóññêîé êóëüòóðå áóäåò âåêîì òåëåñíûì, 

èëè, äðóãèìè ñëîâàìè, âåêîì «òåëåñíîé êóëüòóðû». Âî ìíîãîì îí ýòî îáúÿñíÿåò 

òåì, ÷òî ðóññêàÿ êóëüòóðà ïðîøëà ÷åðåç ìíîãîå, çíàåò ìíîãîå, íî òîëüêî íå òåëî. 

Ðóññêàÿ ëèòåðàòóðà áåñòåëåñíà, íîâûé âåê îêîí÷àòåëüíî èñïðàâèò ýòî 

ñëîæèâøååñÿ â ïðîøëîì îäíîñòîðîííåå «èñêðèâëåíèå». À òå, êòî ýòîãî íå 

ïðèíèìàåò, ïî ìíåíèþ ïèñàòåëÿ, ïóñòü ëó÷øå íå æèâóò â ýòîì âåêå. 

Ê êîíöó âòîðîãî òûñÿ÷åëåòèÿ ìàññîâîå ñîçíàíèå ïåðåñòàëî ðàçëè÷àòü äîáðî 

è çëî, ïðåêðàñíîå è óðîäëèâîå, âîçâûøåííîå è íèçìåííîå, èäåàëüíîå è 

áåçîáðàçíîå. Â ýòîì ñìûñëå òåîðèÿ îòíîñèòåëüíîñòè, îòêðûòàÿ Ýéíøòåéíîì, 

îêàçàëàñü äëÿ ÕÕ âåêà ïðîðî÷åñêîé íå òîëüêî â îáëàñòè ôèçèêè, íî è â áîëåå 

ãëîáàëüíîì ìàñøòàáå. Îäíîâðåìåííî ñ óòâåðæäåíèåì ðåëÿòèâèçìà èëè 

ïëþðàëèçìà â îáùåñòâåííîì ñîçíàíèè ïðîèñõîäèë ïðîöåññ âûòåñíåíèÿ 

ïîíÿòèé ïðåêðàñíîãî è èäåàëüíîãî êàê îïðåäåëÿþùèõ öåëåé èñêóññòâà è æèçíè. 

È òî, è äðóãîå ñòàíîâèëîñü ñíà÷àëà áåçðàçëè÷íûì ê ïîëîæèòåëüíîìó èäåàëó, à 

óæå ïîòîì ðåëÿòèâèñòêè áåçäóøíûì è îïóñòîøèòåëüíûì, âåäóùèì ê 

èñ÷åçíîâåíèþ «ñëèøêîì ÷åëîâå÷åñêîãî»... 

Óæå Õàéäåããåð ïðåä÷óâñòâîâàë òîò ðóáåæ, êîòîðîãî íûíå äîñòèãëî ðàçâèòèå 

êóëüòóðû. Ñòðåëêà íà öèôåðáëàòå èñòîðèè ïîäîøëà ê öèôðå 12, äâèæåíèå åå 

ïåðåñòàëî áûòü ïîñòóïàòåëüíûì. ÕÕ âåê, êàê âåê ðàçëè÷íûõ ïðîöåññîâ, ïî 

ñëîâàì ïèñàòåëÿ Âë. Ñîðîêèíà, óæå çàâåðøèëñÿ, íàñòóïèëî âðåìÿ ñîñòîÿíèé. 

Ñîöèîêóëüòóðíîå âðåìÿ, îõâàòûâàþùåå ïðîñòðàíñòâî ÷åëîâå÷åñêîãî ðàçâèòèÿ, 

óòðàòèëî õàðàêòåð áåñêîíå÷íîñòè, ñäåëàëîñü çàìêíóòûì. Èäåÿ èííîâàöèé 

ïðèøëà ê ñâîåìó åñòåñòâåííîìó êîíöó. Ïîäîáíî òîìó êàê ÿçûê äëÿ èñêóññòâà 

ÕÕ âåêà ïðåâðàùàåòñÿ â áåñïðåäåëüíóþ çâóêîâóþ òêàíü, ãäå òåðÿåò ðåàëüíîñòü 

åãî ñåìàíòè÷åñêèé ìåõàíèçì, òàê è ñìûñë äðåéôóåò ãäå–òî íà ñàìîé ïåðèôåðèè 

åãî ïðîèçâåäåíèé, – ýòî ñìûñë, êàê ñêàçàë Ð. Áàðò, ïîçâîëÿþùèé ðàññëûøàòü 

èçúÿòîñòü ñìûñëà. 

Â ÷àñòíîñòè, ñîâðåìåííàÿ ðîññèéñêàÿ äðàìàòóðãèÿ âûðîñëà óæå â îñíîâíîì 

íà òðàäèöèÿõ êîíòðêóëüòóðû è «àíòèäðàìàòóðãèè», çàëîæåííûõ çàïàäíîåâðîïåéñêèì 

ëèòåðàòóðíûì è òåàòðàëüíûì àâàíãàðäîì âòîðîé ïîëîâèíû ÕÕ âåêà. 

Òîì Ñòîïïàðä çàìåòèë â ñâîå âðåìÿ, ÷òî ïîñëå Áåêêåòà íè÷òî â òåàòðå íå ìîãëî 

îñòàòüñÿ íåèçìåííûì. Ëþáûå ÷åëîâå÷åñêèå äåéñòâèÿ òåïåðü êàæóòñÿ ðóòèííûìè, 

ðèòóàëû ñóùåñòâóþò, òîëüêî ÷òîáû ïðèêðûòü áîëåçíåííîå îñîçíàíèå òîãî, ÷òî 

íàøà æèçíü ëèøåíà ñìûñëà. Àáñóðä êàê íîðìà è æèçíü êàê àíîìàëèÿ, äàâíî 

âîñïðèíÿòûå çàïàäíûì êóëüòóðíûì ñîçíàíèåì è èñêóññòâîì, íåîáû÷àéíî áûñòðî 

ïðèæèëèñü íå òîëüêî íà ðîññèéñêîé ñöåíå, íî è â æèçíè. Àáñóðäèñòñêàÿ êîíöåïöèÿ 

æèçíè âäîõíîâëÿåò íà ïðåâðàùåíèå ñïåêòàêëÿ â ðîçûãðûø è áåñêîíå÷íóþ 

ïðîâîêàöèþ. Øèðîêî ðàñïðîñòðàíèâøèéñÿ «ñò¸á», ïîäðàçóìåâàþùèé òîòàëüíóþ 

èðîíè÷åñêóþ ìàíåðó ïîâåäåíèÿ è îòíîøåíèÿ êî âñåìó â æèçíè, â îñîáåííîñòè ê 

âûñîêèì èäåàëàì è öåííîñòÿì, ïðîèçðàñòàåò îòòóäà æå. Åñëè ãîâîðèòü î òåíäåíöèÿõ 

íîâîé äðàìàòóðãèè, òî ñàìè ìîëîäûå ðîññèéñêèå äðàìàòóðãè âûäåëÿþò äâå 

îñíîâíûå ëèíèè. Ïåðâàÿ – ðåàëèñòè÷åñêàÿ, âíèìàíèå ê ïðàâäå æèçíè è åå áîëåâûì


119 

òî÷êàì. Ñàìî ñîáîé ðàçóìååòñÿ, ÷òî ðåàëèçì ýòîò îñîáîãî òîëêà. Îí ëèáî òÿãîòååò 

ê äóõó òåàòðà æåñòîêîñòè, ëèáî ïðîíèçàí âñå òåì æå èðîíè÷åñêèì ðåäóêöèîíèçìîì. 

Âòîðàÿ ëèíèÿ – èãðîâàÿ, «ïîñòñîðîêèíñêàÿ», êîòîðîé «ïðèêîëüíûé» ãðîòåñê è 

«ñò¸á» îòâå÷àþò êàê íåëüçÿ ëó÷øå. Æåñòîêîñòü è ñìåõ ñìåøèâàþòñÿ ñåãîäíÿ. 

Òåàòðàëüíûå ïðåäñòàâëåíèÿ èçîáèëóþò ïàðîäèéíûìè èëè ðåàëüíûìè óæàñàìè è 

çëîäåéñòâàìè. Ïîñòìîäåðíèñòñêàÿ èðîíèÿ ìðà÷íà, ïî÷òè âñåãäà ïðîâîêàöèîííà, 

ãðàíè÷èò ñ ïîøëîñòüþ è íàðî÷èòî äåìîíñòðèðóåò ðàçâÿçíóþ ñâîáîäó ÿçûêà è òåëà. 

Ñëåäóÿ ýñòåòèêå è êóëüòóðíîé ïîëèòèêå ñâîåãî âðåìåíè, ñìåõ ñåãîäíÿ íå çàðÿæàåò, 

à èñêëþ÷èòåëüíî ðàçðÿæàåò è ðàññëàáëÿåò ïóáëèêó, âûðàæàÿ ðàçðóøèòåëüíóþ 

âÿëîñòü ñâîåîáðàçíîãî íàðêîòè÷åñêîãî çàáâåíèÿ èëè íîâóþ ôîðìó ãðàæäàíñêîé 

ïàññèâíîñòè îáùåñòâà, â êîòîðîì òðóäíî ÷òî–ëèáî èçìåíèòü ê ëó÷øåìó. 

Îäèí èç ïîêàçàòåëüíûõ, çàñëóæèâàþùèõ ñåðüåçíîãî âíèìàíèÿ, ïðèìåðîâ 

ìðà÷íî èðîíè÷åñêîãî è îäíîâðåìåííî êîìè÷íî–òåàòðàëèçîâàííîãî òåêñòà íîâîé 

äðàìàòóðãèè ñïåêòàêëü «Ïëàñòèëèí» ïî ïüåñå ìîëîäîãî äðàìàòóðãà Âàñèëèÿ 

Ñèãàðåâà, ïîñòàâëåííûé ðåæèññåðîì Êèðèëëîì Ñåðåáðåííèêîâûì â Öåíòðå 

äðàìàòóðãèè è ðåæèññóðû ï/ð À. Êàçàíöåâà è Ì. Ðîùèíà. Â îñíîâå ñþæåòà – 

æèçíü ïîäðîñòêà, ïî–ñöåíàðíîìó ðàñêàäðîâàííàÿ ìåæäó ïîõîðîíàìè äðóãà è 

ñîáñòâåííîé ñìåðòüþ. ßçûê ïüåñû, ñâîáîäíûé îò ëþáûõ ëèòåðàòóðíûõ íîðì, 

ñîïóòñòâóåò ïåðåâåäåííîé â òðàãèôàðñîâûé òåàòðàëüíûé òåêñò êàðòèíå 

ñòðàøíîé ïîâñåäíåâíîé æèçíè, ãäå æåñòîêîñòü ïðîèñõîäÿùåãî ñî÷åòàåòñÿ ñ óæå 

ïðèâû÷íîé èðîíè÷íîé ìàíåðîé åå ïîäà÷è. Ñïèâøàÿñÿ îïóñòèâøàÿñÿ ìàòü 

ïîãèáøåãî ïîäðîñòêà, áîëüíàÿ ñãîðáëåííàÿ áàáóøêà ãëàâíîãî ãåðîÿ ïüåñû, ñ 

êîòîðîé îíè âìåñòå ïîëóãîëîäíî ñóùåñòâóþò, äåâî÷êà â èíâàëèäíîé êîëÿñêå, 

íàðêîìàíû è ãîìîñåêñóàëèñòû – òàêîâû ïåðñîíàæè ñïåêòàêëÿ. Íèùåòà, 

áåñïðîñâåòíîñòü, âíóòðåííÿÿ îïóñòîøåííîñòü – ýòî àïðèîðíàÿ óñëîâíàÿ 

àòìîñôåðà, èç êîòîðîé ðîæäàåòñÿ äàííûé ñöåíè÷åñêèé òåêñò. Ïðè ýòîì àâòîðû 

ñïåêòàêëÿ áîëåå âñåãî äàëåêè îò æàíðà ñîöèàëüíî ðåàëèñòè÷åñêîãî èëè 

êðèòè÷åñêîãî ïîâåñòâîâàíèÿ. Ñêîðåå, ýòî ïðåäñòàâëåíèå–ãèíüîëü, â êîòîðîì 

ñòðàøíûå ñöåíû íàñèëèÿ ïåðåâåäåíû íà ÿçûê îáíàæåííîé ïëàñòèêè, à äåéñòâèå 

ïåðåìåæàåòñÿ êîìè÷åñêèìè íîìåðàìè, ÷òî ëîãè÷íî âïèñûâàåòñÿ â çíàêîìûé 

ñòèëü, ñî÷åòàþùèé «ñò¸á» ñ òîðæåñòâóþùåé òåàòðàëüíîñòüþ. 

Äðóãàÿ ïüåñà Â. Ñèãàðåâà «×åðíîå ìîëîêî», ïîñòàâëåííàÿ íà ñöåíå ñðàçó 

äâóõ ìîñêîâñêèõ òåàòðîâ: â òåàòðå èì. Í.Â. Ãîãîëÿ è â Òåàòðå Ó Íèêèòñêèõ âîðîò 

îñîáåííî ÿðêî äåìîíñòðèðóåò òîò íîâûé æåñòêèé ðåàëèçì, î êîòîðîì øëà ðå÷ü 

âûøå. Ñíîâà ïüåñà î æèçíè äàëåêîé ðîññèéñêîé ïðîâèíöèè, ïðî îáåçäîëåííûõ 

ëþäåé, æèâóùèõ â ãëóõîìàíè, íà íåèçâåñòíîé ñòàíöèè ïîä íàçâàíèåì «Ìîõîâîå», 

ìèìî êîòîðîé ïðîíîñÿòñÿ íå îñòàíàâëèâàÿñü ñêîðûå ïîåçäà. Ñíîâà ÷åðíóõà, 

ñòðàøíàÿ íèùåòà è óæå ñòàíîâÿùàÿñÿ îáûäåííîé è ïðèâû÷íîé íåíîðìàòèâíàÿ 

ëåêñèêà íà ñöåíå. Æåñòîêàÿ è óáîãàÿ ñðåäà îáèòàíèÿ «íèæå ïîÿñíèöû» íàøèõ 

ëþäåé îñâàèâàåòñÿ íîâîé äðàìîé â ñòîëü æå îòêðîâåííîé è íà ïåðâûé âçãëÿä 

èðîíè÷íî–áåçäóøíîé ìàíåðå. Íî ñóäÿ ïî âñåìó, ýòî íîâûé ñïîñîá, ïîïûòêà 

ìîëîäîãî ïîêîëåíèÿ, ñîõðàíèâøåãî ýíåðãèþ æèçíè, íà ïåïåëèùå ñîææåííûõ 

öåííîñòåé îòûñêàòü ñëàáûé ñâåò íàäåæäû, ðîæäåííûé íà ïîæàðèùå äóøè. 

Ñîåäèíåíèå ÷óâñòâà ãëóáîêîé ñâÿòîñòè æèçíè ñ åå ïðåäåëüíûì íåïîòðåáñòâîì 

óòâåðæäàåòñÿ íîâîé äðàìîé êàê íåèçìåííàÿ âå÷íàÿ äàííîñòü.


Ñåãîäíÿøíèé çðèòåëü îïóñòîøåí, äåçîðèåíòèðîâàí è ïîäâåðæåí àóòèçìó. Ê 

òîìó æå îí æèâåò â ýïîõó íîâûõ, òàê íàçûâàåìûõ èíôîðìàöèîííûõ âîéí, â ýïîõó 

ìàññîâîé îáðàáîòêè ñîçíàíèÿ. ×åëîâåê ïîä âîçäåéñòâèåì åæåäíåâíîãî 

îãðîìíîãî ïîòîêà èíôîðìàöèè ïåðåñòàåò ýòó èíôîðìàöèþ ðàçëè÷àòü è 

àíàëèçèðîâàòü. Îí áåçäóìíî ïîãëîùàåò åå ñ ýêðàíîâ òåëåâèçîðà è ñî ñòðàíèö 

ãàçåò, íî âîñïðèíèìàòü åå àäåêâàòíî, à òåì áîëåå àäåêâàòíî ðåàãèðîâàòü íà íåå 

óæå íå â ñîñòîÿíèè. Ïðîèñõîäèò ðàñïàä îáùåñòâà íà îòäåëüíûå àòîìû. 

Íåóñòîé÷èâûå, ëèøåííûå óáåæäåíèé ëþäè ñïîñîáíû ê çàìêíóòîé 

ñîñðåäîòî÷åííîñòè èñêëþ÷èòåëüíî íà ñàìèõ ñåáå. Ïîñòìîäåðíèñòñêîå 

îáùåñòâî – ýòî îáùåñòâî ñêîëüæåíèÿ, ãäå ïðîöâåòàåò èíäèâèäóàëèñòè÷åñêèé 

íàðöèññèçì. 

Ñõîæèé ïðîöåññ ïðîèñõîäèò è ñ âîñïðèÿòèåì ïðîèçâåäåíèé èñêóññòâà è 

ëèòåðàòóðû. Îíè ïîòðåáëÿþòñÿ êàê ïðîäóêòû è ïîñëå ïîòðåáëåíèÿ 

âûáðàñûâàþòñÿ èç ïàìÿòè êàê îòðàáîòàííûå è ëèøíèå îòõîäû è áåç òîãî 

ïåðåãðóæåííîãî ðàçëè÷íîé èíôîðìàöèåé ñîçíàíèÿ. Ñîâðåìåííûå ðåæèññåðû 

ó÷èòûâàþò ýòî îáñòîÿòåëüñòâî, îòòîãî, ñ îäíîé ñòîðîíû, ëèáî äåëàþò ñòàâêó íà 

ìàêñèìàëüíûé óäàð ïî íåðâàì â äóõå òåàòðà æåñòîêîñòè, ÷òîáû õîòü íà âðåìÿ 

âûâåñòè çðèòåëÿ èç ðàññëàáëåííî íàðêîòè÷åñêîãî ñîñòîÿíèÿ, ëèáî, íàîáîðîò, 

ïûòàþòñÿ óäåðæàòü åãî â íåì ïóòåì ñîçäàíèÿ ðîñêîøíîãî çðåëèùà, ëàñêàþùåãî 

âçîð è ñëóõ è ïîçâîëÿþùåãî ïîääåðæèâàòü ñîñòîÿíèå ðàññëàáëåííîãî 

íàñëàæäåíèÿ. Âàæíî îòìåòèòü, ÷òî ýñòåòèêà íàñëàæäåíèÿ, óäîâîëüñòâèÿ òàêæå 

çàìåíèëà ïîêîëåíèþ 90–õ èäåîëîãèþ. Ýòî î÷åíü ñóùåñòâåííûé êóëüòóðíûé è 

ñîöèàëüíûé ôàêòîð íàøåãî âðåìåíè, âî ìíîãîì îïðåäåëÿþùèé åãî ëèöî. 

Òî, ÷òî âûïàäàåò èç ýòîãî ïîòîêà, òîæå íåîäíîçíà÷íî. Ê ïðèìåðó, òåàòð 

«Ìàñòåðñêàÿ Ï. Ôîìåíêî», êàæåòñÿ, ÿâíî ñâèäåòåëüñòâóåò î ïðîäîëæåíèè 

òðàäèöèé ïñèõîëîãè÷åñêîãî ðåàëèçìà íà ðóññêîé ñöåíå. Òåì íå ìåíåå, â 

èñêóññòâå ýòîãî êàìåðíîãî òåàòðà åñòü ñâîÿ òîíêî óëîâèìàÿ ãðàíü ñ 

ñîâðåìåííîñòüþ. Àêâàðåëüíûå, ëåãêèå, ÷àñòî â ôîðìå ýòþäîâ è ñöåíè÷åñêèõ 

çàðèñîâîê, ïðåäåëüíî óñëîâíûå è îòêðûòûå äëÿ çðèòåëüñêîãî âîñïðèÿòèÿ 

ñïåêòàêëè Ï. Ôîìåíêî, ñ îäíîé ñòîðîíû, âõîäÿò â êîíòðàñòíûé äèññîíàíñ ñ 

ñîâðåìåííîñòüþ, íî, ñ äðóãîé, ìîæåò áûòü, íåñêîëüêî îòðàæåííûì ñâåòîì 

ïåðåäàþò ñåãîäíÿøíþþ ïîâûøåííóþ íåóñòîé÷èâîñòü, äóøåâíóþ ñëàáîñòü, 

îñîáóþ òåêó÷åñòü è íåðâíîñòü ñîâðåìåííîé ÷åëîâå÷åñêîé ïðèðîäû. Àêòåðû â 

ýòîì òåàòðå, íà÷àâ ðàáîòàòü ñî ñòóäåí÷åñêîé ñêàìüè è ðàíî äîñòèãíóâ 

ìàñòåðñòâà, âñå åùå íàñëàæäàþòñÿ ñîñòîÿíèåì çàòÿæíîé ìîëîäîñòè. È ýòà èõ 

îòëè÷èòåëüíàÿ îñîáåííîñòü î÷åíü áëèçêà è ñîçâó÷íà ñîâðåìåííîé «öèâèëèçàöèè 

ìîëîäûõ», ñ åå óçíàâàåìîé âíåøíåé è âíóòðåííåé èíôàíòèëüíîñòüþ è 

íåæåëàíèåì, à ìîæåò áûòü, íåñïîñîáíîñòüþ âçðîñëåòü. Ó ñïåêòàêëåé ýòîãî 

òåàòðà óäèâèòåëüíîå «ëåãêîå äûõàíèå». Ãðóñòü, þìîð, èðîíèÿ, ïåðåëèâû ñâåòà 

è ïîýçèÿ óøåäøåãî ìèðà ðóññêîé óñàäüáû â ñïåêòàêëÿõ «Âîëêè è îâöû», «Ìåñÿö 

â äåðåâíå», «Ñåìåéíîå ñ÷àñòüå», «Âîéíà è ìèð. Íà÷àëî ðîìàíà. Ñöåíû» – 

ëåãêèå, ïî÷òè ýñêèçíûå. Ýòî «ëåãêîå äûõàíèå», êîíå÷íî, ïîìîãàåò íåíàäîëãî 

ïðîäûøàòüñÿ ÷èñòûì âîçäóõîì àêâàðåëüíîãî èñêóññòâà, íî íå ñïàñàåò îò îáùåãî 

çàãðÿçíåíèÿ àòìîñôåðû. Ïî êðàéíåé ìåðå ðóáåæ òûñÿ÷åëåòèé ìîñêîâñêàÿ ñöåíà, 

êàê è ãîðîä âñòðåòèëè ñ èçðÿäíîé äîçîé ñìîãà è îòðàâëÿþùåãî ãàçà â âîçäóõå. 

Áóäåì íàäåÿòüñÿ, ÷òî êîãäà–íèáóäü îí ðàññååòñÿ.


ÏÐÈÌÅ×ÀÍÈß 

1 1 Äåãîòü E. Ðóññêîå èñêóññòâî ÕÕ âåêà. – Ì., 2000, ñ. 204. 

Summary 

121 

The author concentrates own attention on the characteristic traits and tendencies 

of the new Russian Theatre in the context of the contemporary cultural paradigm. 

Contemporary art lies in the media space, in the space of the modern means of mass 

communication. The clip or screen consciousness is ousting analytical consciousness. 

The Oikumene of the new scenic language stretches between the art of Performance 

and Happening. Besides the esthetics of the experimental «Theatre of Cruelty» characterizes 

the «face» of the new Russian drama and contemporary Moscow stage in 

particular too. 

Kopsavilkums 

Galvenâ uzmanîba pievçrsta jaunâ Krievijas teâtra raksturîgajâm iezîmçm un 

attîstîbas tendencçm mûsdienu kultûras uzskatu sistçmas kontekstâ. Mûsdienu mâksla 

atrodas mçdiju telpâ, moderno masu komunikâcijas lîdzekïu telpâ. Klipu vai ekrâna 

apziòa izspieþ analîtisko apziòu. Jaunâ vispasaules skatuves valoda atrodas teritorijâ 

starp performances un hepeninga mâkslu. Jaunajai krievu dramaturìijai un jo îpaði 

Maskavas mûsdienu teâtrim ir raksturîga arî eksperimentâlâ “cietsirdîbas teâtra” 

estçtika.


MÂKSLA, 122.–128. lpp. 

„Der Roman zum Film”, oder: Bücher im 

Medienwettbewerb Film–Book 

Books as Competitors of other Media 

“Roman zum Film” 

jeb grâmatas mediju konkurences apstâkïos 

Sandija Iesalniece (Lettland) 

Fakultät für Moderne Sprachen 

Lehrstuhl für Literatur und Kultur 

Universität Lettlands 

Visvalþa 4a, Rîga, LV 1050, Lettland 

t. 7034825; 7561156 

Roman zum Film oder Bücher im Konkurrenzkampf mit anderen Medien 

Im Zuge der allgemeinen McDonaldisierung ist der Verbraucher verschiedenen visuellen 

Stimuli ausgesetzt, die die Wahl des einen oder des anderen Produkts bestimmen. Solche 

visuellen Stimuli dominieren auch den Büchermarkt. 

Keywords: McDonaldisierung, Vermarktung, Buch, Verfilmung, Internet. 

Einer der mächtigsten visuellen Stimuli ist zweifellos der Buchdeckel, der eine 

Verbindung zwischen dem Buch und der jeweiligen Verfilmung herstellt. Dadurch 

wechselt sich die Perspektive und der Film bzw. die Verfilmung wird zum Primär– , 

die literarische Vorlage aber – zum Sekundärprodukt. Die deutschen Verleger 

versehen sogar die Buchcover mit einen Hinweis “Roman zum Film” und betonen 

damit, dass das Buch einen Zusatz, eine Ergänzung zum Film darstellt. Die Verleger 

synchronisieren sogar ihre Marketingmaßnahmen mit der Ausstrahlung der jeweiligen 

TV–Serie oder der Premiere des jeweiligen Films. 

Darüber hinaus wird nach dem Added Value zum literarischen Produkt gesucht, 

so werden z. B. Homepages eingerichtet und unterhalten, auf welche Bezug im 

literarischen Werk genommen wird; es werden Internet– 3D–graphic–shooter–games 

als Fortsetzung des literarischen Werkes angeboten, dem Leser stehen Internet–Quiz 

zur Verfügung, die Fragen zu der jeweiligen Lektüre bieten. 

Trotz dieser Beispiele kann man auch von einer Gegentendenz sprechen, indem 

digitale Literatur auch im Buchformat erscheint u. ä. 

Bereits in den neunziger Jahren des 20. Jahrhunderts wurde von dem 

amerikanischen Soziologen George Ritzer die Idee der allgemeinen 

McDonaldisierung der Gesellschaft formuliert: immer weitere Bereiche der 

Gesellschaft in den USA und der restlichen Welt werden von Grundsätzen dieser fast 

food–Restaurantkette dominiert (George Ritzer: Die McDonaldisierung der 

Gesellschaft. S. Fischer Verlag 1997). Eine Facette der McDonaldisierung ist sicher 

die Dominanz des Visuellen, der visuellen Stimulierung, des Zeichens. Die visuelle 

Stimulierung besteht aus genauen, leicht wahrnehmbaren Signale, die den 

Konsumenten zum Handeln, nicht zum Nachdenken animieren sollen. Die schnelle 

Aktion tritt an die Stelle des langen Grübelns. Don’t let the consumer think …

Sandija Iesalniece. Books as Competitors of other Media “Roman zum Film” jeb grâmatas .. 

123 

Das Ikonenhafte eines McDonalds–Menüs lässt sich leicht auf andere Bereiche 

übertragen, auch auf den des Buchmarkts. Die sog. Wobblers, kleine Schilder mit 

Wörtern wie “Bestseller”, “Neu”, “Sonderausgabe” dienen dem Leser zur 

Orientierung in einer Buchhandlung und machen aus einer „Unübersichtlichkeit” eine 

markierte und geordnete “Übersichtlichkeit”. Die nächste Orientierungshilfe bzw. das 

nächste Instrument zur Steuerung des Lesers, i.e. des Käufers, ist das Titelblatt. Die 

deutsche Ausgabe von „Bridget Jones’s Diary” von Helen Fielding (Goldmann 1997) 

trägt den Titel “Schokolade zum Frühstück. Das Tagebuch der Bridget Jones”; das 

Cover illustriert den Titel, indem es eine Tasse Kaffee, ein Glas Orangensaft und einen 

Teller mit Kuchen od. Brötchenresten präsentiert. Nach vier Jahren hat sich der 

Frühstückstisch transformiert in Renée Zellweger als Bridget Jones, in knielangen 

Stiefeln, mit rotem Tagebuch in der Hand, einer Schachtel Pralinen links und einem 

Aschenbecher rechts. Das Titelblatt trägt jetzt den stolzen Hinweis “Die hinreißende 

romantische Komödie, jetzt verfilmt mit Renée Zellweger, Hugh Grant und Colin 

Firth in den Hauptrollen” sowie den Zusatz “Roman zum Film” (Goldmann 2001). Die 

gleiche Metamorphose ist auch der englischen Originalausgabe widerfahren. Zwar hat 

die englische Version nicht den (erniedrigenden) Zusatz “Roman zum Film” bzw. Film 

Book, dafür sehen wir auf dem Titelbild alle drei Hauptdarsteller; die After–Film– 

Ausgabe ist mit weiteren Szenen aus der Verfilmung von Sharon Maguire aus dem 

Jahr 2001 versehen. 

Ähnlich haben sich Bücher nicht nur in Deutschland oder Großbritannien, 

sondern auch in Lettland verwandelt. Ein Beispiel ist die lettische Übersetzung von 

“Gone with the Wind” von Margaret Mitchell (Liesma 1987). Im Jahre 1987 kannten 

nur wenige in Lettland den Film mit Vivien Leigh und Clark Gable (David O’Selznik, 

Victor Fleming: Gone with the Wind. USA 1939); das Titelbild war damals eine 

Reproduktion des Portraits von Regîna Razuma, der lettischen Star–Schauspielerin, 

die nach wie vor ein Inbegriff von Charme und Eleganz ist. Nachdem der Film seine 

lettische Kino– und Fernsehpremiere erlebt hatte, änderte sich das Titelbild. Die 

Ausgabe von 2000 (Zvaigzne ABC 2000) zeigt Vivien Leigh als Scarlett O‘Hara, wie 

sie von Clark Gable als Rett Buttler umarmt wird. 

Es handelt sich hier nicht nur um eine Änderung der ästhetischen Qualität des 

Buchlayouts, sondern um einen Perspektivewechsel. Die Perspektive, der Blickwinkel 

ist nun verkehrt; das Titelblatt verweist unmittelbar auf den Film, als sei er primär, 

das Buch, die Quelle dagegen sekundär. Die Interpretation gewinnt dadurch Vorrang 

gegenüber dem Ursprünglichen. Das second–hand–Produkt, das eine Verfilmung 

immer nur nur sein kann, hat aber für den Leser bzw. Konsumenten oder Käufer einen 

offensichtlich höheren Wert und dient als Maßstab für die ästhetischen Qualitäten 

eines Kunstwerks. Der Film dient für den Leser als Referenz und Sicherheit, eine Art 

“Stiftung–Warentest–Qualitätsurteil: lesenswert”, so dass der Hinweis “Roman zum 

Film” erforderlich ist, um den Käufer bzw. den potentiellen Leser auf das bereits 

Bekannte aufmerksam zu machen und ihm das gleiche Vergnügen zu versprechen, das 

er bei einem Kinobesuch gehabt hat. Zweifellos hat der Film als ein visuelles Medium, 

das Bild, Farbe, Ton, Bewegung kombiniert, eine größere Wirkung als das 

Buch, ein schwarz–weißes Schriftmedium; Verleger und Buchhändler sind sich dieser 

Tatsache sehr bewußt. Darüber hinaus wird ein Kinobesuch, mit Popcorn und Coca– 

Cola, eher zum “Ereignis” als eine zeitlich ausgedehnte, nicht kontinuierliche, einsame


Lektüre. Übrigens, auch Zugaben werden mit Referenz zum Film vermarktet – kauf dir 

eine Tüte Chips, gewinne eine „ The Lord of the Rings”–Videokassette. 

Kann man unter diesen Umständen von einer Konkurrenz zwischen Film und 

Buch sprechen? Besteht hier eine Gefahr für das Medium Buch? Wohl kaum. Eher 

profitiert das Verlagswesen von Aktivitäten der Kinobranche. Eine erfolgreiche 

Verfilmung, ein berühmter Hauptdarsteller können für die Vermarktung eines Buches 

mehr bewirken als eine millionenschwere Werbekampagne. In Lettland haben sich bis 

zum November 2002 seit dem Kinostart am 21. Sept. 2001 den Film „Tagebuch der 

Bridget Jones” 22 585 Zuschauer angesehen (Quelle: Baltic Cinema). Leider gibt es 

keine Angaben darüber, wie hoch die Auflage des lettischen Ausgabe von „Bridget 

Jones’s Diary” war; es lässt sich nur spekulieren, dass sie den Durchschnitt (2100 

Exemplare bei übersetzter Belletristik; Quelle: Die lettische Presse. Statistik des 

lettischen Verlagswesens 2001. Riga 2002) überstieg. Ein Beispiel hilft diese 

Spekulation belegen: 

Der Valters un Rapa Verlag hat die Vermarktung der lettischen Übersetzung von 

Candace Bushnells “Sex and the City” mit dem Fernsehstart der dritten Staffel im 

Februar 2002 abgestimmt. Das Kalkül des Verlags stimmte: 

1) die Auflage belief sich auf 3000 Exemplare und lag damit über dem statistischen 

Durchschnitt und 

2) die Gesamtauflage wurde innerhalb von 7 Monaten ausgeliefert (üblich sind 24 

Monate). 

Die Serie hatte im TV3–Sender das Durchschnittsrating (Gross Rating Point) 4,2. 

Die Zuschauerzahl schwankte je nach Folge zwischen 75 Tsd. und 250 Tsd. (Quelle: 

Baltic Media Facts 2002). 

Auf dem Cover fehlt der Verweis “Roman zum Film”, weil die Serie im Grunde 

keine Verfilmung ist; sie basiert lediglich auf Gestalten und Situationen des Buches. 

Abgebildet ist darauf Sarah Jessica Parker als die New Yorker Kolumnistin Carrie 

Bradshaw. 

Dabei geht es nicht nur um eine erfolgreichen Marketingidee des Verlags, es geht 

um die Auswirkung dieser amerikanischen Sit–Com auf die lettische (Frauen) 

Gesellschaft. In Lettland ist ein Sex–and–the–City–Diskurs entstanden. Da es in der 

TV–Serie um vier Freundinnen Anfang Dreißig geht (nur Samantha ist älter), kommt 

es unter Frauen in Lettland zu einer Rollenverteilung: wer ist die prüde Charlotte, die 

aufgeschlossene Samantha, wer die beruflich erfolgreiche Miranda und wer die labile 

Carrie? Die Lettinnen sollten sich von diesen Archetypen fasziniert fühlen. Auch das 

größte lettische Frauenwochenmagazin “Ieva” (Auflage rund 75 Tsd.; Quelle: Baltic 

Media Facts 2002) brachte im Juli 2002 eine Fotoreihe “Sex and the City, bei uns in 

Riga”; die Frauen sollen gestylt sein wie Carry (Ieva 03.04.2002 Nr. 27). 

Es muss zugegeben werden, dass dieses second–hand–Produkt, wie es genannt 

wird (obwohl das nicht abschätzend gemeint ist) für die lettischen Leser, die es 

vorziehen würden, in ihrer Muttersprache zu lesen, oft die einzige Möglichkeit 

darstellt, Werke der Weltliteratur kennenzulernen. So ist z.B. der Skandalroman der 

achtziger Jahre „Die Klavierspielerin” von Elfriede Jelinek nicht ins Lettische übersetzt 

worden (die Lektüre könnte zu deprimierend sein); dafür lief im Winter 2001 die 

Verfilmung mit Isabelle Huppert (Michael Haneke: Die Klavierspielerin. Österreich,


125 

Frankreich 2001). Die Mehrheit der Zuschauer wußte sicher nicht, dass es sich hier 

um eine Verfilmung handelt. Das gleiche gilt für “Eyes Wide Shut” von Stanley 

Kubrick mit Kidman und Cruise (USA 1999), einen Film, der sich auf die 

“Traumnovelle” von Arthur Schnitzler stützt, einem der bedeutendsten Vertreter der 

Wiener Moderne. Es sei an dieser Stelle zugegeben, dass ich mit dem Roman “Die 

Blechtrommel” von Günter Grass zuerst durch den Film von Volker Schlöndorff 

(Deutschland 1978) vertraut wurde. Aale esse ich seitdem nicht mehr, und den Roman 

habe ich erst viele Jahre später gelesen; ins Lettische ist er übrigens erst 2001 

übersetzt worden (Atçna 2001). 

Eines liegt auf der Hand – eine Vielzahl literarischer Werke verdankt gerade ihren 

Verfilmungen, dass sie (wieder) gelesen und diskutiert werden und dass ihre Figuren 

zu Verkörperungen bestimmter Lebensstile bzw. Probleme werden, auf die immer 

wieder Bezug genommen wird. Andererseits wird es auch immer wieder Zuschauer 

geben, die eine Verfilmung oder ein Theaterstück nach einem literarischen Vorbild 

viel spannender als die literarische Vorlage finden werden. 

Wenn aber die Markierung „Roman zum Film” als eine Metapher für mediale 

Interferenzen verwendet werden darf, so gibt es m. E. ein Medium, das in mancher 

Hinsicht noch mächtiger zu werden droht als der Film: das Internet. Interaktivität, 

Aufhebung der Passivität des Lesers, Visualität, Vernetzung, Verlinkung sind nur 

einige seiner Vorteile. Es sei hier die digitale bzw. die Literatur im Netz absichtlich 

ausgespart, da mein Interesse Beispielen der “analogen” Literatur (sowohl der 

Belletristik, als auch der Fachliteratur) gilt, die in Verbindung zu Internet ihren “added 

value” sehen. 

Das erste Beispiel ist Günter Grass‘ Novelle „Im Krebsgang” (Steidl 2002). Den 

Wendepunkt in den Recherchen des Protagonisten, der Fakten und Dokumente über 

den Untergang des KdF–Schiffes “Wilhelm Gustloff” am 30. Januar 1945 sammelt, 

stellt das Anklicken der Internetadresse www.blutzeuge.de dar – eine literarische 

Fiktion des auf einer alten Olivetti tippenden Günter Grass, die vom Steidl–Verlag 

zur Realität gemacht wird. Klicken wir auf www.blutzeuge.de, finden wir eine von 

Steidl Verlag gestaltete Internetseite mit Informationen über den Autor, mit Lese– und 

Hörproben, dem Text seiner Rede in Vilnius etc. 

Der Kritiker Marcel Reich–Ranicki bietet in der Website www.derkanon.de zu 

seiner Sammlung “Der Kanon. Die deutsche Literatur. Der Roman” (Insel Verlag 2002)) 

Ausgaben deutscher Romane, die er kanonisieren möchte, darunter auch “Die 

Blechtrommel”, samt Informationen zu den jeweiligen Autoren sowie die Rubrik “Das 

Quiz”;er lädt Besucher der Internetseite ein, sich an dem großen Kanon–Quiz zu 

beteiligen – jede Woche können Fragen zu einem der 20 Bände des Kanons 

beantwortet werden. Wer an dem Quiz kein Gefallen findet, kann per E–Mail Kontakt 

aufnehmen oder unmittelbar bei www.libri.de bestellen. 

Der Literaturwissenschaftler Jochen Vogt, Autor der “Einladung zur 

Literaturwissenschaft” (Wilhelm Fink Verlag 2001), fordert seine Leser auf, ihre 

Kenntnisse im Internet, in einem Hypertext–Vertiefungsprogramm, zu verbessern 

(siehe www.uni–essen.de/literaturwissenschaft/einladung). 

Ein weiteres Beispiel der analogen und digitalen Vernetzung, des verzweifelten 

Versuchs, an den Leser heranzukommen, ist der Roman von Nika Bertram “Der


Kahuna modus” (Eichborn 2001). Das Buch ist nicht nur wie ein Computerspiel 

strukturiert (Level 1, Level 2, Level 3 etc.), es enthält auch Comics und einen Verweis 

auf www.kahunamodus.de, wo ein „aus dem Roman generiertes multimediales 

Textabenteuer und einen Einblick in die Entstehung des Romans und seiner Figuren” 

enthalten sein soll, ein Computer– bzw. Internetspiel also. „What is this game all 

about?”, heißt es in der Einleitung zum Spiel im Internet. “Basically, it is a no–budget 

experiment in electronic story–telling. It is not a first–person–3D–graphic–shooter 

game. So, before playing this game, please relax, take your hands off the mouse and 

put them on your console keyboard ...What is the story ... and how can I reach a high 

score? On entering the game you find yourself changed into a novel character called 

Nadine – and your life in ruins. However, you decide to fight for fictional independence, 

for your right to create your own story, reach kahuna level 3, win a woman’s 

heart ... and keep it.” 

Daraus lässt sich folgern, dass die Verleger sich zur Vermarktung von Büchern 

immer neuer Instrumente bedienen und dass die Leser bzw. Käufer immer neuen 

Reizen ausgesetzt werden. Dabei bewegen sie sich in einem kulturellen Raum, in dem 

ein ständiger Wechsel zwischen allen Genres in verschiedene Richtungen stattfindet – 

aus Büchern werden Filme, aus Filmen Fernsehserien und aus Fernsehserien Filme; 

aus Filmen und Fernsehserien entstehen Bücher (denken wir an X–Files oder Star 

Wars), Theaterstücke, Musicals, Soundtracks, Spielzeuge und Videospiele. Genauso 

verwandeln sich Videospiele in TV–Serien oder Spielzeuge usw. usw. Der Grund dafür 

dürfte neben Kostengründen ganz einfach sein – man weiß nie, wie der Käufer 

reagieren wird. Verschwommen sind die Beweggründe, die aus einem potentiellen 

Kunden einen Kunden machen – wird der Autorenname für ihn ausschlaggebend 

sein, wird das Titelblatt alles entscheiden, wird er doch lieber einen “Roman zum Film” 

kaufen? Experten behaupten: auch ein Bestsellerautor ist keine Garantie dafür, daß 

sich sein nächstes Buch gut verkauft. 

Unter solchen Umständen wäre eine Lösung die Umwandlung des Erscheinens 

eines literarischen Werkes in ein Ereignis (event), dessen Höhepunkt die Verfilmung 

ist, mit anschließendem Verkauf von Stickers, Posters, T–Shirts, Computerspielen usw. 

(denken wir an das Phänomen Harry Potter oder an The Lord of the Rings). 

Diskussionen im Internet oder Fernsehen oder auch öffentlicher Skandal tragen 

ebenso zur Vermarktung bei. 

Ob man sich trotzdem über die Fortexistenz von Büchern Sorgen machen muss? 

Ob sie doch eines Tages als “Roman zum Film” überflüssig werden und durch den 

Film oder das Internet verdrängt werden können? Es gibt keine eindeutigen Antworten 

auf diese Fragen, aber drei beruhigende, obwohl marginale Beispiele gibt es: 

1) zwei Journalistinnen haben ein Buch über die TV–Serie „Sex and the City” 

geschrieben mit dem Titel “Die Stadt, der Sex und die Frauen” – sie versprechen 

“ungeahnte Blicke” hinter Kulissen “der Filmwelt der New–Yorker–Kultserie” 

(Wilhelm Heyen Verlag 2002); 

2) vor kurzem ist im Valters un Rapa Verlag eine Prosa– und Lyriksammlung der 

Netzliteratur aus dem Internetportal www.delfi.lv erschienen – das Digitale wird 

zum Analogen (ein Buch kann ja nicht “absterben”, und einem Buch mangelt es 

nicht plötzlich an Speicherkapazität) (Valters un Rapa 2002);


127 

3) vor ein paar Wochen habe ich in einer Buchhandlungen eine Art 

“Bedienungsanleitung” von Gertrud Teusen mit dem Titel “Partnersuche im 

Internet. Per Mausklick zum Liebesglück” (Goldmann 2002) gesehen. Ein 

Buch also. 

Summary 

Living in a world of total McDonaldization the consumer is affected by visual 

stimuli to make a purchase decision; visual stimuli increasingly dominate the book 

market as well. 

One type of visual stimulus is a book–cover that establishes a straight link 

between a book and a film, or a TV serial, based on a novel. It changes the relation 

between literary work and film – the film becomes a primary product, with the literary 

model a secondary one. In Germany publishers often use a specific slogan on 

the book–cover: “Roman zum Film” (Film Book), implying that the book is somehow 

an appendix to the film. Besides visual stimulation, publishers synchronize their 

marketing activities with the screening of a film or TV serial. 

Publishers and writers look for additional means to publicize their literary production, 

such as web sites created after a site mentioned in a novel, or web games 

based on the plot of the novel, or a web quiz. Internet elements are increasingly implemented 

in the structure of a literary work – the narration has the structure of a web 

site, with links and levels replacing chapters. 

Despite this development there are instances indicating a reverse movement, i.e. 

books are being published on how to search for a partner in the web, and digital 

literature, initially published in the web, is subsequently published as a hard copy. 

Kopsavilkums 

Vispârçjâs “makdonaldizâcijas“ apstâkïos viena tâs izpausme ir vizuâlâ stimula 

dominçðana un patçrçtâja mudinâðana âtram pirkumam; arî grâmatu tirdzniecîbâ 

jâizmanto vizuâlie stimuli, lai grâmata nonâktu iepirkumu grozâ. 

Viens no ðâdiem stimuliem ir grâmatas vâka dizains, kas rada tieðu saikni starp 

grâmatu un pçc ðîs grâmatas motîviem uzòemtu filmu vai TV seriâlu. Tâdçjâdi 

grâmata tiek pozicionçta kâ sekundârs, bet filma un TV seriâls – kâ primârs produkts. 

Ðî parâdîba ir raksturîga gan Latvijai, gan Rietumeiropai, turklât Vâcijâ uz grâmatas 

vâka nereti tiek dota tieða norâde: “Roman zum Film“, kas burtiskâ tulkojumâ nozîmç 

“Româns pie filmas“ un liecina par perspektîvas maiòu, raugoties uz literârâ darba un 

filmas attiecîbâm. Arî grâmatizdevçju mârketinga aktivitâtes tiek saskaòotas ar filmas 

vai TV seriâla demonstrçðanas laiku. 

Lîdzâs tam rakstnieki un grâmatizdevçji meklç iespçju „pievienot” literârajam 

darbam “vçrtîbu“, piemçram, românâ minçto mâjas lapu no fikcijas pârvçrst realitâtç, 

piedâvât pçc româna motîviem veidotu spçli internetâ vai konkursu ar iespçju laimçt


daþâdas balvas. Arî darba struktûrâ nereti tiek izmantoti interneta elementi – gan 

stâstîjuma „tîklojumâ“, gan formâlâ nodaïu aizvietoðanâ ar „lîmeòiem“, turklât 

“analogâ” formâtâ tiek izdota gan „lietoðanas instrukcija“, kâ iepazîties internetâ, gan 

sâkotnçji internetâ publicçtâ daiïliteratûra. 

Tomçr pagaidâm grâmatas joprojâm ieòem stabilu vietu patçrçtâju apziòâ.


MÂKSLA, 129.–136. lpp. 

The Handelsgeist and Cosmopolitanism: 

Kant and Herder Today 

Tirdzniecîbas gars un kosmopolîtisms: 

Kants un Herders ðodien 

Dr. Diane Morgan (Great Britain) 

Senior Lecturer in Cultural Studies 

University College Northampton, 

Park Campus, Northampton NN2 7AL, England, G.B. 

e–mail: DianeMorgan1@aol.com 

In the 1795/6 “Perpetual Peace” essay, Kant ascribes an important role to commerce and economics 

in the bringing together of humans within a cosmopolitan system: warmongering is 

deemed by him to be incompatible with the stability of relations requisite for mercantile exchange. 

Whilst not exactly promoting the cause of peace out of moral conviction, Kant suggests 

that the “spirit of trade” (Handelsgeist) in effect acts as if morality were its guiding 

motive. In this paper I explore this analysis of international trade and, by extension, of the 

deemed “civilising” role of international trading posts, such as the port–cities of Riga and 

Königsberg, in the works of Kant and Herder. 

Keywords: trade, cosmopolitics, Kant, Herder. 

In the 1795/6 “Zum ewigen Frieden” (“Perpetual Peace”) essay, Kant ascribes an 

important role to commerce and economics in the bringing together of humans within 

a cosmopolitan system: warmongering is deemed by him to be incompatible with the 

stability of relations requisite for mercantile exchange. Whilst not exactly promoting 

the cause of peace out of moral conviction, Kant suggests that the “spirit of trade” 

(Handelsgeist) in effect acts as if morality were its guiding motive. This paper seeks 

to explore such an analysis of international trade and, by extension, of the perceived 

“civilising” role of international trading posts, like the port–cities of Königsberg and 

Riga, in the works of Kant and Herder. 

When Herder hastily left Riga in 1769, sick of everything about the place (alles 

also war mir zuwider), he claims to leave behind him a city which is characterised by 

merely desultory vestiges of its former stature as member of the Hanseatic League: 

The former freedom of Riga, when the alderman left his hat in the town 

hall to hurry off to Sweden to defend the city, where is it now? Everything 

has collapsed: with soft morals weakness, falsity, inactivity and 

political expediency have crept in; the spirit of the Hanseatic towns has 

left Northern Europe; who wants to reawaken it? And isn’t it at all important 

for cities such as Hamburg, Lübeck, Danzig, Riga to know how 

this spirit was lost? Not how their trade, privileges etc were lost but 

rather how their animating spirit diminished and has now definitively left 

Europe? What is Riga now? Poor and more than poor, lamentable! The 

town has nothing and spends more than it has! It has a needy, useless 

splendour, which costs… Everything is this city rubs against everything 

else1 . 2


Musing on the historical importance of die Hanse and its potential importance 

for a cooperative and cosmopolitan Europe of the future, Herder half regrets devoting 

his time to fanciful literary works and suggests that a truly great mission to take 

on would be to dedicate oneself to analysing the world of trade and its historical 

development, thereby making a more decisive contribution to current affairs. One 

happy consequence of such an active involvement with the “spirit of the Hanse in 

Northern Europe” might be the restoration of a sense of identity to his home city, 

Riga: wie groâ, wenn ich aus Riga eine glückliche Stadt mache . 3 

In the passage from Journal meiner Reise im Jahr 1769 just cited, Herder identifies 

the characteristics of the “commercial spirit” he sees epitomised in die Hanse. 

These are: a transnational allegiance forged through trading channels (whereby a resident 

of Riga can feel obliged to defend a city in Sweden); a rigorous system of moral 

values (whose decline into “political expediency” (politische Biegsamkeit) and impotence 

accompanies the demise of the Hanseatic League itself); and lastly, he registers 

the loss of stature, dignity and privileges of the former Hanseatic cities themselves, 

but insists that far more important are the repercussions of the loss of this “spirit” for 

Europe itself. 

The Seerepublik, the international union of sea traders, which later (at the end of 

thirteenth century) became known as die Hanse, represents to Herder a model, not 

only of how commercial exchange should proceed, but also of how Europe and, by 

extension, how the planet earth should evolve socio–politically. It developed as a response 

to the actions of pirates, the pillaging of shipwrecked vessels by coastal dwellers 

and to the practise of Fremdschuldhaftung or the taking of reprisals, the seizing 

by force of property (or persons) of subjects of another nation or citizens of another 

city in retaliation for loss or injury suffered because of one of their fellow countrymen 

or city residents. 4 The dangers faced by the traders personally and the risk that 

their goods could vanish without trace or any accountability were factors understandably 

most unconducive to foreign exploration and long distance exchange. In the 

place of such insecurity, traders gradually developed (from the eleventh century onwards) 

an international system of right to provide protection and guarantees for their 

reciprocal activities. For historians, including Marxist historians, of die Hanse this is 

a crucial point to make: it was originally a system of principles established over time 

between the traders themselves (and not between states or Lords); indeed it was precisely 

characterised by the lack of elements pertaining to national states. 5 The specialist, 

Klaus Friedland writes the following about its motivating “spirit”: 

…the foreigner arrives as a guest, as a partner; he who comes from afar 

will no longer, as was earlier the case, be perceived as an enemy, a threat, 

or an alien, but will rather be welcomed in for short or longer periods; 

his distant origin will be noted and appreciated as an enriching acquisition 

and as indicative of a new mobility6 . 7 

The evolution of long distance trading went hand in hand with the growing 

urbanisation of Europe as traders frequented annual markets and fairs, traversing the 

seas and land and enjoying the hospitality and protection that accompanied their status 

as member of the Hanseatic League. Celebrated by Herder as “the workshops of 

industrious work”, the Hanseatic cities of “Germany and the Netherlands, and in the

Diane Morgan. Tirdzniecîbas gars un kosmopolîtisms: Kants un Herders ðodien 

131 

northern regions, Poland, Prussia, Russia and Latvia” flourished as a result of their 

trade associations with England, France, Portugal, Spain and Italy and, says Herder 

this Bund did more to bind Europe together as a community than any “crusades or 

Roman codes”. It cut across national and religious differences and grounded the connections 

between states in “reciprocal interest, competitive hard work, honesty and 

order”. He concludes: “cities accomplished what regents, priests, and aristocrats were 

unable yet wanted to carry out: they created a communally acting Europe” (ein 

gemeinschaftlich wirkendes Europa”) 8 . 9 

In stark contrast to die Hanse (which should be regarded as a Vorbild des 

künftigen Zustandes aller handelnden europäischen Völker), stands the crude, pared 

down bloâer Handelsgeist of the eighteenth century and Herder cuttingly remarks on 

how short it falls from fulfilling enlightened expectations. 10 In Auch eine Philosophie 

der Geschichte zur Bildung der Menschheit (published in 1774) he writes: 

In Europe slavery has been abolished, because it has been calculated that 

these slaves costs more and brought in less than free people: just one 

thing have we nevertheless allowed ourselves and that is to use the remaining 

three quarters of the world as slaves, to banish them to silver 

mines and sugar mills. But what does that matter? They aren’t Europeans, 

not Christians and in return we take silver, precious stones, spices, 

sugar and– hidden illnesses; all this for reasons of trade and for the mutual 

help between brothers and the great community of all lands11 . 12 

Enlightenment and its educative mission (its promotion of Bildung) is revealed 

as de facto limited in scope, having managed only to affect and take root in a narrow 

strip of the globe (it has nur einen schmalen Streif des Erdballs berührt). 13 Herder 

ruthlessly points out the hypocritical inadequacy of this limited eurocentric concern 

as, ultimately, the progressive project of Enlightenment has to be global to be consistent 

with its universal claims. It should not and cannot be that the glories of European 

modern technology are transported to the colonies to become there weapons of subjugation, 

deception and plunder. He also suggests that this failure to apply moral principles 

universally might spell the undoing of Europe as people living in dehumanising 

servitude eventually revolt. 

Kant reinforces and elaborates on the necessarily global application of enlightened 

thought and tries to establish its foundations in natural, or more precisely, in a 

physico–geographical law. In the “Perpetual Peace” essay he anchors everyone’s right 

to visit foreign lands in the primordially communal possession of the earth’s surface 

(des Rechts des gemeinschaftlichen Besitzes der Oberfläche der Erde). 14 This “right 

to the earth’s surface” arises by virtue of the planet’s spherical shape, which pre– 

empts an infinite dispersal of human beings. Earth dwellers are therefore ultimately 

obliged to find means of getting on with each other as there is no alternative, no escape 

as there would be with an endless, flat surface. He also reminds us that originally, 

before the springing up of states and countries, no–one had any more right of 

possession to patches of the earth’s surface than anyone else: the right to hospitality 

draws on this natural law as well. Loosening the possessive grip yet further, he states 

that large areas of the globe are inhabitable for us as a species, comprising of perilous 

seas, recalcitrant deserts, unsurmountable mountain ranges. The effect of these


vast expanses of land and sea is to separate humans from one another. Hence the importance 

of systems of transport and communication– whose motor is trade– for overcoming 

such elemental adversity and for bringing humans, against the odds, into contact. 

Understood at this humbling level– from the perspective of vulnerable creatures 

clinging to a finite, limited planet, mastering as best they can, the hostility of climate 

and terrain– the diligent activity of traders emerges as valiant and constructive. 

Whereas sea–robbers and pillagers work against the natural law in their disrespect 

for the primordial right to hospitality (since no human is originally more at home on 

this planet than another), traders, cognisant of the attendant dangers of travelling to 

foreign territories, build up helpful reciprocal arrangements for the protection of 

goods and for the shelter of the person. As such the spirit of trade (Handelsgeist) is 

seen as paving the way towards an eventual cosmopolitan constitution establishing 

international law and universal human rights. 

Despite such apparently wholehearted and misguided optimism, Kant reveals himself 

to be equally well aware of the detrimental effects commercial rivalry can have on 

human minds and behaviour. In the Anthropology he defines the Handelsgeist as intrinsically 

“unsociable” (an sich ungesellig), each business being a trader’s castle separated 

from others as if by a drawbridge, prohibiting friendly, informal intercourse. 15 He is also 

not ignorant about real world trade practises. Like Herder, he shows himself in the “Perpetual 

Peace” essay to be well informed about the “inhospitable” conduct of “civilised” 

trading states whose only conception of foreign lands is one of zones inhabited by inferiors 

to be colonized and exploited mercilessly. Discussing the “cruellest and most calculated 

slavery” of the Sugar Islands, Kant acidly concludes: “And all this is the work of 

powers who make endless ado about their piety and who wish to be considered as chosen 

believers while they live on the fruits of iniquity”. However, his ensuing sentence, 

whose logic might well seem contradictory, runs as follows: 

The peoples of the earth have thus entered in varying degrees into universal 

community, and it has developed to the point where a violation of 

rights in one part of the world is felt everywhere16 . 17 

His guiding idea appears to be that the development of long distance 

trading, with all its concomitant injustices and abuses of power, is 

steadily becoming a global phenomenon. A positive outcome of this expansion 

is the proliferation of links between disparate parts of the earth 

and the ensuing gradual formation of a world community. Indeed the 

mere fact of this Königsberger professor being informed about slavery 

in the West Indies, indicates just how open lines of communication were 

becoming. Kant’s suggests that injustices in one part of the globe reverberate 

along these ever developing lines of communication, consolidating 

a public sphere which is, which should, be the concern of all rational 

beings. Slavery in the West Indies, as the inverse of an event like the 

French Revolution, analysed in Conflict of the Faculties, is another type 

of “sign of history”; it “can never be forgotten”. 18 

Kant is keen to defend his vision of a future cosmopolitan community from accusations 

of fanciful thinking and hastens to reassure those who are sceptical of humans’ 

capacity for perfectibility, that it is not reliant on us overturning nature and becoming


133 

angelic. Indeed, as we will see, the gel used to bind together egotistical and greedy 

humans draws its cohesive powers from these very mortal instincts. It is not dependent 

on some miraculous moral conversion and can function even in a “nation of 

devils”. 19 

In nature, humans are divided amongst themselves by differences in religion and 

language, which provoke, of course, much suspicion, hatred and an excuse for warmongering. 

However, with a gradual rapprochement between the peoples of the 

world, furthered by a basic agreement about fundamental principles, these same differences 

can give rise to “lively competition” and between a variety of multicultural 

forces a positive equilibrium can be found. Compared with the amalgamated uniformity 

of identity desired by despots, such an irreducible divergence of socio–cultural 

perspective is decidedly healthy. The community Kant is aiming for is one which 

brings together people in their differences, even because of their differences. In his 

analysis Kant relies on a force which is stronger than the respect for the concept of 

cosmopolitan right and that is the wish for financial gain. It is this force which motivates 

the spirit of commerce (Handelsgeist) whose transactions are alimented by difference, 

whose links are cemented by mutual self–interest and which much prefers 

the stability of peacetime to war for its business exchanges. 20 

As we have seen, the Handelsgeist plays a major role in Kant and Herder’s vision 

of a future cosmopolitan community and the latter specifically evokes its embodiment 

in die Hanse as a model of unmediated, non–alienated, cross–cultural relations 

of exchange and communication. 

Retrospectively it could indeed be maintained that die Hanse was a period in the 

history of commerce perched on the verge of, but not yet to be characterised as, nascent 

capitalist manufacturing with its “objectified labour” and its colonial slavery. 

Hence its attraction for Herder as he attempts to charts through the ages the fortunes 

and achievements, misfortunes and wastages of human industry (Fleiâ). 

Die Hanse was originally a loose association, or – to use Friedland’s word 

“Schar”, of traders, authorised to carry out transactions abroad, who were not bound 

indissociably together by an oath of allegiance (as guild members were), but rather 

joined together by purposive self–interest necessitating reciprocal arrangements with 

and guarantees from others. 21 However, the traders who chose to enter the League 

themselves in turn belonged to their respective guilds which promoted the skills of 

the various crafts, protected working conditions, controlled the quality of the artefacts 

and regulated the size of the masters’ workshops thereby– according to analysts such 

as Marx– thwarting their transformation into full blown capitalists22 . 23 The protectionism 

of the guilds at least was able for a time to maintain the specificity of different 

trades and crafts whilst, through the interface of the Hanseatic League, reaching foreign 

markets – thereby making giving rise to a different vision of globalisation from 

that experienced, enjoyed and suffered today, where multinationalists can be seen as 

emitting the same commodities everywhere. 

The inviting and intriguing image of globalisation I locate in the work of Kant 

and Herder is one for which the local (regional, national, ethnic) particularity counts 

and is not submerged under blanket categories. For instance Herder’s chapter on the 

Slavs in the Ideen zur Philosophie der Geschichte der Menschheit traces their general


decline into subjugated serfdom and muses on the contribution to the rich tapestry 

which is for him humanity (die Menschheit) were they one day able to affirm their 

identity 24 . This concern for singularity within a global framework, married with Kant’s 

concern for international law and fundamental rights for all “rational beings” might, I 

suggest, have something to offer us for a thinking of cosmopolitics today. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Friedland K. (1991) Die Hanse. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer Verlag. 

Herder J.G. Journal meiner Reise im Jahr 1769. at http://www.gutenberg2000.de/herder/ 

jour1769/jour1769htm 

(1990) Auch eine Philosophie der Geschichte zur Bildung der Geschichte. Stuttgart: Reclam 

Verlag 

(1985) Ideen zur Philosophie der Geschichte der Menschheit. Wiesbaden: Fourier Verlag 

Itken M. „Die Norddeutschen wollen die Hanse wieder blühen lassen” in „Die Welt” 26/10/ 

2002. 

Kant I. (1977) Schriften zur Anthropologie, Geschichtsphilosophie, 

Politik und Pädagogik I Werkausgabe Bd. XI. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Verlag. 

(1994) „Perpetual Peace” in Political Writings. Trans. H. Reiss, Cambridge: Cambridge U.P. 

(1964) “Anthropologie in pragmatischer Hinsicht” in Schriften zur Anthropologie, 

Geschichtsphilosophie, Politik und Pädagogik. Werkausgabe Bd. XII. Frankfurt am Main: 

Suhrkamp Verlag. 

Marx K. (1979) Capital. Vol I trans. B. Fowkes. Harmondsworth: Penguin. 

REFERENCES 

1 The original text by Herder reads: „Alte Freiheit von Riga, da der Altermann seinen Hut 

auf dem Rathause lies und nach Schweden eilte, um die Stadt zu verteidigen, wo jetzt? 

Alles ist zurückgefallen: mit weichen Sitten ist Schwachheit, Falschheit, Untätigkeit., 

politische Biegsamkeit eingeführt; der Geist von Hanseestädten ist weg aus Nordeuropa, 

wer will ihn aufwecken? Und ists für jede dieser Städte, Hamburg, Lübeck, Danzig, Riga, 

nicht groâe wichtige Geschichte, wie sich dieser Geist verloren? nicht, wie sich ihr 

Handel, ihre Privilegien u.s.w. sondern ihr Geist vermindert und endlich Europa verlassen 

hat, und haben wir solche Geschichte von Hanseestädten?.. Jetzt Riga was ists jetzt? Arm 

und mehr als arm, elend! Die Stadt hat nichts, und mehr auszugeben, als sie hat! Sie hat 

eine dürftige, nutzlose Herrlichkeit, die ihr aber kostet! ... Alles reibt sich an der Stadt...” 

//The Journal meiner Reise im Jahr 1769 can be found at: http://www.gutenberg2000.de/ 

herder/jour1769/jour1769htm. References to the text refer to this electronic edition; translations 

are my own. 

2 Herder J. G. //Journal meiner Reise im Jahr 1769 at http://www.gutenberg2000.de/herder/ 

jour1769/jour1769htm, p. 8. 

3 Ibid, p. 8. 

4 Friedland K. Die Hanse. – Stuttgart: Kohlhammer Verlag, 1991, p. 195ff.


5 Ibid, p. 17. 

135 

6 The original text reads as follows: „der Fremde wird zum Gast, zum Partner; wer von 

weither kommt, wird nicht mehr, wie früher wohl, als feindselig–bedrohend, zumindest 

fremdartig empfunden, sondern für kurz oder dauernd aufgenommen, seine aufwärtige 

Herkunft wird vermerkt und bleibt bewusst als ein Stück zugewonnener Raum, Ausdruck 

einer neuen Mobilität”. 

7 Friedland K. Die Hanse. – Stuttgart: Kohlhammer Verlag, 1991, p. 37. 

8 We might find Herder’s, to coin a term, „urbanocentric” perspective politically suspect at 

this point– too indicative of his privileged position as one of the Prussian colonising 

elite?–, seeing that it seems to neglect, if not dismiss, what is happening amongst the 

Latvian serfs, bound to the countryside, excluded from the city and its economic and 

cultural activities. We will return to the question of serfdom and Herder’s position on this 

subject shortly. 

9 Herder J.G. Ideen zur Philosophie der Geschichte der Menschheit. – Wiesbaden: Fourier 

Verlag , 1985, 548–9. 

10 Ibid, 528. 

11 The original text reads as follows: „In Europa ist die Sklaverei abgeschafft, weil berechnet 

ist, wie viel diese Sklaven mehr kosteten und weniger brächten als freie Leute: nur eins 

haben wir uns noch erlaubt, drei Weltteile als Sklaven zu brauchen, zu verwandeln, in 

Silbergruben und Zuckermühlen zu verbannen– aber das sind nicht Europäer, nicht Christen, 

und dafür benommen wir Silber und Edelgesteine, Gewürze, Zucker und– heimliche 

Krankheit: also des Handels wegen und zur wechselseitigen Bruderhülfe und 

Gemeinschaft der Länder”. In this passage, which displays a keen awareness of the brutality 

and injustice of slavery, Herder seems to overlook the fact that serfdom is still enforced 

in the “Eastern territories” (it was only gradually abolished as from 1806 onwards). 

However, elsewhere he does address the subject: in Ideen zur Philosophie der Geschichte 

der Menschheit where he writes about the “yoke of serfdom” (Joch der Leibeigenschaft) 

and the exploitative indolence of the aristocracy, both factors are regarded as a massive 

waste of human industriousness (Fleiâ) which is the motor furthering a civilising and 

civilised evolution of the species. 

12 Herder J. G. Auch eine Philosophie der Geschichte zur Bildung der Geschichte. – 

Stuttgart: Reclam Verlag, 1990, 74. 

13 Ibid, 89. 

14 Kant I. (1977) Schriften zur Anthropologie, Geschichtsphilosophie, Politik und Pädagogik 

I Werkausgabe Bd. XI. – Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Verlag, 214ff; 1994, 106ff. 

15 Kant I. Anthropologie in pragmatischer Hinsicht //Schriften zur Anthropologie, 

Geschichtsphilosophie, Politik und Pädagogik Werkausgabe Bd. XII. – Frankfurt am 

Main: Suhrkamp Verlag, 1964, 664. 

16 The original text runs as follows: „Da es nun mit der unter den Völkern der Erde einmal 

durchgängig überhand genommenen (engeren oder weiteren) Gemeinschaft so weit 

gekommen ist, dass die Rechtverletzung an einem Platz der Erde an allen gefühlt wird”. 

17 Kant I. (1977) Schriften zur Anthropologie, Geschichtsphilosophie, Politik und Pädagogik 

I Werkausgabe Bd. XI. – Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Verlag, 216; 1994, 107–8. 

18 Ibid, 357. 

19 Ibid, 224; 1994, 112. 

20 Ibid, 226; 1994, 114. 

21 Friedland K. Die Hanse. – Stuttgart: Kohlhammer Verlag, 1991, 23. 

22 In Capital Vol I Marx implies a very different analysis of the role of sea–ports from that 

of Kant and Herder, who, as we have seen, ascribe a “civilising role” to them. For Marx


sea–ports work against the guilds and the traditional work activities they protect, as such 

they represent “the new seed beds of industry”. 1979, 915. 

23 Marx K. Capital. Vol. I trans. B. Fowkes. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1979, 423, 459, 479– 

80, 1030. 

24 On this subject see the unattributed article “Johann G. Herder und die Slaven” at http:// 

www.celtoslavica.de/bibliothek/herder_slavica.html. 

Kopsavilkums 

1795.–1796. gadâ sarakstîtajâ esejâ “Mûþîgais miers” Kants tirdzniecîbai un 

ekonomikai paredz svarîgu lomu cilvçku apvienoðanâ kosmopolîtiskas sistçmas 

ietvaros. Viòa ieskatâ kara kurinâðana nav savienojama ar attiecîbu stabilitâti, kas 

nepiecieðama tirdznieciskajai apmaiòai. Kaut arî Kants tieði neiestâjas par mieru 

morâlas pârliecîbas dçï, viòð tomçr uzskata, ka “tirdzniecîbas gars” (Handelsgeist) 

bûtîbâ darbojas tâ, it kâ tâ virzoðais spçks bûtu morâle. Referâtâ es pçtu ðo 

starptautiskâs tirdzniecîbas analîzi un – plaðâkâ nozîmç – tâdu starptautisko 

tirdzniecîbas centru kâ Rîga un Kçnigsberga iespçjamo “civilizçjoðo” lomu Kanta un 

Herdera darbos.


MÂKSLA, 137.–148. lpp. 

The space of differences: Constructing the images 

through the multicultural dialogue 

Atðíirîbu telpa: tçlu radîðana multikultûru dialogâ 

Slavica Srbinovska (Macedonia) 

The main object of the analysis is the construction of the identity of the Balkans in the society, 

and especially in the ‘space of culture’ and the circumstances of making the fixed concept of 

someone’s identification in the reality. Through the periods of transition in the post–communist 

countries the problems of differences, gender, class, race and sex become a very important 

part of the life that has to be analysed as a global cultural problem with many trans–national 

and inter–textual connotations. We are speaking about very divisive dialogues between 

the people and the instruments of their real proof as persons who are included in human communications. 

The main object of analysing will be the narratives that are representative forms 

of different cultural aspects of believing and living. What can narrative discourse make to represent 

and change the practical life of the people on the territory of their homeland where 

cultural aspects of representation are different, although in close connection? How can sex and 

gender show their specificity in the reality of their country and outside? The main period of 

interest is the period of post–communist era of transformations and of multicultural integration. 

Are there any subversive instruments for changing the image except the discourse of the 

texts?! 

Keywords: differences, difference, Balkan, human being, dialogue, gender. 

There will be no unique name, not even the name of Being. It must be conceived 

without nostalgia; that is, it must be conceived outside the myth of the 

purely maternal or paternal language belonging to the lost fatherland of thought. 

On the contrary, we must affirm it–in the sense that Nietzsche brings affirmation 

into play–with certain laughter and with a certain dance. 

Jacques Derrida 

Differance 

1. The photography and a performance of art 

I will start my explanation by applying the same narratological model that is my 

subject of analyzing. That means that I will point out to some specific aspects of my 

experience and I want to represent them from my point of view. The narrating in the 

first person and speaking about the individual experience of the reality is the simple 

cliché of every autobiography, and its transcendence in to the art. An artistic perspective 

will explain this experience: its tendency is to become universal and additional 

building of any particular image of the Mediterranean world. 

Last year I spent my vacation near by KuŠadasi, one of the famous tourists 

places on the Turkey’s coast. The name of the city means ‘the Island of birds’. Nearby 

Ku(adasi, the ancient cities Ephesus, Millet, Didyma, (Didim) Prien that belong to 

the different periods of the history, such as Antic Greek or Roman period BC, spread 

out beside the sea. Inside of them, besides the tourist voices, you can listen the sound


of time and you may feel such as someone who is out of the objective time, or like 

someone who is free of the border system of his life. A photography that I made there 

corresponds with my imaginary picture of freedom and humanity. It is an artificial 

structure, which is free of all oscillations actual in national vision. I can say, that it is 

an example of a Trans–cultural form of art and communication. On the photography 

and in the reality (because the reality itself is the referent of the photography, according 

to Roland Barthes1 ) there is a hill with the buildings/monuments constructed in a 

different periods of the history; they are made from different empires, Greek, Roman 

Empire and Ottoman Empire. Those buildings are the magnificent results of different 

cultures, ethnic or folklore groups, different religions and politic systems. Up on the 

hill, you can see the Church of St Johan, in the middle is an Isa Bey Mosque and on 

the bottom, there is a temple devoted to goddess Artemis (Diana)– Artemision 

temple– that is one of the worlds miracles. It isn’t an abstract body. It is a real body 

that insists to ruin the borders and exists for someone who has specific interior sense, 

an ability to cross the borders of all past and present times and places and to concentrates 

him to this artistic reality made of time and space. This is a sublime picture of 

Mediterranean world. 

I would like to make the comparison between this reality and the performance called 

“Culturalization or ontological missing of the tragedy” which was made by Zaneta 

Vangeli in Skopje. She tries to displace the codes, or better to make the mixture of codes 

from different cultural systems and refers to the procedure of shifting and transformation 

in their meaning. Her sublimation is realized through an imaginary reproduction of the 

interior of the church of St Sophia/Hagia Sophia in Istanbul. This building was an orthodox 

temple, a church, but through the period of Ottoman Empire it was transformed in a 

mosque, but today it is a museum, or a building of a culture. 

I use this performance to explain the possibility of transformation, or better of 

shifting the codes and to accord to their projection on the actual and contemporary 

dialogues and misunderstanding between the people, between “I” and the “Others”. 

My photography and this performance clearly points to the James Donald’s thought 

that ‘a nation doesn’t express itself through its culture, it is culture that produces the 

nation”. 2 He also means about the “culturalisation of the social by the culture.” From 

this beginning I would like to point out to the whole heterogeneous world of living 

from which is consists the reach base of European culture, it creates the Mediterranean 

world of differences. 

Before all my explanations, I would like to say something about the sense of the 

text or narration and about the interpretative response of the reader. 

There are many conflicts between “the will” of the person and the construction of 

the rules in the community upon which we have to coordinate our narratives. I know that 

differences between the affective and cognitive constructions in the consciousness of the 

reader are usually active aspect of the mind of the narrator who decides to narrate the 

story of his everyday life. With full awareness about that fact, I will start my story that 

has to be believable for the others, full of many arguments and at the end, I know that 

the story must be rather good organized than to be real. That is a complex construction 

of the rhetorical tools with the general aim: constructing the identity through the story, 

not even more in the life, but through the narration.

Slavica Srbinovska. Atðíirîbu telpa: tçlu radîðana multikultûru dialogâ 

2.The Philosophy of Differ(A)nces 

139 

The philosophy of Differance, according to Derrida, was created upon the specific 

point of view of the Being that includes its understanding through the movement, 

activity and origin situated in the primordial spatiality. It is a middle voice that 

“precedes and sets up the opposition between passivity and activity.” The start point 

of the problem of including the letter “a” instead of “e” in the word “differance” that 

change the meaning of the word “difference” and makes a new philosophical word 

key, can be explained by the sentences taken from Derrida’s text titled Differance: 

“With it’s a, differance more properly refers to what in classical language would be 

called the origin or production of differences and the differences between differences, 

the play (jey) of differences. Its locus and operation will therefore be seen wherever 

speech appeals to difference.” 3 

If someone wants to establish the ontology of Being, that usually goes through 

the language as an instrument of mediation and as a system of signs of representation, 

he has to accept the speech as a signification or better as an referring instrument 

with which he can make an identification. Our theses are that it is a simple process of 

identification if we insist to accept only a clear concept that understands and constructs 

the image of the Being with some specific qualities that usually bordered its 

existence, and excluded the other qualities that are also parts of the existence about 

we are talking about. Acceptance of this new construction of the meaning in the discourse 

of philosophy by including the term of DIFFERANCE, solves the problem of 

integration of differences between complex elements and qualities of the Being. This 

problem is explained by Derrida on this way: “But the word ‘difference’,” he said,” 

(with an e) could never refer to differing as temporalizing or to difference as polemos. 

It is this loss of sense that the word differance (with an a) will have to schematically 

compensate for. Differance can refer to the whole complex of its meanings at once, 

for it is immediately and irreducibly multivalent, something which will be important 

for the discourse I’m trying to develop.” 4 

If the explanation starts with the polemic of presence and absence of meanings 

and with the idea of trace or chain, system in which every concept refers to the others 

and, they continue to point out to another concepts, than we think about the 

system of playing with the differences. Because of it, as Derrida points out, we can 

speak only about the possibility of conceptualizing, and not for the stabile and fixed 

concept of Being. 5 If we accept this kind of play of the differences, we couldn’t speak 

about the summation of that what is inscribed in our epoch, but about the juncture, 

about the functioning of the present Being posed on the trace of transformations and 

movements, Being that is unacceptable as a close concept, but as an active and diverse 

existence, always in connection with its past and future elements. That kind of 

understanding is activated through the signs as the instruments of representation 

and constructing the images. But they are never stabile and fixed; differance is the 

movement through which the signification becomes possible but in a special way of 

making the correlations: each element that is said to be present, appeared on the stage 

of presence, but always in a correlation with the other as a retained element from the 

past, and with its projection that belongs to the future.


Leaving the philosophy of precise concepts, we are involved in the dialogue as 

an instrument of making the trace of constant playing between the past and the future, 

we are included in the system of construction, deconstruction and reconstruction 

of the elements that are separated in the space, and differ one of another. By this 

kind of understanding the world we are in a position to speak about the problem of 

constructing the images through the multicultural dialogue. 

3.The ontology of beings and being ness/ globalization or 

multicultural dialogue 

Great demonstrations of the students, and the polemics of the intellectuals in 

Europe in 1968 introduce in our thought about the world system, an idea of a new 

politic which was evaluated as a politic of humanity, understanding and developing, 

It seems that the world was set up for changes and for a better direction of developing 

its potentials for democracy and dialogue. Everybody was admiring of the possibility 

and needless of showing the differences between the existences of everything, 

first of all importance of exchanging the ideas that were presented as human and 

positive. It also includes the differences of the human beings; differ in their sex, race 

or class position. In that space of open dialogue between the differences was established 

the desire for dialogue and exchanging the ideas between the cultures from 

the north and south, from the west and east. 

Contrapuntal explanation of the great expectation of this positive flow inscribed 

in the slogan “Vive la difference”, according to Balibar, start with the problem of its 

deconstruction, or with something that is not marked ‘in it’. Positive and negative 

elements included in the concept are limited in its appearance as fullness. It is impossible 

to escape from the past or historical background of the concept of difference 

that pointed out to the dominant understanding of the differences as differences in 

hierarchy, domination, injustice, or social inequality. Contradiction of the positive 

explanation of developing the differences was the social or racist claims, which are 

also included in the meaning of the slogan “Long live the difference”. Balibar explain 

that new racism is ‘differencialist”. 6 

Although, the demonstrations from 1968 seems like a positive event, because they 

express the changes that were expected to enter and to be applied in the documents 

of the representative institutions of the state, in the politic of governments, it was 

impossible to delete the negative consequences and the crisis. Freedom and liberty 

were accepted as a model of living in the communities that exist as alternative and 

separated from the elite part of the state. 

Latter, many of us attach their hope for better future by making the connection 

with the time of the “great event in the next decade of great expectations and hope”. 

It was in 1989, and the great historical event was the event of “breaking the wall “in 

Berlin with which starts the great concept of making the integration or rather construction 

of the global relations between many different parts of the world. This kind 

of expectations, as an action brings the world to the new ideology of globalization 

and signalizes full changing of the position of the people. Instead of fixed existence, 

they accepted the dynamic culture of living in constant movement.


141 

Maybe, 1969 was in the name of celebrating the differences, freedom and liberation 

from the norms of believing and leaving. Before that year, many countries in the 

world were liberated and decolonized; they start with the process of constructing the 

system of the western model of state organization. 

I have to say that the event in the 1989 looks like a great transformation that 

becomes a part of a definitive establishing of the separate states in the East Block. 

That was a process of ‘transition’, or on Russian, „perestrojka”. But, it doesn’t occur 

with out negative connotations. According to Rada Ivekovic, the problem is in the 

concept of “transition”, she explains that it is a “pitifully misleading and empty (…) 

in itself, (…) pragmatically practical, (…) used for post–socialist and post–colonial 

transition, what means from one ideological system of leaving to another. But this 

concept never explains to what it is meant to be a transition.” She concludes her 

explanation with these words: “Surely, it must be a globalization of the Western/ 

Nordern pattern of post–modern neo–liberal capitalism.” 7 

That means that this transition or the phenomenon of trans/nationality could be 

understood as the battle against the differences and as a phenomenon that leads to 

the system of integration under the ‘monetary system’ of power. Because of that, 1989 

was the demarcation line of the end of socialism and the date of embarkation of the 

past socialist transition, which was never clearly defined. On the micro–level the differences 

appear as a forceful disintegration of the Soviet Union or Ex–Yugoslavia. 

The process of making the clear national states was in its beginning and was realized 

by horrible events that stigmatised peoples life in the period of nineties. The situation 

of differing could be also definite as a retrograde process of disintegration and a 

contrapuntal process of European integration. The whole societies that were built as 

a universal model of socialism had to be reconstructed and they were put in a crises 

of transformations, they had to change the paradigm through the processes of negotiation 

and renegotiation by signifying many specific contracts with the European 

Community as a guarantee. Many of them were not applicable for the countries that 

are in a phase of their establishing. These renegotiations were achieved through the 

war. In these contacts were included the dimensions of a new models of dialoguing 

between the different communities of people that belong to the different national or 

cultural traditions “condemned” to live side by side in one country, but with appetites 

to differ and to border their separate territory of the new “clean” national state. 

4. Differences as a stigma: image of the Balkans 

The problem of differences could be expressed by specific complex of characteristics 

registered with the concept of balkanization. According to Marija Todorova, 

there are several terms that differ the people from this region from the other nations 

of the Europe. It is not a region of the “clear and clean” national states, but the territory 

settled with the people from different nations. 

I would like to say something about the specific way of living in this part of the 

world: Mediterranean world. The traditional image points out that it is established 

through the others, it is mottled carpets consists of different colors and different im-


ages of the ethnic, national or cultural identities. Paradoxically or not, the main characteristic 

of the end of the 20th century becomes the essential examination of the identity, 

provokes by the others, but also confronts with the process of deleting the identity 

of the others like an act of violent elimination and radical insisting of one’s identification. 

That usually leads to the result of violent resolving the life with dead or 

with war. According to Prof. Rada Ivecovic, it is a strong tendency of bordering the 

territories and creating the identity by that lend. 8 In that context, we are witnesses of 

a total disappearing of any reflection of the Other and the whole effort is concentrates 

on the distinguish oneself. By that way we touch the bottom of the life, the 

death, the violence, and we can see the practicing of violence that characterized most 

of the histories of the nations that live in the Mediterranean world. 

If in the center of our thinking we emphasize the idea of establishing the identity, 

we have to speak about the national, ethnic or cultural identity, but usually about the 

identity through its reflection in the eyes of the others. Identity always asks for the 

territory, it establishes its imaginary borders, but he/she can insist to master the history 

or the time, and at least the universal, the humanity. All the territories on which 

insists one’s identity couldn’t be real, they have to exists as an imaginary land of 

human living, and after that as a real living, for example our living on the territory of 

the Mediterranean world of riche and worth. 

The identity nests through the story and images, but it usually need the others to 

listen and accept these images, to react and confirm the existence. The story, also 

means developing the dialogue through the borders between the territory of the “I” 

and the existence of others in its world. I pretend to eliminate the established histories 

and to accept the representations of the individual imaginary world of identifying 

through the story. All histories in the past in this Mediterranean world insisted on its 

validity and on its true. I want to point out to the “other”, sophisticated stories, which 

are not representative for a country, or material world, but are usually straitened in its 

borders. Narration in my essay is some kind of an effort to make a revival of an individual 

explanation as a story, which will be able to save the past and to integrate the 

differences, and not recognized aspects of individuality in a space of the text as an 

example of a dialogue with the thoughts of many Others. It needs its identification by 

the others. That is a narrative as a Utopia in which the time and space are compressing 

by texturing the story. By that way I couldn’t accept the long tradition of the 

“Balkans specialties” that wanted to promote the validity of their individual perspective 

of the events by deleting the history of the others. 

First of all, as a region, Balkan is traditionally bordered/divided from the other 

parts of Europe as a lagging region, although it belongs to the continent although, the 

roots of the European civilization were planted here, this part was rather separated 

than integrated in the Europe. 

Balkans were traditionally characterized as an ethos: independent, proud, courageous 

and honor. The concept of “balkanization” is derived from the phenomenon of 

“kleinestaat”, according to Erik Hobsbaum. By analyzing the etymology of this term, 

we can find the same explications. The verb „balkaniser” means “national fragmentation” 

as it is pointed out with the situation in the Balkan region” after the First World 

War. „Balkanisieren” signifies the process of fragmentation of the state by making a


143 

many, many mini–national projects that are enemies between them. In the Oxford 

Dictionary of English language, Norman Paunds explains the term and concept of 

„balkanization” as elimination or destroying the territory of one geographical region 

through establishing the micro–national states that are usually in relations of the enemy. 

In the Dictionary of Italian language „balkanization” means despotism, revolution, 

contrarevolution, guerilla and attempting of one’s life. After the Second World 

War the term balkanization was activated in connection with the process of 

decolonisation. 9 

Today this is concept with a specific interpretation. It is a term that points out to 

the connotation of multicultural dimensions of a society, or it is used as a metaphor 

of postmodernism or post–communism. Harold Blum used this term as a synonym of 

dehumanisation, deestetization, or as a process of ruining the civilization. Out of his 

explanations we have to accept the concept of balkanisation as a concept that always 

refer to fragmentation, and it is too dangerous if it points out to the ideological fragmentation, 

which always convey the process of consolidation of the external power 

that usually dictates the construction or reconstruction of the model of existence in 

these “kleinestaat”. 10 

The opposite side of this process could be understood by looking for the 

transnational perspectives or multifocal approaches to the world accepted as a text of 

the culture, according to J. Lotman. It could be explained as a necessity of every 

human being to make the projection of himself in the mirror of the universal community 

as an equal person in the unity of many different persons that are included in it. 

The problem of any person as an identity could be understood through the attempts 

of integration his very close, but differ aspects: wide „ego” aspect and „the aspect of 

the other as unconscious part of the mind”. But that problem of the human beings 

according to our starting positions points out to the solicitation for differance as mark 

of a subversion of every realm, which is fixed and bordered. Making the identity is a 

process of constant deployment of human being, or rather of his ontological differences. 

It is a confirmation of a specific thought that covey to the possibility of 

conceptualising the differance. It is a process of making the marks of the transnational 

and intercultural movement of this deployment. 

It is easier to analyse the problem of differentiation, instead the possibilities of 

intercultural integration or trans–national dialogue of cultures. Contemporary life corresponds 

with the process of differentiation with many dilemmas about the new integration, 

although the globalisation is constantly presence in all dialogues about the 

power of the integrated capital in the trade system. The problem of the differences 

could be shown through the specific movements in the contemporary life. The societies 

in transition loose their epistemological coherence or pattern, although the start 

point of our explanation is the ontological status of living in a society that has confirmed 

its coherence through the power of integration of different cultural and national 

traditions. 

Each society or each culture has some epistemological coherence, says Rada 

Ivekovic, where everything holds within the same logic: inter–communications, exchanges 

between groups and generations, the transmission of knowledge, certain coherence 

between a self–image and reality. When it is gone, the loss is ‘desperately’


being ‘repaired’. In that process the actors are other social subjects. No such coherence 

holds the reality any more. The society ruptured and it is a beginning of the 

process of balkanisation understood as a process of ruining the whole. 

If I speak about the subject and its identification in the multicultural zone or 

transnational zone of Ex–Yugoslavia in the past, I couldn’t forget the presence of ideal 

that was physically embodied and through whose presence we measure and integrate 

our identity. Our growing was a long process of constructing the self and the self– 

reality through the images of the others. As a younger generation, we enjoyed in the 

mythical time of present that exists without the continuum of changes. With stability 

of its institutions that represents and constructs the ideal or fixed image of identification, 

we were bordered in the space of ‘equal’ and uniform people who’s established 

their life in constant and authorial world of living. By that way of understanding the 

world, as R. Ivekovic points out, we loose the feeling of time. By making the contraction 

of time we loose the reality of historical process of changing. It was easier to 

produce the reality out of the historical periods of changing and movement. Reality 

was a happy world situated in an ideal present that deleted any consciousness of our 

individual past life, or our future. We were loose in the myth of the population that 

was constituted from the non–responsible people who leave upon the decisions of the 

father–figure, or, as Rada Ivekovic said, upon the decisions of the “founding fathers”. 

The main position has the founding fathers. We were more pseudo–subjects or rather 

no–subjects. 11 

My efforts to explain the space of differences and the relation between the local 

or different, and the global, or transnational concept of the culture, will point out to 

some other complex term that was introduced by prof. Zoran Konstantinovic. The 

term “balkanisation” is very close to the Turkish word and a very complex concept of 

‘‘palanka’’. The palanka, is a form of leaving, a society that is emerging as a rural, 

patriarchal culture, with constant tendency to access the form of urban culture. The 

world of “palanka” exists only through the dream and constant desire for a different 

world, because of what the palanka is only an imitation of life. People live in a community 

with a high degree of safety life, but they live in a melancholy because of 

constant lack or unfulfilled desire to become someone who is the Other. 

By including the problem of palanka against the urban life, we speak about the 

relations between the province and central cities, about the centre and margin, or 

about the local bordered world as it is the national state and the universe of the global 

world of transnational living through the multicultural dialogue realized from the 

separate positions. 

The spirit of palanka is a symbol of our living on the Balkan, the phenomenon of 

existence that will never be the part of the urban European life? It is also a description 

of a difference between the minority and the majority. This is why the description 

of palanka suits to all types of contemporary societies, especially post–colonial 

ones that are on their way of transition to modernization or post–modernization of 

the life. According to R.Ivekovic, if the concept of palanka continue to exists without 

changes or movement that leads our minds to the consciousness of the necessity of 

multicultural relations, than we are surely accept the direction to nationalism and to 

fascism. 12


5.Differentiation and inter–cultural dialogue through the 

paradigm of gendering: possibility of life as an androgyny 

145 

I would like to finish my explanation by speaking about my point of view, or 

rather from the position of the woman from the Balkan. That is also an aspect of differences 

that full the space of our everyday living with the other. This position, also, 

points out to the problem of intercultural and inter–subjective dialogue between the 

people. The differences female/male was the first bounder or limitation imposed in 

the language and in the reality between the people that are treated as a different categories 

of people with unequal opportunities. 

The philosophy of differences is anticipated historically very early by founding 

the differences that looks coming natural, but they have their social implications. 

Because of that we are speaking about the gender, although the difference or bounder 

between sex and gender relations, that are inscribed in English language, doesn’t 

explain where sex stops and gender starts, that means that the limit between the terms 

is very difficult to be established. The oldest difference inscribed in the language and 

thought is the sexual or gender difference. It is basic although unquestionable and 

un–problematised; it is a part of our life where we have a habit to sexuate everything. 

That means that the process of making the identification is usually followed by the 

process of making the differences, the oppositions always go together: integration and 

isolation, universality and differences. The status of women is usually analyzed by 

speaking about differences, but with approaches that are included in the former analyzing 

of the philosophy of differences, ‘theory’ of “balkanization” or “europeisation”. 

Using the symbol, we can remember about the story/myth about the Beauty/ Europe, 

and the wild and barbarian man from the Balkans that seduce her, or try to kidnap her 

and get her from her own place of order and organization, cosmos, to his chaos and 

natural way of leaving. 

Women from the Balkan are usually represented as an incarnation of the boundaries, 

they are poor, but natural and contradictive in themselves, “balkandzika” is a 

word of their stigmatisation. Although we speak about the state or the nation organized 

through the process of establishing the identity in the figure of the Father, 

women are subordinated in their position of the guarantee of the hegemonies of the 

nation. 

At the end, we have to accept the argument that the gender relations exist in all 

type of communities and they don’t need a state. First boundaries are incarnate inside 

the community of people; they point out to the differences by dividing people into 

categories with unequal opportunities. 13 

The role of the woman is to incarnate the role of the universal pattern to the extent 

that even the organization of the state follows it. The women are the limit of the 

masculine universality under the mask of neutrality. Within the family, the women are 

relegate to the private space and rendered symbolically invisible and without publicity. 

They have their function to represent the clean line of the nation and its foundation 

in the institution such as family is. How can be explained the relation between 

the women and the state, between the limit and border, from one side and universal 

and global world of the people to the other side?


Process of external colonization is a process of involution of the ready–made 

people that are coming to build the states. Territories, geography, countries, borders, 

for the new universal masters, were created ex nihilo. In North and Latin America 

where nations are created with out the local population or in disregard of it, imported 

population from Europe or a ready–made people appeared as a political subjects, or 

citizens and they started with using the instruments that helped them to create the 

European model of a national state, or rather the state of equal people, what means 

that everybody has to accept the same language, behaviour, habits or religion by 

which he/she will be included in the same type of community, in the national state 

different from the others states. To be alive meant to accept all this norms of 

behaviour; on the contrary you were the enemy of the state. 

Parallel of that external geographical colonization, and the constitution of a national 

state, is the process of internal colonization, which is among other things inscribed 

on the body of the women as well as on the body of a collective imaginary 

“womanhood”. In the latter, female autonomy, the citizen ship of women and their 

human rights are made subordinate to the interests of the community (religious or 

national) and of the state. We point out to this very clear explanation of prof. Rada 

Ivekovic who says: “Women are made to incarnate the nation and national (male) 

order. The process of nation building or a process of partition is not intended to allow 

women to be subjects or agents of change. The women are put in a position of 

instruments for the transmission the messages. The women don’t belong to the nation 

or the race in the same way the man do, because they are not entitled bearers or 

representatives, except in some chosen figures.” The women get their position of a 

citizenship two hundred years after man do. 

But the identity principal basic on the national identity through which the 

culture is treated as a representative form so clear defined through the state and 

nation is a problem that shows the difficulties of women as the representatives of 

hegemonies. 

Interesting example of differences and the efforts to make the bridge is Balkan 

itself. The Balkans is treated as a strong people and heroes only in a mythological 

story of Europe who was kidnapped, and than backed to the island. 

The Balkans are different in this rendering situation of differing the centre from 

the margins, in that situation we made our choice long time ago, we decide to be “the 

other” as a woman or woman from the Balkan, we have our position on the margin 

rather than the people the first world. 

We continue to live on the place that is usually symbolized as a bridge, or windy 

place of dangerous leaving. How long can we stand here and live in those difficult 

conditions of life? Is it possible to stand on the bridge through the years that come 

forward in the next century? If the Balkans is so vulgar and violent people prepared 

to contract their border and will to grasp the women, how can be integrated them in 

the civilized Europe? Balkan is also a part of Europe? Nizche said that the man is a 

bridge, not the aim, but Marija Todorova asks how long can we stand there, on that 

bridge as a windy place without any dialogue or understanding from the people that


are close to us, as a human beings but so far as an Europeans?! 

Gloria Azaldua said: 

“In the country of the border you are on the field of war, where the enemies 

are relatives between them, 

At home you are the stranger, 

To survive in the country on the border you have to live the blue 

‘fronteras’, 

You have to be a crossroad…” 

REFERENCES 

147 

1 Roland Bathes. Le Chambre claire. – Paris, Editions du Seul, 1981. P. 33. 

2 James Donald. How English is it? Popular literature and national culture //Erica Carter, 

Donald James and Judith Squires (eds.), Space and Place Theories, Identity and Location. 

– London: Lawrence and Wishard in association with New Formations, 1993. P. 167. 

3 Jacques Derrida. Difference // The Phenomenology Reader, ed. by Dermont Moran and 

Timothy Mooney, Routledge. – London/New York, 2002. P. 555. 

4 Ibid, 557. 

5 Ibid. 559. 

6 Immanuel Wallerstein–Balibar. Nation, Race, Class. Les identities ambigues, La 

decouverte. – Paris, 1990, 28. 

7 Rada Ivekovic. Gender and national border and boundaries. European integration and the 

ethnicisation of the Balkans //Summer School, Florence, 17–22 June 2001. 

8 Ibid. 

9 Marija Todorova. Imaginarni Balkan. – Beograd: Nolit, 1999, P. 66–73. 

10 Ibid, 66–73. 

11 Rada Ivekovic. Gender and national border and boundaries. European integration and the 

ethnicisation of the Balkans //Summer School, Florence, 17–22 June 2001. 

12 Zoran Konstantinovic. Filozofija palanke. – Beograd: Nolit, 1981. 

13 Nira Yuval Davis. Gender and Nation, SAGE Publications. – London: Thousand Oaks. 

New Delhi, 1997. P. 123. 

Kopsavilkums 

Galvenais analîzes mçríis ir parâdît Balkânu identitâtes veidoðanos sabiedrîbâ un 

it îpaði “kultûras telpâ”, kâ arî tos apstâkïus, kâdi nepiecieðami noteiktas 

identifikâcijas koncepcijas pârtapðanai realitâtç. Pârejas periodos postkomunistiskajâs 

valstîs dzimuma, ðíiru un rasu atðíirîbu problçmas ir kïuvuðas par svarîgu dzîves 

sastâvdaïu, – tâ jâanalizç kâ globâla kultûras problçma ar daudzâm pârnacionâlâm un 

intertekstuâlâm konotâcijâm. Runa ir par dziïu domstarpîbu izraisoðiem dialogiem


starp cilvçkiem un lîdzekïiem, kurus tie izmanto, pierâdot, ka ir personîbas, kas tiek 

iekïautas cilvçciskâs saziòas procesâ. Analîzç izmantoti galvenokârt vçstîjuma prozas 

teksti, kas pârstâv daþâdu kultûru uzskatus un dzîves formas. Vai ðâdu tekstu dialogs 

spçj atspoguïot un panâkt izmaiòas cilvçku praktiskajâ dzîvç to dzimtenes teritorijâs, 

kur valda atðíirîgi, kaut arî visai tuvi priekðstati par daþâdiem kultûras aspektiem? 

Kâ atðíirîgie dzimumi var izpaust savas specifiskâs îpaðîbas savas valsts reâlajâ dzîvç 

un ârpus tâs? Pçtîjumâ galvenâ uzmanîba pievçrsta postkomunistiskâs çras pârmaiòâm 

un multikulturâlajai integrâcijai. Vai bez tekstu dialoga eksistç vçl kâdi spçcîgi 

lîdzekïi pârmaiòu panâkðanai?!


MÂKSLA, 149.–157. lpp. 

Americanization of Estonia: social mechanisms and 

literary manifestations 

Igaunijas amerikanizâcija: sociâlais mehânisms un 

literârie manifesti 

Krista Vogelberg (Estonia) 

Department of English, University of Tartu 

18 Ülikooli St., Tartu 50090, Estonia 

e–mail: vkrista@ut.ee 

The article argues for an analysis of processes of cultural Americanization on the basis of a 

broad sociological notion of culture, i.e. culture as a “way of life”, via a dialectic of deep– 

seated processes of value change and the reception of cultural icons as mediated through these 

processes. An attempt to articulate socio–economic mechanisms operant in recent Americanization 

of the dominant Estonian value system is checked against tracing the resultant new 

ethos in the work of the Estonian best–selling author Kaur Kender. 

Keywords: Americanization, Estonia, culture. 

The discourse of cultural Americanization, be it couched in negative terms (as “a 

discourse of rejection to point to the variety of processes through which America 

exerts its dismal influence on European cultures” 1 ) or in positive ones (American 

culture as a “zone of liberation or democracy”, America as “a locus for pleasure”, 

America as utopia or “a fantasy zone” 2 ), tends to deal with culture in the relatively 

narrow sense of the term, as one area of human activity alongside others such as 

economy, politics, etc., all of them closely interrelated, of course, yet in the final 

analysis separate. Hence the focus on dichotomies such as popular culture/high culture 

with the attending laments of American popular culture “invading” European high 

culture and undermining its authority or, on the positive side, the exultation over 

Whitman’s “word democratic, word en masse” challenging the cozy high cultural 

consensus of Europe3 . Within the bounds of this approach to cultural influence, cultural 

iconography, symbols, objects, artifacts, operate on their own – via the media, 

advertising and other channels – and can be either passively absorbed by the recipients, 

contested and resisted, or, to take the middle ground, freely “taken out of their 

historical and cultural contexts and juxtaposed with other signs from other sources” 4 . 

What seems to be lacking, however, is an explanation for the predilection of representatives 

of recipient cultures in particular contexts of one or another of the wide 

range of possible responses. 

It is the present author’s conviction that reception of culture in the narrower sense 

is predicated on culture understood far more broadly – one might say, sociologically 

or anthropologically – as “behavior patterns associated with particular groups of 

people, that is, /…/ ‘customs’ or /…/ a people’s ‘way of life’” 5 . This broad unified 

concept of culture, originally borrowed from anthropologists, in particular Margaret 

Mead and Ruth Benedict, a concept that encompasses not only works of art – be it 

high or popular – but also institutions, behavior, values, and mentalities, has indeed


been seen as pivotal to the whole project of American Studies as an interdisciplinary 

field6 . However, in the actual practice of the discipline, and most conspicuously so in 

research into Americanization, the broadening of the notion of culture has been limited 

to its democratization through the inclusion of popular culture and everyday artifacts, 

while the sociological dimension has been all but neglected7 . 

Central to the sociological notion of culture is the concept of “shared meanings” 8 , 

among which shared values occupy pride of place. Indeed, according to Hofstede9 , it 

is values that constitute the “deepest manifestation of culture”. Culture in the narrower 

sense, then, is able to exert its influence in a form and to an extent largely determined 

by the governing value system of the recipients. This is not to deny the dialectic of 

the processes: the lure of new cultural icons clearly plays a significant role in the very 

transformation of the value systems that condition the mode of their reception. Yet 

the role should not perhaps be overestimated, not even in this age of mass communication: 

cultures with strongly ingrained value systems may enthusiastically espouse 

the external trappings of, say, imported popular culture (cf. the immense appeal of 

American action movies in the Arab countries), with the deeper layers of mentality 

remaining untouched. 

The complex mechanisms that change culture as a “way of life” largely defined 

by the dominant set of values cannot, thus, be reduced to an influx, however massive, 

of foreign cultural artifacts, and have to be studied separately, with input from 

various disciplines10 . Meanwhile, the results of such a study can well be checked 

against the manifestation of (transformed) values in indigenous cultural products. 

This is the approach I am going to take in the present article: instead of tracing direct 

influence of American literature on present–day Estonian literature – a perfectly feasible 

project, of course – I am going to attempt to unravel – admittedly in a sketchy 

manner – social mechanisms operant in the Americanization of the dominant Estonian 

value system and, as the next step, the manifestation of the new values in the work 

of the Estonian best–selling author Kaur Kender. The analysis cannot be unidirectional, 

though, since many of the social changes underlying the value shift are also 

documented, one might say almost on–line, in the works of the author, starting from 

“Independence Day”, his first and most acclaimed novel (translated into several languages) 

up to the latest novel “The Bank Fraud”. Indeed the multi–directionality of 

the analysis seems to point to another advantage of a symbiosis of traditional American 

Studies with Social Sciences where, this time, it is the Social Sciences that are the 

beneficiary: (changes in) dominant cultural values can oftentimes be more authentically 

revealed through an analysis of culture in the narrower sense, particularly 

through works of wide popular appeal, than, e.g., via the traditional – at times questionable 

– method of questionnaires. 

I have ventured the claim elsewhere11 that if Europe is currently being Americanized, 

this happens chiefly, indeed massively, through former East and Central European countries. 

Paradoxically, while discourse of Americanization is vigorous in Western Europe, in 

much of Eastern Europe it is conspicuous by its absence. Yet, on reflection, the paradox 

is only seeming: American influence on these countries is, to paraphrase Stuart Hall12 , 

concealed by its very visibility, by its omnipresence, as it were. While even in the period 

when Western Europe was picking itself up from the ravages of war, it never lost a basic

Krista Vogelberg. Igaunijas amerikanizâcija: sociâlais mehânisms un literârie manifesti 

151 

continuity of its values and, consequently, the capacity to filter foreign influences to 

suit the local landscape – as well as an acute awareness of the nature and origin of the 

influences, East and Central European countries, entering an affluent West as new but 

poor capitalist countries, were caught in a maelstrom of change that all but deprived 

them of the capacity of selective absorption/appropriation of foreign values. Like genomes 

in the process of meiosis, these societies in transition were and still are vulnerable 

to foreign influences to an extent that has recently necessitated the use of the term 

“syndrome of social immunodeficiency”. 

How did the situation come about? The well–worn cliché – one that the present 

author resolutely opposes – has it that the old values that people were bereft of were 

those flaunted by official Soviet ideology. In fact, it has repeatedly, an with full justification, 

been claimed that in socialist countries Communists and the people spoke 

different languages. This implies a schizophrenic co–existence – sometimes in the 

same individual – of two different cultures that could be characterized as the official 

and the resistance one, the latter embracing far more than the openly dissident activities 

of a relatively small group of people. 

Resistance culture operated in the framework of what might be termed warrior 

mentality whose values (solidarity, strong emotional bonds, glory) centered round a 

heroic struggle for freedom. The struggle followed the typical scheme of fighting the 

Other – viz., official culture – through a significant Third – viz., the democratic West. 

What is crucial, however, is how the Third was constructed. In a schizophrenic society 

the operation of the semiotic boundary between society and its environment (with 

its dual functions of communication and filtering) assumes atypical forms. In particular, 

the filter, as it were, takes on an agency of its own: information that official culture 

attempts to filter out paradoxically increases manifold in significance while information 

officially admitted is rejected by resistance culture irrespective of its truth 

value. 

Thus, information about the Third accepted and absorbed by resistance culture 

was idealistically biased, and, more importantly, predominantly took the form of visual 

images of abundance, ironically so, since for warrior mentality quest for abundance 

is strictly irrelevant. However, since the freedom fought for was an abstract 

notion rather than experienced reality, visual images of abundance easily assumed the 

role of its symbol. With the collapse of socialism the symbol overpowered what it 

symbolized. Resistance culture, though instrumental in bringing about the collapse, 

did not come out of it as a winner, the parallel polis dreamed of by Vaclav Havel13 never materialized. 

Instead, abundance, turned from a symbol into a primary goal, brought about a 

new prevailing mindset, best described as merchant mentality, the seeds of which had 

always been there in the form of parallel, network–based economy, and opened the 

floodgates for the real Third. The former socialist countries underwent what amounts 

to not just a culture shift but rather a collective cognitive frame shift which wiped out 

not only official but also resistance culture and, with them, the indigenous genomes 

of the societies, carried primarily by the latter14 . Moreover, having been forcibly 

excluded from much of the real operation of society, resistance culture was in no 

position, within a short space of time, to establish a semiotic boundary of its own.


In the new situation, with affluence the uppermost value, it was only logical for 

the countries to turn to the US as an affluent nation par excellence. Also, alternative 

models such as the Scandinavian or German one (which prevailed in prewar independent 

Estonia15 ), are heavily dependent on social trust and bonds of tradition, the 

mechanisms of which can only properly function on the basis of a society’s own genome. 

Indeed, it is the very bonds of trust and tradition that function as a basis for 

national pride – some would say “dignity”, though others would prefer, say, “hidebound 

insularity” – that makes people both aware of and wary of foreign influences 

and accounts, in particular, for much of West European anti–Americanization rhetoric. 

With the tradition disrupted, specifically American values couched in individualistic 

and materialistic achievement–through–action discourse naturally become the 

easiest to adopt, all the more so as they hold the highest promise for a close advent of 

affluence. 

One should here return to an aspect of socialist society earlier mentioned only in 

passing, viz., the seeds of merchant mentality that had always been there in the form 

of parallel, network–based economy. At least two social groups were particularly well– 

prepared for the robber capitalism that ensued the collapse of socialism: the top of 

the nomenklatura with its access to information and social networks, and the notorious 

small traders swarming round Intourist hotels to exchange goods with foreigners. 

The disproportionate representation of these groups among present–day economic 

and political elites would be amazing if one did not take into account the 

mechanisms of transition described above. In his “Independence Day”, Kender gives 

a vivid cynical description of how the seeds of merchant mentality at its worst blossomed 

forth, in particular, how the small traders amassed their proverbial “first million”. 

The title, apart from being intertextually teasing, is outrageously ironical, since 

Estonia’s regaining of independence catches the main character in the midst of the 

amassment of the million through highly imaginative large–scale robbing of innocent 

Finns, and leaves them totally indifferent. These people have clearly had no part in 

the resistance culture, and their final triumph – in “Independence Day” as well as in 

reality – is testimony to the impotence of the latter in the face of altered circumstances. 

I have pointed out elsewhere16 that the circumstances that reigned in post–independent 

Estonia in the first half of the 1990s remind one almost uncannily of the 

American Frontier, both in terms of the literal opening up of new spaces and in the 

economic sense. The characters of the “Independence Day” put the spotlight on the 

Estonian “Frontier’s” shady side. Let us here recall Philip Slater’s words to the effect 

that the demographic selection that produced the present–day American, starting 

with the immigration and reinforced by the westward movement on the Frontier, favored, 

on the one hand, “energetic, mobile, ambitious, daring, and optimistic persons” 

while, on the other, America “also gained the lion’s share of the rootless, the unscrupulous, 

those who value money over relationships, and those who put self–aggrandizement 

over love and loyalty” 17 . That the latter group was successful in the social– 

darwinistic atmosphere of the Frontier needs hardly to be proved. 

Yet the former group was there as well – both on the American Frontier and its 

Estonian reincarnation, where economic success could also be achieved through entrepreneurship, 

i.e. by persons “energetic, mobile, ambitious, daring, and optimistic”.


153 

Estonians took advantage of their propitious situation where they, on the one hand, 

possessed a network of relationships in the West, and, on the other, had ready access 

to Russian natural resources which for a time they were able to trade to the 

West at a profit margin approaching 1000%. This was a time of the lone entrepreneur 

whose firm was “his lengthened shadow” 18 . Economic success was very much an 

individual matter and, as such, a source of individual pride. It was also, in true frontier 

fashion, a matter of adventure, and as such, emotionally satisfying, not to say 

exhilarating. Though in the second half of the nineties, as large Western companies, 

too unwieldy, bureaucratic, routinized and impersonal for an individual to identify 

with, moved in, and “the man became the shadow of the firm” 19 , the American values 

that the Estonian “Frontier period” had had such a potent role in entrenching went 

on of their own momentum. 

The present author is equally far from either lamenting over or extolling Americanization 

here understood as a wholesale adoption of American values. For one, the 

values themselves are ambivalent – which is probably the underlying reason for the 

diametrically opposite attitudes in much of West–European discourse of Americanization. 

One can well imagine fascination with “freedom, casualness, liberality, vitality, 

modernity, and youthfulness” 20 co–existing with at least cautious condemnation 

of excessive materialism, obsession with measurable achievement, an almost religious 

belief in the redemptive power of money – obtained honestly or otherwise –, contempt 

for poverty, indifference toward the past that comes close to amnesia, the attitude 

of “self is what self does” and the resulting absence of reflection, the cult of 

youth, or the uncritical acceptance of change, movement, and technology as valuable 

per se21 . However, whatever one’s personal attitude, there is overwhelming evidence 

that Estonians – with the possible exception of the old generation – are in the 

process of espousing all of these (mainstream) American values. For results of sociological 

surveys (together with a critique of their methodology), evidence from the 

media, etc., see, e.g., Vogelberg 1999, 200022 . Here, however, let us have a look at the 

reflection of the values in Kender’s work. A passage from his third novel – “The 

Abnormal” – almost seems to have been written with a view to illustrating the sociological 

analysis. The setting is, appropriately, New York. 

“YOU know: one has to be a 21st century writer. Young. Strong. Aggressive. Gone 

are the days when writers were hoary tottering old men or bespectacled old women in 

cardigans. /…/ Step aside, Dostoyevsky. We are not going to return to the scene of 

the crime, for we remember neither what we did nor where, to whom and why we did 

it. /…/ We need literature of the extreme. “If you are so clever than show me 

the MONEY” /the quote is in English in the original:/ – this is what one says to old 

writers. And one says it only once. If they have nothing to show for it, they’ll be 

forgotten. 

/…/ Your long black coat is flapping in the wind, you are standing slightly 

straddled, your head is just a shade tilted, nobody can see behind your black glasses. 

You need a new Sony VAIO laptop. It is three times as thin as Dostoyevsky’s “Idiot”, 

yet the whole of Russian literature fits on its hard disk. You need a cell phone. A global 

cell phone that works in the remotest spots of the world. /…/ You produce columns 

and reviews, you give interviews, write poems and novels. You are productive. 

And well paid. /…/ Present–day life realizes itself in you and through you. You write


fast. You have nothing but pity for those who lose a manuscript and then boast that 

they can restore 98% of it. Wretched creatures. You can restore nothing. Because 

whatever you write is born for that unique moment only. You are insured in Lloyd’s. 

If something is lost, you get the money back. And you move on. Not backwards. Indeed 

you think that in the work of those restorers that 98% is trash and it is only the 

missing 2% that are creative, new, unique. /…/ You have to act like Woody Allen. 

Spit on conventions. You have to produce, produce, produce incessantly. Until the 

time comes when critics are talking about your previous work, the readers are reading 

the new one, and you are talking about the coming one. Before long, the critics 

are completely fooled and there is nothing to prevent you from freely entertaining 

people. On–line. Real time. 24/7/365. /…/” 23 . 

In the fast–paced vibrantly energetic cadences of the passage, one can, of course, 

easily detect direct American literary and, perhaps even more obviously, cinematic 

influences. Kender himself has repeatedly and emphatically spoken about his admiration 

for and spiritual affinity with Tarantino. But one can also look at the text as a 

straightforward credo of a young Estonian out to conquer the world – a reading rendered 

all the more plausible by Kender’s own ambivalence about his status as a writer, 

his refusal to take on the high moral responsibilities traditionally associated with the 

role. What is more, judging by Kender’s phenomenal success, the credo is clearly 

shared by the majority of Estonians of at least his own generation. And the credo 

celebrates nearly every American value listed above. 

What is more, an Estonian would recognize in the passage a not–so–hidden polemic 

with the Grand Old Man of Estonian literature, the Nobel–nominee Jaan Kross, 

who did indeed lose a manuscript and declared that he had been able to restore 98% 

of it. However, it is not the personal polemic that is significant here (in an interview 

Kender actually admits to rather liking Kross’s novels), nor even a clash of generations, 

but rather an impassioned refutation by Kender – and his impressively large 

following – of the whole set of values, indeed the ethos, predominant in prewar independent 

Republic of Estonia and adhered to by resistance culture throughout the Soviet 

period, an ethos, as already mentioned, of predominantly German origin. The 

Estonian writer Tõnu Õnnepalu has perceptively pointed out that the anti–German 

ideology of prewar Estonia was, paradoxically, thoroughly German in its deeper layers24 

. Perhaps this is not so paradoxical, after all, as the German masters, though 

hated, were also actively emulated since the beginning of the Estonian National Awakening 

(a movement that itself was, of course, rooted in Herderian ideology). Jaan 

Kross, with the bulk of his work devoted to the exceptional Estonians who at various 

historical periods have managed to break free from their own ethnos and, as it were, 

become Germans, epitomizes this German ethos in more ways than one, starting with 

his choice of themes and the values he espouses up to his own manner of writing – 

meticulous, craftsmanlike, given to display of erudition, with passages carefully 

wrought and assiduously polished, every detail exuding the aura of the Teutonic style 

Kender’s revolt against this ethos is symptomatic of a general, though gradual, 

shift in newly independent Estonia from German to American values, as witnessed, 

for example, by the switchover of the Estonian mainstream press from the German 

paradigm, with its long, discursive, reflective, abstract essays, to the American one25 . 

The gradual nature of the shift and a continued coexistence of the two mentalities,


155 

with all the resultant creative tensions, should, however, be emphasized: hence also 

the poignancy of the revolt. In a way, what is happening here is another struggle 

against the Other with the help of the Third, yet now, in altered circumstances, the 

Other is not the Soviet system but the serious, profound, yet at times stifling German 

ethos, and the Third is no more represented by the (imagined) democratic West in 

general, but by the openly, indeed cynically, materialistic yet refreshingly vigorous 

America. 

One can here trace a curious parallel with the case of Britain where hard–boiled 

American detective fiction of Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler attained high 

popularity as early as the 1930s precisely because it embodied values radically different 

from those of the British upper–middle class posturing as universal. 26 

While in prewar independent Estonia the German upper class was physically no 

longer there and was indeed openly detested, its ghost, in the guise of the supposedly 

universal values that it left behind, was nevertheless widely venerated. For Estonia, 

as in fact for a number of other post–Soviet societies, the fact that pre–Soviet 

values preserved by resistance culture were in reality also imported ones, may provide 

an additional reason for the social immunodeficiency syndrome: it might be easier 

to shed something that was not genuinely indigenous to begin with. 

Yet even in the case of Kender, can we really speak of an unconditionally enthusiastic 

espousal of American values, ecstatic and exhilarating though the passage 

quoted seems? Let us read on. 

“You have the program of how to be a writer. There is a tiny detail yet to be taken 

care of, though. You do not have a book. You believe that writers of the 22nd century 

will be better off. They won’t have to go to the trouble of writing a book. They simply 

have to be writers. And to live as writers live. Going to every extreme. Many 

marriages, cohorts of children, car accidents, arrests, lovers, overdoses, waking up 

from coma, air crashes, natural disasters, cosmic collisions /…/You know that you are 

immortal. But not the way Pushkin and Dostoyevsky are. You are immortal because a 

moment arrives when nobody needs you. Your name, your image, your media appearances, 

your new novels, rumors about you will never be lost. They are produced by 

a huge concern. You will forever be under thirty. Young, Strong. Aggressive. Well, if 

not forever, then at least until this sells. And actually you’ll be made into two brands. 

The first is the one who writes columns and reviews. And the other the one who 

writes novels and poems. /The first is/ prêt–â–porter and universally available. The 

other /…/ haute couture. Exclusive. And expensive. And you sell. Sooner or later you 

go to the Stock Exchange. IPO. 51% for sale. You’ll become Blue Chip. And you are 

not interested in management buy–out. In secret, to prevent inside tradings from troubling 

anybody, you’ll sell all of your shares. And you’ll be free. And you won’t ask 

yourself what the point of it all was. New York. New York”. 

The passage is admittedly ambivalent and open to divergent interpretations. It 

might be viewed as a crescendo in the young hero’s exaltation of America, a kind of 

inebriation where all limits are freely crossed and the very absurdity reached is exulted 

in. This reading of Kender as a “straightforward”, unreflecting author, who 

“takes the tide at the flood” and gives himself up to it (finding himself, variously, led 

on to literary flop or fortune), is at least in part supported by the rest of his work.


However, Kender’s work also sustains a subtler interpretation which does not exclude 

(possibly unconscious) irony and self–irony. Which could, in the final analysis, very 

well form a substantial part in Estonians’ adoration and imitation of Americans. 

REFERENCES 

1 Rob Kroes. Americanisation: What Are We Talking About? //Cultural Transmissions and 

Receptions: American Mass Culture in Europe, eds. Rob Kroes, R.W. Riddell and D.F.J. 

Bosscher. – Amsterdam: VU University Press, 1993, 303. 

2 George McKay. Introduction: Americanization and Popular Culture //Yankee Go Home 

(&Take Me With U). Sheffield Academic Press, 1997, 11–53. 

3 Questions of Cultural Exchange: The NIAS Statement on Eropean Reception of American 

Mass Culture //Cultural Transmissions and Receptions: American Mass Culture in 

Europe, eds. Rob Kroes, R.W. Riddell and D.F.J. Bosscher. – Amsterdam: VU University 

Press, 1993, 324. 

4 Dick Hebdige. Hiding in the Light: On Images and Things. – London: Routledge, 1988, 74. 

5 M. Harris. The Rise of Cultural Theory. – New York: Crowell, 1968, 16. 

6 Cf., e.g. Jaap Verheul. The Ideological Origins of American Studies //Through the Looking 

Glass: American Studies in Transcultural Perspective (European Contributions to 

American Studies XL), eds. Hans Krabbendam and Jaap Verheul. – Amsterdam: VU University 

Press, 1999, 99. 

7 On the neglect of Social Sciences as potentially extremely fruitful contributors to American 

Studies, see Larry J. Griffin and Robert A. Gross. American Studies’ Two Cultures: 

Social Sciences, Humanities and the Study of America //Through the Looking Glass: 

American Studies in Transcultural Perspective (European Contributions to American Studies 

XL), eds. Hans Krabbendam and Jaap Verheul. – Amsterdam: VU University Press, 

1999, 116–133. 

8 Clifford Geertz. The Interpretation of Culture. – New York: Basic Books, 1973. 

9 Geert Hofstede. Cultures Consequences: International Differences in Work–Related Values. 

– Beverly Hills and London: Sage Publications, 1980 7. 

10 A useful guide for the analysis is Hofstede’s (op. cit.) position that outside forces do not 

influence value systems but their origins. 

11 Krista Vogelberg. American Studies in the Baltics: The Impact of Rapid Americanization 

//Through the Looking Glass: American Studies in Transcultural Perspective (European 

Contributions to American Studies XL), eds. Hans Krabbendam and Jaap Verheul. – 

Amsterdam: VU University Press, 1999, 184–196; Krista Vogelberg. Changes of Identity 

in the Meeting of Cultural Spaces //Negotiating Spaces on the Common Ground: Tartu 

University Cultural Studies Series I, eds. Krista Vogelberg and Raili Põldsaar. – Tartu: 

Tartu University Press, 2000, 248–267. 

12 Stuart Hall. Culture, the Media and the “Ideological Effect //Mass Communication and 

Society, eds. J.Curran, M. Gurevitch, J. Woolcott. – London: Edward Arnold, 1977, 325. 

13 Vaclav Havel. The Power of the Powerless //Open Letters: Selected Writings 1965–1990, 

1992, 213. 

14 For an extended version of the argument, see Vogelberg 2000. 

15 See Vogelberg 1999, 2000. 

16 See Vogelberg 2000.


157 

17 Philip E. Slater. The Pursuit of Loneliness //American Social Character: Modern Interpretations, 

ed. Rupert Wilkinson. – New York: Icon Editions, 1992, 208. 

18 David Riesman et al. The Lonely Crowd Abridged edition. – New Haven and London: 

Yale University Press, 1988, 139. 

19 Riesman, ibid. 

20 Mel van Elteren. Imagining America: Dutch Youth and its Sense of Place. – Tilburg: 

Tilburg University Press, 1994, 7. 

21 For sources describing dominant American values see, e.g., Edward C. Stewart. American 

Assumptions and Values: Orientation to Action //Towards Internationalism: readings 

in Cross–Cultural Communication, eds. Louise Fiber Luce and Elise C. Smith (Newbury 

House: Sage, 1986), American Social Character: Modern Interpretations, ed. Rupert 

Wilkinson. – New York: Icon Editions, 1992. 

22 see Vogelberg 1999, 2000. 

23 Kaur Kender. Ebanormaalne (Eesti Keele Sihtasutus). – Tallinn, 2000, 83–85, my translation. 

24 Tõnu Õnnepalu. Ruutuemanda armuke //Postimees, 1 June 2002. 

25 see Vogelberg 2000. 

26 Cf. also Duncan Webster //Looka Yonder! The Imaginary America of Populist Culture. – 

London: Routledge, 1988, 190. 

Kopsavilkums 

Rakstâ pierâdîta nepiecieðamîba kultûras amerikanizâcijas procesus analizçt, 

balstoties uz plaðâku kultûras socioloìisko izpratni, proti, izprotot kultûru kâ “dzîves 

veidu” un dialektiski aplûkojot vçrtîbu maiòas dziïâkos procesus un tajos mainîgo 

kultûras “ikonu” uztveri. Mçìinâjums noteikt tos sociâli ekonomiskos mehânismus, 

kas pçdçjâ laikâ darbojas dominçjoðâs igauòu vçrtîbu sistçmas amerikanizâcijas 

procesâ, tiek veikts, pçtot izveidojuðos jauno etosu igauòu fenomenâli populârâ 

rakstnieka Kaura Kendera darbos.


MÂKSLA, 158.–163. lpp. 

Bordercrossings in Janice Kulyk–Keefer’s Novel 

“Honey and Ashes” 

Robeþpârejas Dþenisas Kuïikas–Kîferes românâ 

“Medus un pelni” 

Edgars Oðiòð (Latvia) 

Department of Literature and Culture, 

Faculty of Modern Languages, University of Latvia 

Visvalza 4a, Riga, LV 1050, Latvia 

e–mail: edosin@lanet.lv 

The book Honey and Ashes published in 1998 by the Canadian writer of Ukrainian and Polish 

origin, literary critic and university professor J.Kulik–Keefer is devoted to the investigation of 

a family history and ethnic roots. In order to write a family history the author has not only to 

write down the stories of grandparents but also to read books on history, to investigate geography 

maps and archive materials. During this process the author has to cross borders between 

countries, between the present and the past, the imagination and the reality and to overcome 

language barriers. Though the village by the name of Staromisczyna (in translation – the Old 

Place) still exists in the place where it has been for hundreds of years everything in it has 

changed and there is no possibility to visit the past. Travels in imagination and visits to the 

archives in the Ukraine and Poland discover new discrepancies and tragic events in the lives 

of people and whole nations which previously have been hidden and not spoken about. Looking 

from the transcultural point of view chosen by the author it is impossible to find a clear 

cut and unambiguous answers to a large number of questions about the past or the present. 

Instead of that it is necessary to try to live without the burden of past wrongdoings and biases 

and not to impose one’s views on the future. 

Keywords: borders, Ukrainian, Polish, Canadian, past and present, transcultural fictions.Janice 

Kulyk Keefer, a second generation immigrant writer, is an outstanding representative of the 

so–called hyphenated Canadians – her roots are largely Ukrainian and also Polish. She is the 

author of more than ten books – poetry, fiction and criticism (Reading Mavis Galant, Under 

Eastern Eyes: A Critical Reading of Canadian Maritime fiction etc.). She is also a professor 

of English at Guelph University, Ontario. 

The full title of the novel, published in 1998 is Honey and Ashes: A Story of 

Family. The author has explored aspects of her Eastern European heritage in other, 

earlier writings – a number of short stories, scholarly articles, interviews and her 1996 

novel The Green Library. Keefer is also a frequent transatlantic traveller and has visited 

many countries of the world. Her fiction is largely written from a transcultural 

perspective, bridging different ethnic discourses, past and present, written history and 

the oral tradition. Elisabeth Marald in her study of Keefer’s transcultural travels points 

out that her fiction it is affirmative rather than nostalgic, “does not hide its less admirable 

legacies” and brings into light and interrogates “the prejudices held by one’s 

own group” 1 

The transcultural topic is also conveyed by Keefer’s literary technique. By means 

of different border–crossing structures, the literary discourse proves to be an alternative 

means of unmasking cultural assumptions. Spiral narratives, narrative voice,

Edgars Oðiòð. Robeþpârejas Dþenisas Kuïikas–Kîferes românâ “Medus un pelni” 

159 

unreliable narrators and the carnivalesque convey multiple and contradictory images 

thereby subverting the truth claim of the realist text. /.../ Keefer’s life–writing 

texts challenge the claim of official history that it is a transparent reflection of the 

world and therefore objective. 2 

Honey and Ashes contains not only the text of the story, it is also lavishly illustrated 

by old and not so old family photographs, a family tree; like an academic study 

it contains historical maps of Eastern Europe, acknowledgements on two pages, notes 

and selective bibliography. 

Writing a family history means more than just fixing the oral tradition of grandparents 

and parents stories of their European past or verifying dates, names of places 

and people in the Polish and Ukrainian archives, refreshing the knowledge of XX 

century history. It implies crossing several borderlines: between the present and the 

past, lives lived and lives reconstructed in imagination, linguistic barriers, as well as 

actual country borders in quest for a place. 

I hope to tell a story that will speak across any number of borders, to anyone 

who lives in two countries of the heart and mind at once. We live in a time when to 

be a migrant or refugee is one of the commonest human conditions; we also live in 

a time when many immigrants are flagrantly attacked or covertly despised. And 

though there are tremendous differences among immigrants – differences of culture 

and history, language and looks, tat compound the difficulty of making new lives in 

strange countries – I believe there’s a continuum of experience and, most of all, 

imagination that can bring us all, however momentarily, together. 3 

Janice Kulyk Keefer, writing the story of her family, her roots, is at the same time 

writing her own very private life story. These roots, as Neil Bisoondath has remarked 

on a somewhat different occasion, are a part of an individual as the sum of historical, 

familial and personal experience, the very sense of self, not ever to be forgotten. 4 The 

immigrant inhabits more than just one cultural space. Therefore, crossing the border 

between reality and imagination is a habit the narrator has acquired since childhood. 

My childhood was filled with astounding stories of the Old Place, stories that 

fed my experience of, my desire for difference. If, with a name like Kulyk, I did not 

belong in a world of Smiths and Browns, then I longed for that place where I did 

belong to be something richer and finer. 5 

Growing up, as it were, in two worlds at once her “passion for one could make 

the other as unreal as the images on the screen of that sacred toy, the television.” 

Crossing over into the country of family lore, of imagination is a complex exercise of 

traversing more borderlands that just those between the realms of reality and fantasy. 

And real jumping over the border between there and here, then and now, so many 

times when I was a child, and my mother spoke in her own language that was never 

mine. … I hardly knew where or when or even who I was. Except that I was split and 

doubled: wanting nothing else than to be haunted. 6 

To enter the land of imagination it is usually necessary to cross an imaginary 

boundary – whether the river Zbruch – for twenty years also a very real frontier between 

Poland and the Soviet Union, or just to pass through a garden gate “to a yard 

and a garden closed off by wooden palings and a high gate so narrow that the children 

always scrape their ankles when they ride their cousin’s horse inside.” 7 Another


entrance to the fantasy world was in the basement and it lead directly into the Old 

Place root cellar – the Lyokh. 

There actually is a small town or village, still on the map of Eastern Europe – 

Staromischyna, its Ukrainian name meaning just that – the Old Place. These are the 

borderlands of the Old World – once the Eastern provinces of Austria–Hungary, then 

Poland, still later – the Western regions of the Soviet Union and finally – part of the 

Ukraine. There is a considerable ethnic variety: Ukrainians, Poles, Jews and more. 

However, even more ethnic and cultural variety is to be found in the new home – 

Toronto, Canada. How Then is this modern history to be told, how is the tale of 

nomadic post–modern existence to be coherently related when even the story of 

one’s own family at times seems to be full of silences and gaps, dark things unsaid, 

possibly even hidden horrors. Janice Kulyk Keefer suggests: 

Courage. then and love – these are what we need to take along with me as well 

as passports, visas, scraps of foreign languages. As I make this journey, first into a 

world of stories and then to the very place where those stories start, a place that 

belongs not only to my family but to those who hover ghostlike art the edges of 

storytelling, who materialize in the differences between Staromischyna as it is and 

the Old Place as memory fashions it. Between the shaded complex lives of the people 

who lived there and their images handed down to me – bright clear as the pictures 

on an Easter egg. 8 

The Old Place in her grandmother’s stories and the child’s fancy acquires features 

of a veritable Garden of Eden – predominantly orchard scenes of apple trees in 

bloom, abundance of cherries, plums, apples and peaches; it is right in the centre of 

a very rich and, therefore very precious and much coveted agricultural countryside. 

True, everyone, including the children, has to contribute more than just a fair share 

of effort to reap the fruits of this soil. Passionate love binds the grandparents in early 

youth, love that is above all material considerations and disregards the disapproval of 

relatives. The consequences of passion are hardship, rejection and hate of kinsfolk, 

desperation and pain at the loss of young children. Even if there is Eden, there is also 

a snake or snakes in it. There is a price to be paid for transgressing the bounds of 

customs, breaking with the established tradition. Further research into history reveals 

not just serpents but demons of crime, mutual senseless wartime killings of Ukrainians 

by Poles and Poles by Ukrainians as well as scenes of Holocaust. The rich soil is 

also made rich by all the blood spilt upon it. In an article published shortly before the 

appearance of Honey and Ashes Keefer writes: 

For me, Honey and Ashes is a bridge between past and present, private and 

public history, sanctioned and secret stories, and the fraught, often tragic narratives 

of Poles, Jews, Ukrainians, all of them sharing the charged ground of “The Old 

Place”– a literal translation of the name of my mother’s village, Staromisczyna. It 

will be a controversial text, and its eventual reception by my family, as well as the 

Ukrainian, Polish and Jewish communities in Canada will, I’m sure, be problematic. 

But I’ve come to think of it as the most important work I’ve ever attempted, in terms 

of what drove me to write this particular book, and where it’s taking me. 9 

The crossing of actual state borders is in itself quite an enterprise. The Ukrainian 

bureaucracy is very much of the same kind as the Soviet one and seems to be unrea-


161 

sonably reluctant to grant the entry visa. While Western borders can be crossed without 

difficulty, the Polish – Ukrainian border presents a real challenge to the narrator, 

travelling by car from the Netherlands. But there is one more border, barrier or wall, 

the narrator fails to fully cross. It is manifested as a self–imposed distancing from the 

Ukraine of the present day, its culture and people. Eastern Europe in general and 

Ukraine in particular is seen as a dangerous and lawless territory – sort of modern 

Wild East. All possible precautions should be taken: 

Along with the dictionaries, phrase books, foreign grammars, we pack what 

guide books advise for out–of–the–way places in Poland and Ukraine: tissues and 

toilet paper, thick bars of soap, aspirins and toothpaste, bandages, antiseptic and 

emergency syringes (accompanied by a doctor’s prescription). We’ve already had 

typhus shots; for hepatitis, gamma globulin should do the trick. We bring water purification 

tablets, contact lens solutions, chewing gum and chocolate and coffee for 

strangers who do us kindnesses. Dried nuts and fruit for our son who eats neither 

meat nor fish, and who may lose a good many pounds in Ukraine, since our doctor’s 

warned us to stay clear of raw fruit and salads there. Money belts with Deutschemarks 

and American dollars in small denominations to be smuggled round our 

waists: the open sesame of currency in Eastern Europe. 10 

It is not only family history but the collective memory of most survivors that has 

even more gaps and silences than words for actual happenings in the not so recent 

past. No archives and no helpful interpreters and guides like the young Ukrainian 

Olena can help recover what has been cast into the darkest corners of memory. Therefore 

it is not possible to simply go back and find the Old Place of Imagination. When 

revisited, Staromischyna looks bleak, even hostile, not a place to linger but one to 

leave without much regret. 

I’d planned to spend days in the village, looking, listening. I’d wanted to find 

my grandparents’ fields, I’d wanted to steal the past right out of the arms of the 

present. Now all I can think of is rushing back to Poland, to a small town by the 

Baltic, to an old woman who may or may not remember what happened in a small 

village on the Russian border, more than half a century ago. 11 

Time spent talking to Adela – her father’s cousin instead of casting light on shadowy 

patches in the family history just adds more obscurities and ambiguities. The old 

woman in more than reluctant to cross the border the border between then and now – 

Staromiszchyna of more than half a century ago and her peaceful life in the small 

Baltic town Skarszewy near Gdynia. In the slow, tortuous process of communicating 

across linguistic borders the language of communication is the narrator’s imperfect 

German. 

Sometimes my mouth fills with gaps – I forget the simplest words /…/ At other 

times I pour out a mishmash…. The table’s littered with what gets left out in translation: 

nuances, resonances scattered like breadcrusts. 12 

At the end of the day there are still many questions that have not been asked, 

questions that have to remain unanswered till some vaguely hypothetical “next time”. 

The stories remain untold, memories unlocked, painful silence of aunt Adela behind 

the exchanges in what the narrator calls “skeleton speech”. And then again comes 

the crossing of all the national borders on the way back to Canada. Once in Toronto,


at home with her family, the traveller still has to face more doubt and confusion as her 

experiences can not be properly communicated even to her mother. Mother examines 

the photographs but does not recognise what is shown in them, listens to her 

daughter’s story and does not find satisfactory answers to her query. What and 

where, then, is one’s home? Keefer does not provide a definite answer to this question 

but rather suggests that 

Rest, refuge, satisfaction – none of these fit what I feel about Staromischyna, or 

about the Ontario to which I have returned. Perhaps home is only this: inhabiting 

uncertainty, the arguments fear picks with desire. Not belonging but longing – that 

we may live in the present, without craving the –past or forcing the future. 13 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Keefer Janice Kulyk. The Sacredness of Bridges: writing Immigrant Experience //Literary 

Pluralities, ed. by C. Verduyn. – Toronto: Broadview Press, 1998. 

Keefer Janice Kulyk. Honey and Ashes: A Story of Family, 1998. 

Marald Elisabeth. In Transit: Aspects of Transculturalism in Janice Kulyk Keefer’s, 1996. 

Bissoondath Neil. Selling Illusions: The Cult of Multiculturalism in Canada. – Toronto: Penguin 

Books Canada, 1994. 

REFERENCES 

1 Marald Elisabeth. In Transit: Aspects of Transculturalism in Janice Kulyk Keefer’s 

Travels. – Umea: Umea University Printing Office, 1996, p. 4. 

2 Ibid, p. 166. 

3 Keefer Janice Kulyk. Honey and Ashes: A Story of Family. 1998, p. 7. 

4 Bissoondath Neil. Selling Illusions: The Cult of Multiculturalism in Canada. 1994, p. 27. 


6 Ibid, pp. 13–14. 

7 Ibid, p. 23. 

8 Ibid, p. 17. 

9 Keefer Janice Kulyk. The Sacredness of Bridges”: writing Immigrant Experience // 

Literary Pluralities, ed. by C. Verduyn. – Toronto: Broadview Press, 1998, p. 108. 


11 Ibid, p. 291. 

12 Ibid, p. 309. 

13 Ibid, p. 328.


Kopsavilkums 

163 

Ukraiòu un poïu cilmes kanâdieðu rakstnieces, literatûrzinâtnieces, universitâtes 

profesores Dþenisas Kuïikas–Kîferes 1998. gadâ publicçtâ grâmata “Medus un pelni” 

veltîta ìimenes vçstures, etnisko sakòu izpçtei. Lai uzrakstîtu ìimenes vçsturi, ir ne 

tikai jâpieraksta vecvecâku nostâsti, bet arî jâlasa vçstures apcerçjumi, ìeogrâfiskâs 

kartes, arhîvu materiâli. Ðajâ procesâ nâkas ðíçrsot robeþas starp valstîm, starp 

tagadni un pagâtni, iztçli un îstenîbu, pârvarçt valodu barjeras. Kaut gan ciemats, kuru 

sauc Staromiðèina (tulkojumâ Vecâ Vieta), joprojâm ir turpat, kur bijis jau simtiem 

gadu, tajâ viss ir mainîjies, un ciemoties pagâtnç nav iespçjams. Ceïojumi iztçlç un 

arhîvos, viesoðanâs Ukrainâ un Polijâ atklâj vien jaunas pretrunas un noklusçtus 

traìiskus notikumus tautu un cilvçku pagâtnç. Raugoties no autores izvçlçtâ 

transkulturâlâ viedokïa, nav iespçjams rast viennozîmîgas atbildes uz daudzajiem 

pagâtnes un ðodienas jautâjumiem. Jâmçìina dzîvot bez pagâtnes aizspriedumu sloga, 

necenðoties arî uzspiest savu gribu nâkotnei.


MÂKSLA, 164.–171. lpp. 

Naratîva attiecîbas ar paðreferenci 

latvieðu kultûras tekstuâlajâ telpâ 

Narrative Relation with Selfreference 

in Latvian Textual Room 

Dagmâra Beitnere (Latvija) 

Latvijas Universitâtes 

Filosofijas un socioloìijas institûts 

Akadçmijas laukums 1, Rîga, LV 1940, 

t. 7227920, e–pasts: daga@lza.lv; dada_be@hotmail.com 

Veids, kâ indivîds nolasa, saprot un apraksta sevi, veido paðreferences naratîvu. 

Naratîvs apzîmç ne tikai akadçmiskus tekstus (runâtus, rakstîtus, drukâtus), bet arî ikdienas 

apziòas rotâcijâ esoðâs runas. Stâsti, dzîvesstâsti, atmiòas veido tâdus uzkrâjumu veidus, kurus 

var dçvçt par naratîva laukiem, kuri, lietoti ilgâkâ laika periodâ, spçj iegût noteiktu sociâlu 

nozîmi un pâriet paðreferencç. Ðajâ darbâ aplûkotas paðreferences un naratîva attiecîbas no 

1920. gadiem lîdz pat mûsdienâm. 

Atslçgvârdi: naratîvs, paðreference, paðapraksts, sistçmteorija, kolektîvâ atmiòa. 

Modernâs sabiedrîbas mainîgâs realitâtes novçroðanâ un fiksçðanâ sociâlâs 

zinâtnes vçrîbu ierâda naratîvam. Naratîvi ir teksti, kuri piedalâs sabiedrîbai vçlamu 

vçrtîbu un normu atraþoðanâ, tiem ir moralizçjoðs raksturs, un tie sastopami gan 

drukâtâ, gan mutvârdu veidâ (H. Whit 1987, 1990, M. Freeman,1993 u.c.) . 

Socioloìijâ fokusç uzmanîbu ne tikai uz faktiem, bet arî uz tieði neredzamajiem 

procesiem sabiedrîbâ, lai iegûtu izpratni par indivîdu un grupu darbîbu un meklçtu 

atbildes pçc ðîs darbîbas izraisîtâja – motîva. Kâda loma motivâcijâ ir naratîvam? 

Naratîvs taèu ir klâtesoðs sabiedrîbas paðnovçrojumâ, aprakstîðanâ un galarezultâtâ – 

paðreferencç. Vai paðreference ietekmç nâkamos naratîvus un veido “tekstuâlu telpu” 

cilvçka dzîves un vçrtîbu interpretâcijai, un pârstâv ne tikai individuâlo, bet arî kolektîvo 

pieredzi, tâ atsedzot sabiedrîbas rakstîtos un nerakstîtos likumus, vçrtîbas, normas? 

Latvieðu kultûrâ viena no paðreferencçm ir: mçs – zemnieku kultûra (arâju tauta), 

kura latvieðu sabiedrîbas sociâlajâ atmiòâ veidojâs kâ pârlaicîgs un noturîgs paðtçls, ko 

simboliski pauþ tçls – brîvs un neatkarîgs zemnieks. Politiskais konteksts izsaka ideâlu 

indivîdu, kurð ir brîvs un neatkarîgs no jebkâdâm (arî koloniâlâm) varâm un ir brîvs 

zemes turçtâjs (zemturis) – saimnieks. Brîvais un neatkarîgais zemnieks izteica arî 

vçsturisko paðtçlu lîdz kolonizâcijas un kristianizâcijas laikam. Pirmâs neatkarîgâs 

brîvvalsts gadi radîja atmiòas par lauku sçtu kâ Latvijas ekonomiskâs varenîbas simbolu. 

Brîvais un neatkarîgais zemnieks dzîvo savâ lauku îpaðumâ, ir dziïâs attiecîbâs ar dabu, 

tâs ritmiem, un viòa dzîve rit nesteidzîgi un râmi, pçc paða noteikta plâna. Îpaðîba lçni 

domât, runât un rîkoties ir pieòemta kâ viena no latviskâs mentalitâtes izpausmçm. 

Izmantojot socioloìijas jçdzienu mentalitâte, varam atrast tekstus, kuros tâ 

analizçta salikumâ zemnieku kultûras mentalitâte – kâ vçl viens aspekts paðreferencç. 

Mentalitâte (no angïu val. mentality – nozîmç indivîda prâta un intelektuâlo stâvokli) 

tiek izmantota gan personîbas lîmenî, gan arî attiecinâma uz lielâkâm sociâlâm

Dagmâra Beitnere. Naratîva attiecîbas ar paðreferenci latvieðu kultûras tekstuâlajâ telpâ 

165 

kopîbâm. Latvieðu mentalitâti un kultûru 30. gadu akadçmiskajos tekstos analizç kâ 

piederîgu pie Eiropas ziemeïniekiem un izmanto tradicionâlo paðreferences veidu: tâ 

kâ mûsu tauta gadu simteòiem ilgi bija zemnieku tauta un zemniekiem raksturîgs 

stiprs konservatîvisms.(..) Zemnieku kultûra vispârîgi ir lielâ mçrâ pretstats pilsçtu 

kultûrai, un tâpçc mçs daudz ko varam mantot sava rakstura un kultûras 

noskaidroðanai, iepazîstoties ar zemnieka psiholoìiskajâm îpatnîbâm. Daudz kas no 

ðîm îpatnîbâm ir saskatâms latvieðu tautâ arî vçl ðodien. 1 

Latvieða garîguma apvârðòi starp abiem pasaules kariem fokusçjas zemnieka sçtâ 

un zemes darbos; kultûrâ nenotika tas sociokultûras lûzums, kurð bûtiski mainîtu 

tautas kultûru uz urbânisko kultûru. Ðâds lûzums nevarçja bût konfortabls; izsakoties 

teorijas valodâ, sabiedrîbas paðreference vçl nebija atnâkusi lîdz pilsçtai. Literatûrâ 

dominçja acîmredzami pasaulîga, proti, zemnieciska orientâcija. 2 Rakstnieks Anðlavs 

Eglîtis, attçlojot zemes reformu Latvijâ 1920. gadâ, raksta: “.. katrâ latvietî, lai viòð 

darîtu ko darîdams un domâtu ko domâdams, joprojâm iemâjo laba daïa zemnieka 

gara, iegût îpaðumâ stûri zemes nozîmçja svarîgu pagriezienu mûþa gaitâ.” 3 . Tçvu, 

kuram pçc agrârreformas, tâpat kâ citiem rakstniekiem un sabiedriskiem darbiniekiem, 

pieðíîra jaunsaimniecîbu ar zemi, dçls raksturo kâ tâdu, kurð atkârto kultûrâ pieòemto 

sevis redzçjumu – latvietis ir zemnieks. Anðlavs Eglîtis arî vçlâk, Amerikas dzîves 

tçlojumos, par jaunîbas dienu zemi Latviju raksta, ka “zemnieciskajâ Latvijâ vairâk 

cienîja dzîvniekus; neviens íekatnieku bars neiztika bez lâèa, kazas, dzçrves, ðeit, 

Jaunajâ pasaulç, kur dzîve kïuvusi daudz abstraktâka, redzami gandrîz vienîgi 

aizsaules rçgi”. 4 Anðlava Eglîða ironija par piezemçto paðreferenci un zemniekiem 

balstîta atðíirîbâ, jo viòa daiïrade ir urbânâs kultûras reprezentante un neiekïaujas tajâ 

sevis redzçjumâ, kâds galvenokârt dominç latvieðu referencç. Latvieðu kultûrâ 

sociokulturâlais konflikts starp pilsçtu un laukiem, tâpat kâ 20 gs. sâkumâ, saglabâjies 

vçl ðodien, gadsimtu beigu kultûras un mâkslas diskursâ. Pârlûkojot latvieðu 

oriìinâlliteratûru 19. gs. beigâs un 20. gs. sâkumâ, redzam, ka tajâ attçlotâ darbîbas 

vide galvenokârt ir lauki, zemnieku dzîves likteòi un zemnieku mentalitâtes tçlojumi. 

Latvieti mentâli mâcîja sevi literâros tekstos atpazît kâ zemnieku, kura dzîves vçrtîbas 

ir pretrunâ ar moderno pilsçtu. Ðodien I. Âbeles drâma Tumðie brieþi lîdzâs V. Kairiða 

filmai Pa ceïam aizejot latvieti mûsdienâs atkal râda laukos, un kâdâ no zemnieku 

sçtâm tiek izspçlçta latvieðu dzîves telpas drâma. 

Kâpçc zemnieks? 

Latvieðu saistîba ar zemi, kura bija politiski un kulturâli determinçta kopð 19. gs. 

vidus, kâ paðreferences elements iekïuva arî izglîtîbas programmâ gadsimta garumâ. 

Pârlûkojot skolas mâcîbu programmas, literatûras hrestomâtijâ arî ðodien kâ obligâtâ 

literatûra dominç grâmatas, kurâs stâstîts par zemnieka dzîvi, vçrtîbâm un normâm. 

Paðreference mçs – zemnieku kultûra (mçs – arâju tauta) kultûrâ ieguvusi 

paradigmas izteiksmi, jo kâ viena no stabilâkâm sevis atpazîðanas un identitâtes 

izpausmçm kïuvusi par noturîgu sevis redzçðanas veidu, arî tâdu, kurai ir saistîba ar 

latvietîbu – katru zemniekiem nedraudzîgu þestu sabiedrîba uztver kâ latvietîbas 

apdraudçðanu. Iespçjams, tâpçc samçrâ grûti atrast latvieðu kultûrâ pçc ietilpîbas, 

ilgstamîbas un sabiedrîbas identificçðanâs lîdzîgu paðreferenci. Protams, sabiedrîbas 

modernizâcijas posmâ urbânâ vide radîja savas paðreferences, bet vairâk tâdas, kas


atbilst identitâtes izpratnei, kâ, piemçram, saistîbâ ar kâdu lokalitâti (ðajâ gadîjumâ – 

urbâno), gan arî saistîbâ ar nacionâlâs kulturâlâs apzinâðanâs sâkumu, piemçram: 

mçs – dziedâtâju tauta. Taèu tâs nekad neieguva tik stabilu vietu sevis atpazîðanâ un 

paðreferencç kâ mçs – zemnieku kultûra. 19. un 20. gadsimta garumâ tâ tika piepildîta 

ar tâdu saturu, kas aizpilda latvieðu vçsturiskâs (objektîvi iztrûkstoðâs) identitâtes 

niðu, dodot iespçju sevi redzçt pietiekami stabilâ un atpazîstamâ strâtâ. Tâpçc, 

ielûkojoties tekstuâlajos uzkrâjumos, paðreferenes veidoðanâ svarîga loma ir bijusi un 

ir naratîviem. 


Naratîvam, tâpat kâ vçsturei, ir daudznozîmîga daba, ko sadzirdam naratîvâ. 

Naratîva lomu kultûrâ arvien vairâk izmanto arî citu disciplînu pârstâvji, lai raksturotu 

to runâto tekstu, kas parâdâs gan zinâtnç, gan filozofijâ un literatûrâ. Savukârt 

psihologi pievçrð uzmanîbu naratîva lomai atmiòas darbîbâs un arî visos citos 

psiholoìiskos procesos (cilvçks sarunâjas sevî ar sevi paðu; iekðçjais dialogs), un tas 

veido svarîgu savienojumu ar realitâti, dzîves faktiem. Runa, teksts (teksts izprotams 

visplaðâkâ nozîmç, tas ir drukâtais, izteiktais, domâs plûstoðais teksts, pat arî darbîbu 

var uzlûkot kâ tekstu) ir aplûkota saistîbâ ar noteiktu strukturçtu naratîvu veidoðanos 

par sevi. Veids, kâ indivîds nolasa, saprot un apraksta sevi, veido paðreferences 

naratîvu. 

Naratîvs sazîmçjams ne tikai akadçmiskos tekstos (runâtos, rakstîtos, drukâtos), 

bet arî ikdienas apziòas rotâcijâ esoðâs runâs. Stâsti, dzîvesstâsti, atmiòas veido tâdus 

uzkrâjumu veidus, kurus var saukt par naratîva laukiem, kuri, lietoti ilgâkâ laika 

periodâ, spçj iegût noteiktu sociâlu nozîmi, un tas pâriet paðreferencç. 5 Narativizâcijâ 

gan indivîda, gan sabiedrîbas pieredze pârvçrðas tekstos. 6 Naratîvi atspoguïo no 

apkârtnes iegûtos sabiedrîbas priekðstatus par sevi, vçrtîbu sistçmu un veido nâkotnes 

perspektîvu. Citiem vârdiem sakot, teksts, kuru runâjam, nav tikai troksnis, tam ir 

noteikta nozîme, jo ar viòu un caur viòu vçl nepârredzamajâ nâkotnç ir iespçjama 

darbîba. Naratîvus varam izmantot arî kâ tçrpa ðuves, kas ir kâ metafora, kura 

raksturo metodi, lai atpazîtu sabiedrîbas nemainîgâs dzîves vçrtîbas, paðapraksta 

veidoðanos, un kura no naratîviem kâ tçrpu ðuves veido paðreferenci. Tas, par ko 

cilvçki runâ, ko ierauga savâ apkârtnç, veido arî par sevi priekðstatus, kuri latvieðu 

vçsturç pârauga par noturîgiem sevis izpratnes tçliem un vçl ðodien veido kultûras 

identitâti. Saskaòâ ar N. Lûmana sistçmteoriju, sabiedrîba ir darbîga un dzîvîga 

sistçma, kura ar komunikâciju starpniecîbu atraþo priekðstatu par sevi (paðreferenci), 

un tâ izaug autopoesis, kas atraþo ne tikai identitâti, bet arî mentâlâs un fiziskâs 

darbîbas. 7 Jâòem vçrâ, ka, atlasot paðnovçrojumam îpaðîbas un vçrtçjumus, tâdçjâdi 

veidojas izpratne par sevi. Tajâ var parâdîties tâdi pagâtnes naratîvi, kuri veido 

negatîvu paðaprakstu, jo tos devuði novçrotâji no malas, kuri nepieder pie dotâs 

kultûras. Tâpçc svarîgi, kâdâ kontekstâ tie teikti, ko nozîmç ðodien un vai tie saistâmi 

ar paðreferenci. Ja atceramies, ka paðreferencei atlasa raksturojumus no pârredzamâ 

kultûras resursu horizonta, tad jâraugâs, vai ðie horizonti nav apzinâti saðaurinâti un 

vai izmantoti visi resursi. Analizçjot avotus, no kuriem tie nâk, kâ arî izprotot to 

bûtîbu un nozîmi, sabiedrîbai jâzina, ka, saskatot tikai negatîvos aspektus un tos 

atstâstot, pagâtnes naratîvi spçj veidot sabiedrîbai sapratni par sevi, kurâ var dominçt


167 

no malas uzspiestais (kolonizçtas tautas vienmçr uzlûkoja kâ vçrtîbu un normu nozîmç 

nevçrtîgâkas) vçrtçjums, un, nekritiski tos pieòemot, var izveidot deformçtu, patîbai 

neatbilstoðu paðtçlu, kâ arî radît traucçjumus autopoesis procesâ. 

Amerikâòu pçtnieks Makss Frîmans8 , runâjot par individuâlajiem dzîves stâstiem, 

norâda uz savdabîgu diskursu un sapratni par sevi, ko veido naratîvs, kuram nav laika 

ierobeþojumu un kurð ir kaut kâdâ ziòâ pârlaicîgs. Tâ ir triâde, ko veido vçsture– 

atmiòa–naratîvs, kurâ atmiòai un naratîvam atmiòâs ir nozîmîga loma. No tâs tiek 

paòemts paðaprakstam tas, ko atceras, redz un saprot no apkârtnes, arî no laika un 

telpas distances. Individuâlais dzîves stâsts ir sevis interpretâcija, izdoma ar sevis 

prezentâcijas nozîmi, tâda, kura rada jaunas attiecîbas starp pagâtni un tagadni. 

M. Frîmanam tâ ir jauna poçtiska kontekstualitâte indivuâlajâ dzîves stâstâ, un tas 

parasti ir noteiktas kultûras produkts. Ja M. Frîmana pieeju attiecina uz lielâku sociâlu 

grupu, piemçram, uz laikabiedru veidotiem naratîviem, kuros dominç lîdzîgas tendences 

dzîves aprakstos, lielâka vai mazâka kolektîva izpratnç par sevi, kuru iespaido atseviðíie 

stâsti, dzîvesstâsti, tos varam analizçt kâ vienas sociâlâs laiktelpas naratîvus. Sabiedrîba 

bieþi lieto vienas vai otras paaudzes naratîvus, kurus vieno vçsturiskie notikumi, 

piedzîvojumi un pârdzîvojumi, un tas kïûst par veidu (paradigmu), kâ tiek prezentçti ne 

tikai vienas paaudzes, bet arî kultûras simboli, vçrtîbas, praktizçtâs normas. 

Varam runât par nepârtrauktu vienu tekstu atgâdinâðanu, bet citu noklusçðanu – 

tas ir kolektîvs process. Indivîds identificçjas ar tekstiem sociâlajâ atmiòâ (runâtiem, 

rakstîtiem, tçliem, darbîbâm utt.), kurus uzskata par piederîbas grupâm nozîmîgiem. 

Kâdi priekðstati un kâdi teksti ir indivîdu galvâs tâdâ kultûrâ, kurâ tikpat kâ nav 

varonîbas naratîva, kuras vçsture un arî sociâlâ atmiòa veidojusies ar koloniâlas tautas 

pieredzi, ar uzspiestu paðreferenci? 

Latvieðu kultûrâ dominç uzspiestie naratîvi, kuru autori nepieder dotajai kultûrai, 

un lîdz ar to novçrojums vçstures perspektîvâ veidojâs no sveðinieku vçrtîbu un 

normu horizonta, kuri tos tekstuâli nostiprinâja. Naratîvs atrodas darba attiecîbâs ar 

vçsturisko prezentâciju, un tâpçc vçsturiskâ naratîva diskurss nereti ir tâlu no reâlo 

notikumu bûtîbas, un tajâ ir izdomas elements ar ironijas taktiku. Jau kopð Hçrodota 

laikiem tradicionâlâ historiogrâfija ticçja, ka vçsture sastâv no individuâlajiem un 

kolektîvajiem dzîvajiem stâstiem un ka vçsturnieka uzdevums ir atklât tos un pârstâstît 

kâ naratîvus, parâdot kontekstu kâ paradigmas veidojoðo apkârtni. Lai aptvertu 

naratîva diskursu, jâaptver kultûras faktu universâliju summa. Paðreference vai reference 

tiek atlasîta atbilstoði situâcijai, un tas lieku reizi atgâdina, ka nav objektîvu 

kritçriju un novçrtçjumu, ka tie vienmçr ir vçsturiskâs situâcijas, intences vai 

konjunktûras veidoti. Hermeneitikas valodâ runâjot, laikmets kaut ko aktualizç no 

runâtâ vai rakstîtâ, bet ne vienmçr varam analîzç izsekot, kâpçc tieði tas vai cits tiek 

aktualizçts. Naratîvs kâ vçstîjums iespaido nâkamâs paaudzes, kuras savâ paðreferenç 

var pâròemt (atlases ceïâ) no iepriekðçjâm paaudzçm mantotus redzçjumus par sevi. 


Naratîvam ir saistîba ar vçstures notikumiem, un naratîva vçrtîba attîstâs no 

moralizçðanas impulsa, kas ir saistîts ar tâdâm iztçles izpausmçm, kuras sabiedrîbai 

pieðíir nepiecieðamo koherenci, integritâti, piepildîjumu un noslçgtîbu. 9 Tâ ir sava


veida izdoma, kuras nozîme nav pasaules determinçta, bet gan attîstâs kâ nespçja 

novçrot un atstâstît notikumus bez izpratnes par morâlo kârtîbu. Meklçjot societâlâs 

dzîves saistelementus, varam runât par naratîviem, kas veicinâja ðos koherences un 

integritâtes procesus – tâs ir atmiòas un stâsti par to, cik laba bija dzîve 

lauksaimnieciskajâ Latvijâ, tie bija un ir naratîvi, kuri saliedçja un veidoja kultûras 

vçsturisko integritâti – arî latvieðu kultûras vçsture “veidojas” laukos. Latvieðu kultûra 

îpaði atgâdina, ka viòas inteliìence, tautas radoðie gari nâk no lauku sçtâm un ðo saiti 

ar laukiem saglabâ visu mûþu. Latvijas kartç latvieðu rakstnieku un kultûras 

darbinieku dzimtâs mâjas – tagad jau kâ muzeji – ir lokalizçtas laukos un ðodienas 

dzîves diskursâ turpina priekðstatu par sabiedrîbas ideâlu – inteliìento zemnieku. 

Neformâli sabiedrîbâ arî 1990. gadu sâkumâ atdzima doma, ka latvieðu kultûra nâk 

no laukiem un ka arî tagad tâ atdzims no laukiem. Kâ redzam, naratîvs nav neitrâls, 

jo veids, kâ tas tiek prezentçts, izsaka atmiòas, kas savienotas ar ekspektâcijâm, ka 

kaut kas lîdzîgs ir vçl iespçjams vai arî ir vçlams, lai tas vçlreiz atkârtotos. Naratîvs 

var nepastarpinâti radît klausîtâjâ vçlmi tam sekot kâ jau gatavai un pârbaudîtai dzîves 

vçrtîbai iepriekðçjâs paaudzçs. 

Sabiedrîbas komunikâcijâ paðai par sevi ir arî tâdi naratîvi, kuri izteica vienu no 

kopîbas izjûtu veidojoðâm referencçm un aizpildîja informâciju par sevi, raidot to uz 

nâkamajâm paaudzçm. Piemçram, Livonijas Indriía hronika ir teksts ar noteiktu 

morâlu, didaktisku, vçstîjoðu un skaidrojoðu nozîmi, no kuras vienâ vçstures posmâ 

tika izveidota latvieðu historiogrâfijas nacionâli romantiskâ tradîcija. 20. gadsimta 

20.–40. gados tika ieraudzîta, aprakstîta un izveidota reference, ka latvieði ir 

vardarbîgi kristianizçti, pakïauti, kolonizçti utt. Taèu hronika stâsta arî par ko citu, ko 

20. gadsimta pirmâs puses latvieðu historiogrâfijas tradîcija neiekïâva paðaprakstâ. 

Protams, jebkuras kolonizâcijas vçsture ataino vardarbîbu, – bet kurð naratîvs par 

vardarbîbu tiks paòemts paðreferencei? Vardarbîbas apraksti Indriía hronikâ un stâsti 

par senajâm Latvijas ciltîm râda pretrunîgu ainu, tâpçc nacionâli romantiskâ 

historiogrâfija strukturçja sociâlo atmiòu, lai nepieminçtu, ka t.s. senie latvieði karoja 

ar kaimiòiem, pat vçlajos viduslaikos karoja starp Latvijas teritorijâ esoðajiem 

apgabaliem, zaga sievas lîdz pat 16. gadsimtam10 un vardarbîba tajâ laikâ bija tikpat 

izplatîta kâ mûsdienâs. Tas neveido labu sabiedrîbas paðapziòu, un laba paðapziòa 

sabiedrîbai ir svarîgs centrs sociâlai sistçmai, jo svarîgâkie ir varonîbas naratîvi. 

Hronika vçstî par seno latvieðu varonîbu pastarpinâti, tikai noprotot, ka vietçjâs ciltis 

aktîvi piedalîjâs sirojuma karos. Tâ nevçstî par varonîbu, bet vairâk par neaizsargâtîbu 

un vâju orientçðanos politiskajos procesos aprakstîtajâ periodâ. 

Izceïot kristianizâcijas un kolonizâcijas negatîvos aspektus, historiogrâfija 

veidoja latvieðu paðnovçrojumâ mûþîgâ upura tçlu. H. Vaits, runâjot par ideju 

arheoloìiju, saka: sociâlâ stresa laikâ ir nepiecieðamîba pçc pozitîvas paðdefinîcijas, 

no kuras atlasît kritçrijus paðidentifikâcijai. Viòð izsaka domu, kurai lîdzîga ir arî 

N. Lûmana sistçmas teorijâ, proti, ka sabiedrîba òem kâdus atskaites punktus no 

apkârtnes, kas ir atðíirîgi no paðas. To var dçvçt par ðíietami negatîvu paðdefinîcijas 

tehniku, kura, protams, ir daudz bieþâk praktizçta kultûras polemikâ kâ jebkura cita 

definîcija. .11 Saskaòâ ar H. Vaita pieeju, varam teikt: lai izceltu seno cilðu barbarismu, 

savstarpçjos konfliktus un neskaidros vçsturiskos mçríus, no konteksta tika izcelta 

vardarbîgâs kristianizâcijas paradigma, veidojot cietçja paðtçlu, jo kultûrai nebija sava 

varonîbas paðapraksta.


Vçsture un naratîva modi 

169 

H. Vaits vçsturiskâ naratîva pçtniecîbâ izdalîja èetras skaidrojoðâs stratçìijas: 

romance, komçdija, traìçdija, satîra; tâm atbilst èetras paradigmas: ideogrâfiskâ, 

organiskâ, mehâniskâ un kontekstuâlâ. No tâ izriet arî skaidroðanas mods, un tam 

atbilst ðâds dalîjums: anarhistiskais, konservatîvais, radikâlais un liberâlais. Attiecinot 

ðo naratîva struktûru uz minçto Livonijas Indriía hroniku, redzam, ka tâ vairâk atbilst 

traìçdijai un mehâniskam skaidroðanas modam, kuri vçstures interpretâcijâ veicina 

radikâlas ideoloìijas iesaistîðanu. Vçstures interpretâcijas stratçìijâ radikâlas 

ideoloìijas veidojas, kad ir konflikts starp nâcijâm, ðíirâm un politiskâm partijâm. 

Pirmâs brîvvalsts laikâ tâds konflikts pastâvçja starp vâcu minoritâti un latvieðu 

maþoritâti, kurai vajadzçja izveidot savu vçstures paðtçlu, un tas bija upuris. 

Izmantojot naratîva paradigmas, varam teikt, ka latvieðu sabiedrîbas naratîvs ir 

radikalizçjis – saðaurinâðanas nozîmç – paðreferenci. Sistçmteorijâ paðreference 

minçta gan kâ atvçrta, gan slçgta vienlaikus. Jâòem vçrâ, ka vçl nav uzrakstîta latvieðu 

sociâlâ vçsture, tâtad pagaidâm dominç frontâlais skatîjums uz latvieðu vçsturi, kurâ 

pârsvarâ dominç svarîgâkâ sociâlâ grupa – zemniecîba. Ðâdu radikâlu paðreferences 

tehniku lieto grupas, kuras ir neapmierinâtas un kurâm ir grûtâk atpazît savas 

vçsturiskâs un juridiskâs tiesîbas. Vçl ðodien, dzirdot vai lasot naratîvâ radikâlu 

izteiksmes veidu, teiksim, gadîjumâ, ja kâds publiski nolamâts, varam sastapt radikâlu 

naratîva tipu, kurâ dominç nespçks un beztiesiskums. 

Latvieðu kultûras naratîvâ satîriskâ stratçìija parâdâs naratîvos par latvieðiem, 

kuri, aizejot dzîvot pilsçtâs 18., bet îpaði 19. gadsimtâ, zaudçja latvisko identitâti. Tâ 

radâs stâsti par kârklu vâcieðiem, ðvaukstiem (kâ tipâþu raksturojoðs apzîmçjums), kas 

paðnovçrojumâ ar laiku veidoja negatîvu attieksmi pret pilsçtu kâ latvietîbai naidîgu 

vidi un lîdz ar to kontekstuâlâ paradigma naratîvâ veidojâs pilsçtai nedraudzîga. 12 

Izpalika komçdija kâ stratçìija; tas veidoja ideogrâfiskâs un organiskâs paradigmas 

iztrûkumu, ko paðreferencç izsaka attiecîbâs ar humoru. Vçl ðodien dominç dzçlîgâ 

dainu apdziedâðanas tradîcija, kura ir tuvâka satîrai. Komçdija kâ þanrs apspçlç 

ikdieniðías situâcijas un cilvçku vâjîbas, bet neizsmej. Spçlçt un apspçlçt tçmas vai 

situâcijas var kultûrâ, kuras paðreference ir dinamiska un atvçrta, jo komçdija ir spçka 

un pârliecîbas naratîvs. 

19. gadsimta vçstures notikumu skaidrojums, saskaòâ ar H. Vaitu, teorçtiski 

izsakâms divos veidos: 1) ar plâna (nodoma) struktûru, kas dod naratîvam atpazîstamu 

formu – upuris, zemnieks utt., un 2) skaidrojuma paradigmu, kura dod argumentus 

noteiktâm jûtâm (piemçram, Atis Kronvalds uzrunâ laikabiedrus: “Mçs esam sena 

tauta….”), – vai tâs bûtu saistîtas ar lepnuma izjûtu (pusgadsimtu vçlâk E. Brastiòð: 

“Mçs esam laimîgâkâ no tautâm…”) vai neçrtîbas sajûtu par piederîbu (maza zaglîga 

tauta – pçc Tacita), un to kopumâ sauc par sabiedrîbas sevis artikulâcijas veidu. 

Vçstures skaidrojumâ divi elementi veidoja treðo – pamatu interpretâcijai: morâlai vai 

ideoloìiskai. Latvieðu sabiedrîba, kura izveidojusi un pieòçmusi paðreferenci saistîbâ 

ar zemniecîbu, izjût lepnumu par ðo identitâti, un, pieaugot riska situâcijâm, 

zemniecîbâ saskata ideoloìisku un morâlu pamatojumu atgriezties pagâtnç. 13 

Paðreferences saskaòoðanas laikâ notika informâcijas apstrâde, latvieðu sabiedrîba 

nolasîja savu paðnovçrojumu ar vienîgo atðíirîbu no apkârtnes. Vai tâ bija vienîgâ, 

vai arî ðajâ paðreferencç parâdîjâs kaut kas no 19. gadsimta “tradîciju” arsenâla, ko


jau minçja P. Bçrks? Antropoloìe M. Gulestada norâda, ka norvçìi, veidojot 

nacionâlo identitâti, 19. gadsimtâ idealizçja daþus tautas dzîves aspektus, îpaði brîvos 

zemniekus. 14 Norvçìi no 15. lîdz 19. gadsimtam bija Dânijas, tad Zviedrijas pârvaldç, 

tomçr viòu vçsture nelîdzinâs latvieðu zemnieku pieredzei, kuri dzîvoja dzimtbûðanas 

sistçmâ. Eiropas kultûrâs zemnieku dzîves romantizâcija ir saistîta ar herderisko 

tradîciju, kura zemniecîbâ meklçja katras tautas dvçseli un bija pretrunâ ar 

apgaismîbai raksturîgo racionâlismu. 15 Herders neattîstîja politisko nacionâlismu, bet 

veidoja labvçlîgus nosacîjumus politiskâ nacionâlisma attîstîbai. 19. gadsimtâ Latvijâ 

gruva kârtu barjeras un mainîjâs ekonomiskâs attiecîbas. Daïa no jaunâs latvieðu 

inteliìences pârvâcojâs, citi tiecâs apliecinât latvieðu saimniecisko un kultûras 

patstâvîbu. Zemniecîba, tâpat kâ citur Eiropâ, arî latvieðiem simbolizçja pieòçmumu 

par autentisko kultûru, kura izsaka kaut ko specifiski îpaðu. Tâdçjâdi latvieði 

19. gadsimtâ savâ paðaprakstâ nolasîja savu vienîgo atðíirîbu no sociâlâs apkârtnes – 

vâcu un krievu sabiedrîbas, kuras rokâs atradâs politiskâ un ekonomiskâ vara, un 

saskaòâ ar dabisko likumu tautas tiesîbas uz savu teritoriju nosaka no tâs grupas 

pozîcijâm, kura apstrâdâ zemi. 

Kâ atzîmç arî P. Bçrks grâmatâ Atmiòa un vçsture, poïiem, lîdzîgi arî îriem, 

pagâtne, sociâlâ atmiòa un mîti tiek lietoti, lai definçtu identitâti; abas tautas pasaka, 

kas “mçs esam”. 16 Tas ir paðreferences akts, kurð piedalâs ðodienas autopoesis. Ko 

ðodien latvieðu modernâ literatûra pasaka par to, kas mçs esam? Òemsim, piemçram, 

divus tekstuâlus reprezentantus – Tumðos brieþus un Pa ceïam aizejot: mûsu priekðâ 

ir references par dzîves vçrtîbu neskaidrîbu un arî nespçku tâs risinât. Cilvçku 

attiecîbas, pârceïot sociâlo teoriju valodâ, turpina ârdît paðreferenci par lauku sçtu kâ 

kultûras atdzimðanas vietu. Tâ tiek tçlota kâ vide, kurâ izspçlçti latvieðu paðreferences 

drâmas mçs – zemnieku kultûra pçdçjie cçlieni. 

LITERATÛRA 

Adamoviès L. Daþi raksturîgi vaibsti mûsu senèu garîgajâ sejâ //Izglîtîbas Ministrijas 

Mçneðraksts, 1934, Nr. 11, 435.–443. lpp. 

Beitnere D. Vai latvieði ir tikai zemnieki? //Karogs, 2002, Nr. 11, 150.–163. lpp. 

Beitnere D. No mîta uz kultûras paradigmu (sabiedrîbas paðaprakstîðana un latvieðu kultûras 

nacionâlisma specifiskie aspekti) //Sabiedrîba un kultûra. – Liepâja: LPA, 2000, 29.–37. 

lpp. 

Eglîtis A. Pansija pilî. – Rîga: Liesma, 1991. 

Eglîtis A. Halovîni. Sveiciens Ofijai Ozo. Amerikas dzîves tçlojumi. – Los Angeles: Grâmatu 

Draugs, 1958. 

Freeman M. Rewriting the self. – London: Routledge, 1993. 

Gullestard M. The Art of Social Relation. – Oslo: Skandinavian Univertity Press, 1992. 

Luhmann N. Social System. – Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999. 

Mink L.O. Everyman His or Her Own Annalist. – On Narative. Ed. By W.J.T. Mitchell. – 

Chicago: The University Press, 1981. 

Skultâne V. Naratîvs un slimîba. – Cilvçks. Dzîve. Stâstîjums. – Rîga: Latvijas Antropologu 

biedrîba, 2002, 13.–22. lpp.


171 

Vîksniòð Dr. Mçìinâjums raksturot latvieti un viòa kultûru //Burtnieks, 1935, Nr. 5, 366.–376. 

lpp., Nr. 6, 443.–451. lpp. 

Ulîte V. Kosmopolîtiskas garîgas kultûras prasîba – modernâ estçtisma ìençzes 

priekðnosacîjums XX gadsimta sâkumâ baltu literatûrâ //Sabiedrîba un kultûra. – Liepâja, 

2000, 172.–181. lpp. 

White Hayden. Tropics of Discourse. Essays in Cultural Criticism. – Baltimore: The John 

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White Hayden. The Content of the Form. Narrative Discourse and Historical Representation. – 

Baltimore: The John Hopkins University Press, 1990. 

ATSAUCES 

1 Vîksniòð Dr. Mçìinâjums raksturot latvieti un viòa kultûru //Burtnieks, 1935, 445. lpp. 

2 Ulîte V. Kosmopolîtiskas garîgas kultûras prasîba – modernâ estçtisma ìençzes 

priekðnosacîjums XX gadsimta sâkumâ baltu literatûrâ //Sabiedrîba un kultûra. – Liepâja, 

2000, 174. lpp. 

3 Eglîtis A. Pansija pilî. – Rîga, Liesma, 1991, 7. lpp. 

4 Eglîtis A. Halovîni. Sveiciens Ofijai Ozo. Amerikas dzîves tçlojumi. – Los Angeles: 

Grâmatu Draugs, 1958, 88. lpp. 

5 White Hayden. Tropics of Discourse. Essays in Cultural riticism. – Baltimore: The John 

Hopkins University Press. 1987. 

6 Skultâne V. Naratîvs un slimîba. – Cilvçks. Dzîve. Stâstîjums. – Rîga: Latvijas 

Antropologu biedrîba, 2002, 13.–22. lpp. 

7 Luhmann N. Social System. – Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999. 

8 Freeman M. Rewriting the self. – London: Routledge, 1993, pp. 28–29. 

9 Mink L.O. Everyman His or Her Own Annalist. –On Narative. Ed. By W.J.T. Mitchell. – 

Chicago: The University Press, 1981, 234. 

10 Biezais, 1991: 121–140. 

11 White Hayden. Tropics of Discourse. Essays in Cultural Criticism. – Baltimore: The John 

Hopkins University Press. 1987, 152. 

12 Beitnere D. Vai latvieði ir tikai zemnieki? //Karogs, 2002, Nr. 11, 150.–163. lpp. 

13 Ibid, 156, 159. 

14 Gullestard M. The Art of Social Relation. – Oslo: Skandinavian Univertity Press, 

1992, 39. 

15 Tabuns, 1998: 8–9. 

16 Bçrks, 1998: 38. 

Summary 

The way how individual reads, understands and discribes himself forms 

selfreferences narative. As a nararive we understand not only academic texts, but also 

daily conversations rotating in consciousness. Storys, life storys make certain fields in 

humans memory, which can be named as narrative fields, who, when using in long term, 

can get certain social meaning and to go over in selfreference. This paper examines relations 

between selfreference and narrative, startig from 1920 up to nowerdays.


MÂKSLA, 172.–179. lpp. 

Ojârs Vâcietis kâ latvieðu padomju dzejas interteksts 

An Intertext in the Latvian Soviet Poetry: Ojars Vacietis 

Ausma Cimdiòa (Latvija) 

Latvijas Univeritâtes Filoloìijas fakultâtes 

Latvieðu literatûras nodaïa 

Visvalþa 4a, Rîga, LV-1050 

E-pasts: ausma.cimdina@lu.lv 

Katrs teksts savâ ziòa ir interteksts. Ojârs Vâcietis pieder pie tiem latvieðu autoriem, kuru 

dzejai raksturîgas seviðíi bagâtas un daudzveidîgas intertekstualitâtes formas gan sava– 

padomju laika dzejas un sociâlo noriðu kontekstâ lasot, gan atsaucoties tâm mûsdienu 

pârvçrtîbâm, kas aktîvi lîdzdarbojas Vâcieða dzejas tekstuâlâs nozîmes radîðanâ un atraþoðanâ. 

Viòa dzejas idejiskâs ievirzes dçï Ojârs Vâcietis ir viens no vispretrunîgâkajiem un 

neviennozîmîgâk vçrtçtajiem latvieðu dzejniekiem, un tas ir veicinâjis spçcîgu ârpusliterâro 

kontekstu (vçsturisko, politisko, sociâlo) klâtbûtni viòa dzejas uztverç un vçrtçjumos. 

Neraugoties uz to, ka formâli Vâcietis bija totalitârâ padomju reþîma "angaþçts” dzejnieks, viòa 

teiktais un rakstîtais vârds ir guvis ârkârtîgi spçcîgu atbalsi brîvdomîgo literâtu vidû, 

iedvesmojot pretestîbai, radoðai brîvîbai un paðizpausmei. Vâcieða izredzçtîba dzejâ izteikt un 

pârstâvçt daudzus, viòa ietekme uz atseviðíâm radoðâm individualitâtçm un literatûras procesu 

kopumâ seviðíi uzskatâmi parâdâs dzejniekam rakstîtos veltîjumu dzejoïos, kâ arî sarakstç. 

Jâatzîst, ka tik daudz un tik poçtiski spilgtu, semantiski piesâtinâtu un kontekstuâli bagâtu 

veltîjumu dzejoïu nav rakstîts nevienam citam latvieðu autoram. Ðajos veltîjumos saplûst 

Vâcieða un viòa paaudzes dzejai bûtiskâs intonâcijas, motîvi, poçtiskâs stratçìijas un 

filozofiskâs refleksijas. Cenzûras apstâkïos tâ funkcionçja kâ îpaða, poçtiski konspiratîva 

komunikâcijas forma, kïûstot par savdabîgu laikmeta ideoloìisko pretmetu un radoðo 

meklçjumu kopsaucçju. Raksta pamatâ ir referâts, nolasîts starptautiskajâ zinâtniskajâ 

konferencç “Cilvçka brîvîba. Cilvçka balss” (Rîga, 2003. gada 10.–12. novembris), kas veltîta 

O. Vâcieða 70. dzimðanas dienai. 

Atslçgvârdi: dzeja, dzejnieks, literârais grupçjums, totalitârisms,veltîjums, teksts. 

Intertekstualitâte ir literatûrzinâtnes un kritikas teorija, kas îpaðu uzmanîbu 

pievçrð literâro tekstu savstarpçjai saistîbai un atkarîbai gan kâdas vienas nacionâlâs 

literatûras ietvaros, gan pârnacionâlâ skatîjumâ. Tomçr savâ bûtîbâ intertekstualitâte 

ir pârnacionâla parâdîba. Starp ievçrojamâkajiem ðîs teorijas un literatûrkritiskâs 

prakses pârstâvjiem minami literatûrfilozofi Mihails Bahtins, Martins Bubers, Jûlija 

Kristeva, Rolans Barts, Þaks Deridâ un citi. Kaut arî intertekstualitâte ir sena literâra 

parâdîba, tâ ir samçrâ jauna humanitâro zinâtòu kategorija: jçdzieni intertekstualitâte 

un interteksts aktualizçjas 20.gs.70.gados, kïûstot par akadçmiskâs kritikas "èata” 

(angliski catch–word) jeb modes vârdu un, lîdzîgi kâ daudziem citiem mûsdienu 

modernâs literatûrteorijas raksturvârdiem, tam trûkst viennozîmîgas izpratnes un 

skaidrojuma. 1 

Saskaòâ ar intertekstualitâtes teoriju katrs teksts savâ ziòâ ir un var tikt analizçts 

interteksts, atklâjot tajâ kâdu vienu vai vairâkus intertekstualitâtes tipus vai izpausmes 

formas. Starp daþâdâm literatûrpçtniecîbâ bieþâk minçtajâm intertekstualitâtes 

formâm jâmin: 1) skaidri izteikta, tieða (kad iespçjams noteikt ìençtisko saikni starp

Ausma Cimdiòa. Ojârs Vâcietis kâ latvieðu padomju dzejas interteksts 

173 

tekstiem) un netieða intertekstualitâte; 2) strukturâlâ (piemçram, þanriskâs struktûras) 

un satura/tematiskâ intertekstualitâte; 3) apzinâta/ gribçta un nejauða/negribçta 

intertekstualitâte; 4) nacionâlâ (vienas literâras valodas ietvaros skatîta) un 

pârnacionâla intertekstualitâte; 5) viena un tâ paða dzimuma valodas paradigmâ 

sakòota, atðíirîgu dzimu valodas paradigmâ sakòota vai universâla (bezdzimuma) 

valodas diskursâ tverta intertekstualitâte; 6) personiska un anonîma intertekstualitâte. 

Par intertekstualitâtes dziïâko bûtîbu, to vârdâ nesaucot un neapcerot teorçtiski, ir 

aizdomâjies arî Ojârs Vâcietis. Tâ, piemçram, apcerç "Dostojevskis” viòð raksta: 

“Man ðíiet, ja analizçtu vienalga kura mûsdienu românista darbus, visur atradîsies 

kaut kas "no Dostojevska”, kurð, tâpat kâ Ðekspîrs, skâris gandrîz visus cilvçka 

dvçseles stâvokïus. /../ Nevienam nav jâmetas zem vilciena, lai saprastu Annu 

Kareòinu, vai jâðaujas, lai saprastu Oòeginu un Ïenski.” 2 . 

Vâcietis pieder pie tiem latvieðu autoriem, kuru dzejai raksturîgas seviðíi bagâtas 

un daudzveidîgas intertekstualitâtes formas gan sava laika dzejas kontekstâ lasot, gan 

atsaucoties tâm mûsdienu pârvçrtîbâm, kas aktîvi lîdzdarbojas Vâcieða dzejas 

tekstuâlâs nozîmes radîðanâ un atraþoðanâ. Bûtisks intertekstualitâtes 

priekðnosacîjums un vienlaikus arî intertekstualitâtes izpausmes forma ir teksta 

dialoìiskums, tieksme uzrunât un jautât, provocçt un saòemt atbildes reakciju. 

Dzejniekam adresçtie veltîjumdzejoïi ir principiâlas atbildes reakcijas uz 

jautâjumiem, kurus provocçja gan laikmeta sabiedriskâs norises, gan viòa emocionâli 

ekspresîvâ dzeja. Domâjot par O.Vâcieða dzejas padomisko un reizç brîvdomîgo 

raksturu un iedarbîbas spçku, Vitolds Valeinis raksta, ka viòa dzejai ir "sveða jebkura 

pliekanîba, ar ko nereti nâkas sastapties darbos, kas barojas no ierastâ un pieòemtâ” 

(ðinî gadîjuma – padomju dzejâ ierastâm tçmâm un idejâm). 3 Dzejas analîtiía 

V. Valeiòa vârdiem runâjot, tâ ir “ar autora ideâliem uzlâdçta” dzeja, kurâ "verd 

kaislîbu un dailes kontrasti”. 4 Ðim dzejas raksturojumam ir jâpiekrît, piezîmçjot, ka 

tâs savâ ziòâ ir “kolektîvas kaislîbas”, un ideâlu (çtisko, estçtisko, nacionâlo, sociâlo) 

uzlâdçti ir arî Vâcietim adresçtie veltîjuma dzejoïi, to autori un arî lasîtâji. 

1987. gada Dzejas dienu atklâðanâ pie Raiòa pieminekïa Rîgâ (daþus gadus pçc 

O.Vâcieða aizieðanas mûþîbâ) Mâra Zâlîte saka: “Dzeja ir vienots organisms, pasaule, 

ekosistçma, kurâ katram tâs loceklim ir paredzçta sava vieta, sava loma, sava 

misija.” 5 – un veltîjumi Vâcietim viòas teikto apstiprina. Tos caurstrâvo dzejas un 

dzejnieka sociâlâs misijas apziòa – padomju laika, îpaði 20. gs. 60.–80. gadu dzejâ 

tik klâtesoða un izteikta, bet gadsimta nogalç pieklususi un ðobrîd lîdz nepazîðanai 

pârvçrtusies parâdîba. Ojâra Vâcieða 70.– 80. gadu dzejâ tâ bija ne vairâk ne mazâk 

kâ glâbðanas un glâbðanâs misija. Ðis motîvs izskan vairâkos krâjuma “Nolemtîba” 

dzejoïos, piemçram, “Sakarâ ar sauso un karsto laiku”; tas norâda uz dzeju kâ 

glâbjoðu domu un jûtu avotu: 

Ne jâglâbj cilvçce, 

bet jâdzemdç glâbçji, 

glâbjoðas domas 

un glâbjoðas jûtas. 6 

Bet dzejolî “Pie zemes turçties” debesu bçrnu dzejnieku glâbiòð un mierinâjums 

ir zeme:


Pie zemes 

glâbiòu meklç 

debesu bçrni 

kâ bçrni 

pie mâtes. 7 

Dzejas un dzejnieka (arî padomju) misijas izpratne un tâs poçtiskâs 

transformâcijas laika gaitâ ir pati par sevi un arî intertekstualitâtes meklçjumos bûtiska 

tçma, kas iezîmç vienu no O. Vâcieða kâ padomju dzejas interteksta un arî viòam 

adresçto veltîjumdzejoïu interpretâcijas perspektîvâm. O. Vâcieða dzeja kâ padomju 

interteksts spilgti izpauþas tematiskajâ amplitûdâ un krâsu poçtikâ, piemçram, 

dzimtenes un globalizâcijas motîvu (lielâ un mazâ) emocionâli ekspresîvajâs pârejâs, 

abus tonçjot intensîvi sarkanâ krâsu gammâ, kas, sâkot ar 70. gadiem, Vâcietim ir nevis 

padomju ideoloìijas (karoga un kaklauta), bet gan dzîves, brîvîbas, cerîbas, ticîbas un 

mîlestîbas krâsa. 

Runâjot par intertekstu nevis laikmeta un literatûras universa mçrogos, bet 

konkrçtu autoru daiïrades sastatîjumâ, jâatgâdina, ka intertekstualitâte neaprobeþojas 

ar t.s. literâro ietekmju jomu, bet ietver sevî ievçrojami plaðâku literâro un ârpusliterâro 

parâdîbu loku. Domâjot par veltîjumu intertekstualitâtes slâòu veidoðanos O. Vâcieða 

dzejas lasîjumâ, seviðíi trâpîgs ðíiet angïu literatûrzinâtnieces Katarînas Belsejas 

(Catherine Belsey) secinâjums, ka "teksta intertekstuâlâs attiecîbas nekad nav tîri 

literâras” 8 . Proti, apzinâti vai neapzinâti teksta lasîjumâ un lîdz ar to tekstuâlâs nozîmes 

(lîdz)radîðanâ allaþ izpauþas cîòa par sabiedrisko domu un ietekmi sabiedrîbâ, par varu, 

un ðajâs teksta attiecîbâs ar sabiedrîbu neizbçgami iesaistâs vçsture un politika. 

Literatûras, politikas un vçstures interteksta kontekstâ autore izdala trîs daiïdarbu 

veidus: deklaratîvie (lasîtâjâ tiek ievietotas lietoðanai gatavas "zinâðanas”); 

imperatîvie (propaganda, kas pârliecina, pierunâ un dod instrukcijas); interrogatîvie 

(problematizç, izvirza jautâjumus un iesaista pretrunâs). Ojâra Vâcieða dzejâ atradîsim 

visas trîs komunikâcijas formas (deklaratîvo, imperatîvo, interrogatîvo), bet viòam 

adresçtie veltîjumdzejoïi galvenokârt raduðies kâ atbildes reakcija uz pçdçjo – 

interrogatîvo jeb jautâjumu un pretrunu. 

Tâpat kâ cilvçka un dzejnieka biogrâfiju nekad nevar fiksçt un iegrâmatot pilnîbâ 

un bez atlikuma, arî kâda konkrçta dzejoïa izcelsmi un dzîves lîniju meklçjot, 

jâsamierinâs, ka dzejas pasaulç nâkðana ir cçloòsakarîgi neizdibinâma un pçtnieku 

darbos atklâjas tikai aisberga redzamâ daïa. Seviðíi, ja runâjam par dzejdarba tautâ 

ieðanu un dzîvi pçc tâ publicçðanas (neteiksim – radîðanas, jo saskaòâ ar mûsdienu 

lasîðanas shçmu teorijâm dzejolis tiek jaunradîts katrâ tâ lasîðanas aktâ). Ieskatoties 

veltîjuma kâ lirikas þanra vçsturç, J. Kursîte norâda, ka veltîjums parasti ir vçrðanâs 

pie kâdas konkrçtas personas "ar lûgumu, pateicîbu vai jûtu apliecinâjumu”. 9 Ojâra 

Vâcieða gadîjumâ veltîjums parasti ir pateicîba vai jûtu apliecinâjums, bet parasti tas ir 

nevis personisku, bet pârpersonisku motîvu vadîts un izpauþas kâ pateicîbas parâda 

"atdoðana” to vispârcilvçcisko vçrtîbu un ideâlu apliecinâtâjiem un apliecinâjumam, 

ko sevî iemieso Ojâra Vâcieða darbi – piedoðanas izlûgðanâs bez vainas vainîgajiem. 

Salîdzinâjumâ ar veltîjuma þanra vçsturiskajâm formâm veltîjumos O. Vâcietim nav 

vçrojamas tâdas tendences kâ, nodevas amatam vai titulam, uzspçlçta pazemîba, 

apveltâmâs personas kanonizâcija, retorika un publicistisks patoss.


175 

Liels skaits O. Vâcietim adresçto dzejoïu ir tapuði jau dzejnieka dzîves laikâ, nevis 

viòa spilgtâs aizieðanas mûþîbâ provocçti, kâ varçtu domât , un tos rakstîjuði daþâdu 

paaudþu un estçtisko uzskatu pârstâvji gan dzejas formâ, kâ Mâris Èaklais, Jânis Peters, 

Imants Ziedonis, Mirdza Íempe, Anatols Immermanis, Arvîds Skalbe, Anna Sakse, 

Klâvs Elsbergs, Jânis Rokpelnis, Mâra Misiòa, Leons Briedis, Aivars Neibarts, Pçteris 

Jurciòð, Ausma Pormale, Leons Âre, Elmârs Kurðis, Andrejs Balodis, Imants Auziòð, Lija 

Brîdaka, Marta Bârbale, Igors Jakaitis, Jânis Plotnieks, Gunta Ðnipke, Aleksandrs 

Pelçcis, Vitauts Ïûdçns, Egils Plaudis, Eduards Aivars, Kornçlija Apðkrûma, Laima 

Lîvena, Juris Kunnoss, Jânis Sirmbârdis, Anda Lîce, Velga Krile, Valentîns Pelçcis u. c., 

gan arî lieliskas veltîjuma potretesejas prozâ, ko rakstîjuði Roalds Dobrovenskis,Velta 

Kaltiòa, Vizma Belðevica, Jânis Stradiòð, Mâris Èaklais, Jânis Peters, Imants Ziedonis, 

Jânis Rokpelnis, Pçteris Zirnîtis, Jânis Streiès, Marìeris Zariòð, Âbrams Kïeckins, Lilija 

Dzene, Rita Valnere, Monika Zariòa ar savu lielisko "kapitâlistisko” tomâtmaizîðu 

ieçdinâðanas stratçìiju, apmulsuðajam padomju dzejniekam viesojoties Skotijâ (“Çd, 

lûdzu! Tâs taèu arî ir sarkanas”) 10 , – un ðo uzskaitîjumu varçtu turpinât. Ârpus ðî 

uzskaitîjuma palika Ludmilas Azarovas ”Magnçtiskais Mâras ezers”, 11 jo viòas veltîjumu 

dâsnums un nozîme dzejnieka liriskajâ un dramatiskajâ biogrâfijâ bûtu atseviðís stâsts, 

daudz atseviðíâks par visiem pârçjiem,– ne tikai visus kopâ, bet arî katru par sevi òemot, 

nenoliedzami bûtiskiem. Domâs pârcilâjot bijuðo, dzejniece Ludmila Azarova raksta: 

“Nav jçgas vienkârðot 

ne likteni, ne laiku.” 12 

Un dzejniecei taisnîba – vienkârðot nozîmçtu O. Vâcieða unikalitâti zaudçt. 

Jâatzîst, ka lielâ mçrâ tâ bija un ir uz “kreisajâm” vçrtîbâm balstîta dzeja un 

domâðanas kultûra. Tâlab viens no bûtiskâkajiem, iespçjams, pats galvenais 

O.Vâcieða dzejas interteksts var tikt formulçts kâ padomju (sociâlistiskais) literârais 

un kultûras mantojums, nevis literârâs dzîves atkritumi (ko raþo katrs laikmets), bet 

mantojums paliekamas literârâs un kultûras vçrtîbas nozîmç. 

Var ironizçt, ka padomju dzejnieki bija veltîjumdzejâ labi trençti (veltîjumi Ïeòinam, 

Staïinam, Sarkanajai armijai, Lielajam Oktobrim un to analogiem savienotajâs 

republikâs, arî Latvijâ, bija padomju dzejas neatòemama sastâvdaïa). Tomçr te ir runa 

par kaut ko principiâli citu: veltîjumdzejâ O. Vâcietim nav ne vçsts no kampaòveida 

atrakstîðanâs, ideoloìisku nodevu vai vadonisma dvakas. 

“Par literatûras teorçtiíiem es nerunâðu, jo neticu, ka tiem pa prâtam var uzrakstît. 

Rakstîðu pats sev pa prâtam .., un bûðu laimîgs, kad kaut rinda no mana dzejoïa izdarîs 

savu darbu – paliks lîdz tam brîdim kâdâ nezinâmâ sirdî,” 13 – bûdams ceïâ uz savu 

pirmo grâmatu, Ojârs Vâcietis raksta draugam Gunâram Grâvim. Pieticîga un reizç 

tik pârmçrîga (dzejnieka, cilvçciskâs) laimes formula, kam bija lemts neþçlîgi 

piepildîties visâ viòa radoðâ mûþa garumâ. 

Veltîjumu O.Vâcietim kvalitâte un kvantitâte rosina domât par jautâjumu, ar ko 

izskaidrojama ðî literatûrvçsturiski fiksçtâ laikmeta koncentrçðanâs ap O.Vâcieti, 

nemaz nerunâjot par to, cik daudz nezinâmu sirþu Vâcieða dzeja ir aizskârusi, sevi 

atraþojot un vairojot arî anonîmas lasîðanas un lîdzpârdzîvojuma veidâ. Vai, paða 

Vâcieða vârdiem runâjot,– cik rindu no viòa dzejoïiem bûs izdarîjuðas savu darbu, 

paliekot nezinâmo sirdîs.


Mana personiskâ pazîðanâs ar dzejnieku ir notikusi tikai caur viòa dzeju, un es nevaru 

lepoties ar to, ka lîdz ðim bûtu bijusi nopietnâs pçtnieciskâs attiecîbâs ar Ojâru Vâcieti. 

Lasîðanas un patikðanas attiecîbâs gan, arî spilgtu un neaizmirstamu bçrnîbas un jaunîbas 

atmiòu attiecîbâs, kaut arî pavisam provinciâlâ un ðíietami bezpersonisku attiecîbu veidâ. 

Tas sâkâs, domâjams, 1967. gada rudenî, kad viòð kopâ ar citiem dzejniekiem viesojâs 

Jaunpiebalgas vidusskolâ un varbût pret paða gribu izrâdîjâs Dzejas dienu sabiedriskâs 

kârtîbas traucçtâjs. Nezinu, varbût tâpçc, lai attiecîbas starp dzeju un auditoriju 

neveidotos pârâk oficiâlas un nogurdinoðas, viòð bija izvçlçjies klausîtâju vecuma grupai 

un sociâlajam statusam neatbilstoðu dzejas repertuâru un tâpçc radîja nenopietna cilvçka 

iespaidu. Viòð skolotâju pavadîbâ uz skolas zâli atvesto skolçnu priekðâ lasîja “Dziesmiòu 

par trako Lîzi” no svilpojamo dziesmiòu cikla, kura centrâ izvirzîta pavisam nepareiza liriskâ 

varone un dzejas aina kopumâ: 

Pçrkoòlietus ðonakt lîs, 

Trako Lîz, trako Lîz, 

Nâc pie manis labi drîz, 

Trako Lîz. 

Tavos matos, trako Lîz, 

Trako Lîz, trako Lîz, 

Velni ûdensrozes pîs, 

Trako Lîz. 14 

Jau pçc pirmajâm “trako Lîz, trako Lîz” ritmiskajâm atkârtojuma figûrâm dzejnieka 

priekðnesumâ zâlç sâkâs smiekli, nevaldâma smieklu lçkme, un skolotâjiem vajadzçja 

celties kâjâs un skaïi klauvçt pa prezidija galdu, aiz kura sçdçja virkne dzejnieku un 

vakara vadîtâjs, lai mûs nomierinâtu un Vâcietis savu lasîjumu varçtu turpinât. Kas 

daudzmaz atceras dzejoli tâlâk, zina, ka dzejoïa izskaòâ ðai orìijâ iesaistâs arî govis un 

bçrni, bet runa, protams, nav par latvieðu rakstniecîbâ ierastajâm ganu gaitâm. Reizç 

smieklîgi, bet arî aizdomîgi. Trakâ Lîze kâ sociâlistiskâ reâlisma un jauno dzejnieku 

pilsoniskâs stâjas paraugdemonstrçjums lauku skolâ. Kas gan O. Vâcieða dzejas 

cilvçkam varçtu bût kopçjs ar velniem un tâdu Lîzi! 

Pçc “Dziesmiòas par trako Lîzi” dzejnieks pieteic, ka nâkamâ svilpojamâ bûðot 

“Dziesmiòa par labo roku”, un pretstatâ Lîzei tas esot pavisam parasts dzejolis, jo 

normâli taèu katram esot labâ roka un labus darbus darît arî esot normâli: 

Ar labo roku, 

Apòemt var sievu, 

Ar labo roku 

Nolauzt var ievu, 

Ar labo roku 

Var glaudît pa spalvu, 

Ar labo roku 

Nocirst var galvu, 

Un, darot labu, 

Pa galvu var dabût. 15


177 

Abus Dzejas dienâs “priekðâ celtos” Ojâra Vâcieða dzejoïus ðodien pârlasot, 

redzams, ka tâs ir varen íecerîgas vârsmas – tik progresîvâ valstî un iekârtâ , darot kâdam 

labu, pa galvu var dabût? Un tieði Vâcieða repertuâra izvçles un padomju dzejnieka 

stereotipam un publiskajam tçlam neiedomâjamâs uzvedîbas dçï es atceros ðîs Dzejas 

dienas un viòu paðu. Visu citu Dzejas dienu viesu vârdi un tçli ir atmiòâ pagaisuði. 

Pavisam viòi biji kâdi pieci seði, varbût vairâk, bet O. Vâcietis bija tieði tik nepareizs, lai 

klausîtâju acîs viòu nevarçtu padarît par elku vai paraugcilvçku. 

Vçl kâda man personiski bûtiska liecîba par Ojâra Vâcieða dzejas dzîvotspçju un 

recepcijas formu daudzveidîbu jau tâlajos seðdesmitajos. Kâdu gadu pçc 

trauksmainajâm Dzejas dienâm turpat Malienas pierobeþâ no pavisam nedzejiskas 

kaimiòu ìimenes pilngadîbas svçtkos (tos atzîmçja iesvçtîbu vietâ) saòçmu 

apsveikuma karti ar ierakstu, kas apliecina, ka citâdi diezgan kareivîgâ dzejdarbâ (to es 

atklâju vçlâk) "Pâri pasaulei saule” no pirmâ krâjuma "Tâlu ceïu vçjð” vismaz ðîs èetras 

rindas savu darbu ir padarîjuðas pie daudziem: 

Visu, ko jaunîba mîl, 

Pie sirds tâ sasildît var, 

Visu, ko jaunîba nîst,– 

Ar sirdi var sadedzinât. 16 

Tâdâs sajûtâs un cerîbâs mçs dzîvojâm un tâdi ideâlisti, laimes un patiesîbas meklçtâji 

bijâm. Bet kas to bûtu domâjis, ka tas jocîgais svilpojamo dziesmiòu lasîtâjs var just, 

domât un rakstît arî tâ? Ojâra Vâcieða interteksta sakarâ tas nozîmç, ka viòa dzeja 

dzîvoja, folklorizçjoties albumu dzejas veidâ, kas gâja no rokas rokâ vidusskolniecçm, 

kolhozniecçm, kantoristçm un citiem pavisam tâ dçvçtajiem vienkârðajiem lasîtâjiem. 

Ir teikts, ka latvieðu literatûras vçsture nav seviðíi bagâta ar literârajiem 

grupçjumiem, kas, vairâk vai mazâk noformçjuðies, bûtu nâkuði klajâ ar saviem 

manifestiem, programmâm vai aktivitâtçm un ietekmçjuði literatûras procesu, bet gluþi 

uz vienas rokas pirkstiem tos saskaitît nevar: Dzelmes, Trauksmes, jaunnacionâlistu, 

Kazas, Elles íçía, t.s. Franèu grupa, jaungaitnieki... Ðai uzskaitç trûkst 20. gadsimta 

latvieðu rakstniecîbai varbût paða bûtiskâkâ grupçjuma ar Ojâru Vâcieti avangardâ un 

viòa cieðâkajiem sekotâjiem – Imantu Ziedoni, Vizmu Belðevicu, Mâri Èaklo un Jâni 

Peteru centrâ, kas jau 60. gados konsekventi un neatlaidîgi sâka rakstît savu 

neatkarîbas deklarâciju dzejâ. 

Kaut vârdâ nenosaukts, varbût tas ir vienîgais "lîdz galam” noformçjies, savu 

mçríi sasnieguðais literârais grupçjums: to apstiprina ðajâ sirds asins brâlîbâ ierakstîtâ 

dzejas pçctecîba un sociâlâ atbildîba. Patiesîbas instinkts ðai brâlîbai bija stiprâks par 

paðsaglabâðanâs instinktu, un zem ðî manifesta instinktîvi parakstîjâs nâkamâs dzejas 

jaunaudzes avangards: K.Elsbergs, J.Rokpelnis, L.Briedis, U. Bçrziòð, J. Kunnoss, 

P. Brûveris, M.Zâlîte un citi. Varbût tâpçc, ka plika sabiedriski politiska brâïoðanâs , 

klaji pretvalstiskas akcijas un viòu literârâ sadzîve vai sadzîviska èupoðanâs zinâmu 

iemeslu dçï nevarçja kïût par masu mediju un plaðâkas sabiedrîbas intereðu objektu, ðî 

brâlîba literatûrvçstures annâlçs netika iegrâmatota. 

Pretstatâ mûsdienu izpausmçm, ðî aizgâjuðâ laikmeta dzejas suìestivitâtes pamatâ 

bija tâs sabiedriskais aktîvisms, lîdzpârdzîvojums un sociâlâ atbildîba. Paradoksâlâ kârtâ 

ðî laika dzejai bija ne tikai ideoloìiski aizbarikâdçts, bet tîri fiziski atvieglots ceïð pie


lasîtâja, jo literatûra jau pçc definîcijas bija ierocis, ar ko tçmçt uz sabiedrîbu – to ietekmçt, 

pilnveidot, iedvesmot, noskaòot, (pâr)audzinât utt. O. Vâcietis riskçja paòemt labâko, 

nevis virspusçjo no sevis un sava laika, un, viòa vârsmu vai laikmeta pretrunu 

iedvesmoti, tam sekoja citi. Ðodien dzîve un dzeja ïaujas itin kâ apmânîties un nenonâkt 

pretrunâ ar sevi vai neatïaujas atzîties lielâs pretrunâs nonâkusi. O. Vâcieða dzejas laikam 

atgriezeniskâ saite ar sabiedrîbu bija ïoti bûtiska, bet vai tâlab ðodien viòð bûtu 

piedabûjams iet lasît dzeju gaïas paviljonâ vai autostacijâ? Par ðodienas bûðanâm grûti 

spriest, bet tolaik attieksme pret tâdâm lietâm bija pavisam cita – ja padomju dzejnieks 

bûtu iegâjis (vai norîkots) lasît dzeju autoostâ, tirgus paviljonâ vai fabrikâ, reisi tiktu 

atcelti, kases aparâti izslçgti un konveijeri apstâdinâti. Un, neraugoties uz situâcijas 

nopietnîbu, O. Vâcietis un viòam lîdzîgie bija gatavi nâkt klajâ katrs ar savu Trako Lîzi un 

atklâsmi, ka, “darot labu, pa galvu var dabût”. 

Ojârs Vâcietis – mîlestîbas dzejnieks no pirmâs lîdz pçdçjai rindai, laimes un 

patiesîbas meklçtâjs sociâlistiskajâ reâlismâ un ideâlismâ, Malienas maizç, dzelzs 

priekðkara ðaipusç audzis globâlists, kurð jau 60. gados nekïûdîgi apgalvoja, ka "daudzas 

nelaimes mûsdienu pasaulç ir tikpat internacionâlas kâ gripa”. 17 Protams, paðas galvenâs 

un nozîmîgâkâs vçrtîbas Vâcieða dzejâ ir jâatrod katram paðam, tomçr ðodien ir svarîgi 

ieraudzît un nodefinçt O. Vâcieti un viòa interteksta fenomenu (dzîves, literatûras, 

vçstures un politikas tekstus kopâ òemot) literatûrzinâtnes annâlçs, kamçr vispârçjâ 

infekcija ar viòa dzeju vçl nav pârgâjusi, infekcijas nçsâtâji vçl dzîvi un 60.–80. gadu 

literârâ grupçjuma kodols ir mûsu dzîves un literatûras procesos aktîvi klâtesoðs. 

ATSAUCES 

1 Howthorn J. A. Concise glossary of Contemporary Literary Theory. – New York: 

Routledge, 1992.– p.85–86 

2 Vâcietis O. Ar pûces spalvu. –R.:Liesma, 1983.– 119.–120.lpp. 

3 Valeinis V. Latvieðu lirikas vçsture.–R.: Liesma, 1976.–337.lpp. 

4 Turpat, 306. 

5 Zâlîte M. Kas ticîbâ sçts.–R.:Karogs,1997.–84.lpp. 

6 Vâcietis O. Nolemtîba.–R.:Liesma,1985.– 57.lpp. 

7 Turpat, 69.lpp. 

8 Belsey C. Literature, history, politics // Modern Criticism and Theory. A Reader ed. by 

D.Lodge.– Longman, London and New York.–1988, p.403 

9 Kursîte J. Dzejas vârdnîca.–R.:Zinâtne, 2002.–433. lpp. 

10 Zariòa M. Starp mums pastâv tikai tas attâlums, kuru nosakâm mçs paði// Visums, sirds 

un tâpat... Grâmata par Ojâru Vâcieti.–R.:Karogs,1993.– 622.lpp. 

11 Azarova L. Magnçtiskais Mâras ezers. – R. Liesma, 1987.– 6.lpp. 


13 Vâcietis O. Kopoti raksti, 10. sçj.–R.:Karogs,2003.– 157.lpp. 

14 Vâcietis O. Kopoti raksti, 2.sçj.– R.:Liesma,1989.– 62.lpp. 


16 Vâcietis O. Kopoti raksti, 1. sçj.– R.: Liesma 

17 Vâcietis O. Ar pûces spalvu.–R.:Liesma,1983.–88.lpp.


Summary 

179 

To some extent any text is an intertext. Ojârs Vâcietis is among those Latvian 

authors whose poetry bares a clearly idiosyncratic richness and a diversity of 

intertextual forms both in the context of their time – the Soviet rule and social developments 

– and also with regard the modern changes that actively partake in creating 

and reproducing the textual meanings of his poetry. 

Ojârs Vâcietis is one of the most controversial Latvian poets who has been 

valued in the most ambiguous fashion due to the idea positioning of his poetry; this 

has also encouraged the presence of powerful extra–literary contexts (historical, political, 

social) in the perception and interpretation of his poetry. Disregarding the fact 

that Vâcietis was a poet in formal agreement with the totalitarian soviet regime, the 

things he said and wrote in his poetry, journalism, and positions on life had powerful 

resonance among the free–thinking literati; they inspired intellectuals to resistance, 

freedom and self–manifestation. The special favor granted to Vâcietis to express and 

represent the masses in his poetry, his impact on singular creative personalities and 

the process of literary development as a whole clearly come to surface in works devoted 

to Vâcietis as well as in correspondence of the poet. It must be said here that 

poems inscribed for Vâcietis specifically are beyond compare with anyone else in 

terms of their number, poetic brightness and contextual richness. The essential intonations, 

motives, philosophical reflections and poetic strategies that are important for 

Vâcietis poetry merge and collide in writing devoted to Vâcietis individually. These 

specific poems function as a unique form of communication in poetic code and serve 

as a common denomination for idiosyncratic contrasts of the ideologies and existential 

spiritual quest of their time.


MÂKSLA, 180.–187. lpp. 

Lithuania and Lithuanians in the Yiddish Literature of 

Inter–war Lithuania 

Lietuva un lietuvieði jidiða literatûrâ starpkaru Lietuvâ 

Tina Lunson (USA) 

Bkivin kovne, 7218 Central Avenue 

Takoma Park, MD 20912 USA 

e–mail: tlunson@ix.netcom.com 

The era of Independent Lithuania between the two World Wars was a complex period for the 

Jewish communities there. The era began with an idealistic autonomy for the Jewish community, 

and enthusiastic Jews worked to create their Utopia within Lithuanian society, contributing 

to the national economy and social life; developing in their communities institutions for 

secular and religious learning, cultural associations, social and support organizations, an outstanding 

Yiddish and Hebrew press, and sports activities. 

Politically in the ensuing decades, Jews proceeded from a heady pro–Lithuanianism to attempts 

to alter their apparent economic fate, to efforts to recreate a more insular autonomy or to escape 

from the country itself. Jews were an intensely active minority in internal and co–communal 

transition, within a new–old country struggling through its own transitions. 

To the end of Independent Lithuania, some Jews continued to believe in a version of historian 

Shimen Dubnow’s “doikayt” [“here–ness”] that would allow them to live full Jewish lives as 

full citizens in an integrated Lithuania. One such figure was Leyb Garfunkl, an attorney, a 

member of the Lithuanian Sejm, a writer and social organizer. 

Literature in Yiddish often reflects these various ideals, with writers looking to create a distinctive 

Jewish culture while being totally cognizant of their Lithuanian environment. Among 

young Yiddish writers who wrote of Lithuania—her bountiful countryside, her antiquity, her 

peoples living alongside each other, her struggle to recover from years of occupation and relative 

stagnation—are the three Gotlib brothers; Eliezer Heyman; Yisroel Kaplan; and the brothers 

Mayer and Khaym Yelin, all working and publishing in Kaunas/Kovne. 

What does this special notice, this incorporation of the two worlds connote? How did it affect 

the Jews who read it, and did it affect the Lithuanian majority that lived alongside? Fresh interpretations 

of several works of the above–mentioned authors, and others, illuminate a shadowed 

area of Jewish literature and reveal sentiments that a dreadful history has blocked out 

for many years. 

Keywords: Yiddish literature; Lithuanian Jews; inter–war Lithuania. 

Lithuania emerged after World War I independent, idealistic, and determined, after 

generations of occupations. When the new state of Lithuania was declared, many of the 

Jewish families who had been expelled by the Russian army, returned to re–establish their 

homesteads and small businesses, and they invested themselves in the heady dream of 

an independent Lithuania that would be home to political and religious freedom, to prosperous 

business networks, and to hopeful education and social goals. 

Lithuania created a very generous minority treaty, of which the Jewish community 

was one beneficiary. Yiddish—the thousand–year–old European language of the 

Jews—was one of three official languages, and the reports to the community from 

the Ministry of Jewish Affairs were printed in Yiddish. Enthusiastic Jews worked to

Tina Lunson. Lietuva un lietuvieði jidiða literatûrâ starpkaru Lietuvâ 

181 

create their Utopia within Lithuanian society, contributing their resources to the national 

economy and to educational and social life. In their own communities, they 

developed institutions for secular and religious learning. (The religious schools of 

Lithuania were already famous, and supplied scholars to Jewish communities around 

the world.) Jews formed cultural associations, social and support organizations including 

hospitals, specialty schools and orphanages; an outstanding Yiddish and Hebrew 

press, and competitive sports groups. Even when a less liberal administration took 

over the governance of the new state, many Jews simply worked harder—alongside 

their Lithuanian compatriots—to maintain the ideal of an intelligent, enlightened society 

in a proudly Lithuanian autonomy. Jews were an intensely active minority in 

internal and inter–community transition, within a new–old country struggling through 

its own transitions. 

From our current historical remove, and standing as we are on this side of the 

great divides of the Holocaust and the Soviet occupations—and with Lithuania and 

her Baltic neighbors in transition today into modern democracies once again— it is 

nearly impossible to reconstruct what life was like in post–World War I Lithuania. 

What were the normal relationships and expected interactions between Jewish and 

non–Jewish Lithuanians? There are few people to ask, and human beings are themselves 

vulnerable to change and to modifying themselves and their attitudes in order 

to survive in volatile circumstances. Yet there are some records of social attitudes, in 

newspapers and other publications from by–gone years. There is also evidence in 

literature produced by keenly observing artists. I have found very interesting, if not 

plentiful, information about normative relationships of Jews and Lithuanians in the 

inter–war years, in Yiddish literature written in the 1920s and 1930s, and here I begin 

an examination of some surviving works from that period. 

One comment about my terminology: Despite my best efforts I use two names for 

these cities interchangeably: “Kaunas” and “Kovne” and “Vilnius” and “Vilne”. I will 

use “Jews” to describe Jewish Lithuanian citizens and “Lithuanians” to describe 

Christian Lithuanian citizens, with the understanding that neither term determines a 

better or a lesser citizen. 

Creative Yiddish literature in the first days of the new state reflected mostly an 

older sensibility, unchanged by the new political realities. An early publication was 

the periodical “Vispe”, which included work by some younger but mostly older writers. 

That body of work did not in general connect to the changed environment in 

which the writers were living. It is an important fact that the capital city and cultural 

center of Kaunas was cut off from the traditional capital of Lithuania, Vilnius, which 

had been retained by independent Poland. This meant less “cross–pollenization” for 

Yiddish writers in the two cities, but it permitted the development of a particular, and 

particularly Lithuanian, Yiddish literature. 

Already in the 1920s new attitudes were evident, as a specific and modern approach 

developed. A loose group was formed, called Mir aleyn, or “we ourselves”. 

The writers drawn to this group—again both young and old— were looking with new 

eyes at their surroundings. They formed their group in a time when the economy was 

very weak, emigration from Lithuania was high, and the general mood was low. Predictably, 

much of their early work was gloomy and in a minor–key.


In 1930 they declared their existence and their approach to culture in the journal 

Mir aleyn, a collection of poetry, short stories, literary criticism, and essays on art 

and criticism. A key article was an essay on the meaning of “mir aleyn” as it suited 

their situation both politically and artistically. The journal was meant to be the first of 

a series, but it was the only one published. Yet the journal was received to high critical 

acclaim. Critics wrote that this group “hears Lithuania” 1 ; and that the journal was 

“full of longing to throw off the bonds...that Lithuania is sunk in” 2 . In other words, 

the writing reflected both the difficulties of the political and social transition, and the 

vision that there would be a freer, better time on the other side of the struggle. They 

saw the generations–long history of Jewish life in Lithuania in a long and rich procession 

that led to the present. While it was not necessarily clear where the path would 

lead from here, the interest was in pressing on. 

Yiddish newspapers in Kovne were an important outlet for new literature. Two of 

the senior members of the Mir aleyn group worked at two of the main daily newspapers: 

Rubin Rubinshteyn was editor of the “Idishe shtime” and Mendl Sudarski was editor of 

the “Folksblat”. Both these editors were also writers who sought out and were eager to 

publish interesting writing even by unknown talents. It was through their efforts that some 

very young writers gained good reputations, and became more widely published. 

A number of these promising young writers belonged to Mir aleyn: Yankev 

Gotlib, Neyekh Itsik Gotlib, Eliezer Heyman, Yisroel Kaplan, and Khaym and Mayer 

Yelin. All were born in Lithuania. Most died in the Holocaust in their early 30s, never 

to develop their mature talents. Although Heyman and Khaym Yelin both wrote during 

their incarceration in the Nazi ghetto in Kovne, very little or none of that work 

could be salvaged. 

Among the latest examples of the free work of these writers exists in the 1938 

collection, Bleter3 , or Leaves. The book’s introduction states that “the leaves gathered 

here are conceived as continual growth from the tree of the young Yiddish 

literature”; that the collection itself is “a further milestone on the course of Jewish 

artistic creativity”; that it is “a gathering–point of the Yiddish literature so deeply 

rooted in Lithuania”. 

The collection consists of short stories and poetry. There are three women poets 

who write with astonishing clarity about the personal and the political.There are two 

stories4 about odd, damaged characters and the damage they can inflict on the communities 

that they ostensibly depend on. There are beautiful painterly poems about 

the long way Jews took and the precious baggage they carried to arrive in Lithuania 

and the present. But these do not fit the topic under examination, and will have to 

await their own opportunity, which hopefully will come before another 60 years have 

passed since their publication. 

Yankev Gotlib 5 was the most–published writer to contribute to Bleter, having four 

books of poetry in print by 1938. Gotlib’s first poem was printed in the “Idishe 

shtime” in 1925—when he was 14 or 15 years old. He was published in numerous 

other newpapers and journals in Lithuania, in Warsaw, in Riga and in New York. His 

books, all published in Kaunas, are the 1931 Gold un blut or Gold and Blood, which 

Gotlib identifies as the glorious and comforting colors of the Lithuanian sunset. The 

poems are both loving and despairing, as he describes his home in a sad beauty, and


183 

sees his land unable to break free of some lingering malaise. He wishes for the white 

dove to come down and rescue her. 

Koyles fun der vayt or Voices from Afar, published in 1933, comprises one 47– 

page–long lyric poem that utilizes a dawn–to–dusk day as a metaphor: Life begins 

with the cry of a bird in the dark before the first light of day; the poet sees human life 

as the common experience; he longs for meetings and partings, for the stuff of which 

life is woven; he longs for love, and for God. Gotlib’s connection to ancient suffering 

is as profound as his comprehension of the world immediately around him, and one 

informs the other. His question, is there life after death, does not have to do with a 

future for the soul but with the continuation of life on earth after so many painful 

experiences. There is a price to pay for living. Yet the beauty of the natural world can 

cause weeping. He doesn’t want to be separated out as a Jew. Still he will comfort 

anyone, the world, he will spread his life over any lonely soul in the storm. Peace 

comes at the end of the day, as a night bird calls and there is darkness and quiet. 

In 1936 Gotlib published A verbe baym taykh or A Willow by the River, a collection 

of related poems. These short poems, many about September or May, are 

not about nature so much as they use the transitions of the natural world—sunset 

and sunrise, changing seasons, shifting winds, leaves turning, skies darkening or 

lightening–to address or explain equally familiar emotions or situations that elude 

expression. 

Sonetn or Sonnets appeared in 1938. Gotlib’s 14–part sonnet on Jewish history is 

a centerpiece here, and is the piece he chose for Bleter, printed the same year. 

Bleter includes two poems by Shmuel Matis6 — poems about war, in protest of 

war. Both contain vivid imagery of violence and pain on the battlefield, yet both convey 

a deep dignity. “The Ballad of the Unknown Soldier” describes a youth from the 

countryside inducted into the army. Innocent youth is attacked in the black of night 

by red hatred. Our youth is pierced by a hot bullet, grapples to comprehend what has 

happened, stumbles, falls. His death becomes an anthem in which he gathers and bears 

the souls of the other dead soldiers upward to heaven. But their young lives are over, 

their potential unfulfilled, their innocence slaughtered in the name of hatred. This is 

the price of hatred, of mistrust, a price that we should be unwilling to pay. 

Matis’ second poem, “A Mother in the Land of Battle”, has a similar theme and 

motive, only this time a fleeing mother carrying a baby is caught in the cross–fire of 

the two armies. Her child is struck by a bullet. We don’t know from which side. We 

don’t see that either side ever knows that the child has been killed. The Mother kneels 

by the Madonna. Matis names the image of her with her mortally wounded child, 

“Pieta”. Again, the price of hatred. The mother can never forgive. And is she now 

among those who must hate, or will she simply be dissolved by grief? How many 

lives were lost in this single incident? Are these deaths calculated into the cost of war, 

or are they invisible? 

While it is always asumed that Jews are fighting in the armies that represent their 

countries, there are no specific Jews in these poems. Matis was himself too young to 

have fought in either World War I or the battles for Lithuanian Independence. His quest 

is for humanism and understanding. But these two gripping pieces, in Yiddish, are both 

about patently Lithuanian characters who are sanctified by inadvertent sacrifice.


Khaym Yellin’s7 story “Afn dorf” or “In a village” focuses on two old friends 

consoling one another. Nature is an important component in many of Yelin’s stories, 

and here we arrive in the village by way of a road whose beauty draws one to walk 

along it. The scene is summer, there is a drought. It is hot, dry, parched. The heat 

draws the smell of pine and pitch from wooden boats at the river’s edge. At night, the 

Jewish shoemaker Leybe cannot sleep, and sits in his garden. The Lithuanian fisherman 

Jozif shuffles over and they sit together on a fallen tree, observing that trees 

usually become stronger as they age, and men become weaker. The tax laws are 

changing, and assessors will soon arrive to count and evaluate. How will these old 

friends measure up in the new order? Will they be evaluated properly? Will they lose 

out? Should they see this as a threat? Their long friendship and commiseration will 

help them to muddle through. 

This story represents an older population in transition, as observed by a new 

generation of writers, sympathetic to their situation and their efforts to cope in the 

new order of things. Yelin often was able to look beyond the apparent and address 

the feelings of his subjects. 

The writings of Eliezer Heyman8 were copied by hand in the 1960s from old 

newspapers in Lithuania, and published in Israel in 1972 by a surviving writer from 

“Mir aleyn”. This near–miraculous access to his writing helped to suggest the examination 

of social norms in his work. 

Heyman was born in Kavarsk, Lithuania. His family was expelled by the Russian 

Army during World War I, but returned later and settled in Kaunas. This is relevant 

because, although he lived in cities for significant parts of his life, his writing is almost 

invariably set in the countryside, and near the river Shvente. 

His first published story, in 1926 in a Yiddish newspaper, was really a sketch 

about nature. The natural environment with its leaves and seeds is drawn in quiet, 

sensory detail. Every word is carefully chosen and placed. Heyman’s stories often 

have no plot or central action: they are stories of nature, studies of a human dilemma, 

of a person in a pivotal moment in life. Heyman’s knowledge of human nature and 

his interest in writing about the simplest people and the most basic, essential happenings—however 

small, however private—are illuminating. 

One of his stories is about a Jewish girl who works in her family’s store, speaking 

Lithuanian with the customers, and also wistfully wondering who in this tiny 

town will emerge to be her beloved, her future husband. This is a “slice of life” story, 

in which a moment from an ordinary life is examined, no conclusion is reached, and 

the frogs continue to chirp in the night. A second story does involve an action taken, 

by an impatient Lithuanian man. He is angry at his wife and even angrier at God, 

who have not given him children. Effectively blinded by his fury, he so antagonizes 

his wife that she miscarries the child growing inside her. The story is a close study of 

resentment and the agony of a missed opportunity, factors that create a small and 

private hell for this couple. 

Heyman’s world is the land, the plants, the animals, the people—all components 

of an inseparable whole. He finds optimism in the ancient Lithuanian soil: In deepest 

winter the villagers cherish the idea of the tiny heads of rye pushing up under the


185 

blankets of snow. His stories often begin at dawn or dusk, and time passes slowly; 

there are no destinations, no politics, no discernable government; and no time period 

can be determined, except that no one speaks Russian! The language of the stories is 

Yiddish, but Lithuanian words and sentences are transliterated and are organic components 

of the story. There are stories with no Lithuanians, as there are stories with 

no Jews. But every story that involves more than one household involves both Jews 

and Lithuanians. They know one another’s children and great–grandparents. The recognize 

one another’s animals. They all have gardens and they exchange advice about 

them. They address one another as “du”, that is with the familiar pronoun. The Jews 

know the peals of the church bells, so that when, for example, a death is announced 

by the bells, they hurry to find who has passed away so that they may pay their respects. 

Heyman’s submission to Bleter. is “Di letste idn” or “The last Jews”. In it, 

Shleyme, a middle–aged Jew, and Bulyolis, an elderly Lithuanian, discuss the flight of 

the young people from the villages, and what the future will be. It is Bulyolis who 

helps Shleyme acknowledge how things have changed and decide what he should 

do. 

It is difficult to know if Heyman and these other writers were documenting something 

in the countryside that was beginning to disappear in the cities in the 1930s— 

or whether that is my hindsight imposing an agenda that the writers lacked. It seems 

more likely that they chose to ignore the winds that blew fascism from Western Europe 

and complicated their fragile peace: they had all elected to remain in Lithuania 

out of love for the place. Indeed, Neyekh Itsik Gotlib had moved to Canada, but there 

continued to write about Lithuania, including his poem “O Lite land!”, a hymn to the 

landscape and countryside. After the Holocaust, he sat in Canada and wrote a novel 

about a Jewish youth movement in Kaunas in the 1930s. 

Yankev Gotlib foresaw a “third catastrophe”—the first two being the destructions 

of the two Temples in ancient Jerusalem—and this idea of impending doom 

began to shadow his late writing. 

Dovid Mayerovitsh foresaw a fine and good future, that he felt he would miss. 

His poem in the “Bleter”, “Tsu der kumendike sheynkayt”, an ode to the bright future, 

indicates that he felt used up and no longer suited to the task of managing the 

future, yet he saw it coming. He urged people to fight for it, and he willed it to those 

who could appreciate it. 

We will never see the normal resolution of the transitions of the previous Independent 

Lithuania. That rich and promising brew has been spilled out by the Holocaust 

and obliterated by the Soviet occupations. The few Yiddish writers who survived, 

live outside the environments that brought out their first creative expressions. 

What happened to the Jewish population of Lithuania could not have been foreseen 

even by a madman. But as we look back on their history, it is important to make the 

effort to see them accurately, living and working in Lithuanian towns and villages, 

eating the same grains and wearing the same flax as their neighbors. It seems the 

least we can all do as neighbors, and for constructing a future on a realistic reading 

of the past.


REFERENCES 

1 Daniel Charny quoted in Gotlib N. I. Dos idishe shaferishe vort in lite //Lite, ed. 

M. Sudarski and U. Katsenelnbogn. – New York, 1951. 

2 H. Leyvik, quoted by N. I. Gotlib, ibid. 

3 Kaunas, 1938. Printed by Sh. Joselevicaus. Contributors besides those mentioned are 

Yankev Shteynberg, D. V. Mayerovitsh, Yehoshue Latsman, Dovid Umru, Leye Rudnitski, 

Leye Grinshteyn, Ada Kohen, Yankev Yosade. 

4 By Mayer Yelin, about a boy from an abused family; and Dovid Umru, about a young 

woman in a tubercular hospital. 

5 1911–1945. Born in Kaunas; died of typhus in Turkmenistan. 

6 1914–1941. Born in Alita, Lithuania; shot by Germans near Svencion. 

7 1907–1944. Born in Kaunas; either shot by Germans or slit his own wrists before being 

apprehended by Germans. 

8 1908 – July 1944. Born in Kavarsk, near Vilkomir (Ukmerge). Burned along with his wife 

and writings in the liquidation of the Kovne Ghetto. 

Kopsavilkums 

Neatkarîgâs Lietuvas laiks starpkaru posmâ bija sareþgîts periods tur 

dzîvojoðajâm ebreju kopienâm. Ðî çra sâkâs ar ideâlistiskiem priekðstatiem par ebreju 

kopienas autonomiju, un, entuziasma pâròemti, ebreji darbojâs, lai izveidotu savu 

Utopiju Lietuvas sabiedrîbas ietvaros, dodot savu ieguldîjumu valsts saimniecîbâ un 

sabiedriskajâ dzîvç. Savâs kopienâs viòi veidoja laicîgâs un reliìiskâs mâcîbu 

iestâdes, kultûras biedrîbas, sabiedriskâs un palîdzîbas organizâcijas, izcilus preses 

izdevumus jidiðâ un ivritâ, kâ arî organizçja sporta pasâkumus. Politiskâ ziòâ 

nâkamajâs desmitgadçs ebreji no izteiktâ atbalsta lietuviskumam pârgâja pie 

mçìinâjumiem mainît savu ekonomisko situâciju, atjaunot savu vairâk izolçto 

autonomiju vai arî vispâr emigrçt no Lietuvas. Ebreji bija ârkârtîgi aktîva minoritâte 

iekðçjo un starpkopienu pârmaiòu laikâ, jaunajai valstij cînoties ar pârejas perioda 

grûtîbâm. 

Lîdz pat neatkarîgâs Lietuvas galam daïa ebreju turpinâja ticçt vçsturnieka 

Ðimona Dubnova “doikayt” (ðejienîbas”) idejai, kas tiem kâ pilntiesîgiem integrçtâs 

Lietuvas pilsoòiem ïautu saglabât ebreju tradicionâlo dzîves veidu. Viens no ðîs idejas 

atbalstîtâjiem bija advokâts Leibs Garfunkls – ebrejs, Lietuvas Seima deputâts, 

rakstnieks un sabiedriskais darbinieks. 

Jidiðâ rakstîtâ literatûra nereti atspoguïo ðos daþâdos ideâlus, jo rakstnieki centâs 

radît izteikti ebrejisku kultûru, vienlaikus pilnîgi apzinoties lietuvisko vidi, kurâ tie 

dzîvoja. Jauno ebreju rakstnieku vidû, kuri rakstîja par Lietuvu – par tâs dâsnajiem 

laukiem, vçsturi un daþâdajâm kopâ dzîvojoðajâm tautâm, par tâs centieniem atkopties 

pçc ilgajiem okupâcijas gadiem un relatîvâs stagnâcijas – ir jâmin trîs brâïi Gotlîbi, 

Eliezers Heimans, Isroels Kaplans, kâ arî brâïi Maijers un Haims Jelini, kas visi 

dzîvoja un strâdâja Kauòâ.


187 

Ko nozîmçja îpaðâ uzmanîbas pievçrðana divu pasauïu saplûðanai? Kâ tâ 

ietekmçja literâros darbus lasoðos ebrejus, un vai tâ ietekmçja blakus dzîvojoðo 

lietuvieðu vairâkumu? Augðminçto, kâ arî citu autoru atseviðíu darbu jauna 

interpretâcija izgaismo ebreju literatûras mazâk zinâmo nostûri, atklâjot tâdas jûtas, 

kuras uz daudziem gadiem ir apslâpçjusi drausmîgâ vçsture.


MÂKSLA, 188.–193. lpp. 

Daþas paralçles Hermaòa Zûdermaòa un 

Rûdolfa Blaumaòa daiïradç 

A Few Parallels between Hermann Sudermann’s Works 

and the Writings of Rûdolfs Blaumanis 

Ieva Kalniòa (Latvija) 

Latvijas Universitâtes Filoloìijas fakultâtes 

Latvieðu literatûras nodaïa 

Visvalþa iela 4a, Rîga, LV 1011, 

e–pasts: aksella@ latnet.lv 

Vâcu rakstnieks Hermanis Zûdermanis (1857–1928) ir latvieðu rakstnieka Rûdolfa Blaumaòa 

(1863–1908) laikabiedrs. 

Hermaòa Zûdermaòa darbi ir atstâjuði zinâmu iespaidu reâlisma attîstîbâ latvieðu literatûrâ. 

Zûdermaòa lugu iespaids ir jûtams arî Rûdolfa Blaumaòa darbos. 

Rûdolfs Blaumanis labi pazina vâcu dramaturìiju. Lai gan par izcilâko vâcu dramaturgu 

Rûdolfs Blaumanis uzskatîja Gerhartu Hauptmani, viòð tomçr augstu vçrtçja arî Hermaòa 

Zûdermaòa darbus. 

Atslçgvârdi: Zûdermanis, Blaumanis, dramaturìija. 

Latvieðu rakstnieks – noveles un drâmas þanru un reâlisma kâ virziena 

iedibinâtâjs latvieðu literatûrâ – Rûdolfs Blaumanis (1863–1908) un vâcu rakstnieks 

Hermanis Zûdermanis (Hermann Sudermann (1857–1928)) ir laikabiedri un 

dramaturìijâ ienâk gandrîz vienlaikus. 1890. gadâ publicçta H. Zûdermaòa drâma 

“Gods” un R. Blaumaòa komçdija “Zagïi”. 

H. Zûdermanis ir viens no visvairâk tulkotajiem vâcu autoriem latvieðu literatûrâ, 

îpaði populâri lasîtâju vidû ir viòa români: româns “Kaíu laipa” latvieðu valodâ izdots 

piecas reizes. Iznâkuði arî H. Zûdermaòa Kopoti raksti 16 sçjumos. 

19. gadsimta 90. gados H. Zûdermaòa drâmas “Gods” un Aspazijas drâmas 

“Zaudçtas tiesîbas” iestudçjumi Rîgas Latvieðu teâtrî izraisîja vienu no lielâkajâm 

diskusijâm latvieðu kultûras vçsturç, kuru centrâ ir reâlisma attîstîbas un sievietes 

emancipâcijas jautâjumi. 1 

Latvieðu literatûras vçstures pçtîjumos pieminçta arî H. Zûdermaòa darbu ietekme 

reâlisma attîstîbâ latvieðu literatûrâ, îpaði to sociâlkritiskâ ievirze. 2 

Mazâk latvieðu literatûras vçstures pçtîjumos ir skatîtas R. Blaumaòa un 

H. Zûdermaòa daiïrades paralçles, arî vâcu dramaturga lugu ietekme R. Blaumaòa 

darbos. 3 

R. Blaumanis labi pârzinâja sava laika vâcu dramaturìiju un par nozîmîgâko 

personîbu tajâ uzskatîja Gerhartu Hauptmani, bet R. Blaumaòa darbos sastopams arî 

atzinîgs H.Zûdermaòa vçrtçjums: 

“Patieðâm, Zûdermaòam ir viss, kâ îstam dramatiíim vajaga: skaidrs skats priekð 

dramatiskiem pretekïim, dzidrs stils, kas nekur par daudz neizplûst, gars, atjauta un 

tâds ugunîgs spars, kas klausîtâju beztrûcîgi aizraun lîdz.” 4

Ieva Kalniòa. Daþas paralçles Hermaòa Zûdermaòa un Rûdolfa Blaumaòa daiïradç 

189 

Gan R. Blaumaòa, gan H. Zûdermaòa skolotâji drâmas laukâ bija franèu “labi 

taisîto lugu” autori (E. Skribs, V. Sardû, A. Dimâ dçls u.c.). R. Blaumani saista 

H. Zûdermaòa darbu skatuviskums, labi organizçtâ, grodâ dramatiskâ darbîba. Arî 

viòu paðu latvieðu dramaturìijas vçsturç uzskata par labâko drâmas uzbûves meistaru. 

1893. gadâ R. Blaumanis H. Zûdermaòa drâmas “Gods” varoni grâfu Trastu min 

kâ vienu no saviem mîïâkajiem literârajiem varoòiem: 

“Tavi mîïâkie raksturi dzejâ? 

Sidnejs Kartons (Dikensa “Divas pilsçtas”). Hamlets. Grâfs Trasts (Zûdermaòa 

“Gods”).” 5 

H. Zûdermaòa grâfa Trasta galvenâs morâles vçrtîbas ir pienâkuma apziòa, 

cçlsirdîba, goda izjûta. Goda jçdziens ir nozîmîgs R. Blaumaòa drâmâ “Pazuduðais 

dçls” (1893). Savukârt gan personiskajâs attiecîbâs, gan kâ savu lugu personu (vecais 

un jaunais Indrâns, Roplainis, Kristîne u.c.) rakstura îpaðîbu R. Blaumanis augstu 

vçrtçja pienâkuma izjûtu. Dzîvç tâ kavçja viòa rakstnieka darbu, radîja nemitîgu 

spriedzi starp vçlmi rakstît un lauku mâju rentnieka darbu, starp rûpçm par mâti un 

saimi un radoðu brîvîbu, starp aizòemtîbu laikrakstu redakcijâs un iespçju rakstît. 

Grâfam Trastam H. Zûdermaòa lugâ izdodas labâk iemiesot savas krietnâs îpaðîbas, 

kârtojot lugas personu dzîvi nekâ R. Blaumanim attiecîbâs ar citiem cilvçkiem un sevi 

paðu. Grâfa Trasta dzîves un rakstura atveids redzams R. Blaumaòa drâmâ “Potivâra 

nams”(1897). Ar ðo drâmu R. Blaumanis cerçja kïût pazîstams ârpus latvieðu lasîtâju 

un skatîtâju vidus, râdot “modernâs” Eiropas problçmas. 

Lugai “Potivâra nams” ir lîdzîba ar Bîbeles pirmâs Mozus grâmatas stâstu par 

Jâzepu, kuru Çìiptç netaisni apsûdz kunga jaunâs sievas paveðanâ. Lugâ 19. gadsimta 

namâ pavecâ saimnieka jaunâ sieva apvaino vîra audþudçlu Jozefu seksuâlâ uzmâcîbâ. 

R. Blaumanis lugâ ir atteicies no sev ierastâs zemnieku dzîves attçloðanas un 

iedziïinâðanâs cilvçku psiholoìiskajos pârdzîvojumos. Acîmredzot H. Zûdermanis, 

viens no tâ laika ievçrojamâkajiem un modernâkajiem dramaturgiem, viòam bija ceïa 

râdîtâjs gan jaunu tçmu apguvç, gan tçlu izveidç. R. Blaumaòa lugâ darbojas absolûti 

cçls varonis Ringolts, tikpat shematiski konstruçts kâ grâfs Trasts H. Zûdermaòa lugâ. 

Gan grâfs Trasts, gan Ringolds ir pârraduðies dzimtenç ârkârtîgi bagâti no aizokeâna 

zemçm, abi jaunîbâ bijuði uzdzîvotâji, abi cçlsirdîgi rûpçjas par jaunu cilvçku 

materiâlo un sirds labklâjîbu, abi jau pirmajâ dienâ atklâj jaunu, it kâ godîgu, skaistu 

sievieðu dziïo samaitâtîbu, tâs mçìinot pavest, abi filozofç par personîbas brîvîbu, 

lugu beigâs abi atstâj dzimteni. Ringolta tçls ir grâfa Trasta tçla atdarinâjums, 

R. Blaumanis ðo paòçmienu izmanto, lai tuvinâtos sava laika vâcu literatûrai, lai viòa 

darbi kïûtu lîdzîgâki Eiropas dramaturìijai. Abi tçli ir arî modifikâcijas gadsimta mijâ 

populârajam Fr. Nîèes stiprâs gribas cilvçka – pârcilvçka – tçlam. 

1898. gadâ R. Blaumanis publicç vienu no savâm ievçrojamâkajâm novelçm 

“Purva bridçjs”, þurnâla “Mâjas Viesa Mçneðraksts” stâstu konkursâ tâ bija ieguvusi 

pirmo vietu. Noveli bija izlasîjis arî Rainis, un viòð vçstulç “Mâjas Viesa 

Mçneðraksta” redaktoram P. Zâlîtim (vçstule nav saglabâjusies) aizrâdîja, ka 

R. Blaumanis galvenos tçlus – Edgaru un Kristîni – aizguvis no H. Zûdermaòa lugas 

“Laime nomalç” (“Das Glück im Winkel”). R. Blaumanis pçc Raiòa vçstules 

izlasîðanas raksta atbildi, kurâ uzsver: “Ðis Pçteris (Edgara prototips) ir viens no tiem 

cilvçkiem, kuri man dzîvç vismîïâki bijuði. Tik dzîvi, cik spçdams, es viòu aprakstîju


un par pateicîbu no kritiía dabûju dzirdçt, ka ðî figûra aizòemta no Zûdermaòa “Weh 

dir, dass du ein Kleinerer bist resp. Enkel, jo “Glück im Winkel” laikam kâdus gadus 

agrâk iznâcis nekâ “Purva bridçjs”. Es tieðâm nezinâju, kur Elizabete un Reknics (vai 

kâ to kungu sauc) atronami, un to dabûju tikai no Zâlîða kundzes zinât. Luga guï tagad 

jau ilgâku laiku uz mana galda, bet vçl neesmu paspçjis to izlasît un nezinu tâdçï arî, 

ciktâï Jûsu pârmetums bûtu dibinâts, ja es arî jau iepriekð bûtu lasîjis.” 6 

Protams, ir neiespçjami pierâdît abas versijas – R. Blaumanis bija vai nebija lugu 

lasîjis, mçs varam tikai salîdzinât abus tekstus un meklçt paralçles tajos. 

H. Zûdermaòa drâma “Glück im Winkel” publicçta vâcu valodâ 1896. gadâ, 

latviski tâ tulkota kâ “Laime kaktâ”, “Laima nomalâ”, “Laime nomalç”. Baltijâ tâ 

pirmo reizi vâcu valodâ uzvesta Rîgas Vâcu teâtrî 1896. gada 27. janvârî, latvieðu 

valodâ 8. decembrî Arkâdijas dârzâ, bet Rîgas Latvieðu teâtrî 1898. gada 25. 

novembrî. Pçc lugas pirmizrâdes Rîgas Latvieðu teâtrî (R. Blaumanis par to publicç 

arî recenziju) 7 viòð raksta vçstuli Rainim, kurâ vçlreiz atgrieþas pie ietekmju 

jautâjuma novelç “Purva bridçjs”: ”Izlasot “Glück im Winkel”, biju pârsteigts, cik 

lîdzîgs tur viens skats mançjam – vai otrâdi. Bet ko Jûs bûtu teikuði, ja Kristînes vârdâ 

bûtu licis Elîze? Tâ biju ðo dâmu papriekðu nokristîjis. Taèu tas lûgðanâs vairs 

nelîdzçtu? Ir reizçm tâdi atgadîjumi, kuri piespieþ neticçt. Ar varu.” 8 

R. Blaumanis konkrçti nenorâda skatu, ko viòð uzskata par lîdzîgu, bet varam 

uzskatît, ka tas ir skats, ko R. Blaumanis vienîgo kâ pieminçðanas vçrtu apraksta 

recenzijâ par lugas “Laima nomalâ” izrâdi un kam ir attâla lîdzîba ar R. Blaumaòa 

noveles situâciju. H. Zûdermaòa drâmas galvenâ varone ir Elizabete, spçcîga rakstura, 

jauna, skaista, lepna sieviete, audþumâte trim bçrniem, neievçrojama skolotâja sieva, 

kas pirms trim gadiem pçkðòi apprecçjusi skolotâju un atstâjusi brîvkunga fon 

Reknica, arî savas draudzenes vîra, mâju. Tagad viòas pieticîgo laimi trûcîgâ miteklî 

ieradies traucçt Reknics, kas joprojâm mîl Elizabeti un vçlas, lai viòa dzîvotu 

brîvkunga tuvumâ. Vakarâ abu kaislîba uzliesmo ar jaunu spçku, un Elizabete pirmo 

reizi pasaka, ka viòa mîl Reknicu. Abu izskaidroðanâs ir vienîgais îsti spçcîgais un 

dramaturìiski izstrâdâtais skats lugâ. Arî novelç “Purva bridçjs” ir lîdzîgs skats – 

noveles galvenâ varone Kristîne, muiþas istabmeita, barona kambarî pretçji prâta 

apsvçrumiem atzîstas staïïa puisim Edgaram, ka viòa to mîl. Pirmo reizi viòi tik ïoti 

viens otru alkst un atklâti atzîst, ka viens otru mîl. Ðî epizode ir viòu jûtu atklâtâkais 

un augstâkais kulminâcijas punkts darbâ. Atðíirîgs ir abu tekstu personu attiecîbu 

turpinâjums – H. Zûdermaòa varone pçc smagiem pârdzîvojumiem spçj novçrtçt kakta 

laimi un atgrieþas pie vîra, bet R. Blaumaòa Kristînei tieði ðis kaisles un mîlas mirklis 

liks palikt kopâ ar Edgaru. 

Recenzijâ R. Blaumanis uzsver, ka viòð netic H. Zûdermaòa darba nobeigumam: 

“Tâdi kaislîbu viïòi, kâdus mçs otrâ cçlienâ redzam, noslîcinot visus prâta un 

konvencijas celtos likumus, tie neliksies apsaukties no Viedemaòa frâzçm “Ilgas 

iemigs…vçlçðanâs apklusîs, mums visiem jâatsakâs, jâpiekâpjas…Ej gulçt, bçrns!” 

Bûtu viòð vçl sacîjis “Nâc gulçt, bçrns”…” 9 

H. Zûdermaòa Reknicu R. Blaumanis nosauc par baudu cilvçku, kam piemît 

dçmonisks pievilkðanas spçks, lîdzîgi mçs varam dçvçt arî Edgaru, taèu atðíirîbâ no 

Reknica Edgars Kristîni uzskata par brîvu personîbu, bet Reknics Elizabeti – par lietu. 

Savukârt Elizabeti ar Kristîni vieno intravertais cilvçka tips, abas ir noslçgtas un


191 

lepnas. R. Blaumaòa darbos noslçgtie sievieðu raksturi, kas slçpj no cilvçku acîm 

savus pârdzîvojumus, ir sastopami jau no viòa pirmajiem darbiem (Lîze stâstâ 

“Nezâle”, Raudupiete novelç “Raudupiete”, Ilze drâmâ “Pazuduðais dçls” u.c.), 

Kristînes tçls nav radies tieðâ H. Zûdermaòa Elizabetes ietekmç. 

H. Zûdermaòa klâtbûtne R. Blaumaòa novelç un lugâ ir jûtama, bet te nav tieðu 

atdarinâjumu vai aizguvumu, drîzâk ir redzama divu rakstnieku netieða polemika par jûtu 

spçku. H. Zûdermanis vâcu konservatîvajâ literatûrâ râdîja tradicionâlo morâli ignorçjoðo 

baudu cilvçku, kas nespçj gût uzvaru pâr nomales laimi, bet R. Blaumaòa novele “Purva 

bridçjs” un drâma “Ugunî” ir pirmie darbi latvieðu nedaudz didaktiskajâ literatûrâ, kurâ 

godîga, jauna, skaista sieviete iemîl netikumîgu dzîves baudîtâju, kur tradicionâlâ vidç 

parâdîts, ka nav prâta vai morâles þogu, kam jûtas netiktu pâri. 

H. Zûdermaòa daiïradei ir nozîme un ietekme latvieðu literatûrâ, arî R. Blaumaòa 

darbos, kâ ierosmes avotam daþâdu ierobeþojumu atcelðanai, kâ jaunu tçmu, tçlu 

ierosinâtâjam. 

1889. gadâ sarakstîtajâ A. Strindberga drâmâ “Jûlijas jaunkundze” (“Froken 

Julie”) darbîba noris Jâòu naktî, 1900. gadâ H. Zûdermanis uzraksta drâmu “Jâòu 

ugunis” (“Johanisfeuer”), 1904. gadâ R. Blaumanis sacer komçdiju “Skroderdienas 

Silmaèos”, kuru darbîba risinâs Jâòu laikâ. Laika izvçlç visu trîs autoru darbos 

vçrojama tipoloìiska lîdzîba – viòu darbos pagâniskie vasaras saulgrieþi atmodina 

modernajâ cilvçkâ jûtas un kaislîbas. Ðajâ laikâ mitoloìijas pçtniecîbâ izveidojas 

antropoloìiskâ skola, kuras pârstâvis Edvards Tailors uzsver, ka starp primitîvo 

sabiedrîbu cilvçka un modernâ eiropieða domâðanu nav nepârvaramu ðíçrðïu, arî tâ 

domâðanâ vçrojamas aizgâjuðo laiku “paliekas”. Savukârt gadsimta mijâ dramaturìijâ 

(H. Ibsens, A. Strindbergs, A. Èehovs u.c.) pieauga interese par disharmoniju cilvçka 

personîbâ, par viòâ apspiestajiem instinktiem, cerîbâm un vçlmçm, kas neïauj veidot 

harmoniskas attiecîbas tagadnç. Folkloras tradîcijâ vasaras saulgrieþi – Jâòi – ir gan 

kâ Eiropas pagâtnes liecîba, gan kâ pagrieziena punkts, grieþi dabâ, kur haosa un 

kosmosa spçki ir lîdzvçrtîgi un kur tikai no cilvçkiem – rituâla dalîbniekiem – ir atkarîgs, 

vai Saule atgûs savu harmonisko gaitu. 

Vasaras saulgrieþu tçlojuma veidu A. Strindberga, H. Zûdermaòa un R. Blaumaòa 

lugâs nosaka, protams, arî apstâklis, ka divas no lugâm ir drâmas, viena – komçdija, 

bet visi trîs autori ar ðîm lugâm pârstâv naturâlismu un reâlismu, un visas trîs lugas 

skatuviskajâs interpretâcijâs vairs netiek saistîtas ar noteiktu literâro tradîciju. Kas ir 

Jâòi katram no autoriem? 

A.Strindberga drâmas “Jûlijas jaunkundze” remarkâ teikts, ka “pavards bçrzu 

meijâm rotâts, grîda paegïu zariòiem nokaisîta”; 10 to, ka ir Jâòu vakars, piemin Þans, 

viens no trim varoòiem, mâjas sulainis, trîsdesmit gadus vecs vîrietis, kad viòð runâ 

par Jûlijas jaunkundzi: 

“Jocîgi tomçr, vai ne, ka jaunkundze… hm…Jâòu vakarâ labâk paliek mâjâs kopâ 

ar ïaudîm un nebrauc tçvam lîdzi pie radiem!” 11 

Kungu mâjâ netâlu no Malmes Jâòi ir ieguvuði civilizçtu formu – viesoðanos, 

mâjas rotâðanu, bet svçtkus atseviðíi svin kungi un kalpi. Lugâ ir spilgts pretstats: 

mçs – kungu mâjas iemîtnieki, un viòi – ïaudis. Ïaudîm pagâniskâs Jâòu tradîcijas ir 

vçl dzîvas – tie dejo, dzied, dzer, izsmej, priecâjas, bet pils iemîtnieki Jâòu tradîcijâs 

saskata rupjîbu un prastumu, zemnieku svçtki ir vide, kur var neievçrot tradicionâlâs


morâles normas. Jûlija, apgalvojot, ka “Ðovakar mçs svinam svçtkus un lîksmojamies, 

visi ïaudis kopâ un visi rangi atmesti pie malas!” 12 , cenðas pieklâjîgâ veidâ aizsegt 

vçlmi iegût un pakïaut vîrieti. Daþâdo Jâòu nakts tradîciju pieminçjums Þana mutç 

(viòð nâk no ïaudîm un tâs zina) ir tikai erotiskas un materiâlas rotaïas daïa: 

“Jâòu naktî jâguï uz deviòâm Jâòu zâlçm, tad sapòi piepildâs.” 13 

A. Strindberga civilizçtajâ sabiedrîbâ (aristokrâtijas vai burþuâzijas) Jâòi attîsta 

tikai cilvçka slçptos instinktus un vçlmes, atraisîtais destruktîvisms iznîcina Jûlijas 

jaunkundzi, vârdu savienojumâ ‘vasaras saulgrieþi‘ akcentçts grieþu motîvs. 

H. Zûdermaòa lugâ “Jâòu ugunis” darbîba noris vâcbaltieðu vidç Mazajâ Lietuvâ 

(lietuviskajâ Prûsijâ). Jâòu vakarâ arî te lîdzîgi kâ A.Strindbergam parâdîta opozîcija 

– mçs un viòi; “mçs” ir vâcbaltieði, bet “viòi” – leiði. Viena no lugas varonçm saka: 

“Mums jau ðovakar ir Jâòu vakars. Ïaudis nodedzina divas darvas muèeles, un 

mçs dzeram vîna boli.” 14 

Mçs – vâcbaltieði – pat spçjam pasmieties kopâ ar mâcîtâju par tradîcijas pagânismu, 

kas jau kïuvis tik civilizçts, ka vienîgais uztraukums ir, lai viòi – lietuvieði – 

nenodedzinâtu kâdu ðíûnîti. Bet arî H. Zûdermanis parâda, ka kultûras cilvçkâ slçpjas 

aizgâjuðo laiku dzirksteles: 

“..kâda dzirkstelîte pagânîbas kvçlo iekð mums visiem. Iz sirmas senatnes jau tâ 

ir pârlaiduse gadu tûkstoðus. Vienreiz gadâ tâ spilgti uzliesmo un tad to dçvç par – 

Jâòa ugunîm. (..) tanî pamostas mûsu sirdîs kaislâs vçlçðanâs, kuras dzîve nepiepildîja 

un – saprotat labi – nedrîkstçja piepildîties (..) Vienreiz gadâ ir burvju nakts, un kas 

tanî liesmo, vai zinât, kas tas ir? Tie ir mûsu nobendçto vçlçðanu mâþi, tie ir sarkani 

spârnotie paradîzes putni, kurus mçs drîkstçjâm lolot varbût veselu mûþu un kuri 

mums aizlidojuði, – tâ ir veca pirmviela, tâ ir – pagânîba iekð mums.” 15 

Lugâ galvenâs personas – Georgs un Marika – Jâòu naktî vienîgo reizi atzîstas 

mîlestîbâ un kaislîgi mîl viens otru; abi labi apzinâs, ka viòu mîla ir grçcîga, bet atteikties 

no tâs Jâòu naktî nav ne vçlçðanâs, ne gribas, pirmatnçjie instinkti ir uzvarçjuði. Atðíirîbâ 

no A. Strindberga drâmas “Jûlijas jaunkundze” personâm Georgs un Marika Jâòu rîtâ 

spçj atbrîvoties no kaislîbas varas, vîrietis dodas ìimenes akceptçtâ laulîbâ, viòâ uzvarçjis 

ir modernais cilvçks, Marika dosies prom no dzimtâs mâjas, viòas dzîves labklâjîba ir 

iznîcinâta. Arî H. Zûdermanim Jâòi ir skaists, bet destruktîvs spçks. 

R. Blaumaòa komçdijâ “Skroderdienas Silmaèos” Jâòu tradîcijai ir pakïautas visas 

personas, te nav opozîcija “mçs” un “viòi”. Arî R. Blaumaòa lugâ Jâòi atraisa cilvçkus, 

spieþ tiem atklât savas patiesâs jûtas, bet Jâòi nav destruktîvs, personîbu sagraujoðs spçks. 

Tâpat kâ saule Jâòu rîtâ atjauno savu harmonisko tecçjumu, R. Blaumaòa lugâ 

atðíirîbâ no A. Strindberga un H. Zûdermaòa darbiem arî cilvçku dzîvç iestâjas miers 

un saderîba. R.Blaumaòa skatîjumâ pagâniskâ tradîcija nav naidîga modernajam 

cilvçkam, viòa personas neizjût pretstatu starp mîtisko tradîciju un kristîgo vai 

moderno pasauli, tâs nedzîvo ârpus tradîcijas. 20. gadsimta sâkumâ ne tikai 

R. Blaumaòa darbos, bet arî kopumâ latvieðu literatûrâ netiek akcentçts pretstats: 

kultûras cilvçks / dabas cilvçks. 

H. Zûdermaòa un R. Blaumaòa lugâs lîdzâs cilvçku jûtu un kaislîbu kulminâcijai 

arî daba ir auglîbas pilnbriedâ, cilvçku un dabas dzîve rit paralçli. A. Strindberga 

drâmâ “Jûlijas jaunkundze” dabai nav nekâdas nozîmes. Iespçjams, ka tieði tâ abu


193 

autoru darbos parâdâs baltiskâ pieredze. R.Blaumanis dzimis un daïu mûþa pavadîjis 

Çrgïos, Vidzemç, kur salîdzinâjumâ ar citiem Latvijas novadiem Jâòu tradîcijas vçl 

20. gadsimta sâkumâ bija organiska tautas dzîves daïa un Jâòi – lielâkie kalendârie 

svçtki. H. Zûdermanis dzimis Macikaî (Matziken) Ðilutes rajonâ (Kr. Heidekrug), kur 

lietuvieði 19./20. gadsimta mijâ bija saglabâjuði senâs ieraþas un tradicionâlo 

kultûrvidi. Latvieðu un lietuvieðu Jâòu tradîcijâ ïoti spçcîga 20. gadsimta sâkumâ vçl 

bija auglîbas maìijas manifestâcija visdaþâdâkajâs formâs. 

H. Zûdermaòa un R. Blaumaòa daiïradi skatot, redzami gan atdarinâjumi, 

ietekmes, gan tipoloìiskas lîdzîbas. 19./20.gadsimta mijâ latvieðu literatûra atradâs 

cieðâ mijiedarbç ar Rietumeiropas, it îpaði vâcu, literatûras procesiem un tendencçm, 

kâ arî atseviðíu autoru daiïradi. Ðajâ laikâ ir vçl iespçjams saskatît un sameklçt tieðas 

kâdu Rietumeiropas autoru ietekmes latvieðu autoru darbos, 20. gadsimta gaitâ ðie 

procesi kïûs arvien sareþìîtâki gan daþâdu tautu literatûras tekstu mijiedarbç, gan 

literatûras salîdzinoðâ pçtniecîbâ. 

ATSAUCES 

1 Sk.: Polemika par Zudermaòa lugu “Gods” un Aspazijas lugu “Zaudçtas tiesîbas” // 

Latvieðu literatûras kritika. Rakstu kopojums. – R., 1956, 405.–561. lpp. 

2 Piem.: Vecgrâvis V. Latvieðu literatûra no 1809. lîdz 1905.gadam //Latvieðu literatûras 

vçsture, 3 sçj. – R., 1998, 1. sçj., 190. lpp. 

3 Sk.: Volkova L. Tapðana. – R., 1998, 169.–171. lpp. 

4 Blaumanis R. Latvieðu teâtrî //Blaumanis R. Kopoti raksti. 8 sçj. – R., 1959, 7. sçj., 97.– 98. lpp. 

5 R. Blaumaòa paðraksturojums. – Turpat, 79. lpp. 

6 R. Blaumaòa vçstule Rainim 1898. gada 3. septembrî. – Turpat, 367. lpp. 

7 Blaumanis R. Latvieðu teâtrî. – Turpat, 97./ 101. lpp. 

8 R. Blaumaòa vçstule Rainim 1899. gada 3. janvârî. – Turpat, 374. lpp. 

9 Blaumanis R. Latvieðu teâtrî. – Turpat, 100. lpp. 

10 Strindbergs A. Jûlijas jaunkundze //Strindbergs A. Jûlijas jaunkundze. Kreditori. – 

R., 1995, 15. lpp. 

11 Turpat, 16. lpp. 



14 Zudermanis H. Jâòu ugunis (Johannisfeuer.). – Cçsis, 1905, 41. lpp. 


Summary 

Rûdolfs Blaumanis (1863–1908) is a Latvian writer. German writer Hermann 

Sudermann (1857–1928) is his contemporary. 

Hermann Sudermann’s works exerted influence on the development of realism in 

Latvian literature. His plays had an impact on Rûdolfs Blaumanis’ writings. 

Rûdolfs Blaumanis was well acquainted with German drama. Although 

Blaumanis considered Gerhart Hauptmann to be the most outstanding German playwright, 

he also valued Hermann Zudermann very highly.


MÂKSLA, 194.–198. lpp. 

Morphosyntactic Features of English and Latvian 

Linguistic Structures that Serve Politeness Function 

Pieklâjîbas formu izteikðanai angïu un latvieðu valodâ 

lietoto lingvistisko struktûru morfosinaktiskâs îpaðîbas 

Linda Apse (Latvija) 


Visvalþa iela 4a, Riga, LV 1050, Latvia 

e–mail: linda_apse@hotmail.com 

Sociolinguistic and related investigations have proved that usage of expressions of courtesy in 

any language is not only mirroring of the corresponding culture but also a cognitive process 

that is independent of the surrounding world. According to principles of Chomski’s universal 

grammar (UG) it follows that morphosyntactic features of expressions of courtesy are similar 

in different languages, i.e., they are universal. This work investigates the structure of courtesy 

phrases both in English and in Latvian. 

Keywords: face threatening, face saving, impersonalisation, nominalization. 

Current research in sociolinguistics and related disciplines suggests that politeness 

is universal not only from the cultural viewpoint, but also from cognitively since 

humans seem to be cognitively predisposed to use certain language patterns that serve 

politeness function. This paper presents a comparative study of morphosyntactic patterns 

and, to a certain extent, lexis used in politeness formulas in English and Latvian. 

Brown and Levinson 1 in their extensive study on language pragmatics claim there is 

universality not only at the level of social behavioural patterns but also at the level of 

morphosyntax. Indeed this claim is only logical and once again views language and 

cognitive patterns in some systematic correspondence. This paper aims to demonstrate 

that English and Latvian share the same morphosyntactic patterns to serve politeness 

function and specify the principal linguistic features of the respective patterns. The 

study is aimed at giving an insight in impersonal structures and nominalization which 

are the two principal face saving strategies explicated in Brown and Levinson’s 2 

cross–linguistic investigation. 

1. Impersonalisation of the Speaker and/or Addressee 

In a face threatening speech act (FTSA) 3 where the Speaker doesn’t want to 

overtly attack the Addressee, the Speaker may choose to use language structures that 

impersonalise either the Speaker alone or both the Speaker and the Addressee. This 

strategy implies using forms indicating that the agent is other than the Speaker, or not 

overtly stating it is the Speaker or implying it is a group of people rather than the 

Speaker alone. Regarding the Addressee, the impersonalisation strategy allows to 

imply that the Addressee is not alone but part of a group thus scaling down the emphasis 

put on the Addressee. Impersonalisation also allows one to assume the Addressee 

might be other than the respective Addressee. All the above mentioned strategies 

serve to hide the Speaker and create an ‘armour’ for the Addressee.

Linda Apse. Pieklâjîbas formu izteikðanai angïu un latvieðu valodâ lietoto lingvistisko .. 

195 

I will demonstrate how impersonalisation is rendered through imperatives, impersonal 

verbs and modals, passive constructions and impersonal or deleted pronouns 

as these linguistic forms are believed to be the principal linguistic structures where 

impersonalisation occurs for the reason of moderating a FTSA. 

1.1. Imperatives 

Commands, commonly verbalized by imperatives, no doubt are the most straightforward 

FTSAs. It should be stated at the outset that in imperatives the Speaker is 

not linguistically present at all and thus all strategies to save the face concern the 

Addressee only. 

Commands are face threatening intrinsically and are realized by a very peculiar 

linguistic form, namely, the subject that normally is the agent, in imperative structures 

becomes the potential agent. Thus the argument structure of imperatives is, if 

not morphosyntactically, then semantically a bit awkward. Be it for this reason or 

other there is compelling evidence that in many languages imperative forms do not 

contain the second person pronoun, i.e. the addressee, and it remains to be implied. 

The following are imperative forms in English and Latvian: 

(1) Bring it now! Atnes tûlît! 

(2) You bring it now! Tu atnes tûlît! 

Both in English and Latvian, it is still possible to mark the addressee explicitly 

as illustrated in (2) but such form of a command is regarded as extremely rude as 

instead of hiding the Addressee it is disclosed and thus goes against the above mentioned 

face saving strategies. It can be further hypothesized that in English where the 

verb has a zero inflection both for the plural and singular second person the Addressee 

cannot be readily labelled as one particular person since it may well be a group. In 

Latvian the verb inflections encode the number leaving the Latvian imperative more 

face threatening than its English counterpart. 

(3) (Tu) atnes tûlît! (2nd , sing) (Jûs) atnesiet tûlît! (2nd , pl) 

Brown and Levinson claim that in a great many inflected languages the imperative 

inflection does not encode person while other inflections do. It can be thus concluded 

that the imperative being one of the most face threatening language structures 

has certain linguistic features that help to save face. 

1.2. Impersonal verbs 

In many languages, in intrinsically face threatening speech acts, certain verb 

forms are impersonalised. Both in English and Latvian verbs that normally take dative 

agents, in potentially face threatening speech forms the dative agent is normally 

deleted: 

(4) It appears (to me) that…. (Man) ðíiet, ka… 

It seems (to me) that … (Man) liekas, ka … 

It looks (to me) that…. (Man) izskatâs, ka…


Omission of the agent makes the statement less aggressive because the Agent, 

the Speaker, remains to be implied and, if implied, it can be either one person (me) or 

a group (us). The dative agent affects the verb morphology neither in Latvian nor 

English. As before, the strategy of not defining the number of agents is typical of face 

saving. 

In many languages with dative–agent deletion the verbs taking such agents are 

intrinsically face–threatening. Modals of obligation, sometimes referred to as ‘impersonal 

modals’ 1 , are central in this group. In the languages where verbs take oblique– 

case agents, such verbs normally include modals of obligation. 

To illustrate, in Latvian verbs with the meaning of obligation take dative agents 

can be either deleted or retained. Such verbs also do not have an inflection that encodes 

either person or number. 

(5) (Man) jâiet. (I) ought to go. 

In English the agent is nominative but it still can be deleted in informal register. 

(6) Ought to go. 

1.3. Passive voice 

The passive voice is an excellent means of avoiding reference to persons involved 

in FTSAs. While it is true that the passive voice has another function – topicalisation, 

Brown and Levinson claim that passive is first of all means of impersonalisation and 

serves basic politeness needs. Both in English and Latvian the passive voice may be 

used to remove direct reference to the Speaker, as in 

(7) Certain things will be changed. Daþas lietas tiks mainîtas. 

(I/we will change certain things). (Es/ mçs mainîðu/sim daþas lietas). 

or to remove direct reference to the Addressee, as in 

(8) If it can be done. Ja to var izdarît. 

(If you can do it). (Ja tu to vari izdarît). 

Latvian is among those few languages 5 that have obligatory deletion of the demoted 

subject in the sense that it is impossible to verbalize the doer by a complement 

as it is in English. 

(9) The newspaper was brought (by the postman). 

Avîze tika atnesta. 

It may be hypothesized that the passives in Latvian and other languages that have 

only the option of agentless passives, among them classical Arabic and Hungarian, 

are morphosyntactically radical. I suspect this is one of the reasons why passives in 

Latvian are markedly less frequent than in English.

Linda Apse. Pieklâjîbas formu izteikðanai angïu un latvieðu valodâ lietoto lingvistisko .. 

1.4. Replacement and deletion of pronouns 

197 

In potential face threatening situations both in English and Latvian personal pronouns 

can be replaced by impersonal pronouns. 

(10) Someone has eaten all chocolate. Kâds ir apçdis visu ðokolâdi. 

instead of 

You have eaten all chocolate. Tu esi apçdis visu ðokolâdi. 

Even if the context is such that there is only one potential Addressee, the impersonal 

constructions are no doubt more moderate and thus more polite and face saving. 

It is often claimed by applied grammarians that structures with impersonal pronouns 

should be substituted by passives and instead of saying ‘Someone has eaten all 

chocolate’ one should say ‘All chocolate has been eaten’ because the agent is not 

known anyway. The above examples and context the impersonal pronoun is a face 

saving device rather than an agentless statement. But if to compare both, by all means 

an agentless passive is more moderate than a construction with an impersonal pronoun. 

In Latvian verbs expressing obligation take a dative agent which can be omitted. 

In English, however, such verbs can take an impersonal agent ‘one’ rather than a 

personal pronoun. 

(11) One shouldn’t do things like that. 

instead of 

You shouldn’t do things like that. 

Not only modals of obligation can be face threatening. The modal of probability 

‘might’ can be face threatening in certain contexts too and thus it tends to take an 

impersonal pronoun in English whereas in Latvian the nominative agent is deleted. 

(12) One might think this is totally wrong. 

Varçtu padomât, ka tas ir pilnîgi nepareizi. 

instead of 

I might think this is totally wrong. 

(Es) varçtu padomât, ka tas ir pilnîgi nepareizi. 

2. Nominalisation 

It is a well–accepted claim now that syntax is a continuum from verb through 

adjective to noun instead of sharply cut categories of the verb, adjective and noun. 

This continuum, also called ‘category squish’, can be observed with clauses where a 

certain concept is expressed by a verb, gerund and noun: 

(13) a. You performed well on the examinations and we are favourably impressed. 

b. Your performing well on the examinations impressed us favourably. 

c. Your good performance on the examinations impressed us favourably. 6


In the set we can observe a certain gradation of formality. The observation is 

that the (c) clause with a noun ‘performance’ is more formal than both (a) and (b) 

while (b) containing a nominalised verb, a gerund ‘performing’, is still more formal 

than (a) containing a verb ‘performed’. The category of verb seems to be more moderate 

in this sense than the noun and thus less face threatening. The same can be 

said about Latvian except for the fact that in Latvian there is are no two distinct forms 

for the gerund in (b) and the noun in (c) and the set would be reduced to two entries. 

It is interesting to note that both in Latvian and English not only subjects and 

predicates have gradation of formality corresponding to word categories but also 

complements. 

(14) a. I am surprised that you failed to reply. 

b. I am surprised at your failing to reply. 

c. I am surprised at your failure to reply. 6 

The complements here demonstrate the same pattern of formality, namely the 

more nouniness the more formality and, as earlier, Latvian is the same in this respect. 

Morphosyntactic features in English and Latvian linguistic forms that serve politeness 

function demonstrate strong similarities and this supports the claim that 

morphosyntactic features of politeness forms are universal. 

REFERENCES 

1 Brown P., Levinson S. Universals in language use: Politeness phenomena. // Questions 

and Politeness, ed. by Esther N.Goody. CUP, 1978. 

2 Ibid. 

3 I will follow Brown and Levinson’ s definition of a Face Threatening Speech Act who 

write they are “acts that threaten the positive–face want, by indicating (potentially) that 

the speaker does not care about the addressee’ s feelings, wants etc.” (ibid) Face saving is 

a converse action in which the Speaker shows respect for the Addressee’ s feelings be it 

a genuine respect or often just a social convention requiring to behave in a certain way. 

4 Ibid. 

5 Ibid, p. 279. 

6 Ibid. 

Kopavilkums 

Sociolingvistiski un ar to saistîtu akadçmisko disciplînu pçtîjumi ir pierâdîjuði, 

ka pieklâjîbas frâþu lietoðana valodâ ir ne tikai attiecîgâs kultûras normu 

atspoguïojums, bet arî kognitîvs process, kas nav atkarîgs no vides. Pçc Èomska 

universâlâs gramatikas (UG) parametriem izriet, ka tâdçjâdi arî ðâdu pieklâjîbas frâþu 

morfosintaktiskâs îpaðîbas ir universâlas, t.i., vienâdas visâs valodâs. Ðis pçtîjums 

analizç pieklâjîbas frâþu struktûru latvieðu un angïu valodâ.


MÂKSLA, 199.–204. lpp. 

Rethinking Jane Austen’s Persuasion: 

A Novel of Its Time 

Pârdomâjot Dþeinas Ostinas darbu 

“Pârliecîba”: sava laika româns 

Katri Sirkel (Estonia) 

e–mail: kitifk@lanet.lv 

The current paper places Jane Austen’s last completed novel Persuasion in the social and political 

context of the early nineteenth century England and shows that Persuasion can be read not 

only as a romance but also as a condition–of–England novel. In Persuasion Austen draws parallels 

between the management of a country estate and the governing of the country, revealing the 

inadequacy of the system of inheritance in both cases. Austen seems to challenge the convention 

of patrilineal succession. She also criticizes the snobbery of the nobility and questions its 

suitability to govern an estate. Persuasion reflects the social mobility that characterized the early 

19 th century society and the values of both the aristocracy and the middle class. 

Keywords: Jane Austen, Persuasion. 

Jane Austen is not usually considered to be a writer of her time, and her novels 

have hardly been a source for readers to learn about the social and historical context 

her works were written in. Austen’s novels spin a familiar web of romantic relationships 

wherein heroine goes through a test of judgement in order to get the husband 

she deserves. Austen’s characters enjoy the small world of the gentry, which is seldom 

penetrated by the troubles beyond that. Austen does not introduce politics into 

her novels nor the topic of war, which was so current at that time. However, we cannot 

ignore the references in her novels, which reveal that Austen was a keen observer 

of her time. The Regency Crisis and threats to security and stability coming from 

overseas made people to estimate their country’s situation from new perspectives. 

Though the country was not subject to radical changes, the events on the Continent 

gave rise to apprehension and brought up novel debates about the future of Britain. 

Persuasion is Jane Austen’s last completed novel, and it offers a somewhat different 

perspective for reading the novel as an account of the sentiments the gentry 

shared during the monarchic crisis, in the aftermath of the Napoleonic Wars, and in 

the light of the social changes that started to influence the well–established social 

hierarchy. Those who had considered the clear–cut distinction between the social 

strata self–evident had to acknowledge now the first newcomers from the middle 

classes among them. The men of considerable achievements in law, medicine, business 

or military service had made their way up in society, and they did not want to be 

denied the position they had truly earned. The Regency Crisis and the shifts in the 

hierarchical system of the society where boundaries between the classes became more 

flexible seem to have given Austen inspiration for her last novel. The issues that revolve 

around the inheritance of Kellynch Hall and the navy officers who are supposed 

to replace the corrupt and arrogant nobility have a lot in common with the problems 

of the early nineteenth century England. The questions concerning both the governing 

of the state and country estate seem to run parallel.


The Regency Crisis, which forms an important historical background for Persuasion, 

caused much confusion and heated debates on the question that should rule the country. 

In 1811, the illness of King George III led to a serious constitutional crisis in Britain. 

Already in 1788, the King had suffered a serious bout of insanity, which 23 years later 

resulted in his permanent incapacity. Fears about the security and stability of the country 

were also increased by the events across the English Channel, which became even more 

threatening in the light of the domestic troubles. The weakness of the state could have 

encouraged foreign invasion at any time. The ailing King and the Regent, the future 

George IV, were unable to guarantee the stability and order the kingdom needed. 

In connection with all–out dissatisfaction with the Prince Regent’s policy, the 

question of efficient management of a country estate arose. It became very characteristic 

of the period to draw parallels between the government of the state and an estate 

or a house. 1 The estate was seen offering commentaries on the government of the state 

and vice versa. According to Anne Elliot in Persuasion, each house is a “little social 

commonwealth” on its own where the welfare and happiness of its inhabitants depend 

on the management of the estate. 2 The country estate was like a small state to be 

governed according to similar principles as the state itself. In Persuasion, Kellynch 

Hall is a country estate on the verge of troubles caused by its inner weakness like the 

state itself during the Regency Crisis. 

The reasons for raising the issue of patrilineal descent in the novel lie in this uncertain 

and precarious period of British history. The problem of succession in Persuasion 

seems to be tightly connected with the political situation in England at that time. According 

to the laws of succession, the Prince of Wales, the King’s eldest son should have 

become the Regent. Prince George, however, had marred his reputation and title with 

gambling, marital chaos, debts and reckless extravagance which was anything but expected 

from the future king. The Prince’s unsuitability to rule the country led to various 

disputes on the efficiency of the laws of succession. The inflexibility of the laws that had 

been valid since the Middle Ages offered no alternative in situations like this. Even the 

Tories who had always supported more conservative approach raised the question of 

female rule for the state itself in an attempt to prevent the Prince of Wales from gaining 

control of his father’s political house. 3 The debates on the Regency Crisis included the 

subject of investing Queen Charlotte with some of the Regent’s powers. Though such 

innovative ideas did not find enough support in general, the question of the patrilineal 

descent was brought up. In Persuasion, this social aspect is vividly reflected in the problem 

of who should inherit Kellynch Hall, the estate of the Elliots. Sir Walter Elliot, a 

widower and the owner of the estate, has three adult daughters who cannot inherit the 

estate because of the exclusion of female descendants from the line of succession according 

to the convention of patrilineal descent. 

The system of inheritance current at that time had many drawbacks because of its 

strict adherence to the conventions. For the inheritance of the title as well as of the land, 

estate and family heirlooms, definite laws had been evolved. As the continuity of a house 

was valued very highly, the laws of succession established several aspects that were in 

service of this aristocratic principle. The most important institutions concerning inheritance 

were inalienability and entail that “settled the succession of an estate inalienably 

upon the descendants of an individual owner”. 4 The aspect of primogeniture whereby 

the preference in inheritance was given to the eldest son was an essential complement to

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201 

the institutions mentioned above, and it secured that the property was kept within the 

family. The limits of ranks were clearly marked, and the strict conventions had to guarantee 

the continuity of aristocratic families. The issue of inheritance was tightly connected 

with these principles; the property was handed down within the closed system 

and no outward influence could hinder its going into the hands beyond the aristocracy. 

The institution of entails and inalienability served these interests and excluded every 

measure to be taken against the convention. In case there was no direct male descendant, 

the aspect of patrilineal descent guaranteed a male heir among the closest relatives. In 

Persuasion, the heir presumptive, according to the laws, is William Elliot, a distant relative 

to Sir William, and not his eldest daughter. 

Persuasion by Austen seems to challenge the convention of patrilineal succession. 

The story of the Elliots is an illustration of the case where the patrilineal descendant 

who has unquestionable rights to inherit does not have appropriate qualities 

expected from a governor of a country estate and a representative of a honourable 

house. In this novel, the heir presumptive William Elliot does not meet these needs; 

he is a person only interested in property and the privileges and comforts accompanying 

it. He had only one object in view– “to make his fortune, and by a rather 

quicker process than the law”. 5 His intentions in connection with Kellynch Hall are 

revealed in one of his letters written to Mrs. Smith, Anne’s former friend whose husband 

had been ruined by William Elliot’s financial mismanagement: “…my first visit 

to Kellynch will be with a surveyor, to tell me how to bring it with best advantage to 

the hammer”. 6 As Mrs. Smith says it, “his chance of the Kellynch was something, but 

all the honour of the family he held as cheap as dirt”. 7 

George IV also used his position and access to resources to enjoy an easy life without 

caring about the good name of the royal family. His conspicuous consumption had 

never been equalled before in his family. His illegal and morganatic marriage to Maria 

Fitzherbert, a Roman Catholic and twice a widow, did not support the idea of continuity 

which was one of the most important aspects of the laws of succession. Although the 

Royal Marriage Act of 1772 stipulated that the members of the royal family under the 

age of twenty–five could not marry without the sovereign’s consent, 8 George married 

secretly against the law and his father’s will. The marriage was, of course declared invalid, 

but the relationship continued even after the Prince of Wales had wed Caroline of 

Brunswick, a German princess chosen for him by his father. William Elliot in Persuasion, 

the heir presumptive of Sir Walter, had also disappointed the old baronet with his 

misbehaviour. He would be the future master of Kellynch Hall and should act accordingly, 

but every episode gradually reveals his true nature. William’s aim was to make his 

fortune by marriage, but not by that to Elizabeth, Sir Walter’s eldest daughter whose 

dowry was not enough. When the match had been designed between the heir presumptive 

and the young lady, it made William draw back because “it was impossible that such 

a match should have answered his ideas of wealth and independence”. 9 A widower of no 

means, he later proposed to Anne in order to secure his position as the heir presumptive. 

After her refusal, he turned to Mrs. Clay, a fortune hunter who aimed to be Lady Elliot 

either wed to Sir Walter or William, his heir. According to Jane Austen, the estate going 

into the hands of such a dandy and rogue would only mean its end. Neither William Elliot 

nor the Prince of Wales is suitable to govern their estate and state respectively, but the 

laws exclude those who would really merit it.


Austen’s support in the question of who should inherit Kellynch Hall does not 

even seem to belong to Elizabeth, the eldest daughter of Sir Walter who could thus 

have more chances to be the heiress, but to Anne, the second daughter of Sir William. 

Although the novel does not present a clear demand that Kellynch Hall should 

be left to Anne, she is characterised as the most suitable person to inherit the estate. 

Austen’s support for Anne is seen in her disapproval of Sir Walter and Elizabeth. In 

the novel, Anne is always contrasted with other members of the family. Her qualities 

like fortitude, modesty and gentleness help to remain balanced and composed in every 

situation. Anne’s reason and judgement are opposed to her father’s and sister’s 

narrow–mindedness. When Sir Walter removes to Bath because of his financial mismanagement 

which made him let his house, Anne is sure that Kellynch goes to better 

hands for the future tenants present the values that are in great contrast to the ones 

held dear by the baronet. 10 

There is also a striking resemblance between George IV and Sir Walter Eliot, neither 

of them is capable to run his property in the way expected from him. The Prince 

Regent, later George IV, had a talent for spending money never seen in the royal family 

before. His debts were constant, and there seemed to be no end to them nor the 

scandals that accompanied the Regent everywhere. George’s manias were adornment, 

building, furnishing, gambling, fancy clothing, and horse racing. Parliament repeatedly 

voted huge sums to restore his solvency, and the prince became a paragon of 

conspicuous consumption. The Prince Regent was obviously more interested in 

changing the furnishings of his houses rather than dealing with the policy of his 

government. Sir Walter in Persuasion is also fond of decorating his house, and the 

sums spent on new furniture, fashionable accessories and trinkets lead to financial 

problems that make the owner finally decrease his costs. Sir Walter yields with a 

heavy heart to his daughter’s proposal to postpone purchasing new drawing–room 

furniture in order to retrench. 

Dandyism and fashion were the great passions of both the Prince Regent and Sir 

Walter Elliot. 

Sir Walter is more fascinated by expensive and trendy outfit than taking care of 

his estate. When the question of renting the Kellynch Hall to a navy officer arises, 

Sir Walter seems to be more concerned about the looks of the future tenant for he 

has heard that a naval profession is very likely to spoil one’s complexion. And a man 

“exposed to every climate, and every weather” would not be “fit to be seen”. 11 The 

whole house is arranged according to the needs of a dandy. The condition of the 

room that Sir Walter has left behind allows Admiral Croft come to the conclusion that 

the owner of the estate “must be rather a dressy man for his time of life. – Such a 

number of looking glasses! Oh Lord! There was no getting away from oneself”. 12 

The beginning of the 19th century was also a period that witnessed various alterations 

in the system of social ranks. The progress in different fields of life, e.g. economy, 

military affairs, diplomacy, law etc. produced new moneyed families that started to make 

their way up in the society. Maclagan13 indicates the circumstance that “the industrial 

revolution produced new moneyed families which, usually by purchasing estates, could 

ease themselves into society”, and the fact that “from about the turn of the century 

peerages were more commonly bestowed for public service than for territorial influence”.

Katri Sirkel. Pârdomâjot Dþeinas Ostinas darbu “Pârliecîba”: sava laika româns 

203 

The influx of newcomers was very often seen as a threat to the upper class conventions 

including the strategy of continuity of old aristocratic families. The English elite were 

sensitive about admitting a self–made man of obscure origin among them, but on the 

other hand, they seem to have had relatively little objection to the son of such a man, 

provided that he had suitable manners, education and values of a gentleman. 14 However, 

it was important to make distinction between upwardly mobile men by occupation and 

by source of wealth. 15 The newcomers, i.e. the representatives of the middle class who 

had risen to their position due to their successful careers, invaded gradually the domain 

of the aristocracy. The fortunes they had made because of their profession were sufficient 

enough to allow them to buy, or at least to rent, the estates of their own. The country 

estate had always been a symbol for power and status, and now it was going into the 

hands of those who were not supposed to have them. 

In Persuasion, Austen’s criticism of the snobbery of the nobility seems to question 

the latter’s suitability to govern an estate. The practicality and rationality are not 

the strengths of the nobility in the novel, though these are the qualities that an owner 

of a country estate should possess. The depiction of the nobility in a discredited light 

in Persuasion is balanced by offering the navy as the substitute for those who are 

supposed to represent all the sublime features. The navy in the novel is seen as a 

combination of gentlemanly behaviour and rationality. Characters with a naval background 

seem to refute the conviction by which rank is considered the only source of 

goodness. Austen presents Admiral Croft and his wife who become the tenants of 

Kellynch Hall in a more favourable light than the real owner of the estate. Their practical 

mind and conscientiousness are opposed to Sir Walter’s inability to make appropriate 

decisions. The good qualities of the men from the navy are already predicted 

in the first chapters of the novel when Sir Walter’s agent tries to convince the baronet 

in the suitability of his future tenants: “They are so neat and careful in their ways. 

Everything in and about the house would be taken such excellent care of”. 16 In this 

novel, the substitution for the aristocracy is seen in the men of the navy who represent 

all the qualities necessary for ideal government of country estates. 

The Navy’s confrontation with the aristocracy in the novel very likely proceeds from 

the immediate aftermath of the British war against Napoleon. Jane Austen does not introduce 

the topic of war or dispute over power into the novel but she seems to be very 

interested in the controversies of social classes originating from these affairs. Austen’s 

own family belonged to the minor gentry and her brothers had all made successful careers 

in the navy, the law and Church. This example testifies that a professional success 

opened the doors to the society that had formerly been controlled only by those from 

higher ranks. This fact also illustrates the social mobility that characterized the early 19th century society, and offered new perspectives to define the social relations. Both Admiral 

Croft and Captain Wentworth have no aristocratic blood in their veins. These men 

are capable of making practical decisions, and they both estimate partnership very highly. 

Mr. and Mrs. Croft are seen as a team which guarantees their success. Even Anne, though 

sorry for the removal “could not but in conscience feel that they were gone who deserved 

not to stay, and that Kellynch Hall had passed into better hands than its owners”. 17 Although 

Austen depicts the naval officers in a favourable light, the novel is not a call for 

replacing the aristocracy with self–made men from the middle classes. The men of the 

navy are just the carriers of those virtuous qualities and worthy manners lacked by the


degenerated aristocracy who should govern the country. The gentlemanlike naval 

officers are the saviours of the notion of the idealized past; they are the true carriers of 

noble manners which under the depraved nobility would fall into oblivion. 

Jane Austen’s last completed novel is an interesting source of author’s acute observations 

of her time. The problem of succession, the Regency Crisis and the scandals associated 

with it provide an interesting perspective for reading the novel. The political and social 

background necessary for understanding the issues and conflicts in Persuasion establish 

a new context the novel could be read in. Persuasion is not just another romance, but 

a condition–of–England novel, which opens up new ways of interpretation. 

REFERENCES 

1 Sales R. Jane Austen and Representations of Regency England. – London and New York: 

Routlege, 1996, p. 89. 

2 Austen J. Persuasion. – Hertfordshire: Wordsworth Editions Ltd, 1993, p. 29. 

3 Sales R. Jane Austen and Representations of Regency England. – London and New York: 

Routlege, 1996, p. 58. 

4 Stone L., Stone J. C. F. An Open Elite?: England 1540–1880. – Oxford and New York: 

Oxford University Press, 1995, p. 47–8. 


6 Ibid, p. 144. 

7 Ibid, p. 143. 

8 Priestley J. B. The Prince of Pleasure and his Regency 1811–20. – London: Penguin 

Books, 2002, p. 29. 


10 Ibid, p. 88. 

11 Ibid, p. 15. 

12 Ibid, p. 90. 

13 Maclagan M. Ruling Dynasties and the Great Families: The Historic Role of the Monarchy and 

Aristocracy //The English World. R. Blake ed. – London: Thames and Hudson, 1982, p. 77. 

14 Stone L., Stone J. C. F. An Open Elite?: England 1540–1880. – Oxford and New York: 

Oxford University Press, 1995, p. 193. 

15 Ibid. 


17 Ibid, p.188. 

Kopsavilkums 

Rakstâ pçtîta Dþeinas Ostinas pçdçjâ pabeigtâ româna “Pârliecîba” iekïauðanâs 

agrînâ 19. gadsimta Anglijas sociâlajâ un politiskajâ kontekstâ, parâdot, ka românu 

var uzskatît ne tikai kâ romantisku darbu, bet arî kâ stâstu par Anglijâ eksistçjoðajiem 

apstâkïiem. Românâ “Pârliecîba” Ostina salîdzina muiþas pârvaldi ar visas valsts 

pârvaldi, abos gadîjumos atklâjot mantoðanas sistçmas nepilnîbas. Rodas iespaids, ka 

Ostina apðauba vîrieðu lînijâ balstîtos mantoðanas principus. Rakstniece arî kritizç 

aristokrâtijas snobismu un tâs spçjas pârvaldît îpaðumus. “Pârliecîba” atspoguïo 

sociâlo mobilitâti, kas ir raksturîga agrînâ 19. gadsimta sabiedrîbai un parâda gan 

aristokrâtijas, gan arî vidusslâòa pieòemtâs vçrtîbas.


MÂKSLA, 205.–212. lpp. 

Rethinking the Enlightenment in Postmodern Fiction: 

Hawksmoor by Peter Ackroyd 

Pârdomas par apgaismîbas laikmeta nozîmi 

postmodernajâ daiïliteratûrâ: Pîtera Ekroida româns 

“Hawksmoor” 

Alex Taube (Latvia) 

Department of Literature and Culture 


Visvalza 4a, Office 430, Riga, LV 1050, Latvia 

e–mail: alexeytaube@hotmail.com 

The current paper examines the representation of the Enlightenment culture in the novel 

Hawksmoor by Peter Ackroyd. In his novel Peter Ackroyd gives expression to the views of 

the thinkers who espouse the ideas of the Enlightenment philosophy and juxtaposes them 

with the views of their opponents, thereby creating a dialogic text. Hawksmoor deals with the 

world visions of the English scientists and mystics at the beginning of the eighteenth century. 

In Ackroyd’s novel there is a continual dialogue between Wren, the chief advocate of the new 

materialistic, mechanistic and experimental natural philosophy and Dyer, who is a mystic espousing 

an eclectic doctrine similar to Gnosticism. Ackroyd represents the culture of the 

Enlightebment as heterogeneous and full of contradictions. By contasting rationalism with 

mysticism, he reveals the limitations and drawbacks of the Enlightenment views on man and 

society. 

Keywords: Enlightenment culture, postmodern literature, philosophy. 

Surveying the contemporary literary scene both in Britain and in the United 

States, one notices a great number of historical novels partly or entirely set in the 

eighteenth century known as the age of the Enlightenment, the epoch which glorified 

reason and ended in the inglorious bloodshed of the French revolution. 

One of such novels is Hawksmoor by Peter Ackroyd. Hawksmoor is set on two 

temporal levels: in the eighteenth century and at the end of the twentieth. It is a book 

that binds the past and the present together into an indivisible whole and investigates 

the innermost essence of time. Its very first pages transport us back in time to 

the beginning of the 18th century. The tumultuous events of that distant period, seen 

through the eyes of a talented but tormented architect Nicholas Dyer, are ingeniously 

juxtaposed with Detective Hawksmoor’s fevered investigation of a series of macabre 

murders on the sites of Dyer’s churches at the end of the 20th century. The chapters 

describing the murders and their investigation by Hawksmoor in contemporary London 

alternate with the chapters narrating the dramatic events of Dyer’s life. 

In his study of the Enlightenment published in the year 2000, Roy Porter, who is 

a professional historian, speaks of the culture of the period in almost unequivocally 

positive terms, representing it as a homogeneous cultural movement imbued with the 

spirit of optimism and characterized by an unshakable belief in the perfectibility of 

human nature and in the possibility of progress. He believes that the leading thinkers


of that period had sufficient grounds for optimism and that their rationalistic project 

was perfectly justified1 . The picture of the Enlightenment culture in Ackroyd’s novel 

is very different. In his novel Peter Ackroyd gives expression to the views of the 

thinkers who espouse the ideas of the Enlightenment philosophy and juxtaposes them 

with the views of their opponents, thereby creating a polyphonic text. Hawksmoor 

deals with the world visions of the English scientists and mystics at the beginning of 

the eighteenth century. In Ackroyd’s novel the rationalistic philosophy of the English 

Royal Society is contrasted with the ideas of gnosticism and mysticism. However, it 

is not a truly dialogic text in Bakhtin’s sense of the term as the part of the book relating 

the construction of the seven churches by the diabolical architect, who makes 

human sacrifices, is a first–person narrative privileging the position of the narrator 

over that of his opponents. 

By the beginning of the eighteenth century the Enlightenment had become the 

dominant trend in the leading intellectual circles of Europe. One single human 

faculty – Reason – was celebrated and glorified at the expense of all the others. 1 It 

was believed that the natural light of reason was capable of illuminating the darkest 

corners of the world and of human nature. Reason would reveal all the mysteries of 

the human and material world and lay the foundations of natural religion, natural morality 

and natural law. The Enlightenment philosophers thought that once reason and 

knowledge became widespread, humanity would make great progress and irrationalism 

and ignorance would be eliminated. 

In Ackroyd’s novel there is a continual dialogue between Wren, the chief advocate 

of the new materialistic, mechanistic and experimental natural philosophy based 

on observations, measurements and mathematical calculations, and Dyer, who is a 

mystic espousing an eclectic doctrine similar to Gnosticism. Dyer feels great contempt 

for the rationalistic philosophers who tended to explain both physical and human 

nature in mechanistic and materialistic terms. 

Dyer’s extremely traumatic childhood experience led him to doubt the rational 

and orderly structure of the world of which the representatives of the new science 

were convinced. While the Enlightenment thinkers believed that human nature was 

also governed by harmonious laws and that man was reasonable, Dyer perceived 

human nature as degenerated. For him people are “the Heirs of Hell and Children of 

the Devil” 3 and “Human life is quite out of the Light and … we are all Creatures of 

Darknesse” 4 . His experience of the Plague and the Great Fire of London made him 

doubt that the world was orderly and harmonious, that it was designed and built by 

the Creator along rational lines and that it operated according to the immutable laws 

of mechanics. He believes that there is very little, if, indeed, any, order and harmony 

in the universe or in human nature. For Dyer the world is fearful and “Humane life 

was of no certain course” 5 . In other words, it is certainly not governed by reason. 

Consequently he rejects the rationalistic and mechanistic philosophy, which constituted 

the dominant mode of thinking of his age, and adheres to the dualistic, Gnostic 

mystical teaching of a secret society into which he was initiated when he was still a 

child. It sees man as an unchangeable evil and teaches that all men are damned. Christianity 

is rejected because it is hollow – it has been emptied of all its mysteries and 

miracles. Everything is given a rational natural explanation. Mysteries are abolished

Alex Taube. Pârdomas par apgaismîbas laikmeta nozîmi postmodernajâ daiïliteratûrâ: Pîtera .. 

207 

and miracles are explained away. The supernatural is rejected. There is no place for 

mystery in the mechanistic world vision of the enlightened thinkers of the Royal society 

because they view the world as consisting solely of material particles in motion. 

The spiritual vacuum is filled by the demonic cults and mystical teachings. 

The plague and the fire were for Dyer what the earthquake in Lisbon would be 

for the philosophers in 1755. The earthquake in Lisbon dashed the most cherished 

hopes of the Enlightenment. It shook the belief of the philosophers in an ordered, 

predictable world and in a benign rational God. Voltaire said: “After all, the world 

does contain evil” 6 . The rationalistic thinkers say that the devil is dead – they deny 

the wickedness and corruption of the world. Dyer rejects the mechanistic scientific 

philosophy of the Royal Society because it takes a very narrow view of human nature, 

seeing man as a rational being and ignoring man’s irrational impulses and desires. 

It views humanity as progressive and believes in man’s perfectibility. Rationalist 

philosophers emphasize the orderly and harmonious nature of the world functioning 

according to the principles of Newton’s mechanics. Dyer, on the contrary, has a 

very gloomy and pessimistic view of human nature and of the world. Having experienced 

the plague and the Great Fire of London, he finds it impossible to believe in 

the existence of order and harmony in the world or in man’s reasonableness and perfectibility. 

He speaks about “the Barbarities of Mankind” and of “the weaknesse and 

folly of Humane life” 7 , not of harmony or “Rationall Beauty” 8 . He “saw the true 

Face of the Great and Dreadfull God” 9 , and that was the face of Satan, not of the 

Christian god of love and compassion. For him human life is full of misery and despair, 

of pain and suffering. Human existence is wretched and miserable. He “saw 

that the intire World was one vast Bill of Mortality” 10 rather than an orderly and 

harmonious universe smoothly operating according to the mathematically expressed 

laws of physics. He thinks that “Daemons might walk through the Streets even as Men 

(on point of Death, many of them) debauch themselves” 11 . Men are like “the Flies on 

this Dunghil Earth” 12 . Dyer deplores the misery, wretchedness and corruption of the 

world “in this Rationall and mechanicall Age” 13 

Dyer does not believe in the power of the experimental philosophy to be of benefit 

to humanity as it ignores the actual state of affairs: “when the Cartesians and the 

New Philosophers speak of their Experiments, saying that they are serviceable to the 

Quiet and Peace of Man’s life, it is a great Lie: there has been no Quiet and there will 

be no Peace. The streets they walk in are ones in which Children die daily or are 

hang’d for stealing Sixpence; they wish to lay a solid Groundwork (or so they call it) 

for their vast Pile of Experiments, but the Ground is filled with Corses, rotten and 

rotting others” 14 . The project of the new philosophers is doomed to failure precisely 

because they want to base it upon the imperfect and flawed human nature. 

Likewise, Dyer doubts the capacity of reason to penetrate the mystery of human 

nature and to uncover all its secrets. He thinks that the glorification and privileging 

of reason over intuition, emotion, imagination, spirit and revelation is unjustified. 

When Wren and Dyer visit Bedlam, Dyer asks “What little Purpose have we to glory 

in our Reason when the Brain may so suddenly be disorder’d?” 15 For Dyer the light 

of reason does not illuminate the world, which is full of uncertainties and hazards. It 

is the world of shadows rather than light: “This mundus tenebrosus, this shaddowy


world of Mankind, is sunk into Night” and, consequently, “We are all in the Dark, 

one with another” 16 . 

Thus, Dyer dismisses “the narrow Conceptions of this Generation of Writers who 

speak with Sir Chris. of a new Restauration of Learning, and who prattle something 

too idly on the new Philosophy of Experiment and Demonstration: these are but poor 

Particles of Dust which will not burie the Serpents”. 17 The new experimental method 

will not and cannot put an end to man’s irrational desires, nor will it satisfy man’s 

yearning for the bizarre, exotic, unusual, mysterious, supernatural, inexplicable in 

terms of a materialistic and mechanistic philosophy. Dyer calls the new philosophy 

“fantasticall and perishable Trash” 18 . 

According to Locke the mind is a blank sheet (tabula rasa) on which physical 

objects make their imprints. It is a receptacle for sensory inputs from the external 

world19 . For Wren perception is a simple contact of the mind with an external object, 

whereas for Dyer perception is inseparably linked with emotions, imagination and 

memory. For Dyer Stonehenge is a monument to Eternity impervious to the destructive 

passage of time, a place of worship full of mystery and enchantment, possessing 

the power to have a great impact upon man’s psyche. For Dyer visiting Stonehenge 

is an awe–inspiring, mystical experience. He “was struck by an exstatic Reverie” 20 . 

He calls it a “huge and monstrous Work” 21 and sees its elements as “Men 

metamorphosised into Stone” 22 . In contrast, the only thing that Wren is interested in 

when visiting Stonehenge is the geometric and mathematical properties of the place. 

He is fascinated by its beautiful proportions. Wren sees Stonehenge simply as an 

architectural monument designed according to the laws of mathematics and mechanics. 

Dyer’s perceptions of Stonehenge are interconnected and filled with the images 

of his imagination. As he leans against the stones he can perceive not only their cold 

surface but also “the Labour and Agonie of those who erected it, the power of Him 

who enthrall’d them, and the marks of Eternity which had been placed there” 23 . Also, 

he could hear their “Cryes and Voices” 24 . 

We see, thus, that Dyer’s perceptions of external objects are inextricably interconnected 

with his emotions and with the images of the imagination, completing and enriching 

each other 25 . In Wren’s mind, however, perceptions are dissociated from the imagination 

and memory. Wren talks about Stonehenge solely in terms of its proportions and 

other mathematical properties. In contrast, Dyer contemplates its mystical aspects. He 

feels, hears and sees the ancient builders of Stonehenge. While Wren’s perceptions are 

subjected to the scrutiny of reason, Dyer’s perceptions immediately evoke intense emotions 

in his soul and provoke the working of his imagination. 

Similarly, Wren’s and Dyer’s perceptions of an autopsy are very different. Dyer 

contrasts the story of the flagellant, who scourged himself for his sins to relieve his 

torment and anguish, with the story of Sir Chris., who besmeared himself with blood 

when dissecting a woman’s corpse to satisfy his curiosity. Wren’s speech when he is 

preparing to dissect and examine the corpse is interspersed with Dyer’s extremely rude 

and anguished remarks. Dyer is disgusted by Wren’s disquisition on human anatomy 

because for Wren “the Body it self is a perfect peece of Work from the Hand of the 

Omniscient Architect” 26 and the bodily processes simply “the Union and Dissolution 

of little Bodies or Particles” 27 . Dyer believes that “The meerest Rake–hell has a


209 

finer Philosophie” 28 . When dissecting the woman’s corpse, Wren’s perceptions of 

the corpse evoke no images in his imagination, conjure up no memories or associations. 

His perceptions are wholly dissociated from his memory and imagination. In 

contrast, the perception of the body evokes an emotional response in Dyer and stimulates 

his imagination. It makes Dyer imagine the death of the woman and sympathise 

with her. While Wren is examining the corpse, Dyer relives the death of the woman in 

his imagination. 

Locke and other Enlightenment thinkers believed that human beings were rational 

and therefore equal, that they possessed the same natural rights of life, liberty and 

property, and that their behaviour was governed by the law of reason29 . To subvert 

this view Dyer talks about the world of the vagabonds and beggars, who are unreasonable, 

uneducated, unenlightened, and whose behaviour is irrational. They live in 

the darkness and are not aware of the passage of time. Society extols the virtues of 

liberalism and social progress and emphasizes the equality of all men, and yet the 

poor and the underprivileged are marginalized or excluded from it. London for Dyer 

is not a city full of light and merriment but rather a “Nest of Death and Contagion” 30 . 

The people tend to think that since London has been rebuilt its character has changed, 

but for Dyer London still is the “Capital City of the World of Affliction”, “the Capitol 

of Darknesse”, and “the Dungeon of Man’s Desires” 31 . He contrasts the vision of 

the privileged with that of the outcasts: “Those in their snug Bed–chambers may call 

the Fears of Night meer Bugbears, but their Minds have not pierced into the Horror 

of the World which others, who are adrift upon it, know” 32 . Society is to blame for 

the miserable condition of the poor and the outcast, and yet it severely punishes those 

whom it has consigned to a life of misery and deprivation: “most Men owe not only 

their Learning to their Plenty but likewise their Vertue and their Honesty. For how 

many Thousands are there in the World, in great Reputation for their Sober and Just 

dealings with Mankind, who if they were put to their Shifts would soon lose their 

Reputation and turn Rogues and Scoundrels? And yet we punish Poverty as if it were 

a Crime, and honour Wealth as if it were a Vertue. And so goes on the Circle of 

Things: Poverty begets Sin and Sin begets Punishment” 33 . 

Like most Enlightenment thinkers Sir Christopher Wren disregarded tradition and 

authority. “He liked to destroy Antient things: sad and wretched Stuff, he called it, 

and he us’d to say that Men are weary of the Reliques of Antiquity” 34 . Instead he 

praised “Sensible Knowledge” and “the Experimentall Learning” 35 , but Dyer was not 

convinced, and still doubted man’s ability to lay new foundations, having no better 

foundations to build upon than man’s nature. Dyer derived his knowledge of architecture 

from ancient authors. He is in favour of the ancients rather than the moderns: 

“We live off the past: it is in our Words and our Syllables. It is reverberant in our 

Streets and Courts, so that we can scarce walk across the Stones without being reminded 

of those who walked there before us” 36 . He studied “the antient Architects, 

for the greatness of the Antients is infinitely superior to the Moderns” 37 . Likewise, 

he believes that the truths expressed in art are eternal and that the ancient works of 

literature may be more truthful in their depiction of human nature, which, for Dyer, is 

changeless, thoroughly corrupt and impossible to perfect, than the works of contemporary 

writers. The Ancients’ “Tragedy reflects Corruption, and Men are the same 

now as they have ever been” 38 .


Hobbes and Locke subordinated faith to reason. According to them reason 

should judge the validity and nature of a revelation 39 . Toland, the author of Christianity 

Not Mysterious (1696), dismissed religious mysteries as nonsensical and believed 

that supernatural experiences, such as religious visions or apparitions of demons, 

could be explained by the mechanical philosophy40 . Reason alone could make 

man just and virtuous as it was the law of reason that governed human nature. Commenting 

upon the project of the Enlightenment philosophers to formulate a moral 

theory without recourse to religion or to man’s spiritual experience, Dyer remarks that 

they “wish to bring their mathematical Calculations into Morality”, but they are so 

“fixed upon matter, experiment, secondary causes and the like” that they “ have forgot 

there is such a thing in the World which they cannot see nor touch nor measure: 

it is the Praecipice into which they will surely fall” 41 . They ignore the world of man’s 

lived experience, of man’s psyche (or in Descartes’ terminology substantia cogitas), 

which, unlike res extensa, can never be subject to quantification; they pay no attention 

to the evil in human nature, or to man’s irrationality; consequently, their project 

is doomed to fail. 

In Ackroyd’s novel, Priddon, the vicar of Mary Woolnoth, seems to share 

Toland’s view. Toland believed that man’s mental life could be given a thoroughly 

materialistic explanation, the mind being simply a function (epiphenomenon) of the 

brain 42 . Thus, similar to Hobbes43 , Toland modified the materialistic model of the 

world to subsume man’s mental processes . According to Priddon, all miracles and 

mysteries are explicable by plain reason. Dyer is indignant as he clearly sees the dark 

side of human nature pointedly ignored by Priddon and other religious reformers: 

“Who then can talk of the Good of Mankind and the Publicke Benefit when there is 

nothing but Rage and Folly on the Streets? … Men are not rational Creatures,… they 

are sunk into Flesh, blinded by Passion, besotted by Folly and hardened by Vice” 44 . 

Dyer believes that it is more important to study human nature than the physical 

world, and that one cannot use the methods and tools of natural sciences to study man. 

Experimental philosophy views man simply as an object of investigation not much 

different from any other object of the world of physical nature, and thus ignores man’s 

subjective experience of the world, man’s lived world (Lebenswelt 45 ). For example, 

when Wren talks about science discovering “the Secrets of the Attracted Sea and the 

Magnetical Direction of the Earth”, Dyer thinks about “the horror of the Waves and 

the Night” 46 , that is about man’s subjective experience of these natural phenomena, 

which the laws of physics can never explain. The moon’s tidal effects on the oceans 

can be explained by the law of gravity, but no law can explain man’s sense of awe 

when confronting “the Immensity of the Void” 47 ,which is something like the experience 

of the sublime. Likewise, even though Wren claims that he can explain the natural 

causes of the contagion that killed Dyer’s parents, he cannot comprehend the suffering 

and the pain of the people who suffered from the contagion, and Dyer sarcastically 

remarks “You may tell that … to those dying of the Distemper: they will be 

greatly comforted” 48 . Dyer believes that Wren understands nature but has no idea of 

the mysterious and obscure workings of the human mind. 

Dyer can be seen as a pre–romantic, an anti–enlightenment figure who was disillusioned 

with the promises of progress and the perfectibility of the human race and


211 

rejected the Enlightenment philosophy as confined to and dominated by reason. 

Dyer’s mysticism may be seen as a protest against the world vision that ignores the 

inner world of human feelings, the spiritual and supernatural spheres of human experience. 

Science can’t embrace the totality of human experience precisely because it 

ignores the lived experience, the dark, hidden areas of the mind and the realms of 

feeling and imagination. Therefore, it cannot discover the inner workings of the human 

spirit and the way it relates to nature and society. It cannot explain the behaviour 

of Dyer himself. However, the fact that Dyer is portrayed as a fanatical murderer, a 

tormented personality, indicates that irrationalism may be as inadequate a philosophy 

as rationalism. What is needed is a more comprehensive, inclusive vision than that of 

the Royal society or that of the mystics, for “there is no Light without Darknesse and 

no Substance without Shaddowe” 49 

REFERENCES 

1 Porter R. Enlightenment. Britain and the Creation of the Modern World. Penguin Books, 

2001. 

2 Davies N. Europe. A History. – London: Pimlico, 1997, p. 577. 

3 Ackroyd P. Hawksmoor. – London: Penguin Books, 1993, p. 9. 

4 Ibid, p. 11. 

5 Ibid, p. 16. 

6 Davies N. Europe. A History. – London: Pimlico, 1997, p. 640. 


8 Ibid, p. 9. 

9 Ibid, p. 14. 

10 Ibid, p. 17. 

11 Ibid, p. 17. 

12 Ibid, p. 17. 

13 Ibid, p. 22. 

14 Ibid, pp. 93–94. 

15 Ibid, p. 99. 

16 Ibid, p. 101. 

17 Ibid, p. 56. 

18 Ibid, p. 56. 


2001, pp. 63–64. 


21 Ibid, p. 60. 

22 Ibid, p. 61. 

23 Ibid, p. 61. 

24 Ibid, p. 61. 

25 This is similar to Henri Bergson’s view of perception: “[Perception is] wholly impregnated 

with memory images, which complete it while interpreting it”. Quoted in Copleston 

F. A History of Philosophy. Volume IX: Modern Philosophy. – New York: Image Books, 

1994, p. 190.



27 Ibid, p. 97. 

28 Ibid, p. 97. 

29 Copleston F. A History of Philosophy //Modern Philosophy. Vol. IV. – New York: Image 

Books, 1994, p. 40. 


31 Ibid, p. 47. 

32 Ibid, p. 49. 

33 Ibid, p. 65. 

34 Ibid, p. 55. 

35 Ibid, p. 55. 

36 Ibid, p. 178. 

37 Ibid, p. 56. 

38 Ibid, p. 179. 


2001, p. 62. 

40 Ibid, p. 116. 


42 Copleston F. A History of Philosophy. //Modern Philosophy. Vol. V. –New York: Image 

Books, 1994, 


2001, p. 58. 


45 Scruton defines Husserl’s Lebenswelt as “the world as we conceive it in experience”. 

Scruton, Roger. Modern Philosophy. Arrow Books, 1997, p. 238. 


47 Ibid, p. 140. 

48 Ibid, p. 143. 

49 Ibid, p. 5. 

Kopsavilkums 

Rakstâ analizçts apgaismes laikmeta kultûras attçlojums Pîtera Ekroida românâ 

“Hawksmoor”. Savâ românâ Pîters Ekroids parâda domâtâjus, kuri atbalsta apgaismes 

laikmeta filozofiskâs idejas, un izvirza tâs pretî savu oponentu viedokïiem, tâdçjâdi 

veidojot dialoga tekstu, uzskatus. 

Româns “Hawksmoor” atspoguïo angïu zinâtnieku un mistiíu pasaules uztveri 18. 

gadsimta sâkumâ. Ekroida româns ir nerimtîgs dialogs starp Renu, materiâlistiskâs, 

mehâniskâs un eksperimentâlâs filozofijas galveno aizstâvi, un Daieru, – mistiíi, kurð 

atbalsta eklektisko doktrînu, lîdzîgu gnosticismam. Ekroids attçlo apgaismes laikmeta 

kultûru kâ neviendabîgu (heterogçnu), pretrunu pilnu. Salîdzinâdams reâlismu ar 

misticismu, viòð atklâj aprobeþotîbu un trûkumus apgaismes laikmeta uzskatos par 

cilvçku un sabiedrîbu.


MÂKSLA, 213.–221. lpp. 

New Dubliners of J. O’Connor: 

coherence of the Irish literary tradition 

Dþ. Konora jaunie dublinieði: 

Îrijas literârâs tradîcijas pçctecîba 

Tatjana Bicjutko (Latvia) 

Latvijas Universitâtes 

Moderno valodu fakultâtes Anglistikas nodaïa 

Ausekïa 33, Jûrmala, LV 

e–pasts: tatbit@e–apollo.lv, tatbit@apollo.lv 

During the last decades the Irish culture is said to experience a revival, which in its turn finds 

its expression in a remarkable upsurge in literary production. Being firmly grounded on Irish 

traditions contemporary Irish writings exhibit a strong sense of Ireland and Irishness is at the 

centre of the narrative. In this connection it is interesting to trace the continuation of literary 

tradition containing many prominent names such as J. Swift, J. Joyce, S. Beckett, and others. 

Therefore a comparative analysis of any two Irish writers separated in time but united by their 

national belonging is more than pertinent. 

The article New Dubliners of J. O’Connor: coherence of the Irish literary tradition is a comparative 

analysis of two books, namely True Believers by Joseph O’Connor and Dubliners by 

James Joyce where O’Connor’s collection is to be the centre of attention, and Joycean short 

stories serve mostly as the material for cross–references. Analogies in many cases are immediate; 

however the most important quality is that both authors follow the realistic tradition in 

their short stories and create images of hope rather than hopelessness in the absurd world. The 

present paper is an attempt to show how ‘Irishness’ in general is mirrored in the contemporary 

collection, and how Joycean thought in particular is carried on. Moreover, the analysis of the 

given collection provides an opportunity in a concise form to show the whole range of themes 

the contemporary Irish writers are concerned with. Except for the strong feeling of belonging 

to a certain literary tradition, O’Connor’s collection puts a question of belonging as a whole. 

Therefore, a special attention is paid to the space–identity relationship. The existential idea 

that human situation is entirely absurd is relevant here: in the situation when habitation is 

problematized, communal spirit, family values (which in fact are traditionally important for 

the Irish people) take a double load. Using Camus’ claim, the only luxury which is left for 

people in the absurd world is human relationships. 

Following the motto of contemporary Irish writers that the story of Ireland must be rewritten 

again and again, the main aim of the paper is to show the transforming face of Ireland as it is 

represented by a contemporary Irish author. 

Keywords: Irishness, belonging, narrative space, absurdity, Dubliners, traditional. 

New Dubliners of J. O’Connor: coherence of the Irish literary 

tradition 

Many critics acknowledge that over the last decades the Irish culture has experienced 

a remarkable upsurge in literary production. In this connection it is interesting 

to trace the continuation of literary tradition which includes many prominent 

names such as J. Swift, J. Joyce, S. Beckett, and others.


As it is observed by Derek Hunt, “The kind of critical approach of trying to 

understand Ireland in terms of other cultures fails to recognize what our writers have 

always known: to write Ireland is to write it on its own terms.” 1 Thus a comparative 

analysis of any two Irish writers separated in time but united by their national belonging, 

including belonging to a certain tradition, is more than pertinent. 

It is obvious that the contemporary postmodern world has brought forward new 

demands for people to live in it, and caused subsequent changes in attitudes and viewpoints. 

Globalization is one of such processes that have considerably influenced the 

human thinking and found their reflection in literature. However, speaking about literature, 

and the contemporary Irish literature in particular, a contrary tendency very 

often could be observed. Many recent books, and the collection of short stories True 

Believers by Joseph O’Connor among them, could be said to express a strong sense 

of Ireland and Irishness that is at the centre of the narrative. Being firmly grounded 

on Irish traditions O’Connor’s collection draws immediate strong association with 

another prominent book Dubliners by James Joyce. Apart from many obvious analogies, 

the most important quality is that both authors create images of hope rather than 

hopelessness in the absurd world. The whole discourse is not only about reflecting 

reality, but about going beyond it to the world of potentiality. 

The short stories of both authors belong to realistic tradition. Since “the realist 

model… reconfirms our worst suspicions about the world” 2 , the hero is immediately 

immersed into the ‘absurd’ condition in A. Camus’ terms. 

Here the meaning of ‘absurd’ as it is used in the context should be specified. 

According to Camus, 

In a universe that is suddenly deprived of illusions and of light, man feels 

a stranger. His is an irremediable exile… This divorce between man and 

his life, the actor and his setting, truly constitutes the feeling of Absurdity. 

3 

Therefore the human situation according to Camus is essentially absurd. 

In Joyce absurdity can be easily observed, and it is especially apparent where the 

imminence of “the solid world” trespasses into “the region where dwell the vast hosts 

of the dead” 4 . All the Dubliners of Joyce yearn for something, but the greater the 

longing is, the greater is the chance for disillusionment. For Camus to desire something 

causes to bring paradoxes into existence5 ; any disillusionment prepares the 

ground necessary to the initial understanding of the absurd. The fact that human situation 

is entirely absurd has a psychological response in a person. However, Camus 

claims that to reject hope does not immediately signify to despair, and that is what 

O’Connor demonstrates in his book. 

The book opens with the words from the Bible: 

I would thou wert cold or hot. So then because thou art lukewarm, and 

neither cold nor hot, I will spue thee out of my mouth. 

(Revelation 3:16)

Tatjana Bicjutko. Dþ. Konora jaunie dublinieði: Îrijas literârâs tradîcijas pçctecîba 

215 

The immediate reaction is that one should be either a believer or a disbeliever, 

but the situation does not presuppose ‘neutrality’ in a person. In other words, it does 

not matter what one believes, the saturation of feeling is essential. It is appropriate 

here to mention Camus’ description of the universe of ‘the absurd man’ as “consisting 

of ice and fire” 6 ; his heart glowing with passions and indifference at the 

same time. 

One more interpretation, although in no way interfering with the previous one, 

comes into life after reading O’Connor’s book, namely, that having left their original 

space, Irish people find themselves nowhere; they never entirely habituate a new 

space and never stop feeling nostalgia for the native land. 

To write of other places too, but not to forget that space or place known 

as Ireland: for that story despite what people might think is still open to 

interpretation, has in the present moment still to be written; or, rather, 

the story of Ireland must be rewritten again and again and again. 7 

At this point the dissimilarity of approaches becomes apparent: Joyce in his 

Ulysses, for example, made “his hero, a Dublin Jew named Leopold Bloom, the universal 

modern citizen and Dublin the archetypal metropolis of western civilization,” 8 

when O’Connor fragments the space of metropolises and shows only those parts belonging 

specifically to the Irish community. The divergence is easily explained: for 

Joyce it is essential to create a centre from the colonial periphery, to prove the validity 

of its existence, on the whole, to shift the focus of public attention. Almost a century 

later, in a new political and social environment, O’Connor still needs to restore 

the nation in its full right, however, the strategy is different. Fragmentation does not 

affect the feeling of unity; transference of the characters from Ireland, as a result, 

moves the latter from the still marginalized periphery to the centre. 

In any case, such an imaginative interaction with the land, or, to be more precise, 

the recognition of the existence of this bound, leads to a sort of closer engagement 

with that space through the narrative. 

The Irish have always resided in a problematic world or space: in terms 

of physical space within Ireland and in relation to vexed problems of 

emigration, of being Irish in Berlin or Boston. These difficulties register 

also for those left behind in a depopulated Ireland: where space carries 

the residue of those who have gone away. 9 

O’Connor’s collection opens with reminiscences of school years told by a narrator 

who has not gone too far from that age. From the very beginning the local colour 

could be distinctly felt; for example, the discussion on Catholic Ireland and the feeling 

of necessity to escape – “We were all repressed, and we had to escape. James 

Joyce was right.” 10 In fact, the expression of this envy complex could be found in the 

predecessor’s book: “There was no doubt about it: if you want to succeed you had 

to go away,” 11 Little Chandler muses in A Little Cloud by Joyce. Eddie in Last of the 

Mohicans, the first story of O’Connor’s collection, is more explicit on the subject: 

“London was where the action was. He was sick and tired of this [Dublin] place 

anyway. It was nothing. A glorified tax haven for rich tourists and popstars. A cul-


tural backwater that time forgot. He said no one who ever did anything stayed in 

Ireland. You had to get out to be recognized.” 12 

However, as it is proven later, he heavily pays for his youthful maximalism. Everything 

is reversed in this modern version of exile; although the causes of emigration such 

as “inflations, cuts, unemployment, all of that” are “[the] same old story” 13 , Eddie has 

not achieved anything in comparison to his Joycean counterpart Gallaher. In several 

pages, or in several years if we follow the plot, there comes a refutation: “The old career 

hadn’t been going exactly to plan. He was getting there alright. But much slower 

that he thought. Still, that was the business. Things got a bit lonely, he said. He got so 

frustrated, so down. It was hard being an exile. He didn’t want to be pretentious or 

anything, but he knew how Sam Beckett must have felt.” 14 The last words of the invitation 

“to come here [in London] for good” 15 sound as unconscious self–mockery. 

The first story sets the tone for the whole volume: the time for emigration has 

gone; now it is time to see the results. The reader enters the space where former or, 

rather, New Dubliners strive to live. The previously unknown territory today is rendered 

habitable, nevertheless the background constantly reminds of itself, making 

Irish people alien or Other. 

The demarcation line is deeply rooted in the minds of both parties. A taxi driver 

whose wife is half Irish “loved Ireland”. “Lovely country. Terrible what was going 

on over there, though. He said they were bloody savages.” 16 Thinking of the problematic 

space, he unintentionally switches to the usage of the pronoun ‘they’, thus 

subconsciously marking the border separating two worlds. 

The experience of crossing the real border is vividly described by the narrator of 

the next story Mothers Were All the Same. “I hadn’t done anything but the way he 

[custom officer] looked at me made me feel like some kind of terrorist, just the same.” 

17 The topical theme of terrorism is ever–present in the book. “There were posters 

everywhere, saying that unattended luggage would be removed by the cops and 

blown up.” 18 The territory of the conflict is full of soldiers; “everybody seemed to be 

wearing a uniform”. 19 These are only small fragments to construct the whole picture 

from; the oppressiveness of the atmosphere is masterfully recreated through such 

unobtrusive remarks. 

Irish authors naturally concern themselves with the problems of power; terrorism, 

the police state, armed rebellion as well as the nature of politics and the consequences 

of political action are the themes Irish writers are drawn to. They, “conscious 

of the troubled history of their country struggle for independence and by the continuing 

sharp and cruel division between Catholic and Protestant in the North, cannot 

avoid acquiring [such] a body of experience…” 20 

But, returning to the plot line, finally the narrator comes to London, “such an 

overwhelming place. So huge and anonymous and impersonal. So different from 

Dublin.” 21 However, impressions become ambiguously verbalized when realistic details 

such as dirty phone boxes full of prostitutes’ advertisements, too expensive cafés 

and El Dorado hotels immediately ruining any expectations raised by the name, are 

depicted. Certainly it is not the whole picture, but that is the part observed by the 

majority of newcomers. Feelings of unreality, irrationality and absurdity sprout from 

the tension between great expectations and freezy welcome of the paradise regained.


217 

The next story The Wizard of Oz closely resembles A Little Cloud by Joyce, in 

respect that it juxtaposes a boastful successful former Dubliner and the narrator, who 

has not become ‘former’ yet and is trying to make his first steps in that direction. The 

deviation from the traditional pattern here lies in the complete lack of sympathy towards 

the young nipple (here nipple, a witty abbreviation instead of yuppie, stands 

for a New Irish Professional Person in London) by the name of Ed. We cannot say 

that Joyce makes the reader sympathize with Gallaher, but he makes his character less 

repellent for the reader. 

The main character, Dave, is evidently not a survivor in new circumstances. The 

feelings of humiliation and unreality incite him to commit a petit crime, the act which 

makes one think that he is subconsciously eager to be caught; eventually his protest 

bursts out in open hooliganism barring all the possibilities to stay in London. 

The story Phantom immediately provokes comparison to The Dead; even the title 

seems to be a periphrasis. An evening two pairs spend together reveals the breach 

between present and former Dubliners. Pete and Maria come home to Dublin for a 

few days, “just to say hello,” 22 and pay a visit to Jimmy and his new, by the time 

being, pregnant girlfriend Coral. All the ‘traditional’ things are there: excessive drink, 

talk of politics and nostalgia for the past, 

We’re talking about the old days. We’re talking about all the people who’ve 

gone away now. We think it’s sad, the way people have to go away from 

here to do anything. Jimmy says we just don’t care in this country. We treat 

people like sheep, then we’re surprised when they bleat. 23 

Finally Maria tells a story which she is always telling when drunk. “She’s very 

sentimental. She thinks about the past too much. Always this story too.” 24 The constant 

negotiating with the past on both communal and personal level discloses the 

indestructible ties of former Dubliners to their previous living space. 

The rough argument arising in the end can be explained away by alcoholic intoxication, 

“’It’s just a love affair,’ Jimmy sighs, ‘us Irish and drink…” 25 , or some 

secrets and lies; however, interpreted symbolically, it demonstrates a lack of communication 

between the past and the present. When Pete blames Jimmy that he will never 

change, the latter responds: “I hope not, Pete,’ he says. ‘I’ll leave all that to you.’” 26 

One more peculiarity strikes the attentive reader, and that is Maria’s bareness. 

Catriona, another female character in Mothers Were All the Same, came to London to 

make an abortion which could be interpreted as a symbolical entrance fee. Besides, 

the theme of sterility enters the story Glass Houses as well. These evidences evoke 

the association with animals who cannot breed in an alien environment. Notwithstanding 

how primitively behavioristic it seems to be, this way of interpretation emphasizes 

that former Dubliners forever stay connected to their native land and alien to 

any new place of living. Unless, of course, they do not change themselves. 

Refusal of ‘Irishness’ is shown as corruption in the book. Thus Shirley, a minor 

character, “trying to make it as a model” 27 pretentiously “was no good at all for Irish 

names. She really regretted it, actually, specially since she moved over here [to London], 

but she couldn’t speak a word of Irish.” 28 An attempt at mimicry based on the 

model of the former colonial subject is self–evident.


Shrewdness in Aunt Martha in Mothers finds its expression in her voice. The narrator 

“noticed her weird accent. She nearly didn’t sound Irish at all.” 29 It may be argued 

that Ireland as a space is directly associated with the past. In order to move onward into 

the future one needs to come to terms with it. Being cut off presents a negative state of 

existence, and, first of all, it is expressed through the loss of ‘Irishness’. 

Far from the original habitat, sense of belonging acquires additional significance. 

This feeling may be effectuated not only through the land; if habitation is 

problematized, communal spirit, family values, which are traditionally important for 

the Irish people, take a double load. In this connection, Camus claims that the only 

luxury which is left for people in the absurd world is human relationships. 30 

In The Long Way Home “running away from the wife” is equated to “running 

away from reality,” 31 being lost in the yellow mist proves to be a natural outcome of 

or punishment for leaving one’s family. No less natural seems the decision of the hero, 

Ray Priest, to come back home in the end. Ray’s final epiphany gives an insight into 

the complex notion of love. 

Ray Priest clung to his wife’s body. As he drifted into sleep, he began to 

see things clearly. He thought about his night, about the loneliness of a 

man who finds that he has to run from love. And he knew in those moments 

that love is not always about freedom. He could see it then, with 

the clarity that only half–sleep brings. He could see that love is often 

just a homecoming, and little more. And that the journey home of the 

heart is sometimes the longest of all. 32 

The story under the title Sink is less explicit; it serves as a metaphor of the inability, 

unwillingness to accept loneliness. Freedom of the Press highly praises the 

stability that only family can provide with in this unstable ever–changing world. 

In the story The Bedouin Feast the author has transferred the action to Tunisia. 

Although the narrative space is not problematic, the situation illustrates the old truth 

that “holidays…bring out the worst in people.” 33 All the controversy about the general 

recognition of the independent Republic of Ireland is brought along. “In this 

century, of course, the disjuncture has become more extreme, with the division between 

Ulster and Eire, one assertively within ‘the United Kingdom’, the other an 

independent state.” 34 The notions of ‘Ireland’ and ‘Irish’ are not commonly separated 

from ‘British’ or sometimes ‘English’; it is necessary to explain that Dublin is not a 

part of Britain, and “that the Republic was actually a separate country.” 35 

Joseph, as the central character, is an ideal type to bring the conflict into existence. 

His quick temper, lack of self–control and excessive drinking (all the features 

belonging to the stereotypical comic vision of an Irishman in literature) serve as a 

constant provocation. 

The problematic relationships between the Irish and English tourists are shown 

through a number of clichés: open accusations like “murderers” vs “savages”, strategy 

of nicknaming “Brit” vs “Paddy” witness strong resentment on both sides. 

“Strange how it all comes down to words, in the end.” 36 This line is from The 

Hills Are Alive which could be called a Belfast Romeo and Juliet story if it were not 

so queer. In fact it is about gay love between an IRA volunteer, Danny Sullivan, and


219 

a squaddy, Private Henry Wood. A strange relationship in a strange world where one 

remembers his first mission rather than “a first day in school. A first trip to the dentist 

maybe. A first kiss.” 37 A world where the only distinction of importance is 

whether you are “one of us or one of them.” 38 Everyone is made to take sides, but 

considers it “all a matter of free will and history.” 39 The deviation from traditional 

sexuality here leads to questioning of all other relationships and disruption of ‘official’ 

narratives. 

The narrators grow more mature towards the end of the story collection, although 

the fact finds its expression not through the age of the narrator. The essential indication 

is reaction to the events which ranges from the less responsible to the more 

“adult’ one. For example, in Mothers, the narrator facing the harsh reality and feeling 

his inability to cope with it, expresses the unconscious wish to return into the state of 

the embryo: 

I went to bed and stared at the ceiling. I wrapped the blanket tight around 

me. Really tight. Over my head. So tight that it felt like a second skin. 

And the whole world was shut out now, on the other side of the darkness. 

40 

In the last story True Believers, despite the young age, the narrator outgrows his 

father. 

And this was also the night that God died in my life. I found myself in a 

new world, into which death had come, a world in which death was now 

a possibility, and a fact which seemed to change the way I saw everything, 

in an instant of time... 41 

On the whole, the story mentioned above and The Greatest of These is Love are 

the most powerful and serve as a culmination point for this seemingly disunited collection. 

Since The Greatest of These is Love is about a Catholic Irish priest in London, 

naturally the Bible again makes an appearance, this time introduced by one of the 

most powerful and explicit Love Chapter, called so because of its influential description 

of love. In the context of the book the content of this sermon is a direct answer 

to the main question, namely, what it means to be a true believer, what is necessary 

‘to bear all things’. Love does not prevent sufferings, rather multiplies them, for 

“things don’t get any easier, no matter what people believe.” 42 At the same time love 

gives purpose, the pivotal point for one’s mind in this world full of absurdity. 

REFERENCES 

1 Hand D. The Future of Contemporary Irish Fiction, www.writerscentre.ie/anthology/ 

dhand.html 

2 Ibid. 

3 Êàìþ À. Ìèô î Ñèçèôå. Áóíòóþùèé ÷åëîâåê. Ïîïóððè. – Ìèíñê, 2000, p. 33. 

4 Joyce J. Dubliners, Wordsworth Classics. – Hertfordshire, 2001, p. 160.



6 Ibid, p. 68. 


dhand.html 

8 Culture – Literature and Drama in English, www.Ireland–information.com/reference/ 

English.html 


dhand.html 

10 O’Connor J. True Believers. – London: Flamingo, p. 5. 

11 Joyce J. Dubliners, Wordsworth Classics. – Hertfordshire, 2001, p. 51. 


13 Ibid, 36. 

14 Ibid,12. 

15 Ibid,12. 

16 Ibid, 12–13. 

17 Ibid, 17. 

18 Ibid, 20. 

19 Ibid, 20. 

20 Massie A. The Novel Today. – London: Longman, 1990, 31. 


22 Ibid, 61. 

23 Ibid, 64. 

24 Ibid, 67. 

25 Ibid, 70. 

26 Ibid, 75. 

27 Ibid, 11. 

28 Ibid, 11. 

29 Ibid, 23. 



32 Ibid, 118. 

33 Ibid, 121. 

34 Gillian B. The Island and the Aeroplane //Narration and Nation, edited by H. K. Bhabha, 

Routledge. – London, 1994, p. 269. 


36 Ibid, 160. 

37 Ibid, 170. 

38 Ibid, 177. 

39 Ibid, 182. 

40 Ibid, 31. 

41 Ibid, 237–238. 

42 Ibid, 238.


Kopsavilkums 

221 

Pçdçjo desmit gadu laikâ îru kultûras dzîvç notiek „renesanse”; tâs izpausme 

spilgti parâdâs arî daiïliteratûrâ. Stingri sakòojoties îru tradîcijâs, mûsdienu îru 

rakstniecîba ataino spçcîgo Îrijas izjûtu un “îriskumu”, kas ir jebkura vçstîjuma centrâ. 

Ðajâ sakarîbâ ir lietderîgi pievçrst uzmanîbu literâro tradîciju kontinuitâtei, kura ir 

saistîta ar daudziem slaveniem vârdiem – Dþ. Sviftu, Dþ. Dþoisu, S. Beketu un citiem. 

Tâpçc bûtiska ir jebkuru divu îru rakstnieku darbu salîdzinoðâ analîze, jo, lai gan ðos 

rakstniekus ðíir laiks, tos vieno nacionâlâs piederîbas izjûta. 

Ðis raksts ir divu grâmatu salîdzinoðâ analîze, proti, tiek salîdzinâts Dþozefa 

O’Konora stâstu krâjums „Patiesi ticîgie” (True Believers) un Dþeimsa Dþoisa 

“Dublinieði” (Dubliners). Diskusijas centrâ ir O’Konora stâsti, vienlaikus Dþoisa 

krâjumu izmantojot par atsauci. Analoìija parâdâs âtri, tomçr svarîgi, ka abi rakstnieki 

ievçro savos stâstos reâlistisko tradîciju un vieð cerîbu, nevis bezcerîbu absurda 

pasaulç. Ðajâ rakstâ mçìinu parâdît, kâ O’Konora darbâ atspoguïots îriskums un kâ 

tiek attîstîti Dþ. Dþoisa uzskati. Turklât O’Konora krâjuma analîze dod labu iespçju 

kodolîgi parâdît visas tçmas, kuras uztrauc mûsdienu îru autorus. O’Konora krâjumâ 

jûtama ne vien stipra piederîba literârai tradîcijai, bet tas rosina arî domât par 

vispârçjo piederîbu. Tâpçc îpaða uzmanîba veltîta telpas un identitâtes kopsakarîbâm. 

Eksistenciâlajai domai, ka cilvçka stâvoklis jau pçc savas bûtîbas ir absurds, ir svarîga 

nozîme: situâcijâ, kad dzîves telpa ir problemâtiska, kopapziòa, ìimenes vçrtîbas (kas 

patiesîbâ îriem ir tradicionâli svarîgas) kïûst divkârði nozîmîgas. Pçc Albera Kamî 

domâm, vienîgâ greznîba, kas cilvçkiem iespçjamas absurda pasaulç, ir cilvçciskâs 

attiecîbas. 

Ievçrojot mûsdienu îru rakstnieku moto, ka îru stâsts jâpârraksta vçlreiz un 

vçlreiz, galvenais darba mçríis ir parâdît, kâ mûsdienu îru autori atklâjuði Îrijas 

mainîgo seju.


MÂKSLA, 222.–229. lpp. 

Is T.S. Eliot’s objective correlative necessarily 

a male correlative? 

Vai Tomasa Stçrna Eljota mçría korelatîvs ir 

obligâti vîrieðu korelatîvs? 

Gunnar Arrias (Sweden) 

Ph. D. (University of Gothenburg) 

Stora Rännagården, Friggeråker, 521 96 Falköping, Sweden 

Phone: + 46 515 314 12, + 46 590 304 19 

geaar@hotmail.com 

The paper is an attempt at illuminating Eliot’s theory of an objective correlative in a somewhat 

wider context than the aesthetic–formal perspective of post–symbolism and new criticism. 

Eliot’s famous impersonal theory of poetry contains a strong element of repression. Also 

interpretation or explanation are repudiated, which is explained by the fact that interpretation 

(explanation) threatens to disclose what is feared or denied. Women or the female are among 

what is being repressed, but Eliot is also constantly trying to overcome his antagonisms. 

Keywords: objective correlative, impersonality, interpretation, explanation, gender conflict, 

the other. 

The critic and literary theorist T.S. Eliot is primarily associated with four concepts: 

objective correlative, dissociation of sensibility, impersonality and tradition. 

Here I’m going to focus on how Eliot’s theoretical and critical concerns are permeated 

by questions of gender. 

Eliot’s attitude towards women is by now a branch of Eliot studies. Several scholars 

have been anxious to point out that Eliot is depicting both men, women and sexuality 

in a disgusting way and that in The Waste Land it is primarily women who are 

made to suffer by male protagonists. David Moody diagnoses “a fear of the human 

city and of human relations”, a fear of being an “alien drowning in the feminine element” 

in “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”. In “The Waste Land it is women 

who suffer the anxiety” being “the victims of a man’s world [...] “But they cannot be 

said to arrive at a detached consciousness of it. It is the male subject who practises 

detachment, and precisely from them in their suffering.” 1 

Colleen Lamos in Deviant Modernism sees Eliot’s critical writings as a “sustained 

attempt to identify and weed out error from the practice of literary criticism”, errors 

which she categorises into “perversion, inversion, impure mingling, and dissemination”. 

2 Eliot explicitly connects personality and subjectivity with perversion in “Tradition 

and the Individual Talent”. Lamos, like Frank (below), sees Eliot as betraying 

subjective personality in the very act of renunciation, referring to the host of critics 

“discovering that Eliot commits the very mistakes that he decries” 3 : “The impersonality 

thesis seems designed to fail [...] the disavowal of the expression of one’s feelings 

may be another way of indulging them, through the act of renunciation.” 4 

It is not possible here to enter into a full discussion, in all its ramifications, of the 

questions of gender and sexuality in Eliot. I shall restrain myself to some comments

Gunnar Arrias. Vai Tomasa Stçrna Eljota mçría korelatîvs ir obligâti vîrieðu korelatîvs? 

223 

on Jacqueline Rose’s question, in an essay entitled “Hamlet, the Mona Lisa of Literature?”, 

5 whether Eliot’s objective correlative is a male correlative (perhaps the term 

corrective would be more appropriate in the case Rose is arguing). 

The idea of an objective correlative was presented in a review article, “Hamlet 

and his Problems” (1919), which came to be included in The Sacred Wood (1920), 

where Eliot advocates the idiosyncratic view that Shakespeare’s Hamlet is an artistic 

failure. Here I’m going to offer a rough interpretation of the concept of an objective 

correlative and then confront it with a feminist assault. 

Louis Menand doesn’t find the concept of an objective correlative a particularly 

original one, adding that it immediately collapses under analysis. Nonetheless everybody 

“almost intuitively” seemed to understand what Eliot meant. 6 Hugh Kenner pertinently 

points out that Eliot had a dangerous gift of phrase. 7 

This is how Eliot defines the objective correlative: 

The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an 

“objective correlative”; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a 

chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion; 

such that when the external facts, which must terminate in sensory experience, 

are given, the emotion is immediately evoked. 8 

In a fairly representative survey, Literary theory: From Plato to Barthes (1999), 

Richard Harland sees the objective correlative as an extension of the symbol lining 

up with the more “technical” attitude of the new criticism with its stress on imagery, 

aesthetic autonomy and impersonality (anti–intentionalism). 9 In opposition to 

Harland–type interpretation of the objective correlative (a dominant internal aesthetic 

point of view) I believe that the notion of an objective correlative is best understood 

from the point of view of semantic–epistemological considerations and also from the 

point of view of the problem of expression within philosophical aesthetics. (I’m not 

going to deal with the latter question in this paper.) “Hamlet and his problems” can 

be illuminated by Eliot’s occupation during his Harvard years with questions of epistemology 

and hermeneutics. With Eliot problems of interpretation, understanding and 

explanation were deeply embedded in religious and existential meditations. 

The locus classicus concerning Eliot’s ideal of impersonality is of course “Tradition 

and Individual Talent” (1919), 10 but as will subsequently become clear there is a 

charge in the Hamlet–essay against Shakespeare’s being unable to objectify his emotions; 

hence becoming too personal. Ronald Bush, in T.S. Eliot. A Study in Character 

and Style (1984), manages to strike a delicate balance in his assessment of impersonality 

in Eliot: “In the time of ‘Gerontion’ and The Waste Land, Eliot’s poetry is ‘obsessed 

with disclosing [...] ‘the self that wills’ [...] his prose of the same period is 

devoted to establishing a theoretical basis for discriminating between the two selves.” 

Bush argues that Eliot found this theoretical basis in the philosophy of the idealist 

philosopher G.H. Bradley, whose philosophy was subjected a doctoral dissertation by 

Eliot, Knowledge and Experience (1916). Through notions like “locus of experience” 

or “point of view” or “finite center” Bradley offered a way “to discount the naive 

view that the poet’s work is continuous with his breakfast conversation. A problem 

arises, however, when critics superimpose the terms of Eliot´s dissertation on a few


of his famous essays (especially ‘Tradition an the Individual Talent’) and speak of 

his rigorously ‘impersonal’ poetry.” 11 

A similar dissociation of “personality” into two senses found in Rémy de 

Gourmont enabled Eliot “to characterize it [impersonality] to be something to be both 

wished for and disdained”. 12 According to Bush Eliot is “true to the romantic attitude 

that ‘the business of the poet’ is to express his feelings..... ‘the creation of a work of 

art... consists in the process of transfusion of the personality, or, in a deeper sense, 

the life, of the author into the character’”. 13 According to Armin P. Frank, Die 

Sehnsucht nach dem unteilbaren Sein (1973) the very fervour with which Eliot in 

1919 denies the importance of personal experience for creating poetry betrays his 

very personal motivation, while “auch das Unterdrücken von Persöhnlichkeitszügen 

ist eine Form ihres Ausdrucks”. Frank also notices the elements of life–nausea and 

awareness of sin, which underline the element of repression in Eliot’s theory of impersonality. 

14 True, Frank speaks primarily about “Tradition and Individual Talent” 

but his comments are obviously pertinent to the Hamlet–essay as well. 

“Hamlet and his problems” starts as a review of two scholarly works on 

Shakespeare. Their historical matter of fact–approach is amply praised by Eliot, who 

proceeds to repudiate interpretation: 

Qua work of art, the work of art cannot be interpreted; there is nothing 

to interpret; we can only criticise it according to standards, in comparison 

to other works of art; and for “interpretation” the chief task is the 

presentation of relevant historical facts which the reader is not assumed 

to know. 15 

Creative interpretation only expresses the personality of the interpreter, which 

means that the repudiation of interpretation merges with the repudiation of the expression 

of personality or self. Goethe and Coleridge both instantiate “that most dangerous 

type of critic: the critic with a mind which is naturally of the creative order”; 

hence their “writing of Hamlet is the most misleading kind possible”. As will become 

evident, Eliot does not stick particularly close to his against interpretation – stance. 

The tension between description and interpretation is essential to Eliot’s thinking. 

During his Harvard years Eliot was occupied with hermeneutical questions, such as 

how do we understand an another culture, is it possible to acquire scientific knowledge 

of cultures or of history or are we confined within a web of interpretations? The 

leap from facts to interpretation is analogous to the anthropologist’s step from collection 

of facts to explanation or interpretation. In the preface to his mother’s dramatic 

poem Savonarola (1926) Eliot remarks that the role of interpretation has been 

unduly neglected within epistemology referring to an early “paper” read at the Josiah 

Royce seminar at Harvard, “The interpretation of primitive ritual” (1913). The paper 

is characterized as “a humble attempt to show that in many cases no interpretation of 

a rite could explain its origin”. 16 Obviously Eliot’s attitude towards interpretation is 

ambivalent. This ambivalence is also displayed in his assessment of the respective 

virtues of Freud and Frazer. Reviewing the final, abridged, edition of The Golden 

Bough in 1922 Eliot praises Frazer for abstaining from hypotheses [explanations or 

interpretations] and limiting himself to descriptions:


[W]ith every fresh volume […] Frazer has withdrawn in more and more 

cautious abstention from the attempt to explain […] It is a work of no 

less importance for our time than the complementary work of Freud […] 

and it is a work of perhaps greater permanence, because it is a statement 

of fact which is not involved in the maintenance or fall of any theory of 

the author’s. 17 

225 

But Frazer is a typical representative of “positivist” reductionism regarding religion 

as some sort of primitive science which has long ago been superseded by real 

science! Reviewing a violently abridged edition of Frazer’s work, Eliot obviously 

distorts the picture of what Frazer aimed at achieving. As Richard Wollheim has remarked, 

there is in Eliot a fear of the intellect. 18 An aspect of this fear is Eliot’s hostility 

towards explanation or interpretation. 

There is a shyness–theory to explain Eliot’s repudiation of the expression of 

personality as well as of creative interpretation. Of more general interest I find an 

explanation that considers the ethical and religious restrictions on the expressing of 

personality. Why does Eliot repudiate explanation or interpretation within the humanities? 

Well, explanation or interpretation within the humanities tend to be projective 

or expressive on a par with artistic self–expression. Interpretation or explanation 

within, say, psychology, religion and ethics tend to promulgate your own convictions 

in these areas. Correspondingly, and this I think is most pertinent in Eliot’s case, they 

risk challenging your own convictions and ideals. Interpretation or explanation came 

to represent a “modernist” threat to Eliot’s personal convictions and to his upholding 

of the notion of tradition. When Eliot in 1913 started attending the philosopher Josiah 

Royce’s seminar he had earlier that year produced a “paper” which concludes that 

the attempt at reducing “ethics to a logical science (as well as the modern attempt to 

reduce it to a biological science) must end in partial failure”. Müller, Tylor and Frazer 

as well as the French sociologists Durkheim and Lévy–Bruhl seemed to Eliot to 

threaten “the very existence of religious beliefs”. 19 

Just as Eliot praises Frazer’s pure descriptions or statements of fact (in the same 

breath as he condemns Freudian explanation or interpretation) he repudiates the interpretation 

of works of art in favour of “the presentation of relevant historical facts”. 

Interpretation of Hamlet would lead Eliot not only to “the inexpressibly horrible” but 

to his “inexpressibly horrible”. But obviously Eliot is unable to uphold his anti– 

interpretationalist stance. 

What I’m driving at here has been illuminatingly caught in David Spurrs Conflicts 

in Consciousness: T.S. Eliots Poetry and Criticism (1984): 

Eliot’s elaborate display of objectivity [...] may momentarily divert our 

attention from the strong undercurrent of fear and violence that runs 

through the essay “Hamlet and his problems” [...] Eliot really wants a 

better defence against the forces of madness that surface only too clearly 

in Shakespeare’s play [...] Eliot offers his notion of the objective correlative 

as a possible means of controlling these dark powers [...] as a 

defence against his personal involvement in the struggle he ascribes to 

Hamlet. 20


You can not really understand the ardour with which Eliot repudiates interpretation 

and personality apart from the fact that Eliot involves himself in a contradictory 

strategy since he is himself offering a roughly Freudian interpretation of Hamlet the 

character as well as of Hamlet the play and Shakespeare, its author. And in these 

manoeuvres in obscure ways he is mirroring himself. 

* 

Anti–expressivism and anti–interpretationalism thus merge in a repressive movement 

in some of Eliot’s critical writing as well as in some of his poetry. Of course 

Eliot is repressing sexuality, but is he therein also repressing the female? Rose argues 

that the concept of the ‘objective correlative’ [...] was originally [...] a reproach 

against the character of a woman. The woman in question is Gertrude .... [who] is not 

good enough aesthetically, that is, bad enough psychologically, which means that in 

relationship to the affect which she generates by her behaviour in the chief character 

of the drama – Hamlet himself – Gertrude is not deemed a sufficient cause. 21 

Rose like Spurr sees the notion of an objective correlative as the upholding of 

decorum. To this analysis she adds the notion of the “difference”, what cannot be 

understood or expressed, as “femininity”. Eliot’s diagnosis of Hamlet as the Mona 

Lisa of literature is taken to reveal that to Eliot the feminine is the archetype of the 

enigmatic. Rose’s analysis is certainly pertinent to the deeper layers in “Hamlet and 

his Problems”. Still her focusing on gender issues can be better understood within a 

wider context. The fear of or repudiation of women is part of a cluster of antagonisms: 

the savage, the (working class) mob, the stranger, or the immigrant. These fears 

in the urban jungle of The Waste Land are highlighted in Joseph Mc Laughlin’s The 

Urban Jungle. Reading Empire in London from Doyle to Eliot (2000). The corresponding 

obsession with the question of eugenics in its literal and metaphoric modes 

is studied by Donald J. Childs in Modernism and Eugenics. Woolf, Yeats, and the 

Culture of Degeneration (2001). 

But it must also be emphasised that these are no clear cut antagonisms. In a 

fascinating study, Modernism and Mass Politics (1995), Michael Tratner convincingly 

argues that Eliot along with co–modernists held an ambivalent attitude towards the 

mob, women, and savages. Often these agents merge: the mob is often given female 

characteristics or identified with woman. But Eliot also wants to identify with his own 

“mob part of the mind”. 22 Modernist difficulty has often been seen as an expression 

of elitist arrogance, of the modernist in the ivory tower, but Tratner sees modernist 

difficulty as expressive of a will to represent and identify with the mob. Culture could 

offer something to both the mob and the intellectuals: what Eliot called “myth.” He 

saw, for example, Communism and Catholicism both possessing these ingredients: 

“The great merit of Communism is the same as the one merit of the 

Catholic church, that there is something in which minds at every level 

can grasp.... Communism has what is now called a ‘myth’” [...] The 

Waste Land is a poem aimed at producing a myth ... Eliot’s focus in The 

Waste Land was consequently on transforming leadership. The poem is 

a critique of high culture for having lost touch with the mob and the mob 

part of the mind – having lost touch with the roots of culture. 23


227 

You also find this ambivalence in Eliot’s attitude towards women and sexuality. 

William Skaff senses a will to overcome the gulf between subject and object in the 

theory of an objective correlative. 24 This conflict also is mirrored in the conflict between 

body and soul, the thwarted attitude towards sexuality. 

Discussing the imagery of Dante Eliot concludes that the inferno of Dante is not 

a place but a state that can only be thought and experienced “by the projection of 

sensory images”. This is a not too distant echo of the characterisation of the objective 

correlative: “the only way to express emotion in a work of art [...] must terminate 

in sensory experience”. Eliot continues that “the resurrection of the body has perhaps 

a deeper meaning than we understand”. 25 The gloss on Dante, obviously echoing the 

theory of an objective correlative, are thus associated with the resurrection of the 

body, which in context also means a confession to the body. Dante is favourably compared 

to Donne: one abyss Donne according to Eliot cannot bridge is the one between 

body and soul: “The apparent “glorification of the body appreciated by many admirers 

of Donne is really a puritanical attitude.” In Dante, however, “There is no imagined 

struggle of soul and body, only the one struggle toward perfection.” 26This theme 

of harmonizing, or rather overcoming, body and soul is captured in the title of Armin 

P. Frank’s magisterial Die Sehnsucht nach dem unteilbaren Sein. The title is pertinent 

not only for the criticism of Eliot but also for his poetry and drama. 

* 

There is then more than something to Jacqueline Rose’s analysis of the gender– 

tension in “Hamlet and his problems”. Still her analysis, to my mind, is somewhat 

simplistic. One obvious objection to her conclusion that Eliot is finding the female 

not worthy as an objective correlative is to point out the possibility that Mona Lisa is 

merely figuring as an archetype of an enigmatic work of art, and that it is not femininity 

in itself which is found enigmatic and hence abominable.(The possibility also 

remains that Eliot’s connecting the enigmatic to the abominable in “Hamlet and his 

Problems” is ad hoc.) The fact that Gertrude isn’t bad enough hardly proves that Eliot 

is finding fault with the woman. Rather he’s finding fault with Hamlet the play, Hamlet 

the character and Shakespeare the author. Furthermore, Eliot’s positive example 

of an objective correlative is associated with one of Shakespeare’s most austere and 

forbidding female characters, Lady Macbeth, by common consent “bad enough”: 

If you examine any of Shakespeare’s most successful tragedies, you will 

find this exact equivalence; you will find that the state of mind of Lady 

Macbeth walking in her sleep has been communicated to you by a skilful 

accumulation of imagined sensory expressions; the words of Macbeth 

on hearing of his wife’s death strike us as if, given the sequence of 

events, these words were automatically released by the last event of the 

series. The artistic “inevitability” lies in this complete inadequacy of the 

external to the emotion; and this is precisely what is deficient in Hamlet. 

27 

In this short paper I have tried to illuminate Eliot’s theory of an objective correlative 

in a somewhat wider context than those of post–symbolism and new criticism. 

Anti–expressivism (impersonality) and anti–interpretationalism have been


regarded from the perspective that interpretation (explanation) threatens to disclose 

what is feared or denied; hence the strong element of repression in Eliot’s hostility 

towards interpretation and self–expression. Women or the female are among what is 

being repressed, but Eliot is also constantly trying to overcome his antagonisms. 

My own motivation in writing this paper can, at the risk of sounding pretentious, 

best be described in the words of the American poet Denise Levertov, “Pleasures”: “I 

like to find / what’s not found / at once, but lies / within something of another nature 

...” In no way have I been trying to perform any kind of Ehrenrettung of Eliot confronted 

with feminist criticism. 

REFERENCES 

1 Moody A. D. Tracing T.S. Eliot’s Spirit: Essays on his Poetry and Thought (‘Being in 

Fear of Women’), Cambridge University Press, 1996, pp. 184–185. 

2 Lamos C. Deviant Modernism: Sexual and Textual Errancy // T.S. Eliot, James Joyce, and 

Marcel Proust, Cambridge University Press, 1998, p. 17. 

3 Ibid, p. 23. 

4 Ibid, p. 24. 

5 Rose J. Hamlet – the Mona Lisa of Literature (1986) //Harriet Davidson, ed. 

T. S. Eliot. – London & New York, 1999. 

6 Menand. “T.S. Eliot” //The Cambridge history of literary criticism, Vol. VII, Modernism 

and the new criticism. – Cambridge, 2000, p. 20. 

7 Kenner H. The invisible poet. – New York, 1959, p. 102. 

8 The sacred wood: Essays on poetry and criticism. – London and New York, 1920, p. 

100, 101. 

9 Harland R. Literary Theory from Plato to Barthes: An Introductory History. – London: 

MacMillan Press, 1999. 

10 The sacred wood: Essays on poetry and criticism. – London and New York, 1920. 

11 Bush R. T.S. Eliot: A Study in Character and Style (1984), Oxford University Press, 1985, 

p. 43. 

12 Ibid, p. 44. 

13 Ibid, p. 45, 47. 

14 Armin P. F. Die Sehnsucht nach dem unteilbaren Sein: Motive und Motivation in der 

Literaturkritik T.S. Eliots. – München, 1973, p. 143. 

15 The sacred wood: Essays on poetry and criticism. – London and New York, 1920, s. 96 f. 

16 Eliot T.S. Introduction (p. viii) to Charlotte Eliot, Savonarola: A Dramatic Poem. – 

London, 1926. 

17 Gray P. T.S. Eliot’s intellectual and poetic development 1909–1922, Sussex. 1982, p. 131. 

18 Wollheim R. Eliot and Bradley F.H. On art and the mind: Essays and lectures. – London, 

1973. 

19 Jain M. T. S. Eliot and American philosophy: The Harvard years. – Cambridge, 1992, 

p. 115. 

20 Spurr D. Conflicts in consciousnes: T.S. Eliot’s poetry and criticism. – Urbana, 1984, pp. 

113–115.


229 

21 Rose J. Hamlet – the Mona Lisa of Literature (1986) //Harriet Davidson, ed. T. S. Eliot. – 

London & New York, 1999, p. 181. 

22 Tratner M. Modernism and Mass Politics: Joyce, Woolf, Eliot Yeats, Stanford University 

Press 1995, p. 101. Tratner cites from Eliot’s essay ‘The Humanism of Irving Babbitt’ 

(1928). 

23 Tratner, pp. 168–169. Tratner quotes from Eliot, ‘A Commentary,’ Criterion 12, N° 49, 

July , 1933, p. 644. 

24 Skaff W. The Philosophy of T.S. Eliot: From Skepticism to a Surrealist Poetic 

1909–1927. – Philadelphia, 1986, p. 

25 Eliot T. S. Dante (1929). – New York, 1974, p. 32. 

26 “The Clark Lectures at Trinity College, Cambridge, 1926” //Eliot T. S. The Varieties of 

Metaphysical Poetry. Edited and introduced by Ronald Schuchard. – London, 1993, 

p. 114. 

Kopsavilkums 

Rakstâ mçìinâts aplûkot Tomasa Stçrna Eljota objektîvo korelâtu teoriju ne tikai 

no postsimbolisma un jaunâs kritikas estçtiski formâlâs perspektîvas viedokïa, bet gan 

nedaudz plaðâkâ kontekstâ. Eljota pazîstamajai dzejas bezpersoniskuma teorijai 

piemît spçcîgs represîvs elements. Tâ arî noraida interpretâcijas vai skaidrojuma 

iespçju, skaidrojot to ar faktu, ka interpretâcija (skaidrojums) draud atklât to, kas 

izraisa bailes vai tiek noliegts. Sieviete vai sieviðíais tiek apspiests, kaut gan Eljots 

pastâvîgi cenðas pârvarçt savas pretrunas.


MÂKSLA, 230.–238. lpp. 

Das eigene und das fremde – land und folk in einigen 

kulturhistorischen schrriften baltischer herkunft 

The Own and the Foreign: Land and People in Some 

Baltic Writings of Cultural Historical Importance 

Savçjais un sveðais – zeme un ïaudis daþos baltieðu 

izcelsmes kultûrvçsturiskos tekstos 

Ivars Orehovs (Latvia) 

Latvijas Universitâtes Moderno valodu fakultâtes 

Literatûras un kultûras nodaïa 

Visvalþa iela 4a, Rîga, LV 1050, 

e–pasts: ivars.orehovs@lu.lv 

Eigenes und Fremdes – diese zwei Erscheinungen sind wesentlich sowohl für literarische 

Texte, als auch für kulturhistorische Schriften. Deshalb erscheint es angebracht, aus 

geschichtlicher Perspektive mögliche Ausdrucksformen dieser Begriffe zu untersuchen. 

Als zeitlicher Ausgangspunkt wird hier wegen einer Beschleunigung ökonomischer– und 

Handelstätigkeiten im Herzogtum Kurland, so auch der Reformansprüche der schwedischen 

Regierung in Liefland das XVII. Jahrhundert gewählt. 

Aus der Vielfalt der literarischen Genres haben mehrere eine nahe Verwandtschaft zu 

dokumentarischen Materialien. In der Untersuchung werden folgende kulturhistorische 

Erscheinungen analysiert: ein Tagebuch (Erik Dahlbergh Tagebuch), zwei Autobiographien 

(Urban Hjärne Die Autobiographie und Agneta Horn Das Leben), eine Reisebeschreibung 

(Johann Arnold von Brand Die Reisebeschreibung) und ein panegyrischer Text (das Poem von 

Christian Bornmann Mitau). 

Ein öfters vorkommendes Merkmal in der Grenzziehung zwischen dem Eigenen und dem 

Fremden in den Texten des XVII. Jahrhunderts ist die historisch bedingte Einteilung in Christen 

(Deutsche) und Heiden (Letten, Liefen – „Undeutsche”), eine andere Art der 

Differenzierung – nach der sozialen Zugehörigkeit und zuletzt, aber nicht minder wichtig – im 

Persönlichen, Privaten einerseits, und den Vorgängen in der umgebenden Welt andererseits (in 

Tagebüchern). 

Bemerkenswert, dass es keine spezielle Teilungsabsicht nach der nationalen Zugehörigkeit gibt, 

im Gegenteil – in einem multikulturellen Milieu erscheint eine Möglichkeit der Herausbildung 

eines gesunden Lokalpatriotismus. 

Keywords: Latvija, Baltija; literatûra, kultûrvçsture; XVII–XX gs. avoti vâcu un zviedru 

valodâ. 

Die Präsenz des Eigenen und des Fremden als wesentliches und Wert 

bestimmendes Element ist ein wichtiges Merkmal literarischer Texte und 

kulturhistorischer Schriften. Deshalb erscheint es angebracht, aus geschichtlicher 

Perspektive mögliche Ausdrucksformen dieser Begriffe zu untersuchen. Als Beispiel 

dafür eignet sich – wegen der internationalen Bedeutung und der damit verbundenen 

komplexen Geschichte — besonders das Baltikum, und hier vor allem Kurland und 

Liefland. Als zeitlichen Ausgangspunkt wählen wir das XVII. Jahrhundert: das Leben 

im Herzogtum Kurland nimmt in dieser Zeit dank einer Beschleunigung der 

ökonomischen Aktivitäten und der dadurch verursachten Zunahme der ausländischen

Ivars Orehovs. Savçjais un sveðais – zeme un ïaudis daþos baltieðu izcelsmes kultûrvçsturiskos .. 

231 

Handelstätigkeit einen deutlichen Aufschwung. Die liefländische Lebensart erfährt 

anstelle des früher herrschenden polnischen Einflusses einen neuen, schwedischen 

Einschlag, der zugleich mit der politischen Macht auch Ansprüche auf Reformen 

erhebt (z.B., Güterreduktion, Einführung der allgemeinen Grundschulpflicht durch 

Karl XI.) und schwedische Beamte ins Land bringt. Unverändert aber bleibt die 

einheimische (d.h. lettische) Mehrheit und die deutsche Oberschicht sowohl in 

Kurland als auch in Liefland. Es soll hier betont werden, dass schriftliche Zeugnisse 

von lettischen Muttersprachlern bis zum XIX. Jahrhundert wegen des historisch 

bedingten nationalen und sozialen Untertanenstatus praktisch fehlen. Den Letten 

bleibt nur die mündliche Überlieferung des Volkslieds, sowie die Volkstrachten und 

die Volkskunst in Gebäuden, Geräten und Schnitzereien. 

Aus der Vielfalt der literarischen Genres, die eine nahe Verwandtschaft zu 

dokumentarischen Material zu haben pflegen, kann man das Tagebuch, die 

Selbstbiographie und die Reisebeschreibung hervorheben. Hier sollte man auch ältere 

Gelegenheitsdichtungen oder panegyrische Texte nennen. Dieses Material besitzt, wenn 

auch in unterschiedlichem Maße, einen unverkennbaren kulturhistorischen Wert. 

Es gibt natürlich deutliche Unterschiede zwischen den genannten vier Genres, 

was den Grad des Vorherrschens des Eigenen betrifft: es ist meist mehr mit dem 

Privaten und Intimen von Tagebüchern und Selbstbiografien verbunden, während 

unmittelbar an die Öffentlichkeit gerichtete Reisebeschreibungen und Lobgedichte 

dadurch charakterisiert sind, dass sie die Eigen–Fremd–Beziehungen auf komplizierte 

Weise darstellen. 

Zu den charakteristischen Besonderheiten von Tagebüchern gehört es, dass die 

täglichen Beobachtungen und Erlebnisse eine direkte Aufzeichnung erfordern und 

sich meistens über längere, nicht selten lebenslange Zeiträume erstrecken. Dies 

begünstigt eine stilistische Vielfalt. Ein gutes Beispiel ist etwa das Tagebuch des 

schwedischen Kriegsherren, Zeichners und Amtmannes Erik Dahlbergh (1625–1703). 

Sein letzter Posten im Auftrage des Königreichs Schweden war der des 

Generalgouverneurs von Liefland mit Sitz in Riga (1696–1702). Zum Unterschied von den 

breit angelegten, belletristisch orientierten Tagebuchaufzeichnungen seiner Jugend in 

Schweden fällt auf, dass die Bemerkungen über seine Zeit als Gouverneur in Liefland 

überwiegend sachlich sind – es werden aktuelle Aufträge mit Angaben zurückgelegter 

Wegstrecken aufgezählt (eine Art Berichterstattung über Dienstreisen). Der Verfasser 

beginnt bzw. endet seine Berichte oft mit kurzen zeittypischen andachtsliterarischen und 

auf das persönlich Eigene gerichteten Redensarten, so z.B. in der ‘Inschrift vom Jahre 

1699‘: Der Allerhöchste, belohne uns mit einem freudigen Neuen Jahr. Da nun einmal 

Seine Königliche Majestät gnädigst befehlt hat, dass die Akademie, welche der König 

Gustav Adolf Anno 1632 in Dorpat errichtet hatte, wegen des Ortes Unbequemlichkeit 

nach Pernau transportiert werden müsse und ich als Cancellario den Auftrag 

bekommen habe, deren Inauguration zu verrichten, darum reise ich den 18. August 

von Riga aus nach Zanikou,3 ¼, und dann nach Byrings Krug, 3 ½, 6 ¾ Meilen. Den 

19. nach Pernigel, 3 ¼, Frietags Krug, 3 ¼, und nach Salis Krug, 3 ¼, 9 ¾ Meilen. 

Den 20. nach Gudmansbach, 5 Meilen. Den 28. August geschah die Inauguration, von 

mir glücklich und wohl geleitet, mit gehörigem Pomp und Ceremonier, Ehre sei Gott, 

zu meinem größten Lobe. 1


Den Hang zur Darlegung des persönlich Eigenen mit mehr ausgeprägter 

Einbeziehung des auf Reisen reflektierten Lebensmaterials beobachtet man z.B. in der 

Autobiographie des schwedischen Arztes, Literaten und Sprachforschers Urban 

Hjärne (1641–1724). Nach dem Aufenthalt in Reval (Tallinn) und Studien in Dorpat 

(Tartu) führt ihn eine Dienstverpflichtung im Jahre 1666 nach Riga, wo er zum 

Leibarzt des derzeit neu berufenen liefländischen Generalgouverneurs Claes Tott 

wird. 2 Nichts mehr erfahren wir als bloß diejenigen Tatsachen, dass Hjärne in seiner 

Rigaer Zeit, um besser die Zeit zu verbringen und sich in seinem Beruf zu üben, 

Soldaten der schwedischen Garnison nicht nur am Rande der Stadt, sondern auch die 

in den Festungen von Cobron und Neumünde besucht. 3 Er betont hier auch seine 

Neigung zum Reisen und Wandern4 , die in Verbindung mit eigenen dienstlichen 

Aufträgen ihm die Möglichkeit erschafft, sich auf den Weg zu begeben durch 

Kurland, das vom Herzog sehr gut und mächtig gepflegt 5 ist. 

Also, in der Lebensbeschreibung ist diese lakonische, aber deutliche Bewertung 

des Fremden Kurlandes anzutreffen. Ausführlicher, mit Anspruch auf eine kurze 

Schilderung, wird die Stadt Hamburg vorgestellt – der Verfasser erinnert sich des 

schönen Gartens, welcher damals in voller Blüte stand,… großartige Bauten. 6 

Eine weibliche Alternative der Selbstbiographie jener Zeit bildet mit sich das 

bekannte Agneta Horns (1629–1672) Leben oder Beschreibung über meine 

Wanderungszeit. A. Horn beginnt ihre Lebensbeschreibung mit einem solchen 

Hinweis: Am 18. August Anno 1629 und an einem Montagsmorgen um 7 Uhr bin 

ich, Agneta Horn, Tochter von Gustaf, geboren in dieser bösen und für mich sehr 

mühseligen und jammervollen Welt in der Stadt Riga…7 und ein wenig weiter folgt 

eine Erklärung für diese klägliche Bewertung: Sofort, in meiner frühesten Kindheit, 

begann man mich um die Welt herumzuschleppen. Denn meine Frau Mutter nahm 

mich mit sich von Riga weg, als ich 6 Wochen alt war, und reiste zu meinem Herrn 

Vater, der sich damals im Lager gegen die Polen in Kurland bafand, und dort 

lagerten wir den ganzen diesen Herbst bis zum Winter. 8 Danach verlässt Agneta Horn 

die baltischen Gebiete. Ihre Erzählweise zieht von Anfang an eine deutliche Grenze 

zwischen dem Eigenen – dem persönlichen und im Rahmen der Familie zu 

behaltenden emotionellen Faden – einerseits, und dem Fremden, d.h. Unannehmbaren 

der umgebenden Welt – andererseits. Dieses offenbar angeborene Unterscheidungsbedürfnis 

verlässt die Verfasserin im Laufe der Beschreibung nie. Es soll 

hier angemerkt werden, dass A. Horn in der Einleitung die Absicht zum Ausdruck 

bringt, mit ihrer Erzählung der elenden und sehr abscheulichen Wanderungszeit 

indem zum Ausdruck bringt, dass sie zeigen will, …wie der Gott immer… geholfen 

hat, mit guter Geduld durch alle Widerwärtigkeiten. 9 Der Christliche Gott ist also das 

wahre Eigene. 

Als eine genug würdige “Gegenspielerin” (und in gewissem Sinne auch 

“Mitspielerin”) der Selbstbiographie im Kontext des Begriffspaares Eigen contra 

Fremd kann schon der Mission nach auf Fremdenerkenntnis fixierte 

Reisebeschreibung gelten. Aus kulturhistorischer Perspektive beachtenswert erscheint 

hier die Leistung des Johann Arnold von Brand. Er war der Begleiter des Abgesandten 

des Kurfürstentums Brandenburg und verfasste eine Reisebeschreibung mit dem Titel 

Reysen durch Marck Brandenburg, Preussen, Churland, Liefland, Plescowien,…


233 

Twerien und Moscowien. Die Reise selbst wurde Ende des Jahres 1673 ausgeführt, 

die Veröffentlichung aber – wahrscheinlich aufgrund der Bemerkungen – erst im Jahre 

1702 realisiert (die Ursachen dieser zeitlichen Distanz sind noch ungeklärt). 

Der Struktur nach sieht man hier eine ziemlich deutliche Aussonderung des 

Eigenen, d.h. der Darlegung des Reiseverlaufs – als eines Rechenschaftsberichtes 

über zurückgelegte Wegstrecken, Speisungs– und Übernachtungsstellen, aber auch 

kurzer Angaben über die Lage der Wege (z.B., übler, ziemlich böser, sumpfiger, 

ziemlich guter Weg) und militärisch solide, genaue Beschreibungen fremder 

Verteidigungsanlagen wie z.B. Bollwerke usw. Eine literarisch karikierende Tendenz 

hat z.B., die Schilderung der diplomatischen Begegnung an der russischen Grenze 

zwischen dem Abgesandten und dem vom Zaren abgeordneten Pristaff aus Plescow, 

der 4 Tage auf sich warten läßt. 10 

Den eigentlichen kulturhistorischen Wert der Erkenntnis des Fremdenwesens 

haben diejenigen Kapitel, wo der Verfasser mit genügender Takt, objektivierend (d.h., 

auch unabhängig der nationalen Zugehörigkeit) und im möglichst weiten Ausmaß die 

Lebensweise in Kurland und Liefland darlegt. Es wird hier sowohl eine ziemlich 

genaue ethnographische Beschreibung des Bauernlebens vorgestellt [Kleidung, 

Häuser, Wirtschaft, Bräuche, Heilkunde (mit Hilfe der Badestuben und des 

Brandweins), Religionswesen (wo nach mehreren Jahrhunderten seit der Einführung 

des Christentums oft noch abergläubische, im Heidentum verwurzelte, 

Opfertraditionen existieren, die dem Verfasser als fremd und beseitigungswert 

erscheinen)], als auch ihre sozialrechtlichen, von der Leibeigenschaft bedingten, 

Beziehungen zu den hauptsächlich deutschen, aber auch polnischen (in Kurland) 

Edelleuten gezeigt. Anders als in Kurland dürfen die liefländischen Bauern zu 

schweren körperlichen Strafen nicht ohne die Hinzuziehung eines ordentlichen 

Gerichtes verurteilt werden. J.A. von Brand sieht die schlechte Situation der Bauern 

sehr deutlich, erkennt aber die positiven juristisch–reformatorischen Tendenzen in 

dem von Schweden verwalteten Liefland; außerdem werden auch die Leistungen des 

schwedischen Landvermessungswesen im XVII. Jahrhundert anerkannt: nach Brands 

Beobachtungen werden von Riga an bis durch ganz Liefland alle Meilen auf 

sonderbaren an den Landstraßen aufgerichteten Pfählen abgemessen. 11 Die 

ökonomische Lage ist in Kurland besser. In Liefland sind, abgesehen vom regen 

Handelsverkehr mit Holland in Riga, viele durch “Moscowiten” verursachte 

Zerstörungen zu beobachten (russisch–schwedische Kriegshandlungen von 1656 bis 

1661). 

Man spürt, dass Brand mit dieser Reisebeschreibung schon im XVII. Jahrhundert 

einen Versuch unternommen hat, dem eventuellen Fremdenverkehr im damaligen 

Sinne das geographisch, ethnographisch und sozialpolitisch Entfernte dem 

Einheimischen näher zu bringen. Es werden auch einige Beispiele von Volksliedern 

und des “Vaterunser” auf Kurländisch und Liefländisch (wie es bei Brand heißt) 

angeführt, wobei zu erkennen ist, dass es bei den ersteren um das Lettische handelt, 

beim „Vaterunser” aber um das Estnische (der Norden des damaligen Lieflands bildet 

den Süden des heutigen Estlands aus). Außerdem, es ist zu bemerken, dass schon etwa 

100 Jahre vor der berühmten Ausgabe von G. Merkel — Die Letten, vorzüglich in 

Liefland am Ende des philosophischen Jahrhunderts. Ein Beitrag zur Völker– und


Menschenkunde, (1796) – Brands Reisebeschreibung deutliche Hinweise auf 

schwierige und bedauernswerte Lage der Bauern enthält, z.B.: sie leben der Sklaverey 

und Dienstbarkeit so gar ergeben als ob etwan die Natur sie dazu verordnet hatte. 12 

Paul Johansen hat die Erklärung angeboten, dass die Unterwürfigkeit der 

baltischen Urbewohner historisch mit ihrer bei der Unterwerfung erzwungener 

Anerkennung der Schwächlichkeit ihrer eigenen heidnischen Götter gegenüber dem 

mächtigen Christengott begründet werden kann. 13 

Einer ganz vielseitigen literarischen Charakteristik der Lebensweise des 

geknechteten Bauernstandes sind die abschließenden Verse des langen Lobgedichtes 

zur Stadt Mitau gewidmet. Dieses Beispiel der Gelegenheitsdichtung entstammt dem 

Jahre 1686 und ist dem ‘Kaiserlich gekrönten Poeten und Rektor der Mitauischen 

großen Stadtschule‘ Christian Bornmann zugeschrieben worden. Zeittypisch und dem 

eigenen Stande gemäß belehrend differenziert der Verfasser die Qualitäten des Volkes: 

Überfluß macht Übermuth, Müssiggang verkehrte Sinnen, 

Straffe macht die Bosheit gut, Armuth lernet Brod gewinnen. 

Sonsten sind zu allen Sachen diese Kuhren wohlgeschickt, 

Können alles artig machen, was ihr Auge nur erblickt. 14 

Die ganze heimatkundliche Schilderung beginnt er aber mit einem historischen 

Überblick, wo deutlich als ob eine Grenze gezogen wird, nämlich — zwischen dem 

Fremdenwesen des tummen Volkes der Heiden, von welchem 

Niemand wußte was von Gott, Blindheit hatte sie umgeben, 

Ordnung hielten sie für Spott, Ehrbarkeit herbes Leben, 

Ihre Götter waren Bäume, Bären, Elend, Holz und Stein, 

Ihre Priester lehrten Träume, die doch Schaum der Sinnen seyn15 , 

und der Ankunft des eigenen wahren Christentums, also bis die Teutschen… 

Landes=Herren worden seyn und ihr Wohnhaus hier genommen, und gepflanzet 

Gottes Ehr. 16 Die dem Verfasser zeitgenössische lobende Charakterisierung der 

Hauptstadt und des ganzen Herzogtums Kurland wird dann mit der topographisch als 

auch geistig einigenden Rolle der Christlichen Kirche sogar verschiedener 

Konfessionen begonnen. Darauf folgen der Reihe nach einzelne Lobverse auf die 

Schule, den Herzog, auf Prediger, Ratsherren, Bürgermeister, verschiedene Amtleute, 

Händler und Handwerker. (Chr. Bornmann vergisst auch nicht die Bauern; sein 

Stadtbild enthält darüber hinaus auch die Darstellung öffentlicher Einrichtungen wie 

Druckereien, Post, Bücherläden und Wirtshäuser.) 

Standes– und nationalbewusste Grenzziehungen werden vom Verfasser 

vorgenommen, wenn er die Vorliebe der bescheidenen Leute…, wenn nur die Thaler 

klingen für die liebe Gottes=Quelle17 , d.h. für den Wein erwähnt, während 

Jedes Haus hat seinen Krug, da Unteutsche Leute wohnen, 

Da gibt‘s Bier und Trinker gnug, die den Heller nicht verschoh – nen; 

Da sich Mopsus so beschürzet, daß er oft den Weg vergißt, 

Und mit Pferd und Wagen stürzet, wo der Koht am tiefsten ist.


235 

Denn der liebe Gersten=Saft, den das Edle Mitau zeuget, 

Gibt den Gliedern Stärk und Kraft, die ins Gehirne steiget, 

Und den Geist zur Lust erreget; Aber ein zu großes Glaaß 

Auch den Risen niderschläget; Darum trink, und trink mit Maaß. 18 

Traditionsgemäß verwendet Chr. Bornmann hier den seit dem Mittelalter üblichen 

Sammelbegriff undeutsch mit negativer Bedeutung für Esten, Letten und Liefen, der 

im Laufe der historischen Entwicklung immer stärkeren sozialen Aussagewert erhalten 

hat. 19 

Lobenswert erscheint dem Poeten die gleichzeitige Existenz unterschiedlicher 

nationalen Eigentümlichkeiten in Mitau; diese Tendenz wird im Gedicht immer 

deutlicher: 

Mitau ist als wie ein Port, da man sich nicht darf entfernen, 

Und kann doch an einem Ort, und zugleich fünf Sprachen lernen, 

Wie die Lituanen reden, wie die Kuhren sprechen raus, 

Und die Polen, Teutschen, Schweden, hört man fast in jedem Haus. 

… 

Alles unser Mitau häget, und an beide Brüste drückt. 20 

In dieser fruchtbaren Ebene wächst ein gesunder Patriotismus; die letzte Zeile des 

folgenden Zitats gibt eine treffende, allgemeine Charakteristik von Kurland: 

Drumb, ihr Käse, kommt heran! Sachsen rühme seine Kwärge, 

Welschland seinen Parmisan, Schweiz die Käs= und Anken=Berge, 

Limburg seine fette Ziegel, Schweden seines Ostes Schatz, 

Holland seine Molken Hügel, Böhmen seinen Stänkermatz. 

Alles ist nur Phantasei, alles sind nur Maden=Leichen, 

Nichts kömmt diesen Käsen bei, nichts ist ihnen zu vergleichen, 

Edam selbst, die Käse Mutter, in der Mitau wird verlacht, 

Weil in Kuhrland mager Futter gleichwohl fette Käse macht. 21 

Wenn man von den Texten des XVII. Jahrhunderts zu späteren Texten mit 

einschlägigem kulturhistorischen Wert übergeht, könnte man die Reisebeschreibung 

des pensionierten Militärs Johann Gottfried Seume Mein Sommer 1805 erwähnen. 

Interessant ist hier allein schon die Tatsache, dass Kurland und Liefland sowie andere 

baltische Gebiete inzwischen von Rußland einverleibt worden sind. Gleich nach dem 

Erscheinen der Abhandlung wird diese den Versagungsmaßnahmen untergestellt. Die 

Ursache dafür: neben völkerkundlichen Beobachtungen, so z.B., dass Litauer bei 

alltäglichen Problemen Hilfsbereitschaft zeigten, welche man nur selten in unserem 

lieben deutschen Vaterlande 22 findet, oder …du wirst fühlen, wie wohltätig , welche 

gesellige Wiedergeburt es ist, wenn du in Kurland in ein reinliches, freundliches 

Zimmer trittst, von einem artigen, nett gekleideten Mädchen bewillkommt und mit 

einer guten Mahlzeit bewirtet wirst, 23 also – neben diesen Episoden finden sich


zunehmend kritische Bemerkungen zur allgemeinen sozialen und politischen Lage der 

betroffenen Nationen. 

Eine gewisse Politisierung und damit eine verstärkte Differenzierung in das 

Eigene und das Fremde zeigt sich auch in der deutsch verfassten und in Stockholm 

gedruckten Abhandlung von Jânis Èakste Die Letten und ihre Latwija: Eine lettische 

Stimme (1917) 24 

In der für eine kleine und auf lange Zeit unterdrückte Nation komplizierten Zeit 

des I. Weltkrieges unternimmt der spätere erste Präsident Lettlands den Versuch, eine 

internationale Leserschaft mit der Geschichte, Kultur, den ökonomischen und 

politischen Bedingungen des lettischen Volkes bekannt zu machen – dies alles mit 

dem vorläufigen Ziel – einen autonomen eigenen Staat zu gründen; diese Abhandlung 

ist als die Quintessenz der Bestrebungen der lettischen Intellektuellen seit der Mitte 

des XIX. Jahrhunderts anzusehen. 

Die Zielsetzungs– und Politisierungstendenzen dieser späteren kulturhistorisch 

beschreibenden Schriften heben sie von denen des XVII. Jahrhunderts deutlich ab. 

ANMERKUNGEN 

1 Erik Dahlbergs dagbok (1625–1699). – Uppsala&Stockholm 1912, S. 285. 

2 Siehe: Svenska Ä. Biografier. – Uppsala: Uppsala Universitets Aarsskrift, 1916, S. 149. 

3 Ebenda, S. 150. 

4 Ebenda, S. 150. 

5 Ebenda, S. 152. 

6 Ebenda, S. 151. 

7 Horn A. Beskrivning över min vandringstid. – Uppsala&Stockholm, 1959, S. 3. 

8 Ebenda, S. 4. 


10 Siehe: J.A.v.Brand, Reysen durch die Marck Brandenburg, Preussen, Churland, Liefland 

etc., Wesel 1702, S. 128.–133. 

11 Ebenda, S. 120. 

12 Ebenda, S. 136. 

13 Siehe: Johanson P. Vorteile und Minderwärtigkeisgefühle als sozialer Faktor im 

mittelalterlichen Livland //Alteuropa und die moderne Gesellschaft. Festschrift für Otto 

Brunner. – Göttingen, S. 97. 

14 Bornmann C. Mitau, Ein historisches Gedicht aus dem siebzehnten Jahrhundert. – Mitau, 

1802, S. 44. 



17 Ebenda, S. 25. 

18 Ebenda, S. 27. 

19 Siehe: Johansen P. und H.v. Zur Mühlen. Deutsch und Undeutsch im mittelalterlichen und 

frühneuzeitlichen Reval. – Köln&Wien, 1973, S. XXI. 

20 Bornmann C. Mitau, Ein historisches Gedicht aus dem siebzehnten Jahrhundert. – Mitau, 

1802, S. 23.


237 

21 Ebenda, S. 35.–36. 

22 Seume J. G. Mein Sommer 1805. – Leipzig, 1978, S. 36. 

23 Ebenda, S. 38. 

24 Tschakste J. Die Letten und ihre Latwija: Eine lettische Stimme. – Stockholm, 1917, 67 S. 

Summary 

The presence of these notions on the essence observational and the value 

determinational level is an important feature both in literary texts and in culture historical 

writings, therefore it appears for reasonable from the historical point of view 

to find out and to represent available and possible expressing ways of the Own and 

the Foreign experiences. 

As a starting–point here is taken the 17th century because of a rather rapidly acceleration 

of economic and trade activity in the Dukedom of Courland and a new 

political and reformational swedish influence in Livonia as well. 

Out of the multiplicity of literary genres, which has close relations to documentary 

materials, in this report there are pointed out following units and investigative 

objects: the diary (The Diary by Erik Dahlbergh), the autobiography (The Autobiography 

by Urban Hjärne and The Life by Agneta Horn), the travel book (The Travel 

Book by Johan Arnolds von Brand) and the occasional poetry (the glorifying poem 

Mitau by Christian Bornmann). 

One of the common and most important signs in the border setting between the 

Own and the Foreign in these writings of the 17th century is the historical determined 

division in the Christian (Germans) and the Heathen (Latvians, Lives – 

“Undeutsche”), the other one – after the social rank, and last but not least – in the 

inner, private and “the rest of the world” (in the diaries). 

It is to note, that there are no special intentions regarding to seperation after the 

national possession, on the contrary – on a multicultural ground it is possible to create 

a rather healthy patriotism (in the poem Mitau by Chr. Bornmann). 

Kopsavilkums 

Savçjais un sveðais – ðo priekðstatu esamîbas bûtîba izzinoðâ un vçrtîbu noteicoðâ 

pakâpç ir gan literâru, gan arî kultûrvçsturisku tekstu svarîga pazîme, tâpçc ieteicams 

vçsturiskâ skatîjumâ pçtît abu jçdzienu esoðos un iespçjamos izteiksmes veidus. 

Par laika atskaites sâkumpunktu sakarâ ar ievçrojamo ekonomiskâs un 

tirdznieciskâs aktivitâtes uzplaukumu Kurzemes hercogvalstî un reformpolitisko 

Zviedrijas ietekmi Vidzemç ir òemts XVII gadsimts. 

Daudziem literatûras þanriem ir cieða radniecîba ar dokumentâlo materiâlu. 

Pçtîjumâ analizçtas ðâdas kultûrvçsturiskas parâdîbas: dienasgrâmata [Erika Dâlberga 

(Erik Dahlbergh) Dienasgrâmata], divas autobiogrâfijas [Urbana Jçrnes (Urban


Hjärne) Autobiogrâfija, Agnetas Hornas (Agneta Horn) Dzîve], ceïojuma apraksts 

[Johana Arnolda fon Branda (Johan Arnolds von Brand) Ceïojuma apraksts] un 

veltîjumu dzeja [Kristiâna Bornmaòa (Christian Bornmann) veltîjuma poçma 

Mîtava]. 

Viena no visizplatîtâkajâm un svarîgâkajâm pazîmçm robeþu noteikðanâ starp 

Savçjo un sveðo XVII gadsimta tekstos ir vçsturiski nosacîtais dalîjums kristieðos 

(vâcieði) un pagânos (latvieði, lîvi – “nevâci”); ir arî cita veida dalîjums – pçc sociâlâs 

piederîbas; un, visbeidzot, bet tas nav mazâk svarîgi, mçs noðíiram personisko, 

privâto dzîvi, no vienas puses, un apkârtçjâs pasaules norises – no otras 

(dienasgrâmatas). 

Jâpiezîmç, ka nav vçrojams îpaðs nolûks dalît pçc nacionâlâs piederîbas, gluþi 

otrâdi – vairâku kultûru saskarsmç ir iespçjas radît veselîga lokâlpatriotisma pamatus 

(K. Bornmaòa poçma Mîtava).


MÂKSLA, 239.–244. lpp. 

From Llareggub to London and Back Again: Province 

and Metropolis in Dylan Thomas’ Writing 

No Laregibas uz Londonu un atpakaï: Province un 

metropole Dilana Tomasa darbos 

Elita Saliòa (Latvia) 


Postal address: Krasta 13, Jçkabpils, LV 5202 

e–mail: kurmis13@yahoo.co.uk 

The article “From Llareggub to London and Back Again: Province and Metropolis in Dylan 

Thomas’ Writing” investigates the dialogue of two cultures and literary traditions in the work 

of the famous English and Welsh poet. On the basis of the radio play “Zem Piena meþa” it 

has been analysed how Dylan Thomas had used the stereotypes of Wales and Welshmen created 

by the dominating English culture in order to speak about their ambiguous role in creation 

of the Welsh identity and self–esteem. Special attention has been paid to the interpretation 

of the city as a symbolic space, to the usage of myths and pseudomyths and to the 

carnevalisation of central culture and literary codes. 

Keywords: Dylan Thomas, Llareggub, Under Milk Wood. 

In a letter to his friend Vernon Watkins Dylan Thomas wrote, ‘I’m not a country 

man, I stand for, if anything, the aspidistra, the provincial drive, the morning café, 

the evening pub.’ 1 This statement is at odds with the two most popular images of the 

poet: Dylan Thomas the inspired nature poet, linear descendent of the Celtic bards, 

and Dylan Thomas the obscure surrealist, interested more in the mazes of his own 

subconscious than the world outside him. However the present article From 

Llareggub to London and Back Again: Province and Metropolis in Dylan Thomas’ 

Writing does not attempt to treat his works as traces in the hunt for the empirical (or 

even implied) author. Emphasis is laid on the state of culture, not the state of author’s 

conscious or unconscious mind. 

The research reconsiders Dylan Thomas’ relationship to the literary canon and 

the variety of cultural codes that have been played one against the other in such definitive 

works as ‘Under Milk Wood’, ‘After Funeral’, ‘The Portrait of an Artist as a 

Young Dog’. Hence terms ‘province’ and ‘metropolis’ assume metaphorical meaning. 

They stand not only for locations: rural Wales and cosmopolitan London, but express 

also the interaction of the marginal, peripheral tendencies and the English poetic 

canon that in the first half of the 20th century still remained largely intact. The work 

chosen for case study is the radio play Under Milk Wood the emphasis being laid 

on Llareggub as a symbolic space that contains within itself the above–mentioned 

tension. 

Under Milk Wood can be called the most popular work written by Dylan Thomas 

whose setting at first sight seems to be thoroughly provincial. It describes one day in 

a small fictional Welsh town Llareggub (spelling backward ‘ buggerall’). London or 

any other centre has not been mentioned even once. Yet at an earlier stage in the pro-


cess of composition Dylan Thomas had toyed with a plot in which an inspector from 

London comes to declare the town insane. The townspeople instead of giving up their 

madness give up sanity and agree to be separated from the rest of the world. The plot 

has not been realised in the play however the opposition between Llareggub and 

London or the periphery and the centre is still present, if less obvious. 

This opposition is encoded first of all in the temporal and spatial structure of the 

play. The truism that space and time in literature very easily translate into symbols requires 

no commentaries. Yet the specific meanings generated by the time–space or the 

chronotope are extremely multiform. According to Bakhtin exactly time and space largely 

determine the genre of the text and the behaviour of the characters, which lead symbiotic 

existence with the fictional reality that they establish and are established by. 2 

Llareggub as a symbolic space does not yield itself to definitions easily. The most 

obvious approach would be to classify it as a comic version of the actual Welsh towns 

familiar to Dylan Thomas. As such it combines realistic and fantastic features, although 

Dylan Thomas has remarked that it is a picture of Wales that never was. Yet 

it does not exhaust all the interpretative possibilities. In several aspects Llareggub is 

a middle point, territory that exists on the borderlines. 

The Russian semiotician Jurij Lotman has remarked that city/town occupies a 

special place in the system of symbols formed in the course of the history of culture. 3 

In the article ‘Symbolic spaces’ he distinguishes two types of city: city which has 

concentric location in the semiotic space representing the link between the heaven 

and the earth, ‘the eternal city’, or ‘the city on the hill’. The other type of city is 

located on the margin of the cultural space: traditionally it is a city lying in the estuary 

of a river or on the seashore. It activates the opposition between the natural and 

the artificial for it is a city that is built in violation of the laws of nature. This type of 

city offers two possibilities of interpretation: it can be interpreted either as a victory 

of human reason over the elements or perversion of the natural order. 4 

Llareggub evidently belongs to the second type, however not because it is in 

opposition to nature, but because it is to such an extent submitted to natural processes 

that what remains of the urban threatens to be swallowed up by the surrounding 

natural world. As artificially constructed space, human microcosm, which is opposed 

to nature, it disintegrates already at the beginning of the play when the night 

mockingly repeats the waking activities of the sleeping town and the dreamers conjure 

topsy–turvy versions of their daily routines. This feature further affiliates it to 

the ‘eccentric’ type of city that attracts to itself eschatological myths, normally about 

the destruction of a city through floods. Llareggub is not simply a town located at 

the sea and so potentially endangered. It is a town, which has already sunken. In the 

first dream of the dream sequence Captain Cat, a retired blind seacaptain, drowns in 

a dream. He sees ‘ never such seas as any that swamped the decks of his SS. 

Kidwelly bellying over the bedclothes and jellyfish–slippery sucking him down salt 

deep into the Davy dark where the fish come biting out and nibble him down to his 

wishbone and the long drowned nuzzle up to him…’ 5 The theme of drowning is 

continued or implied in the following dreams of the various characters where the sea 

associates with the subconscious in which they forget their social identity. The names 

of the streets (Cockle Row, Duck Lane) and the fact that in the opening paragraph of

Elita Saliòa. No Laregibas uz Londonu un atpakaï: Province un metropole Dilana Tomasa darbos 

241 

the play the wood limps towards the sea strengthen the impression. Yet the 

eschatological aspect is strangely non–dramatic. 

Llareggub is not destroyed in the historical time, but in the psychological, inner 

time that dissolves it into a dream. It is a point of transition where dreams and the 

waking world meet. One can even say that it assumes the nature of a myth, first of 

all, because through stressing the element of drowning Dylan Thomas draws parallels 

with the popular legend motive of the land under the waves. Secondly, the action of 

the play lasts over one night and one day. The twenty–four hours are represented as 

the model for all nights and days of Llareggub. It is indicated in the play that the 

characters follow a routine that repeats day from day (e.g. Cherry Owen every night 

comes home drunk and throws something at the picture of his aunt hanging on the 

wall, Captain Cat every night dreams of his drowned mates, etc.). Lord Cut–Class 

who possesses a collection of clocks is not concerned with the accurate historical 

time, for each of his sixty–six clocks shows a different time. The famous opening 

words of the play ‘To begin at the beginning’ underline the intransitory quality of 

time that constitutes one of the distinguishing features of the myth. However the term 

myth in this particular case carries more ambiguous meaning than usual. Dylan Thomas 

seems to include double references to the original Celtic myths and to the apocryphal 

additions, sham antiquities and pseudo–scientific interpretations that have accumulated 

around them. And here the distant and seemingly absent metropolis plays 

a crucial role. 

Llareggub is an eccentric town also in the sense that it combines in itself elements 

of two cultural codes. As a small, provincial town Llareggub mirrors the city 

and the central culture. It borrows and uses ideas, modes of behaviour from the city, 

metropolis that defines it. Yet it can never fully identify itself with the centre. There 

always will be variations, misunderstandings and transformations of the central culture. 

Yet the same can be said about the city that will misrepresent the province. 

Llareggub reflects the metropolitan idea of the province, in this case Wales. The comedy 

of Under Milk Wood is largely based on the clash of discrepant cultural stereotypes 

that explode each other. Dylan Thomas as a Welshmen who did not speak Welsh 

and a poet who wrote in English was acutely aware of the complex nature of ‘Welsh’ 

identity and the influence that the dominant English culture exercised over the Welsh. 

The process had started in the 18th C with the antiquarian movement when both Welsh 

and English enthusiasts consciously created a romantic version of Welsh history and 

identity. Romantic and Victorian castings of Celtic themes made this model so popular 

that it obscured the actual Wales and Welsh. Dylan Thomas has not attempted to 

create a realistic description of Wales. He rather explores the comic possibilities 

embedded in such stereotypical notions as the extreme musicality of the Welsh or the 

legendary remnants of arcane druidic knowledge embedded in Welsh poetry. The most 

memorable embodiment of a stereotype come alive is Eli Jenkins, poet and preacher, 

who punctually delivers his morning and evening poems for the benefit of the community. 

He serves as a link between the seemingly autonomous world of Llareggub 

and the background of myths and pseudo–myths that frame it. The most obvious of 

these linking elements is the book being written by him, ‘The reverend Eli Jenkins in 

his cool front parlour–room tells only the truth in his Lifework: the Population, Main 

Industry, Shipping, History, Topography, Flora and Fauna of the town he worships


in: the White Book of Llareggub.’ 6 The title of his book can be traced back to the 

Black Book of Carmarthen, a medieval manuscript collection of Welsh verse. And 

although Eli Jenkins alludes to episodes from The Mabinogion, the medieval Welsh 

tales that contain genuine relicts of older mythological tales, the context in which the 

allusions occur make them seem grotesque and unreliable. So the reference to 

Blodeuwedd, the wife magically made out of flowers, 7 is found in a paragraph that 

eulogises Llareggub Hill as ‘mystic tumulus, the memorial of peoples that dwelt in 

that region before the Celts left the Land of Summers’. 8 While earlier in the play the 

Llareggub Hill has been described as a place where a ‘small circle of stones, made 

not by druids but by Mrs Beynon’s Billy’ is located. It is noticeable because it is ‘old 

as hills’, part of the natural world, not a result of human activities. 9 Thus Eli Jenkins 

brimming over with enthusiasm personifies all the romantic mythmakers with one 

essential difference: he is a prophet without followers. His morning and evening poetry 

recitals that for him have almost sacred quality serve his neighbours as convenient 

means of deciding whether it is time to get up. 

The transformation of accepted, canonical discourses into parodies that sometimes 

verge on the grotesque equally affects texts belonging to Welsh and English 

cultures. For example, the Voice of the Guide–Book introducing Llareggub a moment 

before the dawn establishes it as a place without any claims to popularity, “Less then 

five hundred souls inhabit the three quaint streets and the few narrow bylanes and 

scattered farmsteads that constitute this small, decaying watering–place which may, 

indeed, be called a ‘backwater of life’ without disrespect to its natives who possess, 

to this day, a salty individuality of their own.” And the description ends with an ironic 

reversal of a popular guidebook phrase: “The one place of worship, with its neglected 

graveyard, is of no architectural interest.” 10 Thus what in effect is intended to be a 

typical celebration of rural charms from an average tourist guidebook turns into one 

more statement forbidding the outsiders entrance to the enchanted land of Llareggub. 

The English language itself becomes a target of the travestying tendencies of the radio–play. 

It abounds in misunderstood meanings (as in the episode of the bird–watching 

gentleman who through rumours is changed from an innocent amateur ornithologist 

into a voyeur, because the birds are interpreted as ‘girls’), long alliterative sequences 

whose meaning can be shifted in oral delivery, imitations of nursery rhymes 

and popular ballads. Finally the very genre – radio–play – determines the ephemeral 

quality of the work. It has full–bloodied existence in the act of oral delivery only. 

The radio–play features of Under Milk Wood converge with the qualities of another 

genre or rather mode of expression present in the work. In spite of its semi– 

urban setting Under Milk Wood has been classified as a pastoral. It definitely creates 

an idyllic world that in its own way is as happy as the classical Arcadia and as free of 

guilt. But Dylan Thomas has activated one more typical function of the pastoral. The 

pastoral setting can be the wood of Arden or the coast of Wales, but both will serve 

as a refuge from the negative tendencies of the central culture, an alternative to the 

dominant norms. The shelter provided by Arcadia is fragile and short–termed, ‘Its 

emphasis on the contrast between the here of the country and the there of the city or 

court is the spatial analogue to its recurrent temporal preoccupation with then and 

now; the former generally represented as the idyllic time before the pastoral world is 

threatened, whether by the new inhabitants who displace the shepherds in Vergil’s

Elita Saliòa. No Laregibas uz Londonu un atpakaï: Province un metropole Dilana Tomasa darbos 

243 

first eclogue, by love, or by that figure who is both enemy and sibling of love in 

pastoral, death.’ 11 The most ominous threat to the pastoral of Llareggub, especially 

love in Llareggub is death, but it is also endangered because it represents a minority 

attitude and culture that can easily succumb to the pressures of the majority culture. 

The deviations from the canonical in Dylan Thomas’ writing and the stress upon 

the provincial gain special significance if to take into account the prevailing attitude 

of this period towards the regions and regional culture. John Wain characterises it as 

follows, “… Today there is a general acceptance that Britain is multi–racial community 

and there is no pressure on poets to be anything but what they are. In those 

days there was an untroubled assumption, in metropolitan England, that ‘the regions’ 

were dead and had no right to be anything else but dead.’ 12 And he quotes the opinion 

expressed in 1946 by an eminent literary critic, that, “…if anything has died in 

the last thirty years, it is regionalism. Our society – why pretend – has made war on 

regionalism and has destroyed it. We may question whether, under any guise, it can 

be reborn in the modern world.” 13 The current collapse of a homogeneous ‘English’ 

literature proves how erroneous this statement is. Yet Dylan Thomas lived in a period 

when the regional literatures existed on sufferance or at best were considered inferior 

variants of the central literature. Wherefore the question to what extent he incorporated 

himself in this central London–based and English–oriented literature still remains 

debatable. The answer is relevant not because it might offer an insight into the 

personality of Dylan Thomas, but because it largely determines the interpretation of 

his literary heritage. 

Wynn Thomas in the collection of essays ‘ Internal Difference’ considers that 

Dylan Thomas through his writing ‘completed the journey up, out, and away from 

one culture, first to the peripheries and then to the very artistic centre of another. He 

is the mesmeric Lloyd George of modern Welsh letters, except that he did not have to 

attempt to unite in himself two disparate cultures.’ 14 I would like to disagree with 

this supposition. Dylan Thomas’ letters indicate that he was acutely aware of the division 

within himself and his work. He came to the artistic centre of English culture, 

if the artistic centre is defined as popularity and recognition, however that was not 

the end of the journey. He never actually completed it. He remained suspended in the 

middle of the way, neither completely English nor truly Welsh. Yet this peculiar situation 

also made him especially sensitive to the constructed nature of what was then 

called English culture and literature. Even before post–colonial discourse declares the 

collapse of the canon, he in subtly reveals the dialogue of the various cultural and 

literary codes that make up the central ‘English’ culture and literature, for the link 

between the literary and cultural traditions in his case is mostly reciprocal. 

Perhaps the best estimation of this duality belongs to the poet himself, ‘Regarded 

in England as a Welshman (and a waterer of England’ s milk), and in Wales as Englishman, 

I am too unnational to be here at all. I should be living in a small private 

leperhouse in Hereford or Shropshire, one foot in Wales and my vowels in England. 

Warning red flannel drawers, a tall witch’s hat, a coracle tiepin, and speaking English 

so Englishly that I sound like a literate Airdale… piped and shagged and 

tweeded, but also with a harp, the look of all Sussex in my poached eyes and a whippet 

under my waistcoat.’ 15 The same combination of bitterness and comedy surfaces 

in Under Milk Wood. The resistance to classification, the elusiveness of Llareggub in


time and space, the carnivalisation of the central literary code, place the work on the 

uncharted and unchartable boundaries of English and Welsh cultures. 

REFERENCES 

1 The Collected Letters of Dylan Thomas, Ferris Paul ed. JM Dent&Sons Ltd., 1985, 

p. 222. 

2 Áàõòèí Ì. Ýïîñ è ðîìàí. Àçáókà, 2000, c. 9–10. 

3 Lotman J. I. Semiosfera. Iskustvo–SPB, 2000, p. 320. 

4 Ibid, p. 321. 

5 Thomas D. Under Milk Wood. Penguin Books, 2000, p. 2. 

6 Ibid, p. 54. 

7 The story of Blodeuwedd, the unfaithful wife of Lleu is told in the tale ‘Math son of 

Mathonwy’ from The Mabinogion. 

8 Thomas D. Under Milk Wood. Penguin Books, 2000, p. 60.. 

9 Ibid, p. 16. 

10 Thomas D. Under Milk Wood. Penguin Books, 2000, p. 17. 

11 The Cambridge Companion to English Literature, 1500–1600. Kinney A. F. ed. Cambridge 

University Press, 1999, p. 195. 

12 “Dylan Thomas. New Critical Essays”. Davies W. ed. – London: Dent &Sons, 1972, 

p. 19. 

13 Ibid, p. 19. 

14 Thomas W. M. Internal Difference. Literature in 20th–century Wales. University of Wales 

Press, 1992, p. 33. 

15 Ackerman J. A Dylan Thomas Companion. Life, Poetry and Prose. MacMillan, 1991, 

p. 21. 

Kopsavilkums 

Rakstâ aplûkots divu kultûru un literatûras tradîciju dialogs slavenâ anglovelsieðu 

dzejnieka Dilana Tomasa daiïradç. Analizçjot galvenokârt raidlugu “Zem Piena 

meþa”, tiek vçrtçts, kâ autors izmanto dominçjoðâs angïu kultûras radîtos Velsas un 

velsieða stereotipus, lai runâtu par to neviennozîmîgo lomu velsieðu paðapziòas 

veidoðanâ. Îpaða uzmanîba pievçrsta pilsçtas kâ simboliskas telpas interpretâcijai, 

mîtu un pseidomîtu lietojumam, centrâlâs kultûras un literârâ koda karnevalizâcijai.


MÂKSLA, 245.–250. lpp. 

Native American Mythologies 

Amerikas indiâòu mîti 

Margarita Spirida (Latvia) 

Modern Languages Faculty, University of Latvia 

Visvalþa 4a, Rîga, LV 1050, Latvia 

e–mail: ritaspirid@yahoo.com 

The primary object of this research is to look at the psychic realm within the mobile construed 

of possible worlds within the mythologies where worldly time and space are just a relative 

factor. 

The consideration of mythologies craves for the knowledge of cultural and historical realia of 

Ancient America and its peoples, but once a myth starts unfolding it offers a greater knowledge 

in return. The conceptions, beliefs and philosophy of the First Nations differ greatly from 

European mental and spiritual conventions and one should bear it in mind while looking for 

the possible worlds of a myth the reality of which is not what can be found or actualised but 

what is made and activated by the story–teller and subsequently calls for as many interpretations 

as we are ready for and good at. By all means not only the symbolic meaning of a myth 

but its plot as well is of interest because of its abundance in ethnographic details. 

The mobile of possible worlds keeps the ideas of good and bad, reality and non–reality, 

dream and tangible world properties, conscious and unconscious as one, granting harmony to 

diversity. 

Culture, nature, and nature of psyche meet in the mythologies of Native Americans. 

The door between multiplicity and unity; upper, middle and under worlds is ever open unless 

we block it ourselves rationalizing and reasoning over. 

The myths referred to in the given article are mostly the cultural heritage of the First Peoples 

of Canada but not solely because the political division being an artificial border imposed on 

American aborigines does not conform with the cultural one. 

Keywords: mobile 1 , possible worlds, “journey”, cultural realia, sanity versus insanity/rational 

versus irrational. 

Possible worlds within the mythological realm and in the given case within the 

mythologies of the First Peoples of Canada, give a vision of the universe as a mobile 

of possible and impossible rather than pre–established and final or irrevocable situations. 

The narrative text of a myth contains a mobile construed of possible worlds, 

which are not to be perceived as independent, autonomous or secluded. Lewis in his 

writings considers possible worlds and the actual or tangible one as equally realized 

possibilities. These considerations stand true also regarding the Universe created by 

the mythologies of aboriginal peoples. 

“There is nothing so far away from us as not to be part of our world. 

Anything at any distance at all is to be included… Maybe, as I myself 

think, the world is a big physical object… But nothing is so alien in kind 

as not to be part of our world, provided only that it does exist at some 

distance and direction from here, or at some time before or after or simultaneous 

with now.” 2


Possible worlds of myths stand for a certain outcome of a mental act of understanding 

or imagining. Every narrative situation is active and having a number of 

propositions it is open to pursue a new direction, for instance, Cree storytelling conventions 

encourage a story–teller to invent slight variations, the ability to improvise 

is highly appreciated by the audience. However, special stories which refer to the origins 

of sacred ceremonies and the creation legend, in particular, call for great care 

and precision. The dynamics of myth–plots and the disposition to change and improvisation 

are the ones to contribute to the delineation of narrative flow. For example, 

stories about Wisakecahk who is one of Cree mythological heroes are called story– 

cycles because they are interwoven, in a way. The story–teller is free to add characters 

from another story or change the story to point to some occurrence of his interest 

or to make the moral of the story clear. 

Myth being a fictional narrative possesses some non–fictional properties, thus 

establishing the relationship with the actual world which is still more a symbolic one. 

Symbolic world here is a concept to apply to the stratum wherein one is expected to 

operate with respect to common norms and shared common values. 

The inter– and intra– related possible worlds of myth give a lot of room to explore 

the psychic realm within the symbolic universe of the First Peoples of Canada. At the 

heart of Indian cosmology and belief–system which has its implicit representation in their 

mythologies was the go to find a mystical reality beneath the surface layer of actual 

state of things. In its various forms experience of differently trimmed sanity hosted by 

the narratives of aboriginal people seems extremely coherent. However fantastic the figures 

are, they are originated to help man on his way to decode secrets and vocations of 

his own nature. The binary opposition sanity versus insanity is not so much linked to 

the mobile created of possible worlds as to man, to his fears, weakness, anxiety, dreams, 

visions and illusions. The world of shaman or medicine – man as presented in the myths 

of various nations peopling Canada is quite hospitable, in all senses, to unreason in a 

number of its manifestations. Myths now and again describe various physical and spiritual 

journeys. The re–occurring image of shaman regarded by many tribes in their 

storytelling culture dwells in a multidimensional realm of the activated mobile. Quite a 

number of myths are devised around the theme of “journey” one is to undertake departing 

from the realm of so–called tangible – reality stratum to the inner regions of psyche 

to find some comfort within chaos and confusion. Myths narrating different “journeys” 

are not exclusive to the others apart from shaman – rank. They show the active characters 

to project soul as if letting it step out of the body to accomplish “journey” otherwise 

physically impossible. The journey which appears to be actual within the possible 

world of mythological realm frequently calls for interpretation via more subtle and intricate 

instrumentalities. Jung theory of collective unconscious and archetypal figures is 

of help deciphering aboriginal mythologies. Tohltan tribe myths “The Man with the 

Toothed Penis”, “Story of Gonexhataca, The Snail”, “The Cannibal Women Who Lured 

Men” 3 include the elements of human experience both in the psychological and sexual 

realms. 

Eskimo myth “The Old Man of the Volcano” 4 peaks of the process of one’s “becoming”, 

the struggle to become an individual Self, of feminine and masculine aspects, 

initiation rites, symbolic death to undergo the renewal of the Self, a cosmic

Margarita Spirida. Amerikas indiâòu mîti 

247 

conflict between forces of Good and Evil, on other pairs of opposites, a feeling of 

being overwhelmed by the opposite sex etc. 

Mythological perspective on the theme of “journey” lets transform wide human 

experience of personal symbolism into a collectively understood phenomenon. 

Mythological concepts, however paradoxical those appear to be, organize, explain 

and give direction to seemingly irrational worlds. However, the themes activated with 

the help of by and large constantly same psychological processes vary. To illustrate 

the above–mentioned let us turn to the initiation rituals in the myths where adolescent 

Indian boys and girls are entrusted with some secret knowledge during their vision 

quests as, for instance, it is presented in the myth “No Tongue” (Mandana, 

Plains) 

“One day, after thinking for a long time, the girl told her brother that she 

thought he ought to go up on the hill and fast and pray, as the warriors 

do. In that way, they might get many good things, and good spirits would 

come to him.” 5 

These dreams or visions actually give shapes to one’s expectations and ambitions. 

To be entrusted with the secret knowledge the boy was asked for a sacrifice, he 

was to give his tongue to the Sun – Man who on receiving the demanded promised to 

make him a great hunter and warrior, to make boy powerful. The secret knowledge 

obtained in vision quest was not to be boasted of and spread around, it was to be 

preserved and passed on under special care and rituals, thus the symbolic sacrifice of 

a tongue appears in the myth. 

The activation of the deepest structures of psyche manifests itself in confrontation 

with demonic forces, dismemberment, trial by fire, communion with the world 

of spirits and creatures, assimilation of the elemental forces, abduction by a demon – 

monster, relationship with a chthonic deity, sickness, madness, formal trials and ordeals 

and the idea of “return” to the realm of one’s fellow–humans. Algonquian Myths 

and Legends, viz. story – cycles The Snow – Lodge, The Lord of Cold Weather; The 

Star Maiden, Algon’s Strategy, The Star – Maiden’s Escape; Cloud – Carrier and the 

Star – Folk, The Star Country, The Sacrifice; The Spirit – Bride, The Island of the 

Blessed, The Master of Life; Otter – Heart, The Ball – Players, Otter – Heart’s 

Strategem, The Beaver – Woman, etc. 6 are of that type. There is another aspect to 

touch upon while discussing the psychic realm of Indian mythologies with its binary 

oppositions of sanity versus insanity, rational versus irrational, supernatural versus 

natural. And it is the category of madness within aboriginal storytelling culture, both 

its mystified origin and consequences for the realm of ordinary waking consciousness. 

The theme of madness does not seem to be topical but it is still one of the phenomena 

addressed. Some of the myths are devised around and / or about so–called 

“half–wits” and there alike European tradition they possess some secret knowledge 

of things in the universe surrounding them. The main figure in the Eskimo myth, 

Ughek, is disliked by all the people of his village. The chief calls a meeting and the 

decision is taken “to leave the village for a time” 7 leaving Ughek behind hoping 

that a sea monster Schwichileghk puts an end to their fellow–man. However Ughek


intuitively knows the path into the complex interrelationships of the material world, 

animate force, and powers of transformation, thus he survives. Moreover he punishes 

his wrong–doers. 

“The greatest peril of life lies in the fact that human food consists entirely 

of souls. All the creatures that we have to kill and eat, all those 

that we have to strike down and destroy to make clothes for ourselves, 

have souls, souls that do not perish with the body…” 8 

And it seems to be one of the truths known to Ughek, thus he cuts monster killed 

by the stone into small pieces, cooks him and leaves on the dishes as a treat for the 

villagers who subsequently drop dead on having consumed the flesh of the monster 

but Ughek himself returned to his but to live with his store, and there he is now. 9 

In other cases madness is brought forth for the sake of its origin, hence pointing 

to its metaphysical nature, as when the soul of a human is captured by the evil spirit 

and is to be released via sacred rituals. 

The Kwakiutl Hamatsa Dance for instance is based on the myth of an ancestor 

who encountered the supernatural cannibal spirit Bakhbakwalanooksiwey and later 

on returned to his fellow–villagers in a wild state. With the help of ritual dances he 

was restored to his normal state. In a while the boundaries between the realms of 

human creatures and spirits, between the dimensions of present and past were secured 

again. 

Life, out there in the wild of Canada is a constant concern about survival. The 

idea of “enemy” or “threat” is an external world realia, yet the experience of this 

phenomenon results in internal pressures and tensions. Fear and panic are one of the 

most threatening correlations of the internal and external realms. The vitalized embodiment 

of “threat” sits itself somewhere on the threshold of internal and external 

reality where Self is opposed to the notion of Other, Unknown, Incomprehensible, 

which is incorporation of animosity. “Enemy”, “threat” or “fear” often disguise in 

symbolic representations. The mythologies explore the passage between the inner and 

outer worlds calling for wide–ranging perspectives. They are neither inside nor outside, 

they serve as a medium. 

The underlying mechanisms of mental disorders quite common in the Arctic are 

obscure. Some part of the mind which usually is reality–bound frees itself to turn to 

fantasy and eventually to hallucination. Inner factors of the mind being projected 

outward lead one to see monsters, hallucinate his past, become “at one” with the cannibal 

spirit. The supernatural reality of Canada was no less threatening and severe to 

the peoples of Canada than its physical world. The myths about the Cannibal monsters 

of the Canadian forests is one of the examples to the above – mentioned. 

The Windigos who were given various names by different bands of Algonquian 

peoples are one of those threatening realias. The description of their outlook also 

could vary but by and large the existent narrations show them as the most evil and 

appalling of spirits.

Margarita Spirida. Amerikas indiâòu mîti 

“Windigos arose in the deep forests in the dead of winter; they stood 20 

to 30 feet tall; their lipless mouths contained great jagged teeth; their 

eyes rolled in blood; and their footsteps in the snow were soaked with 

blood… They were friendless, enemies to each other as well as to man” 10 

249 

As all the mythologies of aboriginal culture this legend wasn’t invented out of 

the blue. It was triggered by the continual difficulties of existence, viz. starvation 

which by and large was a quite frequently occurring phenomenon. In general, Indians 

didn’t take to cannibalism in such a situation, however, for some of their fellow–men 

it was a resolution. Considering the fact that cultural realities are telling precursors 

and instrumentalities to form social mechanisms and mediate psychological structures 

one can refer Windigo psychosis to culturally – bound disorders. 

Mental disturbances point to the specific kinds of value conflicts in a society as 

culture nourishes certain stress systems and encourages definite ways of emotional 

expression and response. And all that finds its reflection in the mobile of mythological 

worlds. 

It is obvious that mythologies being a mobile non–actualizable in the factual 

world belong to a different sphere of rational and irrational altogether therefore the 

possibility of reasonable rendering of mechanisms and instrumentalities within mythological 

structures is out of question. The core interest lies in the adopted conventions 

to scrutinize one’s spiritual search, to invent answers. 

It may be worth half a word to mention that when reality of a possible world is a 

matter of belief–system, there is little point in trying to draw a borderline to split the 

whole of binary oppositions sanity / insanity, rational / irrational, supernatural / natural 

and to distinguish the “truth” of every possible world within mythologies as each 

is true within a particular paradigm. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

1.The British Museum Encyclopaedia of Native North America, Rayna Green with Melanic 

Fernander, British Museum Press, 1999. 

2.America’s Fascinating Indian Heritage. The Reader’s Digest Association, Inc., 1984. 

3.American Indians, ed. Keith Cunningham, Wordsworth Ed. Ltd, FLS Books, 2001. 

4.Native American Myths and Legends, ed. Colin F.Taylor, Cavendish Books Vancouver, 1994. 

5.Native North American Art. Janet C. Berlo and Reith B. Phillips, Oxford University Press, 

1998. 

6.North American Indians, ed. Lewis Spence, Senate, 1996. 

7.On the Plurality of Worlds, Lewis, David, Basil Blackwell, 1986. 

8.Shaman. The wounded healer, Joan Halifax, Thames and Hudson, 1997. 

9.Tales of Native America. Edward W. Huffstetler Metro Books, 1996. 

10. Piper D. The Illustrated History of Art. – NY: Crescent Books, 1995.


REFERENCES 

1 mobile – (term coined by Marcal Duchamp; Kinetic art) detached bodies floating in space, 

of different sizes and densities, … some at rest while others move in peculiar manners. 

Symmetry and order do not make a composition. It is apparent accident to regularity that 

makes or marks a work. (The Illustrated History of Art, 1995: 429) 

2 On the Plurality of Worlds, Lewis, David, Basil Blackwell, 1986, p. 1. 

3 American Indians, ed. Keith Cunningham, Wordsworth Ed. Ltd, FLS Books, 2001. 

4 Ibid. 

5 Ibid, p. 240. 

6 North American Indians, ed. Lewis Spence, Senate, 1996. 

7 American Indians, ed. Keith Cunningham, Wordsworth Ed. Ltd, FLS Books, 2001, p. 177. 

8 Intellectual Culture of the Iglulik Eskimos, 55–6 in Shaman. The wounded healer, Joan 

Halifax, Thames and Hudson, 1997. 

9 American Indians, ed. Keith Cunningham, Wordsworth Ed. Ltd, FLS Books, 2001, p. 178. 

10 America’s Fascinating Indian Heritage. The Reader’s Digest Association, Inc., 1984, p. 

346. 

Kopsavilkums 

Pçtîjuma galvenais mçríis ir ielûkoties garîgâs jomas mainîgajâs konstrukcijâs, 

ko veido iespçjamâs mitoloìiskâs pasaules, kurâs reâlâs pasaules laiks un telpa ir tikai 

relatîvi faktori. 

Mitoloìiju pçtîðanai ir nepiecieðamas zinâðanas par Senâs Amerikas un tâs tautu 

kultûras un vçsturiskajâm reâlijâm, un iedziïinâðanâs kâdâ no mîtiem paplaðina ðîs 

zinâðanas. Amerikas pirmiedzîvotâju priekðstati, uzskati un filosofija ievçrojami 

atðíiras no eiropieðu mentâlajâm un garîgajâm tradîcijâm, un tas jâpatur prâtâ, pçtot 

iespçjamâs pasaules ainas mîtâ, kura realitâti nav iespçjams konstatçt vai aktualizçt, 

jo to rada un iedzîvina stâstnieks, un stâstîjumam var bût tik daudz interpetâciju, cik 

klausîtâji ir spçjîgi pieòemt vai iztçloties. Jebkurâ gadîjumâ interesi izraisa ne tikai 

mîta simboliskâ nozîme, bet arî tâ siþets, sniedzot lielu daudzumu etnogrâfisko detaïu. 

Iespçjamo pasauïu mainîgâs konstrukcijas saglabâ nedalîtas idejas par labo un 

ïauno, par realitâti un nereâlo, par sapòu un reâlâs pasaules îpaðîbâm, par apziòu un 

zemapziòu, tâdçjâdi harmonizçjot daþâdîbu. Amerikas indiâòu mitoloìijâs apvienojas 

kultûra, daba un garîgâ pasaule. 

Durvis vienmçr ir atvçrtas starp daudzpusîbu un vienotîbu, starp augðçjo, vidçjo 

un pazemes pasauli, ja vien mçs tâs paði neaizveram, sâkot meklçt loìiskus 

pamatojumus un izskaidrojumus. 

Ðajâ rakstâ pieminçtie mîti galvenokârt ir Kanâdas pirmiedzîvotâju kultûras 

mantojums, taèu tie nav raksturîgi tikai un vienîgi Kanâdas indiâòiem. Politiskais 

sadalîjums ir radîjis mâkslîgu robeþu starp Amerikas aborigçniem, kas neatbilst 

kultûru robeþâm.


MÂKSLA, 251.–253. lpp. 

Qur’ân 102:8. Irony? 

Korâns 102:8. Ironija? 

Uldis Bçrziòð, dzejnieks 

Maskavas iela 54-3, Rîga, LV-1003 

In Qur’ânic translations and in commentary literature, there exist more than one approach to 

102:8. 

Let me submit my Latvian rendering of the whole short sura. 

102. sûra. Sacensties 

Lîdzcietîgâ, Þçlsirdîgâ Dieva vârdâ! 

(1) Pa prâtam jums gût un sacensties, 

(2) kamçr kaps klât – 

(3) bet nç! – gan zinâsiet! 

(4) un vçlreiz nç! – gan jûs zinâsiet! 

(5) Ak, nç – ja jûs zinâtos pavisam skaidri, 

(6) jûs tad ieraudzîtu Elli! 

(7) Reiz jûs to ieraudzîsiet pavisam skaidri – 

(8) gan tanî Dienâ jums pavaicâs: 

kâ labpatîk?! 

(Now a gross rendering of my Latvian translation with a few explanatory notes 

in brackets.) 

Sura 102. Piling up 

In the name of God, Most Gracious, Most Merciful! 

(1) You delight in (=are absorbed by) piling up, 

(2) – this up to your getting to the grave – 

(3) but no! – you will come to learn! 

(4) and once more not! – surely you will come to learn! 

(5) Oh, no – if you were to know absolutely clearly (‘with mind of certainty’), 

(6) you should see Hell! 

(7) Once you will see it absolutely clearly (‘with aneye of certainty’), 

(8) surely on that Day you will be asked – 

what’s your pleasure? 

The Qur’ânic translations and tafsîrs I have had an opportunity to consult on 

102:8 tend to one of two possible interpretations: Those who indulged in piling up


worldly riches and worldly renown, become interrogated about the ‘pleasant’ things 

– ani–n–naîmi – they had preferred to the real and eternal joys of the Garden, or, 

otherwise, They are asked about the real Pleasant, which they had rejected for the 

questionable ‘joys’ of piling up... Let the both renderings be represented by Rudi 

Paret’s translation: “An jenem Tag werdet ihr dann bestimmt nach der Wonne (des 

Paradieses) gefragt werden (oder: An jenem Tag werdet ihr bestimmt nach der 

Annehmkichkeit (eures Erdenlebens) gefragt werden (mit der ihr der Lohn des 

Paradieses verscherzt habt). 1 

As a working hypothesis I above submitted my ‘ironic’ interpretation of 102:8 

which I first presented at the Islamic Seminar, Lund University in November 2000 

and which was met with an equivocal reaction. Is one authorised to speak about irony 

in the Qur’ân? Or, for that matter, about a ‘sense of humour’in the Qur’ân? 

What is for us the present Qur’ânic text? A message reflecting a superhuman 

reality in human terms? Or a human response to (questions put by) man’s own existence 

and some guessed Presence in the universe? For many readers, including this 

perplexed translator, there is still no answer. And still, none of the alternatives disallows 

an ironic touch in passages like 102:8. 

As a furthermore and generally recognized illustration to Qur’ânic irony I submit 

Surah 111 in my Latvian and Abdullah Yusuf Ali’s English rendering. 

111. sûra. Vîta virve 

Lîdzcietîgâ, Þçlsirdîgâ Dieva vârdâ! 

(1) Kaut Abi/Abu? Lahabs* putçdams izputçtu! 

(2) Ko lîdz nu tam viòa manta un viss, ko tas guvis?/un ko tas guvis? 

(3) Viòð cepsies/degs uguns liesmâs, 

(4) un viòa sieva, ie/naida kûrçja** – 

(5) kaklâ tai vîta virve! 

* “Liesmu Tçvs”, “Liesmvaidzis”. 

** Vai: un viòa sieva par ðíilu pienesâju... ((4) and his Wife, the stirrer of strife... – or: and 

his wife, the gatherer of firewood...The text plays ironically with the literal meaning of 

the idiom: Abi Lahab’s wife is bringing branches for Hell’s fire in which her idolatrous 

husband is burning – or, perhaps, left after his death without protection or help, she is 

forced to gather branches for her hearth as she once gathered fuel for flames of intrigue 

and enmity?)

Uldis Bçrziòð. Korâns 102:8. Ironija? 

Sûra CXI. 

253 

Lahab, or (the Father of) Flame. 

In the name of God, Most Gracious, Most Merciful. 

1. Perish the hands/of the Father of Flame!/Perish he! 

2. No profit to him/From all his wealth/And all his gains! 

3. Burnt soon will he be/In a Fire/Of blazing Flame! 

4. His wife shall carry/The (crackling) wood – /As fuel! – 

5. A twisted rope/Of palm–leaf fibre/Round her (own) neck! 2 

If on the Day I happen to enter the gates of Hell I might be asked by a sarcastic 

officer of az–Zabâniyya (96:18) or by some other representative: What [specifically] 

would you enjoy, sir? 

REFERENCES 

1 Der Koran. Übersetzung von Rudi Paret. ‘Kohlhammer’, 1983, s. 439. 

2 Abdullah Yusuf Ali. The Meaning of The Glorious Qur’ân, vol. 2, ‘Dar al–Kitab al Masri’, 

Cairo, Beirut, p. 1804.


MÂKSLA, 254.–257. lpp. 

Ìèôîëîãè÷åñêèå ãåðîè â ìîíãîëüñêîé, òèáåòñêîé è 

áóðÿòñêîé âåðñèÿõ «Ãåñåðà» 

Mythological Characters in Mongol, Tibetan and 

Burjat Versions of “Geser” 

Mitoloìiskie tçli epa “Geser” mongoïu, tibetieðu un 

burjatu variantâ 

Àííà Êîññå (Russia–Latvia) 

Âîñòî÷íûé ôàêóëüòåò 

Ñàíêò–Ïåòåðáóðãñêîãî ãîñóäàðñòâåííîãî óíèâåðñèòåòà 

Â ìîíãîëüñêîì, òèáåòñêîì è áóðÿòñêîì ýïîñå «Ãåñåð» åñòü òðè ãëàâíûõ ãðóïïû 

ìèôîëîãè÷åñêèõ îáðàçîâ: áîãè, íå áîãè (àñóðû – ìîíã.) è äåìîíû(ìàíãóñ – ìîíã.). 

Â ìîíãîëüñêèõ, òèáåòñêèõ, áóðÿòñêèõ è èíäèéñêèõ ìèôàõ ó áîãîâ ðàçíîå ïðîèñõîæäåíèå 

è, íåñìîòðÿ íà òî, ÷òî îíè ÿâëÿþòñÿ ãåðîÿìè îäíîãî è òîãîæå ýïîñà âñå òàêè îíè î÷åíü 

ðàçíûå. 

Â áóðÿòñêîé âåðñèè ýïîñà áîæåñòâàì ïðèñóùè ÷åëîâå÷åñêèå ÷åðòû è ïîñòóïêè, à â 

ìîíãîëüñêîé è òèáåòñêîé – îáðàç áîãîâ ïðèáëèæàåòñÿ ê áóääèñòêèì èäåàëàì. 

Ó áîãîâ åñòü âðàãè – àñóðû èëè íå áîãè. Ó íèõ òàê æå îòëè÷àåòñÿ ïðîèñõîæäåíèå â 

çàâèñèìîñòè îò ìèôîëîãè÷åñêèõ òðàäèöèé. Áóäó÷è ðàâííû ïî ñèëå ñ áîãàìè, àñóðû 

ñäåëàòü ìíîãî çëà. 

Äåìîíû ÿâëÿþòñÿ âðàãàìè ëþäåé. Ìàíãóñ ÿâëÿåòñÿ âëàäûêîé ÷åëîâå÷åñêîãî ìèðà – 

ñàíñàðà. 

Keywords: «Ãåñåð», ìîíãîëüñêàÿ, òèáåòñêàÿ è áóðÿòñêàÿ ìèôîëîãèè. 

Ïåðâûé ðàçäåë íàøåãî ñîîáùåíèÿ ïîñâÿùåí íåáîæèòåëÿì «Ãåñåðà». 

1. Òýíãðè 

Ñëîâî òåíãðè, äðåâíåóéãóðñêîå tngri, ñîîòâåòñòâóåò òèáåòñêîìó lha. Ñîãëàñíî 

áóääèéñêîé ìèôîëîãèè, áîãè ïîÿâëÿþòñÿ íà ñâåò ñàìè ñîáîé «ñ áîëüøèì 

èñêóññòâîì ïðîèçâîäÿò ñâîå âîçíèêíîâåíèå». Áîã ñàìîçàðîæäàåòñÿ íà êîëåíÿõ ó 

äðóãîãî áîãà èëè áîãèíè, êîòîðûå ãîâîðÿò: «Ýòî ìîé ñûí» èëè «Ýòî ìîÿ äî÷ü». 

Íîâîðîæäåííûé áîã ïîõîæ íà ÷åëîâåêà ïÿòè èëè äåñÿòè ëåò è î÷åíü áûñòðî 

âûðàñòàåò. Â ñðåäíåâåêîâûõ èíäèéñêèõ è òèáåòñêèõ ñî÷èíåíèÿõ ãîâîðèòñÿ, ÷òî 

áîãè íà çåìëå ïîÿâèëèñü èç ÿñíûõ ëó÷åé ñâåòà, ïîýòîìó íàçûâàëèñü «–od gsal – gyi 

lha» – «áîãè ÿñíûõ ëó÷åé ñâåòà». Â ìîíãîëüñêèõ ìèôàõ áîãè ñîçäàíû Õîðìóñòîé, 

Áóääîé èëè è òåì è äðóãèì âìåñòå, èëè ïðîèñõîäÿò îò ìàòåðè Ýòóãåí è ìîðÿ. Â 

áîëåå ïîçäíåé áóðÿòñêîé ìèôîëîãèè ïðàðîäèòåëüíèöåé òýíãðè ñòàíîâèòñÿ 

Ìààíçàí – Ãóðìý – òîîäýé, âîïëîùåíèå ìàòåðè Ýòóãåí. Îäíàêî ïî îòíîøåíèþ ê 

òýíãðè óïîòðåáëÿåòñÿ òàêæå ýïèòåò ebusuben, ebudegsen (ìîíã.), rang bzin (òèá.), 

svabhava (ñàíñêð.). Â äðåâíèõ øàìàíñêèõ òåêñòàõ òýíãðè – ýòî íå÷òî àìîðôíîå: 

«âîçíèêëè, íå ïîêàçûâàÿ ñåáÿ», «íå èìåþùèå ðóê è íîã». Àíòðîïîìîðôíûìè 

òýíãðè ñòàíîâÿòñÿ òîëüêî â áîëåå ïîçäíèõ ìèôàõ.

Àííà Êîññå. Mitoloìiskie tçli epa “Geser” mongoïu, tibetieðu un burjatu variantâ 

255 

Íåñìîòðÿ íà òî, ÷òî è ïîíÿòèå tngri, è lha îáîçíà÷àþò áîæåñòâî, ìèôû î 

ïðîèñõîæäåíèè áîæåñòâ ó òèáåòöåâ, ìîíãîëîâ è áóðÿò íå òîæäåñòâåííû, 

ïîýòîìó, õîòÿ â òèáåòñêîé, ìîíãîëüñêîé è áóðÿòñêîé âåðñèÿõ «Ãåñåðà» ðå÷ü èäåò, 

âèäèìî, îá îäíèõ è òåõ æå áîæåñòâàõ, áëàãîäàðÿ ðàçëè÷íûì ìèôîëîãè÷åñêèì 

òðàäèöèÿì, áîæåñòâàì ïðèñóùè ðàçíûå ÷åðòû, â çàâèñèìîñòè îò ìåñòà, ãäå 

áûòóåò îïðåäåëåííàÿ âåðñèÿ. 

Â áóðÿòñêîé âåðñèè «Ãåñåðà» íà çàïàäíîé ñòîðîíå íåáà ïîÿâëÿþòñÿ 

ïÿòüäåñÿò ïÿòü òåíãðè, ñðåäè íèõ «ïåðâîðîäíûé» òýíãðè – Õîðìîñ, íà 

âîñòî÷íîé ñòîðîíå íåáà ïîÿâëÿþòñÿ ñîðîê ÷åòûðå òýíãðè, ñðåäè íèõ 

«ïåðâîðîäíûé» òýíãðè Àòàé Óëààí. 

Â áóðÿòñêèõ ìèôàõ Õîðìóñòà – òýíãðè – âëàñòåëèí ïÿòèäåñÿòè ïÿòè çàïàäíûõ 

äîëèí, ñèäèò íà âåðõóøêå äåâÿòè âûñîêèõ íåáåñ, òâîðèò èñòîðèþ äåâÿòè ãëóáîêèõ 

çåìåëü. Àòàé Óëààí – òýíãðè («Àòà– êðàñíûé òýíãðè», «Êðàñíàÿ çàâèñòü, 

âðàæäà») – âëàñòåëèí ñîðîêà ÷åòûðåõ íåáåñíûõ äîëèí, ñèäèò âûøå òðèíàäöàòè 

ìèðîçäàíèé, âèäèò íèæå òðèíàäöàòè ïðîïàñòåé. Ìåæäó çàïàäíûìè è âîñòî÷íûìè 

öàðñòâàìè íàõîäÿòñÿ çåìëè íèêîìó íå ïîä÷èíÿþùåãîñÿ õàíà Ñýãýí Ñýáýãà. 

Âîñòî÷íûå çëûå òýíãðè âðàæäåáíî íàñòðîåíû ê ëþäÿì, îíè íàñûëàþò 

ññîðû è áîëåçíè. Íî ñíà÷àëà âñå òýíãðè áûëè äîáðûìè è âìåñòå çàáîòèëèñü î 

ëþäÿõ, òîãäà âñå äåâÿíîñòî âîñåìü òýíãðè ïîä÷èíÿëèñü Àñàðàíãè – òýíãðè, íî 

ïîñëå åãî ñìåðòè Àòà –Óëàí òýíãðè è Õóðìàñ – òýíãðè çàñïîðèëè, êîìó áûòü 

ñòàðøèì. Â ðåçóëüòàòå ïÿòüäåñÿò òðè òýíãðè ïîääåðæàëè Õóðìàñà, à ñîðîê 

òðè – Àòàé – Óëààíà, ïîñëåäíèå óøëè ê âîñòîêó è îáðàçîâàëè ñâîå öàðñòâî, è ñ 

òåõ ïîð âîþþò ñ çàïàäíûìè òýíãðè. 

Ðàçäåëåíèå íåáîæèòåëåé íà äâå âðàæäóþùèå ãðóïïû åñòü â ìèôàõ ìíîãèõ 

íàðîäîâ, âçÿòü õîòÿ áû äýâîâ è àñóðîâ â èíäèéñêèõ ìèôàõ, àñóðû îòëè÷àþòñÿ 

âîèíñòâåííûì õàðàêòåðîì è ïðè÷èíÿþò ìíîãî âðåäà äåâàì. 

Â áóðÿòñêîé âåðñèè «Ãåñåðà» áåäû íà çåìëå íà÷èíàþòñÿ èç–çà òîãî, ÷òî 

÷àñòè òåëà óáèòîãî âîñòî÷íîãî òýíãðè óïàëè íà çåìëþ è ïîðîäèëè çëî, à â 

ìîíãîëüñêîé è òèáåòñêîé âåðñèÿõ, ãäå òàêæå ïðîèñõîäèò ïðîòèâîñòîÿíèå ìåæäó 

àñóðàìè è äåâàìè, êîòîðûõ ìû ìîæåì ñðàâíèòü ñ âîñòî÷íûìè è çàïàäíûìè 

òýíãðè, õîòÿ Õîðìóñòà ïîäîçðåâàåò àñóðîâ â òîì, ÷òî îíè ðàçðóøèëè óãîë åãî 

äâîðöà, íåò óêàçàíèé íà òî, ÷òî áåäû íà çåìëå íà÷àëèñü èç–çà àñóðîâ, à ñêàçàíî: 

«…äüÿâîëüñêèé ðîä ðàçìíîæèëñÿ è äüÿâîëû íà÷àëè çàõâàòûâàòü ñòðàíó ëþäåé» 

(òèá.) è «…âîçðîñëè ñòîðîííèêè äüÿâîëîâ – øèìíóñîâ (…), ñâèðåïûå (…) 

äüÿâîëû ñòàëè çàíèìàòü çåìëþ íèæíåãî ìèðà» (ìîíã.). 

Íàñ÷åò äîáðûõ è çëûõ áîæåñòâ Àðèýëü Ãîëàí ñîîáùàåò, ÷òî â ðóññêîé 

ëåòîïèñè XI â. ãîâîðèòñÿ: ñëàâÿíñêèå âîëõâû âåðèëè, ÷òî «…äâà ñóòü áîãè: åäèí 

íåáåñíûé äðóãîé âî àäå». Ñâåò, àòðèáóò äíÿ, ïî ìåðå ðàçâèòèÿ ðåëèãèîçíûõ 

ïðåäñòàâëåíèé, ñòàë ñâÿçûâàòüñÿ ñ «áîãîì íåáà», ïðîòèâîïîñòàâëåííîìó 

«äåìîíó ìðàêà è òüìû». 

Â ìîíãîëüñêîé è áóðÿòñêîé âåðñèÿõ «Ãåñåðà» âåðõîâíûé íåáîæèòåëü, 

ôèãóðèðóþùèé â ïîâåñòâîâàíèè – Õîðìóñòà – òýíãðè, îáðàç êîòîðîãî âîñõîäèò 

ê Èíäðå. Â òèáåòñêîì âàðèàíòå Ãåñåðó ïîêðîâèòåëüñòâóåò Áðàìà – tshangs – pa, 

â ìîíãîëüñêîì «Ãåñåðå» Õîðìóñòå ñîîòâåòñòâóåò esro – a, òàêæå Áðàìà. 

Ñëåäóþùèé ðàçäåë íàøåãî ñîîáùåíèÿ ïîñâÿùåí âåðõîâíîìó áîæåñòâó.


2. Õîðìóñòà – òýíãðè 

Îáðàç Õîðìóñòû – òýíãðè âîñõîäèò ê ñîãäåéñêîìó Õóðìàçäå, êîòîðûé áûë 

îòîæäåñòâëåí ñ Èíäðîé, ïîñëå ïðèíÿòèÿ ñîãäåéöàìè áóääèçìà, à çàòåì ïåðåøåë 

ê óéãóðàì è ìîíãîëàì. Îí ïîêðîâèòåëü òåïëûõ äîæäåé è êóçíå÷íîãî ðåìåñëà. 

Â èíäèéñêèõ ìèôàõ Èíäðà – âåëèêèé âîèí, ïåðåä êîòîðûì òðåïåùóò áîãè è 

àñóðû, âëàäûêà íåáåñíîãî öàðñòâà, êîòîðîãî áîãè ñàìè ñäåëàëè ñâîèì öàðåì, 

ïîïðîñèâ îá ýòîì Áðàìó. 

Ñîãëàñíî áóääèéñêèì ìèôàì, Èíäðà – ãðîìîâåðæåö, åãî âòîðîå èìÿ – 

Øàêðà. 

Â ìîíãîëüñêîì «Ãåñåðå» äàíû ñêóïûå îïèñàíèÿ Õîðìóñòû, óäåëÿåòñÿ ñîâñåì 

ìàëî âíèìàíèÿ åãî âíåøíîñòè è ÷åðòàì õàðàêòåðà, òî æå ñàìîå ïðîèñõîäèò â 

òèáåòñêîì «Ãåñåðå». Çàòî áóðÿòñêàÿ âåðñèÿ èçîáèëóåò äåòàëÿìè îáëèêà è 

îïèñàíèÿìè äåë Õàíà – Õóðìàñà. Â áóðÿòñêîé âåðñèè îí âåñåëûé ÿçû÷åñêèé áîã, 

ëþáèò âîéíó è ïèðû. Åãî îáðàç ñîâñåì íå ñîîòâåòñòâóåò áóääèéñêèì èäåàëàì 

ñïîêîéíîãî ìèðîñîçåðöàíèÿ. Áåäû íà çåìëå âîçíèêàþò ïî åãî âèíå, è íåáîæèòåëè 

ðåøàþò ïîñëàòü îäíîãî èç åãî ñûíîâåé íà çåìëþ òîëüêî èç óâàæåíèÿ ê åãî 

ñåäèíàì. Õóðìàñ – íàñòîÿùèé õàí, îáëàäàòåëü âñåâîçìîæíûõ áîãàòñòâ: ñòàä îâåö, 

ðûæå–êðàñíîãî êîíÿ, âîëøåáíîãî ìå÷à, ëóêà è êîë÷àíà ñòðåë, êðîìå òîãî ïîëíîãî 

ãàðäåðîáà ðîñêîøíûõ îäåæä, îïèñàííûõ ñ òùàòåëüíîñòüþ äî ïóãîâèö. Õóðìàñ 

îáîæàåò ïèðû, èíîãäà âåñåëüå ÷óòü íå ïðèâîäèò ê áåäå: îäíàæäû îí åäâà íå 

îòêóñèë ñåáå ïàëüöû, èõ íàìàçàëè âîëøåáíîé ìàçüþ è îíè ñðàçó çàæèëè. 

Òåïåðü ïåðåéäåì ê àñóðàì – ïðîòèâíèêàì áîæåñòâ. 

3. Àñóðû 

Ñîãëàñíî èíäèéñêîìó ìèôó, ïîñëå òîãî êàê Áðàìà ñîçäàë ìèð, îí ïåðåäàë 

âëàñòü áîãàì è àñóðàì. Àñóðû áûëè ìóäðû, ñèëüíû, âëàäåëè òàéíàìè êîëäîâñòâà 

– ìàéÿ, ìîãëè ïðèíèìàòü ðàçëè÷íûå îáðàçû è ñòàíîâèòüñÿ íåâèäèìûìè. Ó íèõ 

áûëè íåñìåòíûå áîãàòñòâà, òðè íåáåñíûõ ãîðîäà è ãîðîäà â ïîäçåìíîì öàðñòâå. 

Ïîêà àñóðû áûëè áëàãî÷åñòèâû, ñ÷àñòüå ïðåáûâàëî ñ íèìè, íî îíè ñêëîíèëèñü 

êî çëó è áûëè íèçâåðæåíû áîãîì Ðóäðîé íà çåìëþ. 

Â ïåðåâîäå íà òèáåòñêèé ÿçûê àñóðà çíà÷èò «íå áîã» – “lha ma yin” èëè “ lha 

min”, àñóðû âðàãè äåâîâ, íå óñòóïàþùèå èì ïî ñèëå. 

Â áóðÿòñêèõ ìèôàõ àñóðû – «àñàðàíãè àðâàíãóðâàí òýíãðè» – ïîêðîâèòåëè 

çëûõ øàìàíîâ è êóçíåöîâ, êîòîðûå ñëóæàò âîñòî÷íûì òýíãðè. Îíè ïðè÷èíÿþò 

ëþäÿì âðåä, «ñúåäàþò» äóøó ÷åëîâåêà, îò ÷åãî ëþäè óìèðàþò. 

Â ïîñëåäíåì ðàçäåëå îáðàòèìñÿ ê îáðàçó ìàíãóñà. 

4. Ìàíãóñ 

Ìàíãóñ – îáèòàòåëü áóääèéñêîé îáëàñòè «âëàñòâóþùèõ íàä ïðåâðàùåíèÿìè 

äðóãèõ», â êîòîðîé íàõîäÿòñÿ ñóùåñòâà, ñïîñîáñòâóþùèå ðîæäåíèþ äðóãèõ

Àííà Êîññå. Mitoloìiskie tçli epa “Geser” mongoïu, tibetieðu un burjatu variantâ 

257 

æèâûõ ñóùåñòâ. Ýòî îáëàñòü ÷óâñòâåííûõ íàñëàæäåíèé, îáìàí÷èâîñòè ÷óâñòâ, 

èçìåí÷èâûõ ôîðì ìàòåðèè – ìèð öàðÿ Øèìíóñîâ –íåóìîëèìîãî âðàãà íèðâàíû. 

Ïîñëå çàèìñòâîâàíèÿ ìîíãîëàìè èíäèéñêîé è òèáåòñêîé ìèôîëîãèè, 

ìàíãóñîì ñòàë íàçûâàòüñÿ ðàêøàñ – srin – po (òèá.). Ýòèìîëîãèÿ ñëîâà íå ÿñíà, 

Ñ.Þ. Íåêëþäîâ ñ÷èòàåò, ÷òî ýòî íàçâàíèå ìîæåò îçíà÷àòü ëèáî ïëîõîãî, ëèáî 

õîðîøåãî ãåðîÿ, â çàâèñèìîñòè îò îáñòîÿòåëüñòâ. 

Âèäèìî, îáðàç ìàíãóñà âîñõîäèò ê èðàíñêîìó áîæåñòâó òüìû – Àðèõìàíó, 

êîòîðûé ïîçæå áûë îòîæäåñòâëåí ñ Ìàðîé ñîãäåéöàìè, à çàòåì ïåðåøåë ê 

óéãóðàì è ìîíãîëàì. 

Â ìîíãîëüñêîé âåðñèè ìàíãóñ – âðàã ëþäåé â îòëè÷èå îò àñóðîâ, âîþþùèõ 

ñ áîãàìè. Îí îáëàäàåò äàðîì ÿñíîâèäåíèÿ è ïðåâðàùåíèé, à â îñòàëüíîì ìàëî 

îòëè÷àåòñÿ îò îáû÷íîãî õàíà. 

Summary 

There are three main groups of mythological characters in the Mongolian, Tibetan 

and Buryat epic “Geser”: gods, non– gods (asuras, mong. ) and demons (mangus, 

mong.). 

As for gods, they have different origin in Mongolian, Tibetan, Buryat and Indian 

myths, although all of them act in the same epic, actually they are not similar. 

In the Buryat version the gods are described with human traits, but in the Mongolian 

and Tibetan versions the images of the gods tend to the ideals of Buddhist life. 

The gods do have enemies, they are the asuras or the non– gods. They also have 

different origin according to the different mythological tradition. They are as strong 

as the gods and make a lot of harm. 

The demons are the enemies of people, Mangus is the king of the human world – 

sansara. 

Kopsavilkums 

Mongoïu, tibetieðu un burjatu eposâ “Gezer” ir trîs galvenâs mitoloìisko tçlu 

grupas: dievi, ne–dievi (asuras – mong.) un dçmoni (mangus – mong.). 

Mongoïu, tibetieðu, burjatu un indieðu mîtos dieviem ir daþâda izcelsme, un, kaut 

arî tie visi darbojas tajâ paðâ eposâ, bûtîbâ tie ir ïoti atðíirîgi. 

Eposa burjatu versijâ dieviem tiek piedçvçtas cilvçciskas iezîmes un rîcîba, bet 

mongoïu un tibetieðu variantâ dievu tçli tuvojas budistu ideâliem. 

Dieviem ir ienaidnieki – tie ir asuras vai ne–dievi. Daþâdajâs mitoloìiskajâs 

tradîcijâs arî tiem ir daþâda izcelsme. Bûdami tikpat stipri kâ dievi, asuras spçj nodarît 

lielu ïaunumu. 

Dçmoni ir cilvçku ienaidnieki. Mangus ir cilvçku pasaules valdnieks – sansara.


MÂKSLA, 258.–264. lpp. 

The Idea of Synthesis of Cultures: R. Tagore’s 

Influence on N. Roerich’s Thought 

Kultûru sintçzes ideja: Rabindranâta Tagores ietekme 

uz Nikolaja Rçriha filozofiju 

Anita Staðulâne (Latvija) 

Daugavpils universitâte 

Vienîbas iela 13, Daugavpils, LV 5400 

e–mail: anita@dau.lv 

To solve the problem – to what extent R. Tagore (1861–1941) had influenced the world vision 

of N. Roerich (1874–1947) – the author has investigated: firstly, the dynamics of their relations 

and, secondly, the history of the idea of synthesis of cultures. Basing her work on the 

exchange of letters between the Russian artist and the Bengali poet, analysing their world vision 

and documenting the usage of the notion “synthesis” in their works, the author of the 

investigation proves that N. Roerich has become the prophet of the Future Culture due to the 

influence of R. Tagore. 

Keywords: Tagore, Roerich, Theosophy, Synthesis, Culture. 

N. Roerich’s (1874–1947) vision of a future world reunited on the basis of culture, 

is closely connected with the ideas of the Bengali poet and philosopher 

Rabindranath Tagore (1861–1941). N. Roerich has pointed out: “In Tagore we see a 

wonderful synthesis of the thinker, the poet, the bard, the artist, and the teacher of 

life” 1 . In order to determine how deeply R. Tagore exerted an influence on N. 

Roerich’s thought, let us pay attention, firstly, to their relations, secondly, to their 

ideas. 

1. Relations between N. Roerich and R. Tagore 

The Europe to which R. Tagore brought his translated religious verse2 proved to 

be extraordinarily receptive to his modernized Hindu outlook. Before he met 

R. Tagore, N. Roerich was already familiar with R. Tagore’s poem “Gitanjali”: 

She [H. Roerich] often through her great intuition, found in bookshops 

something new, needed, and inspiring. Thus she brought Tagore’s 

“Gitanjali” in translation of Baltrushaitis3 . These beautiful sonorous poems 

radiated like a rainbow, and in the Russian translation of 

Baltrushaitis they sounded as a clarion call. Up to that time Rabindranath 

Tagore was not known in Russia in his entire scope; it was known that 

Tagore’s name was acclaimed all over the world, but we, Russians, had 

no occasion to cognise the depth of the heart of this great poet4 . 

N. Roerich who was already familiar with the idea of cosmic unity announced by 

Theosophy, was fascinated with R. Tagore’s mystical experience of oneness with the

Anita Staðulâne. Kultûru sintçzes ideja: Rabindranâta Tagores ietekme uz Nikolaja Rçriha .. 

259 

world expressed in beautiful poetical images. N. Roerich was especially devoted to 

the Bengali poet. Indeed, for him, R. Tagore was not only a poet: “”Gitanjali” came 

like a revelation.” 5 N. Roerich was so excited with R. Tagore’s poems that he finished 

the play entitled “Ìèëîñåðäèå” (Mercy or Charity) dated November 1917 with 

a translation of R. Tagore’s poem. 

Fascinated with Eastern culture, philosophy, and religious teachings known 

through the Bhagavad Gita, and the works of Tagore, Ramakrishna and Vivekananda, 

the Roerichs began to make plans for their trip to India in the summer of 1918. After 

a sequence of exhibitions in Sweden, Norway, and Denmark, in the fall of 1919 the 

Roerichs arrived in London, where they hoped to obtain visas to India. In May 1920, 

while N. Roerich was mounting an exhibition of his works in the British capital, R. 

Tagore left India for a fifteen–month tour of Europe and the United States. Finally, 

while N. Roerich was working on a series called by him “Ñíû Âîñòîêà” (Dreams of 

the East), R. Tagore came to see the Russian painter. 

The next question, then, is that of the cause of their meeting. N. Roerich described 

it as follows: 

Will not fate bring about a meeting here, on this plane, with him who so 

powerfully called towards Beauty the Conqueror? Strangely, Providence 

transforms imperative dreams into reality. Indeed unforeseen are the 

paths. Life itself weaves the beautiful web as no human imagination can 

visualise it6 . 

J. Decter, for her part, has expressed the following opinion: “Coincidentally [italics 

– A. S.], […] Rabindranath Tagore came to see him at his studio” 7 . These considerations 

suggest the idea to put their meeting in a concrete context. It is important to 

observe that in England R. Tagore was received by his “old friends” 8 Rothenstein9 and W. B. Yeats10 . Stephen N. Hay points out: 

Shortly before Tagore’s arrival [in 1912] he [W. B. Yeats] had been persuaded 

by an American medium that his mind was being guided by his 

astral counterpart, the darkskinned medieval poet Leo Africanus11 . Small 

wonder that the arrival in the flesh of an exotic poet from India should 

have so elated the susceptible Yeats12 . 

Consequently, when R. Tagore met N. Roerich, he was already familiar with theosophical 

and spiritualistic circles of London. We may suppose that R. Tagore had 

heard of N. Roerich’s “Russian paintings” from these circles. Therefore, their meeting 

at N. Roerich’s studio can be considered as a consequence of their links with 

Theosophy. Moreover, it was not their last meeting: “Then we met in America […]” 13 

In order to clarify the development of N. Roerich’s and R. Tagore’s relations, let 

us pay attention to the way in which N. Roerich addresses the Bengali poet in their 

correspondence which lasted from 1920 to 1939. In the first letter, N. Roerich addresses 

R. Tagore: “Dear Master!”; in the second letter of July 26, 1920: “Dear Master 

and Friend!”; in the third one (of December 27, 1929): “My Dear Friend!”; later, 

in the letter of April 20, 1931: “Dear Brother in Spirit!” 14 Without proceeding to a 

deeper analysis, we can point out the word friend as the axis of further addresses


during the period of their correspondence, because the address “Dear Brother in 

Spirit!” was used only by N. Roerich – R. Tagore always answered: “My Friend!” 

The dynamics of their relations reflects, firstly, N. Roerich’s deepest conviction that 

R. Tagore is a great prophet – a master to be followed, secondly, N. Roerich’s belief 

in his own spiritual kinship with R. Tagore, and, consequently, in his own prophetic 

mission. 

2. Converging Lines of Thought 

N. Roerich, who “at once became imbued with love for Tagore” 15 , has a particular 

link with the Bengali poet because of his care for the people’s education. Let us 

take into consideration that an international university Visva–Bharati founded by R. 

Tagore in Santiniketan was inaugurated with a formal ceremony on December 23, 

1921, but the cornerstone was laid in 1918, i.e., in 1920, when N. Roerich met 

R. Tagore, the Bengali poet was primarily concerned about his Visva–Bharati. Moreover, 

he gathered around him co–workers from the West. In this light, let us seek to 

understand why “Tagore was enthusiastically persuading Nikolai Konstantinovich to 

visit India […]” 16 

The ideal of R. Tagore, in establishing an international university, was cooperation. 

It is meaningful to specify that cooperation was the keynote of the new institution, 

and it had three levels: cooperation among the various regional and religious 

cultures of India17 , cooperation among the cultures of the East, cooperation between 

Eastern and Western cultures – among the aims of the university was indicated “a 

true cooperation of East and West” 18 . 

A point that should be made here is that in November, 1921, N. Roerich founded 

the Master Institute of United Arts. Although it may seem that this institution is a 

continuation of educational work begun by N. Roerich already in 1906 when he was 

promoted from secretary of the Society for the Encouragement of the Arts to director 

of its school, in reality the Master Institute of United Arts was founded with more 

extensive plans than the above mentioned art school. These plans are expressed in 

the school’s credo: 

Art will unify all humanity. Art is one – invisible. Art has its many 

branches, yet all are one. Art is the manifestation of the coming synthesis. 

Art is for all. Everyone will enjoy true art. The gates of the “sacred 

source” must be wide open for everybody, and the light of art will influence 

numerous hearts with a new love. At first this feeling will be unconscious, 

but after all it will purify human consciousness, and how 

many young hearts are searching for something real and beautiful! So, 

give it to them. Bring art to the people – where it belongs. We should 

have not only museums, theaters, universities, public libraries, railway 

stations and hospitals, but even prisons decorated and beautified. Then 

we shall have no more prisons19 . 

In order to determine how deeply N. Roerich’s thought is influenced by 

R. Tagore, let us draw a rapid sketch of their intellectual landscape, pointing out some


261 

parallels. The remarkable similarity between N. Roerich’s and R. Tagore’s ideas apparently 

resulted from their similar reactions to the decay of traditional culture in their 

respective countries. Let us recall that at the turn of the century N. Roerich was preoccupied 

with increasing industrialization. He was worried about conservation of folk 

arts and crafts and he felt called to study, collect, and preserve the art and architecture 

of the past. R. Tagore, in his turn, expressed pride in the ancient civilization of 

India, coupled with sorrow at its decline in more recent times. 

R. Tagore, like many Asian scholars, writers, politicians, and religious leaders, 

was fascinated by the idea of Eastern spiritual culture. The idea of India’s spiritual 

greatness increased in popularity in the last quarter of the nineteenth century with the 

appearance of the Theosophical Society. The theory of Eastern spiritual culture held 

attraction for N. Roerich; he was fascinated with the idea that Asia possesses a 

uniquely spiritual culture. Indian motifs began appearing in N. Roerich’s writing and 

painting as early as 1905. That year he wrote a fairy tale based on an Indian legend 

entitled “Devassari Abuntu”. 

Although Indian intellectuals recognized the advantages brought to their society 

by Western technology and accepted British commercial domination as beneficial to 

India, they affirmed that Western civilization is not perfect, because it is a secular 

and materialistic civilization. R. Tagore who was absorbing these ideas became convinced 

that Asia had a spiritual message for the West. N. Roerich, in his turn, was 

disillusioned with “Christian” Europe in consequence of the holocaust of the 1914– 

1918 war. Consequently, he comes to the conclusion that the West needs the healing 

power of Oriental religion and philosophy to save it from its own self–destruction. 

The very insistence on the importance of Eastern culture as a counterweight to 

Western civilization was a basis for the theory of Eastern spiritual civilization completing 

Western materialistic civilization. Thus, the opposition between Eastern spirituality 

and advanced Western secular and materialistic civilization was one of 

R. Tagore’s favorite themes. He, like many Indian thinkers before him, for example, 

Rammohun Roy (1772–1833), and Keshub Chunder Sen (1838–1884), attempted to 

reconcile the conflict between Eastern and Western cultures. The most original feature 

of the Indians’ approach to this problem was that they tried to eliminate this 

conflict by projecting into the future the great synthesis of cultures. Thus, R. Tagore 

proposed the synthesis between Eastern spirituality and Western materialistic civilization. 

Moreover, he was convinced that the spiritual ideals of ancient India could 

become the foundation of a new world civilization incorporating the best qualities of 

both East and West. 

N. Roerich, in his turn, was seeking to elaborate a specific ideal, a special form 

which will be to the benefit of all humanity. He founded this ideal in the synthesis of 

religions, races, and cultures. He affirmed that there was no East and West in the 

cultural sense: despite their fundamental differences they are mere variants of a single 

culture. This notion of a synthesis was the “message” which N. Roerich began to 

deliver to his audiences after the year 1920. 

It may appear that N. Roerich and R. Tagore were thinking along parallel lines. 

Indeed, this is the most common viewpoint expressed by different authors. Nevertheless, 

if we pursue the line of N. Roerich’s thought in chronological order, we can note


an important detail: the preservation of Russia’s and the world’s cultural heritage was 

the main theme to which N. Roerich devoted his articles and many of his paintings 

during the years 1899–1920; i. e., until 1920 N. Roerich was primarily concerned with 

the process of revitalization of ancient cultural traditions. We must bear in mind that 

the first edition of “Leaves of Morya’s Garden” was published in 1923. It is evident 

that N. Roerich presents himself not only as a painter, but as a prophet calling for 

revival of spirituality only after 1920, i. e., only after his meetings with R. Tagore in 

Britain and America “where the poet [R. Tagore] lectured so convincingly about the 

immutable laws of beauty and about mutual human understanding” 20 . Therefore, in 

order to understand N. Roerich’s motives for assuming the role of a prophet, we must 

take into consideration his previous intellectual development, particularly, his close 

links with Theosophy, which prepared a background for N. Roerich’s transformation 

into a prophet, as well as R. Tagore’s influence on his thought. 

To determine how deeply R. Tagore has influenced N. Roerich’s thought, let us 

pay attention to the fact that during the years 1899–1920 the idea of synthesis of cultures 

did not appear in N. Roerich’s articles. Moreover, the first time this idea appears 

is in the credo of the Master Institute of United Arts, founded by N. Roerich in 

New York, November 17, 1921: “Art is the manifestation of coming synthesis” 21 , as 

well as in an essay “Îáeäíåíèå äóõà” (Impoverishment of spirit) written by N. Roerich 

in 1921, in Chicago: “And behind the nations emerges the Face of Humankind” 22 . In 

a more explicit way, the notion synthesis23 appears in his works in 1929, but co– 

operation24 – in 1930. To this must be added that R. Tagore was already writing and 

talking about cooperation and synthesis for many years25 ; for example, in “Sadhana. 

The Realisation of Life”, speaking about the aspiration of ancient India to live in 

Brahma, the all–conscious and all–pervading Spirit, by extending its field of consciousness 

all over the world, he is talking about “a search for unity, for synthesis” 26 ; 

i. e., for R. Tagore a search for unity and synthesis are synonymous. Thus, we may 

suppose that after 1920, even in his expressions, the Russian painter begins to sound 

like the Indian poet–sage: in his vocabulary appear two very significant notions: co– 

operation and synthesis. N. Roerich, who sees in R. Tagore “the mighty teacher of 

life”, 27 points out that R. Tagore possesses the knowledge: 

… [which] has reached us from the depths of antiquity. In Tagore such 

wisdom is inborn, and his deep understanding of modern literature and 

science gives that equilibrium, that golden path, that to the majority 

seemed an utopia28 . 

Quite naturally R. Tagore‘s influence on the development of N. Roerich’s thought 

can be considered as a strong impetus which helped to transform N. Roerich from a 

Russian painter into a tireless prophet bringing to the world at large a grand design 

for the synthesis of cultures. Immensely impressed by R. Tagore’s concepts, N. 

Roerich dedicates his activity to the idea of the synthesis of cultures and defines his 

own personal mission in terms of beauty and knowledge. Without the risk of oversimplification, 

it can be affirmed that the notion culture becomes the central point of 

N. Roerich’s theosophical thought.


LITERATURE 

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Theosophical Movement. – New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1993. 

DECTER J. Nicholas Roerich The Life and Art of a Russian Master. – Rochester: Vermont: Park 

Street Press, 1989. 

FARQUHAR J. N. Modern religions movements in India. – New York: Macmillan Company, 

1918. 

HAY S. N. Asian ideas of East and West, Tagore and His Critics in Japan, China, and India. 

– Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1970. 

Ìèð ÷åðåç Êóëüòóðó: Åæåãîäíèê. – Ìîñêâà: Ñîâ. ïèñàòåëü, 1990. 

PAELIAN G. Nicholas Roerich. – Sedona: The Aquarian Educational Group, 1974. 

ROERICH N. Himavat. Diary Leaves. – Allahabad: Kitabistan, 1946. 

ROERICH N. Realm of Light. – New York: Nicholas Roerich Museum, 1931. 

ÐÅÐÈÕ H. Ê. Æèçíü è òâîð÷åñòâî. – Ìîñêâà: Èçîáðàçèòåëüíîå èñêóññòâî, 1978. 

ÐÅÐÈÕ H. Ïóòè áëàãîñëîâåí³ÿ. – Ðèãà: Aëàòàñ, 1924. 

TAGORE R. Sadhana. The Realisation of Life. – London: Macmillan and Co., 1946. 

TAGORE R. Creative unity. – London: Macmillan and Co., 1950. 

ÒÀÃÎÐ P. Áèî–áèáëèîãðàôè÷åñêèé óêàçàòåëü.– Ìîñêâà: Èçäàòåëüñòâî Âñåñîþçíîé 

êíèæíîé ïàëàòû, 1961. 

ÒÀÃÎÐ P. Ãèòàíäæàëè. Æåðòâåííûå ïåñíè //Çàâåòû 11 (1913) 116–120. [Ïåð. ñ àíãë. 

Þ. Áàëòðóøàéòèñà] 

ÒÀÃÎÐÚ P. Ãèòàíäæàëè. – Ìîñêâà: Êíèãîèçäàòåëüñòâî ïèñàòåëåé, 1918. [Ïåðåâîä Í. A. 

Ïóøåøíèêîâà, ïîä ðåä. Èâ. A. Áóíèíà] 

THOMPSON Ed. Rabindranath Tagore. Poet and Dramatist. – Oxford: Geoffrey Cumberlege, 

1948. 

YEATS W. B. Autobiographies. – London: Macmillan & Co LTD, 1955. 

REFERENCES 

1 ROERICH N. Himavat. Diary Leaves. – Allahabad: Kitabistan, 1946, 99. 

2 In 1912 the “Gitanjali” poems, translated in English prose, reached an ever–widening 

circle of appreciative readers in Europe and America. The publication of R. Tagore’s poems 

in English and their retranslation into other European languages brought his work to 

the attention of the Nobel Prize Committee, and in 1913, the Bengali poet received the 

Nobel Prize for Literature. 

3 An example would be Òàãîð P. Ãèòàíäæàëè. Æåðòâåííûå ïåñíè //Çàâåòû 11 (1913) 

116–120. [Ïåð. ñ àíãë. Þ. Áàëòðóøàéòèñà] 


5 Ibid, 96. 

6 Ibid, 97. 

7 

DECTER J. Nicholas Roerich The Life and Art of a Russian Master. – Rochester, Vermont: 

Park Street Press, 1989, 113. 

8 Cf. Ibid, 130. 

9 In 1912 R. Tagore showed translations of some of his poems to Rothenstein, who passed 

them on to the poet William Butler Yeats.


10 The poet William Butler Yeats had his first contacts with Theosophy “in 1884, when 

Mohini Chatterji came to Ireland with Olcott, during the period HPB visited Europe. Two 

years later, when he was going to art school, he read Sinnett’s “Occult World” and his “Esoteric 

Buddhism”. […] He became an active member of the Dublin TS and its predecessor, 

the Hermetic Society, of which he was chairman. In 1887, the Yeats family moved to London. 

He first visited HPB when she was at Maycot and then later at Lansdowne Road, 

where he became a member of the Blavatsky Lodge. When the Esoteric Section was formed 

in 1888 he was one of the early members”. (Cranston S. The Extraordinary Life and Influence 

of Helena Blavatsky, Founder of the Modern Theosophical Movement. – New York: 

G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1993, 465.) For details, see W. B. YEATS, Autobiograhies. – London: 

Macmillan & Co LTD, 1955. 

11 Stephen N. Hay refers to R. ELLMANN, Yeats, the Man and the Masks. – New York, 1948, 

195–196. 

12 

HAY S. N. Asian ideas of East and West, Tagore and His Critics in Japan, China, and India. 

– Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1970, 48. 


14 Cf. “Èç ïåðåïèñêè Í. Ê. Ðåðèõà è Ðàáèíäðàíàòà Òàãîðà” //Ìèð ÷åðåç Êóëüòóðó: 

Åæåãîäíèê.– Ìîñêâà: Ñîâ. ïèñàòåëü, 1990, 28–29. 


16 Ñ. Í. Ðåðèõ. “Ñëîâî îá îòöå” //Ðåðèõ Í. Ê. Æèçíü è òâîð÷åñòâî. – Ìîñêâà: 

Èçîáðàçèòåëüíîå èñêóññòâî, 1978, 26. (Author’s translation.) 

17 R. Tagore was convinced: “Before Asia is in position to co–operate with the culture of 

Europe, she must base her own structure on a synthesis of all the different cultures which 

she was”. (Tagore R. Creative unity. – London: Macmillan and Co., 1950, 174.) 

18 

THOMPSON Ed. Rabindranath Tagore. Poet and Dramatist. – Oxford: Geoffrey Cumberlege, 

1948, 266. 

19 Ðåðèõ Í. Ïóòè áëàãîñëîâåí³ÿ. – Ðèãà: Aëàòàñ, 1924, 143. 


21 Ðåðèõ Í. Ïóòè áëàãîñëîâåí³ÿ. – Ðèãà: Aëàòàñ, 1924, 143. 

22 Ibid, 76. (Author’s translation.) 

23 Roerich N. Realm of Light. – New York: Nicholas Roerich Museum, 1931, 312. 

24 Ibid, 33. 

25 The book of R. Tagore “Sadhana. The Realisation of Life”, published in October of 1913, 

was reprinted in November and December of 1913, in 1914, 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918 

(twice), 1919, 1920 etc. Without any doubt, the ideas of R. Tagore were disseminated over 

the whole world. 

26 Tagore R. Sadhana. The Realisation of Life. – London: Macmillan and Co., 1946, 25. 


28 Ibid, 100. 

Kopsavilkums 

Risinot jautâjumu, cik lielâ mçrâ R. Tagore (1861–1941) ir ietekmçjis N. Rçriha 

(1874–1947) ideju pasauli, raksta autore aplûko, pirmkârt, viòu attiecîbu dinamiku, 

otrkârt, kultûru sintçzes idejas vçsturi. Balstoties uz krievu mâkslinieka un bengâïu 

dzejnieka vçstulçm, analizçjot viòu pasaules uzskatus un dokumentçjot jçdziena 

sintçze lietoðanu viòu rakstos, autore pierâda, ka N. Rçrihs ir kïuvis par nâkotnes 

kultûras pravieti R. Tagores ietekmç.


MÂKSLA, 265.–272. lpp. 

Japâna pasaules kultûras kontekstâ: kultûras 

interpretâcija Vacudzi Tecuro agrînajos darbos 

Japan in the Context of World Culture: Interpretation 

of Culture in Early Writings of Watsuji Tetsuro 

Ilze Paegle (Latvija) 

Latvijas Universitâtes Moderno valodu fakultâtes Orientâlistikas nodaïa, 

Kr. Valdemâra 83–11, Rîga, LV 1013, Latvija 

e–pasts: magija@lanet.lv 

Rakstâ aplûkots japâòu kultûras attçlojums japâòu filosofa Vacudzi Tecuro (Watsuji Tetsuro, 

1889–1960) agrînajos darbos. No filosofiskâ personâlisma pozîcijâm Vatsuji pçta Japânas un 

Rietumu pretstatu paradigmu, apgalvojot, ka Rietumi jâuzskata kâ dialektiskâs vienotîbas divas 

puses. Tâ kâ nacionâlâ kultûra ir pasaules kultûras dinamiskâ procesa bûtiska sastâvdaïa, 

kultûras mantojums jâpârvçrtç un jâpârskata, òemot vçrâ tâ ieguldîjumu pasaules kultûrâ. 

Keywords: Japâna, modernizâcija, eiropeizâcija, nacionâlâ kultûra, pasaules kultûra. 

Japâòu filozofa Vacudzi Tecuro (Watsuji Tetsurô, 1889–1960) rakstu un eseju 

krâjums “Elku restaurâcija” (Gûzô saikô) publicçts 1918. gadâ, t.i., apmçram Taisjo 

perioda (1912–1925) vidû. Tajâ apkopotie darbi acîmredzot tapuði no 1916. lîdz 1918. 

gadam, kaut arî daudzos gadîjumos grûti noskaidrot to precîzu sarakstîðanas laiku1 . 

Ðis krâjums dokumentç pârejas periodu autora intelektuâlajâ biogrâfijâ un vienlaikus 

iezîmç arî paradigmas maiòu Japânas un Rietumu attiecîbu interpretâcijâ. Tomçr, iekams 

pievçrðamies Rietumu un Japânas kultûru saskares interpretâcijai Vacudzi esejâs, 

nepiecieðams îsi ieskicçt tâs intelektuâlâs tradîcijas kontûras, kuru kontekstâ tâs 

tapuðas. 

Taisjo perioda publikâcijas, kas veltîtas Japânas kultûras bûtîbas un transformâcijas, 

Japânas un Rietumu kultûras saskarsmes problçmâm, turpina tradîciju, kuras pirmsâkumi 

meklçjami jau ap 1868. g. Meidzi restaurâciju. Izvçloties Rietumu attîstîtâs valstis (Seiyô 

senshinshokoku) par Japânas modernizâcijas modeli, 19. gs. otrajâ pusç Japânâ tiek 

mçrítiecîgi realizçtas valsts institûciju reformas pçc Rietumu attîstîto valstu parauga, 

importçtas progresîvas tehnoloìijas, tâ cenðoties paâtrinât rûpniecîbas attîstîbu un 

stiprinât valsts aizsardzîbas potenciâlu saskaòâ ar principu “Bagâta valsts – stipra armija” 

(fukoku kyôhei). Vienlaikus plaðâka sabiedrîba tiek iepazîstinâta arî ar eiropieðu paraðâm, 

uzvedîbas noteikumiem u.tml., kas âtri nostiprinâs ikdienas dzîvç, tâ radot populâro 

ilûziju par neparasti âtriem modernizâcijas un eiropeizâcijas tempiem. 2 Meidzi periodâ 

valdoðo laika garu îsi un kodolîgi raksturo cita populâra frâze: “Apgaismîba un 

civilizâcija” (bummei kaika), kas kïûst par vesela laikmeta simbolu. Tomçr, par spîti 

neapðaubâmajiem panâkumiem modernizâcijas praktiskâ realizâcijâ un nedalîtai jûsmai 

par visu eiropeisko, kas valda sabiedrîbâ, vçl trûkst nopietnas refleksijas par Japânas 

kultûras transformâciju, tâs rezultâtu un nozîmes izvçrtçðanu nâcijas dzîvç – Meidzi 

perioda sâkumâ to aizstâj informatîva un propagandas rakstura darbi, kuros galvenokârt 

uzskaitîtas eiropeizâcijas priekðrocîbas.


Tikai 19. gs. 80. gadu beigâs lîdz ar oficiâlâs ideoloìijas pievçrðanos lojalitâtes un 

patriotisma propagandai parâdâs gan teorçtiski, gan arî populâri apcerçjumi, kuros 

mçìinâts apkopot lîdzðinçjo modernizâcijas un eiropeizâcijas pieredzi un rast Japânas 

nâcijas bûtîbas (kokusui) definîciju. Modernizâcijas un eiropeizâcijas nepiecieðamîba 

netiek apðaubîta, kaut arî tâs rezultâtu vçrtçjums var bût samçrâ pretrunîgs. Tomçr 

gandrîz visâs publikâcijâs tiek uzsvçrta Japânas citâdîba salîdzinâjumâ ar Rietumiem, 

atzîstot to par vienu no bûtiskâkajiem faktoriem, kas nodroðinâjis nepieredzçti strauju 

ekonomisko izaugsmi. Jautâjums par nepiecieðamîbu saglabât un pilnveidot Japânas 

un japâòu nâcijas raksturîgâkâs iezîmes tiek saistîts ar modernizâcijas turpmâkajiem 

panâkumiem. Tâtad 19. gs. 80.–90. gadu mçìinâjumos definçt Japânas nacionâlo 

identitâti Rietumu attîstîtâs valstis tiek atzîtas par Japânas “Citu”, par bûtiskâko 

atskaites punktu, uz ko nepiecieðams atsaukties, lai saskatîtu un izceltu Japânas un 

japâòu nâcijas savdabîbu. Citiem vârdiem sakot, ðîs publikâcijas atspoguïo Meidzi 

perioda japâòu inteliìences psiholoìiski sareþìîto attieksmi pret Rietumiem (Seiyô, 

Ôbei). Nacionâlâs paðapziòas pieaugums un pirmie mçìinâjumi rast pozitîvu 

nacionâlâs identitâtes definîciju sadzîvo ar slçptu vai atklâtu atpalicîbas un 

mazvçrtîbas apziòu. 

20. gs. sâkumâ, it îpaði Taisjo periodâ (1912–1925), Japânas intelektuâlajâ 

klimatâ sâk iezîmçties jaunas vçsmas, ko bûtiski ietekmç Japânas panâkumi 

internacionâlajâ arçnâ. Japâna vairs nav bezcerîgi izolçta un atpalikusi valstiòa, bet 

pilnvçrtîga attîstîtâko valstu saimes locekle. Rietumi un Japâna joprojâm tiek uztverti 

kâ pretstati, taèu nacionâlâs paðapziòas pieaugums ïauj paraudzîties uz Rietumiem ar 

daudz kritiskâku skatienu. Diskusijas centrâ izvirzâs nevis Rietumu ekonomiskais 

pârâkums un Japânas modernizâcijas nepiecieðamîba, bet kultûras atðíirîbas, turklât 

Rietumi vairs nav vienîgais atskaites punkts Japânas identitâtes meklçjumos. 

Modernizâcijas panâkumi ir radîjuði distanci starp moderno Japânu, kas spçjusi 

iekïauties pasaules attîstîtâko valstu saimç, un pagâtnes Japânu, kas iegûst jaunu 

eksotikas un citâdîbas oreolu. 3 

Japânas kultûras problçma Taisjo perioda intelektuâïiem saistâs ar nostalìiju pçc 

industrializâcijas neskartas, autentiskas Japânas, pçc senatnes vçrtîbâm, kas, 

saglabâjot savu radikâlo citâdîbu, vienlaikus atbilstu universâlam ideâlam. Senâs 

Japânas kultûra tiek definçta kâ “Japânas kultûru” par excellance, ignorçjot vçsturisko 

laiku, tomçr vienlaikus tas ir arî mçìinâjums skatît atseviðío, oriìinâlo un citâdo kâ 

bûtisku vispârîgâ un universâlâ sastâvdaïu, iekïaut nacionâlo kultûru pasaules kultûras 

kontekstâ. Lîdz ar to Rietumi vairs nav absolûts, bet tikai relatîvs atskaites punkts, 

kâdas lielâkas vienîbas atseviðía daïa, kas ir atðíirîga, taèu vienlaikus lîdzvçrtîga 

Japânai. Ðeit nepiecieðams îpaði pasvîtrot, ka ðî paradigmas maiòa, no jauna atklâjot 

Japânas kultûru, risinâs paralçli, ja ne pretçji nacionâlistiskâs ideoloìijas centieniem 

glorificçt Japânas nacionâlo esenci (kokutai). Japâòu nâcijas patriotisma, pilsoniskâs 

lojalitâtes un kareivîguma slavinâjums, kas kopð 19. gs. 80. gadu beigâm ietekmç 

oficiâlo Japânas vçstures interpretâciju, ir viens no galvenajiem iemesliem, kâpçc 

daudzi jaunâs Taisjo perioda inteliìences pârstâvji ilgu laiku paliek uzticîgi Eiropas 

kultûrai, noraidot jebkuru mçìinâjumu saskatît universâlas vçrtîbas Japânas senatnç. 

Skaidrojot savu sâkotnçjo intereses trûkumu par Japânas kultûru, ðâdu iemeslu 

min filozofs personâlists Abe Dziro (Abe Jirô), viòa viedoklim pievienojas arî 

Vacudzi Tecuro. 4

Ilze Paegle. Japâna pasaules kultûras kontekstâ: kultûras interpretâcija Vacudzi Tecuro .. 

267 

Taisjo perioda sâkumâ vçl aizvien netrûkst publikâciju, kurâs glorificçta Rietumu 

kultûra un nosodîta Japânas atpalicîba kultûras jomâ, taèu ieskanas arî atklâti kritiskas 

balsis. Piemçram, Taòidzaki Dzjunièiro (Tanizaki Junichirô) kâdâ no saviem darbiem 

(Dokutan, 1915) eksaltçti slavina visu eiropeisko, neslçpjot noþçlu par to, ka, bûdams 

japânis, nespçj visâ pilnîbâ iekïauties Rietumu kultûras strâvojumâ. 5 Savukârt citi 

autori, t.sk. Endo Kièisaburo (Endô Kichisaburô: Seiyô chûdoku, 1916) dedzîgi 

aicina izvairîties no Rietumu kaitîgâs ietekmes, realizçjot savdabîgu “kultûras 

izolâcijas” politiku (bunkateki sakokushugi). 6 Neraugoties uz ðîm galçjîbâm, tendence 

absolutizçt Rietumu un Japânas pretstatu vairs nav dominçjoðâ – lielâkajâ daïâ 

publikâciju sniegts daudz niansçtâks vçrtçjums, norâdot gan uz pozitîvajâm, gan 

negatîvajâm iezîmçm, turklât te jâpiemin ne vien pazîstamu rakstnieku raksti 

(piemçram, Nagai Kafû: Kawaya no mado, 1915) 7 , bet arî pamatskolâm domâtâs 

mâcîbu grâmatas. 8 Daudzâs Taisjo perioda publikâcijâs, kurâs mçìinâts definçt japâòu 

nacionâlo raksturu (kokuminsei), visâ nopietnîbâ tiek sastâdîti veseli pozitîvu un 

negatîvu japâòu nâcijai piemîtoðu îpaðîbu katalogi, nobeigumâ secinot, ka valsts 

uzplaukuma labad nepiecieðams saglabât un attîstît pozitîvâs iezîmes, iznîdçjot vai 

pârveidojot tâs îpaðîbas, kas atzîstamas par negatîvâm. Îpaði uzsvçrts, ka japâòu 

nacionâlâ rakstura pilnveidoðana ir nepiecieðams priekðnoteikums sakaru nostiprinâðanâ 

ar citâm valstîm (sk., piemçram, Noda Yoshio: Nihon kokuminsei no 

kenkyû, 1914) 9 . 

Vienlaikus tiek pârvçrtçtas un no jaunas perspektîvas aplûkotas arî Japânas un 

Rietumu kultûru saskares funkcijas. Sâk dominçt atziòa par selektîvas izvçles 

nepiecieðamîbu turpmâkâs modernizâcijas gaitâ, atzîmçjot, ka Japâna jau sasniegusi 

tâdu attîstîbas pakâpi, kurâ vairs nedrîkst aprobeþoties tikai ar mehânisku Rietumu 

kultûras atdarinâðanu. Ir jârisina ne tikai jautâjums par to, ko Japâna mâcîjusies no 

Rietumiem, bet arî par to, vai Rietumi varçtu kaut ko gût no Japânas. Okakura 

Kakudzo (Okakura Kakuzo) savâ darbâ “Japânas atmoda” (Nihon no mezame, 1904) 

atzîmç, ka Âzija daudz mâcîjusies no Eiropas, apgûstot daudz ko svarîgu un noderîgu, 

taèu jautâ, vai nav pienâcis laiks, kad Eiropai un visai Rietumu pasaulei bûtu jâsâk 

mâcîties no Âzijas. Eiropâ valda naudas vara, koloniâlisma laikmets vçl ne tuvu nav 

beidzies un individuâlisms bieþi robeþojas ar egoismu. Okakura uzskata, ka ðâdas 

visai negatîvas Eiropas kultûras iezîmes bûtu jâòem vçrâ tiem japâòiem, kas 

novçrsuðies no savas kultûras vçrtîbâm, lai akli un nekritiski pâròemtu visu 

eiropeisko10 . Ðâdu publikâciju parâdîðanos var uztvert kâ signâlu, ka pamazâm 

tiek pârvçrtçts Meidzi laikam raksturîgais radikâlisms, Japânas un Rietumu 

pretnostatîjuma un viennozîmîgi pozitîva vai negatîva novçrtçjuma absolûtais 

raksturu, kaut arî vienlaikus tâs sâk veidot mîtu par Japânas un Âzijas kultûru 

unikalitâti. 

Sareþìîtâks un niansçtâks kïûst arî Japânas kultûras transformâcijas procesa 

portretçjums. Tiek runâts par to, ka Japânâ nepiecieðams apzinâti veidot savdabîgu 

Japânas un Rietumu kultûras sintçzi, kas spçtu saglabât tradîcijas un vienlaikus 

atbilstu modernâs pasaules prasîbâm. Lekcijâ “Mans individuâlisms” (Watashi no 

kojinshugi, 1915) Nacume Soseki (Natsume Sôseki) norâda, ka joprojâm aktuâla ir 

nepiecieðamîba mâcîties no Rietumiem, taèu uzsver, ka ne mazâk svarîgi ir prast 

saskatît un novçrtçt savas, t. i., Japânas, kultûras pamatus. Apgalvodams, ka 

nepiecieðams iepazît un prast cienît citu, lai izprastu un attîstîtu savu patîbu, Soseki


izvirza tçzi, ka, apzinoties savu patîbu (hon’i) un vienlaikus ar cieòu izturoties pret 

cita patîbu, kosmopolîtisms (sekaishugi), individuâlisms (kojinshugi) un nacionâlisms 

(kokkashugi) papildina viens otru, eksistçjot harmoniskâ vienîbâ. 11 Proti, indivîds, 

nacionâlâ kultûra un pasaules kultûra Soseki skatîjumâ eksistç nesaraujamâ saistîbâ. 

Individuâlâ patîba paredz piederîbu nacionâlajai kultûrai un vienlaikus pasaules 

kultûrai, savukârt nacionâlâs kultûras identitâti var konstituçt attiecîbâ pret citu 

kultûru un vienlaikus pasaules kultûru kâ visaptveroðu vienîbu. 

Mçs varam izvirzît hipotçzi, ka Soseki lekcijâ formulçtâ ideja par pasaules kultûru 

kâ visaptveroðu veselumu, kas neizslçdz, tieði otrâdi, paredz tâs atseviðío sastâvdaïu 

atðíirîbu, iezîmç jaunu pavçrsienu Taisjo perioda Japânas un Rietumu interkulturâlo 

attiecîbu problçmas risinâjumâ. Proti, Japânas un Rietumu kultûra tiek skatîti kâ 

dialektiski pretstati, atzîstot, ka to vienîba veido pasaules kultûru kâ augstâko pakâpi. 

Lîdz ar to aktuâla kïûst nepiecieðamîba sniegt nacionâlâs kultûras definîciju un 

interpretâciju, jo tikai tâdçjâdi iespçjams ne tikai saglabât nacionâlo identitâti, bet arî 

sniegt noteiktu ieguldîjumu pasaules kultûrâ. Arî Vacudzi Tecuro agrînajos darbos 

nedalîtu apbrînu par Rietumu sasniegumiem kultûras jomâ pamazâm nomaina atziòa 

par nepiecieðamîbu izprast Japânas senatnes kultûru, lai tâdçjâdi pamatotu Japânas 

harmonisku iekïauðanos pasaules kultûras kontekstâ. 

Vacudzi pirmie nozîmîgâkie darbi “Pçtîjums par Nîèes filozofiju” (Nîchie kenkyû, 

1913) un “Sçrens Kirkegors” (Sçren Kçrukegôru, 1915) veltîti Rietumu filozofijas 

analîzei, bet kopð 1920. gada, kad iznâk “Svçtceïojums uz senajiem tempïiem” (Koji 

junrei, 1919), filozofs aizvien vairâk pievçrðas Japânas kultûras interpretâcijas 

problçmai, publicçjot virkni pçtîjumu kultûras un mâkslas vçstures jomâ. Krâjuma 

“Elku restaurâcija” pirmajâ, 1916. gadâ sarakstîtajâ esejâ Vacudzi runâ par pavçrsienu 

cilvçka dzîvç, kas prasa veco vçrtîbu pârvçrtçðanu un jaunu radîðanu, tâ iezîmçjot arî 

pagrieziena punktu savâ intelektuâlajâ biogrâfijâ. 12 Diemþçl Vacudzi izvçlçtais vârds 

‘tenkô’, t. i., ‘pavçrsiens’, 20. gs. 30. gados iegûst negatîvas politiskas konnotâcijas, 

kas saglabâjuðâs lîdz mûsdienâm. Vârds ‘tenkô’ 30. gadu militârisma un nacionâlisma 

eskalâcijas laikâ ticis plaði lietots, lai apzîmçtu kreisi noskaòoto intelektuâïu publisku 

atteikðanos no savas pârliecîbas, vismaz ârçji atzîstot oficiâlâs nacionâlistiskâs 

ideoloìijas pareizîbu. Lîdz ar to daudzi Vacudzi filozofijas pçtnieki, arî Roberts Bellâ 

(Robert N.Bellah), interpretç Vacudzi tenkô kâ pâreju no Eiropas filozofiskâs tradîcijas 

universâlisma uz ðauri nacionâlistisku partikulârismu un Japânas nâcijas un kultûras 

unikalitâtes glorifikâciju, kâ atteikðanos no modernizâcijas un eiropeizâcijas sludinâtâ 

racionâlisma, individuâlisma un universâlisma ideâla, lai pievçrstos japâòu tautas 

(minzoku) kolektîvâs eksistences pamatu meklçjumiem senâs Japânas kultûrâ. 13 Bellâ 

oponç La Flçrs (La Fleur), norâdot, ka ðâds skaidrojums nepieïaujami vienkârðo 

problçmu, jo Vacudzi agrînajos darbos, arî “Elku restaurâcijâ” iekïautajâs esejâs, 

jauðama kritiska attieksme kâ pret virspusçji izprastu universâlismu, tâ arî pret ðauru 

nacionâlismu. Saskaòâ ar La Flçra uzskatu, Vacudzi “Elku restaurâcija” un 

“Svçtceïojums uz senajiem tempïiem” lasâmi kâ kultûras kritika, kas vçrsta pret Meidzi 

periodâ (1868–1912) pieïautajâm kïûdâm Rietumu civilizâcijas sasniegumu adaptâcijâ 

un Japânas kultûras mantojuma izvçrtçðanâ. 14 Tâdçjâdi arî Vacudzi esejas, kurâs 

aplûkota Japânas kultûras problçma, bûtu iekïaujamas darbos, kas norâda uz Taisjo 

periodâ vçrojamo intelektuâlâs paradigmas maiòu.


269 

Kâ Bellâ, tâ arî La Flçrs norâda, ka Vacudzi “Elku restaurâcija” ir sava veida 

prelûdija tâdiem vçlâkajos gados publicçtajiem darbiem kâ “Svçtceïojums uz 

senajiem tempïiem” un “Pçtîjumi Japânas kultûras vçsturç” (Nihon seishin–shi 

kenkyû, 1926), taèu neskaidrs paliek jautâjums, vai ðos darbus iespçjams saistît ar 

agrâk publicçtajiem Nîèes un Kirkegora filozofijas analîzei veltîtajiem apcerçjumiem. 

Karube Tosio (Karube Toshio) uzskata, ka “Elku restaurâciju” var aplûkot kâ loìisku 

turpinâjumu Vacudzi pirmajiem darbiem, norâdot, ka ðî krâjuma pirmajâ esejâ 

minçtais tenkô saistâs ar konkrçtiem notikumiem autora dzîvç. Ap 1911. gadu Vacudzi 

atsakâs no studenta gadu literârajâm ambîcijâm un estçtiskâ ideâla absolutizâcijas. 

Estçtiskais ideâls, kas izslçdz morâlisko jâbûtîbu, Vacudzi skatîjumâ ir tikai 

mçìinâjums maskçt bezatbildîbu un egoismu, tâtad to nevar uzskatît par augstâko 

cilvçka patîbas realizâciju. 15 Cilvçka patîbas realizâciju var panâkt tikai nemitîgas 

pilnveidoðanâs, personîbas attîstîbas gaitâ. Proti, saskaòâ ar Karubes uzskatu, Vacudzi 

tenkô interpretçjams kâ pievçrðanâs jautâjumam par personîbas pilnveidoðanâs 

iespçjâm, kas atbilst Taisjo periodâ aktuâlajam kultivâcijas (kyôyôshugi) un 

personîbas pilnveidoðanâs ideâlam. Jâatzîmç, ka arî 1913. un 1915. gadâ tapuðajos 

pçtîjumos Vacudzi interpretç Nîèes un Kirkegora filozofiju no personâlisma 

pozîcijâm, uzsverot, ka Nîèes pârcilvçks simbolizç iespçju attîstît ikvienâ cilvçkâ 

slçptâs iespçjas, tâdçjâdi realizçjot dzîves patieso bûtîbu (seikatsu no honshitsu). Ðâda 

personîbas attîstîba ir paðas dzîves attîstîba, tâs pacelðanâs augstâkâ pakâpç. Egoisma 

un altruisma morâliskais pretstats tiek atcelts, jo pati morâle ir sasniegusi augstâku 

pakâpi. Tâ kâ ir realizçta paðâ dzîvç slçptâ potenciâla attîstîba, ðî pakâpe bûtu 

jâuzskata par morâlisku ideâlu. 16 

Pilnveidoðanâs kâ nepiecieðamîba realizçt cilvçkâ slçptâs iespçjas, tâdçjâdi 

sasniedzot augstâku, pilnvçrtîgâku dzîves attîstîbas pakâpi, ir tçma, kas pastâvîgi 

atkârtojas arî “Elku restaurâcijas” esejâs, tâ ïaujot saskatît saistîbu ar Rietumu 

filozofijas analîzei veltîtajiem darbiem, taèu ap 1916.–1917. gadu rakstîtajâs esejâs ðî 

tçma iegûst jaunu nozîmi. Vacudzi norâda, ka spçja realizçt savu patîbu piemît ne tikai 

ikvienam atseviðíam indivîdam, bet arî veselai kultûrai. Vacudzi definç kultûru kâ 

vienotu procesu, kurâ iekïaujas visa cilvçce, virzoties uz vienotu mçríi, kas 

interpretçts kâ nepiecieðamîba sasniegt pârcilvçka ideâlu. 17 Tiek norâdîts, ka ðî 

procesa gaitâ cilvçce pamazâm aizvien skaidrâk apzinâs savu vienîbu un kopçjo mçríi, 

un tâdçjâdi top pasaules kultûra kâ vienota vçrtîbu sistçma. Tas ir iespçjams, jo, 

neraugoties uz atseviðíu kultûru atðíirîbâm, vienotâ pasaules kultûrâ tâs apvieno 

kopçjais, mistiski universâlais pamats, kas Vacudzi izpratnç ir pati dzîve. Proti, vienotâ 

pasaules kultûras veidoðanâs procesâ, ko Vacudzi izprot kâ nemitîgu pilnveidoðanos, 

tiekðanos uz aizvien augstâku attîstîbas pakâpi, organiski iekïaujas gan ikviena 

atseviðía indivîda, gan arî atseviðíu kultûru, arî Grieíijas un Indijas, unikâlâ pieredze. 18 

Tâtad lîdzîgi Soseki Vacudzi savâ kultûras definîcijâ tiecas ietvert un apvienot 

individuâlo, nacionâlo un universâlo aspektu, turklât skatît kultûru dinamiskâ attîstîbas 

procesâ. Protams, ðo vîziju par pasaules kultûru kâ nemitîgu un aizvien apzinâtâku 

pilnveidoðanâs procesu vienlîdz ietekmçjusi gan Nîèes ideja par pârcilvçku, gan Hçgeïa 

vçstures filozofija, taèu nepiecieðams atzîmçt, ka Vacudzi interpretâcijâ vienotajâ pasaules 

kultûras procesâ kâ neatòemamas un vienlîdzîgas sastâvdaïas organiski iekïaujas arî 

Âzijas kultûras – ideja, kuras trûkst Rietumu 19. gs. filozofu darbos.


Raugoties no ðâdas globâlas perspektîvas, Japânas un Rietumu, Âzijas un 

Rietumu kultûru absolûts pretnostatîjums ir absurds, jo ikviena no tâm dod savu 

ieguldîjumu vienotajâ cilvçces kultûrâ, vienlaikus savstarpçji bagâtinoties. Vacudzi 

norâda, ka Japânas kultûrâ saskatâma Íînas un Indijas ietekme, pçdçjos gados, 

protams, Rietumu ietekme, taèu galvenâ un aktuâlâkâ Japânas kultûras problçma ir 

nevis ðo atðíirîgo ietekmju izdalîðana vai jautâjums par to, cik augstu tâ tiks novçrtçta, 

bet gan jautâjums par to, kâdu ieguldîjumu tâ ir devusi un arî turpmâk dos kopçjâ 

cilvçces kultûras attîstîbas procesâ. 19 Proti, apzinoties noteiktas attîstîbas pakâpes 

sasniegðanu, Vacudzi runâ par pilnveidoðanâs nepiecieðamîbu, tâ norâdot uz kultûras 

kâ procesa ilgstamîbu un radikâlo nepabeigtîbu. Kâda loma ðai vîzijâ var bût tam, ko 

pieòemts dçvçt par senâs Japânas kultûru? 

Ap 1916. gadu senâ Japâna, pçc Vacudzi paða atzinuma, vçl joprojâm bijusi terra 

incognita20 , tâdçï ðajâ laikâ rakstîtajâs esejâs visai skeptiski vçrtçti mçìinâjumi postulçt 

Austrumu vai Japânas kultûras vçrtîbu pârâkumu attiecîbâ pret Rietumu gara mantojumu. 

Vacudzi neapðaubâmi nostâjas opozîcijâ gan panaziâtisma ideâlam, gan arî 

nacionâlistiskajai ideoloìijai, atzîmçjot, ka jebkurus sasniegumus jebkurâ jomâ un 

vçstures periodâ iespçjams uzskatît par pietiekamu pamatu kâdas kultûras, arî Japânas 

kultûras, pârâkuma pierâdîjumam, taèu ðâds nacionâlais narcisisms vçlamo bieþi vien 

uztver kâ esoðo. 1916. gadâ tapuðajâ esejâ “Ar ko Japâna var lepoties?” Vacudzi skaidri 

un gaiði norâda, ka Japâna joprojâm nesasniedz Rietumu valstu standartus, ja par galveno 

kultûras attîstîbas kritçriju izvirza ekonomisko, politisko un militâro varenîbu. 21 Savukârt 

Japânas gars un japâòu mîti, kurus uzskata par nepârspçtiem un pasludina par “pasaules 

augstâko sasniegumu”, diemþçl neiztur salîdzinâjumu kaut vai ar sengrieíu mitoloìiju, 

kurâ daudz reljefâk iezîmçjâs dzîves varenîbas izpausmes. 22 Nenoliedzot senâs Japânas 

kultûras vçrtîbas, arî tâs, ko var saskatît “Kojiki” mîtos un uz kurâm tik bieþi atsaucas 

Japânas identitâtes definîcijas meklçjumos, Vacudzi jautâ, kâdu nozîme tâs var iegût 

tagadnç. 23 Tomçr tas nenozîmç, ka Japânai bûtu bez ierunâm jâatzîst Rietumu pârâkums, 

drîzâk jâatsakâs no pârsteidzîgas un nepamatotas atdarinâðanas, izvçloties citu pieeju. 

Vacudzi atzîmç, ka visos prâtojumos par Rietumu vai Austrumu, Japânas vai Eiropas 

kultûras pârâkumu parasti pietrûkst paða galvenâ – jçdziena ‘kultûra’ definîcijas un 

pasaules kultûras attîstîbas procesa dinamisma izpratnes. 24 

Tâdçjâdi varam secinât, ka ap 1916. gadu Vacudzi savu teorçtisko uzskatu 

loìiskâs attîstîbas gaitâ jau faktiski nonâk pie nepiecieðamîbas pârvçrtçt Japânas 

kultûras mantojumu. Notikumi filozofa dzîvç, kas, pçc viòa vârdiem, bijuði tieðs 

stimuls ðâdai vçrtîbu pârvçrtçðanai, acîmredzot uzskatâmi par svarîgu, taèu nebût ne 

vienîgo izðíiroðo iemeslu. 25 Lai izprastu, kâdâ veidâ Vacudzi skatîjumâ iespçjama 

pagâtnes vçrtîbu atdzimðana tagadnç, nepiecieðams atsaukt atmiòâ La Flçra piedâvâto 

Vacudzi tekstu lasîjumu, kas norâda, ka Vacudzi ieskicçto indivîda pilnveidoðanâs, 

nacionâlâs un pasaules kultûras attîstîbas dinamisko procesu var skatît atbilstoði 

attieksmes pret to, kas tiek dçvçts par ‘elku’ (gûzô). La Flçrs savâ pçtîjumâ norâda, 

ka ðis vârds Vacudzi esejâs apzinâti lietots vairâkâs nozîmçs, ðaurâkâ nozîmç tas 

attiecinâms uz tçlu kâ reliìiskas pielûgsmes objektu un tçlu kâ mâkslas darbu, 26 

plaðâkâ un lielâ mçrâ negatîvâ nozîmç tas attiecinâms uz jebkuru sastinguðu dogmu. 

Paðu attîstîbas procesu var raksturot kâ trîsdaïîgu shçmu, kurâ iekïautâ “elku 

pielûgðana” (gûzô sûhai), “elku sagrâve” (gûzô hakai) un “elku restaurâcija” (gûzô 

saikô) tiek tvertas kâ praktiskas, konkrçtas un vienlaikus simboliskas norises.


271 

Nepiecieðams pasvîtrot, ka ðî shçma liecina par to, ka Vacudzi skatîjumâ Eiropas 

un Japânas kultûru attîstîba pakïaujas vienâm un tâm paðâm attîstîbas likumsakarîbâm, 

27 proti, te var runât par vienota procesa lîdzvçrtîgâm sastâvdaïâm. Turklât, 

tâ kâ pçc Vacudzi atziòas pagâtnç meklçjamas cçloòsakarîbas, kas ietekmç tagadni, 

var uzskatît, ka zinâmâ mçrâ pagâtne turpina eksistçt tagadnç. Lîdz ar to pagâtnes 

absolûts noliegums nozîmçtu arî tagadnes noliegumu, dzîves sastingumu, kas bûtu 

pielîdzinâms nâvei. Savukârt pagâtnes pieredzes saglabâðana, tâs harmoniska 

iekïauðana tagadnç spçtu atjaunot un bagâtinât cilvçka dzîvi. 28 Tâtad ðeit saskatâm 

jauna bûtiska Japânas kultûras problçmâm veltîto Vacudzi darbu iezîme – atziòa par 

to, ka Japânas kultûras sakòu meklçjumi nepiecieðami tâdçï, lai bûtu iespçjams 

izvçrtçt un aktualizçt tagadnes, 20. gs. sâkuma, Japânas kultûras nozîmi. Protams, vçl 

joprojâm atklâts paliek jautâjums, cik korekti Vacudzi nâkamajos darbos tiks 

interpretçta un izvçrtçta Japânas kultûras mantojuma nozîme. 

Tâtad Vacudzi tenkô kâ vçrtîbu pârvçrtçðana jeb elku restaurâcija simbolizç gan 

paða autora personisko pieredzi, gan ir kultûras attîstîbas procesa interpretâcijas 

simbols. Pagâtni nav iespçjams reanimçt autentiskâ veidolâ, kaut arî tai var pieðíirt 

zinâmu autentiskuma auru, tâpat kâ nav iespçjams atgriezties pie kâdreiz par pareizu 

atzîtas un vçlâk noliegtas ticîbas dogmas. Tâ kâ saskaòâ ar Vacudzi atziòu pagâtne 

turpina eksistçt tagadnç, pareizâkais ceïð bûtu apzinâties un izprast tâs modificçto 

veidolu un iekïaut to “dzîvâs dzîves” plûsmâ, respektîvi kultûras attîstîbas procesâ. 

Tâdçjâdi ideja par “elku restaurâciju” nav mçìinâjums rekonstruçt pagâtni tâs absolûti 

autentiskajâ veidolâ , bet gan mçìinâjums sniegt tâdu pagâtnes interpretâciju (atzîstot 

tâ relatîvo raksturu), kas pieðíirtu jaunu nozîmi un aktualitâti tagadnei. Elku 

restaurâcija faktiski ir jaunu veidolu ieguvuðas pagâtnes iekïauðana tagadnes 

kontekstâ un lîdz ar to atzîstama par universâlu simbolisku darbîbu, kas spçj 

revitalizçt ikvienu pasaules kultûras procesâ iekïauto nacionâlo kultûru. 

Protams, problemâtisks ir jautâjums, kâds ir kritçrijs, kas ïauj veidot jaunu pagâtnes 

nozîmi un aktualitâti. Ja ðâda kritçrija trûkst, nâkas atzît, ka ikviena jauna pagâtnes 

interpretâcija ir tikpat laba kâ jebkura cita, un tâdçjâdi Vacudzi un citu Taisjo intelektuâïu 

vîzijas par Naras perioda mâkslas darbiem kâ Japânas kultûras vçrtîbâm nav bûtiski 

atðíirîgas no nacionâlistiskâs ideoloìijas postulçtajâm lojalitâtes un patriotisma vçrtîbâm, 

jo arî to avots meklçts Japânas senatnç. Tomçr mçs varam izvirzît hipotçzi, ka Vacudzi 

agrînajos darbos saskatâmâ atziòa par pasaules kultûras kâ vienota procesa pastâvçðanu 

un vienotu mçríi, uz ko ðis process virzâs, norâda uz to, ka par ðâdu kritçriju var atzît 

vçrtîbu universalitâti. Atðíirîbâ no nacionâlistiskâs ideoloìijas, kas definç Japânas valsti 

un nâciju kâ absolûtu, ko nav iespçjams transcendçt, Vacudzi Taisjo perioda darbos 

izvirzîta ideja par atseviðíâ un vispârîgâ, nacionâlâ un globâlâ dialektisku vienotîbu 

pasaules kultûras dinamiskâs attîstîbas procesâ. 

REFERENCES 

1 Furukawa T. Kaisetsu //Watsuji Tetsurô zenshû 17. Iwanami shoten, 1965, 283–284. 

2 Ãðèøåëåâà Ë., ×åãîäàðü Í. ßïîíñêàÿ êóëüòóðà íoâoãî âðåìåíè. – Ìîñêâà: 

èçäaòåëüñêàÿ ôèðìà “Âîñòî÷íàÿ ëèòåðàòóðà“, 1998, c. 134.


3 Sk.: Pincus L. Authenticating Culture in Imperial Japan: Kuki Shûzô and the Rise of 

National Aesthetics. – Berkeley/LA/London: University of California press, 1996, p. 40. 

4 Karube T. Hikari no ryôgoku: Watsuji Tetsurô. – Sômonsha, 1995, p. 66. 

5 Minami H. Nihonjinron: Meiji kara konnichi made. Iwanami shoten, 1994, p. 79. 

6 Ibid, p. 82. 

7 Ibid, p. 81. 

8 Ibid, pp. 77–78. 

9 Ibid, op. cit., pp. 70–74. 

10 Hamada J. Japanische Philosophie nach 1868. – Leiden/NY/Koeln: E. J. Brill, 1994, 

S. p. 33. 

11 Minami H. Nihonjinron: Meiji kara konnichi made. Iwanami shoten, 1994, op.cit. p. 75. 

12 Watsuji T. Gûzô saikô //Watsuji Tetsurô zenshû 17. Iwanami shoten, 1965, p. 19, sk. arî: 

Karube T. Hikari no ryôgoku: Watsuji Tetsurô. – Sômonsha, 1995, p. 49. 

13 Bellah R. N. Japan’s Cultural Identity: Some reflexions on the Work of Watsuji Tetsurô / 

/The Journal of Asian Studies 24, 4 (August, 1965), p. 573. 

14 La Fleur W. A Turning in Taishô: Asia and Europe in the Early Writings of Watsuji Tetsurô 

//Culture and Identity: Japanese Intellectuals During the Interwar Years. Princeton. 

T. Rimer ed. – NY: Princeton University Press, 1990, pp. 235–237. 

15 Karube T. Hikari no ryôgoku: Watsuji Tetsurô. – Sômonsha, 1995, op. cit., p. 49. 

16 Ibid, p. 50. 

17 Watsuji T. Gûzô saikô //Watsuji Tetsurô zenshû 17. Iwanami shoten, 1965, p. 233. 

18 Ibid, p. 234. 

19 Ibid, p. 273. 



22 Ibid, p. 273. 

23 Ibid, p. 235. 

24 Ibid, p. 233. 


26 La Fleur W. A Turning in Taishô: Asia and Europe in the Early Writings of Watsuji Tetsurô 

//Culture and Identity: Japanese Intellectuals During the Interwar Years. Princeton. 

T. Rimer ed. – NY: Princeton University Press, 1990, op. cit., pp. 238–239. 

27 Ibid, op. cit., pp. 244–245. 


Summary 

The article discusses the problem of Japanese culture as addressed in the early 

works of Japanese philosopher Watsuji Tetsuro (1889–1960). From positions of philosophical 

personalism Watsuji examines the paradigm of Japan–West opposition 

argueing that Japan and the West should be seen as two parts of a dialectical unity. 

Since national culture is a necessary part in the dynamic process of world culture, the 

value of cultural heritage should be reconsidered and reevaluated according to its 

contribution to world culture.


MÂKSLA, 273.–277. lpp. 

Rethinking the Methodological Approaches 

of Cross–Cultural Hermeneutics 

Pârdomas par starpkultûru hermeneitikas 

metodoloìiju 

Kaspars Eihmanis (Latvia) 

Department of Oriental Studies 


Visvalza 4a, LV 1050 Riga, Latvia 

e–mail: kaspei@lanet.lv 

In this paper the author elaborates on two extremely interesting, though ambiguous concepts, 

those of intercultural philosophy and analogous hermeneutics, utilised as a methodological tool 

in cross–cultural hermeneutics. The hermeneutic situation calls for direct involvement since 

the de facto geopolitical, social and economical development of global community has drawn 

various cultures in closer contact. This paper is dealing with a critical analysis of a few approaches 

towards cross–cultural (intercultural) hermeneutics devoted to interpret different 

philosophical traditions, other than European, namely Chinese philosophy. 

Keywords: Hermeneutics, Intercultural philosophy, the Other, Chinese philosophy. 

In supposedly communication oriented modern world its modes of dialogue between 

cultures display polyphony of different voices. Many–faceted and extremely 

ambiguous post–modern critical discourse on understanding the Other and the Otherness 

has at least secured a territory within human sciences creating the room for further 

discussions. The necessity to understand and interpret other cultures different to 

perception of our own identities has outgrown merely ethnological interest. The 

hermeneutic situation calls for direct involvement since the de facto geopolitical, 

social and economical development of global community has drawn various cultures 

in closer contact. Regardless of equally blurred future of the globalised world we are 

faced with a dilemma: how are we to understand the Other and what methodologies 

are there for our disposal to make this understanding possible. This paper is dealing 

with a critical analysis of a few approaches towards cross–cultural (intercultural) 

hermeneutics devoted to interpret different philosophical traditions, other than European, 

namely Chinese philosophy. 

Due to the historical contingency, China and its intellectual milieu has felt the 

growing influence of its Other for more than 150 years. For the Occident the Oriental 

exoticism has always been the source of romantic admiration, be it either the age of 

Romanticism or post–modern diversity. Unfortunately the Chinese Other has come as 

the dominating power of unfamiliar universalizations, subduing bewildered inhabitants 

of the Middle kingdom: the opium was the first to come; the second was the 

revolution which overthrew the thousand year old, though already disintegrating, 

Empire; then followed the deadly amorous marriage with Marxist egalitarian zeal, 

which, although freed China from old shackles of tradition, still destroyed nearly 

everything that was tradition; now China has faced another challenge – modernity and 

modernisation.


Chinese philosophical thought has endured similar ups and downs. The tradition, 

largely intact for hundreds of years, was awakened from its hibernation to face 

its Other. The identity of its traditional discourse in the course of the last hundred 

years has suffered serious blows from outside. The Western sciences and their methodologies, 

diverse philosophical theories and ideas have challenged Chinese minds. 

The challenge has become even more serious in the face of the post–modern age of 

borderless communication. 

The third generation New–Confucianism philosopher Cheng Chung–ying has described 

it as follows: “Understanding contemporary Chinese philosophy is a philosophical 

enterprise that poses a methodological task: we must seek to understand how 

Chinese philosophers view and appraise Western philosophical thinking and how 

Chinese philosophy has rediscovered itself and defined its own identity.” 1 

In the following passages Cheng Chung–ying also defines the task of a modern 

Chinese philosopher who is faced with the challenges coming from the Western philosophical 

tradition: “There have been two major tasks involved in responding to the 

challenge posed by Western philosophy. The first task is to understand and interpret 

the old in the new and interpret the traditional in the modern.” 2 

“In responding to the West and constructing a new identity, it is necessary to distinguish 

between the modern and the Western.” 

“We must accept that science and technology can be adopted universally and are 

neutral regarding cultural values, but everything beyond science and technology is a 

reflection of traditional values or a reaction against them. … the task of contemporary 

Chinese philosopher has two aspects: the first is to seek forms of rationality that 

conform to science and democracy; the second is to find suitable place and voice for 

traditional values.” 3 

The core meaning of these passages might be summed up in one simple expression: 

the quest for an identity. The ongoing experience of modernity has brought about 

the clashes of traditional identity with the expanding otherness, namely the 

universalising discourse of Western philosophical systems and previously unknown 

categories and preassumptions. The redefining, rethinking and evaluating this clash– 

like dialogue with the Western philosophy has occupied the minds of Chinese intellectuals 

since the time when the gunshots threatened the very survival of the tradition. 

The move by Western powers was supported and legitimised by their own universalistic 

assumptions of the role of the Other in their worldviews, which has been 

brilliantly shown by Edward Said in his epoch–making Orientalism and in its inner 

discourse carried to the extreme. 

From the passages quoted above, it is obvious that modern science, originally 

being the product of the Western Europe and via which the Other was oftentimes 

subdued, due to its universal and formal character of the language it uses to convey 

its theories, is no longer a threat, nor even is being perceived as dangerous for the 

survival of the tradition. It is the Western paradigm of philosophy, which is in a dialectical, 

even antagonistic relationship with the tradition. 

Much has been written and said about the possibility and impossibility of the 

enterprise to make different cultures intelligible to each other. For the most part the 

West had attributed itself the role of the discoverer, had legitimised it by its own

Kaspars Eihmanis. Pârdomas par starpkultûru hermeneitikas metodoloìiju 

275 

conceptions of precise scientific discourse. On the other side, Chinese blaming the 

West (I must excuse myself for still using such empty and ambivalent notions as 

Orient, East, Occident and West) for an attempting to persuade them to become the 

believers of the Western universalism, still find themselves trapped in Marxist theories 

of history of philosophy, being mostly Western by origin. The never–ending accusations 

of the misuse of unkindred and unfitting concepts on the one side and the 

persistent strife to give a universal validity to its tradition, without becoming the part 

of a more universal universalism, on the other side, will still dominate the hermeneutical 

understanding of different cultures. 

Ram Adhar Mall, who has elaborated on the concept of intercultural philosophy, 

has defined it more precisely: “Europeanization stands for the software of Western 

culture and religion, whereas westernization represents its hardware.” 4 Europeanization 

is still being perceived as centred in itself, claiming universalised insights of 

understanding human history and the human agent’s place in it. Both philosophers 

belonging to different traditions, namely Chinese and Indian traditions, both seem to 

agree that the modern science is neutral in its universalistic claims, whereas Western 

philosophy and religion has remained deeply entranched with eurocentrist prejudices. 

Although both strive to show that philosophy should be placed in the same category 

as science, since no one should claim the absolute possession of it. Cheng Chung– 

ying defines philosophy as follows: 

“Philosophy is the core of a tradition because it is both a mode of thinking and 

a normative direction of action towards ideal values of the tradition. Philosophy is 

both the consciousness and the conscience of a culture and civilisation because 

philosophical views, formulated by recognised philosophers and accepted by common 

people over ages, inspire and guide culture and action.” 5 Cheng Chung–ying 

has obviously chosen to lay stress on the connection between the tradition and 

philosophy being its core, not considering the breaking–with–the–tradition character 

of many philosophical ideas and philosophical currents. In the post–modern period, 

which has seen too many radical iconoclasts of the tradition of Western philosophy, 

no one still dares to pronounce the philosophy as being homogenic. Such a definition 

might be applied to the Chinese tradition, which has always tended towards 

universism of its concepts and homogenic character of the tradition embodied by 

them. It can not serve as a suitable definition. And are there any for all purposes? 

Ram Adhar Mall, whose ideas on intercultural philosophy we discuss in the following 

passages, on the other hand feels the necessity to defend the universal application 

of the term philosophy, arriving at the conception of interculturality: “The general 

concept of philosophy possesses a universal connotation over and above its 

particular, adjectival qualifications, such as Chinese, Indian, European, and so on. 

This connotation gives us the right to speak of interculturality.” 6 The attempt to 

generalise the term philosophy to the extent where it acquires the universal connotation 

seems futile, since the most universal concept is the most emptiest one, though 

the author writes that, “Intercultural philosophy does not deny the universal connotation 

of the term philosophy; it only makes clear that its general applicability is not 

a concrete universal but is on the line of the Wittgensteinian idea of a world language 

that is not the name of a particular language but the name of the class of all 

language games.” 7


Ram Adhar Mall proceeds to explain that the name intercultural philosophy does 

not stand for a special branch of philosophy but for philosophical conviction, approach 

and standpoint which denies both the total untranslatability and absolute translatability 

of cultures. The term of analagous hermeneutics is set forth: “Intercultural 

philosophy favours an analogous hermeneutics of overlapping structures beyond the 

two fictions of total identity (commensurability) and radical difference (incommensurability).” 

8 

The author has elaborated on two extremely interesting, though ambiguous concepts, 

those of intercultural philosophy and analogous hermeneutics, utilised as a 

methodological tool in cross–cultural hermeneutics. The approaches of intercultural 

philosophy can only serve as an ideal precondition for understanding to be carried 

out and for prejudices to be eliminated. This inevitably brings us back to the assumptions 

held by Scleiermacher and Dilthey on the role of the hermeneutics and the 

proper scientific understanding of the history and the place of the scientist in rediscovering 

and evaluating the tradition. The belief that by merely adopting such attitudes 

we can free ourselves of misconceptions and prejudices has been rendered futile 

by many 20th century authors such as Gadamer and Derrida, just to mention some 

of them. Both assumptions reflect the attitudes might be criticised as being 

Eurocentric, since total identity and radical difference renders the other impossible. 

The understanding is found in the breaches of commensurability and incommensurability. 

The former approach of re–living the historical reality of the Other, being humanistic 

in its treatment of different cultures, subjectivizes the possible outcome of 

such research, unable to escape the culturally sedimented worldviews. The other approach 

which favours dialogue and to some extents, polilogue and negotiation, by 

stressing the importance of prejudice for the inevitable process of the fusion of the 

horizons, renders futile any scientific project. For Ram Adhar Mall analogous hermeneutics 

seems to a flexible attitude towards the understanding of the other itself, not 

a rigid set of instrumental methodologies. It explores the possibility of similarities in 

overlapping structures found in texts, and contexts of the culture. 

REFERENCES 

1 Cheng Chung–ying. An Onto–Hermeneutic Interpretation of Twentieth Century Chinese 

Philosophy: Identity and Vision //Contemporary Chinese Philosophy, ed. by Cheng 

Chung–ying and Nicholas Bunin. Blackwell Publishers, 2002, p. 367. 

2 Ibid, p. 372. 

3 Ibid, p. 373. 

4 Ram Adhar Mall. Intercultural Pholosophy. – Oxford: Rowman and Littlefield Publishers, 

2000, p.8. 

5 Cheng Chung–ying. An Onto–Hermeneutic Interpretation of Twentieth Century Chinese 

Philosophy: Identity and Vision //Contemporary Chinese Philosophy, ed. by Cheng 

Chung–ying and Nicholas Bunin. Blackwell Publishers, 2002, p. 368. 

6 Ram Adhar Mall. Intercultural Pholosophy. – Oxford: Rowman and Littlefield Publishers, 

2000, p. 1.

Kaspars Eihmanis. Pârdomas par starpkultûru hermeneitikas metodoloìiju 

277 

7 Ram Adhar Mall. Intercultural Pholosophy. – Oxford: Rowman and Littlefield 

Publishers, 2000, p. 41. 

8 Ibid, p. 16. 

Kopsavilkums 

Ðajâ darbâ autors detalizçti aplûko divas ïoti interesantas, bet neskaidras 

koncepcijas: starpkulturâlo filozofiju un analogo hermeneitiku, kuras izmanto kâ 

metodoloìijas lîdzekli starpkulturâlajâ hermeneitikâ. Hermeneitiskâ situâcija prasa 

analizçt tieðâkas kopsakarîbas, it îpaði tâdçï, ka globâlo komunikâciju dçï notikusi 

ìeopolitiska, sociâla un ekonomiska attîstîba, kura cieðâk saista daþâdas kultûras. Ðajâ 

darbâ dota arî daþu starpkulturâlâs hermeneitikas pieeju kritiska analîze, lai 

interpretçtu daþâdas filozofiskâs tradîcijas, piemçram, íînieðu filozofiju.

LU Akadçmiskais apgâds 

Baznîcas 5, Rîga, LV-1010 

Tâlrunis: 7034535

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