Language and Globalization
Series Editors: Sue Wright, University of Portsmouth, UK and Helen
Kelly-Holmes, University of Limerick, Ireland.
In the context of current political and social developments, where the national
group is not so clearly defined and delineated, the state language not so clearly
dominant in every domain, and cross-border flows and transfers affect more
than a small elite, new patterns of language use will develop. The series aims
to provide a framework for reporting on and analysing the linguistic outcomes of
globalization and localization.
Titles include:
David Block
MULTILINGUAL IDENTITIES IN A GLOBAL CITY
London Stories
Jenny Carl and Patrick Stevenson (editors)
LANGUAGE, DISCOURSE AND IDENTITY IN CENTRAL EUROPE
The German Language in a Multilingual Space
Diarmait Mac Giolla Chrióst
LANGUAGE AND THE CITY
Julian Edge (editor)
(RE)LOCATING TESOL IN AN AGE OF EMPIRE
John Edwards
CHALLENGES IN THE SOCIAL LIFE OF LANGUAGE
Aleksandra Galasińska and Michał Krzyżanowski (editors)
DISCOURSE AND TRANSFORMATION IN CENTRAL AND EASTERN EUROPE
Roxy Harris
NEW ETHNICITIES AND LANGUAGE USE
Jane Jackson
INTERCULTURAL JOURNEYS
From Study to Residence Abroad
Helen Kelly-Holmes and Gerlinde Mautner (editors)
LANGUAGE AND THE MARKET
Clare Mar-Molinero and Patrick Stevenson (editors)
LANGUAGE IDEOLOGIES, POLICIES AND PRACTICES
Language and the Future of Europe
Clare Mar-Molinero and Miranda Stewart (editors)
GLOBALIZATION AND LANGUAGE IN THE SPANISH-SPEAKING WORLD
Macro and Micro Perspectives
Ulrike Hanna Meinhof and Dariusz Galasinski
THE LANGUAGE OF BELONGING
10.1057/9780230355514 - Narratives of Place, Belonging and Language, Máiréad Nic Craith
Richard C. M. Mole (editor)
DISCURSIVE CONSTRUCTIONS OF IDENTITY IN EUROPEAN POLITICS
Máiréad Nic Craith
NARRATIVES OF PLACE, BELONGING AND LANGUAGE
An Intercultural Perspective
Leigh Oakes and Jane Warren
LANGUAGE, CITIZENSHIP AND IDENTITY IN QUEBEC
Mario Saraceni
THE RELOCATION OF ENGLISH
Christina Slade and Martina Mollering (editors)
FROM MIGRANT TO CITIZEN: TESTING LANGUAGE, TESTING CULTURE
Colin Williams
LINGUISTIC MINORITIES IN DEMOCRATIC CONTEXT
Forthcoming titles:
Robert Blackwood and Stefani Tufi
THE LINGUISTIC LANDSCAPE OF THE MEDITERRANEAN
A Study of French and Italian Coastal Cities
Grit Liebscher and Jennifer Dailey-O’Cain
LANGUAGE, SPACE AND IDENTITY IN MIGRATION
Language and Globalization
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10.1057/9780230355514 - Narratives of Place, Belonging and Language, Máiréad Nic Craith
Narratives of Place,
Belonging and Language
An Intercultural Perspective
Máiréad Nic Craith
University of Ulster
10.1057/9780230355514 - Narratives of Place, Belonging and Language, Máiréad Nic Craith
© Máiréad Nic Craith 2012
All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this
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10.1057/9780230355514 - Narratives of Place, Belonging and Language, Máiréad Nic Craith
Contents
Acknowledgements
vi
Preface
ix
1 Out of Place?
1
2 Narrative Journeys
26
3 Word and World
49
4 The Web of Family Relationships
75
5 Self and Other in Dialogue
105
6 Cultural Patterns and Belonging
126
7 Interculturality and Creativity
149
Select Bibliography
175
Index
195
v
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Acknowledgements
This book has been a pleasure to reflect on and research since its
beginnings a number of years ago. The catalyst for much of that joy
has been the experience of interacting with eminent authors who have
thought about and told stories of their experiences of language change
in different cultural settings. Despite very busy schedules, all of the
following authors have made time available to talk to me about their
wrestles with language: Marica Bodrožić (Berlin) Liam Carson (Dublin),
Camine Chiellino (Augsburg), Ota Filip (Murnau), Hugo Hamilton
(Dublin), Lorcán Ó Treasaigh (Dublin), Natascha Wodin (Berlin) and
Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill (Dublin). I maintained contact with a number of
others via e-mail, including Andrew Riemer (Sydney) and Ilan Stavans
(Yale University).
Several academics were very encouraging and insightful on various points during the preparation of this book. They include Mary
Besemeres (Australian National University), James Coleman (The Open
University), Isabelle De Courtivron (MIT), Alice Kaplan (Yale University),
Steven G. Kellman (University of Texas) and Helen O’Sullivan (Trinity
College, Dublin). Queries addressed to many at the University of Ulster
were efficiently addressed. In this regard, I would particularly like to
mention Maxim Fomin, Jan Jedrzejewski, Jane McKee, Ailbhé Ó Corráin,
Victoria Ríos Castaño and Frank Sewell. I would also like to acknowledge
the support of the librarians at the University of Ulster, who located
many sources of material for me.
This book draws primarily on texts written in four languages: English,
French, German and Irish. As it is a book about language experience,
I thought it crucial to provide, as far as possible, quotations in the original language in which they were written, but these are always accompanied by an approximate translation into English. A number of individuals helped with these indicative translations. They include Christoph
Bock and Patricia Yazigi (University of Göttingen), Sean Ferguson
(Flex Language Services Ltd, University of Ulster), Philip Hendrick and
Christian Ritter (University of Ulster). There are a number of different
ways to approach translations and it has not always proved possible to
render all potential meanings into the English language. My attitude
during this book has been to encourage the translation of the sentiment
vi
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Acknowledgements
vii
rather than the exact words. Responsibility for any errors is mine
entirely.
I would like to acknowledge the support of the University of Ulster
while I pursued this research. I also had support from two other institutions: I would wish to mention the encouragement of Philip Payton
(Institute of Cornish Studies) at the University of Exeter, where I held
an honorary visiting professorship; and during the project I was also
privileged to be awarded a DAAD Guest Professorship at the Institute of European Ethnology/Cultural Anthropology at the University
of Göttingen. There I enjoyed the warmth, inspiration and collegiality of many academic colleagues including Regina Bendix, Michaela
Fenske and Ulrich Marzolph. It was also good to make contact with
Gabriel Rosenthal there. My semester in Göttingen proved an invaluable
opportunity to network with migrants in a German city.
Financial support is critical to the successful completion of any
research and I am particularly thankful to the Leverhulme Trust in the
UK who generously provided fellowship funding to pay for teaching
support and travel expenses. This support enabled me to take some time
out and focus on the material during a concentrated period. During this
time, Philip McDermott undertook many of my teaching duties at the
University of Ulster. His professionalism ensured that my students were
in very capable hands.
Some of the material relevant to this book has been presented at international conferences: the 16th Mediterranean Ethnological Summer
School at Nova Gorica (2009), the Deutsche Gesellschaft für Volkskunde,
Universität Tübingen (2009), a public DAAD lecture at the University of
Göttingen (2010) and the European Association for Social Anthropologists, National University of Ireland, Maynooth (2010). These occasions
sparked many an interesting discussion on the material, and probing
questions drew my attention to potential points for further research and
critical reflection.
Palgrave Macmillan have been entirely supportive of this project from
the very beginning. Jill Lake, the original commissioning editor, has
consistently encouraged my work. I would also like to acknowledge
the help and support of Melanie Blair, Priyanka Gibbons and Olivia
Middleton, who helped bring the book to fruition.
I would like to thank those members of my family and friends who
have reinforced my interest in cultural and linguistic diversity and
would like to mention four in particular. Seán Ó Coiléain at University College, Cork, supervised and encouraged my early research
on An tÓiléanach (The Islandman), an Irish-language memoir from the
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viii Acknowledgements
Blasket Islands, off the coast of Kerry. My parents, Tom and Máiréad
McGrath, have consistently promoted my forays into reading, research
and writing. Finally, I would like to thank my husband Ullrich Kockel,
who is a source of great imagination and inspiration. This book is
dedicated to the four of them with much love.
Máiréad Nic Craith
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Preface
I grew up in a bilingual family in the south of Ireland in the latter half of
the twentieth century. The language of my childhood home was primarily English but my mother would frequently engage with me in Irish.
At the time I perceived this as primarily an effort to improve my linguistic skills in a language which was important for stable employment
in the state sector. With hindsight, I also appreciate it as an expression
of my mother’s love for the language in which she was educated and
in which she communicates very successfully – probably more effectively than in English. My sister and three brothers frequently and
affectionately teased us about speaking in Irish – a banter which served
to encourage rather than discourage our ‘private’ conversations.
Bilingualism within households is not unusual in Ireland and historically it is very easy to find evidence of this. Consider the circumstances
of many Irish families in the mid nineteenth century. Following the
Great Famine of the 1850s, many were desperate to improve their economic circumstances. Irish was usually spoken to the eldest son, as he
was expected to remain at home on the family farm which would not
be sub-divided among the siblings. English was the language spoken to
other members of the family, who were likely to emigrate – usually to
the ‘next parish in America’. If one browses through the census records
of 1901 and 1911 it is not unusual to see brothers and sisters within the
same family, some with, but others without Irish (Nic Craith, 1993).
Bilingualism has been a lifelong experience for me. At Christmas
1992, I met my future German mother-in-law for the first time.
Although she had some proficiency in English, she was far too shy
to speak it, while I at that time spoke little German. Communicating
through gestures and body-language is quite difficult and can be more
than a little stressful for all parties involved. Moreover, I quickly realised
that although we were both Europeans, we had many different customs
which can easily be misinterpreted or misunderstood without a good
mediator.
These personal experiences further fuelled my passion to understand
the cultural context of language. As noted in an earlier book of mine,
I highly respect academic colleagues in the field of linguistics, but
I, myself, am personally not interested in grammar or syntax. Instead,
ix
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x
Preface
I am profoundly interested in issues of language as one of the ‘webs
of significance’ that mankind has spun, and in the impact of language
on our lifelong search for belonging and meaning (Geertz 1973). I am
fascinated by the question of how and why people speak particular languages. I am interested in language as an emblem of belonging. Ernst
Cassirer has noted that mankind is not located ‘in a merely physical
universe’. Instead, men and women live ‘in a symbolic universe. Language, myth, art, and religion are parts of this universe. They are the
varied threads which weave the symbolic net, the tangled web of human
experience’ (Cassirer 2006 [1944): 30).
As anthropology ‘can be broadly defined as the study of all people, at
all time, and in all places’, it is appropriate to locate this book broadly
within that discipline (Ottenheimer 2006: 2). Allesandro Duranti identified three key historically related paradigms setting out the significance
of language in the discipline of anthropology (Duranti 2003). The first
of these was spearheaded by Boas, Sapir, Whorf and others (Boas 1911;
Sapir 1949; Whorf 1941). It endorsed the ‘Boasian view of language as
an integral part of – and simultaneously a window on culture’ (Duranti
2003: 323) – although it did not necessarily endorse the possibility of
a direct correlation between language and culture. Anthropological linguistics – as this phase might be called – was concerned primarily with
linguistics and secondarily with anthropology. Its goals were the ‘documentation, description and clarification of indigenous languages’ and it
viewed language as lexicon and grammar. One important issue to arise
from this period was the relationship between language and worldview
and theories of linguistic determinism and relativity. These theories will
feature in this volume.
The second paradigm might be more properly termed ‘linguistic
anthropology’, reflecting a shift to a primary emphasis on anthropology
and a secondary one on linguistics. Gumperz, Ferguson and Hymes were
some of the champions of this era which highlighted the importance
of studying language in context (Gumperz and Hymes 1972; Ferguson
and Gumperz 1960). In their view, the role of the linguistic anthropologist was to ‘co-ordinate knowledge about language from the viewpoint
of man’ (Duranti 2003: 329). Language was being studied ‘within the
context of anthropology’ (Duranti 2003: 327).
At this time, the concept of ‘discourse’ was discovered in anthropology and the notion of culture as text emerged in several publications,
including Geertz’s influential essay ‘Thick description’(1973). Influences
on this text are regarded as primarily European and philosophical and
include academics such as Derrida, Gadamer, Ricoeur etc. At that time,
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Preface
xi
the goal of linguistic anthropologists was ‘the study of language use
across speakers and activities’ and language was viewed as ‘a culturally
organized and culturally organizing domain’ (Duranti 2003: 329).
The 1980s witnessed shifts in thinking in the discipline generally.
Tomes such as Writing Culture by James Clifford and George Marcus
(1986) queried some of the epistemological foundations of anthropology. The notion of ‘culture’ was criticized as a form of exotification of
the other, and questions of identity moved centre stage. In the third
paradigm – sociological anthropology, the focus of research moved
towards ‘symbolic domination’ (Duranti 2003: 332). Socio-cultural
anthropologists drew on theoretical perspectives outside the discipline –
on thinkers such as Bourdieu, Bakhtin, Vološinov and Foucault. Identity, narrative and language ideology came to the fore, and scholars
raised questions regarding the contribution that the study of issues
such as identity formation, globalization and ethnicity made to our
understanding of language in society.
I would locate my approach in this volume in that third paradigm –
while recognizing that none of the three are mutually exclusive.
Throughout the book, I am concerned with language in the formation of
identity, and in particular with the impact of moving from one language
to another on the notion of self and community. I am also concerned
with the significance of language for tradition and how the ‘loss’ of the
‘native voice’ or a ‘mother tongue’ can impact on the appreciation of
ancestral voices and one’s location in a community. I also explore the
desire to belong – and the central role of language in the successful or
non-successful attempts in this regard.
My theoretical framework is anthropological and I draw on the theories from all three paradigms – from anthropologists such as Sapir,
Whorf, Gadamer, Geertz and Duranti. However, in keeping with anthropologists in the third paradigm, I also employ the theoretical framework
of other disciplines – and in particular, on theorists more closely associated with cultural studies such as, among others, Bourdieu, Benjamin,
Barthes and Kristeva.
I adopt a triangular research strategy in this study. My primary source
is human – that is, the authors themselves. These are individuals who
have successfully bridged the transition between two or more languages.
As I have opted to deal with contemporary authors, I was fortunate
in many instances to meet with these writers and conduct some lifestory interviews with them. I also had the benefit of observing many of
them interacting with audiences at literary and arts festivals as well as
attending readings and book launches. (In this, I am taking an approach
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xii Preface
similar to that of Helena Wulff in Stockholm: see Wulff 2008: 98).
Throughout this book, I draw extensively on the interviews I conducted
with selected authors. Ethics determined that each of the authors has
seen the extracts used before this book was published. Their feedback
ensured that what is presented here is an accurate portrayal of their
perspectives on linguistic issues.
I also employ a textual approach throughout that is focused on a selection of memoirs and biographical essays which have been published in
Irish, English, German or French. These languages were selected on the
basis of my own competencies. I was raised in both English and Irish and
would regard English as my first language but Irish as my native tongue.
I had some five years of classes in French at secondary level which gives
me a reasonable reading knowledge – although hardly a good speaking
knowledge – of the language. I have acquired some High German since
meeting my husband, Ullrich – although I suspect he would regard Low
rather than High German as his native tongue. It is with regret that I do
not include a Scots-Gaelic volume in this book, although I do have some
limited facility in that language. Years of learning Latin were distinctly
unhelpful for this research!
Fieldwork is an important – indeed essential – component of any
anthropological undertaking. Its significance can be traced back to the
teaching of Franz Boaz (1858–1942). This was the third and most educational aspect of my research. While writing this book, I spent an
academic semester working in Göttingen in the heart of Germany. This
experience afforded me ample opportunity to experience the challenges,
successes, distractions and anxieties noted by many of the authors with
whom I collaborated. It also gave me ample informal opportunities
to compare my experiences with other migrants in the city. Although
I have some knowledge of German – and in particular of academic
German – it was important for me to experience at first hand the difficulties of dealing with the boiler-man or the bus driver – without the
help of friends or an interpreter. ‘I had to build and rebuild frames and
hook them together into a coherent whole.’ In a new social context, it
became necessary for me ‘to build a self within the new world, master
new social identities, and tie my biography to them’ (Agar 1994: 246).
I reflect on many of these personal experiences throughout this book.
All of the writers I deal with have roved between cultures and
languages at different stages of their lives and have frequently been
challenged by the notion of ‘in-between-ness’. In many respects, their
story is my story – that of an interdisciplinary academic between languages, between cultures and between disciplines. My own experience
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Preface
xiii
as an academic nomad is a contributory factor to this book – I am not
located ‘fairly and squarely’ in any specific academic community. This
gives me some experience of what it is like not to fit in. Their experience
of ‘in-between-ness’ has been profound – as has mine – and is usually
perceived as belonging ‘no-where’ rather than ‘else-where’.
Interdisciplinarity is an immensely exciting place as it allows one
to explore new intellectual territories without regard for disciplinary
boundaries. It ‘can offer an opportunity to draw together a wide range
of disciplinary debates (often at variance with each other) or a particular topic’ which one can then assess, challenge and, where appropriate,
re-formulate. However, interdisciplinarity is also extremely challenging and it can take ‘much longer to get to grips with all the material
in question than it might otherwise’. Moreover, there is the challenge ‘to present something informed and worthwhile at the end of
it all, rather than something superficial or, at worst, simply misinformed’ (May 2001: xii). Single-discipline academics tend to regard their
interdisciplinary colleagues as lacking in depth and rigour. Interdisciplinary academics tend to regard their single-discipline colleagues as
boring and unadventurous. Although these stereotypes prevail, neither
is actually true.
Much of contemporary life is spent in liminal spaces: in busy airports, in anonymous hotels and in taxis en route from somewhere to
nowhere (Auge 1995). Yet despite the increasingly global experience,
our desire to belong, not just anywhere – but somewhere in particular – has heightened rather than abated. Robertson (1994) has coined the
term ‘glocalisation’ to describe this phenomenon. Our desire to belong
requires that we understand, and in order to understand, we need language: ‘Language is the language of Being, as clouds are the clouds of
the sky.’ (Heidegger 1978: 242).
From the time we learn to talk, our world is mediated by language.
We ourselves are mediated by language. This book looks at the stories
we tell about ourselves and our experiences of different cultural settings and our desire to belong. Barthes famously noted that ‘narrative
is present in every age, in every place and in every society’ (Barthes
1977 [1966]: 79). To this we could add that narratives are present in
every language. Whether myth, fable, novel or fairy story, part of the
human condition is to tell stories about ourselves and our peoples. This
book focuses on stories of people who find themselves in intercultural
settings. It explores their desire to find their ‘own place’ in new cultural
contexts and the role of language in shaping their sense of belonging.
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1
Out of Place?
Although migration is sometimes considered a by-product of
globalization and an aspect of life that is particular to the late twentieth
and early twenty-first centuries, the reality is quite different. Migration
has been a regular feature of human and animal life since the beginning of time (Castles and Miller 2009[1993]; Harzig and Hoerder 2009;
King 2007). Globalization is hardly a recent phenomenon (Hall 1992,
299). At various periods in history, migration has served as a means of
escape, exploration and/or expansion. Ease of access and transport in
contemporary society has speeded up the process of travel, but it has
not served as the catalyst for migration. Mankind’s imagination and his
or her quest for the unknown has spurred him or her to travel, even
when undertaking a journey was a difficult and cumbersome process.
The United Nations Population Division has recently reported that
191 million people (representing 3 per cent of the world population)
are residing in a country other than the one in which they were born.
Almost one in every ten individuals living in the more developed
regions of the world is a migrant. The largest number of migrants lives
in Europe where the proportion rose to 34 per cent in 2005. In Northern
America, the share was 23 per cent at this time. This means that one in
every three international migrants lives in Europe while one in four lives
in Northern America (United Nations 2006: 1). In other regions of the
world, Africa, Asia, Latin America, the Caribbean and Oceania, the proportion has dropped as migrants appear to gravitate towards the more
developed areas.
Migration and dislocation
Although migration is a centuries-old process, Eva Hoffman, a PolishAmerican author, suggests that its nature has changed over the
1
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2
Narratives of Place, Belonging and Language
centuries. In an essay entitled ‘The new nomads’, she proposes that exile
in medieval Europe was literarily to lose one’s place in society – or to lose
a large portion of one’s self. It was often forced rather than voluntary. In
contemporary Europe, ‘cross-cultural movement has become the norm
rather than the exception’ and is often a matter of choice and adventure
rather than a harsh punishment (Hoffman, 1999: 42). Hoffman argues
that the process can be enormously beneficial to artists and writers as
the process of dislocation facilitates a perspective that is both retrospective and progressive. For this reason, migration ‘can be a great impetus
to thought and to creativity’ (Hoffman 1999: 51–2).
It seems to me that there has always been a double standard in relation
to the process of migration. When the people involved are economically
viable, their act of migration is considered a positive act and one that
benefits the host society. When poorer people move, their migration
is viewed negatively. Binary standards and paradigmatic thinking are
usually applied to poorer immigrants who are viewed as the ‘other’ –
the opposite of us. We are sophisticated, they are uncivilized; we are
diligent, they are lethargic; we are moral, they are criminal (Hitchcock
2008: 189).
In this process, we are looking at the differences between ourselves
and migrant others from a self-centric perspective. We are ‘the best’
and in comparison to us, they are ‘lacking’ something. In noticing their
‘shortfalls’, we are employing a ‘deficit theory’ approach. This kind of
approach can easily become a prison: ‘It locks you into a closed room
in an old building with no windows’. Moreover, says Agar, ‘it inoculates
you against culture’. It impacts on our facility to communicate with one
another. While we ‘might tinker with the grammar and dictionary of
another language’, we don’t really communicate – except in terms of
how the world shapes our attitudes, the language that is designed to fit
our assumptions ‘about how the world is and how it works’ (Agar 1994:
23).
The deficit theory is frequently applied to nomadic peoples, who are
popularly assumed to live at a more backward level of existence than
the settled community. There is a sense in which their constant movement is regarded as a threat to the values of the settled population:
‘Pseudo-anthropology feeds the basic European nightmare: a terror of
peoples who move’, writes Ascherson (1996: 76). This ‘nightmare’ has
been exaggerated by ‘nineteenth century evolutionist intellectuals’ who
postulated that ‘moving peoples were no longer a merely physical menace emerging from the trackless East. They now also seemed to incarnate
a cosmic disorder in which the past rose out of its tomb and swarmed
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Out of Place?
3
forward on horseback to annihilate the present’ (Ascherson 1996: 76;
see also Nic Craith 2006: 126).
This false sense of superiority is powerfully captured in Natascha
Wodin’s memoir of her childhood in a refugee camp in Nuremburg,
where the Russian refugees regarded themselves as superior to the
gypsies who lived on the far side of the two rivers:
Dort hausten solche, die Zigeuner genannt wurden, ich sah sie auf dem
Weg hinter unserem Haus vorbeigehen, Frauen in langen Röcken, Gold
und Klimper, Gesichter wie schmutziges Leder, sie zogen mich an, diese
rätselhaften schillernden Gestalten, zogen mich an mit dem Geheimnis
ihrer Anstößigkeit und Ausgestoßenheit, die die unsere noch übertraf, zogen
mich an als eine Steigerung meiner selbst, und gleichzeitig das Schaudern,
wenn ich am Fenster stand und ihnen nachsah, das Schaudern vor dieser
Steigerung, die stehlen und betrügen, sagte man in der Siedlung, die sind
gefährlich und schmutzig, die werfen ihren Müll vor die Tür. Wir hatten
jetzt silberblanke Mülleimer, die im Keller standen, wir wohnten vor den
Baggerseen und Sandhügeln. (Wodin 1983: 195)
[The people who lived there were known as gypsies. I often saw
them on the track behind our apartment house, long-skirted women
with jingly ornaments and faces like dirty leather. I was fascinated
by whatever secret thing it was that made them even bigger social
outcasts than my parents and I. They attracted me like a magnified mirror image of myself, yet I also shivered when I stood at the
window and watched them go by. They stole and cheated, said our
neighbors, and they were dirty and dangerous – they chucked their
garbage out of the window. We ourselves had shiny silver garbage
cans that stood in the basement. (Wodin 1986: 198)]
Such binary thinking towards the other has clearly also applied in an
East/West context. This was a primary concern in Said’s Orientalism. Like
the migrant other, individuals in the East are perceived as inferior and
primitive and in dire need of civilizing, Western influences (Said 1979).
But in a sense, we are all migrants and exiles. This applies whether or
not we travel – i.e. physically move from one location to another. Our
childhood homes no longer exist as they once did. The location may
have stayed the same, but the people have changed, the circumstances
have changed and the world has moved on (de Courtivron 2003a).
We are migrants in time, if not in space. ‘We are all learning to live in
a world different from the one we were born in, strangers and pilgrims
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gazing at new worlds.’ (Bateson 2000: 134). Our lives have changed and
we are continually dealing with new circumstances: ‘having constantly
to negotiate between home and abroad, native culture and adopted
culture, or more creatively speaking, between a here, a there, and an elsewhere’ (Minh-ha 1994: 9). Our childhood homes and mental landscapes
can never be recovered: ‘We feel there is an ideal sense of belonging, of
community, of attunement with others and at-homeness with ourselves,
that keeps eluding us.’ (Hoffman 1999: 39).
All of this has implications for the languages we speak, the languages
we think and imagine in, the languages in which we make love, the
tongues in which we dream. Millions of people today ‘live in a language
that is not their own’ (Seyan 2001: 23). Many are nomads, immigrants
and gypsies in relation to ‘their own language’ and live their lives in
languages which are not their first vernaculars. People move in multilingual worlds and are constantly shifting or translating between cultures. ‘The condition of the migrant is the condition of the translated
being’ and that translation occurs at both physical and symbolic levels (Cronin 2006: 45). On the one hand there is the physical movement
from one language environment to another. There is also the movement
to a different worldview – a different way of interpreting everyday circumstances. The latter can apply even where there is no change in the
language spoken.
This movement between languages may involve some elements of
choice and migrants may seek to assimilate themselves to the new
environment as completely as possible and engage fully with the new
language (translational assimilation). Alternatively, they may continue
with the regular use of the language of their birth while acquiring and
speaking the language of the host community only where necessary
or appropriate (translational accommodation). These strategies are not
mutually exclusive and can be used at different times depending on
circumstances (Cronin 2006: 45).
All migrants bring the language of their birth to the new location.
They transfer with themselves ‘the syllables and significances enclosed
in the language they learned as they grew’ (Dorfman 2003: 30). But languages themselves are also migrants by nature – ‘maddeningly migrant’.
They borrow ‘from here and there and everywhere’. They plunder and
bring back ‘the most beautiful, the strangest, the most exciting objects’.
They take out words on loan and return them ‘in a different wonderfully
twisted and often funny guise, pawning those words, punning them,
stealing them, renting them out, eating them, making love to them and
spawning splendidly unrecognizable children’ (Dorfman 2003: 34).
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In this book, I intend to explore the experience of migrants who
have grappled with language issues as they moved from one cultural
setting to another. The work will examine the sense of exile and dislocation that has been experienced by writers living ‘in-between’ two or
more languages. The subjects explored are primarily migrant writers but
the concept of ‘migrant’ is interpreted loosely to include persons who
may experience a new language because of changing borders or political
contexts. Traditionally, cultures were perceived as rooted in a particular
place, i.e. ‘at home’. From the Romanticist perspective, to belong was
to be with a people who spoke your own tongue. Indigenous languages
evolved alongside local landscapes; and identities were shaped within
‘native’ communities sharing similar values and speech-forms (Frisch
2004). However, the phenomenon of increased migration has generated
new and under-researched language displacements and anxieties in society. The role of language in defining a sense of self and place has altered
and the process of recognition has been disrupted.
Migrant writers
Many authors have successfully bridged the gap between different languages and cultures. Some of the more renowned examples include
Ireland’s Samuel Beckett, who was raised in English-speaking Dublin
but subsequently sought refuge in France where he penned some of his
major works in French, many of which he later translated into English
himself. For Beckett, writing in the French language was a release from
nightmares, from a writer’s block and ‘verbal constipation’ (Antinucci
2004: 66–7). Samuel Beckett’s self-imposed exile gave him the opportunity to explore personal suffering and the human condition in a
language other than his mother tongue and he has had a ‘huge appeal
across time and cultures’ suggesting ‘an uncanny ability to write at a
depth that resounds in all cultures without relying on the particulars of
a given culture’ (Clark 2004: 72).
There are many other such prominent writers in an international
context whose intercultural books have mass appeal and continue
to attract public interest and attention. Out of Place (1999) by the
recently deceased Edward Said is a moving record of an Arab, Christian,
Palestinian who held a US passport and was never quite sure of whether
Arabic or English was his first language. Cisneros’ series of vignettes,
The House on Mango Street, a story of a girl living in the Hispanic quarter of Chicago, has sold millions of copies worldwide (Cisneros (2004)
[1991]). Khatibi’s Love in Two Languages employs a love story between a
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French female and a North African Arab male to conduct an extensive
meditation on languages and bilingualism (Khatibi 1990 [1983]).
Many of these authors have displayed tremendous writing skills in
their second, third or even fourth languages. European examples include
George Steiner who has three ‘mother tongues’ – German, English and
French – and Elie Wiesel who regularly writes in French, which is his
fifth, rather than his first language (the others are Yiddish, Hebrew,
Hungarian and German). Rafael Sabatini, who was born in Italy and
educated in Portugal and Switzerland yet chose to pen all his novels
in English, which was his sixth language (Kellman 2000: 12). Although
Elias Canetti’s first language was Ladino, he wrote in German. Other
eminent examples of multilingual writers from Europe are Vassalis
Alexakis (Greek and French), Rosalia de Castro (Galician and Castilian),
Ernest Claes (Finnish and German), Milan Kundera (Czech and French)
and Flann O’Brien (Irish and English). One of the most famous philosophers of the twentieth century, Ludwig Wittgenstein, is said to have
‘inhabited the space between German and English’ (Kellman 2000: 9).
Agar (1994: 150) concludes that maybe this ‘in-between’ experience
moved Wittgenstein ‘towards language games’. Even at the end of his
days, ‘after years of residence in England, he talked about how difficult
it was to live and work in English, his second language’.
The classification of these writers is no easy task. Jorge Semprun
prefers to think of himself simply as a bilingual individual (Spanish and
French) who happens to write in French. Jorge was born in Madrid in
1923 but resided in France during the Franco regime. Throughout his
career, Jorge has maintained his relationship with Spain, where he was
born. Yet he has also been loyal to France, a country which offered him
refuge when he had to flee from persecution. French is his literary language, but the Spanish language also belongs to him (Miletic 2008: 33).
The categories ascribed to these ‘in-between’ writers have been discussed by many of them. Julia Kristeva (2000) describes such writers
(including herself) as ‘hybrid monsters’ who risk the familiar ‘so as to
generate new beings of language and blood, rooted in no language or
blood’. These ‘diplomats of the dictionary’ are like ‘wandering Jews of
Being’ who are no longer prepared to sit in silence. Instead they challenge the norm ‘in favor of a nomadic humanity’. Kristeva describes the
abandonment of the language of one’s birth as ‘matricide’ and regards
endeavours to embrace new languages as aspirations to fly higher, more
swiftly and more strongly than one’s parents. ‘It is not for nothing that
we are the heirs of the Greeks; our children will have Russian, English,
French and the world for their own.’ (Kristeva 2000: 168). (Kristeva’s
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‘hybrid monsters’ reminds me of Bakhtin’s more gentle description
of such authors as ‘novelist hybrids’; such individuals are ‘not only
double-voiced and double accented (as in rhetoric) but . . . also double
languaged’ (1981: 360).)
It would be tempting to describe these authors as ‘migrant writers’
or ‘literary migrants’ but many of them would reject such categories.
Natascha Wodin suggests that such a category could not apply to her as
she was born in Germany and writes in German.
Hier spricht man von Migrantenliteratur. Für mich trifft das aber gar nicht
zu, weil ich in Deutschland geboren wurde und also gar keine Migrantin
bin. Ich fühle mich immer etwas unwohl in meiner Haut, wenn ich als
solche bezeichnet werde. Und wenn ich mir die in Deutsch geschriebenen
Bücher von Autoren nichtdeutscher Sprachherkunft anschaue, bemerke ich
in der Regel gar keinen Unterschied zur Sprache deutscher Schriftsteller.
(Wodin, interview)
[People here talk of migrant literature. But it doesn’t apply to me
because I was born in Germany and I am not a migrant. I always feel
uncomfortable in my skin when I am classified in this way. And when
I look at books in German written by authors for whom German
is a second language, I don’t as a rule see any big difference from
writers who are native German speakers. (Approximate translation,
henceforth AT)]
Wodin also expresses the concern that the category ‘migrant writer’
could imply marginality and peripherality to mainstream literature:
Aber Migrantenliteratur suggeriert immer etwas Fremdes, eine Randerscheinung. Es gibt inzwischen aber so viele Migranten in Deutschland,
dass sie in meinen Augen zur deutschen Kultur gehören, es gibt zahllose
ausländische Schriftsteller, die Deutsch schreiben und längst ein fester
Bestandteil der deutschen Literatur sind. Insofern finde ich den Begriff nicht
mehr ganz angemessen, für mich selbst sowieso nicht. Und transkulturell
ist ja heute fast schon die ganze Welt, die Grenzen verwischen sich immer
mehr. (Wodin, interview)
[But migrant literature always suggests something foreign, and
peripheral. There are so many migrants in Germany that from my
perspective they belong to German culture, there are so many foreign writers that write in German and that have expanded the
wealth of German literature. In this respect, I don’t find the concept
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very appropriate, definitely not for me. Almost the whole world is
nowadays transcultural, the borders are more and more blurred. (AT)]
The Bosnian-born, German-language writer, Saša Stanišić, also rejects
the term migrant writer. He is unhappy with various categories such
as intercultural or migrant literature, which are often used to describe
authors who ‘write from a perspective refracted by at least two cultures, national identities, or languages’. Stanišić suggests that the world
today suffers from a condition of attention deficit hyperactivity disorder
which has been prompted by ‘a persistent pattern of hyperactivity, as
well as from impulsiveness and anger’ and creating a ‘chronic condition
of permanent diaspora and migration’.
Although Stanišić is currently located in Germany, he bears many
indicators of an immigrant nature. As well as obvious ‘foreign’ markers
such as his Bosnian name and passport, there is also his liking for food
with lots of garlic and, more seriously, his experience of escape from a
civil war. Although German is not his first language, Stanišić has penned
a highly acclaimed novel in that language which is often classified as
immigrant literature – a category he deems to be non-sensical! (Stanišić
2006). He doesn’t necessarily feel that he has much, if anything, in common with other authors who are deemed to be fellow immigrants, and
suggests that there are many myths associated with such a category.
Although many or all of the authors in an ‘immigrant’ category have
experienced some form of dis- or re-location, this does not necessarily
generate any feeling of commonality. The writers all have ‘unique biographical backgrounds and differing cultural, religious, or social habits’.
Their experiences, influences and subjects can be extremely diverse.
Essentially, Stanišić is arguing against any biographical categorization
of authors and argues that more attention should be paid to the themes
of their writings and their points of view.
Stanišić also argues against the premise that the immigrant authors
will necessarily write about immigration. At the same time, he acknowledges that many of them do and cites the Polish-German author Artur
Becker as an example of a writer who has penned a number of novels
and stories that consistently explore themes of memory, interculturality
and migration, e.g. Becker’s Kino Muza (2003), Das Herz von Chopin
(2006) and Wodka und Messer: Lied vom Ertrinken (2008). While not
denying that immigrant writers can and often do write about their experience of movement, Stanišić argues that as competent writers, they
should be in a position to write well about all experiences – even if
they themselves have not been party to it: ‘Writing fiction also means
inventing worlds which are not part of the writer’s own world.’ To use
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the category migrant writer is to unnecessarily confine them to the
migrant experience.
Stanišić also rejects the idea that migrant writers of necessity enrich
their adopted language. He argues that ‘there is nothing special about
writing in a foreign language so long as you think you can use it in a
sufficient and productive way’. For Stanišić, ‘writing itself is a foreign
language’. Each time he writes a new story or undertakes a new literary
venture, he has to find the narrator’s voice and decide on his or her ‘verbal characteristics’. Many writers have chosen to write in one language
or another, but Stanišić has simply opted for his ‘better language’ which
happens to be German. He also feels it is important to acknowledge that
local, regional or national authors, writing in their ‘mother tongue’ are
also capable of experimentation with linguistic structures. ‘A language
is the only country without borders’ and the concept of an ‘immigrant
writer’ is meaningless (Stanišić 2008).
The Russian-French writer, Andreï Makine would concur with this
demolition of categories such as ‘migrant writers’. When asked how he
would describe himself, he gave the following answer:
Écrivain tout court ! L’écrivain, c’est quelqu’un qui vient d’ailleurs. Ontologiquement et psychologiquement. Autrefois, on définissait les Chrétiens
par «ceux qui n’ont pas peur de la mort», c’est-à-dire, des êtres se mettant dans une position existentielle radicalement autre. Un écrivain, est
une personne ayant une autre vision du temps, incapable de s’insérer dans
le temps astronomique ou social . . . . Oui, je pense que «les extra-terrestres»
serait assez juste, car ils viennent d’une autre plane `te mentale, d’une autre
dimension mentale. (Clément 2009: 131)
[Writer, full stop! A writer is someone who has come in from other
parts. Ontologically and psychologically. In olden days, Christians
were defined as ‘those who are not afraid of death’, that’s to say,
persons putting themselves existentially in a radically different perspective. A writer is a person who has an alternative vision of time
and who is incapable of inserting himself into the framework of sidereal or solar or social time . . . . Yes, I think ‘extraterrestrials’ would
be fairly accurate, because they come from another mental planet,
another mental dimension. (AT)]
The ‘in-between’ experience
Consideration of what terminology one should use to describe authors
such as these and their works raises many questions that are not easily
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resolved. Some writers depict themselves as writers ‘in-between’ two or
more places, cultures or languages. Andrew Riemer, a Hungarian-born
writer in Australia, locates himself ‘between two worlds; one familiar,
substantial, often humdrum and commonplace; the other a country
of the mind, fashioned from powerful longings and fantasies’ (Riemer
1992: 2). Similarly, Isabelle de Courtivron describes herself as navigating
‘between the two cultures [French and American] in pursuit of idealizations or repudiations which would help me take the next step’ (de
Courtivron 2000: 168).
Many of these authors describe themselves as being in a ‘neithernor’ context – of not belonging to any one context or another. The
Slovenian-born, Brina Ĺvigelj Merat (better known as Brina Svit) thinks
of herself as a permanent outsider:
Je ne suis plus une Yougoslave, je ne suis plus une vraie Slovène, je ne suis
pas une vraie Française non plus . . . Je suis une extracommunautaire, une
extracommunautaire . . . Extracommunautaire. Voilà le mot qui me convient. En dehors. En dehors des communautés nationales, communautés
tout court, familles, groupes, cercles et fondations de toutes sortes. (Svit
2009: 238)
[I’m no longer a Yugoslav, no longer a true Slovene, but I’m
not a true Frenchwoman either . . . I am an extracomunitarian, an
extracomunitarian . . . Extracomunitarian [sic]. That’s the word that
suits me. I’m an outsider. Outside national communities, or just communities, families, groups, circles, and organizations of every kind.
(Svit 2009: 243–4)]
Natascha Wodin also thinks of herself on occasions as being neither – or
both – but ultimately, this is a false dichotomy for her:
Ich halte die Nationalitäten nicht für so wichtig. Auf dem Erdball sind
keine Linien, die sind alle nur in unseren Köpfen. (Wodin, interview)
[I don’t think nationality is very important. And there are no lines
on planet earth, they are only in our heads. (AT)]
Throughout her life, Natascha seems to have lived in both worlds
although always having a clear sense of each. Although she was born in
Nuremberg, her parents were Russian refugees and her childhood home
was a Russian enclosure in a German context. She says of her childhood
home in the camp:
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Damals existierte noch gar kein Deutsch, auch wenn der Fabrikhof vor
unserer Baracke deutsch war, die Lastwagen, der Bahndamm, das Gepolter
der Züge, das Stampfen der Maschinen aus der Fabrik, alles war deutsch,
soweit ich schauen und hören konnte, aber das war Draußen. Drin war
Russisch. (Wodin 1983, 40)
[German didn’t exist at that time, even though the factory yard facing
our hut was German, as were the trucks, the railroad embankment,
the rattle of passing trains, the pounding of machines in the factory.
Everything was German as far as you could see and hear, but only
outside. Inside, everything was Russian. (Wodin 1986: 35)]
Although everything outside the camp was German, Natascha and the
other refugees had successfully constructed an imagined, mental Russia
that was entirely real to them:
Ich hatte mir «mein» Rußland geschaffen, nicht als geographischen
und tatsächlichen Ort, ein Land mit gesellschaftlichen und politischen
Realitäten, sondern als Bezeichnung einer zweiten Schicht von mir, meiner
verborgenen, tiefsten, für niemanden zugänglichen Schicht. Einer Schicht,
die mir eine zweite Bedeutung verlieh, meine eigentliche und einzigartige Bedeutung, für niemanden sichtbar, außer für mich selbst. (Wodin
1983: 91)
[I’d created a Russia of my own, not an actual geographical area, a
country with social and political realities, but as a name for a second
layer in myself, the ultimate and most inaccessible stratum, which
invested me with a second meaning, a real and unique significance
visible to no one but me. (Wodin 1986: 89)]
In her adult life, Natascha is still able to navigate within both Russian
and German spheres in her home town of Berlin:
Ich lebe inzwischen in Berlin, und hier sind sehr viele Russen. Wenn
ich auf die Straße gehe, höre ich immer Russisch. Ich habe russische
Freundinnen, mit denen ich fast jeden Tag Russisch spreche. Ich habe
vier Jahre lang mit einer Russin zusammen gelebt in dieser Wohnung, die
ist wieder zurückgegangen in ihre Heimat. Das Russischsprechen ist für
mich wieder zu einer Normalität geworden. Früher war Russland sehr weit
weg, im Unerreichbaren, jetzt ist es sehr nah, in Berlin vermischt sich das
Russische und das Deutsche auf eine fast natürliche Weise. Ich stelle mir
keine Identitätsfragen mehr. (Wodin, interview)
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[I live in Berlin now and there are a lot of Russians here. When I go
out onto the street, I always hear Russian. I have Russian friends with
whom I speak Russian nearly every day. I have shared this apartment
with a Russian for four years, she has just gone back home. So speaking Russian is pretty normal for me. Russia used to be very far away.
It was unreachable but now it is pretty close; in Berlin the Russians
and the Germans are all mixed up together in a really natural way.
So, I don’t have any issues of identity anymore. (AT)]
Natasha’s narrative is not unlike that of Dublin-born Hugo Hamilton
who says that he grew up in Germany but when he looked out of
the window, he saw Ireland (Hamilton, interview). Like Natascha, he
seems to have been located within a German sphere that was somehow
enclosed in a larger Hiberno-English space rather than being in-between
two spaces. Although Hugo was raised in Dublin, his mother was a
German immigrant who had married an Irishman deeply committed to
Gaelic culture. Everything inside the house was German or Irish Gaelic.
Some of these writers are clearly unhappy with their split status. The
eminent historian, Gerda Lerner, who was born in Vienna but spent
most of her life in an English-speaking world, describes herself as ‘a
broken prism – a refugee without language, between cultures, belonging to neither the old nor the new’ (Lerner 1998 [1997]: 41). This is
like the Moscow-born writer, Irina Reyn, who suggests that living in
America tears her in two: ‘This split divides me until everything in my
life is defined by its relation to its opposite.’ (Reyn 2000: 152). Nuala
Ní Dhomhnaill, the Irish language writer uses a traditional phrase ‘ar
snámh idir dhá uisce’ to describe this experience of dislocation. The
phrase which literarily means ‘swimming between two waters’ is used
to describe emigrants who are ‘neither fish nor fowl, lost between two
worlds, like the bodies of drowned fishermen’ – i.e. ‘nearly drowned and
nearly saved’ (Ní Dhomhnaill 2005a: 114–15).
There is a hint in all of these narratives of a ‘shadow side’ to hybridity
or exile. The split between different languages and cultures has generated a sense of loss and ‘expresses a more universal quest: the search for
home; the hunger for return’ (de Courtivron 2007: 31). This is a loss that
is never fully recovered regardless of the efforts made. De Courtivron
suggests that after her first major dislocation, ‘the reassuring “thereness” of the familiar and of the concrete was closed’ to her for ever
(de Courtivron 2007: 32). If one attempts to return, one recognizes that
one has never really left and at the same time, one can never really go
back to the same place. Whatever form of assimilation has occurred in
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a new context, a part of the self has been lost and is missing. This is the
part that has been submerged in the effort to build a new life in a new
context.
Perhaps one could suggest that these writers are in a ‘third space’, a
phrase most commonly associated with Homi Bhabha. In The Location
of Culture, Bhabha suggests that the ‘inter’ is ‘the cutting edge of translation and negotiation, the inbetween space that carries the burden of the
meaning of culture’ (italics original in Bhabha 1994: 56). But Natascha
Lvovich, who was born in the Soviet Union, describes this ‘third space’
as a hateful place: ‘As the past and present Me-s live on different planets and speak different languages, both are utterly confused to be and
not to be recognizable.’ (Lvovich 2007: 292). The culture which develops in this third space is both ‘bafflingly alike, and different’ from the
parent culture (Bhabha 1996: 54). It is a formation that is complicated
in its relations with natives and immigrants alike and displays traits of
‘culture-sympathy’ as well as ‘culture-clash’ (Eliot 1949: 63–4). It is both
a ‘ “part” culture’ and a “partial” culture’. It ‘is the contaminated yet
connective tissue between cultures – at once the impossibility of culture’s containedness and the boundary between. It is indeed something
like culture’s “in-between”, bafflingly both alike and different.’ (Bhabha
1996: 54).
However, not all writers react similarly to this feeling of rootlessness
and some are quite keen to note its advantage. Brina Svit writes in a very
light-hearted fashion about her journeying between Paris and Ljubljana.
She says:
Je ne suis pas une exilée (ou bien une exilée de famille, est-ce que ça existe?).
En tout cas, j’ai toujours circulé librement entre les deux pays, notre voiture
connaît la route par coeur. Néanmoins la position de l’exilé est bien plus
propice et confortable pour la littérature que la mienne dans la voiture qui
connaît la route entre Paris et Ljubljana toute seule, c’est-à-dire la position
des fesses entre deux chaises. Mais quand je me lance dans les calculs sur
les années passées dans la langue maternelle et celle d’adoption, je ne peux
pas ne pas me sentir concernée. (Svit 2009: 239)
[I’m not an exile (though perhaps a family exile, if there is such a
thing). Be that as it may, I have always moved freely between the two
countries; our car knows the road by heart. Nevertheless, the position
of the exile is a lot more favorable and comfortable for literature, than
my position in the car, which knows the road from Paris to Ljubljana
on its own, in other words a position where I’m sitting on the fence.
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But when I immerse myself in the calculations of the years I have
passed in my mother tongue and in my adopted tongue, I can’t but
feel concerned. (Svit 2009: 243–4)]
Luc Sante describes himself as having a series of rented rooms rather
than a house:
I suppose I am never present in any given moment, since different
aspects of myself are contained in different rooms of language, and
a complicated apparatus of air locks prevents the doors from being
flung open all at once . . . I could make my home in any of them.
I don’t have a house, only this succession of rented rooms. That
sometimes makes me feel as though I have no language at all, but
it also gives me the advantage of mobility. I can leave anytime, and
not be found. (Sante 1998: 284–5)
Anne Weber, who was born in Germany in 1964 but now lives in France,
describes this place as the catalyst for her writing:
La place à laquelle je me tiens est mouvante, elle est clans 1’entre-deux,
et elle me convient. Entre deux langues, entre deux chaises, entre deux littératures, entre deux histoires, j’ai conscience de n’appartenir tout à fait ni
à un monde ni à 1’autre, de n’être parfaitement à 1’aise nulle part, de ne
pas avoir de «chez moi». C’est la place à partir de laquelle écrire m’est possible. – Et vous, vous en êtes où dans l’apprentissage du chinois? (Weber
2009: 190)
[The place I occupy shifts, it is the in-between, and that suits me.
Finding myself between two languages, two chairs, two bodies of literature, two histories, I am aware that I totally belong to neither one
world nor the other, of not being completely at ease anywhere, of
having no real ‘home’. It’s the place I start from that makes it possible
for me to write.’ (AT)]
It is quite clear that all these authors have experienced different
cultural contexts and I gave some consideration to the concept of
‘transcultural’ as an expression of their in-between-ness. The notion
of ‘transculturation’ was originally used by Ortiz as a corrective measure for Malinowski’s use of acculturation (Mignold 2000: 14). While
Malinowski had used the term acculturation ‘to describe the process of
transition from one culture to another’, Ortiz preferred the term ‘transculturation’ ‘to express the highly varied phenomena’ that occurred in
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Cuba ‘as a result of the extremely complex transmutation of culture’ that
had occurred there (Ortiz 1995 [1940]: 98). Ortiz regarded the history of
Cuba as an example of the ‘long process of transculturation’. Of course,
this occurred in a colonial context and as many of the writers that I deal
with have not been directly involved in a colonial context, I rejected the
category accordingly.
Although it is both difficult and maybe even essentialist to categorize these writers in some way; nevertheless, for the purpose of this
book I think it important to find some category, however inappropriate.
I opted for the term ‘intercultural’ as that category appears more appropriate for relations between cultural settings that are largely equal. Gino
Chiellino, an Italian-German writer and academic, seems happy with
this category and explains the concept of interculturality as follows:
Als interkulturell verstehe ich folgendes: Wenn zwei Kulturen zusammen
kommen, entsteht etwas Neues. Es entsteht nicht als Verschmelzung wie
das in der Amerikanischen Vision des ‘Schmelztieels’ anvisiert wurde, sondern es entsteht etwas Neues, von dem ich im Moment noch nicht weiß,
wie ich das nennen soll. Es ist keine Verschmelzung, sondern eine andere
Form der Verbindung. (Chiellino, interview)
[By intercultural I mean the following: If two cultures come together,
something new emerges. It does not emerge as a fusion as envisaged
with the American ‘melting pot’ but something new arises, I don’t
even know what it is at the moment or what I should call it. But it is
not a melting pot, it’s a different way of coming together. (AT)]
Chiellino believes that the modern human condition is intercultural
and this affects our relationships with others. If we ourselves have empathy with the condition of interculturality, then our relationships with
intercultural others will be healthy and wholesome. If it becomes necessary for us to deal with someone who has no empathy with any form of
hybridity or duality, we tend to have a less than full relationship with
them.
Wenn wir mit Menschen kommunizieren sollen, die monokulturell sind,
dann leben wir in dieser Beziehung nur einen Teil von uns aus. Wir leben
in Italien nur das Italienische aus, in Deutschland nur das Deutsche.
Und das schafft Ungleichgewicht im Menschen selbst. Wenn man in der
Interkulturalität lebt, ob es eine polnisch-deutsche Interkulturalität ist
oder italienische, türkische oder was auch immer, dann lebt man das
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dementsprechend aus. Darin ist auch etwas Beruhigendes. (Chiellino,
interview)
[If we need to communicate with someone who is monocultural, we
express only a part of ourselves in that relationship. In Italy, we live
only the Italian side and in Germany only the German side. And
that leads to an imbalance within the person him- or herself. When
one lives in an intercultural context, be it a Polish-German. Italian or
Turkish one, or whatever, then one expresses that accordingly. That
is also comforting. (AT)]
However, Chiellino is keen to ensure that not all intercultural authors
are seen as the same and he makes an important distinction between
intercultural writers who are emigrants and those who are in exile. He
explains:
Es gibt einen großen Unterschied zwischen Einwanderer- und Exilautoren.
Sagen wir es so: selbst wenn die Werke technisch, in den Erzählstrukturen,
der Erzählart und -weise identisch sind, stellt sich die Frage der Loyalität
und der Zugehörigkeit. Für Einwanderer ist es leichter, die Sprache zu
wechseln. Für Exilanten gilt oft das Gebot, der Sprache treu zu bleiben,
etwas weil zu Hause eine Diktatur die Sprache undemokratisch verwendet, sie zerstört. Dieses Problem haben Emigranten meist nicht. Aus diesem
Grunddilemma ergeben sich große Unterschiede, weil die Protagonisten der
Werke von Exilautoren sich am Ende nicht dafür entscheiden können, dort
zu leben, wo sie im Exil sind. Sie müssen immer zurückkehren, und ihr
Land von der Diktatur befreien. (Chiellino, interview)
[There is a big difference between ‘migrant’ and ‘exiled’ authors. Let’s
say it like this: even if the works are identical in technical terms, in
narrative structure, in the ways stories are told, the questions of loyalty and affiliation remain. It is easier for immigrants to change their
language. Exiles have the duty to be loyal to the language, because in
their country of origin, it may be abused or oppressed by a dictator.
Migrant writers usually do not have that problem. From this basic
dilemma differences arise because, at the end of the day, the protagonists of the books of authors in exile cannot decide to stay where
they are in exile. They must always be ready to return to free their
country from the dictator. (AT)]
Ultimately, I have opted for the concept of ‘intercultural writers’ for the
purposes of this book. It seems an appropriate category as it emphasizes
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the interaction between cultures and the creativity that can be sparked
as a result.
The European dimension
Ultimately this book represents a personal and rewarding journey
through many intercultural authors and I quickly became aware of the
wealth of research already available on intercultural authors – especially in a Latin-American context (Doloughan 2002; Kellman 2000,
2003; King, Connell and White 1995; McClennen 2005; Ros i Sole 2004;
Watkins-Goffman 2001). As I did not wish my volume to essentially
re-present authors and repeat material that has already been widely
explored, I focused on developing angles not widely dealt with up to
now. This involved developing a focus on European-born authors. While
I was keen to write a volume with a strong European focus, it was necessary for me to develop criteria for the inclusion and exclusion of specific
authors from the research process. Ultimately five criteria guided the
selection of primary texts.
I decided to primarily deal with books that have been published
in the last five decades or so and with authors that are for the large
part still alive and writing. This was of the utmost importance to me
as I intended, as far as possible, to correspond and/or liaise with a
number of these authors. Although there are some superb examples of
language memoirs published earlier in the last century, such as Mary
Antin’s Promised Land (1997 [1912]), these will not feature prominently
in this work.
The second criterion that guided my choice of authors was personal.
I confined myself to texts that have been published in a language with
which I have some familiarity.
As the book focuses on exploring language experiences in a European
context, I was keen that English language texts would not entirely dominate and therefore I deal with a number of French texts (e.g. Makine
2007 [1996]) as well as some German memoirs. These include Canetti
(2005[1977]) and Wodin (1983). I also feature some Irish language pieces
of significance (e.g. Ó Treasaigh 2002). As I have explicitly sought to
deal with some material that was not previously available in English,
this may be the first occasion on which monolingual English-speakers
have access to some of these texts.
Although English inevitably predominates, it was infinitely rewarding
to deal with writers who have not felt the need to acquire that language,
and several non English-speaking authors feature in this research. One
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of these is the already-mentioned Jorge Semprun who, along with the
four other children in the family, had a multilingual childhood in
Madrid. Although living in a Spanish-speaking environment, Semprun
learned German as a child from his Swiss-German governess who subsequently became his step-mother. He later learnt English, French and
Latin. As an adult, Semprun committed to writing original works in
both French and Spanish but never actually translated his writings
from one language to the other. His engagement with French never
conflicted with his Spanish identity for him. During his lifetime, he
formally maintained his Spanish citizenship even to the point of refusing a very prestigious seat in the Académie Française which would have
required him to adopt French citizenship and give up his Spanish citizenship. Semprun’s ‘determination to remain a Spaniard while actively
pursuing a literary career as a Frenchman captures his delight in playing
with and shifting between his two languages, whether in his role as an
author, philosophical thinker, or political activist’ (Kippur in Semprun
2009: 181).
Anne Weber has engaged with both German and French in her literary career. She was raised in Offenbach, Germany from her birth in
1964 until she completed high school. She then arrived in Paris and
studied French and comparative literature. Anne worked as a reader for
several French publishing companies and translated a number of texts
from French into German. A highly accomplished translator, she has
been awarded several prizes, including the first prize for best European
translation in Offenburg in 2008. Unlike Semprun, Anne has been
actively involved in translating her own work. Interestingly, however,
she regards both versions as original and authentic (a principle that that
also applies to the European treaty, which has been published in all 23
languages!).
In Weber’s case, translation from one language to another was a voluntary activity, but for Andreï Makine, it proved the only route to
publication in his adopted language. After emigrating to Paris in 1976,
Makine began to write fiction in his ‘grandmother tongue’. However his
attempts to get his work published in that language were not successful as publishers were convinced that a writer from Russia could hardly
excel in French. When his efforts to publish original material in French
failed, Makine submitted a manuscript to a French publisher intimating that the original document had been penned in Russian but had
subsequently been translated by himself into French, The quality of the
French ‘translation’ was regarded as exceptional and when the publisher
requested a copy of the Russian ‘original’, Makine was obliged to hastily
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translate from his adopted French into his native Russian! Subsequently
he became the first non-French person to win the Prix Goncourt, and
his Le testament français (1995) was awarded several prizes including the
Prix Médicis (Das 2003). While some of his work has subsequently been
translated into English, Makine continues to write solely in French.
These kinds of ironic scenarios are not as unusual as one might anticipate and while conducting research for this book I discovered that Gerda
Lerner’s novel No Farewell was first published in a German translation in
1954. This was originally written in English and the Austrian-American
author had invested all her ‘best effort in mastering the English language’ in writing this book. The original English version was published
a year later (Lerner 1955). Hugo Hamilton’s Die Redselige Insel (2007) was
actually written in English but published in German. Vassalis Alexakis
originally wrote La langue maternalle in Greek but then translated it into
French (1995). He subsequently revised the original Greek version based
on his French translation! (Miletic 2008: 36).
Georges-Arthur Goldschmidt was born in Reinbek, Germany in 1928
but spent a considerable period of his childhood in Savoie, ‘where he
was considered a foreigner’ (de Courtivron in Goldschmidt 2009: 175).
Immersed in French, he believed that he could no longer retrieve his
German, which had been tainted by Nazi horrors. Subsequent exploration of literary masterpieces in both French and German prompted
a reconciliation with his mother tongue – and although he became a
French citizen, he worked as Professor of German in his adopted country for many years. Goldschmidt has won major literary prizes in both
languages (Goldschmidt 2009: 175).
The fact that a number of these authors have not engaged with
the English language sharpened my enthusiasm for their work and
enhanced their appeal for me. (It also became necessary for me to
sharpen my language skills in German in order to communicate
with them.) Although some like Natascha Wodin (the daughter of
Russian refugees to Germany) and Gino Chiellino (an Italian migrant
to Germany) have been partially translated into English, their works
have not received due attention in the English-speaking world. Hopefully this book will serve to kindle some interest in their work and bring
their reflections to a wider audience – especially to those who engage
with the concept of ‘language memoirs’ and the exploration of language
experiences.
My third criterion was that the author was born in a place regarded as
being on the European continent. I have included, for example, a number of Irish-born writers such as Hugo Hamilton, Lorcán Ó Treasaigh
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and Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill as well as some authors born in Central
Europe such as Eva Hoffman (born in Cracow, Poland), Verena Stefan
(Switzerland) and Natascha Wodin (Nuremberg). Some Russian-born
authors also feature in this work. These include Natasha Lvovich, Andreï
Makine and Vladimir Nabokov. In dealing with this criterion, I encountered a number of anomalies which have not necessarily been resolved
satisfactorily. While it is easy to assert, for example, that Hugo Hamilton
or Eva Hoffman are ‘European-born’ authors, the situation is far less
clear when one is dealing with the Russian context, and the question of
whether Russia (or part of it) is in Europe (or not) is a source of much academic speculation (Nic Craith 2006). Moreover, the birthplace of some
of the Russian authors is not always clear. For example, some suggest
that Andreï Makine was born in Penza in European Russia whereas others indicate that he was actually born in Krasnoyarsk in Siberia (Lemelin
2004: 340). That location might more properly be regarded as Asia.
Moreover, some of the authors whom I designate as European-born
do not necessarily think of themselves in such terms (Nic Craith 2009).
Elias Canetti, for example, paints a colourful picture of his childhood in
Ruschuk, Bulgaria – which was apparently outside of Europe:
Die übrige Welt heiß dort Europa, und wenn jemand die Donau hinauf
nach Wien fuhr, sagte man, er fährt nach Europa. Europa begann dort, wo
das türkiscge Riech geendet hatte. (Canetti 2005[1977]: 11)
[There the rest of the world was known as ‘Europe,’ and if someone
sailed up the Danube to Vienna, people said he was going to Europe.
Europe began where the Turkish Empire had once ended. (Canetti
1979: 5)]
As well as focusing on contemporary, European writers, my fourth
criterion for inclusion in this research was that the author was fluent in
more than one language. This was a relatively easy criterion to fulfil in
a European context as multilingualism is common on the continental
core. Canetti (1979: 27) writes of his native Bulgaria:
Es war oft von Sprachen die Rede, sieben oder acht verschiedene wurden
allein in unserer Stadt gesprochen, etwas davon verstand jeder, nur die
kleinen Mädchen, die von den Dörfern kamen, konnten Bulgarisch allein
und galten deshalb als dumm. Jeder zählte die Sprachen auf, die er kannte, es war wichtig, viele von ihnen zu beherrschen, man konnte durch ihre
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Kenntnis sich selbst oder anderen Menschen das Leben retten. (Canetti
2005 [1977]: 38)
[People often talked about languages; seven or eight different tongues
were spoken in one city alone, everyone understood something of
each language. Only little girls, who came from the village, spoke
just Bulgarian and were therefore considered stupid. Each person
counted up the languages he knew; it was important to master several, knowing them could save one’s own life or the lives of other
people. (Canetti, 1979: 27)]
Canetti’s own first languages were Ladino (the language of Jews from
the Iberian Peninsula) and Bulgarian, but seven or eight languages were
commonly spoken in Ruse.
The Czech-German author Ota Filip describes multilingualism as a
normal state of affairs in Ostrau, the city of his birth in the current
Czech Republic. His father had a café in the town there. He tells of the
languages spoken there by staff and customers:
Mein Vater hatte ein Caféhaus, und wenn dort deutsche Gäste waren, dann
sprach er Deutsch mit ihnen; waren es tschechische Gäste, dann wurden sie
auf Tschechisch bedient. (Filip, interview)
[My father had a café, and if the guests there were German, my
father would speak German with them; if the guests were Czechs,
they would be served in Czech. (AT)]
Ota and his childhood friends spoke several languages as a matter of
course:
Wenn ich als kleiner Bub mit meinen Freunden auf der Straße Fußball
gespielt habe, dann mußte ich dafür vier Sprachen sprechen können. (Filip,
interview)
[As a little boy, when I went out to play football with my friends in
the street, I had to be able to speak four languages. (AT)]
The children did not regard their multilingualism as anything other
than normal:
Und das war normal. Wir sprachen zwar nicht besonders elegant, aber
ich mußte mich auf Deutsch, Tschechisch, Polnisch und Jiddisch verständigen können. So war das eben damals. Wir haben das auch gar
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nicht als Belastung empfunden; es kam uns gar nicht in den Sinn, nach
Nationalitäten zu unterscheiden. Die Tatsache, daß mein Freund Erich
Jiddisch sprach und mein anderer Freund Deutsch spielte keine Rolle; meine
erste Freundin war ein deutsches Mädchen. Wir haben Ostrau als eine
multikulturelle Stadt empfunden. (Filip, interview)
[Yes, that was normal. We did not speak particularly elegantly, but
I had to be able to communicate in German, Czech, Polish and
Yiddish. That’s just how it was. We did not experience this as a
burden; it never occurred to us to draw distinctions on grounds of
nationality. The fact that my friend Erich spoke Yiddish and another
friend German was of no significance; my first love was a German
girl. We enjoyed Ostrau as a multicultural city. (AT)]
George Steiner stresses that multilingualism was a natural state of
affairs in Europe for many centuries: ‘Until late into the eighteenthcentury, the educated throughout western Europe, but also in Warsaw
or in Prague, be they scholars, philosophers, diviners, scientists, men of
law, diplomats, politicians, men of letters, shared Latin, when in discourse with each other while being simultaneously practitioners of their
own vulgate.’ (Steiner 1997: 79). He muses that ‘[i]t would be interesting to know whether it was in Latin or in English that Newton analysed
inwardly and initially verbalised (conceptualised) his axioms’. He suggests that ‘[m]any of the perplexities which arise out of the epistemology
of Descartes stem from the fact that Latin was the first language of his
meditations, that translation into his native French proved recalcitrant
also to himself’. Steiner argues that there is ‘scarcely a passage in the
pedal-point English of Paradise Lost or in Milton’s prose which does not
bear witness to the Latin substratum and to the enriching intervention
of other tongues (Italian among them)’ (Steiner 1997: 79–80). Steiner
himself is an exemplar of this European multilingualism. His father and
mother, Frederick and Else Steiner, were Austrian Jews who had acquired
French citizenship, and the children were raised in German, English,
French and German. Steiner subsequently learned Italian.
Although one does not necessarily immediately associate the western
islands of Europe with bi- or multilingualism, multilingualism was a
natural state of affairs in many parts of Ireland until the early nineteenth century. As well as fluency in Irish Gaelic, many Irish rural
peasants were fluent in Greek, Latin and other tongues (Nic Craith
1993). My own research has yielded many contemporary examples of
intercultural memoirs in Ireland – cases such as Hugo Hamilton who
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describes himself as a ‘brack’ child (‘Brack, homemade Irish bread with
German raisins’) (Hamilton 2003: 282–3). In Hugo’s case, German-Irish
bilingualism predominated in his childhood. He noted that they slept
in German and dreamt in Irish. They laughed in Irish and cried in
German. They were silent in German and spoke in English (Hamilton
2003: 282–3).
While every primary author featured in this book is clearly bilingual or
multilingual, it was not always possible to determine the circumstances
in which they acquired additional languages. Andreï Makine, for example, grew up speaking Russian but loving French which is sometimes
called ‘grandmother tongue’. This is with reference to his book Le testament français in which he suggests that he learned French from his
grandmother with whom he spent many of his childhood vacations
(Makine, 2007 [1996]). His summers were lived in French while his winters were spent in Russian. Doubts have been expressed regarding the
authenticity of the story but there is no alternative narrative to explain
the almost native-like French of this Russian author.
A strong engagement with language experiences was the fifth and
final criterion for authors who are included in this volume. Many
of the authors that I deal with here have either penned full-length
autobiographies or substantial pieces reflecting on language experiences. Autobiographies with a focus on language are fast emerging as
a sub-genre within the biographical range and have been designated
as ‘language memoirs’ by Alice Kaplan (Kaplan 1994). In her own language memoir, French Lessons, she reflects on the impact of the French
language and culture on her identity and personality (Kaplan 1993). It
became important for her to think about ‘what is going on inside the
head of the person who suddenly finds themselves passionately engaged
in new sounds and a new voice’ (Kaplan 1994: 59). Her excitement
about this type of writing led her to discover many companion texts
for her own work, such as Richard Rodriguez’ Hunger of Memory (1982)
and Alfred Kazin’s A Walker in the City (1979 [1951]).
I myself became very interested in the notion of language memoir
upon reading Speckled People a number of years ago (Hamilton 2003).
This autobiography was penned by Hugo Hamilton who grew up in
a largely English-speaking Dublin in the 1950s and 60s. Hugo’s father
was a patriotic, obsessive Irish nationalist who was utterly devoted to
Irish (Gaelic) and would speak no other language with his children. His
mother was a softly-spoken German emigrant who communicated with
her children in her native tongue. In consequence, there was no English
spoken in the house – although Hugo and his brother would have dearly
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loved to operate in the language of the majority population. On reading
Hugo’s book, I was impressed with his explorations of the emotions the
child felt in regard to all three languages, Irish, German and English.
I could empathize with attitudes to Irish in particular and I recognized
that books such as these could offer immensely rich insights into the
experience of different cultural and linguistic settings.
This interest in language memoirs opened up an exciting adventure
in reading which has been ongoing for a number of years now. Key
texts include Eva Hoffman’s Lost in Translation which recounts a childhood spent initially in Cracow, Poland and a subsequent emigration to
Canada at the age of 13 (Hoffman 1998 [1989]). Lost in Translation has
been described as an ‘intellectual woman’s autobiography’ and explores
a tri-national girl ‘with no single language or sole culture’ (Hokenson
1995: 101).
Lorcán Ó Treasaigh’s Céard é English? (2002) is one of the few Irish
language memoirs that will feature in this volume. Although the
author was reared in Dublin (the English-speaking capital of Ireland),
his parents had decided to communicate with their children only in
Irish or German. English was not permitted at all in the household.
Unlike Hamilton, Ó Treasaigh appears to have thoroughly enjoyed
the experience of being raised through Irish and had little desire to
switch to English in order to communicate with his peers. This semifictional autobiography is particularly strong on connections between
language, place and religion. In the case of Irish, all three have become
intertwined.
Some of the key texts that I draw on in this book could more properly
be described as fictional or ‘creative non-fiction’ rather than factual. One
such example is Vassilis Alexakis’ Les mots étrangers (2002) which could
be described as strongly imaginative while drawing substantially on elements of author’s own life. Following the death of his father in 1995,
this Greek-born author began learning Sango, which is the primary language spoken in the Central African Republic. In Les mots étrangers, the
central character embarks on a similar linguistic journey and there follows a meditative journey on language and loss. When the book was
published in 2002, it was short-listed for two significant French literary
awards, the Interallié Prize and the Renaudaut Prize. Alexakis subsequently translated the volume into Greek and the translated volume
was awarded the prize for the best Greek novel of the year (Merry 2004).
Although my volume focuses strongly on authors with European
roots, some notable European writers are ‘missing’. Czeslay Milosz is
a case in point. His omission was primarily for two reasons: firstly, he
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continued to write in Polish – a language with which I have no familiarity; and secondly, his work was outside of my timeframe. Ultimately
no single volume can include all authors of relevance – even significant
authors.
The focus on European-born authors in this book does mean ‘losing’ significant authors from other geographical locations with notable
insights into the process of migration and language displacement, and
who had formed part of my initial research. One of the more exciting
finds was the Chicano author, Ilan Stavans and his memoir On Borrowed
Words, published in 2001. The title refers to the author’s experiences of
delving into the languages of other peoples and making them his own
and the author ‘is mostly concerned with the opportunities that belonging to more than one culture affords and introduces us to the concept
of hybridity’ (Ros i Sole 2004: 234). Stavan’s memoir explores his experiences with Yiddish, Spanish, Hebrew and English, and the journey from
Eastern Europe to Mexico to Israel and to the USA is explored from the
perspective of the languages spoken in these locations.
Another already-mentioned memoir, the Chicano Hunger of Memory, has proved controversial since its publication in 1982. ‘Richard
Rodriguez is considered to be one of the most conservative Chicano
authors’ (Ros i Sole 2004: 234) and much of his book focuses on the
English-language education of the Spanish-speaking author and his
gradual withdrawal from his Spanish-speaking parents and relatives.
Although many would regard such a process as a greater loss than gain,
Rodriguez himself has consistently defended the process and his memoir has great insights into the impact of second-language acquisition on
family unity.
When drawing up the five criteria, I was initially concerned that
I might leave myself short of authors to engage with or memoirs that
could serve as primary source material. This was very naïve of me and
the opposite in fact proved to be true. There is a wealth of material from
European-born authors who could have been included in this book but
who will not feature on this occasion. Hopefully I will have an opportunity to engage with them elsewhere. What I hope to achieve in the
remainder of this volume is to draw attention to issues of great personal
interest to me which have been dealt with by contemporary European
authors in a manner that is lively, engaging and relevant.
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Like migration, telling stories has always been an essential component
of the human condition. In this book I engage with writers who have
been motivated to tell their stories. Sometimes, I have had the privilege
of conducting life-narrative interviews with selected authors. At other
times, I have made use of their published memoirs. Essentially I am
relying on stories in both written and oral formats. But are stories a
legitimate and reliable source of information on language identity? How
can we be sure that the authors are actually telling the ‘truth’ and does
the language they speak filter or cloud their memories? Unless we can
answer these questions in a satisfactory manner, one could hardly regard
this form of research as sustainable or legitimate.
Stories and culture
In this research, I am treating the authors as key informants on their personal experiences as well as on the societies in which they live. (Eriksen
1994: 191) I am especially interested in the influence of extended periods of liminality on writers who live ‘in-between’ two or more languages
and the emotional experiences that are encountered in negotiating
between different cultural contexts. I am concerned with the impact
of cultural translation on a sense of self as well as on one’s relationships with immediate families and traditional backgrounds. Sometimes
it appears that the acquisition of a new language is associated with the
loss of the old tongue. In the case of nineteenth-century Ireland, for
example, it was assumed that in order to speak ‘proper English’, one had
to forget or silence Irish, and gradually the native language disappeared
(Nic Craith 2003). In many Celtic countries children were punished for
speaking the native language. The assumption was that a mastery of two
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languages was virtually impossible, and that a second language would
only be mastered when the first language was silenced, but I wish to
ascertain whether this is necessarily the case. Can new and significant
potential be generated in such contexts? I avail of oral life narratives and
published memoirs as sources of information on language transition as
a global phenomenon.
In order to ascertain the validity of my research, I relied on the process
of triangulation. The most significant methodology was the process of
conducting life-narrative interviews with a number of key authors, who
were happy to discuss their personal experience of language transition
as well as the process of compiling memoirs on their language experiences. Interviewing a selection of authors proved a challenging task.
Establishing contact with them was generally conducted via the publishers. Preparations for these interviews absorbed considerable time as one
does not meet with a published author without being fully aware of their
public profile and their range of publications. But meeting with these
authors was crucial to this book as it afforded me many personal and
real insights into the experience of up-rootedness that many of them
had written about. It also challenged some of my misconceptions about
issues of identity and hybridity.
As well as the interviews, I engaged with a number of (mainly published) memoirs as source material for this book. Dealing with written
texts is not a new practice for anthropologists. In 1973, Clifford Geertz
proposed the notion of culture as text. He suggested that the ‘culture
of a people is an ensemble of texts, themselves ensembles, which the
anthropologist strains to read over the shoulders of those to whom they
properly belong’ (Geertz 1973: 452). He compared the process of doing
ethnography as ‘like trying to read (in the sense of “construct a reading
of”) a manuscript – foreign, faded, full of ellipses, incoherencies, suspicious emendations, and tendentious commentaries’. Of course, this is
not a normal manuscript with ‘conventionalized graphs of sound writing and letters’. Instead it is one written in ‘transient examples of shaped
behavior’ (Geertz 1973: 10).
In Writing Culture (1986), James Clifford, George Marcus (and others)
reflected on the notion of culture as text and focused on explorations of
the writings of anthropologists. Contributors to that volume brought
many of the techniques of reading more commonly associated with
literary criticism to bear on the practice of ethnographic writing. This
phase is commonly referred to as ‘the literary turn in anthropology’
and it was a time when anthropologists such as Victor Turner, Mary
Douglas, Claude Levi-Strauss and others displayed an interest in literary
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theory and practice. Clifford suggests that ‘Margaret Mead, Edward
Sapir, and Ruth Benedict saw themselves as both anthropologists and
literary artists’ (Clifford 1986: 3).
While the notion of ‘literary anthropology’ has not been expressly
identified in many quarters, other contributors to the canon include
Vincent Crapanzano (1992), Paul Rabinow (1988) and Renato Rosaldo
(1989). Moreover, since its publication in 1986, the Clifford and Marcus
tome has generated a number of responses – although not necessarily
all supportive. These include Women Writing Culture (Behar and Gordon
1995). The following year saw the publication of After Writing Culture
(James, Hockey and Dawson 1997). Other significant books include
Anthropology off the Shelf (Waterston and Vesperi 2009) and the more
recently published volume on The Anthropology of Writing (Barton and
Papen 2010).
In relying to a certain extent on published memoirs as one of my
primary sources, I am delving into the realm of literary anthropology;
I am exploring particular texts – and particularly the sub-genre of language memoir – as a genuine source of information on a culture. I am
conducting a hermeneutical investigation of a number of memoirs and
seeking commonalities of lived experiences and emerging cultural patterns in the texts. Like Archetti, I would argue that the ‘written worlds
depicted by these authors can be seen as creating models as well as providing social actors with critical cultural mirrors’ (Archetti 1994: 15–16).
While one memoir in itself could hardly be regarded as ‘a microcosm
of the sociocultural order’ (Gullestad 1994: 160). The combined reading
of a number of memoirs may serve to address a number of significant
cultural and social questions.
Of course, there are many issues to be resolved here – not least of
which is the absence of a professional ethnographer in the compilation
of the texts. The texts I am dealing with are written by the ‘native’,
whereas more traditionally anthropologists have dealt with the natives
orally and then composed their own texts – based on what they think
the ‘native’ means or might have intended to mean. In anthropology, ‘what we call our data are really our own constructions of other
people’s constructions of what they and their compatriots are up to’
Geertz 1973: 9). In the autobiographies that I have selected, authors
rather than professional ethnographers are delivering what they and
I hope is a genuine expression of their ‘webs of significance’ (Geertz
1973: 3). And these expressions may have been filtered through the lens
of professional editors and publishing companies.
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The role of any author is hardly straightforward and is governed by
issues such as personal histories, languages, social contexts etc (Barthes
1977). The authors I have selected are highly literate individuals and
I cannot simply assume that their experiences are entirely representative
of the universal human condition of language transition in contemporary society. This applies particularly to those authors who have
published their memoirs in a language other than their mother tongue.
Clearly such individuals have made a successful transition from one
language to another which does not necessarily reflect the universal
migrant condition, but it does serve to highlight aspects of that experience and raise questions about how it impacts on the greater population.
Essentially, I am approaching these writings as social documents
rather than literary texts and hope that the language memoirs will provide valuable insights into the cultural process of language acquisition.
I myself as reader of these texts am not concerned with their literary
qualities. Instead, I ‘am using written life stories as data about cultural
processes’ (Gullestad 1994: 124). I am focusing on these life stories as
a way of ‘reading cultures’. The value of this ‘may lie in the ways in
which they come to reflect the culture but also display how culture talks
about itself, how it allows certain kinds of life stories to be told – and by
implication, not others’ (Plummer 2001: 401).
There is no guarantee that the meaning I draw from a text is actually
that originally intended by the author. Saussure, in particular, has drawn
attention to the ‘problematic of intent and contingency in any spoken,
written, visual, or experiential text’ (Hitchcock 2008: 33). Derrida argues
for a consideration of the importance of context. One cannot ensure
that language conveys the original and specific meaning intended by
the author. Instead, with each new reader there is a new context.
‘This fact problematizes the traditional notion of a “natural” relationship between an author/artist/performer/maker and his or her works.’
(Hitchcock 2008: 33).
This process of dialogue between the writer and the reader is appreciated by some of the authors included in this volume. In an interview
with Lucie Clément, the Russian- born writer, Andreï Makine made the
following comment about readers of his books:
Vous recréez le livre suivant votre érudition intime sur tel et tel sujet. Si votre
expérience est plus riche que celle de l’auteur, votre lecture est plus riche que
son écriture. L’écriture reste toujours une suggestion. Je vous raconte une
histoire, mais c’est à vous de la réinventer. (Clément 2009: 132)
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[You recreate the book according to your own personal learning
on such and such a subject. If your experience is richer than the
author’s then your reading is richer than his writing. Writing is always
suggestive. I can tell you a story but it’s up to you to recreate it. (AT)]
In my own instance, when I listen to and read these stories, there
is no doubt that I do so through my personal, imperfect conceptual
lens and bring my personal bilingual experience to bear on the texts.
I enter into a dialogue with the stories and the response generated develops somewhere on the boundary between different consciousnesses
(Bakhtin 1981). The production of meaning from literary texts has
been well rehearsed by literary critics and anthropologists alike (Howell
1994). The concept of reader is a multifarious phenomenon as he or
she brings a number of influences to bear on the text. Stanley Fish suggests that when textual meaning is generated, it occurs as a result of the
dynamic relationship with the reader’s own aspirations, expectations,
conclusions and assumptions (Fish 1980).
Even bearing my own response in mind, how can I validate
the hermeneutic process involved in treating these literary texts,
as anthropologists have more traditionally dealt with oral matters?
Here my response is multidimensional. Firstly, I adopt a comparative
approach: ‘Because anthropology is holistic, it views the whole picture.’
(Ottenheimer 2006: 11). Moreover, I borrow the notion of ‘intertextuality’, a term originally coined by Julia Kristeva in the late 1960s
(see Kristeva 1986). The concept implies that every text is merely part
of a larger field which sets the broad context of meaning. Texts are
effectively in dialogue with one another and meaning is derived from
engaging with the broader textual network rather than any individual
piece (Hitchcock 2008: 57–9).
Throughout this book, I engage with a network rather than several,
individual, biographies. Rather than focusing on any one individual
experience, I deal with a number of stories in order to seek the ‘bigger picture’ or meta-narrative. Although Jean-François Lyotard may have
characterized the post-modern era as one which has witnessed the collapse of the meta-narrative as a unifying force, I would suggest that the
set of stories which are examined in this book will offer legitimacy and
consensus on the experience of language transition (Lyotard 1984).
Occasionally I refer to texts which might be regarded as antecedents
to the contemporary stories. When dealing with Eva Hoffman, for
example, I occasionally refer back to other European-American, Jewish
autobiographies such as Mary Antin’s The Promised Land (1997[1912]).
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However, in no instance am I suggesting that any of these texts
should be regarded as representative of any particular ethnic or religious
group. I simply wish to explore the human experience of acquiring a
second language and hope to identify commonalities in that process.
Essentially I am researching a process rather than a society or a product. As many of these authors are self-reflexive, I would argue that their
stories offer invaluable analyses of the cultural experience of language
acquisition. Seyan (2001) argues that ‘for the writer whose medium is
literally a second language, the writing of autobiography goes beyond
“the second acquisition of language.” It also becomes a metanarrative
account about the acquisition of the second language in which the
autobiography is written.’ (Seyan 2001: 88).
I am aware that a hermeneutic investigation of these memoirs is
simply one means of answering the key questions. Along with the
interviews and the memoirs, I supplemented the methodology with
another qualitative, methodological approach to my research questions.
As outlined in the Prologue, I engaged in fieldwork – where I myself
became the ‘guinea pig’ and experienced the very challenges faced by
the authors in this book and the other immigrants that I met with informally. I have taken the advice on my yogi tea leaflet, which suggests that
‘wisdom becomes knowledge when it becomes your personal experience’! I have ‘been there’ and endeavoured to operate in a society where
I had limited knowledge of the language. I too can relate stories about
my exasperation in dealing with the boiler-man primarily through the
medium of body-language. I have suffered the frustration of not being
able to describe what I wished to buy in a shop. I have experienced the
embarrassment of others laughing at my pathetic attempts to order a
sweet glass of wine in a restaurant. Unlike these authors however, I have
returned to my ‘cosy’, English-speaking environment, where I recreated
some of these experiences for friends who were willing to listen to my
stories. But to what extent were my stories authentic representations of
the events that occurred and how can I be sure that the stories I am
relying on here are genuinely useful as source material?
Life narratives and authenticity
Before proceeding with locating evidence of language identity in the
narratives, I need to ascertain the extent to which the stories themselves are reliable testimonies. ‘To begin with, all life story narratives,
oral or written, are shaped by historic, social and cultural conventions
of the time and place in which they are produced.’ (Pavlenko 2001: 320).
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In the case of literary pieces, there are added complications. The authors
are endeavouring to construct a story in terms that are recognizable to
the community at large, governed by social and literary conventions.
They also need to shape their stories in a manner that is acceptable to a
publisher.
A memoir or an autobiography is essentially a literary construction
of one’s life story. This is a sentiment with which authors in this book
would empathize. Lorcán Ó Treasaigh has said:
In a sense you edit your life, because other than writing an actual
diary, a daily diary, you must organise and structure a life and the
character in that life. Although it is yourself, nevertheless, it is a
projection of a persona. (Ó Treasaigh, interview)
In writing an autobiography, an author selects and arranges episodes
from his or her life history and must sketch a coherent character that
will appeal to the reader (Waxman 2007: 9). Mc Cabe (2003 [1968]:143)
asserts that authors are ‘constantly making cartoons of ourselves; we
have an image of ourselves, a simplified image which brings out what we
regard as our essential character, an image in terms of which we interpret
our autobiography’. He regards this image as a form of becoming or
realization in that it involves self-recognition as well as ‘a making real
of who and what we are’. He uses the phrase ‘a creative interpretation of
the self’ to explain this (italics original in McCabe 2003 [1968]: 143).
‘Creative nonfiction’ is increasingly recognized as an independent literary genre with real relevance. Cheney (1987) suggests that writing
it ‘requires the skill of the storyteller and the research ability of the
reporter’. He makes the case that such writers don’t ‘just report the
facts’. Instead they deliver them ‘in ways that move people toward a
deeper understanding of the topic’. One could argue that creative nonfiction writers are infusing their stories with a strong human perspective.
‘They must not only understand all the facts, but also see beyond them
to discover their underlying meaning. And then they must dramatize
that meaning in an interesting, evocative, informative way.’ (Cheney
1987: 2–3).
The representation of oneself and one’s life story either orally or
in print is a creative process, but does a writer of an autobiography
seek to recount the truth? To what extent is the author seeking to
narrate a literal and historic or poetic truth? Is it possible that some
writers might wish to enhance or conceal certain aspects of their childhood? One might cite the example of Angela’s Ashes, a memoir by the
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Irish/American author Frank McCourt (1996), which tells the story of a
very poor and miserable childhood in Limerick.
When I look back on my childhood I wonder how I survived at
all. It was, of course, a miserable childhood: the happy childhood
is hardly worth your while. Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhood and worse yet is the miserable
Catholic childhood. (McCourt 1996: 11)
McCourt’s memoir achieved great acclaim and ultimately won the
Pulitzer Prize for biography or autobiography, but perhaps McCourt
exaggerated the poverty of his childhood, as misery memoirs can have
mass appeal!
Telling one’s life story is a process that relies heavily on the power
of memory and it is frequently assumed that the act of remembering is
straightforward – one that involves simply casting one’s mind back to
one’s childhood and recounting the episodes in a linear fashion. In this
sense, memory is simply an eyewitness account: ‘Many people believe
that human memory works like a video recorder: the mind records
events and then, on cue, plays back an exact replica of them.’ (Arkowitz
and Lilienfeld 2010). However, psychologists suggest that ‘memories are
reconstructed rather than played back’ every time one recalls an episode.
And it’s not just personal memories that are involved, as it would
appear that we have several kinds of memories. These include narrative memory ‘where the focus is on the narratives that people tell about
their past’, or collective memories where the collective context or ‘social
frameworks of memory’ become the focal point. Generational memories are also drawn upon as they serve ‘to highlight the ways in which
memories can become identified with events that happened generations
earlier’. Popular memories can also feature, giving voice ‘to stories that
have never been told or which have been lost, returning such memories to their communities where they may be reworked for the present’
(Plummer 2001: 402).
A character in Hugo Hamilton’s novel Disguise, suggests that if memory has a physical shape it must be like ‘the interior of the forest with
paths leading through vast interconnecting rooms where you can get
so easily lost’ (Hamilton 2008: 15). There is an element of reconstruction in the act of remembering: ‘Memory marks a loss. It is always a
re-presentation, making present that which one was and no longer is.’
(Seyan 2001: 16). Memories can distort as well as create as the author
attempts to sequence events in a coherent narrative of time. Roberts
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suggests that ‘taken to an extreme’, memoirs or autobiography could be
regarded as ‘ “made up” descriptions of experiences as they may have
occurred’ (Roberts 2002: 609–10).
I find this notion of ‘made up’ memories extremely interesting and
in the case of published autobiographies, there is a particularly pertinent question – to what extent these authors were simply regurgitating
memories – i.e. to what extent were they endeavouring to relate the bald
truth. The issue of truth was one that I raised in my interviews with
some authors. Liam Carson, half in earnest and half in jest, suggested
that the notion of truth itself is questionable. In an interview with me,
he said:
‘All the true things I am about to tell you are lies’, said Dostoevsky.
Ninety per cent of my childhood is a mystery to me. It’s a fog. I don’t
know what I remember. No, I didn’t set out to write truth because
I don’t know what truth is. And I don’t believe there is such a thing
as truth and I just wanted to write really. And I just wanted to tell a
story as best as I could. I wanted it to be loving, I didn’t want it to be
a misery memoir. (Carson, interview)
Interestingly, most authors did not make any claim to have told
‘the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth’. In fact they
openly acknowledged the process of recreation, imagination and what
one might call ‘fictionalizing the facts’. Hugo Hamilton suggested that
although he was writing his autobiography, he was hiding the fundamental facts. He says: ‘even though I was writing I was hiding the basic
facts of my biography. I was trying to address them in fiction but I was
basically hiding out in my writing.’
Interestingly, Marica Bodrožić (a Croatian-German writer I interviewed) also talked about ‘hiding’ herself. She said:
You tell the truth to hide yourself. It is not the truth. It is so fascinating! Now I am publishing my seventh book and I am discovering
that this is the most fascinating thing for me – to play with and
invent the idea of autobiography. I am discovering more and more
that the biggest fiction of all is the autobiography. You can’t prove
your memory. You are inventing it all the time. Michel Leiris was a
French ethnologist and poet. He said that the more you tell about
yourself, the more you hide yourself. I don’t want to hide me personally. I like to be visible, but when I am writing it is very interesting to
say: ‘I, and not me’. Everybody who reads it thinks: ‘Oh wow, maybe
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this is really true.’ And this is a great game. You can discover the
world in different ways and be a foreigner for yourself, too. (Bodrožić,
interview)
Bodrožić suggests that this process of ‘hiding’ is essential to the creative
process:
I don’t think you can really tell everything about yourself because
during the process you are discovering that you don’t know anything
about yourself. You are trying to touch something that you don’t
know. It is a kind of transformation all the time and it’s fascinating
to play with that. I think the moment of hiding is the moment of
inventing, and of being yourself – of saying ‘I’. It is an inner place.
(Bodrožić, interview)
Hamilton argues in our interview that: ‘Every story is a dramatization
of the facts. The events in my memoirs are true and my memories are
true but they have to be presented, so I am presenting my past, my
childhood, myself as the child I once was.’ Marica Bodrožić explains
how the process of presenting stories from her childhood has evolved
for her. She says:
My writing started with a very simple idea. I didn’t want to forget
the face of my grandfather and I was afraid that I was going to forget the time we had together. You can imagine a little girl in a little
village, without her parents, but with her grandfather. He was a very,
very important person for me. I started to describe his face and during this process I discovered that I didn’t wanted to write about him
concretely, saying that he had brown or blue eyes. This was not the
idea. I discovered something else. (Bodrožić, interview)
This discovery was as much a literary place as a real place in time and
space:
I discovered this village where I lived and where my early years were
based. It became like a literary place for me. And I tried to touch
this place while I was inventing some stories. And it was a mixture
of remembering nature, remembering the sounds and remembering,
for example, the day when Tito died. And then one story came after
another in my inner memory. (Bodrožić, interview)
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The memories became a tool that she shaped as she presented her
stories:
This does not mean that I wrote all the stories I experienced in the
real. It was just like finding a little garden that I could work with.
And then one thing came after another. So then I thought I could tell
another story and maybe that one would be interesting too. So I just
wrote it down but I worked for years on it. After four years I said: ‘It’s
a book.’ (Bodrožić, interview)
But she was not simply regurgitating her memories. She was presenting
a literary re-creation of her life story – a creation that was not necessarily
enthusiastically received by relatives or friends:
I remember people from my village reading the book and they said:
‘you are such a big liar. It is not possible. How can you tell things
about us that are not true?’ And they read it as if it were meant to
be literally true. How can you do that? One uncle was very angry. He
said: ‘how can you write that grandpa was an admirer of Tito? He was
never that.’ It is so fascinating. There are others who say that grandpa
was a big admirer of Tito. I say grandpa loved Tito, but he was also
critical of him. People remember in completely different ways. That
is literature! (Bodrožić, interview)
When writing, Marica was also imagining. She was thinking about how
her life might have evolved if circumstances had been different:
1 was not writing about my life, but about a fiction of how my life
could have been. It was like I had a narrator or an alter ego and
I played with the idea that it could be my life. And it was very fascinating to do that even if it weren’t true. But the first story I wrote,
the ‘Tito is dead story’, this is really autobiographical. It tells of the
moment in the village when everybody was crying and saying: ‘Tito
is dead. What are we going to do now?’ This was really autobiographical. With the other stuff, it was more like playing with the idea of
autobiographical stories. (Bodrožić, interview)
Indeed some critics regard memoirs and autobiography ‘as being an
unstable genre’ as they blur the distinction between non-fiction and
fiction (Roberts 2002: 60), but the authors themselves are comfortable
with the notion of arriving at the truth via a fictional route. Ó Treasaigh
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feels that the notion of ‘fictional autobiography is good’ (Ó Treasaigh,
interview). Natascha Wodin categorizes her books as follows:
Ich denke, so etwas sind meine Bücher, eine Art Autofiktion. (Wodin,
interview)
[And I think that’s what my books are, a type of autofiction. (AT)]
Michaels advises that one should ‘never trust biographies. Too many
events in a man’s life are invisible.’ (Michaels 1996: 141). Yet this is
not to suggest that authors or narrators are deliberately or even unconsciously misleading their readers. It is simply to recognize the human
creativity in these literary endeavours. Narrators are not consciously distorting the truth but ‘they use the act of narration to impose meaning
on experience’ and to focus and clarify the past (Pavlenko 2007: 168).
Hugo Hamilton gives us an example of this type of exercise. He suggests that although his parents were devout if not fanatical Catholics,
he opted not to emphasize that in his book, Speckled People:
Every story is a dramatization of the facts. The events in my memoirs
are true and my memories are true but they have to be presented, so
I am presenting my past, my childhood, myself as the child I once
was. It is important for me to acknowledge that, for instance, my
parents were devout Catholics. They were almost showing off to one
another who could be the more Catholic, the Irish or the Rhineland
Germans. But I chose to de-emphasize the Catholic areas of my
upbringing in order to highlight the basic themes of language and
homesickness and cultural alienation. (Hamilton, interview)
In his opinion, an emphasis (or over-) emphasis on the religious
dimension would have diluted the language story he was trying to tell.
Interpretation is an essential element of the process of remembering and should not be regarded as a weakness. Clifford Geertz noted
that ‘anthropological writings are themselves interpretations, and second and third order ones to boot . . . . They are, thus, fictions; fictions, in
the sense that they are “something made,” “something fashioned” – the
original meaning of fictiō – not that they are false, unfactual, or merely
“as if” thought experiments.’ (Geertz 1973: 15).
‘Partial truths’ is the term associated with James Clifford in this context. He suggests that to ‘call ethnographies fictions may raise empiricist
hackles’, but he was using fiction not in terms of falsehood but as an
acknowledgement ‘of the partiality of cultural and historical truths’.
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Like creative writing, ethnographic pieces ‘can properly be called fictions
in the sense of “something made or fashioned,” the physical burden
of the word’s Latin root fingere’ (Clifford 1986: 6). In this regard, creative writing and ethnographic accounts suffer from the same flaws.
Their truths are ‘inherently partial-committed and incomplete’ (Clifford
1986: 7).
But ‘To assume that a novel or short story will necessarily spring
purely from the imagination is almost unthinkably naive, while to
believe that writing one’s life can avoid subjectivity and creative surmise is similarly implausible.’(Clark 2010). What is at issue here is
the blurring of the lines between fact and fiction, between reality
and imagination. But this is not an opposition between truth and
falsehood. The notion of truth, either historical or contemporary, has
undergone serious revisions since the time of Foucault. For him, historical truth didn’t exist per se. History was a narrative which could be
viewed from several different perspectives of power – full of revisions,
embellishments and manipulations (Hitchcock 2008: 127). Cassirer
(2006 [1944]: 188) stated the Kantian position as follows: ‘To define
historical truth as “concordance with the facts” . . . is no satisfactory
solution to the problem.’ He suggested that it is obvious ‘that history has to begin with the facts, and that, in a sense, these facts are
not only the beginning but the end’. However he raises the question
of ‘what is historical truth?’ since ‘all factual truth implies theoretical
truth’.
Natasha Wodin, one of the authors I interviewed, was most interesting
on the distinction between reality and art. She becomes so engaged with
her writing that it becomes hard for her to maintain the boundaries
between fact and fiction:
Alles in ganz vielen Einzelheiten, und hinterher ist es wie wirklich gewesen.
Und wenn ich gefragt werde, haben Sie das erlebt oder erfunden, muß ich
manchmal sagen, dass ich es nicht mehr weiß. (Wodin, interview)
[Everything in all these details and later is as if it really happened.
And when people ask me, whether that really happened or whether
it is an invention, I have to say sometimes that I don’t know
anymore. (AT)]
Even her own persona has been caught up in the creative world and
she finds it hard to separate herself from art anymore:
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Ja, es ist eine seltsame Mischung aus Leben und Schreiben, manchmal
kommt mir in Bezug auf mich der Begriff Kunstfigur in den Sinn. Ich
kann Person und Literatur nicht mehr richtig auseinanderhalten. Je älter
ich werde, desto weniger. (Wodin, interview)
[Yes, with me it is such strange mixture of life and writing. The concept of invented figure comes sometimes to my mind in relation to
myself. I can’t really separate literature and my person anymore, the
less so as I grow older. (AT)]
All of this would suggest that the individual stories we remember and
narrate ‘are never fully our own.’ There are several processes involved
here and the stories ‘are co-constructed for us and with us by our interlocutors, real or imagined’ (Pavlenko 2007: 180). The same applies to
any form of writing about a personal experience. From that perspective
one could argue that the life experiences no longer belong to the individual: ‘The material that is chosen to be deposited, “held” and then
recounted, no longer belongs to he/she who remembers, nor to he/she
who is remembered.’ Instead, the creative act has generated ‘an experience of otherness’. It has produced ‘a spatial, temporal and identity
gap between he/she who remembers and he/she who is remembered’
(Franceschi 2007: 60–1).
In the case of the autobiographies, there is the added complication of the often considerable time lag between the actual experiences
recounted and the writing of the memoir. Of his own book, Andrew
Riemer says: ‘This is not an autobiography, but it is a book about the
past and the present, generated by deeply personal memories and by
the changes I have observed both within myself and in Australian society in the years since the end of the Second World War.’ (Riemer 1992:
ix–x). Any autobiography ‘is a product of an interaction between the
then of the time of the narrative and the now of the narrating present’
(italics original in Gullestad 1994: 127).
Given this time lag, and the there elements of selectivity and creativity in the composition of an autobiography, the possibilities are endless.
Cathal O’Searcaigh suggests that ‘in retrieving the past one is trying to
make a presence of an absence, a task more hazardous, I dare say, than
finding screws and nails in secret nooks’. He likens the task of evoking past memories to that of a fabulist or a conjurer’s: ‘In that sense,
this memoir is both a confession and a fictional artifice. “Experience”,
that raw entity is never enough. One has to shape it; select, arrange
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and recreate it. That requires art as well as authenticity.’ (O’Searcaigh
2009: ix).
Ultimately, penning a memoir is a complex task and involves many
skills. Authors must strive for a balance in presenting their own subjective experiences in the context of objective facts. They need to
draw on their ability to narrate – to reconstruct their past lives and
tell stories. A well-written memoir can yield considerable insights into
contemporary and historical situations. ‘Autobiographical writing and
biographical narration, which anthropology calls “life stories”, can represent the “methodology” and the “genre” that, perhaps more than others, manages to take into account the complexity of our contemporary
worlds.’ (Franceschi 2007: 60).
Memory and language
Many bilingual authors think about the language in which they write
their stories and most of the memoirs included in this book have been
published in a language that is not the first tongue of the storyteller.
Hugo Hamilton’s Speckled People is written in English and describes a
childhood that was largely lived through German and Irish. Although
Natasha Wodin’s early childhood years were spent in a Russian-speaking
environment, she recounts that experience in German. And sometimes,
the encounter can be even more complex. Makine’s Le testament français
‘is a literary text written in French by a Russian who is looking back
to his Russian childhood from his French exile’ (Wanner 2002: 112).
In the previous chapter, I noted that although the text was written in
French, it was presented to a French publisher as a translation of a
Russian original and in a certain sense the sentiment is true. ‘By writing his novel in French, Alyosha (that is, Makine) translates his own
experience of being Russian into the language of French literature, as
he translates the story of his life into a timeless work of art.’ (Wanner
2002: 126).
Events that have been experienced in one language are recounted
in another and may be reshaped in consequence. Seyan (2001: 148)
suggests that ‘a critical appreciation of bilingual texts calls for an understanding of the experiences of people whose reality is determined by
different language acts’. For Michaels (1996: 101), the experience was an
eye-opener: ‘When I began to write down the events of my childhood
in a language foreign to their happening, it was a revelation.’
The Italian-German author, Gino Chiellino, raises the issue of
whether intercultural writers also have bicultural or intercultural
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memories. At an earlier stage of his academic career, he explored the
notion of bi-cultural memory which could be applied to individuals who
had strong experience of more than one cultural setting:
Wenn man aber das Ganze noch einmal vom Ansatz her durchdenkt und
sagt: ‘hier entsteht ein Gedächtnis, das weder italienisch noch deutsch ist’ –
dann kann man das ein interkulturelles Gedächtnis nennen. In diesem
Sinne spreche ich heute von interkulturellem Gedächtnis. (Chiellino,
interview)
[When you think the whole thing through from the basic premise,
and say: ‘here is a memory that is neither Italian nor German’ – one
could call that an intercultural memory. It is in this sense that I speak
about intercultural memory. (AT)]
Interestingly Chiellino applies the concept of ‘intercultural’ both to the
memories of these authors and the languages in which they write. For
Chiellino, language itself is intercultural:
Wenn ich als Wissenschaftler interkulturelle Werke untersuche, dann
bringe ich meinen Studenten bei, dass in den interkulturellen Werken
zwar jeweils die eine oder andere Sprache geschrieben wird – zum Beispiel
Deutsch, Italienisch, Französisch oder Englisch – dass aber diese Sprache
nicht etwa ein monokulturelles Gedächtnis – sei das die Kultur der
Deutschen, die Kultur der Engländer, die Kultur der Italiener, und so
weiter – sondern ein interkulturelles Gedächtnis hat, in das der Protagonist
all das hineinlegt, was er als Italiener erlebt hat, was er als Deutscher lebt;
alles zusammen, das Zusammenspiel, macht für mich ein interkulturelles
Gedächtnis aus. (Chiellino, interview)
[If I analyse intercultural pieces of work as an academic, I explain to
my students that intercultural literature can be written in one language or another – for example, German, Italian, French or English –
but this language does not have a monocultural memory – such as the
culture of the Germans, the culture of the English, the culture of the
Italians and so on – it only has an intercultural memory which the
protagonist invests with everything that he experiences as an Italian,
or lives as a German; this all together, the interplay, is what makes up
an intercultural memory for me. (AT)]
This suggestion that language itself is intercultural is interesting and
reminiscent of Dorfman’s comment that languages are ‘maddeningly
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migrant’ (2003: 30). Derrida (1998 [1996]: 29) regards the language of
the writing as a vital influence on the ultimate product. He argues that
the ‘I of the kind of anamnesis called autobiographical, the I [je-me] of
I recall [je me rappelle] is produced and uttered in different ways depending on the language in question. It never precedes them; therefore it is
not independent of language in general.’ Although this feature is well
known, Derrida argues that it is rarely taken into consideration by those
dealing generally with autobiography.
Derrida’s pronouncements resonate very much with Natascha
Wodin’s experience of writing her stories. For her, the language is a tool
which is both a medium and a creator of memories.
Die Sprache hat ja eine eigene Dynamik, sie führt mich nicht immer
dorthin, wo ich eigentlich hin will. Und sie bleibt auch nicht immer
bei der Wirklichkeit. Wenn ich zum Beispiel eine bestimmte Szene aus
meiner Kindheit beschreibe, an die ich mich gut erinnere, kann es durchaus passieren, daß das, was schließlich auf dem Papier ankommt, mit
der Wirklichkeit nicht mehr sehr viel gemeinsam hat, weil die Sprache es so
gewollt hat. Aber seltsamerweise – was immer ich schreibe, man hält es bei
mir immer für autobiografisch. Ich verarbeite zwar tatsächlich viel autobiografisches Material, aber vieles entsteht beim Schreiben auch im Kopf, es
ist immer eine Mischung aus Dichtung und Wahrheit. (Wodin, interview)
[The language has its own dynamics and it doesn’t always lead me
where I want to go. And it doesn’t always reflect reality. So, if I try,
for example, to describe a scene from my childhood that I remember well, it can happen that when it emerges on paper, it no longer
correlates with reality, because the language determined it that way.
But curiously – whatever I write is always taken to be autobiography.
There are a lot of autobiographical elements in my work, but always
quite a lot emerges in my head as I write. So it is a mixture of fiction
and truth. (AT)]
Several other authors under scrutiny in this book have addressed their
choice of language when writing their memoirs and the issues that such
a choice entails. In the first instance, there is the question of how effectively one can remember one’s childhood through another language?
How does one represent events that occurred in one language through
the filter of another? Does a change of language literally affect the
‘amount’ or ‘type’ of memory one remembers.
The French-American author, Julian Green, is clear that his choice
of language has been a powerful determining factor in shaping his
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autobiography, Memories of Happy Days [1946 [1942]. As his childhood
was spent in France, Green initially began his memoir in French. However, despairing of finding a French publisher who might eventually
publish the memoir, Green switched to English. This decision was reinforced by the fact that he was now living in America and wanted readers
in the USA to read his work. When he compared the beginnings in
both French and English, he concluded that they were very different.
Green himself writes about this difference – suggesting that on rereading the English version he had written, it became apparent that he was
‘now writing another book, a book so different in tone from the French,
that a whole aspect of the subject must be deleted’. It was as if he ‘had
become another person’ by opting to write in English rather than in
French. He writes: ‘There was so little resemblance between what I wrote
in English and what I had already written in French that it might almost
be doubted that the same person was the author of these two pieces of
work.’ (Green 1985: 182). From this perspective, the language chosen
appears to impact seriously on the character narrating the text.
Language and memory seem to be highly interdependent and the language of recall appears to trigger some memories rather than others.
Vassilis Alexakis suggests that the memories he associates with his two
languages, Greek and French, are different. He says:
Les souvenirs que j’associe au grec sont beaucoup plus anciens que ceux
qu’évoque pour moi le français. Ma langue maternelle connaît mon âge. Le
français me rajeunit de vingt-quatre ans. C’est appréciable. Il me semble
que mes textes français sont plus légers que mes écrits grecs. (Alexakis
2002: 54)
[The memories I associate with Greek are much older than those
the French language calls up. My mother tongue knows how old
I am. French makes me twenty-four years younger. That’s quite a bit.
I always feel that my French texts are lighter than my Greek writings.
(Alexakis 2006: 32)]
Apart from the fact that his own memories are different in each language, he is also conscious that other people’s memories of him are
also not the same, because their experiences of him relate to different
language environments:
Je parlais peu de mon enfance et de la Grèce quand j’écrivais en français.
Je m’en suis rendu compte brusquement, un jour où je me promenais sur le
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boulevard des Capucines. J’ai pensé que personne dans ce pays ne m’avait
connu enfant, que je n’avais aucune place dans la mémoire des autres,
qu’ils n’en avaient pas non plus dans la mienne puisque leur enfance
m’était totalement étrangère. Les seuls Français que je connaisse depuis
toujours sont mes enfants. (Alexakis 1989 : 15–16)
[When I wrote in French, I rarely mentioned my childhood in Greece.
I suddenly realized this one day when I was walking on the boulevard des Capucines. It occurred to me that no one in France had ever
known me as a child, that I had no place in anyone’s memory, and
that they had no place in mine either because their childhood was
entirely foreign to me. The only French people I’ve known all their
lives are my children. (Waters 2009)]
However, not all writers have the same experiences of this issue. One
could cite the example of Elias Canetti. In his memoir he explains that
he can’t pick up a book about Balkan fairytales without recognizing
them instantly. In fact, every detail is present in his mind – but not in
the language he heard them in. Although he heard them in Bulgarian,
he knows them in German:
Diese geheimnisvolle Übertragung ist vielleicht das Merkwürdigste, was ich
aus meiner Jugend zu berichten habe’ (Canetti 2005 [1977]: 17)
[This mysterious translation is perhaps the oddest thing that I have
to tell about my youth. (Canetti 1979: 10)]
Although the vast majority of his childhood was experienced in a different language, it felt quite natural for him to recount those experiences
in a new language. In doing so, He didn’t feel that he was changing or
warping anything:
Es ist nicht wie die literartische Übersetzung eines Buches von einer Sprache
in die andere, es ist eine Übersetzung, die sich von selbst im Unbewußten
vollzogen hat (Canetti 2005 [1977]: 18)
[It is not the literary translation of the book from one language to
another; it is a translation that happened of its own accord in mind
consciousness. (Canetti 1979: 10)]
For a writer such as Cathal O’ Searcaigh, the choice of language for his
memoir was a little more complex. Cathal grew up in a Gaelic-speaking
community in Donegal, Ireland, in the 1960s and the 1970s. Although
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born into an Irish-language environment, Cathal opted to write his
memoirs in English. But the variety of English was also an issue. Rather
than attempting to write his memoirs in translation, for ‘some kind of
English passing-off as Gaelic’, Cathal opted to use the ‘idiomatic, everyday English that is spoken in Donegal with its characteristic whimsy and
its Gaelic turn of phrase’. The natural flow of this register was an obvious
choice for him as it is not only enriched ‘by borrowings from Gaelic, but
shaped by its speech patterns’ (O’Searcaigh 2009: vii). Of course, the relationship between Irish and English in this locality still bears remnants
of colonialism (Crowley 2008; De Fréine 1966; Nic Craith 1993[1994
2nd edn]).
An important element in the presentation of one’s life story is the
onus on the author to distance himself from his own experience so as
to present it in a form that is not too subjective for the reader, and for
most or indeed all of these writers, the act of writing in a second, third
or fourth rather than their first language appears to have been an essential tool in creating the necessary distance between the writer and his
memories: ‘Writing about one’s earliest memories against the mother
tongue or against the tongue in which they occurred involves a process
of reassessment and rewriting.’ (Miletic 2008: 32). The author is given a
unique opportunity to convert his or her memories into something that
is perhaps ‘less accurate, but equally more alive, because appropriated
by the present’. If the memories concerned are painful, then the recollection of those memories through a different language can be helpful.
It can help ‘mend this discontinuity of personality’ and weaken the
association of the first language ‘as a main psychical container’ (Miletic
2008: 32).
Many authors interviewed for this book suggested that the new language offered freedom from the direct re-experiencing of past painful
memories. Regarding writing in the English language, Hugo Hamilton
said:
It is very important because it removes the events into sort of a fictional place. By calling it a fictional place, I am trying to describe the
dramatic distance that is needed in order to tell these family events.
Every story is a removal from reality. Otherwise it would have been
too close to me. Writing in English became a fictional medium in
itself, far away from the language in which the events happened.
I was joining the people from outside who had come inside to look
around our house and our secrets. When I started reading passages
from Speckled People in German, after it was translated, I found them
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initially too overwhelming, emotionally. It put me in this kind of
dangerous vulnerable place again where I was exposed to the reality of being back in the kitchen with my mother again. (Hamilton,
interview)
The use of the second language becomes an act of removal from the
original, since ‘stories told in the language in which the original events
took place are higher in emotional intensity and amount of detail’
(Pavlenko 2007: 171).
Luc Sante says that without the process of translation, he would have
been unable to pen his memoir:
In order to speak of my childhood I have to translate. It is as if I were
writing about someone else. The words don’t fit, because they are in
English, and languages are not equivalent to one another . . . . I am
playing ventriloquist, and that eight-year-old, now made of wood
and with a hinged jaw, is sitting on my knee, mouthing the phrases
I am fashioning for him. It’s not that the boy couldn’t understand
those phrases. It is that in order to do so, he would have to translate, and that would mean engaging an electrical circuit in his brain,
bypassing his heart. (Sante 1998: 261)
Apart from the emotional intensity associated with memories in one’s
first language, there is also the fact that some bad memories are often
best forgotten. Alexakis suggests that he began writing in French rather
than Greek as it was not permissible for him to express himself freely in
his mother tongue. During that time, Greece was governed by a military
junta. The fact that he had no bad memories in French enabled him to
write in that language. Of course, the fact that French had incorporated
so many Greek words made it an attractive comfort-zone for him.
Writing in a second language also heightens consciousness of the literary qualities of particular languages. The fact that he is writing in his
second rather than his first language is important for a writer such as
Andreï Makine as he is much more conscious of its literary qualities.
Once he realizes that he is speaking a foreign language, he becomes
aware that he has a tool which can be used for producing great literature:
A présent le français devenait un outil dont, en parlant, je mesurais la
portée. Oui, un instrument indépendant de moi et que je maniais en me
rendant de temps en temps compte de l’étrangeté de cet acte. (Makine
1995: 244)
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[Now French became a tool whose capacity I measured, as I was speaking. Yes. An instrument independent of me, which I would employ,
even as I became aware, from time to time, of the strangeness of this
activity. (Makine 2007 [1996]: 214)]
Makine has become aware ‘of the literariness of French’ (Safran 2003:
254–4).
The writer here is no longer taking his words or his language for
granted. Instead, he is working with a foreign instrument and verbal
expressions that are not native to him. In this, he represents ‘an exaggerated instance of what the Russian formalists maintain is the distinctive
quality of all imaginative literature: ostranenie ‘making it strange’. Steven
Kellman (2000: 28) suggests that this is one of the key characteristics of translingual writers which ‘foregrounds and challenges its own
medium – creates the impediment to fluency that is the hallmark of the
aesthetic’.
All of the writers here have noted assets and benefits from the deliberate use of a particular language. Interesting, they rarely point to the
economic factor as having any real influence on them, but clearly the
choice of any language has economic implications as the language in
which a book is written can determine the size of the readership. A book
written in Irish (Gaelic) for example, is unlikely to reach a huge international audience. This is not a reflection of the literary merits of the
book. Instead it is recognition of the limited numbers of potential readers with skills in Irish in comparison with English. Although many of
the memoirs under scrutiny here have been written in English, it would
be difficult to assess whether the choice of language has been motivated
solely by issues of identity or fluency – or whether it also reflected a
desire to reach an international audience. At the moment, the English
language has considerable economic, cultural and symbolic capital and
can generate what Bourdieu (1991) suggests is significant attention.
Although French and German are international languages, works written in those languages are hardly likely to reach a similar level of
international currency as those written in English. Pascale Casanova in
The World Republic of Letters (2004) argues that in the global context
in which we now live, it is primarily those books which are connected
with international cultural centres, such as Paris or London, that will
gain global literary prestige. She argues that there are structures of
inequality in the literary world which leave minor languages and literatures permanently on the margins (Casanova 2004; see also Nic Craith
2009: 206).
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Many of the memoirs dealt with in this book are written in English,
but a considerable proportion have also been written in German and
French – and some of the material is also in Gaelic. In the case of
these writers, the economic factor does not seem to have been a major
influence on their choice of language. Instead, issues such as memory,
distance and literacy seem to have been strong determining factors.
Moreover, the authors are also keen to present their words and their
worlds in as realistic and as faithful a manner as possible – even if that
means departing from the original medium in which that world was
experienced.
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3
Word and World
In the previous chapter, I raised the authenticity of stories told by
intercultural writers and discussed this issue with a number of authors
in both English and in German. If one takes the concept of truth in the
four languages in this book, English, Irish, German and French, one will
find that the corresponding words for truth, fírinne, Wahrheit and vérité
coincide to a certain extent. However, expressions regarding truth do
not always translate directly from one language into another. In English
and in French, one can penetrate the truth but this is not a common
expression in German. In English, one can be right – or one is in the
right. In Irish and in German, one has right (tá an ceart agat and du
hast recht). In French, the expression reveals some form of equivalence
between the individual and truth (tu as raison).
Underhill draws attention to the different and sometimes amusing
conceptual trajectories of truth in different languages (2009: 111, italics
as in the original): ‘It will no doubt strike the English-speaker as strange
that the equivalent word for truth forms the root of our word for likely
in French (vraisemblable), and the root for our word for fortune-teller in
German (Wahrsager/Wahrsagerin).’ This example points to variations in
conceptual logics in different languages: ‘This is the no man’s land that
the language-learner must learn to live in. This common experience is
the act of confronting a foreign worldview (Weltansicht)’ (italics original
in Underhill 2009: 112). This chapter explores the relationship between
words, expressions and people in different languages and places. I ask
whether there is any grain of truth in the theory of cultural determinism
or relativity – a theory which has long been discarded as irrelevant by
many academics – a theory which I explored in interviews with authors,
in their literary texts and during my fieldwork in Germany.
49
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Language and place
It is commonly held that there are strong links between language and
landscape. Paul Theroux gives expression to this view in his travelogue entitled Kingdom by the Sea. He suggests an inevitable connection
between the English language and the landscape: ‘But language grew
out of the landscape – English out of England, and it seemed logical
that the country could only be accurately portrayed in its own language’
(Theroux 1984: 6).
This connection between the English language and its landscape is
reinforced in a comment by Andrew Riemer on the use of English in
Australia. Andrew was born in Budapest and his parents emigrated to
Australia while he was still a child. Subsequently he came to England
for his university education. Upon his return he realized the inappropriateness of the English language for the Australian experience:
I noticed, after I returned to Australia some years later, that a long,
straight street in the western suburbs of Sydney is called Railway Crescent. Such oddities made me realise that for Australians, English is
also an alien language, even though most of them have spoken it all
their lives. It is, for them, fundamentally foreign because it encodes
experiences and natural phenomena to which they have no access in
their daily lives. (Riemer 1992: 182)
The connection between language and place is hardly confined to
English. In Ireland, there is a common association between the traditional Gaelic language and the Irish landscape, the rural heartland
in particular. Cathal O’Searcaigh describes a moment in his childhood
when his grandfather advised him to speak in English at the town
fair, lest ‘the townies here will think we are from the bog’. The child’s
reaction was puzzlement:
I wasn’t sure whether he was serious or just taking a hand at me.
Granda was always carrying on and codding about things. I couldn’t
make sense of what he was saying. Why did we have to keep quiet
about where we came from and why was he making a connection
between the bog and what we spoke?
‘But aren’t we from the bog, Granda?’ I asked him out loud and it
was met with a burst of laughter from those gathered around the
stall. I felt everybody was looking at me. (O’Searcaigh 2009: 16–17)
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The response from some of the crowd was filled with anger and resentment. ‘A man who was trying on an old patched jacket with specks of
green and blue in it looked up and said, ‘We’re up to our bloody arse in
bog, so we are. That’s why you’ll have to learn English for it to be drained
out of you.’ The implication here is that language and landscape are the
same and that, if he wants to succeed in the world, the child will have
to be drained not only of the traditional language but also of the rural
landscape.
The relationship between language and landscape is multi-layered.
George Steiner suggests that a ‘dictionary is the most alive and comprehensive of atlases’. Languages preserve the ‘names of trees, of fauna from
lands they have long abandoned. They preserve configurations of mores
and institutions long past and almost indecipherable to the present.’
(Steiner 1997: 87).
Placenames in a native language are reservoirs of local folklore that
can be read by a local community. In 1980, the first performance of Brian
Friel’s play Translations took place in the Guild Hall in Derry. This work
is set in the northwest of Ireland at the beginning of the nineteenth
century and explores the process of the Ordnance Survey which aimed
to produce new (six inches to the mile) maps of the island of Ireland
for the British Government. During the survey, many of the traditional
Irish placenames were Anglicized and consequently separated from the
associated placelore.
In the following much-quoted example, Tobair Bhriain, the Gaelic
name for a local well, is changed to the meaningless Tobair Vree. The
words are spoken by Owen, a native informant who is helping the
British soldiers with their maps:
And we call that crossroads Tobair Vree. And why do we call it Tobair
Vree? I’ll tell you why. Tobair means a well. But what does Vree
means? It’s a corruption of Brian – (Gaelic pronunciation) Brian – an
erosion of Tobair Bhriain. Because a hundred-and-fifty years ago there
used to be a well there, not at the crossroads, mind you – that would
be too simple but in a field close to the crossroads. And an old man
called Brian, whose face was disfigured by an enormous growth, got
it into his head that the well was blessed; and every day for seven
months he went there and bathed his face in it. But the growth didn’t
go away; and one morning Brian was found drowned in the well. And
ever since that crossroads is known as Tobair Vree – even though the
well has since dried up. (Friel 1984: 420)
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One of the strong implications of the play is that the Anglicization
of placenames has resulted in the severing of the connection between
place and memory. This is evident in Manus taunting his father with
the question ‘will you be able to find your way?’ – the implication
being that ‘when the place-names have been changed from Irish to
English, the landscape will take on different contours and life itself
will change’. The father must respond to this with ‘a new identity of
man-in-the-landscape’ (Pine 1999 [1990]: 212).
This notion of losing one’s way while remaining in the same place
occurs many times in Hugo Hamilton’s childhood memoir. His father
suggests that ‘Irish people didn’t know where they were going anymore, because the names of the streets and villages were changed into
English.’ The loss of the original name meant that the natives ‘didn’t
recognize the landscape around them’. There was no natural connection between ‘Léim Uí Dhonnabháín’ and ‘Leap’ or between ‘Gleann
d’Óir’ and ‘Glandore’. Personal and surnames were also changed. In consequence, ‘the Irish were all stumbling around not knowing who they
were or who they were talking to. They could not find their way home.
They were homeless. And that was the worst pain of all, to be lost and
ashamed and homesick.’ (Hamilton 2003: 160). As a result of losing their
language, people were wandering around like ghosts ‘following maps
with invisible streets and invisible place names’ (Hamilton 2006: 129).
The translation of placenames was an important tool of the colonizer
throughout the imperial era. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak explores this
process in India. She looks to the example of a British soldier travelling across India in the nineteenth century and surveying the land on
behalf of his employer: ‘He is actually engaged in consolidating the self
of Europe by obliging the native to cathect the space of the other to his
home ground. He is worlding their own world, which is far from mere
inscribed earth, anew, by obliging them to domesticate the alien as Master.’ In consequence, the colonized are now obliged to look at their own
place through the lens of the colonizer. The land no longer belongs to
the native (Spivak 1984: 253).
Resistance to the translation of placenames is not infrequent. In his
Irish language memoir, Céard é English?, Lorcán Ó Treasaigh relates the
story of a companion in Wales who is clearly unhappy with the Anglicization of Welsh placenames. His protest was ignored until he started
painting over the local English language signage in the Celtic region:
[n]íor tugadh aird ar bith air. Is é sin gur thosaigh sé ag glanadh an Bhéarla
de na comharthaí bóthair sa cheantar.
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Péint dhearg a d’úsáideadh Dai agus a chairde gur tháinig na póilíní
orthu . . . Thaitin sin leis.
– Best two weeks of my life, a dúirt sé, I really felt like I was doing
something, if you know what I mean . . . . . ‘I am not taking this
anymore, I am not on my knees anymore!’ (Ó Treasaigh 2002: 106–7)
[No notice was taken of him. That is until he started cleaning the
English from the road signage in the region.
Dai and his friends used red paint until the police found them . . . He
enjoyed that.
– ‘Best two weeks of my life’ he said. ‘I really felt like I was doing
something, if you know what I mean . . . I am not taking this anymore,
I am not on my knees anymore!’ (AT)]
This is a context with which I am very familiar as I live near a town
with a contested placename, Derry/Londonderry/Doire. The traditional
settlement was known as Doire, a Gaelic word for oak tree which reflects
the Celtic nature of the indigenous people. In 1604 Doire in Northern
Ireland became Anglicized as Derry and was formally incorporated as a
city under British control. Some four years later, when an Irish chief, Sir
Cahir O’Doherty, rebelled against the Crown, the city was burned to the
ground, affording King James I an opportunity for change. In 1610, 130
workmen arrived from London and three years later the city was granted
a royal charter and formally renamed Londonderry, in honour of the
Twelve Companies of the Corporation of London that had provided
assistance with its reconstruction. In 1616 various London companies
were encouraged to send over families and craftsmen to the city, and
within two years more than 100 families were accommodated. The placename ‘Londonderry’ continues to be a source of real irritation for
many nationalists in Northern Ireland as it serves as a constant reminder
of the British plantation of Ulster. In protest, the ‘London’ is regularly
painted out on the signage (Nic Craith 2001).
As noted at the beginning of this book, not all of the writers have
physically moved from one location to another, but for those who move
physically, the process can be traumatic as there are several experiences
of migration operating in parallel with one another. Along with the
issue of language transition and the physical change in the environment, there is the impact on personal memories which ‘belong’ with
the former place. Said argues that ‘for an exile, habits of life, expression,
or activity in the new environment inevitably occur against the memory
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of these things in another environment’. In these circumstances, ‘both
the new and the old environments are vivid, actual, occurring together
contrapuntally’ (Said 1984: 55).
The physical movement from one place to another is accompanied
by a movement of a ‘self that embarks on an undetermined journeying practice, having constantly to negotiate between home and
abroad, native culture and adopted culture, or more creatively speaking,
between a here, a there, and an elsewhere’ (Minh-ha 1994: 9).
There are in effect two forms of translation. There is the process
of translation from one language and culture to another as well as
the symbolic shift from one way of interpreting the world to another:
‘The condition of the migrant is the condition of the translated being.’
(Cronin 2006: 45).
Such migrants can experience a ‘sense of dislocation as more radical and more disturbing than the characteristic alienation most people
experience from time to time in their familiar world’. There is no place
that they can unconditionally call home. They are ‘essentially rootless’.
The place they migrated from has become alien and yet they are always
outsiders in the place they move to. Andrew Riemer suggests that:
We come to understand, therefore, that we belong nowhere – yet
sometimes we still dream of an existence where we may avoid the
confusions of lives like ours, which seem more and more to resemble
the nightmare of that ingenious puzzle, a loop without an inside or
an outside. (Riemer 1992: 218)
This is not unlike the English character Yolland in Brian Friel’s play,
who suggests that even if he did speak Irish, he’ll always be an outsider.
Although he might learn the password, the actual password of the tribe
would elude him: ‘The private core will always be . . . hermetic, won’t it?’
(Friel 1984: 416).
Word and worldview
Although ostensibly the play Translations explores the process of Anglicization in nineteenth-century Ireland, it is also a thorough exploration
of the notion of worldview. The play queries whether people who experience the same reality through the lens of different worldviews can really
communicate with one another. This clash of logic is expressed very simply and very effectively in the following statements from the two lovers,
the Irish girl Maire and the British character Yolland:
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Maire: The grass must be wet. My feet are soaking.
Yolland: Your feet must be wet. The grass is soaking.
(Friel 1984: 426)
Although essentially they are arriving at the same conclusion, the couple are approaching reality from entirely different perspectives or from
different ‘worldviews’.
The concept of worldview is not new and is usually linked with
Benjamin Lee Whorf (1897–1941) and his mentor Edward Sapir.(1884–
1937). Their usage of the term was derived from the anthropologist
Franz Boas (1858–1942). Although the notion of worldview is commonly associated with American origins, one should note that Boas
and Sapir were themselves of German-Jewish origin and both academics
probably became aware of these differences when emigrating from
Germany to the USA.
In using the term ‘worldview’ or Weltanschauung, Whorf and others
were drawing on the work of the German philosopher, Wilhelm von
Humboldt (1767–1835). Underhill argues that English-speaking cultures
have never really grasped the concept of worldview as it was originally conceived by Humboldt. Drawing on Humbolt’s original work,
Underhill defines Weltanschauung as ‘an individual’s or a community’s
interpretation of the world or the interpretative framework which he
or she invokes to help understand the world’. This he contrasts with
Weltansicht which is ‘inherent in a language’ and ‘offers the world up for
us for interpretation by allowing us to form concepts and exchange ideas
about those concepts and the relationships between them’. (Underhill
2009: 151). Of the two, the concept of Weltanschauung is broader and
can be related to belief systems and ideologies. In contrast, Weltansicht
is more technical and ‘affirms nothing about the world’ (Underhill
2009: 151).
From the concept of worldview, Sapir and Whorf developed theories
of linguistic determinism or linguistic relativity, depending on whether
one draws on its strong or weak version. Sapir suggested that human
beings are actually ‘very much at the mercy of the particular language
which has become the medium of expression for their society’, because
the ‘real world’ is to a large extent unconsciously built up on the
language habits of the group’. However, ‘no two languages are ever sufficiently similar to be considered as representing the same social reality’.
In consequence, ‘[t]he worlds in which different societies live are distinct worlds, not merely the same world with different labels attached’
(Sapir 1949: 162).
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Whorf wrote in a similar vein, arguing that the grammar of a language
does not simply reproduce ideas but ‘is itself the shaper of ideas’. He
suggested that ‘[w]e dissect nature along lines laid down by our native
languages . . . . We cut nature up, organize it into concepts, and ascribe
significances as we do, largely because we are parties to an agreement
to organize it in this way – an agreement that holds throughout our
speech community and is codified in the patterns of our language.’
(Whorf 1956: 212–13). Essentially, Sapir regarded our ideas as shaped
by our language habits, whereas Whorf deemed them to be shaped by
grammar (Kramsch 1998: 87). For Whorf, ‘the world can’t be separated
from the language used to talk about it. They’re wrapped up together
like hydrogen and oxygen in water.’ So ‘you can’t pull them apart and
still have water to drink’ (Agar 1994: 66).
Hans-Georg Gadamer (1975) infers that it is only through language
we can understand the world. Gadamer’s theory of understanding the
world suggests that it takes form in and through language. Language
is not just a mechanism by which we communicate. It is the medium
through which we understand ourselves and others. ‘Language is the
universal medium in which understanding occurs. Understanding occurs in
interpreting.’ (Italics are as in original in Gadamer 1975: 390.)
Gadamer clearly links language and tradition and suggests that languages are windows on the world, not because they are specific types
of languages but because of the traditions that are handed down in
them. Tradition is essentially verbal in nature. Literally, it is something
handed down on purpose rather than a leftover that has not been
cleared away. It has been passed on by the previous generation either
verbally in myths and legends or in a written form that is intelligible
to the reader (Gadamer 1975: 391). Gadamer argues that ‘those who are
brought up in a particular linguistic and cultural tradition see the world
in a different way from those who belong to other traditions’. Different
language worlds have characteristic differences and shadings. Although
‘every “shading” of the object of perception is exclusively distinct from
every other’, each one can be extended into another worldview. ‘It can
understand and comprehend, from within itself, the “view” of the world
presented in another language.’ (Gadamer 1975: 444).
This implies that language is the essence of being and languages are
like local dictionaries or encyclopaedias of a community. The vocabularies have emerged and evolved alongside the everyday lives of a
community living in a particular environment. George Steiner writes
in a similar vein, indicating that every tongue ‘opens its own window
on life and the world’. And ‘the room behind the window has been
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designed and furnished by the relevant language which is reflected,
sometimes to the point of opacity, by the window-panes’. In consequence, ‘the world perceived, named, surveyed, reflects back into
the room, into the given “speech-space” ’ ( Steiner 1997: 88). In this
he appears to endorse the theory of cultural relativity, which Claire
Kramsch summarizes as follows: ‘The theory of linguistic relativity does
not claim that linguistic structure constrains what people can think or
perceive, only that it tends to influence what they routinely do think’
(italics are original in Kramsch 1998: 14).
None of the academics mentioned above propose that it is entirely
impossible to translate from one language to another. Instead they
argue that there is what Kramsch calls ‘an incommensurable residue
of untranslatable culture’ associated with different languages (Kramsch
1998: 12). In other words, there is an essence or a core element which
is untranslatable. It is the primary medium through which we interpret
the everyday world. In its more extreme form, this theory of linguistic
determinism represents language as a ‘prison with no hope of parole’.
This version of the Whorfian hypothesis suggests that ‘translation
and bilingualism are impossible’. Although ‘you think you understand
another world’, the reality is that ‘you are just kidding yourself’. It is
not possible for you to escape from ‘the chains of your native language’
(Agar 1994: 67).
In its more extreme form, this theory of linguistic determinism is not
accepted today. However, there is some acknowledgement that language
is not just a simple means of communication either. It is the means
through which traditions and memories specific to a place are passed
on: ‘Linguistic relativity says that your language is your familiar room,
the usual way of seeing the world and talking about it.’ Although ‘your
language lays down habitual patterns of seeing and thinking and talking’, it does not become a prison and ‘you realize that the room you grew
up in is only one of several’ and that ‘other languages lay down other
patterns of seeing and thinking and talking and acting’ (Agar 1994: 68).
Many of the authors I deal with emphasized the importance of the
‘familiar room of language’ and of traditions being handed down via
specific languages and the subsequent impact on worldviews. In an
interview with me, Liam Carson said that it’s all ‘about the never-ending
story. We tell the same stories again and again and again. If there is anything we got from our parents, then it was stories, and those stories
were located in Irish’ (Carson, interview). Lorcán Ó Treasaigh expresses
similar sentiments: ‘Now, Irish involves all aspects of the language as
I encounter them and definitely the language of song and story was
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huge and as a child I didn’t make any difference between that and the
language I spoke. The songs and the story were in the language I spoke.’
(Ó Treasaigh, interview).
Hugo Hamilton was also keen to note the all-pervasive nature of language and his comments would certainly appear to support the theory
of linguistic relativity. For him language was a ‘point of view’:
I am split between these different countries [Germany and Ireland]
and every time I move languages, I move countries as well. But it’s
not actually geographical, it’s sheer point of view. And it links you
to history. I often say that in lectures when I am asked that question,
that I have a feeling about Ireland when I speak in Irish. It is a smaller
country. It’s older, the people are friendlier, it feels like a country
where everyone knows one another. (Hamilton, interview)
Many of the writers subscribe to the view that distinct languages can
offer different worldviews. In her autobiographical musings ‘Cé leis tú?’
(To whom do you belong?), Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill cites an example of
one of her first encounters with the clash of Irish and English worldviews. Not long after she arrived in the Kerry Gaeltacht (Irish-speaking
region), she met Jacsaí, an old man coming down the road:
‘Cé leis tú?’ he asked me – ‘Who do you belong to?’ – which was the
usual way of asking children their name. Taking the phrase at its most
literal meaning, I drew myself bristling to my great height of all threefoot nothing and stoutly replied, ‘Ní le héinne mé. Is liom féin mé féin.’
(‘I don’t belong to anyone, I belong only to myself.’) (Ní Dhomhnaill
2005a: 97).
The problem related to the conceptual thinking behind the question.
One was speaking from the modern perspective of the individual. The
other was working from a traditional, communal context more typical
of the Irish language community in rural Ireland:
. . . if Jacsaí had asked me the more usual ‘Cad is ainm duit?’ (‘What
is your name?), there would have been no initial misunderstanding . . . . But Jacsaí was of an older generation, with a completely different Weltanschauung – which could no more imagine an unattached
human being than it could identify a star without its surrounding
constellations. The modern concept of an ‘individual’ with inalienable ‘rights’ had not yet emerged out of the seething and teeming
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collective amoeba that was the local Irish-speaking community.
(Ní Dhomhnaill 2005a: 103)
Ní Dhomhnaill suggests that Irish people and their language ‘fell out
of history’ just before modernism. In consequence, many intellectual
movements such as the Enlightenment were never experienced by
speakers of that language. Moreover, speakers of the language were unfamiliar with Victorian prudery and had very open attitudes to the human
body. She indicates that it is hardly possible to be rude about the human
body in Irish. ‘The body with its orifices and excretions, is not treated in
a prudish manner but is accepted as ‘an nádúr’, or ‘nature’ and becomes
a source of repartee and laughter rather than anything to be ashamed
of.’ (Ní Dhomhnaill 2005b: 18).
These examples are good illustrations of the experience of linguistic
determinism or relativity and have important implications for learners
of new languages. As well as endorsing the idea that people ‘might think
or perceive the world differently’ depending on which language they
speak, they also suggest that ‘before you can really use a new language
comfortably, without thinking about what you are saying, you need
to wrap your mind around the new concepts that the new language
is presenting to you’ (Ottenheimer 2006: 27). This message concurs very
much with the rhetoric of Michael Agar. He argues that ‘communication in today’s world requires culture’. He proposes that ‘problems in
communication are rooted in who you are, in encounters with a different mentality, different meanings, a different tie between languages
and consciousness’. Such problems can be solved by greater cultural
awareness (Agar 1994: 23).
Ní Dhomhnaill offers another example of the clash of perception
between Irish and English worldviews with reference to the otherworld
which many traditional Irish-speakers believed existed alongside the
human world. She asks:
Do these beings exist? Well they do and they don’t. You see they are
beings from ‘an saol eile’, the ‘otherworld’, which in Irish is a concept of such impeccable intellectual rigour and credibility that it is
virtually impossible to translate into English, where it all too quickly
becomes fey and twee and ‘fairies-at-the-bottom-of-the-garden’. (Ní
Dhomhnaill 2005b: 19)
In the logical English world, fairies may be a laughable concept, but
in the Irish-language worldview the otherworld has been a very real
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concept and is deserving of respect. This was re-affirmed in my interview with Liam Carson: ‘There is a concept in Irish of an saol eile and
I do think that does exist in Irish. It does have a connection to an saol
eile – to an otherworldly realm. That is deeply embedded in the language. Now that may seem romantic but nonetheless it’s true.’ (Carson,
interview).
Although coming from a different angle, the Polish writer Eva
Hoffman hints at a similar understanding of a distinctive worldview
in her memoir, Lost in Translation. On her arrival in Vancouver, she is
determined to learn English – but it is not just the language she needs
to learn. It is also the worldview. She wrestles with her immersion into
English (from Polish) and panics at the thought that she might be missing parts of the new language ‘as if such gaps were missing parts of
the world or my mind – as if the totality of the world and mind were
co-eval with the totality of language’. It is ‘as if language were an enormous, fine net in which reality is contained – and if there are holes
in it, then a bit of reality can escape, cease to exist’. She wants to use
every word in the English dictionary in her writing so as ‘to accumulate a thickness and weight of words’ (Hoffman 1998[1989]: 217). It is
as if the English language represents a new world that can not be captured in its entirety unless the new language is completely mastered.
In acquiring the new language, the migrant must ‘provisionally abandon the signposts of’ his or her own language ‘in order to follow the
logic of another creative formulation of a concept’ which means ‘taking one step towards grasping the character of a language’ (Underhill
2009: 112).
Examples such as the above would seem to reinforce George Steiner’s
view (1997: 87) that ‘each and every human tongue is different. This is
the overwhelming fact. Each and every natural language constitutes an
integral world.’ For him, ‘[n]o two languages, no two dialects or local
idioms within a language, identify, designate, map their worlds in the
same way’. The memories stored in a language are different. Languages
organize kinship and relations differently. From this perspective, language is not just a worldview. It is also the world of home. This view is
reinforced by many writers. Hugo Hamilton suggests that the German
language is his German home:
Whenever I switch into a different language it still feels like stepping
into a different country. I actually agree with my father when he says
your language is your country. Your language is your home, because
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when I switch to German I don’t have to move at all. I suddenly find
myself transported to this place with my mother, with my aunts, my
uncles, my whole German experience suddenly comes into play and
with that German history and my entire point of view as a German.
(Hamilton, interview)
For Marica Bodrožić, this German ‘home’ is a comfort zone to which she
can return again and again, regardless of her movements at a physical
level. ‘I was always moving around. All my life I was moving. The only
“place” I have for sure is the German language. I can be a part of it and
then I can leave and come back.’ (Bodrožić, interview) Irish was a ‘home’
that Liam Carson left in his youth – but he returned ‘because there was
a connection’:
Irish was the language of the home and there was a warmth to it.
I like the sound of Irish. The sound is warmer and richer than English.
English is the language of mathematics. It’s the language of commerce and of political power, Irish isn’t and never will be. Maybe in
an alternative universe . . . . So I do think there are resonances in Irish
that don’t exist in English, definitely. (Carson, interview)
Liam’s attitude connects strongly with that of his brother Ciaran and
their postman father who describe Irish as a sanctuary. Ciaran writes:
Interestingly, my father . . . chose the language itself [Irish] as a sanctuary: ‘Ba ghnáth liom mé féin a chur i bhfolach innti’, as he said ‘I used
to hide myself within her’, and I see him burrowing down into it,
the way I used to, as a child, stick my head into his postman’s bag,
relishing its enormous gloomy smell of canvas, twine, and faded correspondences. I see him making the language into a book-lined room
which has false-shelved secret passageways that lead to glimmering Atlantic beaches and the smell of turf-smoke dwindling upwards
from the chimneys of the white-washed stretches of bog-cotton and
little cobalt-blue loughs, I too, hide in language. (Carson 1997: 106)
The delight and comfort that exudes from this piece is obvious and
reflects a fascination with language that is comforting and joyful. It also
interprets Irish as a route to a distinct place – a place that is uniquely
Irish.
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Fieldwork in Germany
The idea that language reflects culture is generally accepted in anthropology and many anthropologists have explored the ways in which
different cultures ‘carve up the world’. Sapir had suggested that the
vocabulary of a language was like an inventory of the lives and interests
of a people. Kinship terms can reflect different family relationships while
terms for different body parts can suggest different cultural emphasis.
Sapir writes ‘that the careful study of a vocabulary leads to inferences
as to the physical and social environment of those who use the vocabulary.’ He also argues that ‘the relatively transparent or intransparent
character of the vocabulary itself may lead us to infer as to the degree
of familiarity that has been obtained with various elements of this
environment’ (Sapir 1949: 93).
During my fieldwork in Germany I encountered some terms and ideas
that demonstrated the unfamiliar character of the language. It wasn’t
that I couldn’t grasp the German context or concepts – but I certainly
encountered them as foreign to me – as coming from a different perspective. Sometimes it was just a shade of a difference that was involved –
but even that was interesting. Heimat is a clear-cut example of a concept
that gets lost in English translation. In the German dictionary this is
defined as home town or native country (Airlee 2007: 584). But for
Germans it has many other connotations that are not easily transferred
into English. Blickle (2002) proposes that Heimat is a concept that is
shared among German-speaking cultures and that it is a ‘crucial aspect
in German self-perceptions’. It embraces a range of ideas, representing
‘the fusional anti-Enlightenment thinking in German Romanticism’ as
well as ‘the idealization of the pre-modern within the modern’. It combines ‘geographic and imaginary conditions of space’ while at the same
time representing ‘a provincializing, but disalienating, part of German
bourgeois culture’. It represents ‘modern German culture’s spatialized
interiority’ and combines ‘territorial claims with a fundamental ethical
reassurance of innocence’. In order to achieve all of this, Blickle (2002:
2–3) argues that Heimat ‘uses a patriarchal way of seeing the world’.
Of course this explanation describes the concept in academic terms,
but in casual usage, many German speakers are not necessarily aware
of all the implications of Heimat and may even acknowledge more
than one Heimat. It may be used to refer to the house one grew up
in, to a tree house, to the native soil, to the landscape where one
belongs, to one’s homestead etc. To a non-native speaker it is ‘a slippery concept’, but the multiplicity of meanings is not a problem for
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the native-German speaker. Instead, ‘the idea of Heimat is everywhere’
(Blickle 2002: 4). It ‘answers to the longing for self-belonging’ and fulfils
a basic need’ (Blickle 2002: 6). Perhaps the closest I could get to Heimat
is the Irish word dúchas ,which is defined by Ó Searcaigh (2009: 261) as
follows:
Dúchas is a difficult word to explain in English, but briefly it means
a sense of connection; a feeling of attachment to a place, a tongue
and a tradition; a belief that one belongs to a sustaining cultural and
communal energy; that one has a place and a name.
Blickle argues that the concept of Heimat is not necessarily entirely
untranslatable. It is just that it doesn’t work in English or French. He
proposes other Slavic equivalents. ‘Slovenians, Croatians, and Serbians
call it dòmovina and Czechs domov’ (Blickle 2002: 2). However he
also adds that these equivalents are probably as a result of German
influences.
Another example of the ‘untranslatable’ from German that my friends
cited was Gemütlichkeit. The Collins dictionary translates this as ‘comfort’ or ‘cosiness’ but colleagues in Germany suggest that it is much
more than that. The cosiness implied is not simply physical luxury. It is
also emotional or even spiritual and involves a sense of belonging and
acceptance. For this, there is no direct English equivalent. Words such
as: ‘Gemütlichkeit (a kind of jovial cosiness), Geborgenheit (snug security)
and Innigkeit (an inner warmth, awareness of soul)’ have been described
by one book reviewer as ‘treacherous to translate yet integral to a mood
that sees millions flock to the Christmas markets of Berlin, Nuremberg,
Dresden and Cologne’ (Morrison 2010).
The lack of equivalent terminology in different languages is noted by
many authors. Natasha Wodin highlights the predicament in which she
often finds herself:
Oft kommt es allerdings vor, dass mir, wenn ich Deutsch spreche, plötzlich ein russisches Wort einfällt, das es im Deutschen nicht gibt. Und
umgekehrt. Auch im Deutschen gibt es Wörter, die im Russischen nicht
existieren. Zum Beispiel das Wort Sehnsucht. Dieses Wort ist praktisch
unübersetzbar. Da würde ich dann am liebsten ein neues russisches Wort
erfinden, es der Sprache hinzufügen. (Wodin, interview)
[It often happens that when I speak German, I suddenly come up
with a Russian word for which there is no German equivalent.
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In German also, there are words that do not exist in Russian. Take
the word Sehnsucht for example. This word is practically untranslatable. There I would like to find a new Russian word, to expand the
language. (AT)]
Rather than attempting to find equivalent terminology, some authors
like Liam Carson, opt to use the original terms for concepts that cannot
be translated easily into English. The following passage from his memoir
illustrates his use of cumhaidh:
Cumhaidh is what gripped me – pining, loneliness, homesickness, a
soreness of the heart, longing. This Irish word contains in its sound
an ache that no English word can evoke for me. Like tocht – an oppression, a catch in the throat or at the heart, a fit of grief, silence in the
face of overwhelming emotion – it is a word my father often used
when looking back at the lost world of his youth. (Carson 2010: 107)
He explains his reason for using the ‘original’ Gaelic terminology:
There are certain basic words and certain basic concepts which exist
in Irish. In my book, I was using Irish words and translating them
from Irish into English, or giving the definitions. I thought that was
absolutely necessary. You have to explain why these words are important. Even a word like teach has all sorts of different resonances. It’s
not just a house. It’s also a kingdom. It’s a realm. It’s a space. It’s a
world. (Carson, interview)
Sometimes, the differences between German and English that I experienced simply consisted of distinctions that are made in German
that are not made in Hiberno-English. On an ICE train to Munich
(to visit the author Ota Filip) my German husband commented that
he did not know whether we were going into a Durchgangsbahnhof or a
Korfbahnhof. The first term refers to a through station whereas the second refers to a station in which the train enters and leaves by the same
route. In English we understand the concept, but we have not developed
the terminology to denote the distinction.
Stille and schweigend were another two words of interest for me and
featured strongly in the interview with Marica Bodrožić. In the English
language world, we tend to use the concept of stillness and silence but
my German friends feel that there is a strong distinction between these
two words that is not easily captured in English. Stille is defined in the
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dictionary as quietness or peacefulness – stillness perhaps, whereas as
schweigend is defined as silence – or perhaps dead silence.
Stammtisch is another term that my German friends regard as a truly
German concept. Stammtisch refers to a table in a restaurant or a bar that
is reserved for the regulars. Sometimes it can also be used for a regular
get-together that is not necessarily held in the same place. In English,
there is no equivalent term: ‘regular table’ or ‘regular get-together’ is
as close as one gets to the meaning. In German, as in other languages,
there is a clear distinction between food that is heiss (hot in the sense of
temperature) and food that is scharf (spicy/hot). Although in HibernoEnglish we have the equivalent terminology, hot or spicy, we tend to
use the adjective hot on both occasions, probably reflecting centuries of
eating non-spicy food . . . .
The German approach to nature is also reflected in some of the
vocabulary relating to pregnancy. One of my German students who
was pregnant at the time of our chats explained that she thought the
German view of pregnancy and birth is more natural and less medical than in the US, and that the German terminology reflects that
perspective. Her favourite examples were Fruchtwasser (amniotic fluid
but literally fruit water), Mutterkuchen (placenta, literally mother cake),
Gebärmutter (uterus, literally reproduction mother or possibly bearing
mother) and Nabelschnur (umbilical cord, literally naval cord/string).
Interestingly, her German friends were very impressed with these
words and thought they were both appropriate and sweet whereas her
American friends were less than impressed, some even thought they
were disgusting.
The domain of colour is also interesting for me. ‘Although the world
of color seems to be a natural domain, and most humans appear to
see the same spectrum of colors’, experience has taught me that the
world of colour is carved up in specific ways by different cultures.
‘Different cultures do in fact identify different ranges of color as significant within their unique cultural systems and name them accordingly.’
(Ottenheimer 2006: 22). The idea of colour difference is quite familiar to
me, as the traditional Irish language had (and in some places still has)
a system of colour terms which are quite distinct from those of many
other European languages including English. There is a ‘high degree of
relativity’ in the use of Irish terms. Diarmuid Ó Sé (2009) points to many
examples of this. For example the word buí (yellow) is applied to the
petals of buttercups, but it is also used for ‘tan’ or ‘light-brown’ footwear.
If an individual’s hair is grey, then the term liath is used, but a grey horse
of the same shade is regarded as glas. In the Irish language, there are two
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shades of red: dearg and rua. The latter term is specifically reserved for
red hair whereas the former refers to other kinds of red.
The case of green is most interesting in the language of the Island of
‘forty shades of green’. Cathal O’Searcaigh explains:
The adjective ‘glas’ – green – has an assortment of shadings in Gaelic.
‘Glas’ is green in vegetation but if it is used to describe a horse, the
animal is grey. A ‘maidin ghlas’ for example doesn’t mean a green
morning but a raw, chilly one. If someone has a ‘súil ghlas’, you are
describing an eye colour that hovers somewhere between light blue
and grey. ‘Glas’ in cloth usually means a grey, undyed homespun
material. ‘Glas’ can also mean a bolt or a lock, a wee stream or an
unaccustomed hand at doing something. (O’Searcaigh 2009: 266–7)
Lorcán Ó Treasaigh also refers to this distinction in his Irish language
memoir, suggesting:
Dath uaithne atá ar an mbus, dath glas ar an bhféar. Fásann féar agus
mar sin tá sé glas, ní fhásann bus agus mar sin tá sé uaithne. (Ó Treasaigh
2002: 11)
This attempt to explore the difference between uaithne (green) and glas
(green) does not translate easily into English, but literarily translates as
the bus is uaithne (green) and the grass is glas (also green). Grass grows
therefore it is glas (green). A bus does not grow, therefore it is uaithne
(green).
Diamuid Ó Sé (2009) analyses the case of ‘glas’ in Irish further, with
particular reference to the concepts of blue and green – or what is
sometimes called ‘grue’:
Although Irish, unlike for instance most African languages, can readily distinguish between the colour of grass and the colour of the
cloudless sky the categories green and blue interlock in various ways.
Blue greens and the dark green of certain grasses, sprouting corn, as
well as the colour of moss and the leaves of various plants are gorm.
Indeed gorm might be treated as a kind of ‘grue’ were it not for the
fact that it excludes the green of most pastures and foliage, which is
glas, and the artificial greens called uaithne. Although distinct terms
are available for the green-blue area their use is highly interlocked.
In the reference dialect there is neither a composite term nor sharp
separation. (Ó Sé 2009)
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Expressions are also different in the different languages. In HibernoEnglish, we commonly use the expression ‘it is raining cats and dogs’ but
animals seemed to feature a lot more in the casual speech of the people
I encountered during my fieldwork in Germany. One Thursday, I was sitting alone in a bakery, when an old lady joined me complaining about
the summer weather. She said that the previous week had been schafkalt (literary sheep-cold). This may be a reference to the time of year
when sheep are sheared and feel the cold despite the summer weather.
Really wet, rainy days were often referred to as Hundestages (literally, dog
days). Sometimes people complained of being hunde-müde (dog-tired) or
of having Bärin-hunger (literally, the hunger of a bear). There are numerous other examples that one could offer. If one has a hangover, one has
a Kater – literally a tom-cat and if something is really dead, then it is
maustot (literally, mouse dead).
Serendipitously, differences in expressions between German and other
languages came to the fore in a novel I was reading at the time of writing
this chapter. In Simon Mawer’s The Glass Room (2009), two female characters, Liesel and Katalin are discussing their relationship with Liesel’s
husband, Viktor. Liesel tries to explain the nature of her affection for
Viktor by asking Katalin whether she speaks Czech. She asks:
‘You don’t speak Czech, do you? Of course you don’t. Well, in Czech
we have an expression, propadnout lásce, to fall in love. You can’t do
that in German, can you? In German you just come into love. But in
Czech you can fall into it. Am I making sense? Well that never happened to me. I never fell in love with Viktor. Came into it, perhaps,
but never fell.’ (Italics original in Mawer 2009: 204–5).
My German friends and I had a discussion on this issue and it did seem
to them that the concept of ‘falling in love’ was somewhat foreign to
German native-speakers, although relatively common in English (and
in Irish – which may be a consequence of English influence).
Expressions of time are of great interest to linguistic anthropologists
and Whorf was particularly fascinated with the Hopi tribe’s attitude to
time. Whorf explained that the Hopi don’t objectify time: ‘Time isn’t
a thing or a substance that you can divide into units and count.’ For
the Hopi, ‘time isn’t a separate entity’. Instead, ‘it’s part of the flow of
events’ (Agar 1994: 63).
Heinrich Böll (1957) famously suggested that the Irish have a fairly
relaxed attitude to the concept of time, and growing up in a bilingual
household, I was already aware of a different sense of time between Irish
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and English-speaking worlds. This is clearly signalled in the way the verb
‘to be’ is managed in both languages. In English, ‘I am a woman’ and
‘I am going to the shop’ use the same form of the verb ‘to be’. In Irish,
however, there are two different verbs ‘to be’ – one that is used for a
permanent state of being and another that is reserved for simple activities that have a distinct point of completion. ‘Is bean mé’ refers to my
ongoing gender as a woman whereas ‘tá me ag dul go dtí an siopa’ refers
to a shopping activity that will have a definite end. The use of these two
equivalents of the verb ‘to be’ suggests a consciousness of different ways
of being in the world. Irish grammar forces us to think about actions
that occur within particular timeframes, versus on-going states of being,
in a way that we are not conscious of when we speak English.
Time is a concept that is also expressed differently in German and
can be quite confusing for visitors and foreigners. In the English language world, one tends to define the half-hour in terms of the time
that has already passed: 10.30 occurs 30 minutes after ten o’clock.
In German, however, it is expressed in terms of time that is yet to come
and halb zehn (literally, half ten) occurs half an hour before 10, that is
at 9.30. It might be stretching a point to imply a different approach
to time in German- versus English-speaking worlds and to suggest that
the Germans (and Czechs and others) are more oriented towards the
future than the English (or the Americans). This suggests a difference in
approach which must be accommodated when learning the new language. Agar (1994: 22) proposes that ‘you can’t use a new language
unless you change the consciousness that is held to the old one’. The
learner must ‘stretch beyond the circle of grammar and dictionary, out
of the old one and into a new one’.
Finally, to note that there are some German words which have
come into the English language un-translated. Examples include Kindergarten and Zeitgeist. The reverse also applies and during my fieldwork,
I encountered some English words that are not translated into German.
These include the word Handy for the mobile phone, Showmaster and
Small-Talk. These English terms are relatively new in German.
Janus-faced signs
The theory of linguistic determinism has been censured by many linguists in the field, many of whom suggest that differences between
linguistic worldviews have been exaggerated and are largely superficial.
From this perspective there are deep structures subsuming each and
every language which are more crucial than any superficial differences
(Kellman 2000: 23). Ferdinand de Saussure invented a symbolic system
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for describing language rather than speech: ‘The face that looks outwards towards the public world of sound and fury he called signifier’,
whereas ‘the in-ward looking face, the face that whispers to the perceiver what that signifier meant, he called the signified’ (Agar 1994: 39).
De Saussure argued that signs are Janus-faced looking both outwards
and inwards which he called the signifier and signified respectively. Ultimately, ‘when a signifier and a signified are bound together, the faces of
Janus are complete, they make up a sign’ (Agar 1994: 39).
One of de Saussure’s premises is that the relationship between these
two aspects of a sign is arbitrary – that in fact there is no pre-determined
or pre-existing relationship between a signifier and the signified. The
same four-legged pet is called dog in English, madra in Irish, Hund in
German and chien in French respectively. He regards this as proof that
there is no necessary relationship between the word dog and the animal
itself. It is simply an arbitrary term which has been agreed within a
culture. ‘There is no particular dog designated by the word, nor is some
inherent quality (‘dogness’) contained in or conveyed by the acoustic
image dog.’ (Hitchcock 2008: 31).
What de Saussure is suggesting is that our choice of terminology has
been determined by cultural history. He argues that ‘continuity with
the past constantly restricts freedom of choice’. He suggests that ‘[I]f a
Frenchman of today uses words like homme (‘man’) and chien (‘dog’), it
is because these words were used by his forefathers’.
It is the passage of time which has determined the terminology used
to describe the pet rather than any pre-existing relation between the
word and the pet itself. In fact it is precisely because there is no a priori
relationship that cultural tradition can determine the terminology. ‘It is
because the linguistic sign is arbitrary that it knows no other law than
that of tradition and because it is founded upon tradition that it can be
arbitrary’ (de Saussure (1986) [1972]: 74).
For many of the authors I am dealing with, the relation between signifier and signified is more intricate – so much so that when they use
different languages to signify the ‘same’ signified, the connotations are
very different. Some immigrants simply continue to operate in two languages – albeit with different connotations. Vassilis Alexakis, a Greek
migrant to France, implies that everything has two names for him, one
Greek, the other French. Moreover, he does not see things in exactly the
same light when he names them in different languages:
Formulé en français, le mot «marteau» me rappelle le coffre-lit que j’avais
construit tout seul, par souci d’économie, lors de mon installation à Paris.
Dit en grec (sphyri), le même terme me fait plutôt songer à mon père qui
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aimait bricoler. Il prenait grand soin de ses outils, il les nettoyait avec un
tissu imbibé d’huile de paraffine . . . .
Le mot «oignon» reçoit lui aussi un éclairage bien différent de chaque
langue. Dans sa version grecque (crommydi) il me renvoie à ma mère, que
je voyais souvent en train de faire rissoler des oignons dans la poêle, tandis
que sous son étiquette française il me restitue la bienveillante physionomie
de la patronne du magasin de fruits et légumes de la rue de Lourmel où je
fais mes courses. (Alexakis 2002: 53–4)
[In French, the word for hammer, marteau, reminds me of the bed
I built myself to save money when I first arrived in Paris. In Greek,
the same term – sphyri – makes me think of my father who loved to
tinker. He took great care of his tools, he would clean them with a
cloth soaked in paraffin oil . . . .
The word ‘onion’ in French (oignon) also appears in a different light
in both languages. Its Greek version (crommydi) takes me back to my
mother whom I would often see browning onions in a frying pan,
whereas its French label conjures up the kindly features of the woman
who runs the fruit and vegetable stand on the rue de Lourmel where
I shop. (Alexakis 2006: 32)]
Luc Sante, a French-speaking Belgian emigrant to New York, also
endorses this multiplicity of perspectives. He notes very different connotations between signifiers in French versus English:
The word ‘boy’ could not refer to him; he is un garçon. You may think
this is trivial, that ‘garçon’ simply means ‘boy,’ but that is missing the
point. Similarly, maman and papa are people; ‘mother’ and ‘father’
are notions. La nuit is dark and filled with fear, while ‘the night’ is
a pretty picture of a starry field. The boy lives in une maison, with ‘a
house’ on either side. His coeur is where his feelings dwell, and his
‘heart’ is a blood-pumping muscle. (Sante 2003: 142)
Sante suggests that it is no wonder that he had trouble initially navigating between French and English as ‘they are absurdly different, doors
to separate and unequal universes’. While ‘[b]ooks might allege they are
the same kind of item, like a pig and a goat’, the proposition ‘is absurd
on the face of it. One is a tissue and the other is plastic. One is a wound
and the other is a prosthesis.’ (Sante 2003: 142).
Liam Carson also supports this idea of words in different languages
having different connotations. As he was brought up with Irish at home
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in an English-speaking environment, he became aware of different
signifiers at a very early age but the different words did not react in a
similar way. ‘[A]t the end of the day if something is said in Irish it’s not
the same as if it is said in the English language’. This is a non-negotiable
viewpoint from his perspective: ‘[T]here’s no final way of saying here is
how it is. There isn’t finally an answer to the objective structure of the
mind.’ (Carson 2010: 64).
Ota Filip concurs with this perspective. It is just not feasible to
express exactly the same sentiments in languages such as German and
Czech. It has proved impossible to translate some notable works from
German into Czech. He cites some examples to support this argument.
In the first instance he refers to Kant:
Als Beispiel erzähle ich immer von Immanuel Kant. Man hat mehrmals
versucht sein Buch über die ‘reine Vernunft’ auf Tschechisch zu übersetzen,
aber es klappte einfach nicht; daher hat man dann gesagt, wer Kant lesen
will, der muß es auf Deutsch tun. (Filip, interview)
[I like to refer to Immanuel Kant as an example. There have been
several attempts to translate his book on ‘pure reason’ into Czech, but
none of them really worked. Therefore it has been said that whoever
wishes to read Kant will have to do so in German. (AT)]
There is also the case of Faust:
Ein anderes Beispiel ist Goethes Faust. Goethes Meisterwerk wurde zum
ersten Mal in der zweiten Hälfte des 19. Jahrhunderts von einem
tschechischen Dichter übersetzt. Es war eine gute Übersetzung, aber man
könnte sie heute nicht mehr spielen. Eines war schon damals klar, und
das hat die tschechische Literaturkritik dem Übersetzer immer vorgeworfen:
für die philosophischen Passagen des Buches war die tschechische Sprache
eine Katastrophe; in den lyrischen Passagen dagegen war sie, behaupte ich,
besser als die deutsche. (Filip, interview)
[Another example is Goethe’s Faust. The book was first translated by a
Czech poet in the second half of the nineteenth century. It was a good
translation, but one could not stage it today. One thing was clear
even then, and Czech literary critics have always held this against
the translator: for the philosophical passages of the book, the Czech
language was a disaster; yet for the lyrical passages it was, I maintain,
superior to the German. (AT)]
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This was not the last failed attempt to translate Faust:
Noch zu Zeiten des Kommunismus hat es sich der Germanist Otakar
Fischer zur Aufgabe gemacht, den Faust nochmal neu zu übersetzen.
Als die Übersetzung dann veröffentlicht wurde, waren die philosophischen
Passagen wieder nicht authentisch, die lyrischen Passagen aber hervorragend. Das ist der Unterschied. In der deutschen Sprache muß man sich
damit abfinden, daß es eine exakte Sprache ist, aber das ist kein Fehler.
(Filip, interview)
[Back in the Communist era, Otakar Fischer, a Germanist, took on
the task of translating Faust anew. But when the translation was published, the philosophical passages once again were not authentic,
whereas the lyrical passages were excellent. That is the difference.
One has to accept that German is an exact language, but that is not
a fault. (AT)]
This is not a hierarchical view of language – it is simply an expression of
difference:
Die Sprachen sind nicht besser oder schlechter, sie sind einfach anders. Das
muß man akzeptieren; schließlich ist auch die deutsche Tradition eine ganz
andere als die unsere oder als die Englische. Das sind ganz verschiedene
sprachliche Welten. (Filip, interview)
[Languages are neither better nor worse than each other, they are simply different. One has to accept that; after all, the German tradition
is quite different from our own or from the English one. These are
totally diverse linguistic worlds. (AT)]
Perhaps the order in which one learns a language is crucial in this
debate. For Eva Hoffman, beginning to learn English was more than
simply acquiring a new terminology for the same signifieds:
But mostly, the problem is that the significance has become severed
from the signified. The words I learn now don’t stand for things in
the same unquestioned way they did in my native tongue. ‘River’ in
Polish was a vital sound, energized with the essence of riverhood, of
my rivers, of my being immersed in rivers. ‘River’ in English is cold –
a word without an aura. It has no accumulated associations for me,
and it does not give off the radiating gaze of connotation. It does not
evoke. (Hoffman 1998[1989]: 106).
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She enjoyed her relationship with her mother tongue and that language
had ‘described the world effortlessly’. There was a seamless connection
between the language and the world, although in retrospect perhaps
this relationship to Polish ‘was a bit too fused, too symbiotic’ (Hoffman
2003: 52). Hoffman suggests that one’s first language may have an ‘aura
of sacrality’ because the child learns the language at precisely the same
time as he or she comes in contact with the world. ‘[t]he words in one’s
first language seem to be equivalent to the things they name. They seem
to express us and the world directly.’ In contrast, when one learns a subsequent language, one is aware that the words ‘ “stand for” the things
they describe; that the signs on the page are only signs – arbitrary,
replaceable by others’ (Hoffman 1999: 49). The acquisition of English
represents a terrible loss of innocence for Hoffman. She could no longer
revel in the joy of the living connections been words and things. Words
are no longer satisfactory objects of play:
I am becoming a living atavar of structuralist wisdom. I cannot help
knowing that words are just themselves. But it’s a terrible knowledge,
without any of the consolation that wisdom usually brings. It does
not mean I’m free to play with words at my want; anyway words in
their naked state are surely among the least satisfactory play objects.
No, this radical disjoining between word and thing is a desiccating
alchemy, draining the world, not only of its significance but of its
colors, striations, nuances – its very existence. It is a loss of a living
connection. (Hoffman 1998[1989]: 106–7)
However, this experience must be very different for children who are
brought up completely bilingually – perhaps speaking a different language with each parent – a phenomenon which is increasingly common
nowadays.
For the most part, the authors I am dealing with seem to endorse
the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis. While each of them successfully learns a
second, third or fourth language, newly-acquired languages do not easily replace the mother tongue with which the child was introduced
to the world. Instead, each language has different connotations and
different emotional values. If it is the case, that each language represents different worldviews, then these intercultural writers have both
acknowledged and overcome the assertions of linguistic determinism:
‘It is precisely because they recognize the power of particular languages
that they attempt to transcend them.’(Kellman 2000: 24).
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According to Kellman (2000: 36), ‘If, according to the Sapir-Whorf
hypothesis, we are epistemological prisoners of the limited possibilities
inherent in the languages we speak, then multilingualism is emancipation.’ The authors in this book have emancipated themselves from any
such prison. ‘Like the sculptor equipped to work with marble, clay, steel,
or bronze, the translingual author can exercise the freedom of gratuitous expression, the luxury of exploring a medium merely for the sake
of plumbing its possibilities.’ (Kellman 2000: 36).
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The Web of Family Relationships
In an age of political correctness, the concept of ‘mother tongue’ has
become problematic and there are several reasons for this. Firstly, as
anthropologists are well aware, the concepts of mother and other female
figures are relative. While in the English language there are separate
terms for ‘mother’ and ‘aunt’, one could cite examples of other languages where this distinction does not apply. In Shinzwani (spoken in
the Comoro Islands), there is just one word mama for the female characters that we divide into two categories in English, mother and aunt.
This is an example of the linguistic reflection of cultural differences in
personal relationships (Ottenheimer 2006: 117).
If one assumes that the concept applies to one’s birth mother,
there are still problems associated with ‘mother tongue’. Throughout
European history, the term has been constantly evolving and has passed
through several interpretative phases. In the early Middle Ages, ‘mother
tongue’ was largely ‘a pejorative term to describe the unlearned language of women and children’ (Haugen 1991: 82). This reflected the
low status of women in society and contrasted with Latin, the more
prestigious ‘father tongue’ on the continent. Haugen suggests that with
the Renaissance and the Reformation, the notion of ‘mother tongue’
gained some prestige when it became associated with the language of
God, speaking through the text of the Bible. Many reforming clergymen, such as John Wycliffe (1328–1384) in England and Martin Luther
(1483–1546) in Germany, were deeply concerned that the laity should
read and understand the Bible in their first language. In the religious
sphere at least, the concept of mother tongue became ‘a force to be reckoned with’ (Haugen 1991: 82). However its status remained confined
to the religious domain. With the Romantic Movement, the notion of
‘mother tongue’ gained a new prominence. Writers such as Maximilian
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von Schenkendorf (1783–1817) and N. F. S. Grundtvig (1783–1872),
penned lyrics in honour of their mother tongue which had ‘been promoted from being a mere wet nurse to becoming the spokesman of God
and finally a human being’ (Haugen 1991: 82).
In the early twentieth century, the concept of ‘mother tongue’ became
tainted with the ideology of Nazism which promoted the twin association of fatherland and mother tongue for enhancing and ensuring the
‘purity’ of the Aryan people (Hutton 1999). In this exercise, Nazis were
corrupting and abusing the strong resonances that a mother tongue can
hold for a people. This abuse of the German language led Vienneseborn historian, Gerda Lerner, to write (1998[1997]: 33) that the Nazis
had robbed her of her mother tongue:
The Nazis spoke a language of their own – first a jargon of slogans and
buzz words; later the language of force and tyranny. Words no longer
meant what they said; they meant what the Nazis intended them to
mean, and so, gradually, they became empty of meaning. Like banners flying forever in the wind, they flapped around the skeleton of
German speech until all that could be heard was the clattering words
pretending to meaning they could not encompass.
From her perspective, it was not just important, but obligatory for ‘every
anti-fascist German-speaking refugee to uphold the old language, so that
some day it might be restored’ (Lerner 1998[1997]: 33).
Female figures
The concept of mother tongue is commonly associated with the person of the mother and the language she speaks with her child. For
Hugo Hamilton, German is his mother tongue as that is the language
his mother spoke to him. Cathal O’Searcaigh records the comforting
maternal memories evoked by the sounds of his mother’s Irish Gaelic:
My mother was in the cow byre milking. I could hear the hum and
purr of her voice as she sang a suantraí, a Gaelic lullaby to settle the
cows. When I was a baby she always sang that song to hush and
soothe me when I cried. Now it lulled me again into a deep sense of
contentment. (O’ Searcaigh 2009, 75)
Julia Kristeva also relates the concept of mother tongue to the character
of her mother, suggesting that although she now operates primarily in
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French, she has never completely lost her mother tongue. ‘It comes back
to me . . . in dreams; or when I hear my mother talking.’ (Kristeva 2000:
165). Vassilis Alexakis has also associated Greek ‘with the beloved and
ever-present mother figure’ (de Courtivron 2009: 153). For this author,
the connection between his mother and his mother tongue has been so
great that when his mother died, it radically changed his relationship
with his mother tongue.
In La langue maternelle (‘the mother tongue’) an autobiographical
novel, the principal character leaves Paris, where he has been living
for the previous twenty-four years. He purchases a one-way ticket to
Athens and flies back to the land of his childhood. He is looking for
something – although he is not quite sure what that ‘something’ is.
He finds himself fascinated by the letter Epsilon (uppercase E, lowercase ε) which is the fifth letter of the Greek alphabet (its lower version
is quite distinctive from the Latin alphabet). Travelling through Greece
and chatting with family and friends, he endeavours to understand the
meaning of this letter which is inscribed on the temple of the Delphic
Oracle. He collects words beginning with Epsilon and writes them down
in his notebook. Ultimately he realizes that the object of his quest is
not really the Epsilon, but his mother tongue which he is afraid of losing. As long as his mother was alive, he regularly conversed with her in
his mother tongue. At her graveside, he explains how much he misses
her. Now that she is physically gone he will renew his relationship with
her through a re-discovery of his mother tongue: ‘[H]e must re-turn to
Greek, to the mother tongue that will replace the beloved mother and
will console him’ (de Courtivron 2007: 38).
Despite a straightforward connection with many of their mothers,
none of the authors has a simplistic view of the notion of ‘mother
tongue’. Instead it emerged as a multi-varied, multi-dimensional concept which, nevertheless, entailed a certain degree of inevitability. In a
rather poetic note, Anne Weber compared the mother tongue to ‘baby
food’:
Il y a une langue qu’on ne trouve pas, qu’on ne cherche pas non plus, mais
qu’on respire en arrivant au monde, qu’on mange et qu’on boit. Cet aliment
pour bébé passe comme une lettre à la poste: on ouvre le bec et on avale,
sans y penser. Est-ce que pour autant la langue maternelle vous procure une
place, et même «votre» place? (Weber 2009: 187)
[There is a language, not to be found, not to be sought either; it is
just inhaled upon arrival in the world; you eat it, you drink it. This
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baby food pops like a letter into a post-box; you just open your beak
and swallow without thinking about it. So, does your mother tongue
earn you a place, and even ‘your’ place? (AT)]
In making a link with baby food, she is implying a connection with
the mother figure. However, the link to the personality of the strong
female relative was complicated for some authors. When Canetti’s
mother forced him to learn German, he described it as ‘eingepflanzte
Muttersprache’ (Canetti 2005 [1977]: 86), an ‘implanted mother tongue’
(Canetti 1979: 70).
Sometimes the language of the relationship seems to have affected the
nature of the relationship itself and a change of language can have a profound influence. This was attested to by Gerda Lerner in her memoirs.
Gerda and her sister, Nora, spent their childhoods in German-speaking
Vienna but were separated through emigration. At the time, Gerda was
18 years old and Nora was 12. While Gerda emigrated to the United
States, Nora spent a number of years in boarding school in Switzerland,
before settling in England. In the early 1960s, she moved to Israel.
In 1948, Gerda returned to Europe for the first time since she had
emigrated. She met her sister briefly, but what should have been a
joyous occasion became rather difficult. Although they both spoke
English now, they ‘had trouble communicating with each other’. Nora
‘spoke English with a pronounced British accent’, whereas Gerda spoke
American English. Each found the other had become a cultural stranger
and they were unable to deal with the new context.
It was not until eight years later that the root of their difficulties
dawned on them. While in Gerda’s apartment washing some dishes,
one of them began humming an Austrian folksong and proceeded to
sing the German words. The other joined in and one German language
song followed another. When they finished, they hugged as if all the
barriers had been broken down, and a common language had re-united
them. However, during their infrequent visits to one another, they continued to largely communicate in English. The did not understand the
significance of the language barrier.
The original relationship was finally restored when they spent a week
together in Sicily many years later. Gerda’s husband had died and she
had wanted to spend some time with her sister; during most of that
period they spoke German with one another. They celebrated their new
closeness one night with a meal and some wine. A little inebriated,
they began telling one another jokes in German. Some were about a
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mythical Count Bobby who ‘spoke Viennese dialect in the nasal twang
characteristic of the nobility’. The use of the mother tongue re-united
them. ‘The jokes were not that funny and we were not that drunk,
but once again, language unlocked the gates and memory took over’
(Lerner 1998[1997]: 44). It had taken them years to re-discover the
depths of their relationship and the transformation only occurred when
they reverted to the dialect of their childhood: ‘What had done it was
the mother tongue, the language going even deeper than formal speech,
the actual spoken dialect of childhood.’ (Lerner 1998[1997]: 45).
Sometimes, the grandmother, rather than the mother, emerged as
a significant influence on language passion and choice. Of particular
note is Andreï Makine who suggested that his grandmother was born in
France and that French was his ‘grandmother tongue’:
Elle était née en France, au début du siècle, dans la famille de Norbert et
d’Albertine Lemonnier. Le mystère de la «petite pomme» fut probablement
la toute première légende qui enchanta notre enfance. Et aussi l’une des
premières paroles de cette langue que ma mère appelait en plaisantant – ‘ta
langue grand-maternelle’. (Makine 1995 : 14–15)
[She was born in France at the beginning of the century, into the family of Norbert and Albertine Lemonnier. The mystery of the ‘petite
pomme’ was probably the first of the legends that enchanted our
childhood. And these were also among the first words we heard
in that language which my mother used, jokingly, to call ‘your
grandmother tongue’. (Makine 2007 [1996]: 4)]
This elegant Frenchwoman was very different in her dress and her body
language from other babushkas in the locality and his ‘grandmother
tongue’ was akin to a private language or a ‘family dialect’:
Quant au français, nous le considérions plutôt comme notre dialecte familial. Après tout, chaque famille a ses petites manies verbales, ses tics
langagiers et ses surnoms qui ne traversent jamais le seuil de la maison,
son argot intime. (Makine 1995: 37)
[As for the French language, we basically regarded it as our family
dialect. After all, every family has its little verbal whims, its tics of
language, and its nicknames that never cross the threshold of the
house, its private slang. (Makine 2007 [1996]: 24)]
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However, serious doubts have been cast on the veracity of this character and Makine himself has neither confirmed nor denied the French
nature of his maternal grandmother. Whether or not Makine’s grandmother was a genuine character, there is no doubting the significance
of this female character (either imagined or real) on his feeling for
language.
The significance of the mother tongue
Thinking and feeling in a language are considered an important aspect
of defining a ‘mother tongue’ and several authors make an explicit link
between their mother tongue and their attitudes to life. The Hungarianborn Eva Almassy suggests that although she writes in French, her
mother tongue has never lost its significance:
C’est la langue de ma mère qui m’a faite telle que je suis encore. (Almassy
2009: 167)
[It is my mother’s tongue that has made me as I still am. (Almassy
2004: 264)]
The Belgium-born writer, Luc Sante regards French as the ‘archaeological site of emotions, a pipeline’ to his infant self. ‘It preserves the
very rawest, deepest, least guarded feelings’ (Sante 2003: 144). Sante now
lives in rural America and operates in an English-language environment,
but French remains his ‘mother tongue’. Although he doesn’t speak it
on a regular basis, it has never lost its hold on him:
[Y]et one way or another it informs every decision I make in the
screen language I employ in order to pass unmolested in the land
where I have lived for most of my life without shedding my internal
foreignness. French is my secret identity, inaccessible to my friends.
Sometimes I feel as though I have it all to myself. (Sante 2005: 83–4)
The Leningrad-born writer, Gary Shteyngart, also notes the ability of his
mother tongue to capture his innermost feelings:
When I return to Russia, my birth place, I cannot sleep for days. The
Russian language swaddles me. The trilling r s tickle the underside of
my feet, Every old woman cooing to her grandson is my dead grandmother. Every glum and purposeful man picking up his wife in a
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dusty Volga sedan is my father. Every young man cursing the West
with his friends over a late morning beer in the Summer Garden is
me. (Shteyngart 2005: 176)
When he lies in a hotel bed in one of the major cities in Russia, he feels
like a ‘red snapper in a Chinatown restaurant, stuffed with kh and sh
sounds instead of garlic and ginger’ (Shteyngart 2005: 178). He engages
in an exercise of listing the activities which are useful in his mother
tongue – such as ordering traditional soup or visiting the forgotten grave
of a relative.
Gino Chiellino explains that his emotions of feeling and belonging
are attached not to Italian but to Calabrian, which he controversially
regards as a full-blown language. Chiellino explains that his first thirteen years were bilingual. At home they spoke Calabrian. Italian was
the language spoken in the official sphere in southern Italy. In the
extract below, he makes a comparison with his current abode in Bavaria,
where Bavarian is spoken by the local population, although the official
language is German:
Das kommt darauf an; sagen wir so: ‘Muttersprache’ ist die Sprache, in der
ich meine Berufsidentität erworben habe, in der ich Ausbildung, Schule,
Gymnasium und Universität absolviert habe – das ist natürlich gewissermassen meine Muttersprache. Aber die Sprache, in der ich 13 Jahre lang
gelebt habe, das ist die Sprache Kalabriens, diese vollkommene, neolateinische Sprache. Die italienische Sprache war die Sprache des Schulbesuchs,
aber es war dort genauso wie es auch in Bayern mit Hochdeutsch ist:
wir haben zwar unsere Übungen auf Italienisch gemacht, aber ansonsten haben wir ‘unsere’, die einheimische Sprache gesprochen. Wir haben
in der Volksschule genau wie in der Familie oder auf der Straße geredet. Die Lehrer haben uns zwar das Italienische beibringen wollen, aber
gefühlsmäßig, zugehörigkeitsmäßig lebten wir doch in unserer einheimischen Landessprache. Die ersten 13 Jahre meines Leben habe ich ganz in
dieser Landessprache verbracht. (Chiellino, interview)
[That depends, let us say, my mother tongue is the language in which
I acquired my professional identity, in which I completed my education, at school, at high school and at university – that is naturally, as
it were, my mother tongue. But the language I lived in for 13 years is
the language of Calabria, this perfect, neo-Latin language. The Italian
language was the language of education, but it was just as it is in
Bavaria with High German: we did our exercises in Italian, but apart
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from that, we spoke our own regional tongue. In school as in the
family or in the street, we spoke the same. The teachers were certainly trying to inculcate us with Italian, but emotionally, in terms
of belonging, we lived in our indigenous language. I lived the first
thirteen years of my life in this regional language. (AT)]
As a teenager, Chiellino was dispatched to a Christian boarding school
some 500 kilometres away from home. Here he was strongly discouraged from speaking his mother tongue, which was considered less than
adequate:
Im Alter von 13 Jahren bin ich in ein Internat geschickt worden, das 500
Kilometer weit von meinem Geburtsort lag. In diesem Missionareninternat
mit Schülern aus jedem Teil Italiens habe ich von heute auf morgen, so
ohne es fast zu merken, den Übergang zur italienischen Sprache vollzogen, weil Italienisch die vorgesehene,beziebungsweise ‘vorgesetzte’ Sprache
war. Das Sprechen der eigenen Mutter-beziebungsweise. Landessprache war
als Sünde definiert und es mußte den Patern gebeicht werden. (Chiellino,
interview)
[At the age of thirteen years I was sent to a boarding school, 500 kilometres from my birthplace. In this religious boarding-school, which
had students from every part of Italy, I made the full transition to
Italian overnight, almost without noticing it, since Italian was the
presupposed language. Speaking in our mother tongue was defined
as a sin which one had to confess in the confessional. (AT)]
The transition was so complete, that he himself no longer noticed that
he was not speaking Calabrian:
Und als ich das erste Mal in den Ferien heimkam, im August, da sagte ein
Freund zu mir: Gino, du redest ja Italienisch! Das war mir noch gar nicht
bewußt geworden. So ist das also in meinem Leben – es gibt so diese drei
Sprachen, die sehr präsent sind. (Chiellino, interview)
[And when I first went home for my holidays in August, a friend said
to me ‘Gino, you are speaking Italian!’ I was not aware of this. And
that is how it is with my life – there are these three languages that are
always present. (AT)]
Despite this ‘formal’ separation from his mother tongue, it is clear that
the author is very attached to Calabrian and continues to maintain a
full relationship with it.
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However, several authors I interviewed rejected the idea of a single
mother tongue, regarding such categories as an attempt to place individuals into particular ‘boxes’ and identities which do not reflect reality.
Perhaps the notion of a single mother tongue is related to the idea that
everyone has a single biological mother, but in an age of surrogate mothers and implanted pregnancies, even that concept is no longer universal
and may be a case of ‘oversimplified reasoning’ (Carli et al. 2003).
The Slovenian writer Marica Bodrožić suggests that as she was raised
by her grandfather rather than her mother, Croatian was hardly a
mother tongue – or maybe she has two. (However, in the following
extract she is still making the link between mother and the concept
of mother tongue):
Croatian is my first language. I don’t easily call it my ‘mother tongue’
because I never had a mother in this first language. Croatian is my
first language, or let me say, one can have two Muttersprachen [mother
tongues]. I think we live in a time when two mother tongues are
normal, and it’s possible to have them both. I call German my second
Muttersprache. (Bodrožić, interview)
Marica is not happy when people regard German as a foreign language
for her, as strictly- speaking, the language does not belong to anybody.
She is part of the German language just as she is part of Croatian:
I think German was just a foreign language for me in the first few
years, but now I don’t feel that I am writing in a foreign language.
It makes me sad when people say you are writing in a foreign language, especially if the German people say that, because I don’t think
a language belongs to somebody in the strict sense of the word. Everybody can be part of it and I, in my way, am part of it. (Bodrožić,
interview)
George Steiner was also raised in a multilingual environment, although
the status of none of these languages is in dispute. He noted of
his mother that she often spoke several languages in the one sentence. She ‘habitually began a sentence in one language and ended
it in another’ and seemed unaware of the impact of such shifts and
modulations.
Languages flew about the house. English, French and German in the
dining and drawing-rooms. My nannie’s ‘Potsdam’ German in the
nursery; Hungarian in the kitchen where by accident or design, a
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succession of Magyar ladies – I remember them as voluminous and
choleric – prepared my father’s favourite dishes. (Steiner 1997: 78)
Growing up in a multilingual household means that French, German
and English are all ‘native’ languages for Steiner. His choice of language
at any particular moment is determined by circumstance rather than
ability. If French is mainly spoken during the day, then he dreams in
that language in the evening.
Steiner’s native fluency in several languages raises the question of
whether there is a ‘common language’ below his mother tongues – a
‘Muttersprache buried vertically deeper than his other native languages’
(Klosty Beaujour 1989: 32). Steiner asks whether French, English and
German constituted ‘a semantic magma’ in the early stages of his speech
formation. He queries whether ‘the three relevant language streams
intermingle completely’ or stay ‘molten’ at some linguistic core while
crystallizing ‘into distinct formations’ as they draw ‘nearer the surface’
(Steiner 1998[1975]: 123). This concept of a ‘molten core’ is critical.
Does it imply some sort of Ursprache? Is it akin to ‘Walter Benjamin’s
“pure” language, which is “imprisoned” in all actual languages’ (Klosty
Beaujour 1989: 33)? Is it simply a mixture of his different childhood
languages and does that mixture include all the languages that he has
acquired since? Has Steiner three mother tongues or one?
Although many authors connect their ‘mother tongue’ to the character of their mother, they are also keen to make a distinction between
their mother tongue and other categories of languages. While German
is Hugo Hamilton’s mother tongue, his native language is English. He
suggests: ‘I’ve three children, I have a granddaughter now. That whole
life is set in the English language so perhaps that has become my
native language’ (Hamilton, interview). For Hamilton (and others) the
language spoken by their mothers had been replaced by a new language which has become equally or more important. Alexakis says of
French:
Ce n’est plus une langue étrangère: il y a si longtemps que je l’ai appris que
j’ai l’impression de l’avoir toujours su. (Alexakis 2002: 13)
[It’s no longer a foreign language; I learned it so long ago that I have
the impression I’ve always known how to speak it. (Alexakis 2006: 3)]
Similar sentiments have been noted by the Hungarian-born Andrew
Riemer:
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If I were asked what is my first or native language I would have to
say Hungarian, though I am not at all certain that until my fourth
or fifth year German would not have had an equal claim. But clearly,
my principal language is neither Hungarian nor German, but English.
I grew up in English, my adult self is English-speaking and, more
importantly, my conceptual and intellectual life exists only within
an English-language context. (Riemer 1992: 85)
As an adult, Riemer does not possess the Hungarian vocabulary for
many concepts and expressions that he regularly uses in English. He
is unable to remember Hungarian terms for many ordinary objects and
when he reviews his Hungarian-speaking childhood, he does so through
the lens of the English language. He thinks and feels in English rather
than in either Hungarian or German (his second language). And yet he
is conscious of missing something. In personal correspondence to me
(Autumn 2010), he suggested that although English is the only language
that he can function in fully, he has continued to feel its otherness. It is
not his mother tongue.
Hugo Hamilton also notes the difference between the German he
spoke with his mother in Dublin in the 1960s and that spoken currently
in Germany:
When I speak German, it is unlike the German speakers now who can
mix in a lot of English words, like super and handy. Because of the
language rules, my German has remained very pure, almost prewar.
As one of the old women of Kempen once said: ‘German without
chewing gum’. (Hamilton, interview)
Hugo speaks an archaic form of his mother tongue – a characteristic
that frequently applies to people who no longer operate in the environment of their mother tongue. In a different context, Ascherson (1996,
100) uses the phrase ‘outpost people’ to describe individuals who faithfully defend a tradition that is far away. However, in this instance
Hamilton is hardly defending ‘pure German’. It is more that his mother
tongue is stuck in the timewarp of his childhood. Ota Filip notes a
similar phenomenon, describing his mother tongue almost as a foreign
language:
Das ist heutzutage mein Problem, die Zweisprachigkeit. Vor drei Tagen
waren wir zum Beispiel noch in Böhmen; da ist man in einer ganz anderen
Welt. Und wenn man dann wieder zurück in die bayerische Welt kommt,
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dann sind für mich beide Sprachen eigentlich Fremdsprachen. Selbst die
eigene Muttersprache entfernt sich von einem dabei; so schreibe ich beispielsweise einen regelmäßigen Kommentar für eine große Prager Zeitung, wo
man mir sagt, ich würde in einem recht archaischen Tschechisch schreiben.
Wir hatten eben lange Jahre keinen Kontakt mit der Sprache, und wenn
meine Frau und ich nun in Prag oder Böhmen mit unseren Freunden
reden, dann sagen die, wir würden ja so schön Tschechisch sprechen. Wir
haben uns die lokalen Akzente abgewöhnt, und sprechen nun ein sauberes,
‘literarisches’ Tschechisch. Wir sprechen auch ohne diese folkloristischen
Zugaben, etwa aus dem Russischen oder dem Englischen. Ich weiß nicht,
ob unser Tschechisch nun gut oder schlecht ist, aber es ist ein anderes
Tschechisch, und das kommt in dieser Form auch in meinen Büchern vor.
(Filip, interview)
[That is nowadays my problem, this bilingualism. For example, three
days ago we were still in Bohemia. That is a completely different
world. And then you come back to this Bavarian world where both
languages are for me, in a sense, foreign languages. Even one’s mother
tongue can become somewhat removed. I am writing a commentary for a large newspaper in Prague, for example, and there I am
told that I write in a very archaic Czech. We have had no contact
with the language for many years, and when my wife and I talk to
our friends in Prague or Bohemia, they always say that we speak a
lovely Czech. We no longer speak with our local accents; rather, we
speak a neat, ‘literary’, Czech. We also speak without these folkloristic
superfluities adopted from Russian or English. I can’t say whether our
Czech is good or bad, but it’s a different Czech, and that also finds its
way into my books. (AT)]
Alexakis writes in a similar vein suggesting that he had to re-learn his
mother tongue:
J’ai réalisé aussi que j’avais pas mal oublié ma langue maternelle. Je cherchais mes mots et, souvent, le premier mot qui me venait à l’esprit était
français. Le génitif pluriel me posait parfois de sérieux problèmes. Mon
grec s’était sclérosé, rouillé. Je connaissais la langue et pourtant j’avais
du mal à m’en servir, comme d’une machine dont j’aurais égaré le mode
d’emploi. Je me suis aperçu en même temps que la langue avait énormément
changé depuis que je l’avais quittée, qu’elle s’était débarrassée de beaucoup
de mots et avait créé d’innombrables nouveautés surtout après la fin de la
dictature. Il a donc fallu que je réapprenne, en quelque sorte, ma langue
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maternelle: ca n’a pas été facile, ca m’a pris des années, mais enfin, j’y
suis arrivé. (Alexakis 1989: 16–17)
[I realized I had forgotten quite a bit of my mother tongue. Often
when I would try to find the right word for something, the first word
that would come to mind was a French one. The genitive plural in
Greek gave me real trouble at times. My Greek became ossified, rusty.
I knew the language and yet had a hard time using it; it was like
a machine whose operating instructions I’d lost. I also realized that
the language had changed enormously since I had left it, that it had
rid itself of a great number of words and created countless new ones,
particularly since the end of the dictatorship. In a certain sense, then,
I had to relearn my mother tongue; it wasn’t easy, it took me years,
but finally I managed. (Waters 2009)]
Gerda Lerner reports similar difficulties with her mother tongue. She
notes that language is not simply ‘a dead body of knowledge’. Like culture itself, it is constantly in a state of flux: ‘It lives and grows’. One
can never fully master a language at a given point in time. Instead,
one must continue to speak and read it. Otherwise ‘you lose the sound,
the rhythm, the forms of your unconsciousness’. If the language lost is
one’s mother tongue, it represents a significant loss: ‘Deep memories,
resonances, sound of childhood come through the mother tongue –
when these are missing the brain cuts off connections.’ (Lerner 1998
[1997]: 39).
The translation of her book The Creation of Patriarchy into German,
served as the catalyst for Lerner’s recovery of her mother tongue. When
the German publishers offered her the right to make editorial suggestions regarding her German translation, she chose to exercise this option
and ‘carefully edited the German version’. However the process was
quite laborious for her as she was unfamiliar with many new words on
feminist discourse that had emerged in German. She sat ‘surrounded
by dictionaries, learning my own mother tongue all over again’ (Lerner
1998 [1997]: 47).
The ‘loss’ of her mother tongue was even less smooth for Marianne
Hirsch. Her very early childhood was spent in Timisoar, Romania. Until
the age of two she spoke only German although she was aware that her
Grandmother dealt in Romanian when purchasing vegetables and eggs
at the market. When her family moved to Bucharest, she acquired some
Romanian but attended a German-speaking school. Although initially
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proud of native-like German, this changed when she made friends with
a girl from East Berlin.
I quickly realize that my German, of which I had been quite
proud, is literally a Balkanization of the real thing. I learn to mimic
Berlinerisch, and I learn to be embarrassed about the way I speak
my native language. This gets worse when I move to Vienna and my
German is no longer recognized as native – at this point, though
I express myself with ease and am proud of my writing. I also don’t
have a language any more. (Hirsch 1994: 78–9)
So it seems that the notion of ‘mother tongue’ is hardly as stable or as
stabilizing as is commonly perceived and can be jettisoned or replaced,
depending on individual circumstances.
Father tongue
While the term ‘mother tongue’ is often taken for granted, feminists
often regard it as unhelpful – reminiscent of an age when children were
likely to remain at home and be educated by their mothers, who were
also confined to domestic circles. One internet site suggests that the
phrase has been feminized because the Latin term lingua is feminine.
Whatever the truth of the matter, fathers emerged as significant figures
in my research which led me to the conclusion that we tend to underestimate the influence of male figures when dealing with language
acquisition.
One could hardly avoid pointing to the influence of the French psychoanalyst, Jacques Lacan, in this debate (Homer 2005; Lacan 1989
[1966]). Drawing on Freud, Lacan develops a series of concepts to
explain different phases of a child’s development. In the early stages
of development, a child is pre-linguistic. He or she has no language
and has no sense of separate identity from the rest of the world. The
infant lives in the realm of the Real. A child cannot develop linguistic
skills without becoming aware of his or her own ego or centre of consciousness. Lacan’s theory of the ‘mirror stage’ concerns the (in)ability
of the child to recognize his or her own image in a mirror and usually
occurs between six and eighteen months. The child looks at the mirror,
identifies with the image and thinks the image to be himself/herself.
‘This identification is crucial, as without it – and without the anticipation of mastery that it establishes – the infant would never get to the
stage of perceiving him or herself as a complete or whole being’ (Homer
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2005: 25). At the same time, the image is problematic as it confuses the
self: ‘The image actually comes to take the place of the self. Therefore,
the sense of a unified self is acquired at the price of this self being another.’ (Homer 2005: 25). The image in the mirror is that of the child
and yet it is not the child. It is a reflection. It is an illusion. It is imaginary and yet it is through this object that the child sees him or herself.
The child is entering the Imaginary phase.
The role of the Imaginary is crucial to Lacan’s theory of development and is part of a trilogy which also includes the Real and the
Symbolic. Žižek defines the three phases as follows: ‘ “Imaginary” is the
deceptive universe of fascinating images and the subject’s identification with them; “Symbolic” is the differential structure which organizes
our experience of meaning; “Real” is the point of resistance, the traumatic “indivisible remainder” that resists symbolization.’ (Žižek 2003
[2002]: 2).
According to Lacan, the mother’s place tends to be in the Real and the
Real is always in its place. (In all of this there is a suggestion of ‘putting
women in their place’!) This hypothesis can raise many hackles as it
appears to privilege the status of the male figure and denigrate that of
the female. The father denotes the Symbolic, which could be interpreted
as the most advanced of the three phases. The child enters the Symbolic
when he or she becomes aware of the relationship between the father
and the mother. At this point, the child begins to vie with the father for
attention from the mother. However, the infant fears castration by the
father as a consequence of competition for the mother’s attention.
An important element of language acquisition is the recognition of
difference. Not only is it a sign different from other signs, it also represents absence, i.e. the absence of the object that the sign represents
(O’Sullivan 2006). The child’s acquisition of language occurs as he or
she becomes aware of sexual difference between his or her parents. The
father has a penis but the mother does not. Lacan’s theory gives undue
emphasis to the phallus – or more correctly to the mother’s lack of a
penis. The formation of the child’s identity appears to rest on his or
her recognition of sexual difference between the father and the mother.
As the mother does not have a penis she becomes a marker of difference.
The child’s entry into the Symbolic coincides with the disruption
of unity with his or her mother. At the same time, the child identifies the father with the Symbolic order while also becoming aware
of him or herself within that order. According to Lacan, awareness of
the phallus (rather than the penis) is crucial for entering into the symbolic phase. The acquisition of language is also a form of castration as
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the child realizes that it cannot possess the phallus (which is symbolic
rather than real) and ultimately symbolizes lack within the Symbolic
order. As the child gains language, he or she is also becoming aware of
absence within the Symbolic order and the potential for vulnerability
and incompletion. As no one possesses the phallus, all are castrated.
The symbolic fear of castration is evident early in Elias Canetti’s memoir, Die gerettete Zunge. The female figure that is taking care of Elias is
engaged in an illicit secret liaison with a young man. They wish their
liaison to remain secret and must persuade the child to hold his tongue.
This is accomplished through threatening to cut off Elias’ tongue:
‘Zeig die Zunge!’ Ich strecke die Zunge heraus, er greift in seine Tasche,
zieht ein Taschenmesser hervor, öffnet es und führt die Klinge ganz nahe
an meine Zunge heran. Er sagt ‘Jetzt schneiden wir ihm die Zunge ab’.
Ich wage es nicht, die Zunge zurückzuziehen, er kommt immer näher, gleich wird er sie mit der Klinge berühren. Im letzten Augenblick zieht er
das Messer zurück, sagt: ,Heute noch nicht, morgen‘. Er klappt das Messer
wieder zu und steckt es in seine Tasche. (Canetti 2005 [1977]: 9)
[‘Show me your tongue.’ I stick out my tongue, he reaches into his
pocket, pulls out a jackknife, opens it, and brings the blade all the
way to my tongue. He says: ‘Now we’ll cut off his tongue.’ I don’t
dare pull back my tongue, he comes closer and closer, the blade will
touch me any second. In the last moment, he pulls back the knife,
saying: ‘Not today, tomorrow.’ He snaps the knife shut again and puts
it back in his pocket. (Canetti 1979: 3)]
Later in the memoir, Elias’ father emerges as a significant influence
on the child’s development. When the family move to England, Elias’
father encourages him to read in English and to discuss those books
with him in English. They share walks along the River Mersey and
discuss their love of the English language. At one point, the father
expresses his love for the English word ‘meadow’. Elias subsequently
declares that it remained the most beautiful word in English for him.
‘His intimacy with his father is founded in English’ (O’Sullivan 2006:
135). When the father dies unexpectedly, Elias’ mother copes with her
grief by teaching her son German, the language of the former relationship between herself and her husband. In learning the language
of communication between his parents, Elias is entering a new stage
of maturity. ‘He continues to speak in his father’s place and finally
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occupies the position of responsibility and maturity that he aspired to
when younger.’ (O’Sullivan 2006: 136).
Clearly Canetti’s relationship with his father was a happy one and this
applied to many of the authors whose fathers had strong influence on
their language choice. Liam Carson speaks affectionately of the father
figure in his household. He says:
Really, it really started with my father, as I tell the story in the
book. My father would have been very nationalist in his outlook.
And it was a very old style kind of nationalism, very orthodox, a
very conservative kind of nationalism. You are not talking about a
Marxist revolutionary kind of nationalism. That didn’t really exist in
the milieu that he was growing up in. He would have been a very
devoted Catholic. His form of nationalism was very romantic really.
He would have idealized De Valera for example. He would have had
a very dreamy concept of what the Irish republic was. It was one
that would not necessarily have borne any relationship to the reality of what the Irish republic was. He would have aspired to a united
Ireland obviously. (Carson, interview)
Although Belfast was an English-speaking environment, Carson’s relationship with his father was in the Irish language:
I only had two or three conversations in English with my father in his
entire life. It was still in Irish. And I would have felt awkward speaking
to my father in English, because I would have felt that I was betraying
him. It actually didn’t feel natural either. (Carson, interview)
Liam Carson speaks lovingly of his memories of his father, suggesting that ‘what survives most of him is his voice and the Irish language’
(Carson 2010: 110). When Liam dreams of him, his father is always
speaking in Irish. Carson also notes the elements of language choice in
his relationship with his father. At one stage, his father told him that he
understood that Liam was living in a different generation and a world
that was very different from the father’s youth. He suggested that if Liam
wished to communicate with his father through the medium of English
instead of Irish, he would understand. However Liam continued to speak
in Irish with his father. He ‘was afraid to break his heart, to fail him, to
betray what he loved most’ (Carson 2010: 107).
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Liam’s father was a great storyteller, which is the hallmark of many a
native speaker of Irish (Kiberd 2005). His father would delight the child,
Liam, with his stories in the Irish language:
He actually picked up all those storytelling techniques in Donegal,
the tricks and the devices that storytellers like Micí Sheáin Néill used.
He was a great story teller. That’s the thing I remember most about
my father and my childhood. He would lie in the bed beside you with
his arm around you at night. He would have a cigarette and we would
turn out the lights and he would illustrate the story with the glowing
tip of his cigarette. I associate the smell of tobacco with storytelling.
(Carson, interview)
This is a custom that Liam has maintained with his own young
daughter:
Like my father, I’m the one who puts her to bed and I read books
to her. Now, she can’t read yet but she is not far off. She is a smart
wee thing. Half of the books would be in Irish and half of the books
would be in English. But at the start I was reading all the books in
Irish even though they were in English, and then she started going:
‘Daidí, Daidí. Tá an leabhar sin i mBéarla. Cén fáth go bhfuil tú ag léamh
an Leabhair sin i nGaeilge?’ (‘Daddy, Daddy, that book is in English.
Why are you reading the book in Irish?’). She could tell by looking at
the pages that the language was not the same. Even though she can’t
read yet, she could tell the difference between Irish and English. Irish
has the fadas (accents).
His daughter clearly enjoys the tradition and insists on her own playful
‘twist’ on the stories:
And now what she is starting to say is things like: ‘déanfaimid na
scéalta uilig i mBéarla anocht.’ (We will do all the stories in English
tonight.) And you have to do them all in English. And then the next
night: ‘déanfaimid na scéalta uilig a léamh i nGaeilge anocht.’ (We will
do all the stories in Irish tonight.) And then I’d be really tired and
I’d say: ‘Can we just do the books in Irish in Irish and the books
in English in English. I’ve had a really long day and I have to think
about translating. It is not that easy, you know.’ ‘No, no, no.’ Into the
bargain she’d say that she wants to change the gender of everybody.
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‘Is cailíní iad uilig anocht, Daidí.’ (‘They are all girls tonight, Daddy.’)
or changing all their names! (Carson, interview)
This relationship in Irish that Liam maintained with his father (and now
with his daughter) does not involve any disrespect for English. On the
contrary, his father loved English literature:
He was very well read. On the one hand he was immersed in Irish but
he also adored English literature. He would have known chunks of
Shakespeare by heart, all those sort of Victorian writers like Rudyard
Kipling. He adored Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. He loved ‘The Green Eye
of the Little Yellow God’ by J. Milton Hayes, Robert Service, nonsense
poetry, Lewis Carroll and all that kind of poetry. (Carson, interview)
This also applied to Lorcán Ó Treasaigh’s father who reared his children
in Irish but also loved English. Of his father, Lorcán says:
He was a great lover of English literature and our house was falling
down with English literature and Irish was never seen to preclude
English. And we were never encouraged to stay away from all things
English. My father was a great lover of Shakespeare and would quote
Shakespeare all day long. He could quote all the great classic writers of
England. Dylan Thomas was his favourite poet and I read and listened
to English literature all through my youth with him. We’d be working
in the garden and he’d call out a poem and so on. So it was never
like that, you know, we were never to fear English, and I never did,
because of that. (Ó Treasaigh, interview)
In many instances, it is quite clear that the father played a significant
role on the child’s approach to language. Ota Filip describes the context in which his father switched the child from a Czech-medium to a
German-medium school:
Ja, das war im Jahr 1939. Am 15. März besetzte Hitler auch den Rest
der Tschechischen Republik. Mein Vater war ein ziemlich reicher Mann
und hat mich, um sich zu retten, auf die deutsche Schule geschickt. (Filip,
interview)
[Yes, that was in the year 1939. On March 15th Hitler occupied the
remainder of the Czech Republic.My father was a man of considerable wealth, and he sent me to the German school for his own
protection. (AT)]
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At that time, Ota spoke ‘street German’ but initially this proved insufficient for the classroom and the child suffered a great deal from the
mockery of his classmates:
Das war für mich eine Katastrophe, ich sprach ja nur dieses Deutsch von
der Straße und saß in der Schule in der hintersten Bank. Ich verstand
überhaupt nicht, was da los war . . . Außerdem war ich ja ein TSCHUSCHE.
Die Sudetendeutschen in der Tschechischen Republik bezeichneten die
Tschechen als TSCHUSCHE. Ich war also der Blöde, der nichts sagt, und ich
hatte auch Angst davor, etwas zu sagen. Aber dann habe ich natürlich
Deutsch gelernt. (Filip, interview)
[That was a catastrophe for me. I spoke only this German from the
street, and at the new school I sat on the back bench. I no idea what
was going on. . . . Moreover, I was a TSCHUSCHE. The Sudeten Germans
had a word for us Czechs, TSCHUSCHE. I was that yokel who never
says anything, and actually I was afraid to speak. But in the end I did
learn German, of course. (AT)]
Some of the writers that I interviewed expressed very difficult relationships with their fathers, which inevitably impacted on their attitudes to
the languages that the father spoke. Hugo Hamilton’s father prohibited
the use of English in the house and insisted that German or Irish were
the languages of the home. His father was a passionate Irish nationalist
who fervently desired the conversion of the Irish people to their ancestral language; ‘so he made a rule that we can’t speak English, because
your home is your language and he wants us to be Irish and not British’
(Hamilton 2003: 12–13). This was an unfortunate scenario for Hugo’s
mother, who had come to Ireland specifically to speak English. (Perhaps
it was her lack of English that endeared her to his father in the first
instance!)
His father’s passion for Irish often led him into trouble. At work, for
example, he refused to reply to a letter that was addressed to him with
an Anglicized form of his name: ‘He kept sending it back because that
was not his name. He told them there was nobody by the name of John
Hamilton working at the Electricity Supply Board in Dublin.’ (Hamilton
2003: 116–17). The lack of response and difficulty in communicating
with him did not endear him to the people in Mullingar who considered their need for electricity far more important than his desire to be
addressed in Irish: ‘[T]hen the boss at the ESB refused to give my father
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promotion because the Irish language was bad for business’ (Hamilton
2003: 116–17).
The father appears to have meted out very strong punishment to the
children when they broke the language rule and spoke English. In the
following incident Hugo describes his father’s reaction to the child after
he brought English words into the house.
He picked out a stick in the greenhouse and said we had to make a
sacrifice. He brought me up the stairs and my mother closed all the
doors in the house so that nobody would hear anything. When we
got to the landing, my father said that we would kneel down and
pray that he was doing the right thing for Ireland. We kneeled down
and asked God how many lashes he thought was fair and my father
said fifteen. I was hoping that God said no lashes, because I didn’t
mean it and maybe it was better for Ireland to give me a last chance.
But my father heard God saying fifteen and not one less. So then he
brought me into a room and told me to lie down on the bed and take
down my trousers. I heard the stick whistling through the air, but it
didn’t hurt at all because I knew I was making a sacrifice. (Hamilton
2003: 158)
The father’s prohibition on English extended to the children’s circle
of friends. They were only allowed to play with other children who
were fluent in the Irish language and had demonstrated their skill in
Irish to the satisfaction of Hugo’s father. It was not until much later
in life that Hugo heard his father speak to him in English, ‘in his own
language’:
What occurs to me now is that my father was always talking to me in
a foreign language. His native language was English, the language
his own mother sang songs and told bedtime stories in. Because
my father always spoke to us in a foreign language, he left himself
exposed to misunderstanding. In his soft Cork accent, he seemed like
a nicer man, but we rarely saw that side of him. (Hamilton interview)
Up until that point, Hugo’s father spoke to the children in either
German or Irish; ‘languages that were never his own’. Now he was
speaking to them in ‘the language of his childhood, the language of
his memory, the language of his own mother’. It was ‘as if he’s got his
voice back after years of exile’ (Hamilton 2003: 235–6).
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When I interviewed Hugo, he suggested that his father was engaged
in ‘cultural warfare’, one that was similar to that which his mother had
experienced in Nazi Germany:
I focused on the uncompromising crusade which my father had initiated in the home and which became a repetition of what my mother
had experienced in Nazi Germany, that conscription into an ideology. There are parallels which I draw from my story between the language war in our home and the history of fascist ideology. My father
demanded absolute loyalty. He used the language as a weapon and
began destroying it at the same time. (Hamilton, interview)
Hugo queries whether there is a link between this father’s fanaticism
and his Catholic up-bringing:
I often wonder if there is an overlap between absolute Catholic faith
and the absolute fascist allegiance, perhaps there is a strong similarity
between the blind obedience to God and the same ecstatic obedience
to nationalism. What I find so interesting now is that by marrying a
migrant German woman, my father was able to stifle any opposition
inside the home, thereby creating a family dictatorship, separated as
much as possible from the outside world and any potential dissent
from relatives. And yet, my mother started a resistance movement in
her own children. (Hamilton, interview)
Natascha Wodin appears to have had an equally turbulent relationship with her father, although in this instance the emphasis was on
culture rather than on language per se. Her father was a Russian refugee
in Germany who refused to learn the German language. At the same
time, he appeared to be in awe of the German culture:
Er hat das Deutsche zwar abgelehnt und die Sprache nie gelernt. Aber die
deutsche Sauberkeit, ja, offenbar war etwas in ihm, daß dass doch deutsch
sein wollte. Er hatte bestimmt einen starken Minderwertigkeitskomplex, wie
fast alle Russen gegenüber den Westeuropäern und erst recht gegenüber
den Deutschen mit ihrer Ordentlichkeit und Pünktlichkeit, dazu die vielen genialen Dichter und Denker und die weltberühmte deutsche Technik
und so weiter, wahrscheinlich war es seine heimliche Sehnsucht, auch ein
Deutscher zu sein. Aber das hätte er nie zugegeben. (Wodin, interview)
[He rejected all things German and never learned the language. But
the German cleanliness, yes, apparently there was something in him
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that wanted to be German after all. He probably had a strong inferiority complex, like most Russians towards Western Europeans and
most of all towards the Germans, because the Germans are so tidy,
so punctual, they have so many brilliant poets and philosophers and
such amazing technology and so on, and probably he had a secret
desire to be German as well. But he would never have admitted
that. (AT)]
He constantly berated his wife and children for not achieving a German
standard of cleanliness in the home – an achievement that would have
been impossible in a battered hut in a refugee camp.
Ja, es war nie sauber genug. ‘Bei den Deutschen kann man vom Boden
essen’, hat er immer gesagt. Und es ist ja wirklich so. Bei uns zu Hause
hätte man nicht vom Boden essen können, da hätte der Sand zwischen den
Zähnen geknirscht. (Wodin, interview)
[Yes, it was never clean enough for him. ‘In a German household, you
can eat from the floor’, he used to say. Well, that’s the way it is. Back
home you couldn’t have eaten from the floor. The sand would have
crunched between the teeth. (AT)]
Fortunately not all father/children relationships were as traumatic as
that of Wodin or Hamilton.
Parental roles
The language of the home was an important focal point in all of the
instances I dealt with. While most families do not consciously think
about or deliberate on the language to be spoken in the home, the scenario is entirely different for migrants or for those in a dual language
environment. Liam Carson suggests that his parents had made a conscious decision to raise their children through the Irish language. They
were going to give them an opportunity they had not enjoyed themselves: ‘Together, my Ma and Da set out to create a home that would be
a microcosm of the kingdom they wanted to see.’ (Carson 2010: 26).
Lorcán Ó Treasaigh records a similar conscious decision by his parents:
My parents were very ardent products of the language revival movement after the declaration of the Republic, I suppose, in the fifties.
We spoke Irish only in the house as that was the family, and therefore
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native, language. English was simply not our language. (Ó Treasaigh,
interview)
Like Liam’s parents, they were determined that their children would
enjoy an opportunity they never had for themselves:
Deis ní raibh acu beirt ceol an oileáin a chloisteáil agus iad in aois leanaí,
ach ní leasc le Cumhall a insint dá ghrá geal lena thaobh, fiú ma chuireann
sé a grua geal ag loisceadh, go mbeidh an ceol céanna ag a gclann mhac is
iníon gan aon eagla.
Aireoidh siad é ar bhéalaibh a muintire ina dtimpeall, cois tine ar
maidin, ina phaidir san oíche. Seasfaidh mac an tí amach ar an saol seo
mar a sheasann an rón san uisce, mar a sheasann na caiple ar na bántaibh
agus déarfaidh leis an domhan mór gur as cruth a athar a tháinig sé agus
ceol a shinsear ar a bheolaibh. (Ó Treasaigh 2002: 142)
[Neither of them had an opportunity to hear the music of the island
[Irish] as children but Cumhall did not hesitate to tell his dear love
by his side, even if it embarrassed her, that their sons and daughters
would hear the same music without doubt.
They would hear it in the mouths of the family around them, by
the fire in the morning, at prayer in the evening. The son of the house
would stand out in this life in the way that the seal stands in water,
or the horses in the fields and declare to the wide world that he had
emerged from the heritage of his father and the ancestral language
on his lips. (AT)]
In some instances, there was a strong element of bilingualism in the
house with the parents speaking one language among themselves and
another with their children. Some authors recall the grown-ups speaking a language between themselves that was different from that spoken
with the children. For Eva Hoffman, Yiddish was the ‘language of emotions’ for her parents (Hoffman 1998[1989]: 70). Luc Sante suggests that
his parents sometimes spoke to each other in Walloon, especially when
they did not wish the children to be involved in the conversation (Sante
2003: 158). Elias Canetti records a sense of exclusion during his parents’ conversations. When his father arrived home from work, he would
instantly start speaking in German with his mother. They were very
much in love and German was the channel through which that love
flowed. Elias would often feel left out:
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Es fiel ihnen nicht ein, mich zu verdächtigen, aber unter den vielen heftigen
Wünschen dieser Zeit blieb es für mich der heftigste, ihre geheime Sprache
zu verstehen. Ich kann nicht erklären, warum ich dem Vater nicht eigentlich
dafür grollte. Wohl aber bewahrte ich einen tiefen Groll gegen die Mutter
und er verging erst, als sie mir Jahre später, nach seinem Tod, selber Deutsch
beibrachte. (Canetti 2005[1977]: 35)
[It never dawned on them to suspect me, but among the many
intense wishes of that period, the most intense was my desire to
understand their secret language. I cannot explain why I didn’t really
hold it against my father. I did nurture a deep resentment toward my
mother, and it vanished only years later, after his death, when she
herself began teaching the German. (Canetti 1979: 24)]
Sometimes the language spoken between parents and children was a
cause of intense friction in the home. Once Natascha Wodin acquired
German at school, she was keen to speak that language in the home,
but neither of her parents subscribed to the idea – of course, her father
could not actually speak that language:
Meine Mutter hat Deutsch gesprochen, aber nicht mit mir. Meine beiden
Eltern haben mit mir nur Russisch gesprochen. In den ersten Jahren konnte
ich ja auch gar nicht Deutsch, ich habe es erst in der Schule gelernt, ziemlich schnell, und von da ab wollte ich nicht mehr Russisch sprechen. Da
gab es zu Hause immer Kämpfe mit meinen Eltern; mein Vater verstand
sowieso kein Deutsch, und wenn ich meine Mutter auf Deutsch ansprach,
hat sie mir oft nicht geantwortet, obwohl sie mich verstanden hat. Mit der
Zeit hat es sich dann so eingebürgert, dass ich mit meiner Mutter Deutsch
gesprochen habe und sie mit mir Russisch. (Wodin, interview)
[My Mother spoke German but not with me. Both my parents spoke
to me only in Russian. In the early years I also did not know any
German, I learned it in school later, pretty quickly, and from then
on I did not wish to speak Russian any more. There were many fights
about that at home with my parents; my father could not understand
any German and when I spoke German to my mother, she would
often not reply, even though she had understood me. With time, it
evolved into a situation where I would speak German to my mother
and she would answer in Russian. (AT)]
What is most interesting, however, is the impact of the language divide
on the parent/child relationship. Migrant children can quickly become
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aware of parental hesitations and inaccuracies in the new language.
More often than not, the hesitations of their parents are a source of discomfort or even mortification. Andrew Riemer notes of his father that
his English was slow and deliberate: ‘He spoke in a carefully measured
way, with frequent pauses that were often the cause of some embarrassment.’ Riemer suspects that his father continued to think in Hungarian
while speaking in English and was constantly translating in his head.
In contrast, his mother’s English was ‘chaotic, observing no known
rules, haphazard, with a wild disregard for case, tense and gender’.
It would appear that he had a higher regard for his mother’s than for his
father’s ability in the language as she could more easily communicate ‘a
considerable range of tone and nuance’ (Riemer 1992: 116).
Riemer suspects that his parents’ hesitations in English severely
impacted on their integration into Australian society and like many
migrants at the time, they never lost their awkwardness:
People like them lived, at best, a half-life; they belonged to no
society, they were isolated from the world. They frequently seemed
grotesque when their uncertain pronunciation, insecure grammar
and very confused command of idiom led them into linguistic traps
or dead-ends. Of course, they could manage to communicate up
to a point; but subtlety and richness of nuance were completely
beyond their capabilities. They lived in a linguistic limbo. (Riemer
1992: 115)
The impact on their native, Hungarian language was also negative.
As his parents and other migrants of that generation acquired new
vocabulary in English, they subjected the English expressions to the
structural and grammatical rules of Hungarian. Ultimately they spoke
a private language that was not comprehensible to Hungarian-speakers
either. Effectively, they were in a ‘neither-nor’ linguistic context.
Many parents do struggle to acquire the new language for the sake
of their children. In recognition of their efforts, Karla Schultz (1985)
has suggested that the notion of ‘mother tongue’ should be revised
to include the language the mother figure learns for or from her children. In this, Schultz (1985) is enhancing the concept to include a
language newly learned by a mother for the sake of her children. Some
authors marked this parental effort in their own households. Marica
Bodrožić suggests that, despite their difficulties, her parents continued
to speak German for the sake of integrating the children into the host
German society as quickly as possible. However, these efforts were not
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always successful, and her parents often ended up speaking a mixture of
Croatian and German:
My parents tried to speak German with us, but now I know it was
not a good form of German. We were children and we thought our
parents were able to speak good German, but that was not really the
case. It was grammatically confused when they searched for words.
But they spoke German for us to strengthen the feeling that we were
now living here in Germany. But in the end it was a mixture of these
two languages. (Bodrožić, interview)
Such linguistic limbos are common and can place migrant children in a
difficult situation. The psychologist, Helen Lynd notes that children of
immigrant parents are often torn between the admiration they expect
to feel for their parents and the shame they actually experience in their
parents’ incomplete integration into the new society. The child belongs
neither to the ancestral culture nor to the culture into which they have
migrated. The tension can lead to exaggerated efforts on the part of the
child to assimilate quickly. This creates a gap between him or her and
the parents who are lagging behind (Lynd (2001) [1958]: 55).
In his novel Disguise, Hugo Hamilton describes such a scenario in
Berlin where mothers of Turkish origin are shopping with their Berlinborn children. These mothers are at a loss to correct their children in
German and ‘cannot tell the difference between hazelnuts and chestnuts
until they hear the words in their own language’ (Hamilton 2008: 21).
Angelika Bammer suggests that such situations can often lead to a reversal of roles which can have a strong impact on family structures. In some
instances traditional roles of authority are reversed as parents struggle
to acquire the new language while their children quickly become fluent
and accent-free. While children become experts in the new language,
their parents can become childlike in their inability to cope with situations that require considerable knowledge of the language. (Bammer
1994b: 100–1).
Many of the authors I interviewed had experienced examples of this.
Andrew Riemer suggested that for him there was definitely a change of
roles:
I was the one to read letters from banks etc. which my parents
couldn’t quite understand; I was the one who wrote letters for them.
I remember one thing vividly. When I was thirteen our fourteen and
a friend of my parents asked me to go with him to a doctor because
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his English was even worse than my parents’ at the time. And it was
there that I had to tell him that he had incurable, inoperable cancer.
(Riemer, personal communication 2010)
However, he also suggests that the change in generational roles only
applied to the linguistic sphere. In all other matters, his mother and
father were still in charge. Marica Bodrožić also confirmed the temporary nature of the role reversal:
Sometimes, when they had letters they couldn’t understand –
perhaps something about the apartment or about contracts, they
asked us for help. In these situations we had this different role
but, the rest of the time we had a normal parental–child relationship. (Bodrožić, interview)
For Natascha Wodin, the role reversal was fortuitous as it gave her an
ability to undermine her overly authoritarian father:
Mit meinem Vater war es anders. Mein Vater war ja nicht fragil wie meine
Mutter, sondern sehr machtvoll, gewalttätig, ich habe sehr unter ihm gelitten. Aber wenn es ans Deutsche ging, war ich ihm überlegen, dann war
ich die Stärkere, weil er ja die Sprache der Welt, in der er lebte, nicht
verstand und mich als Dolmetscherin brauchte. Er kam allein überhaupt
nicht zurecht, er konnte nicht einmal einkaufen gehen, geschweige denn
auf Ämterund so weiter. Da war dann immer die Chefin. Und ich konnte
ihn immer anlügen. Wenn ich schlechte Noten in der Schule hatte, die ich
ihm nicht zeigen wollte, konnte ich zum Beispiel sagen, dieses Jahr hat es
keine Zeugnisse gegeben. Er wusste, dass das nicht stimmen kann, aber
er konnte nicht in die Schule gehen und es nachprüfen, er war sprachlos.
Das Deutsche bot mir Schlupfwinkel, in die ich ihm entkommen konnte.
(Wodin, interview)
[With my father it was different. My father was not fragile like my
mother, but rather very powerful, violent, I suffered a great deal under
him. But when it came to German, I was superior to him in terms of
language. I was stronger, since he did not understand the language of
the world in which he lived, he needed me as an interpreter. He could
not do anything on his own, he could not go shopping alone, never
mind dealing with officials etc. Then I was always in charge. I was
able to lie to him then. When I got bad marks in school that I did
not wish to show him, for example, I could tell him that there were
no reports given out at school this year. He knew it couldn’t be true
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but he couldn’t go into the school to check it out, he was speechless.
German gave me a refuge where I could escape from him. (AT)]
The role reversal gained a more permanent status when her father aged
and became ill. In the following passage, she describes her father as
effectively her child:
Ja, im Altersheim wurde er dann mein Kind. Er konnte sich ja auch dort
mit niemandem verständigen, nicht mit dem Personal, nicht mit Ärzten,
dort war er stark auf mich angewiesen und zudem körperlich sehr schwach,
so dass ich ihm oft beistehen musste. Ja, im Alter war mein Vater mein
Kind geworden. (Wodin, interview)
[Yes, in the nursing home he really became my child. He did not
know how to communicate with anyone, with the staff, with the
doctors, he was very reliant on me and his body was very weak
so he always needed me. Yes, in his old age my father became my
child. (AT)]
Occasionally the role reversal became a source of delight as the children revelled in their superior knowledge and imagined themselves as
teachers. The Moscow-born writer, Irina Reyn, describes her joy in her
role as ‘child turned patient teacher’ (Reyn 2000: 149). Her parents relied
on her to interpret their new American world for them: ‘They would sit
amused, listening to my erudite deconstruction of why Chachi was the
sexiest boy in America, or my authoritative translation of an episode
of All in the Family.’ (Reyn 2000: 150). Hugo Hamilton also enjoyed
his role as teacher of Irish to his mother: ‘She thought it was funny
that I was teaching her how to speak. I was the teacher now and she
was the schoolgirl learning to say the words and trying to grow up.’
(Hamilton 2003: 76). Mostly, however, role reversals appear to have
generated tensions and embarrassment.
The anxieties described in the situations above point to the roles of
the parents and children in public and private spheres and the tensions between them in these contexts. For the parents, it is much more
difficult – and sometimes impossible – to acquire the language necessary to deal with issues in the public domain. In contrast, the children
are much more likely to assimilate – and as we shall see in the next
chapter – endeavour to bring the language of the public domain home.
In Eva Hoffman’s case, for example, she places a high value on her ability to acquire English to deal with the host community. She needs to be
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in control. She adopts a rather patronizing attitude to her mother who
has not been as successful as Eva in acquiring English and is therefore
marginalized in the public sphere (Fachinger 2001: 119). Eva says:
I’ve gained some control, and control is something I need more than
my mother did. I have more of a public life, in which it’s important to
appear strong . . . . My mother stays close to herself, as she stays close
to home. She pays a price for her lack of self-alienation – the price of
extremity, of being in extremis, of suffering. She can only be herself;
she can’t help that either. She doesn’t see herself as a personage; she’s
not someone who tells herself her own biography. (Hoffman 1998
[1989]: 270)
Eva is determined to maintain a front in the public sphere. She says that
she has ‘developed a certain kind of worldly knowledge, and a public self
to go with it. That self is the most American thing about me.’ However,
as outlined in the next chapter, the separation of the public and private
self is often at great cost.
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5
Self and Other in Dialogue
Inner conversations are a natural state of activity for all of us. We
constantly chatter ‘in our heads’ with our partners, our parents and with
significant others about matters relating to daily life. These imagined
conversations help us deal with the environment in which we live. The
significance of these dialogues for the development of a sense of self is
the cornerstone of dialogical self theory, which has been created and
developed in the last two decades by the Dutch psychologist, Hubert
Hermans (Hermans and Kempen 1993). While the folk one converses
with ‘in one’s head’ are real people – i.e. one’s parents, partners, teachers, children etc. – the conversations are virtual and may not necessarily
involve sound. We need not necessarily speak actual words, but the dialogues are nevertheless very real to us. Charles Taylor suggests that we
never really outgrow our parents. We remain in dialogue with them in
our heads – even after they have died – ‘the conversation with them
continues within us as long as we live’ (Taylor 1994: 33). ‘Even at the
moment when you let fly an expletive, you may almost simultaneously
find a voice in your head saying that you shouldn’t really have said that,
and that you should check that nobody has heard you.’ (Thompson
2009: 33).
Just as one holds conversations with imaginary others, one can also
hold inner conversations with oneself. This is what might be called a
‘two-in-one’ dialogue. Hannah Arendt believed that this duality is at
the core of our thinking activity: ‘It is this duality of myself with myself
that makes thinking a true activity, in which I am, both the one who
asks and the one who answers.’ Arendt argues that thinking in this matter is essentially dialectical since ‘it goes through this questioning and
answering process’. It is a ‘travelling through words’ (Arendt 2000: 408).
The individual self is holding conversations with several ‘I-positions’.
105
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In this chapter, I am particularly interested in exploring the impact of
language transitions on such conversations and what they might mean
for one’s self identity.
Inner dialogues and personal narratives
We might use the phrase ‘inner conversations’ to describe these imaginary conversations in our heads. Vološinov and Bakhtin articulated
the notion of language itself as a dialogue or conversation. It is the
tool with which we communicate with our parents, our siblings and
the wider community. It ‘develops through mediation with others’ and
involves going outside oneself whether in a real or imagined fashion to
engage with the wider world (Cronin 2000: 35). Vološinov and Bakhtin
propose that inner speech is best regarded as a conversation: ‘a continuous two-way interaction between the subjective and the social’ (Morris
2003 [1994]: 49). The Russian philosophers suggest that all utterances
are two-way activities; they are inherently dialogues. This leads them to
argue that the basic reality of language is not simply linguistic forms or
monologic sounds. Instead it is the interaction that takes place when
something is uttered.
Vološinov proposes that every word is two-sided and has two faces,
like Janus. The same phrase can be interpreted as a curse or a blessing,
depending on the context. Whether it is regarded as truth or a lie is
determined both by the speaker and the audience. A word is ‘the product of the reciprocal relationship between speaker and listener, addresser
and addressee’ (Vološinov 1973 [1929]: 86). Every word is an expression of a relationship. Words can be described as bridges that operate
between people. There is an individual at either end of the bridge, the
speaker and the intended audience: ‘A word is a territory shared by the
addresser and addressee, by the speaker and his interlocutor.’ (Vološinov
1973 [1929]: 86). An utterance is never a monologue. It always implies
a dialogue between two or more voices and develops at the boundary
between perspectives.
This is not simply a twentieth-century proposition – since it appears
that Socrates himself emphasizes the inherent duality of solitary talk.
In Hippias Major (one of the contested dialogues), Socrates describes his
return home to Hippias, whom he considers rather dull. He suggests that
unlike Hippias, he Socrates will return home to a fellow companion who
will cross-examine him. Although he will be by himself, he will not
be alone. ‘What Socrates discovered was that we can intercourse with
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ourselves, as well as with others, and that the two kinds of intercourse
are somehow related.’ (Arendt 2000: 410).
The implications of this are that language never entirely belongs to
oneself. Instead it serves as a boundary or a border between one voice
and another. In language, the word belongs half to elsewhere. There
is no such thing as a neutral language as we might imagine in a dictionary. Language exists in the uttering – ‘in other people’s mouths,
in other people’s contexts, serving other people’s intentions’ (Bakhtin
1981: 294). It is in that context that an individual takes words and tries
to appropriate and transform them and the process is not necessarily
always successful: ‘[M]any words stubbornly resist, others remain alien,
sound foreign in the mouth of the one who appropriated them and who
now speaks them; they cannot be assimilated into his context and fall
out of it’. Language never becomes the private property of a particular individual. Instead the influences of others and their intentions can
not be ignored and every conversation is filtered through other people’s
interpretations and expectations. (Bakhtin 1981: 294).
All of this might imply that at least the initial expression remains
independent of the dialogic context – i.e. that the dialogue only begins
with the first utterance. Not so, according to Bakhtin. Even an initial
speech act is shaped by the anticipated response. It takes account of the
receiving audience and how they might react to the utterance. The initial utterance is hardly the ‘first word’ in any real sense. Instead it is
shaped, not just by anticipated responses, but also in response to previous statements on the subject on other occasions. Each utterance is a
link in a chain of responses which form the human consciousness. It is
part of the process of evolution: ‘The utterance therefore participates
equally in a synchronic and a diachronic dimension – it is of its own
concrete contextual moment and part of the long evolution of social
change.’ (Morris 2003 [1994]: 5).
This also has implications for the concept of understanding which
is also dialogic in nature. Understanding another’s utterance involves
a process of personal orientation and finding a corresponding context.
There is a chain of activities involved as one participates in a process
of understanding. Usually this activity requires translating the utterance into a responsive context. ‘Understanding is to utterance as one
line of a dialogue is to the next. Understanding strives to match the
speaker’s word with a counter word.’ (Vološinov 1994: 53). It is only
when operating in a foreign tongue, that one tries to respond with ‘the
“same” word in one’s own language’ rather than with a corresponding
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word. For individuals in a foreign language environment, the dialogue
of understanding is interrupted.
From this perspective, meanings are not attached to particular words.
Instead, they belong ‘to a word in its position between speakers’
(Volosinov 1994: 53). Meaning is not necessarily located in a particular
utterance or in the person who speaks or with the intended audience.
It is the effect of the interaction between them: ‘It is like an electric spark
that occurs only when two different terminals are hooked together.’
(Vološinov 1973 [1929]: 103). It is the act of verbal interaction and
communication that switches on the light of meaning. It is the current
which switches on the light bulb rather than the switch itself.
Many of the authors at the core of this research highlight the acquisition of ‘inner speech’, particularly in the new language. Eva Hoffman
describes the development of inner speech in her newly acquired language as inevitable. She no longer has the vocabulary in her first
language to engage fully with her new environment:
When I talk to myself now, I talk in English. English is the language
in which I’ve become an adult, in which I’ve seen my favorite movies
and read my favorite novels, and sung along with Janis Joplin records.
In Polish, whole provinces of adult experience are missing. I don’t
know Polish words for ‘microchips,’ or ‘pathetic fallacy,’ or The Importance of Being Earnest. If I tried talking to myself in my native tongue,
it would be a stumbling conversation indeed, interlaced with English
expression. (Hoffman 1998 [1989]: 272)
For Hugo Hamilton also, the act of inner speech in English in the
presence of his nationalist father is liberating – although the context
is entirely different. As it is a secret form of defiance, he will not get
punished:
At the dinner table, I started speaking to myself in English. Every
evening I looked at my father in front of me and I was having a
big conversation inside my own head in the forbidden language. He
must have known that I was breaking his rules, but there was nothing he could do to stop me speaking to myself in secret as if I had
disappeared to a different country. (Hamilton 2006: 55)
The Russian-French writer, Andreï Makine, describes the act of inner
speech in French as a joy and a liberation:
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J’étais seul, libre. J’étais heureux. En chuchotant, je m’adressais à moimême en français. Devant ces façades en trapèze, la sonorité de cette langue
me semblait très naturelle. La magie que j’avais découverte cet été allait-elle
se matérialiser en quelque rencontre ? Chaque femme qui me croisait avait
l’air de vouloir me parler. Chaque demi-heure gagnée sur la nuit étoffait
mon mirage français. Je n’appartenais plus ni à mon temps ni à ce pays.
Sur ce petit rond-point nocturne, je me sentais merveilleusement étranger à
moi-même. (Makine 1995: 178)
[I was alone, free. I was happy. Whispering, I talked to myself in
French. In front of these trapezium-shaped façades the sound of that
language came to me very natural. Would the magic I had discovered that summer materialise in some encounter? Each woman who
came towards me seemed to want to talk to me. Each extra half-hour
of night, that I gained gave my French mirage some substance. I no
longer belonged either to my time or to my country. On this little
nocturnal circus I felt wonderfully foreign to myself. (Makine 2007
[1996]: 150)]
For some writers, private moments in bed before going to sleep are
an especially important time for inner dialogue. The Belfast-born writer,
Ciaran Carson, remembers lulling himself to sleep with particular words
and sounds. He would repeat the Irish Gaelic word capall (horse) ‘which
seemed to be more onomatopoeically equine than its English counterpart’. As he drifted to sleep, he would waver between languages and
allow his ‘disembodied self to drift out the window and glide through
the silent dark gas-lit streets above the mussel-coloured cobblestones’
(Carson 1997: 234).
Clearly, Carson is describing moments of pleasure here but for some
of the writers, dreams and languages are associated with one another
in rather unpleasant ways. Gary Shteyngart suggests that many of his
dreams occur in Russian. This applies particularly to nightmares. In one
example, he is in Manhattan and the skyscrapers are covered with menacing insects. When he asks a pretty young American woman what is
happening, she responds in Russian, asserting that everything is normal. As she speaks in Russian, he notices insect-like features coming out
from under her jaw. He wakes up gasping in Russian. (Shteyngart 2005:
184–5).
Hugo Hamilton describes a nightmare in which members of his family are unable to communicate with one another because they are in
different rooms and ‘each room has a different colour and a different
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language’. He envisages a river coming through the house in which
lots of strange people are sailing or floating. All of them are speaking in English – the language prohibited in the household. ‘There were
nightmares in Irish and nightmares in German. Nightmares in English
that could only be drawn without words. Family nightmares and world
nightmares.’ (Hamilton 2006: 12–13).
Difficulties in dealing with different languages emerged in comments
on dreams and inner speech. Gerda Lerner suggests that although she
forced herself to communicate and to read in English when she came
to America, she continued to dream in German for a long time. Her life
was split between German and English. She was thinking in one and
dreaming in the other, sleeping in one and waking in the other. She
found it very difficult to express herself in English and experienced a
strong sense of frustration and inadequacy. Many years passed before
she began to think in English. When this finally occurred, it had a very
positive impact on her quality of life. She was gradually able to express
herself without resorting to a dictionary to find the right word: ‘There
came a night when I dreamt in English and after that, I thought I had
made it.’ (Lerner 1998[1997]: 40).
Dreaming in the new language seems to be a marker of success.
It serves as an affirmation that one has finally assimilated. Natascha
Wodin illustrates her competence in German with reference to the
language of her dreams:
Das Deutsche ist in meinem Leben auf jeden Fall präsenter als das
Russische. Ich spreche viel mehr Deutsch als Russisch, ich schreibe Deutsch,
das vor allem, damit verbringe ich den größten Teil meiner Zeit. Ich denke
Deutsch, ich träume Deutsch, und ich fühle wahrscheinlich auch sehr viel
mehr Deutsch als Russisch. (Wodin, interview)
[German has a greater presence in my life more than Russian. I speak
much more German than Russian, I write in German, that’s what
I spend most of my time doing. I think in German, I dream in
German, and I think I feel more in German than in Russian. (AT)]
Vassalis Alexakis suggests that he knew he would be in France for a
long time as he was dreaming in French of the books he proposed to
write. These could not be published in Russia (Alexakis 2006: 67). The
Dutch writer, Bert Keizer, also attaches a high level of importance to the
language of his dreams. Although raised in Dutch, his familiarity with
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English was such that when he dreamt of his family in Holland, they
spoke English to him and to each other. ‘I never thought the parrot
could travel so deeply into a man’s soul.’ (Keizer 2005: 61–2).
Dreams are private narratives and one that individuals have very little control over. However, many of the writers I deal with also engage
with diary writing – another form of private narrative. Eva Hoffman
describes the difficulties of deciding which language to write in her
diary when she first came to America. This frustration results in her
opening and closing her diary several times. Polish was the language
of her childhood. It was becoming a ‘dead language, the language of
the untranslatable past’. Writing in Polish would be a little like resorting
to other dead languages such as ancient Greek or Latin. Yet why would
she write her diary in English? This was a language in which she could
barely communicate. It would be like performing for herself in private
(Hoffman 1998 [1989]: 120).
Ultimately Eva opted to write her new diary in English. She was deliberating adopting a new persona. This was in recognition of the altered
circumstances in which she found herself. It marked the new Eva with
an English-speaking present and a Polish-speaking past. It was a diary of
a teenager unable to express her emotional intensity in either her old or
her new language. It was the diary of a teenager who was lost in translation but desperate to unify the two selves. It was an attempt to gaze at
a new self or ‘at the very least to have a unity, in an attempt to give the
lie to the divisiveness and incongruency’ (Oster 1998: 61).
Naming the (other) self
Immigrants often feel that they are divided in two. The ‘old self’ and
the ‘new self’ are linked with and divided by different languages. ‘Spatially, the world becomes riven into two parts, divided by an uncrossable
barrier.’ The past is on one side of the language divide and the present
on another (Hoffman 1999: 45–6). These different languages have volume and inhabit space and ‘there is a physical distance in their heads
between the languages that they master (or that occasionally appear to
master them)’ (Klosty Beaujour 1989: 30). For many of them, the transition from one language world to another is marked by difficulties with
the pronunciation of their name. Almost all migrant writers report on
such experiences. Luc Sante observes that although his name is Luc, pronounced Lük; everybody actually calls him ‘Luke’. He describes the latter
as ‘an alias, a mask’ (Sante 2003: 141). Marica Bodrožić remarks that
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most people ‘say Bodrusek or something like that’. She doesn’t appear to
mind the mispronunciation, regarding these transformations as ‘more
or less normal’ (Bodrožić, interview).
Gino Chiellino’s surname is frequently mispronounced in Germany,
but he regards this as symptomatic of interculturality:
Es ist peinlich wenn beispielsweise ein Gastgeber zu mir sagt: Gino
Schellino. Dann ist es sehr schwierig, meinem Gastgeber zu sagen: ich heiße
aber Chiellino, nicht Schellino. Hier in Deutschland gibt es die Sitte, dass
man als ‘Herr’ beziehungsweiter. ‘Frau’ und dann mit dem Familiennamen
angesprochen wird. Da kann es schnell zu solch einer peinlichen Situation
kommen. Ich sage mir, in der Interkulturalität sind wir alle unvollkommen,
in der Monokulturalität mögen wir perfekt sein. (Chiellino, interview)
[It is embarrassing, for example, when a host would pronounce my
name: Gino Shiellino. Then it is very difficult for me to tell the host,
‘but my name is Chiellino, not Shiellino’. Here in Germany, as a
general rule, you’d say ‘Mr’ or ‘Mrs’ which is then followed by the
family name. That can quickly turn into an embarrassing situation.
I say to myself that in an intercultural context we are all imperfect,
in monocultural situations it is possible for us to be perfect. (AT)]
For a long time, Gerda Lerner also regarded mispronunciation as an
inevitable part of the process of migration. Her German name is regularly mispronounced by English speakers and for fifty years or so she
regarded this as normal and had even come to use the mispronounced
version of her own name on a regular basis. Upon returning to some
German-speaking regions however, when her name was pronounced
correctly, she began to realize what she had lost.
That made me realize that it pained me that my own children,
my husband, my best friends could never really pronounce my
name. I had buried that pain and refused to acknowledge it. It was,
so I thought, a trivial matter. I no longer think so. (Lerner 1998
[1997]: 42)
Sometimes writers’ names were deliberately changed as well as mispronounced. This almost takes the form of a ritual and often occurred
in a school setting. In her language memoir, Eva Hoffman describes the
speed with which her name and that of her sister were transformed in
the classroom. On that auspicious morning, they were taken to special
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classes provided by the government to teach English to migrant children. Her name Ewa was translated simply into its English equivalent,
Eva. Her sister’s name ‘Alina’ was more problematic but after a brief
moment, it was decided that ‘Elaine’ would suffice. Hoffman describes
the moment as ‘a careless baptism’. However, that was not the end of the
matter as the teacher introduced them to the class pronouncing their
last name – ‘Wydra’ – in a manner that was completely foreign to them.
The impact on the two girls was momentous:
We make our way to a bench at the back of the room; nothing much
has happened except a small seismic mental shift. The twist in our
names takes them a tiny distance from us – but it’s a gap into which
the infinite hobgoblin of abstraction enters. Our Polish names didn’t
refer to us; they were as surely us as our eyes or hands. These new
appellations which we ourselves can’t yet pronounce are not us. They
are identification tags, disembodied signs pointing to objects that
happen to be my sister and myself. We walk to our seats, into a room
of unknown faces; with names that make us strangers to ourselves.
(Hoffman 1998 [1989]: 105)
In this instance, the name change was involuntary and painful. There
was no consultation with the children regarding their preferences. The
name change was regarded as essential to the process of assimilation.
It was a means of obliterating or diluting the foreign nature of the two
children – and this was regarded as more important than any sense
of loss that they might experience: ‘[T]he loss of the name becomes
as metonym for the loss of language and personal identity’ (Cronin
2000: 30).
In principle, the name change is designed to help the immigrant cope
with the new context. In reality, it reflects the inability of the host population rather than the immigrant to deal with a different language. In
Kino Muza (2003), a novel penned by Artur Becker, the son of GermanPolish parents, the experience of name change is portrayed as an action
designed to help the immigrant. The chief protagonist is Antek Haack,
a ticket attendant who commutes between two political systems. In one
government office, an official decides to help him by Germanizing his
Polish Christian name.
‘Ja! Wie wollen Sie eigentlich heißen?’, war in Friedland sie letztendlich
verfänglichste Frage gewesen. ‘Antoni steht in Ihrem Pass? Sie fallen schon
genug auf! Ihren Nachnamen kann ich nicht ändern, der ist ja deutsch. Ihre
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Papiere bestätigen es. Aber Sie können sich einige Unannehmlichkeiten ersparen, wenn Sie Ihren Vornamen verdeutschen. Wie wär’s denn mit Arnold?
Das ist eine einmalige Chance – dazu kostenlos!’ (Becker 2003: 13).
[‘Well! What’s your name supposed to be?’ Ultimately that was the
most awkward question in Friedland. ‘It says Antoni in your passport?
You stand out like a sore thumb as it is! I can’t change your last name,
it’s German, after all. Your documents confirm that. But you can spare
yourself some trouble by Germanifying your first name. How about
Arnold? It’s a one-time opportunity – and free of charge!’(Cole n.d.)]
For Antek, the experience is not necessarily negative and he accepts the
kind offer – although not without some subsequent reservations about
the choice of name:
Antek Haack hatte bedenkenlos diesem netten Vorschlag zugestimmt und
wurde auf dem Arbeitsamt oft als Herr Arnold angesprochen. Macht nichts,
dachte er sich, Herr Arnold ist nicht so schlimm wie Adolf; wobei es ihn
ein bisschen wurmte, dass er in Friedland nicht schlagfertig genug gewesen
war, dem Beamten Adolf vorzuschlagen, um seine Reaktion zu testen: und
wenn schon! Was in meinem Ausweis steht, bedeutet nicht automatisch,
dachte er später, das ich das auch wirklich bin! Wer kann heutzutage schon
mit hundertprozentiger Sicherheit von sich behaupten, dass er weiß, wer er
ist?Vielleicht sind wir all gottverdammte Klingonen!
Aber besser hatte es gar nicht kommen können. Mit einem neuen
Nachnamen würde ihn Brzeziński nicht so leicht finden. (Becker 2003: 14)
[Antek Haack accepted the kind offer without hesitation and was
often addressed as Herr Arnold at the employment office. It doesn’t
matter, he thought to himself, Herr Arnold isn’t as bad as Adolf –
though it nagged him that he hadn’t been quick-witted enough to
suggest Adolf to the official back in Friedland: what of it! Whatever my passport says, it doesn’t automatically mean that that’s
who I really am! he thought later. These days who can claim with
one hundred percent certainty to know who he is? Maybe we’re all
goddamned Klingons!
But it couldn’t have worked out better. With a new last name it
would be harder for Brzeziński to find him. (Cole n.d.]
Kapuściński (2008 [2006]) describes every individual as being made
up of ‘two beings whom it is often difficult to separate’. One of these is
a person who is just ‘like the rest of us’. He or she experiences joy and
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sorrow. He or she has good days and bad days and feels pain, cold and
suffering. He or she also enjoys success. Perhaps this is the person that
is given the Christian or the first name. The other person ‘is interwoven
with the first’. That other is a ‘bearer of racial features’ and ‘of culture,
beliefs and convictions’. Normally ‘it is difficult to separate the two’ as
‘they coexist, having a reciprocal effect on each other’ (Kapuściński 2008
[2006], 14). However, it seems to me, that the ritual of name change for
immigrants is just that. The ‘gift’ of a revised name is a separation of the
immigrant from his or her native heritage. The translation of the name
represents both a loss and a gain – the removal of a marker of a different
heritage and the acknowledgement that the individual is in a new host
community.
Translation of his name was also an issue for Hugo Hamilton, albeit for
different reasons. One might imagine that growing up in Dublin with a
Gaelic name was unproblematic – but this was not the case. As I am well
aware myself, there is frequently a tendency in the Republic of Ireland
to translate Gaelic names into English. Hugo was christened Johannes.
Sometimes the housekeeper translated his Christian name into Irish
(Seán) which was perfectly acceptable to Hugo’s father. On other occasions, however, she called him Jack. Hugo’s father was not happy with
this and warned the child not to let anyone call him Jack or John
because that was not who he was (Hamilton 2003: 25).
There were similar difficulties with the surname, Ó hUrmoltaigh. People regularly sought the translation of the Irish name into English:
‘ “What’s that in English?” they ask.’ His father insisted that Hugo
should never give the English version, regardless of how often he was
asked the question. To do so would be regarded as a betrayal of the family name: ‘We can’t ever admit that an English version exists. If they call
us Hamilton we pretend it’s not us they’re talking to.’ The surname was
a reflection both of their familial and national identity. It proved how
Irish the family was. The children should regard it as a sacrifice that was
worth making on behalf of the nation: ‘They can torture us and make
martyrs of us and nail us to the cross and still we won’t give in.’ From
the child’s perspective it would have been friendlier and simpler to give
the translation, ‘Hamilton’, but his father would not permit it.
Ultimately Hugo did change his name from Johannes Ó hUrmoltaigh
to Hugo Hamilton. Although they appear similar, Hugo is not actually a
translation of Johannes. The name was initially taken as a confirmation name in honour of a bishop in Neuss that Hugo met with his
mother. At the time, they were looking for a confirmation name for the
child.
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Hugo Liedmann was the bishop we visited in Neuss, Germany. Later,
when I was looking for a confirmation name, my mother suggested
his name. Hugo. In school, the name produced laughter and it stuck.
From school on, people used to call me Hugo or various versions of
that. (Hamilton, interview)
Hugo Hamilton is the name that appears on the passport and it is the
name by which the writer is known internationally.
Many translingual writers adopt a new name to symbolize the
emergence of a new sense of identity. When he published in Irish,
Brian O’Nolan used the pen-name, Myles na gCopaleen. In English
he adopted the nom de plume Flann O’Brien (he also regularly
used other pseudonyms). Such changes are regular throughout the
European continent. The British poet Pauline Mary Tarn became Renée
Vivien. Peggy Eileen Whistler adopted the Welsh name Margiad Evans.
Christopher Murray Grieve published in Scots under the pen name
Hugh MacDiarmid. Most famously, the Romanian Paul Antschel became
well-known as the German writer, Paul Celan (Kellman 2000: 21).
In the case of one migrant writer that I dealt with, her name was
altered by the publisher. When Natascha Wodin penned her childhood
memoir, she had fully intended on publishing the account under her
own maiden name, Wdowin, but the German publisher insisted on
simplifying the name for a German readership:
Wodin ist ein Kunstname, den der Verlag mir auferlegt hat. Den kann
man aussprechen wie man will, weil es eben ein Kunstname ist. Mein
eigentlicher Name ist Wdowin. (Wodin, interview)
[The name Wodin is an artificial name, which the publisher gave me.
One can pronounce it however one likes, as it is an artificial name.
My actual name is Wdowin. (AT)]
The publisher was of the opinion that the German reading public would
be unable to cope with a Russian surname:
Der Verlag hat gesagt, den Namen könne man im Deutschen nicht
aussprechen, mit so einem Namen könnten sie kein Buch machen. Ich
musste einen anderen Namen wählen (Wodin, interview)
[The publisher said, that one couldn’t pronounce the name in
German and [that] they wouldn’t publish the book with that name.
I had to choose another name. (AT)]
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Naming and name changes, voluntary or involuntary, seem to be integral to the life-process. The naming of babies is often accompanied by
a ritual of some sort, such as a christening ceremony in nominally
Christian countries. Many women still take their husband’s surname
at marriage ceremonies. Name changes are part of the migration process. Where names are formally changed, it is usually done with good
intentions – i.e. to help the migrant to assimilate – and to overcome
difficulties the host community might encounter with pronunciations
(see for example, Antin 1997 [1912]: 149–50). In many ways, the name
change is part of the story of migration – and some writers, such as
Marica Bodrožić or Natascha Wodin, regard it as part of their story. Their
story is enshrined in the name change. But it is a story that marks the
disconnection between their old and new lives, their childhood language and that of the host community, the name given to them by
their parents and that acquired voluntarily or involuntarily by virtue
of being a migrant. In the transition from one version of a name to
another, something is lost forever. Here is how Eva Hoffman describes
the process:
The tiny gap that opened when my sister and I were given new names
can never be fully closed up; I can’t have one name again. My sister
has returned to her Polish name – Alina. It takes a while for me to
switch back to it; Alina, in English, is a different word than it is in
Polish: it has the stamp of the unusual, its syllables don’t fall as easily
on the English speaker’s tongue. In order to transport a single word
without distortion, one would have to transport the entire language
around it. My sister no longer has one, authentic name, the name
that is inseparable from her single essence. (Hoffman 1998 [1989]:
142)
The ritual of name-changing silences a part of the individual and a loss
has occurred that can never be repaired.
The ‘silence of the polyglot’
This sense of ‘loss in translation’ or silence between two languages is
referred to by many writers. Julia Kristeva once famously noted ‘the
silence of the polyglot’ – the silence of the individual caught between
two or more languages. She suggests that ‘between two languages, your
realm is silence’ (Kristeva 1991: 15). This silence between languages is a
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common experience for many writers and applies to both oral and literary skills. Marica Bodrožić says that when she was learning German,
there was ‘a period of not-speaking and not being able to speak’. This
was a silence she did not like (Bodrožić, interview).
Eva Hoffman describes the silence that enveloped her when she went
to bed at night. The environment in Canada was new and the house was
strange. She waited for ‘that spontaneous flow of inner language’ which
used to be her night-time talk. It was a way of processing the events
of the day. But ‘[n]othing comes. Polish, in a short time, has atrophied,
shrivelled from sheer uselessness.’ The Polish words don’t match up with
her new experiences. But it won’t work in English either as that language
has ‘not penetrated to those layers of my psyche from which a private
conversation could proceed’.
For Hoffman, these night-time inner conversations were an important way of dealing with the experiences of the day – of ‘spinning out
the thread’ of her personal narrative. But that processual mechanism is
no longer available to her: ‘[T]he thread has been snapped’. She has no
inner language and without that her images of the world have become
blurred. The silence is all-consuming. It’s as if she has fallen through
a black hole. She can’t understand what is happening to her. She is
not filled with language anymore (Hoffman 1998 [1989]: 107–8). Her
bilingualism has silenced her (Waxman 2007: 6). Hoffman describes the
experience as follows:
For a while, like so many emigrants, I was in effect without language,
and from the bleakness of that condition, I understood how much
our inner existence, our sense of self, depends on having a living
speech within us. To lose an internal language is to subside into an
inarticulate darkness in which we become alien to ourselves; to lose
the ability to describe the world is to render the world a bit less vivid,
a bit less lucid. (Hoffman 1999: 48)
The Belgian writer Luc Sante describes the loss of language in similar
terms. Any attempt to speak is doomed as the boy doesn’t yet have a
language. ‘He has two tongues: one is all quivering, unmediated, primal
sensation, and the other is detached, deliberate, artificial. To give a full
accounting he would have to split himself in two.’ (Sante 2003: 144).
Vassilis Alexakis also tells of his difficulties in writing between two
languages. He is fluent in two languages but operates separately in
each. Chatzidimitriou (2006) suggests that Alexakis operates as a ‘double monolingual’. His life is lived in separate compartments. When in
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Greece, he forgets his French. When in France he dispenses with his
Greek. In consequence, ‘space fragments time’ and Alexakis’ life story
is constantly compartmentalized: the individual is split between two
countries and ‘linguistic anguish gives way to voluntary dispossession
through silence’. In this ‘silent oscillation, the two monolingualisms
occupy the privileged in-between space denied to either language.’
(Chatzidimitriou 2006: 113). There is no unity of self in this in-between
place.
Interestingly, it was at a conference in French Canada that Alexakis
announced his intention to pen his autobiography. The location itself
is symbolic. Although French Canada is a bilingual location, some languages have been silenced there also. ‘It is, however, in the loud silence
of the French Canadian language, in the silenced bilingualism of the
Greek Canadian community and in the silenced memory of the Native
American people’ that Alexakis plants the seed of the silence that will
begin his efforts to write Paris-Athènes (Chatzidimitriou 2006: 115). He
describes the experience of silence as follows:
L’année dernière, j’ai passé des heures et des jours les yeux fixés sur la page
blanche sans réussir à tracer un seul mot: j’étais incapable de choisir entre
le grec et le français. Je voulais justement écrire sur la difficulté de ce choix,
mais comment écrire sans choisir? (Alexakis 1989: 12)
[A year ago, I tried to write. I spent hours, days, staring at the blank
page without managing to trace a single word; I was incapable of
choosing between Greek and French. It was precisely about the difficulty of this choice that I wanted to write, but how can you write
without choosing? (Waters 2009)]
This phase was not easily overcome:
Il y a un an donc, j’ai essayé d’écrire, mais les mots se dérobaient comme
s’ils craignaient d’être blessés par la pointe du stylo. Je ne sais pas,
pensais-je, pourrait bien être un début de phrase intéressant, mais devais-je
écrire je ne sais pas ou, en grec, dèn xéro ? (Alexakis 1989: 23)
[A year ago, then, I tried to write, but the words shrank away as
if they were afraid of being wounded by the tip of the pen. Je ne
sais pas, I thought, could be the beginning of an interesting sentence, but should I write je ne sais pas or, in Greek, den ksero? (Waters
2009)]
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Silence is part of Alexakis’ own story. The book emerges from silence
and with the initial words Alexakis is ‘enacting the moment of
silence preceding every crossing of that space-beyond-language that
symbolically and practically separates his linguistic geographies, his
monolingualisms’ (Chatzidimitriou 2006: 114). His enactment of silence
is also noted in some of his other books. In Les mots étrangers, for
example, he writes the following:
Mon esprit tarde à franchir la distance qui sépare les mots. Il s’éternise
sur les bancs comme s’ils faisaient eux aussi parti de la langue. (Alexakis
2002: 51)
My mind is slow to cross the distance that separates words. It lingers
on the blank spaces as if they too were part of the language. (Alexakis
2006: 30)
Chatzidimitriou queries whether this silence is a form of dispossession or not? Is this silence translating absence? Her conclusion is both
negative and positive. Alexakis’ silence could be viewed as a form
of dispossession in that ‘it denies the narrator of the felicitous third
space of linguistic bliss’. On the other hand ‘it renders the fantasy of
monolingualism concrete and plausible’. It allows the writer to orientate himself towards one of his ‘two linguistic/geographical poles’
(Chatzidimitriou 2006: 114). Ultimately, Alexakis overcomes the silent
phase and writes his book.
This wrestling with silence is a common experience for many authors.
Ota Filip notes of his literary friends:
Das ist einem Freund von mir passiert, einem Russen namens Abraham
Terz. Er war ein hervorragender Schriftsteller, saß lange Jahre in Sibirien
und lebte dann in Paris. Am Ende seines Lebens sagte er mir: ‘Weißt Du,
Ota, ich will nichts mehr sagen. Ich weiß nicht wie ich es sagen soll, ob auf
Russisch oder auf Französisch. Ich werde nur noch Schweigen’. Er schrieb
dann ein Gedicht, in dem es um das Schweigen im Exil als Katastrophe
geht – eine Katastrophe, die nicht alle betrifft oder betreffen kann, aber eben
doch viele. Viele konnten einfach nicht mehr; ich kannte auch tschechische
Dichter, die in Deutschland oder Amerika lebten und einfach nichts mehr
schrieben. (Filip, interview)
[It happened to a friend of mine, a Russian; his name was Abraham
Terz. He was an outstanding writer who was detained for many years
in Siberia and then lived in Paris. At the end of his life he said to me:
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‘Do you know Ota, I do not wish to speak anymore. I do not know
how to say it, in Russian or in French. I will simply remain silent.’ He
wrote a poem on silence in the catastrophe of exile – a catastrophe
that does not and cannot affect everyone, but does affect many. Many
just could not go on; I knew Czech poets, too, who lived in Germany
or in America and would not write anymore. (AT)]
Natasha Wodin found herself getting ‘tongue-tied’ between the two languages. Thinking in one and writing in another did not enhance her
creativity. It became necessary to write her story in one language only:
Eine Zeit lang war es überhaupt nicht gut für mich, weil ich die Sätze,
die ich geschrieben habe, anschließend mit meinen russischen Augen
gelesen habe. Und dann waren die Sätze falsch. Ich habe sie dann so
umgeschrieben, dass sie im Russischen richtig waren, aber dann waren
sie im Deutschen wieder falsch. Das war lange Zeit ein echtes Problem
für mich. Ich konnte mich nicht finden zwischen dem Deutschen und dem
Russischen, es gab da keine gültige Wahrheit. Aber inzwischen lasse ich
das Russische beim Schreiben nicht mehr in meine Gedanken, sonst würde
ich nie fertig werden mit einem Buch. (Wodin, interview)
[There was a time that was not good for me, when I read the sentences I had written [in German] with my Russian eyes. And the
syntax was not correct. I then re-wrote them so that they would be
correct in Russian but then they were incorrect in German again.
That was a real problem for me for a long time. I couldn’t find
myself between the German and the Russian, there was no valid
truth. Meanwhile, I don’t even allow myself to think in Russian,
while writing, otherwise I would never finish a book. (AT)]
Wodin also describes other ways of being silenced. There were times
when it was not possible for her to share her Russian experiences with
her German friends, as they would not understand. Although they
had the tools of communication – i.e. the words, there was no shared
context. There was no real interaction.
Als ich 1980 nach längerer Zeit und sehr intensiven Erlebnissen aus
Russland zurückkam, war Deutschland wieder ein fremdes Land für
mich geworden. Ich hatte so viel zu erzählen, aber ich merkte, dass
man mich nicht verstand, weil man hier sehr wenig über die russische
Lebenswirklichkeit weiß. Und umgekehrt ist es genauso. In Russland weiß
man sehr wenig darüber, wie es in Deutschland wirklich zugeht. Auch wenn
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ich den Russen versuchte, etwas über Deutschland zu erzählen, wurde ich
nicht verstanden. Denn verstehen kann man offenbar nur etwas, das man
irgendwie bereits in sich hat, zumindest als Ahnung, man braucht einen
Resonanzboden. (Wodin, interview)
[When in 1980 I came back after a long time and intensive experiences in Russia, Germany was a foreign country for me again. I had so
much to tell but I noticed that people didn’t understand me, because
they know so little about the Russian reality of life. And the reverse is
also true. In Russia, people know very little about what it is really like
in Germany. And when I tried to tell the Russians something about
Germany, they didn’t understand. Apparently, one can understand
something if one somehow already has it within oneself, at least as a
notion; one needs to have empathy. (AT)]
Hugo Hamilton’s mother, a German migrant in 1950s Dublin, suggests that it was often very difficult to understand Irish people. Although
they utter words, one is never really sure what they mean. ‘She says
Irish people dance with their heads and speak with their feet.’ (Hamilton
2003: 57). The words spoken don’t really explain the context which is
understood rather than spoken. ‘Everybody knows what’s inside everybody else’s head, but nobody ever says it out loud.’ This was in sharp
contrast to Germany where ‘people think before they speak so that they
mean what they say, while in Ireland, people think after they speak so
as to find out what they mean. In Ireland, the words never touch the
ground.’ (Hamilton 2003: 57).
Hugo’s own childhood experiences with language impacted heavily
on his capacity to speak as an adult:
If you’d met me when I was 20 I wouldn’t have said a word. I trained
myself to speak in the meantime. I was autistic perhaps and very
silent as a person, unable to say anything because I was afraid of
being misinterpreted. I didn’t trust language of any sort. (Hamilton,
interview)
This also has implications for his career as an author as he still checks
every single word to ensure that the meaning is clear and cannot be confused. Hugo regards this as an extreme development of a process begun
in his childhood when he constantly needed to ‘mind his language’ and
to ensure that he was not speaking a forbidden tongue. As a teenager he
was very often misunderstood:
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I checked every word before I spoke, not only checked who was listening but to make sure that I was saying the right thing. My long-term
memory of myself as a teenager growing up was that nobody knew
what the hell I was talking about. I would say things and it was just
completely bizarre and uncertain. Sometimes I tried to make a joke
and they just looked at me. What is he saying? (Hamilton, interview)
Human beings are often uncomfortable with silence. ‘To a natural man
another man’s silence is not a reassuring factor, but on the contrary,
something alarming and dangerous’ (see Malinowski and Redfield 1948:
248). People can find it very difficult and embarrassing to be in the
company of another individual whose language they cannot speak.
Somehow the fact that they are united in humanity does not suffice.
If they cannot speak their thoughts to one another, they would prefer
to move on. ‘So true is this that a man would be more cheerful with his
dog for company than with a foreigner.’ (Augustine 1984[1467]: 861; see
also Cronin 2006: 1).
John Cage (1912–1992) captured the discomfort individuals experience with silence in his three-movement composition 4’33” (Cage
1960). Cage composed this piece for any instrument (or combination
of musical instruments). However, the score instructs the performers to
refrain from playing during the entire piece, which last for four minutes
and thirty-three seconds. While four and a half minutes is a relatively
short period of time, it can feel very long if one is sitting through it
without being entirely sure of what is happening. The experience sharpens the senses and in principle, the audience begin to hear other sounds
in the environment – such as individuals coughing, shuffling or moving around in their seats. The composition has generated considerable
controversy (Gann 2010).
Of course there are different types of silence – not all necessarily awkward or difficult. There is the silence of couples who are completely
at ease with one another and have no need for words. Andreï Makine
describes his relationship with his French grandmother as one in which
they had no need for words. In the following excerpt, he describes an
occasion where he was on the train, just about to leave his grandmother:
Deux jours après je quittais Saranza. Pour la première fois de ma vie, le
silence des dernières minutes avant le départ du train ne devenait pas
gênant. De la fenêtre, je regardais Charlotte, sur le quai, au milieu des
gens qui gesticulaient comme des sourds-muets, de peur que ceux qui
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partaient ne les entendent pas. Charlotte se taisait et, rencontrant mon
regard, souriait légèrement. Nous n’avions pas besoins de mots. (Makine
1995: 174)
[Two days later I left Saranza. For the first time in my life, the silence
in the last moments before the train pulled out did not become
embarrassing. Through the window I gazed at Charlotte on the platform, amid people who were gesticulating like deaf-mutes, for fear of
not being understood by those departing. Charlotte was silent. Catching my eye, she smiled softly. We had no need of words. (Makine 2007
[1996]: 150)]
There is also a creative silence which can foster ideas, an emptiness
that is full. This reflects the nature of the universe itself. It appears that
90 per cent of the space in our universe is empty but it is an emptiness
that is full of ‘pure energy that continuously potentiates, begets and
holds the entire universal creative process in being’ (Ó Murchú 1997:
42). This emptiness is a creative vacuum which holds things together.
Meditative silence is encouraged by many spiritual movements – particularly in the East. The experience of silence can also be a healing process
and the silence of piety is often encouraged in church: ‘It can allow the
wind to run through its paces without any need for justification. It can
let us recover – grab hold of – those parts of our self which have been so
scattered, so disparate.’ (Hershey 2005: 86).
Some migrant writers speak very positively of the experience of silence
for the development of creative potential. Marica Bodrožić describes it
as a metaphysical necessity:
Silence is a metaphysical thing for me. I need it. I need a certain
kind of silence to find language because poetry is sleeping under
this silence and I have to find it. I need the silence for myself as
well, and I can’t write without that. I can’t find this literary language
and can’t write a book or a poem if I don’t have this silence. I mean
silence outside and also silence inside, I need both of them. (Bodrožić,
interview)
When she began writing in her early 20s, she used to withdraw from
society altogether, as she preferred to be completely silent. She did not
go out with her friends, explaining to them that she was in a writing
phase. Once her writing project was complete, she would re-engage with
her usual social activities. Now, however, she does not require complete
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silence in the evenings in order to write during the day – although
she still prefers a silent environment when she is actively writing.
She says:
But now, when I write, I search for this silence. This means notspeaking and I prefer just to be silent. When I wrote my early books,
I was not a social being. I did not go out with my friends. I did
not speak with them. I said: ‘I am writing at the moment.’ But now
I am able to go out in the evening, even if I am writing during the
day. I can say: ‘Let’s have a drink or something.’ I think that these
processes are changing all the time but I think every writer needs a
certain kind of silence. (Bodrožić, interview)
Other writers note the sheer joy of silence, as these are occasions when
they do not need to consider any difficulties associated with language.
As a child, Hugo Hamilton loved to dive underwater where there was no
language at all, only ‘the humming bubbles all around’. He would stay
below the water as long as possible – until he nearly died and had to
come up for words! (Hamilton 2003: 194). He learned to hold his breath
as long as he could ‘underwater where there’s no language’ (Hamilton
2003: 290). He did not need to think whether it was permissible to speak
in German or Irish or English.
Clearly, the experience of bilingualism has a strong impact and the
experience of language change is considerably more painful than is
often recognized. Learning a new language is a slow process and is not
easily achieved. For much of the time, immigrants are torn between two
different languages. However, it is not just words that have to be understood and learned. If they wish to successfully integrate, immigrants also
have to understand the body language. If they wish to belong, they must
recognize and participate in the cultural patterns.
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6
Cultural Patterns and Belonging
The debate on whether culture is innate or acquired is long-standing in
anthropology and in other disciplines. While most would agree that the
capacity to learn language is inborn, the particular language learned is
dependent on one’s family, environment and heritage. This also applies
to the notion of body language and gestures. In her Patterns of Culture,
Ruth Benedict suggests that ‘we must accept all the implications of our
human inheritance, one of the most important of which is the small
scope of biologically transmitted behaviour, and the enormous role of
the cultural process of tradition’ (Benedict 2005 [1934]: 15). She cites the
example of an Oriental child who is adopted by an Occidental family.
He or she acquires English and behaves in every other respect like his or
her adopted peer group: ‘He learns the entire set of cultural traits of the
adopted society.’ Benedict also points to ‘entire peoples’ who can ‘shake
off their traditional culture and put on the customs of an alien group’
(Benedict 2005 [1934]: 13).
My focus in this chapter is on language in its cultural context, with
particular reference to notions of belonging, cultural patterns and body
language. I also wish to explore the act of mimicry, with which emigrants frequently engage in their desire to belong. Despite their best
efforts, many migrants remain permanently on the outside in their
new cultural settings. Paul Friedrich, an American linguistic anthropologist, originally coined the term ‘languaculture’ to express the necessary
link between language and culture (Friedrich 1989). Freidrich’s original
intention was to eliminate the confusion between language and culture and to use the term ‘languaculture’ as a discourse for exploring
the relationship between the two. Michael Agar develops the concept
to suggest that concepts of language and culture are inseparable. Agar
proposes using the term languaculture as a reminder ‘of the necessary
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connection between its two parts, whether it’s theirs or yours, or, as it
always is when it becomes personal, something that belongs to you
both’ (italics original in Agar 1994: 60).
Essentially Agar is arguing for a revision of the concept of culture. He
rationalizes that culture needs to be set in the context of language, as it
can effectively explain how people with the same language can still have
difficulties in communicating with one another. When cultural contexts
are different, the use of the same language does not necessarily lead to
easy communication. This can explain the lack of commonality between
Spanish in Spain and Spanish in Mexico (Agar 1994: 212–13). It is also
the case that people from similar cultural settings, using the same verbal
language, may misinterpret gestures or the non-verbal signals or even
the language itself.
John Dunlop, Moderator of the General Assembly of the Presbyterian
Church in Ireland in 1992–1993, points in his exploration of the peace
process in Northern Ireland to an example of a lack of commonality
(Dunlop 2007). He notes the importance of words, suggesting that they
‘are very powerful symbols. They can humiliate, deceive and destroy or,
on the other hand, they can confirm, clarify, and mobilise.’ As a minister in the Presbyterian Church, the largest Protestant community in
Northern Ireland, he felt that the different religious communities had a
different approach to English (the language of the negotiations during
the peace process and the language of the majority in Northern Ireland).
In his experience, ‘Presbyterians are suspicious of those who come bearing a wealth of vocabulary, wondering what might be hidden in the
multiplicity of words. If it can’t be said simply, perhaps there is something to hide.’ However, this appeared to contrast with the Catholic use
of English, which seemed to look for inferences and the hidden context.
He reports on his own experiences during the negotiations:
Following the publication of one of the many position papers which
have been produced by the British and Irish Governments over many
years of tortuous negotiation, I had a discussion with a senior civil
servant who was involved in the discussions, a person who was
intelligent, thoughtful and committed to finding a solution to our
problems. He urged me ‘to read between the lines’ of the actual text,
to which I replied that ‘there was nothing written between the lines’.
Although both communities speak English fluently, it would appear that
the common language divided rather than united them. Dunlop’s argument suggests that their different approaches to English ‘can be traced
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back to their theological roots’. He concluded that ‘[i]f any progress was
to be made in the talks, the two sides would have to understand each
other, knowing that they used language in two different ways, coming
from different modes of thought’ (Dunlop 2007: 189). Dunlop is arguing
for the need to understand language in its cultural context.
The significance of cultural settings for the language spoken is
not new to anthropology. When Bronislaw Malinowski (1884–1942)
researched daily life and culture in the Tobriand Islands, he noted the
complex interrelationship between language and culture. He appreciated the difficulties involved in translating from one language to
another – even when one was fully aware of the dictionary meaning
of words. It is much more important to understand the cultural and
social context in which the words are spoken – as the meanings of the
words are often dependent on the setting. If you wish to converse in
a new context, ‘you have to experience culture and manufacture some
frames. If you don’t figure out the frames, you might speak grammatically correct German or Spanish or Swedish, but what you communicate
will differ from what you intended.’ (Agar 1994: 143)
The concept of ‘communicative competence’ is crucial here. Originally developed by Dell Hymes in the 1960s (Hymes 1962, 1964a, 1972),
the concept refers to the ability to communicate well in a language,
which goes beyond a good foundation in grammar. Although an individual may have a very sound knowledge of the ‘mechanics’ of language,
it is also important for communication to understand the setting and
the intentions of the speaker.
In this chapter I want to examine the importance of cultural context
with particular reference to non-verbal communication. In particular,
I want to examine the social behaviours and cultural patterns that
migrants need to acquire before effectively integrating into a host society. I wish to explore issues that prevent migrants from ‘looking like’
the rest of the society in which they live and the attempts they make to
acquire a ‘body-language’ that is ‘invisible’ in the new environment.
Non-verbal communication
Body-language is essential to the art of communication and gestures
can vary considerably in different settings – even within a European
context. There are different ways of greeting one another in many countries. While in Ireland or the UK, body-language is restrained, men and
women commonly kiss one another on the cheek as a greeting in other
European places – and the practices can vary from country to country.
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In France, the greeting is once off each cheek whereas in the Netherlands
there are three kisses involved (Barnard 2006 [2000]: 4). And men hug
and kiss one another much more regularly in Eastern than in Western
Europe.
Our everyday expressions acknowledge the practice of communicating with our bodies as well as with our words. In English we use phrases
such as ‘turning a blind eye’ or ‘tongue in cheek’ if we want to suggest
that we are not giving something due attention. On the other hand, if
one wants to monitor a situation closely, then one keeps ‘an ear to the
ground’. ‘My heart was in my mouth’ or ‘my back was to the wall’ can
serve to express some form of anxiety or tension. If I want to get rid of
somebody, I can ‘give him or her the elbow’ or ‘the cold shoulder’.
Sometimes such bodily expressions are grounded in folklore – whether
authentic or fake. In Northern Ireland there is a belief that different
Christian religions use different feet when digging: ‘Catholics believe
that protestants dig way [sic] the wrong foot’ (Molloy 2002 [1985]:
1160). If one wants to refer to someone of a different religious persuasion, one can suggest that he or she ‘digs with the other foot’. The local
Community Relations Council subsequently subverted that myth when
they issued a poster asking: ‘Does it matter which foot you kick with?’
This poster was designed to combat racism.
The Horrible History of Ireland suggests that the expression ‘chancing
one’s arm’ (i.e. taking a risk) evolved from an incident in history involving the Earl of Kildare and the Earl of Ormond. In 1492, these two earls
had a dispute in St Patrick’s Cathedral in Dublin. Following the dispute, the Earl of Ormond locked himself with his bodyguard into the
chapterhouse. The Earl of Kildare was keen for reconciliation and when
the Earl of Ormond refused to come out of the chapterhouse, the Earl
of Kildare cut a hole in the door, stuck in his arm and suggested that
they shake hands and make it up. This was obviously a risk as the Earl
inside could have chopped off the arm that was stuck through the door,
but instead, appreciating the gesture, he opened the door in friendship
(Deary 2000: 60). The phrase ‘chancing your arm’ is regularly used in
contemporary Ireland.
The separation of verbal language from body-language is a form
of dualism that may have its roots in the separation of mind and
body in Western philosophy. Ideas on dualism can be traced back to
philosophers such as Aristotle and Plato but perhaps the idea is most
closely associated with the French philosopher, René Descartes (Renatus
Cartesius) who drew a clear distinction between the immaterial mind
and the physical body: ‘Every human being is accordingly a composite
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of two objects: a physical body, and a non-physical object that is that
human being’s mind.’ (Rosenthal 1999: 217). ‘Cartesian dualism’ is
the phrase often used to refer to Descartes’ contribution to the dual
distinction between mind and body.
This mental versus physical distinction also pervades our perception
of the process of communication. We tend to separate the spoken word
from body-language as if they are unrelated. Hence the difficulties immigrants experience in communicating with the host society even when
they are fluent in the host verbal language: ‘You can master grammar
and the dictionary, but without culture you won’t communicate.’ (Italics
original in Agar 1994: 29). In fact, immigrants with less mastery of the
verbal language, but a good appreciation of the body signals can make
more progress. ‘With culture, you can communicate with rocky grammar and a limited vocabulary.’ (Italics original in Agar 1994: 29–30.)
Uncovering the various clues in an immigrant context can prove slow
and difficult (Hall 1990 [1959]: 162).
Andrew Riemer refers, in the following extract, to the necessity for
learning cultural patterns:
It is easy enough to realise that it is not polite to sprinkle salt over
your food, whereas placing it in a little heap on the side of the plate
(anathema to Central European notions of good table manners) is
entirely acceptable. You notice soon enough that forks should be held
with the tines pointed downwards, and that you must spoon your
soup away from, rather than towards, your person. But you cannot
change the intimate, deeply-ingrained, essentially mysterious core of
your personality which seems to be implanted very early in life –
perhaps stamped on at the moment of birth, in the way that newborn babies are tagged with name bands. (Riemer 1992: 4–5)
Perhaps our undue emphasis on a ‘word world’ is part of our European
inheritance which means that we forget that communication is not
confined to words and that other forms of communication are equally
significant (Hall 1990 [1959]: vii). We communicate with our bodies as
well as with our language. Charles Taylor cites the example of a leatherjacketed motorbike rider who gets off his bike and swaggers towards
another person. ‘This person is “saying something” in his way of moving, acting, speaking.’ For the biker and more generally, ‘this domain of
body language is the locus of a whole host of different value-coded ways
of being for humans in general’ (Taylor 2006: 26–7). Michael Cronin
(2000: 45) argues that cultural patterns can become a labyrinth for
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immigrants in which they lose their bearings very quickly. Eva Hoffman
speaks of these cultural patterns as a ‘soil of significance’ from which
emigrants are up-rooted (Hoffman 1998 [1989]: 278).
Essentially, emigrants are engaging with a new habitus. This concept
associated with Bourdieu relates to ‘collective and individual practices’
in society and is a ‘product of history’. Habitus ‘ensures the active presence of past experiences, which, deposited in each organism in the
forms of schemes of perception, thought and action, tend to guarantee
the “correctness” of practices and their constancy over time, more reliably than all formal rules and explicit norms’ (Bourdieu1990 [1980]: 54).
Habitus is an organizing principle which structures behaviour, but very
often its effect on the human being is unconscious. One acquires habitus
in action – listening to music, wearing the ‘right’ clothes and giving gifts
in an appropriate manner (Hitchcock 2008: 90). ‘Once internalised, the
dispositions of habitus are taken for granted.’ (Hitchcock 2008: 91).
Habitus also relates to the appropriate use of cultural space. The French
sociologist, Henri Lefebvre, suggests that space is not simply a physical
issue (1991 [1974]). Instead he divides it into three – perceived, conceived and lived space – or more simply, physical, mental and social
space. Rules governing space can be especially difficult for migrants to
learn. Usually it is not too difficult to orient oneself to the physical
context, but the construction of mental and social space in a new environment can be difficult to grasp: ‘Space is organized differently in each
culture. The associations and feelings that are released in a member of
one culture almost invariably mean something else in the next.’ (Hall
1990 [1959]: 161).
Space and distance are an important element in communication and
intrusion into the personal space of another can generate extreme discomfort and/or anxiety. Hall explains culture shock as ‘the removal or
distortion of many of the familiar cues one encounters at home and the
substitution for them of other cues which are strange’ (Hall 1990 [1959]:
170). A great deal of the discomfort suffered by emigrants results from
lack of knowledge of physical cues, as well as the shock of a new language. When Hoffman emigrated from Krakow to Canada, she quickly
learned that Canadians and Americans require far more physical space
than their European colleagues:
I’ve learnt my new reserve from people who take a step back when
we talk, because I’m standing too close, crowding them. Cultural distances are different. I learn restraint from Penny who looks offended
when I shake her arm in excitement as if my gesture had been one
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of aggression instead of friendship. I learn it from a girl who pulls
away when I hook my arm through hers as we walk down the street –
this movement of friendly intimacy is an embarrassment to her.
(Hoffman 1998 [1989]: 146)
Verbal signals also need to be learned. Simply raising one’s voice at the
end of a sentence can change an utterance in English from a statement
to a question. Ignorance of local customs can often generate confusion
in cross-cultural exchanges (Hall 1990 [1959]: 96).
Our perspective on another individual is also influenced by their facial
expressions and their body-language. Nods of affirmation or grimaces of
discontent can influence a conversation as much as the words spoken.
A ‘twinkle of an eye’ can generate pleasure. ‘The face has many and
subtle ways of showing emotion, interest, boredom and so on. A nod,
a wink, a sign, a raising of the eyebrows; all these communicate very
effectively, and they are interpreted in context.’ (Thompson 2009: 35).
‘We express our emotions, and establish our relations, and body forth
our values, in our body language, style, and rhetoric.’ (Taylor 2006: 34).
On the art of mimicry
Successful assimilation in a new environment involves acquiring the
accents and the body-language of the host community. Some of the
migrant writers in this book comment on their efforts in this regard.
Marianne Hirsch notes that her school friend Mona ‘is better at learning
the styles, the songs, the gestures that will make us American – something we both want and do not want to be’ (Hirsch 1994: 83). Andrew
Riemer suggests that he was ‘desperately eager to be accepted by people
whose language I was beginning to master and habits to understand’
(Riemer 1992: 103). The art of mimicry involves learning both verbal
and body-language.
The North African scholar, Abdelfattah Kilito, has written ‘Dog words’,
a strong fable to describe the excesses that can arise in the art of mimicry
(Kilito 1994). He describes a lost traveller who is isolated. He begins barking like a dog in the hope that other dogs will respond and direct him
towards human company. With this gesture, the lost traveller ‘makes
himself Other’. He also ‘dis-aggregates himself into functionally different component parts – separating voice (how he articulates himself)
from image (who he appears to be) – the question of who he really is is
temporarily suspended’ (Bammer 2005: 155). The traveller deliberately
becomes different.
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Eventually he finds a new host community, but they do not understand him and assume he is a monkey – one that is ‘imitating not the
language of dogs but the barking of foreigners’ (Kilito 1994: xxvii). The
sounds that emanate from his mouth mark him as different and each
time he speaks/barks, ‘he must exert a significant effort, an effort that
sets him apart from the others who speak comfortably, like people playing themselves, who speak as they breathe, and whose breathing is calm
and regular’. The very effort of trying to mimic is a clear signal of his difference. ‘He imitates because he is not those that he imitates, he imitates
what he cannot be, a fact of which he is well aware.’(Kilito 1994: xvii).
Mimicry is central to the process of cultural translation, but there is no
such thing as effortless imitation and the foreigner who adopts another
tongue will never fully achieve the accent and standard of the ‘native’.
S/he will always remain a stranger. In adopting a new language, the
migrant seeks acknowledgement and acceptance of his/her existence,
but it is a form of recognition that does not allow the possibility of being
him or herself with a distinct cultural past. Instead, it is a recognition
that assumes the migrant to be something he or she can never be – the
native.
Although the traveller desperately wants to belong, his efforts to do
so enhance his difference: ‘An imitation, even it attains perfection, will
never abolish the difference that occasions it in the first place.’ (Kilito
1994: xxvii). The act of imitating dogs has served as a catalyst for other
symptoms. The migrant begins to like gnawing bones and acquires an
intense hatred for cats. In trying to become like the Other, he has strayed
very far from his original self. Would he still be recognizable to his native
community? Would he still be able to speak their language?
The lost traveller sets out to recover his original self and his native
community, but when he arrives there and begins barking, they no
longer recognize him and exclude him from their community. His
attempts to become Other have been successful! He has changed and
has become different from the people he left. His native community
don’t wish to hear him speak/bark. They restrain him. He is not one of
them. And yet the exclusion is not long-term. Just as it appears that he
will be permanently excluded, his native community begin to bark . . . .
They adopt his new language and no longer restrain him. Ultimately, the
entire group is engaged in an act of mimicry in order to communicate.
This mimicry can also be regarded as adapting and compromising to
a new context. It is a process that allows the traveller to re-engage with
his native community and they with him. It is not just the traveller
who mimics. The entire community is changing. In adapting, they are
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all involved in the process of re-making or adapting their language. The
migrant and the community can now communicate again. Everyone is
making a compromise. It becomes apparent that mimicry need not be
seen as an act of negotiation on the part of any one individual. Instead
it is ‘a strategically negotiated act of mutual transformation’ (Bammer
2005: 156).
Many of the migrant writers featuring in my research speak about
their experiences of copying other people. Lorcán Ó Treasaigh describes
the process of mimicry as follows: ‘You try to become more native
than the natives themselves.’ His mother was not impressed with his
childhood efforts:
I became much more – tried to be much more akin to the locals, to the
horror of my mother who always tried to get me to speak correctly.
So I developed a local dialect and a local slang very rapidly, dressed
the same, went out to discos and spat on the floor, all that sort of
stuff. I went drinking at fifteen – drinking cider in the fields. I was
rather like a native American Indian who came out of the reservation
and tried to be like the local cowboys. This went on until I got older –
I’d say very much from the age of my teens. And I worked on building
sites as well and that whole idea of being one of the lads was very
strong, definitely. (Ó Treasaigh, interview)
Andrew Riemer explains that although his act of mimicry was conducted
with great efficiency, his efforts were ‘merely a thin veneer pasted over
emptiness’. In Hungary, he had been part of a culture where feelings
were readily expressed. However in the new context he was expected to
restrain his energies. The inner conflict between his natural urges to be
demonstrative and the expectations of restraint from those around him
were difficult to deal with. Australian society was ‘a world that allowed
no scope for emotions or for the cultivation of the sensibility’. It was
a dull world: ‘The lack of personality that afflicted me when the drab
adolescent replaced the multicoloured freak of Hurlston Park revealed
the extent of my spiritual impoverishment.’ (Riemer 1992: 146).
Coming from a European culture that was very demonstrative,
Andrew Riemer found it difficult to understand his restrained peers.
What had previously been a vital element in communication –
body-gestures – had been effectively removed in the new context. He
found it difficult to ‘read’ his school companions:
The faces staring at me, even those that attempted to draw me out
of that circle of isolation, were impassive, their hands immobile. You
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could not ‘read’ their intentions, especially if you were the product
of a culture which habitually employed exaggerated gestures, smiles
and other facial expressions. (Riemer 1992: 91–2)
Marica Bodrožić describes a similar experience. Although her relocation was entirely within a European context (from Croatia to Germany),
the change in body-language was enormous:
I felt that there was a difference between the body-language I knew
in my first language in Dalmatia, because in the south of Europe
people move all the time when they speak. Maybe as a child one
might think that they are dancing around while they are speaking,
but in Germany the body was very concentrated and people did not
laugh very loudly. So, for me, it was a different world of bodies too.
(Bodrožić, interview)
Assimilation to a host community requires anthropological skills.
Watkins-Goffman suggests that unless immigrants adopt some of the
behaviours of the host community, they will not be accepted. ‘This may
often involve learning nonverbal signals, that is signals that communicate without words – for example, body language or gestures such as
hand held up for “hello”.’ (Watkins-Goffman 2001: 4). The majority
group needs to see something of itself in the immigrant before it will
accept him/her. Isabelle de Courtivron notes that for a while she was:
a hybrid creature, half anthropologist, half native, listening avidly
to the way Parisians talked in the streets, mimicking gestures they
made in shops or banks, observing the way they interacted, carefully
noting the difference between the signifiers and the signified, and
reproducing these subtleties as best I could. (de Courtivron 2003b:
163–4)
Attempts by migrant children to become more like the host community can generate confusion or tensions in the home, where parents may
continue using the body-language of the community of origin. Hugo
Hamilton explains that his mimicry of others upset his mother as she
was very concerned about issues of authenticity:
There is a part of me also that is quite a good actor. A ventriloquist,
perhaps. I began to act out what children on the street were doing.
I was able to do it well. My mother hated anything that was fake.
I think there was part of her migrant intuition that mistrusted Irish
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people and she mistrusted that thing in me which tried to imitate
people outside, something that came through my language as well as
through the way I behaved. I tried to develop that same casual way
of dealing with the truth and the Irish talent for concealing things in
the language. (Hamilton, interview)
Eva Hoffman encountered similar difficulties:
My mother says I’m becoming ‘English’. This hurts me, because
I know she means I’m becoming cold. I’m no colder than I’ve ever
been but I’m learning not to be demonstrative. I learn this from a
teacher who after contemplating the gesticulations with which I help
myself describe the digestive system of a frog tells me ‘to sit on my
hands and then try talking’. (Hoffman 1998 [1989]: 146)
The art of mimicry also extends to language. Lorcán Ó Treasaigh
describes his skills as follows: ‘[w]hen I am in company of, for example, people with flat Dublin accents, I develop one very quickly. I still
do that, I think.’ Tensions between Elias Canetti and his mother meant
that he resorted to concealing certain practices from her. When he began
speaking German like the local Swiss boys around him, she complained
that she didn’t bring him to Switzerland to corrupt his pure German:
Ich übte das Zürichdeutsche für mich allein, gegen den Willen der Mutter
und verheimlichte vor ihr die Fortschritte, die ich darin machte. (Canetti
2005 [1977]: 171)
[I practiced Zurich German for myself alone, against my mother’s
will, concealing from her the progress I was making. (Canetti,
1979: 138)]
This act of mimicry represented his initial stirrings of independence
from his mother:
Es war, soweit es um Sprache ging, die erste Unabhängigkeit von ihr, die ich
bewies, und während ich in allen Meinungen und Einflüssen ihr noch untertan war, begann ich mich in dieser einzigen Sache als ›Mann‹ zu fühlen.
(Canetti 2005 [1977]: 171)
[That, so far as a language went, was my first independent move
from her, and although still subjugated to her in all opinions and
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influences, I began feeling like a ‘man’ in this one thing. (Canetti,
1979: 138)]
Many of the migrant writers resorted to practices of concealment of their
mimicry from their parents. Hugo Hamilton remembers how he and his
brother Franz, were desperate to belong – to become insiders. So they
decided to mimic the local English. ‘I started practicing English on my
own, saying things to the wall like “What are you lookin’ at?” I rehearsed
conversations out loud in my room, threatening to kick the shit out of
the wardrobe and telling the door to watch out or else I would go over
and straighten his face for him.’ (Hamilton 2003: 43). The desperation
to become Irish meant a denial of things German:
So then we try to be Irish. In the shop we ask for the ice pop in
English and let on that we don’t know any German. We’re afraid to be
German, so we run down to the seafront as Irish as possible to make
sure that nobody can see us. We stand at the railings and look at the
waves crashing against the rocks and the white spray going up into
the air. We can taste the salt on our lips and we see the foam coming
through the cracks like milk. We’re Irish and we say ‘Jaysus’ every
time the wave curls in and hits the rocks with a big thump. (Hamilton
2003: 5)
However, their concealment of the German dimension was not always
successful:
But there was trouble for us on the street. Everybody knew that
we were German again. In the fish shop, the man leaned over the
counter to look at us and say the word Achtung, as if all the people in
Ireland were going to speak German from now on. Everybody in the
shop turned around. He tried some more German words and I know
he’s only joking, because he’s a nice man with a red face and who
laughs so loud that it echoes around the fish shop. Other people are
the same, they keep asking us say things in German. But we’re afraid.
I pretend I don’t know any German. I pretend I’m Irish and speak
only English. (Hamilton 2003: 135)
Concealment of their former lives was a regular practice among the
immigrants. Isabelle de Courtivron notes her complete embarrassment
and feelings of shame when her mother occasionally came to pick her
up from school. Her mother’s failure to conform to the expectations of
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the host society was a great source of distress to the child. Her mother’s
French accent appeared ridiculous. Her clothes and jewellery looked
‘out of place’. Everything was a signal of difference that the child had
attempted to conceal from her comrades at school. Her mother:
reminded me of the differentness I carefully concealed and that
threatened the ‘popularity’ I craved and eventually succeeded in
crafting; it evoked the perils of the rejection I knew would ensue
if my ‘foreignness’ were discovered. I was angry at my mother for
intruding on a life I had determined would be as much unlike hers as
I could make it, for imposing her strange, uprooted, culturally dislocated presence as a permanent and painful reminder of our status as
outsiders. (de Courtivron 2003b: 162)
Andrew Riemer suggests that he also embarked on an endeavour to
eliminate any hint of his previous life in Hungary. His efforts at concealment lasted until he was well into his 20s. Essentially he was leading ‘a
life of mimicry and parody’ (Riemer 1992: 104). The process of learning
involved deliberately forgetting – or unlearning. The act of concealment
was played out among new and old acquaintances alike. As a teenager,
Riemer avoided communicating in Hungarian with any of his parents’
friends, telling them that he had completely forgotten the language.
This was a symbolic assertion of his desire to become as Australian as
possible and leave Hungary behind. With hindsight, it was a ‘tiresomely
aggressive attempt to become a genuine Australian’. This effort was
sparked by his inability ‘to reconcile the social, emotional and psychological claims’ of the Hungarian and English languages (Riemer 1992:
5–6). Ultimately, the acquisition of citizenship confirmed the success
of his attempts to suppress his former European self. Reminders of his
former European life such as holidays with his parents’ friends in the
mountains were distinctly unwelcome. To this Australian adolescent,
these reminders of Europe were ‘entirely offensive and insupportable’
(Riemer 1992: 143).
Belonging and difference
Despite attempts to become like the host community, many of the
migrant writers in this book continue to feel a sense of difference. Nuala
Ní Dhomhnaill remarks that her place of birth will always mark her as
different. Although she herself feels very drawn to Irish language communities and knows them intimately, she is not one of them: ‘I am still
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always an outsider, the little cailín Sasanach or English girl that I was
then.’ (Ní Dhomhnaill 2005a: 101a).
There is always some attribute which will identify the migrant as
different – and even as children, the migrants are aware of a strong sense
of difference and often hostility. Natasha Wodin speaks of the sense of
history that was a shadow over her childhood:
Diese Kindheit war sehr schwer. Wenn ich sehe, wie die russischen Kinder
hier in Berlin heute aufwachsen, das ist überhaupt nicht damit zu vergleichen, was es in meiner Kindheit nach dem Ende des Kriegs war. Damals
waren wir die Feinde. So viele deutsche Männer waren als Invaliden oder
gar nicht mehr aus dem Krieg zurückgekommen; die Mütter hatten ihre
Söhne verloren, die Frauen ihre Männer und Geschwister und so weiter.
Viele Frauen waren vergewaltigt worden. (Wodin, interview)
[This childhood was very hard. When I see how Russian children
grow up here in Berlin nowadays, it is not like my childhood was
after the end of the War. At that time we were the enemy. So many
German men had come back wounded or not at all after the War;
mothers lost their sons, women lost their husbands and siblings and
so forth. Lots of women had been raped. (AT)]
The fact that her family had also suffered in consequence of the War was
either not known or deliberately ignored:
Dass auch meine Eltern als verschleppte Zwangsarbeiter Opfer dieses Kriegs
waren, daran hat niemand gedacht. Wir gehörten zu den Russen, die an
dem ganzen deutschen Nachkriegselend schuld waren. Und da wir in greifbarer Nähe waren, hat man sich an uns gerächt, Tag für Tag. (Wodin,
interview)
No one understood that my parents as displaced, forced-labourers
were also victims of this War. We belonged to the Russians who were
guilty of all the German post-War misery. And because we were in
close proximity, they wanted to take revenge, day after day. (AT)]
For her, as for many other migrants, the experience of school days was
not a happy one. In Wodin’s case, the negativity was greatly enhanced
by stories of Russian cruelty from the teacher and other adults:
Die deutschen Kinder waren nicht freundlich, aber sie waren es nicht
aus sich selbst heraus, sondern weil sie das Feindbild der Erwachsenen
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übernommen haben. Die Lehrerin in der Schule hat zum Beispiel oft furchtbare Schauergeschichten über die Russen erzählt, zim Beispiel dass sie
ihrem Verlobten die Augen mit glühenden Kohlen ausgebrannt hätten. Und
dann schaute natürlich alles auf mich, auf das kleine russische Mädchen
in der Schulbank, das hatte ich getan. (Wodin, interview)
[No the German kids were not friendly, but they weren’t unfriendly
out of their own selves, but had adopted the adults’ image of the
enemy. The teacher in the school, for example, kept on telling
these cruel stories about the Russians. For example she said that the
Russians blinded her fiancé with burning coal. And then everyone in
class of course looked at me, at the little Russian girl at the school
desk, I had done that. (AT)]
In consequence of the war crimes of the people, i.e. the Russians, Wodin
was persecuted by her German classmates. The child had to carry the
burden of a history in which she herself, and her parents, were victims.
There was no escape from persecution – even at home:
Und nach der Schule wurde ich dann gejagt von den deutschen Kindern,
die mich oft genug schlimm verprügelten. Meine Zuflucht war immer das
Lager. Dort haben sich die deutschen Kinder nicht hineingetraut; sobald
ich die Grenze zum Lager passiert hatte, war ich in Sicherheit. Obwohl
nicht wirklich. Ich kam von einem Feindesland ins nächste. Zu Hause
gab es auch keine Geborgenheit, meine Eltern waren zerstörte Menschen,
Opfer der deutschen und der russischen Gewaltgeschichte des zwanzigsten
Jahrhunderts. (Wodin, interview)
[And after school, I was hunted by the German children who often
brutally beat me up. My refuge was always the camp. Once I had
crossed the boundary into the camp, the German children wouldn’t
dare to enter and I was safe. But not really. I came from one enemy
territory to another. At home there was no feeling of security, my
parents were destroyed people, victims of the German and Russian
violent histories of the twentieth century. (AT)]
Wodin’s home was hardly a refuge – and even that was a mark of difference from other children. While the rest of the children returned
to safe houses and apartments, Wodin went back to a camp where her
parents lived miserable lives. Her home didn’t engender any feelings of
assimilation.
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Sometimes it is their appearance or clothes rather than their homes
or accents that mark migrants as outsiders. The Leningrad-born writer,
Gary Shteyngart, notes that his American teachers tried to help him
integrate as a youngster. They suggested that he dispense with his
Russian furs and trim his hair. They also advised him to stop talking
to himself in Russian and to try to become more normal! (Shteyngart
2005: 182).
Andrew Riemer also experienced the ‘disgrace’ of wearing the wrong
clothes to school! In the following extract he describes his first day
attending an Australian school:
On this particular morning, she [his mother] rigged me out for school
in a coloured summer shirt, a pair of blue cotton shorts, and brightlystriped socks worn with sandals. The socks, especially, made me the
centre of an incredulous circle of onlookers. I was a garish parrot
amidst a flock of drab sparrows. (Riemer 1992: 90)
Riemer describes how he was ‘isolated in the middle of a circle of curious
faces’. Although he was physically standing in the middle of a circle of
people, he felt like an outsider (Riemer 1992: 91). He suggests that there
is a point beyond which any new migrant cannot claim to belong to the
new world. This is regardless of how expertly one learns to ‘mimic its
ways’ (Riemer 1992: 109).
Body-gestures often intensify the difference between insider and outsider. Eva Hoffman describes her teenage body as ‘stiff, sulky and wary’.
Unlike the others, she was not able to control her body-language.
Among her confident peers, Eva’s gestures demonstrated that she was
there on a provisional basis ‘by their grace’. She doesn’t rightfully
belong, despite her best efforts:
My shoulders stoop, I nod frantically to indicate my agreement with
others, I smile sweetly at people to show I mean well, and my chest
recedes inwards so that I don’t take up too much space – mannerisms
of a marginal, off-centered person who wants both to be taken in and
to fend off threatening others. (Hoffman 1998 [1989]: 110)
Hoffman tries to construct a sense of unity or continuity from a life that
has been marked by division. She thinks of the ‘Cracow Ewa’ as the real
person but the one who is not allowed to present herself. She imagines
herself as a Polish teenager in a setting which is in sharp contrast to the
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current context. ‘She is combining her past place with her present time
and thus constructing a “self” that cannot possibly exist’ (italics original
in Oster 1998: 64). In a conversation with herself, Ewa speaks to Eva and
ponders how she would have looked and behaved:
If you had stayed there, your hair would have been straight, and you
would have worn a barrette on one side.
But maybe by now you would have grown it into a ponytail? Like
the ones you saw on those sexy faces in the magazine you used to
read? I don’t know . . . .
You would be going to the movies with Zbyszek, and maybe to a
cafe after, where you would meet a group of friends and talk late into
the night. (Hoffman 1999: 119–20)
Hoffman constructs an imagined Polish image at a point when she is
having immense difficulty ‘fitting in’ with her American peers who are
dressing up for a party. While they are posing in front of mirrors, she
is pondering her reflection as a Polish teenager. This is an imagined
Ewa – a ‘mirror-image’ – a moment that is vaguely reminiscent of Lacan’s
‘mirror-stage’.
In several instances differences between migrants and the host community were highlighted by the reaction to the language spoken in
the home. In Liam Carson’s case, he grew up in an environment
where ‘everyone in the streets spoke English’. As children they ‘actually
learned English on the streets’. Even their relations spoke English and
affectionately regarded the Carson family as a little odd because they
communicated in Irish:
My Aunt Kathleen, the last remaining member of my father’s siblings
died recently and the cousins I hardly ever see except at funerals said
to me: ‘Yes, we remember you. You were the weird cousins who spoke
Irish.’ It was thought highly odd. It was thought eccentric. It was
regarded as being eccentric, in an affectionate way, but nonetheless
it was regarded as eccentric as in why on earth would you want to
actually do that? (Carson, interview)
In a similar fashion, Lorcán Ó Treasaigh notes the two separate worlds
in which he lived as a child:
As a child there were two worlds. There was the world in English,
which was outside the doors and the world of Irish which was inside.
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Now, I went to an all-Irish school of course. And through the allIrish school, I met many people to whom I spoke Irish. But you
were always aware of the fact that you were different. (Ó Treasaigh,
interview)
For Ó Treasaigh, attending an Irish-medium school was like living in a
separate island within an English-speaking world:
We were like an island. The school, I remember, was being referred
to as an island. The school is actually situated in Eton Square. And
the next square is Belgrave Square, all of this is terribly English. And
you cross the street and there is Queen’s Park. The school was a little island in the middle of the empire. It was located in an old, tall
Georgian house – a very typical large Georgian house that you would
almost expect to see in Merrion Square. So we were like an island,
very much, yes. (Ó Treasaigh, interview)
This language difference generated a strong sense of hostility among his
peers. ‘I think the fact that we were Irish speakers, we were referred to
as being “Irish pigs” and we had fought on the street with locals about
that’ (Ó Treasaigh, interview). Lorcán describes the vindictiveness with
which he and his brother were treated by other children. He describes
the following incident which happened when the two boys were purchasing potatoes. His peers (the toughies) began mocking them when
the bag of potatoes burst and the purchase spilt out on the road. This
incident is described in Irish but the mocking of his peers was in English:
Tá mo dheartháir ag béicíl orm. Tá poll sa mhála. Ní fhaca mé. Na fataí
ar fud na sráide. Ar mo dhícheall ag iarraidh iad a bhailiú. Na toughies ag
magadh fúinn.
– Look at the f-kin’ Irish pigs pickin’ up the spuds from the road!
Irish pigs, Irish pigs
Abhaile libh (Ó Treasaigh 2002: 30–1)
[My brother is shouting at me. There is a hole in the bag. I did not
see. The potatoes all over the street. Trying my best to gather them
up. The toughies are mocking us.
– Look at the f-kin’ Irish pigs pickin’ up the spuds from the road!
Irish pigs, Irish pigs
Away home with ye (AT)]
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Hugo Hamilton’s childhood experience in Dublin was similarly negative. As a youngster, he had a very strong sense of difference from the
majority group which was primarily related to his language – to the
family’s refusal to speak English:
I think you have to be German in order to understand how odd
it is to be German. And to speak German . . . that was actually the
big challenge for me, how awkward it was to be seen in public in
Ireland speaking German with my mother and to have that language
ridiculed. And then, it was the same or even worse with the Irish
language. They were both languages of shame, languages of denial.
(Hamilton, interview)
The family’s downright refusal to speak English often led to other
situations of shame (from the perspective of the child):
I know that people laugh at our family. I know that we are funny
people because we don’t speak English while we’re eating our dinner or playing with cars on the granite steps outside the house.
We are funny because my father goes into a hardware shop to buy
wood in Irish from a man who can also speak the language. We’re
funny because we’re German . . . . On the street I feel ashamed because
they know I got the stick on the backside and I can’t speak English.
(Hamilton 2003: 159)
Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill suggests that the fact that her family spoke Irish at
home didn’t help when it came to cultivating school friendships: ‘When
any school pals I might have had came around to our house my father
met them at the door spouting Irish at them. They ran off and that was
often the last I saw of them.’ (Ní Dhomhnaill 2005a: 132).
The use of a different language always marks one as different – as I was
to experience on many an occasion during my fieldwork in Germany.
My use of the English language often drew curious and sometimes disapproving looks. This was all the more remarkable as my efforts to speak
German usually drew unsolicited and unprompted responses in English!
In Strangers to Ourselves, Julia Kristeva refers to the Greek custom of
referring to non-Greeks as barbarians. This term usually referred (in a less
than complimentary context) to soldiers from Asia Minor who fought
in battle along with the Greeks. It represented their language as incomprehensible and was subsequently applied to anyone whose speech was
inarticulate (Kristeva 1991: 51). Kristeva explains that in France there
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is still a great intolerance of migrants who do not speak the French
language to perfection.
Georg Semprun, the Spanish-French writer experienced precisely this
hostility as a young man in France. In Adieu vive clarté, he describes this
formative experience. The setting was in a Parisian bakery. His intention
was to purchase a croissant:
[j]’étais entré dans une boulangerie qui se trouvait alors au point d’oblique
convergence des rues Racine et de l’École-de-Médecine. J’y avais demandé
un crossant, ou un petit pain, je ne sais plus quelle minime nourriture
terrestre. Mais la timidité, d’un côté . . . et, d’un autre côté, mon accent,
qui était alors exécrable . . . ont fait que la boulangère n’a pas compris ma
demande. Que j’ai réitérée, de façon encore plus balbutiante, probablement,
en sorte qu’elle fut encore moins compréhensible. (Semprun 1998: 60)
[I had gone into a baker’s shop which at that time was located on the
corner of an offset-angled crossroads at the junction of rue Racine
and rue de l’École-de-Médecine. I had asked for a croissant, or a small
roll, some minimalistic down to earth nourishment, I can’t remember now. But timidity on the one hand . . . and on the other hand,
my accent which at the time was execrable . . . meant that the woman
in the baker’s didn’t understand my request. I repeated same, probably stammering even more, with the net result that it was even less
comprehensible. (AT)]
His efforts to speak French were met with ridicule and derision:
Alors, toisant le maigre adolescent que j’étais, avec l’arrogance des boutiquiers et la xénophobie douce – comme on dit d’une folie inoffensive –
qui est l’apanage de tant de bons Français, la boulangère invectiva à
travers moi les étrangers, les Espagnols en particulier, rouges de surcroît,
qui envahissaient pour lors la France et ne savaient même pas s’exprimer.
Dans cette diatribe pour la galerie – elle s’adressait aux clients, cherchant
leur complicité visqueuse, plutôt qu’à moi – apparut même une allusion à
l’armée en déroute. Je fus renvoyé par son discours à la catégorie des
Espagnols de cette armée mythique. (Semprun 1998: 61)
[Then, eyeing scornfully the skinny adolescent I was, with a shopkeeper’s arrogance and that gentle xenophobia – as one might
describe an inoffensive foolishness – which is the prerogative of so
many good French people, the woman in the baker’s used me as a
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target to lambaste all foreigners, the Spanish in particular and especially republicans, who at that time were pouring into France and
who didn’t even know how to put two words together.
Within the substance of this diatribe, played to the gallery – she was
really talking to the customers, smarmily seeking their complicity,
rather than to me – there even appeared a reference to the army in
rout. I was dispatched by her tirade to the category of this mythical
Spanish army. (AT)]
In consequence of the response to his poor French, Semprun left the
baker without any croissant but with a huge sense of his status as an
outsider:
J’ai fui la boulangerie, privé de croissant ou de petit pain par mon
accent déplorable, qui me dénonçait aussitôt comme étranger. (Semprun
1998: 61)
[I fled the baker’s, no croissant, no roll, and all thanks to my
deplorable accent which marked me out immediately as a foreigner.
(AT)]
The sense of non-belonging was immediate and consequential:
Mon accent détestable ne m’avait pas seulement interdit d’obtenir le petit
pain ou le croissant que je désirais, il m’avait retranché aussi de la communauté de langue qui est l’un des éléments essentiels d’un lien social, d’un
destin collectif à partager. (Semprun 1998: 120)
[My dreadful accent not only had prevented me from getting the roll
or croissant I wanted, it had also sliced me off from the language community which is one of the essential elements of social association, a
collective destiny to be shared. (AT)]
It was this incident that inspired him to acquire native-like French – or
even a command of the language that was superior to that of the native:
J’avais donc aussitôt accepté d’être rejeté, j’avais assumé ce rejet. J’étais
un étranger, fort bien, je le demeurerai, m’étais-je dit. Cependant, pour que
cette décision intime, soudaine, aussi contraignante qu’une fulgurance de
la grâce – si j’en crois ceux qui ont fait de ladite fulgurance une expérience
ou, au moins, un thème littéraire gratifiant –, fût réellement efficace, il ne
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fallait pas que mon étrangeté s’affichât, se fit perceptible au premier venu. Il
fallait que cette vertu d’étrangeté fût secrète: pour cela il me fallait maîtriser
la langue française comme un autochtone. Et même, mon orgueil naturel y
mettant son grain de sel, mieux que les autochtones. (Semprun 1998: 120)
[I therefore straightway accepted being rejected. I had taken this
rejection on board. I was a foreigner, that’s fine, I will stay that way,
I said to myself. However, for this sudden and intimate decision, as
compelling as a bolt of supernatural grace – if I can believe those who
have made of this kind of bolt an experience or at least an agreeable
literary theme – to be really effective, my foreignness wouldn’t have
to be worn on my sleeve, become obvious to any newcomer. This foreigner virtue would have to be a secret; and for that I would have to
master the French language like a native. And, because my natural
pride added its tuppenceworth, even better than the natives. (AT)]
Natives of France identify very strongly with their national language
and the awkward use of French by migrants does nothing to endear
them to the host community. This intolerance also extends to migrant
eating and dress habits which are often viewed as not in good French
taste (Kristeva 1991: 38–9).
Some migrants were applauded by their parents for being different.
Hugo Hamilton notes that his own parents were not afraid to be different. In fact they felt lucky that they were not the same as everybody
else (Hamilton 2003: 222). But that did not convince the child of the
joy of being an outsider. Almost all of the migrants describe the obsessive desire to belong to the host community and a very strong desire to
assimilate and their inevitable failure to become ‘one of the rest’.
Natascha Wodin recalls her ‘ardent desire for acceptance’. On her first
day at school, she had not received a bag of candies like the other
children. Her mother had explained that these were for German children only and Russian children did not receive them. In her desire to
become German as quickly as possible, Natascha made rapid progress
with the German language. Her school report described her as being
‘exceptionally able’. In hindsight this triggers a certain vision for the
adult Natascha:
Und ich sehe ein Kind, das gierig Deutsch lernt, lernt es ganz schnell und
leicht, lernt auch das Lesen und Schreiben ganz leicht und schneller als alle
anderen, weil es ein Kind ohne Schultüte ist, im Gegensatz zu den andern,
weil es deutsch sein will, um jeden Preis, im Gegensatz zu den andern, die
es sind. (Wodin 1983: 79)
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[It conjures up the vision of a child avidly learning German, learning
to read and write the language with speed and facility, learning faster
than the rest because she has no bag of candies, because she longs to
be German at all costs, unlike those who already are. (Wodin 1986:
76–7)]
Hugo Hamilton similarly describes his obsessive desire to belong to the
English-speaking world. He wanted to translate his Irish-speaking personal world into English – and in so doing – imitate a transition that
had occurred in large tracts of the country, a century and a half earlier:
I had to be connected to that world of English and that is interesting
because this also describes the Irish people – how they transferred
their way of life into a different language, how they chose to be
connected to the rest of the world through the English language.
It became a personal escape for me, to be accepted by my peers in
the outside world. In many ways, I am still trying to conquer this
forbidden language. (Hamilton, interview)
For all of the migrants the issue was how far they could lose their
foreign-ness while retaining a sense of self. Eva Hoffman asks ‘how does
one bend towards another culture without falling over. How does one
strike an elastic balance between rigidity and self-effacement?’ (Hoffman
1998 [1989]: 209). Contact with the foreign culture has led to a sense of
being literally ‘out-of-touch’ with one’s sense of self (O’Sullivan 2010).
The Swiss-German writer, Verena Stefan, describes the French language
as being the wrong body-temperature. Her ‘being-in-progress doesn’t
have a body yet in the new language, maybe a bit of an English body,
but almost no French textual body’. She has ‘no feet, no bones, no muscles’. Moreover, ‘the words haven’t reached body temperature’, but for
the process of writing ‘every word of the text to come has to assume
one’s body temperature to become fully alive’ (Stefan 2000: 24). Ultimately, all the writers continue to wrestle with this experience of being
insiders and outsiders – not fully one identity or another. But perhaps
they also recognize it as a gift that has sparked their creativity. It is the
high price they ‘pay’ for their talent.
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7
Interculturality and Creativity
At the beginning of this book I explored the notion of interculturality
and queried how best one might categorize the writers under consideration here. Given that all of them have experienced more than one
language and more than one cultural setting, I opted for the term
‘intercultural’ – although not without some reservations. Many of the
authors themselves are unhappy with such categories. Marica Bodrožić
rejects any notion of authors as being ‘in-between’ one language and
another or one cultural setting and another:
I think every writer is in-between but nobody stays put in one place
in-between. Every place is changing all the time even the place where
we are sitting now. I don’t have the impression in my case that
I am in-between this world or that language or between one culture
and another. I think language is the place where you can pull all
these ‘in-betweens’ together. One is moving all the time. (Bodrožić,
interview)
This statement is reminiscent of the Greek philosopher Heraclitus, who
is purported to have argued that everything is in flux and moving like a
river. Although we tend to think of migration and movement as modern
phenomena, it was a pre-Socratic proposal that nothing remains still
(Kirk 1954: 14).
For some, the concept of interculturality cannot be reduced simply
to the experience of different cultures. Margaret Parry (2003) considers
it as a way of being in the world, defining the term as ‘transcending
barriers of communication based on different ways of seeing, feeling,
and understanding the world, and as these differences are articulated
in language’ (Parry 2003: 101–2). For Parry, it is crucial that one retains
149
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a sense of self throughout the experience of encountering a new language or a new cultural setting. She argues that it is impossible to
have empathy with others unless one understands oneself. In this final
chapter, I wish to explore the impact of interculturality on these authors
both as individuals and as writers.
The curse of Babel
Some events in the Bible are strongly associated with linguistic diversity.
One of the best-known is that of the Tower of Babel which features in the
Book of Genesis. According to the biblical story, mankind determined
to build an enormous tower which would reach to the heavens. These
people had migrated from the east and at that time, ‘the whole world
spoke the same language with the same vocabulary’. God witnessed their
efforts to reach to the heavens and was not impressed. He said: ‘[t]hey
are all a single people with a single language!’ For this reason, ‘nothing they plan to do will be beyond them’. In order to impede further
progress, God said: ‘Come, let us go down and confuse their language
there, so that they cannot understand one another.’ And so mankind
was scattered across the earth in utter confusion. ‘That is why it was
called Babel, since there Yahweh confused the language of the whole
world.’ (Genesis 11: vv 5–8)
The story of Babel is one of a number of ancient myths which features
a deity deliberately confusing mankind with language. In each instance,
the result is bewilderment and disorder. Among the Hebrews, the name
Babel was often linked in error with Babylon, which was derived from
a term bālal (to confuse). The story is designed to explain both the
collapse of Babylon as well as the reason why human beings speak so
many different languages. ‘In the multilingual near East, the natural
answer was: the diversity was a curse laid upon men for their sinful
pride.’ (Haugen 1973: 45). Hence the phrase ‘the curse of Babel’ is often
used to describe situations in which people speak a number of different
languages.
In the story of Babel, men and women failed to build a unified structure, as a result of their linguistic diversity. Sometimes it seems that
intercultural writers also struggle with the idea of a unified self. The
Russian emigrant, Natasha Lvovich, suggests that with ‘each language
and each identity, there will be more life, more love, and more growing. Multiplicity is the adjustment’ (Lvovich 2007: 72–3). However,
the experience can also be uncomfortable and sickening. She describes
bilingualism as:
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a way of life; it is an absolute involvement in two cultures and two
societies that means, among other things, close ties with people –
language speakers, and with the cultural heritage – these people’s
spirit. It is an emotional disbalance, a psychological discomfort,
similar to nostalgia, a ‘language sickness’. (Lvovich 1997: 71)
Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill queries whether a bilingual existence leads ‘to
a genuinely stereoscopic and enriched view of life’ or whether ‘it is the
cause of mental astigmatism and blurred vision, a sense of displacement,
a deep anxiety?’ She herself has ‘found at times that the inner contradictions bilingualism entails cause psychic pain’. She describes it as a ‘civil
war’ going on inside her which is deeply exhausting to control: ‘[a]ll
my energies get sucked down into the subconscious, with a depression
characterized by overwhelming lethargy as its most obvious physical
manifestation. Even in better times there is a constant restlessness’ (Ní
Dhomhnaill 2005a: 102).
While Ní Dhomhnaill describes the experience as depressing, Alexakis
thinks of it as a nightmare:
Alors que j’avais cru trouver un équilibre entre deux pays et deux langues,
j’ai eu la sensation que je marchais dans le vide. Comme dans un
cauchemar, je me suis vu en train de traverser un gouffre sur un pont qui,
en réalité, n’existait pas. (Alexakis 1989: 23)
[I had thought I’d found a balance between two countries and two
languages, but I now had the sense I was walking in a void. As in a
nightmare, I saw myself crossing an abyss on a bridge that in reality
did not exist. (AT)]
It is almost as if his mother tongue, Greek and his second language,
French, have split his life experience. While he, as an individual, has
spent different phases of his life through different languages, and these
phases are aware of one another, he still has to journey from one to the
other self:
Malgré mes innombrables voyages entre ma langue maternelle et ma
langue d’adoption, je ressens toujours une légère agitation quand je vais
de l’une à l’autre. Ce sont certes des langues qui se connaissent, qui se sont
fréquentées, qui ont des souvenirs communs. (Alexakis 2002: 75)
[Despite my countless voyages between my mother tongue and my
adopted language, I always feel slightly troubled when I go from one
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to the other. They are definitely languages that know each other,
that have spent time together, that have shared memories. (Alexakis
2006: 48)]
Andreï Makine describes tensions between his French and Russian
heritages as painful at times. His mother’s funeral was one occasion at
which his torn identity was strongly expressed. He nurtured a strong
sense of resentment towards Charlotte, his grandmother, from whom
he had inherited his French traditions:
Dans mon cri, je voulais déverser sur Charlotte ces images. J’attendais d’elle
une réponse. Je voulais qu’elle s’explique, qu’elle se justifie. Car c’est elle qui
m’avait transmis cette sensibilité française – la sienne – me condamnant à
vivre dans un pénible entre-deux-mondes. (Makine 1995: 224)
[In uttering my cry I wanted to pour out these images over Charlotte.
I expected a response from her. I wanted her to explain herself, to
justify herself. For it was she who had passed on to me this French
sensibility – her own – condemning me to live painfully between two
worlds. (Makine 2007 [1996]: 195–6)]
His grandmother, Charlotte, symbolized not only the French language
but a European way of life that was completely at odds with his Russian
ancestry. Not only did his French inheritance contrast sharply with his
Russian lifestyle, the relationship between the two was unequal. The
French dimension was strongly Eurocentric and condescending towards
Russian customs and mannerisms.
Je lui en voulais de son calme durant l’enterrement de ma mère. Et de
cette vie très européenne, dans son bon sens et sa propreté, qu’elle menait
à Saranza. Je trouvais en elle l’Occident personnifié, cet Occident rationnel
et froid contre lequel les Russes gardent une rancune inguérissable. Cette
Europe qui, de la forteresse de sa civilisation, observe avec condescendance
nos misères de barbares – les guerres où nous mourions par millions, les
révolutions dont elle a écrit pour nous les scenarios . . . . Dans ma révolte
juvénile, il y avait une grande part de cette méfiance innée. (Makine
1995: 224)
[Unconsciously, I resented her for her calm during my mother’s
burial. And for the life, so European in its good sense and neatness,
that she led at Saranza. I found in her the West personified, that
rational and cold West, against which Russians harbour an incurable
grudge, That Europe which looks down condescendingly from the
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stronghold of its civilisation on our barbarian miseries . . . the wars
in which we died by the million, the revolutions whose scenarios it
wrote for us . . . . In my juvenile rebellion there was a large dose of this
innate mistrust. (Makine 2007 [1996]: 196)]
The shadow of a hierarchical history was tearing his person in two:
La greffe française que je croyais atrophiée était toujours en moi et
m’empêchait de voir. Elle scindait la réalité en deux. (Makine 1995: 224)
[The French graft, which I thought had atrophied, was still inside me
and was preventing me from seeing. It split reality in two. (Makine
2007 [1996]: 196)]
Many intercultural narratives focus on the idea of a split between
languages, experiences and sometimes personalities. ‘During periods of
psychic stress caused by changing their languages, bilingual writers feel
themselves to be not merely “monstrous” or Janus-faced, but split or
even schizophrenic.’ Isabel de Courtrivon suggests that intercultural stories ‘touch us’ because they point to the more universal experience of
splitting the self. The focus on a division between different cultures
and languages or the loss of one identity and the acquisition of another
are all evidence of ‘our general existential dislocations’ (de Courtrivon
2007: 38). In this age of ‘liquid modernity’ which describes the uncertainty of the twenty-first century, reliable patterns of dependency are
liquefied. ‘They are now malleable to an extent unexperienced by, and
unimaginable for, past generations; but like all fluids they do not keep
their shape for long.’ (Bauman 2000: 8). Despite de Courtrivon’s efforts
to revisit the French language and cultural context of her childhood, ‘it
will never fit like another skin’ (de Courtrivon 2007: 39). She will never
be really French again.
The Slovenian-born writer, Brina Svit, fails to recognise herself in
French. Her relationship with French is hierarchical; there is no genuine friendship between the Slovenian and the French Brina. She is
uncomfortable with her French side:
C’est comme un vêtement trop bien coupé, trop élégant, trop strict et sophistiqué. Je ne suis pas à l’aise dedans, je ne peux pas bouger comme je
veux, je ne peux le déformer à ma façon. Il n’arrive pas à se faire à moi
et moi encore moins à lui. Ce sont mes habits désespérément neufs tous
les jours. J’écris en français. Je suis surprise à chaque fois que j’allume
l’ordinateur. Je ne reconnais pas ma graphie, est-ce bien mon écriture? (Svit
2009: 234)
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[It’s like a dress that is too well cut, too elegant, too austere and
sophisticated. I’m not at ease in it, I can’t move in it as I like, can’t
make it mine. It can’t adapt to me, and I can’t adapt to it. These are
my desperately new clothes every day. I write in French. I’m taken
aback every time I turn on the computer. I don’t recognize my script:
is this even my writing? (Svit 2009: 240)]
Lorcán Ó Treasaigh also comments on the division between two languages. He suggests that ‘when you speak a language at home and then
you speak the language outside the home, you can be caught between
both languages. And as such, you can wonder what one language means
to you as opposed to another.’ (Ó Treasaigh, interview). Clearly many of
these writers experience bilingualism as stressful – as a split that cannot be healed. Ultimately these writers may be trying to homogenize
an experience that is heterogeneous, a process that can be difficult and
sometimes brutal (Miletic 2008: 15).
Rather than struggling with this double existence, Svit simply buries
the Slovenian part of herself and lives with the other. She says:
J’ai fait le dernier pas: j’ai déserté ma langue maternelle. Ou encore mieux:
je ne l’habite plus. (Svit 2009: 238)
[I’ve taken the final step: I’ve deserted my mother tongue. Or, better,
I no longer live in it. (Svit 2009: 243–4)]
The burial of one’s mother tongue is not a unique experience. Julia
Kristeva suggests that although she has detached herself from her
mother tongue, Bulgarian, she has built ‘a new residence’ above the
‘hidden crypt’. She dwells in this new abode and it lives in her and there
‘unfolds what one might call, not without affection obviously, the true
life of the spirit and the flesh’ (Kristeva 2000: 166). While one might
not necessarily regard this as a satisfactory resolution of the tensions
between one or more languages, there is a sense of comfort exuding from
these words – an appreciation that Babel was not necessarily a curse and
may even have been a blessing.
The blessing of Babel
While the interpretation of Babel as a blessing may seem rather odd,
George Steiner has explored the myth from precisely this perspective.
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He begins with the traditional interpretation. ‘Babel-myths’ suggest that
communities, tribes and nations confront each other without any comprehension: ‘They listen to each other’s mouthings as if the infirm or
deranged were moving their lips.’ Consequences have been deadly serious and include contempt and ethnic hatred. Attempts to seek out the
truth have ‘run into the fog of language(s)’. Misinterpretations arise
when groups fail to understand one another’s vocabulary and language.
‘Where divine creation had woven a seamless garment of truth-telling,
the catastrophe at Babel has left a patchwork-quilt of approximations,
misprisions, lies and parochialism.’ (Steiner 1997: 82–3).
In his memoir, Steiner describes his personal enthralment by this story
which he always felt as a ‘cover-up’. His interpretation of the event is
entirely different from the norm. Mankind’s attempts to reach the heavens were not an effort to rival God. Instead, they were inspired by a
desire to get closer to God, to worship the deity and rejoice in God’s
glory. As a reward, God ‘bestowed on man the incommensurable gift of
tongues’. (This was a precursor of the gift of tongues at Pentecost.) ‘Far
from being a malediction, the cornucopia of different languages poured
out on the human species constituted a blessing without end.’ (Steiner
1997:84).
Steiner sets this blessing in the context of man as a ‘language animal’.
This one facility makes us different from the rest of the animal kingdom.
It is our ability to tell stories and to imagine new contexts that make us
special: ‘Individuals become human persons by means of participating
in a narrative history of themselves.’ As we tell our stories, we ‘create
our individuality’. We tell stories to ensure coherence in our lives. ‘We
understand ourselves and know ourselves insofar as we construct narratives of and for ourselves which develop over time.’ (Rapport 2007: 321).
We can conceptualize the universe a million years from now and tell a
story about what might happen. We can speak about our rich experiences of the human condition: ‘A language casts over the thronged seas
of encountered totality its own particular net. With this net, it draws to
itself riches, depths of insight, life-forms which would, otherwise remain
unrealised.’ (Steiner 1997: 89–90).
From Steiner’s perspective, Babel was a source of jubilation rather
than a curse and many intercultural writers clearly regard their linguistic
diversity as a blessing rather than a blight. The acquisition of a second
language is a positive factor which enhances their identity. This applies
even to those writers who also perceive it as problematic at times. They
regard the additional language(s) as more than simply another way of
saying something. It has many other benefits.
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Vassilis Alexakis regards himself as having two identities and suggests
that with the new language, he has acquired another person – a wife
with whom he is very comfortable: ‘With his languages closely married,
he feels that there is no risk of betraying either his languages or himself.’
(O’Sullivan 2010: 110).
On m’a parlé d’un écrivain étranger qui a fini par épouser sa traductrice
française: «Eh bien, ai-je pensé, moi, je suis ma propre femme !» J’ai été
assez heureux pendant un moment. Je n’avais le sentiment ni de me trahir,
en utilisant deux langues, ni de les trahir. (Alexakis 1989: 17)
[Someone told me about a foreign writer who wound up marrying
his French translator. ‘Well,’ I thought, ‘I’m my own wife!’ I was fairly
happy for a while. I didn’t have the impression I was betraying myself
by using two languages, nor did I think I was betraying them. (Waters
2009)]
He describes the choice of deciding each day which language to speak.
He is not curbed by a monolingual world:
J’avais décidé d’assumer mes deux identités, d’utiliser à tour de rôle les deux
langues, de partager ma vie entre Paris et Athènes. La vie solitaire me convenait pour cette raison supplémentaire qu’elle me permettait d’échapper
à l’influence permanente du français. Je ne disais plus «bonjour» en me
réveillant. C’était à moi de décider dans quelle langue je vivrais ma journée.
Je notais en grec les courses que j’avais à faire. C’est à cette époque je
crois que je pris la décision de répondre «èmbros ?» au téléphone. Le
grec m’attendrissait, me rappelait qui j’e’tais. Le français me permettait
de prendre plus facilement congé de la réalité, de m’égarer. (Alexakis
1989: 263)
[I had decided to come to terms with my two identities, to use the
two languages turn about, to share my life between Paris and Athens.
My solitary lifestyle suited me for another reason: that it allowed me
to escape from the permanent influence of French. No longer did
I say ‘Bonjour’ on waking up in the morning. It was up to me to
decide what language I was going to live in each day. I made notes
in Greek for the shopping I had to do. It was at this time, I think,
I decided to say ‘embros?’ when answering the ‘phone. The Greek language touched me, reminded me who I was. French allowed me to
take a holiday more easily from reality, to wander away. (AT)]
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Moving from one language to another is described in terms of going for
a walk in the interior of his own persona. J’avais plutôt l’impression de me
promener à l’intérieur de moi-même. (Alexakis 1989: 264).
The German-French author, Anna Weber, thinks of herself in terms of
two different personae: when she began writing in German (her mother
tongue), it seemed that the words emerged directly from between her
fingers to the page. No pen or pencil was necessary and the German
Anna facilitated was an undisturbed stream of consciousness. At one
point, Anna also began to write in French and when she subsequently
wrote in German (after a detour in French), she found that she had
become ‘two different beings’:
La distance qui désormais nous sépare n est que d un millimètre ou deux;
de loin, nous continuons à ne faire qu un, mais moi qui nous ai connus
avant, je ne m y trompe pas. (Weber 2009: 190)
[The distance that now separates us is only a millimetre or two, but I,
who knew us both before, I know I am not mistaken. (AT)]
As with Alexakis, the additional language generated a new persona.
Eva Almassy describes the added value of bilingualism, not in terms
of a double personality, but as the gift of increased dexterity. Having an
extra language was literally like ‘having an extra pair of hands’:
Mais depuis le temps, ça va mieux, merci, et j’ai plutôt l’impression que
la connaissance du français m’a greffé des doigts supplémentaires : en plus
de hüvelykujj, mutatóujj, középsöujj . . . , je possède désormais un pouce,
un index, un médius etc., et j’en ai bien besoin, figurez-vous. (Almassy
2009: 170)
[I have the impression that my knowledge of French has actually
given me extra fingers: as well as a hüvelykujj, a mutatóujj, a középsöujj, I now have a thumb, an index finger, a middle finger and so on.
And would you believe it, I really need them. (Almassy 2004: 266)]
Some writers describe the extra language as giving them double vision.
The bilingual writer, Cathal Ó Searcaigh, is very conscious of words
in different languages having distinct connotations. He describes Irish
and English language words as having separate shapes and soundscapes.
From his perspective, it is not possible to reproduce a word from one
language to another. The best one can do is find a counterpart but it’s
never an equivalent: ‘In short having two languages enabled me to view
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the world through two different lenses. I was beginning to see that each
lens was tilted differently.’ (Ó Searcaigh 2009: 123–4).
Andreï Makine encounters these different lenses in French and
’ has a
Russian. He is aware, for example, that the Russian noun ‘
French equivalent ‘tsar’ but they sound very different and mean very
different things:
Je crus pouvoir expliquer cette double vision par mes deux langues: en effet,
», un tyran cruel se dressait devant
quand je prononçais en russe «
moi ; tandis que le mot «tsar» en français s’emplissait de lumières, de
bruits, de vent, d’éclats de lustres, de reflets d’épaules féminines nues, de
parfums mélangés – de cet air inimitable de notre Atlantide. Je compris
qu’il faudrait cacher ce deuxième regard sur les choses, car il ne pourrait
susciter que les moqueries de la part des autres. (Makine 1995: 58–9)
[Perhaps this double vision could be explained by my two languages;
’ a cruel tyrant rose
thus, when I pronounced the Russian word ‘
up before me; while the word ‘tsar’ in French was redolent of lights, of
sounds, of wind, of glittering chandeliers, of the radiance of women’s
bare shoulders, of mingled perfumes, of the inimitable air of our
Atlantis. I understood that this second view of things would have to
be hidden, for it could only provoke the mockery of others. (Makine
2007 [1996]: 45)]
This double-take on reality is expressed metaphorically ‘in a poignant
scene of voyeurism’ in Makine’s volume (Wanner 2002: 113). As a child,
Alyosha and a classmate view a prostitute working on a boat on the
Volga River. They view the scene from two different portholes which
give them very different impressions. When Alyosha looks through one
porthole, he sees the head and shoulders of a kneeling woman. She looks
rather bored with life and is closely examining her painted finger nails.
More interestingly, she is nodding her head as if she were engaged in
silent conversation with another speaker. The view from the other window is of a gigantic, naked, female rear engaged rhythmically in an act
of intercourse with a customer. Each window offers an entirely different perspective on the same act. As explicitly crude scenes rarely appear
in Makine’s writing, it is entirely possible that the incident is intended
to serve as an allegory: ‘It provides a symbolic visualization of the split
reality created by two different linguistic and cultural codes.’ (Wanner
2002: 113–14).
Wanner (2002) points to other examples of ‘double-vision’ in
Makine’s writing. During their last summer together in Saranza,
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Charlotte – Makine’s French grandmother – tells him stories about the
war. At one point she describes a row she witnessed between some
‘samovars’, that is, between war veterans who had lost their limbs and
were deported by the Soviet officials to the northern regions. As the story
concludes she laments her status as an outsider. However, she also notes
that this ‘foreign’ perspective gives her an insight into the situation that
is not easily grasped by the native:
Tu sais, Aliocha, parfois, il me semble que je ne comprends rien à la
vie de ce pays. Oui, que je suis toujours une étrangère. Après presque
un demi-siècle que je vis ici . . . Et parfois je me dis que je comprends ce
pays mieux que ne le comprennent les Russes eux-mêmes. (Makine 1995:
236–7)
You know, Alyosha, sometimes it seems to me that I understand nothing about the life of this country. Yes. That I am still a foreigner. After
living here for almost half a century . . . Yet sometimes I tell myself
that I understand this country better than the Russians themselves.
(Makine 2007 [1996]: 206–7)
As a non-native, Charlotte has double vision. She has the perspective of
an individual ‘who is both an out- and insider’. Makine himself benefits from double language perspective. His detachment from any single
worldview facilitates his development as a verbal artist: ‘If the ordinary person simply lives in his or her native language, never stopping
to wonder at it, the artist, like Makine’s hero, deliberately severs that
unmediated relationship, creating a distance that makes art possible.’
(Safran 2003: 256).
As noted in Chapter 2, having two or more languages often gives writers an opportunity to distance themselves from their written material,
to view it from outside as it were. Bakhtin notes: ‘Only polyglossia fully
frees consciousness from the tyranny of its own language and its own
myth of language.’ (Bakhtin 1981: 61). Many authors are clearly aware
of this asset. Anne Weber notes:
Écrire dans une langue étrangère est bien sûr un moyen plutôt radi
cal d instaurer une distance, mais il a le mérite d être efficace. (Weber
2009: 189)
[Writing in a foreign language is certainly a more radical way of
establishing a distance but has the merit of being effective. (AT)]
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Vassilis Alexakis takes a similar view. He says:
En me relisant à travers une autre langue, je vois mieux mes faiblesses, je
les corrige, ce qui explique que je préfère être lu en traduction plutôt que
dans la version originale. (Alexakis 2002: 12)
[By rereading myself through the lens of another language, I see my
weaknesses more clearly, I correct them, and this explains why I prefer to be read in translation rather than in the original. (Alexakis
2006: 2)]
As well as distance, the notion of liberation comes through in many
of these writers’ comments on multilingualism. Julia Kristeva suggests
that an individual who learns a new language is ‘capable of the most
unforeseen audacities when using it’. While such an individual might
be shy and retiring in his native language, he may discover new courage
in the foreign tongue. He or she may embrace exotic worlds and new
fields. However she also cautions that foreigners may not necessarily
fully understand what they are saying (Kristeva 1991: 31).
Many writers propose that a new language paves the path to freedom from their mother tongue: ‘It allows them to escape from clichés,
from the linguistic conglomerates which so easily appear behind a single word, and gives them an easier path towards originality.’ (Miletic
2008: 29). Brina Svit notes a strong sense of liberation and experiences considerable freedom when writing about members of her own
family:
J’ai fait quelques découvertes depuis que je suis enfermée dans la Torre
et que j’écris en français. Une certaine liberté, pour commencer. Je peux
enfin écrire sur ma mère, froidement, sèchement, cliniquement, comme si
elle était la mère de quelqu’un d’autre, enfin presque. Ça devrait marcher
aussi pour mon père, mon frère, mes grands-parents ou la mère patrie . . . . Je
n’ai pas forcément envie de parler d’eux, mais c’est bon à savoir. On devrait
choisir un autre idiome pour parler des siens, et non celui qui a été transmis
par eux, reçu en héritage. (Svit 2009: 237)
[Since I’ve been sequestered in this tower and have been writing in
French I have made some discoveries. First, there’s a certain freedom.
I can finally write about my mother – coldly, dryly, clinically – as if
she were someone else’s mother; well, almost. That ought to work for
my father too, and for my brother, my grandparents, my motherland;
I don’t really feel the need to write about them, but it’s good to know.
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One should choose another language to talk about one’s family – not
the language transmitted by them, inherited from them. (Svit 2009:
243–4)]
Svit regards her uncertainty and hesitancy in French as part of its attraction. She compares herself to an aeroplane that needs to continue on
its way at a certain speed. Should she stop and start asking too many
questions she might expose her own vulnerability. She avoids flourishes
and pirouettes in French. She offers gifts without gift-wrapping.
Having two or more languages makes authors more aware of language
as a tool with different shades of meaning. It can also be a source of great
fun and some of them enjoy playing with words and with the sounds
of words. Ciaran Carson gives numerous examples of this in his memoir, The Star Factory. In the following extract, he articulates the range
of meanings that can be derived from bun na gcló, which in English
translates as bungalow:
‘Bungalow’, in English, sounds like a brand of coal or anthracite;
more interestingly, if accented on the last syllable, it can be exactly
transliterated into Irish as ‘bun na gcló’, a phrase redolent with ambiguity. ‘Bun’ is a base, a bottom, foundation; but it can be extended
in many ways . . . So, depending on context, ‘bun na gcló’ can mean
the origin of species, the establishment of stamps, the bottom line, a
fount of images, an authority of peers, the arbiter of fashion, Commander of the Echelons, a bank of type, a metronome, the basics of
taxonomy, the founder of a dynasty or sect, monotype the genesis
of embryos, Platonic forms, the inspiration for a memoir, Master of
the Rolls, the original cliché, an impersonator or inventor, a minute
book, the primum mobile, the foot of tributaries, the General Post
Office, where they all hang out, an ABC, a catalogue, a tramline terminus, party lines, ‘the cynosure of all eyes’, the Royal Mint, ‘render
unto Caesar what is Caesar’s’, where the buck stops, a tinder-box,
Aladdin’s lamp, a veritable Tower of Babel; in other words, a jungle.
(Carson 1997: 52–3)
As with many other writers, Ciaran Carson’s double exposure to Irish in
the home and English outside of the home meant that from an early
age, he was aware of two ways of seeing and saying things. The joy
of linguistic pluralism and play with dialects and registers constantly
comes through his work (Sewell 2009: 184).
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Languages and creativity
As many of these writers can and do write in more than one language,
they are frequently asked why they opt to write in one language rather
than another. Some, such as Marica Bodrožić, suggest that they have no
choice in the matter. She explains: ‘People often ask me: “why did you
choose German?” And I say: “no, I did not. It was the other way round,
German chose me.” ’ (Bodrožić, interview). Ní Dhomhnaill offers a similar explanation. Rather than choosing Irish as her literary language, she
suggests that the Irish language has chosen her. It is her destiny. ‘The
language that my soul speaks, and the place it comes from, is Irish.’ (Ní
Dhomhnaill 2005b: 13).
This focus on the ‘naturalness’ of writing in a language other than
one’s mother tongue was reinforced by Joseph Conrad in the author’s
note preceding his own memoirs, A Personal Record, published in 1919.
Although Conrad’s native tongue was Polish, he tells the reader that his
ability to write in English was as natural as any other ability with which
he might have been born. It appears to have always been an inherent
part of himself and the idea of choice never actually arose. Instead of
choosing a language in which to write, the language chose – or rather
adopted – him: ‘it was I who was adopted by the genius of the language,
which directly I came out of the stammering stage, made me its own
so completely that its very idioms I truly believe had a direct action on
my temperament and fashioned my still plastic character’ (quoted in
Stavans 2001: 229).
This is not unlike the Heideggerian notion of a great poet or a great
artist as someone who is ‘being spoken rather than speaking’. In this
scenario, ‘the language is passing through the individual. In fact the
language is much greater than the individual’ (Steiner 2004: 205). That
sentiment also comes through in the following passage from Alexakis
which suggests that it is not he who is writing in French but French that
is writing in him:
Certes, j’ai parfois l’impression pendant que j’écris que le français songe
déjà à la suite du texte, qu’il va me faire des suggestions aussitôt que j’aurai
terminé la phrase en cours. Je peux les rejeter bien sûr, mais généralement
elles vont dans le sens que je désire. Je ne prétends pas seulement connaître le français, je prétends que le français me connaît aussi! (Alexakis
1989: 18)
[Of course, sometimes I have the feeling as I write that the French language is already thinking of what will come next, that it will suggest
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things to me as soon as I have finished the sentence I’m in the middle of. Obviously I can reject these suggestions, but usually they are
on the right track. I don’t only claim to know French, I claim that
French knows me, too! (Waters 2009)]
In principle, all of these writers could opt to write in more than one
language and many of them do, but frequently, there is a practical explanation for opting to write in one language rather than another. Bodrožić
explains that she initially wrote in the Croatian language when she was
a teenager. Her writing concerned émigrés from former Yugoslavia who
had decided to return, but upon going back, were caught up in a terrible war. Her writing was not very successful: ‘I tried to explain myself
in these first poems in the Croatian language but I had no idea how
to deal with it.’ Subsequently, she put pen to paper in German and the
experience was entirely different:
Then I started to write in German and I felt that something different was happening. I knew something was changing for me . . . .
Metaphysically, I feel at home in German. I am able to express myself.
Writing in German gives me a place in this world. It gives me a direction in my own life. Writing has always been for me a way of being.
(Bodrožić, interview)
Andreï Makine was thinking about his reading audience when opting to
write his novels in French rather than in Russian:
Je m’adresse à un public français. Dans quelle langue devrais-je m’adresser
au lecteur français: en français bien sûr. (Clément 2009: 129)
[I am addressing myself to a French audience. What language should
I use for addressing myself to the French reader? Why, French of
course. (AT)]
Dissatisfaction with his translator was the catalyst for Ota Philip’s novels in German. Initially, this Czech-German author penned his novels
in Czech, his mother tongue. These were excellently translated into
German by Josephine Spitzner:
Die Romane vor Großvater und die Kanone habe ich hier noch
auf Tschechisch geschrieben; das war dann mein erstes Buch auf
Deutsch. Danach habe ich einen Roman über Wallenstein geschrieben –
Wallenstein und Lukretia – in dem es um diese unglückselige Ehe
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Wallensteins mit einer mährischen Adeligen geht. Meine ersten drei
Romane waren hervorragend übersetzt worden von Frau Josephine Spitzner.
Sie war zweisprachig, eine Jüdin aus Olmütz, sprach eine herrliche deutsche
Sprache und verstand eben so viel vom Tschechischen. Sie konnte meinen
etwas rauhen, wenig eleganten Schreibstil sehr gut verstehen, weil sie aus
derselben Gegend stammte wie ich. Diese Übersetzungen waren wirklich
hervorragend. (Filip, interview)
[The novels before Großvater und die Kanone I had still written in
Czech; this was my first book in German. Thereafter I wrote a
novel about Wallenstein – Wallenstein und Lukretia – that deals with
Wallenstein’s ill-fated marriage to a Moravian noble woman. My first
three books were outstandingly translated by Mrs Josephine Spitzner.
She was bilingual, a Jew from Olmütz, who spoke a splendid form
of German and understood Czech equally well. She could understand my slightly rough, not so elegant style of writing really well
because she came from the same place as I. These translations were
truly outstanding. (AT)]
When Josephine Spitzner died, another German translator was assigned
to Filip’s Czech novels. As Filip was entirely dissatisfied with her
approach to the process of translation, he began writing the novels in
German himself. Fortunately, his own German was very strong:
Leider ist Frau Spitzner dann gestorben, und den Roman Wallenstein und
Lukretia hat bereits die Ehefrau eines deutschen Schauspielers übersetzt.
Das war eine Deutsche aus Prag, eine sehr elegante Dame, die meine Art
zu erzählen nicht mochte. Sie hat alles geglättet, damit mein Text nicht so
expressionistisch wirkt. Wir waren zwar gute Freunde, aber das paßte mir
irgendwie nicht. Daraufhin habe ich mich entschieden, es einmal selbst zu
versuchen und auf Deutsch zu schreiben. Zu dem Zeitpunkt war ich schon
fünf Jahre lang in Deutschland und bereits Mitglied in der Bayerischen
Akademie der Schönen Künste. Dort konnte ich nur Deutsch sprechen, mit
Menschen die selbst hervorragend Deutsch sprachen. (Filip, interview)
[Unfortunately Mrs Spitzner passed away, and the novel Wallenstein
und Lukretia was translated by the wife of a German actor. She was
a German lady from Prague, a very elegant lady, who did not like
my way of storytelling. She polished everything, to make my text
seem less expressionistic. While we were good friends, I was not
too happy with this. That was when I decided to try writing in
German myself. By then I had spent five years in Germany, and I was
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already a member of the Bavarian Academy of Fine Arts. There I could
only converse in German, and with people who spoke an excellent
German. (AT)]
The Spanish-French writer, Jorge Semprun, penned his first novel, Le
grand voyage, in French at the age of 40. He explains his language choice
as an emotional response to earlier life events (Semprun 1963). These
include incidents such as the mockery of the baker woman in the boulevard Saint-Michel and the fall of the city of Madrid. At a practical level,
it would have been more logical for him to write this book in Spanish.
This was his mother tongue, ‘that formative element – with me like a
fish in water at the time’. Moreover, he was telling the story of a Spanish
republican who spoke Spanish. All of this may seem a little incongruous,
but Semprun suggests that the primary reason for his language choice
only became apparent to him when he began re-living this period. The
reason was more existential than practical:
C’est dans le travail de réminiscence, de reconstruction de ces quelques mois
de 1939, en découvrant que l’appropriation de la langue française a joué un
rôle déterminant dans la constitution de ma personnalité, que je comprends
pourquoi j’ai écrit ce premier livre en français. (Semprun 1998: 122)
[It was only as I laboured through my memories, reconstructing those
few months in 1939, that I discovered that my taking possession then
of the French language played a determining role in the makeup of
my personality, that I understand now why I wrote that first book in
French. (AT)]
Ultimately, he is proving a point to that baker woman – and to an old
French teacher!
Il me fallait répondre non seulement à la boulangère du boulevard SaintMichel mais aussi, d’une certaine façon, à mon professeur de français du
lycée Henri-IV, M. Audibert. (Semprun 1998: 122)
[I had to formulate a reply, not only to the woman in the bakery on
the boulevard Saint-Michel but also, in a certain kind of a way, to my
old French teacher in the Lycée Henri-IV, Monsieur Audibert. (AT)]
The use of French rather than Spanish was an emotional response
to incidents that had happened decades earlier and from Semprun’s
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perspective, the language choice did not impact on the essential elements of story, which remain the same regardless of which language he
writes in.
This is a position that does not necessarily tally with other authors.
Alexakis notes that he says different things in French and Greek:
Je n’utiliserais pas deux langues, j’imagine, si je disais la même chose dans
les deux. La mer est davantage présente dans mes textes grecs. Ma langue
maternelle me ramène au bercail. (Alexakis 2002: 236)
[I suppose I wouldn’t use two languages if I said the same thing in
both. The sea appears more frequently in my Greek texts. My mother
tongue returns me to the fold. (Alexakis 2006: 169)]
Makine proposes that some languages are more appropriate for certain activities than others. He concludes that French and Russian have
different qualities which may render them more or less appropriate for
his literary quests:
Le français a été façonné et modelé par tant de grands écrivains que cela
a nécessairement influencé l’expression littéraire en cette langue. Le russe
est plus jeune en ce sens, c’est une langue moins travaillée. Ce n’est pas
un défaut, parce que le russe a des fraîcheurs que le français ne possède
peut-être plus. Le lyrisme est extrêmement artificiel en français. Il passe
beaucoup mieux en allemand ou en russe. (Clément 2009: 130)
[French has been fashioned and modelled by so many great writers that it has had an inevitable influence on literary expression in
this tongue. Russian is younger in this sense; it’s a language that has
been worked on less. That’s not a defect, because Russian has a freshness that French has perhaps lost. Lyricism is extremely artificial in
French. It comes out much better in German or in Russian. (AT)]
Ota Filip is clear that even when he himself translates his writing from
one language to the other, he does not say the same thing in both.
Although they are variations of the same theme – they are not the same:
Nach der Wende kamen tschechische Verleger auf mich zu und wollten
meine Bücher auf Tschechisch veröffentlichen. Das bedeutete für mich, daß
ich alle Bücher zweimal schreiben mußte: einmal auf Deutsch, und einmal
auf Tschechisch. Es handelt sich also bei diesen Texten nicht um bloße
Übersetzungen, sondern um Variationen des gleichen Themas. Wenn ich
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beispielsweise über ein deutsches Thema schreibe, dann schreibe ich das
Buch jetzt auf Deutsch, und anschließend die tschechische Fassung. Ich
muß also immer alles zweimal schreiben. (Filip, interview)
[After 1989, some Czech publishers approached me and wanted to
publish my books in Czech. For me, that meant that I had to write
all my books twice: once in German, and once in Czech. They are
not simple translations, but rather variants of the same topic. If, for
example, I write on a German theme, I will now write the book in
German first, and only afterwards a version in Czech. This means
I have to write everything twice. (AT)]
Although Filip is writing everything twice, he is adamant that this is not
simply repetition from one language to another:
Es sind keine Übersetzungen. Im Thema stimmen sie überein, ebenso in den
Personen und den Handlung, aber die Sprachen zwingen den Personen eine
ganz andere Ausdrucksweise auf. In den slawischen Sprachen, etwa dem
Tschechischen oder dem Russischen, kann man sehr gut schwärmen . . . . Als
Beispiel bringe ich hier gern ein Zitat von Nobelpreisträger Jaroslav Seifert
an. Er hat ein Gedicht über Prag geschrieben . . . . Wenn man das linear ins
Deutsche übersetzt, ist es Unsinn. (Filip, interview)
[They are not translations. The themes are the same, and so are the
characters and the plot, but the languages move the characters to an
entirely different mode of expression. In the Slavic languages, such
as Czech or Russian, one can rave beautifully . . . . In this context I like
to mention the Nobel Prize winner Jaroslav Seifert as an example. He
wrote a poem about Prague . . . . When one translates this into German
in a linear fashion, it makes no sense. (AT)]
Like Makine, Ota notes that some languages are more appropriate for
certain activities than others.
Several authors suggest that their emotions are best expressed in specific languages. Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill is emphatic that, for her, Irish
is the language of emotions whereas English is her ‘bridge to the outside world’ (Ní Dhomhnaill 2003b: 85). (The stereotype of the dreamy,
emotional Celt versus the logical, practical Anglo-Saxon comes to mind
here.) Irish is Ní Dhomhnaill’s literary language and she has emerged as
one of the leading Gaelic poets in the twenty-first century. While she
has not engaged with poetry in English, and does not translate her own
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poems into English, she has penned many fine academic essays in that
language.
Like Nuala, Andreï Codrescu reserves separate languages for different spheres of his life. Although he became an American poet, he
never ceased being a Romanian one: ‘The Romanian language became
my covert dimension, a secret engine, like childhood, while American
English covered all the aspects of my lived life.’ This inner Romanian
core was a reserve that he could draw on for prayer and in times of
crisis and high drama. Moreover, his American English ‘received both
fuel and poetry from this core’. Ultimately ‘they fused, but it took time’
(Codrescu 1990: 46).
A third tongue
The fusion of two languages is experienced by many intercultural writers, who suggest that in some sense they have generated a new or a
third language from the interaction between their different languages.
Some feel that ‘there is a third language at their command which overarches the other; and the existence of that third language enables them
to reconcile the other two’ (Beaujour 1989: 54). In reality this ‘third
tongue’ may be a fourth, fifth or sixth depending on the number of languages the individual can speak or write. But the crucial point is that this
‘third language’ is different from the others. It ‘does not “cap” the others: it is not “higher”.’ Instead, ‘it emerges from the depths, inextricably
intertwined with the “natural” languages, and is as basic to the writer’s
mature linguistic ability as any of the others’ (Beaujour 1989: 54).
Having spent twenty years in America, Eva Hoffman’s English influences her native tongue. When she speaks Polish, ‘it is infiltrated,
permeated, and inflected by the English’ in her head. But her American
is also different from that of an American-born individual. Hoffman suggests that the different languages modify each other, crossbreed with
one another and fertilize each other: ‘Each language makes the other
relative.’ She is the sum of her languages – the language of her ‘family
and childhood, and education and friendship, and love, and the larger,
changing world’. However, she is more aware than most of the fractures
between her languages (Hoffman 1998 [989]: 273).
Ota Filip also notes that his German is different from that of a nativespeaker. He delights in contributing a Slavic element to German and
wishes to emphasize that his German is special:
Ich versuche, so Deutsch zu schreiben, daß jeder Deutsche sofort merkt, daß
das kein echter Deutscher geschrieben hat. Es soll ein slawisches Element
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in die Sprache hinein kommen. Zum Beispiel schreibe ich auf Tschechisch
sehr lange Sätze, die man in Deutschland nicht mag. Ich versuche es immer
wieder, aber in der deutschen Sprache gefällt es auch mir nicht. (Filip,
interview)
[I try to write German in such a way that every German notices
immediately that this has not been written by a genuine German.
There ought to be a Slavonic element to the language. For example, in Czech I write very long sentences, which in Germany are
not popular. Again and again I try, but in German I don’t like them
either. (AT)]
Bodrožić’s German is also special to the extent that it is sometimes
suggested that she thinks in Croatian and then translates into German.
She herself rejects this proposition, arguing instead that, like Ota, she is
working with a new form of German and perhaps even inventing a new
German. To prove the point, she refers to the professional who translates
Bodrožić’s German text into Croatian with great difficulty.
People often say to me: ‘you have such a poetic manner when you
express yourself in German. Maybe you are constantly translating
from your first language.’ But my Croatian translator does not find
it easy to translate my German phrases into Croatian. She says: ‘I will
kill you if you don’t stop writing. It is a hard job for me to do.’ Why
does she find it hard? It’s because it has been created in German.
Inventing language and working with language is the process I am
involved in. You can’t betray your language. There is a certain way
of thinking and you must be part of it. You can create and you can
change a language in these little steps but you have to know it from
the inside. (Bodrožić, interview)
Natascha Wodin describes the impact of translating poems from
German into Russian almost as an event that happened outside of her.
She watched German making a natural transition to Russian without
any effort. In fact the Russian versions seemed to enhance the German
originals and the German language had acquired a new dimension:
In der Umsetzung deutscher Lautmalereien ins Russische schien das
Deutsche selbst zusätzliche Farben und Klänge zu gewinnen. Mir war,
als erreichte mich im Russischen plötzlich eine neue, erstaunliche Dimension des Deutschen, und gleichzeitig füllte sich das Russische mit
dem Deutschen, wurde davon durchströmt wie die verästelten Gefäße
eines Organismus . . . . Da war etwas ineinandergeflossen, das in mir nie
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zusammengegangen, mir immer als vollkommen unvereinbar, geradezu
gegenseitig kontraindiziert erschienen war. (Wodin 1983: 24)
[Where onomatopoeia was concerned, its refashioning into Russian
seemed to imbue the German with additional color and resonance.
I felt as if the German had suddenly acquired a new and unsuspected dimension, yet the Russian was simultaneously steeped in
and perfused by it, like the ramified vessels of a living organism . . . .
It was a fusion of elements that had never been combined in me and
had always struck me as wholly incompatible, if not diametrically
opposed. (Wodin 1986: 18–19)]
These three writers, Filip, Wodin and Bodrožić (as well as Chiellino)
were awarded the Adelbert-von-Chamisso Prize at various points in their
career. This prestigious literary prize is awarded annually to outstanding non-German authors writing in the German language. Perhaps their
use of an ‘enhanced German’ or ‘third language’ is responsible for their
unique achievement and literary creativity. They are composing neither
in German nor in their mother tongue, but in both.
Andreï Makine is sometimes accused of having deserted his mother
tongue, Russian. Yet a closer inspection of his writing would suggest
that, from his perspective, he is writing in neither Russian nor French,
but in a new language. At an early stage in his memoir, he speaks of
devising a new language:
Une terrible envie de le dire à tout le monde me saisit. Mais le dire comment? Il me fallait inventer une langue inédite dont je ne connaissais pour
l’instant que les deux premiers vocables: bartavelles et ortolans. (Makine
1995: 62)
[I was seized by a terrible desire to tell everybody about it, but how? I
should need to invent a language which did not yet exist. For the
moment I only knew the first two words: bartavels and ortolans.
(Makine 2007 [1996]: 48)]
When walking with his grandmother he sensed the imminent discovery of this new language. This is not a fused language emerging from
a combination or a concoction of French and Russian. It is something
different altogether:
Je marchais à côté d’elle, muet. Je sentais que la “Koukouchka” serait désormais le premier mot de notre nouvelle langue. De cette langue qui dirait
l’indicible. (Makine 1995: 174)
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[I walked beside her in silence. I sensed that “Kukushka” would
henceforth be the first word in our new language. The new language
which would say the unsayable. (Makine 2007 [1996]: 150)]
This new language, would not simply ‘ “englue” in the banalities of
French or Russian life’. It would be a powerful new literary language
that would reflect a Russian childhood spent with a French grandmother
who passed on her memories of France with a ‘collage of newspaper clippings, photos, and pebbles’ (Safran 2003: 258). When walking
over a steppe with Charlotte, Makine discovered his ‘language between
languages’:
Charlotte avait parlé en français. Le français avait pénétré dans cette isba
qui m’avait toujours fait peur par sa vie ténébreuse, pesante et très russe.
Et dans ses profondeurs une fenêtre s’était illuminée. Oui, elle avait parlé
en français. Elle aurait pu parler en russe. Cela n’aurait rien enlevé à
l’instant recrée. Donc, il existait une sorte de langue intermédiaire. Une
langue universelle ! Je pensai de nouveau à cet «entre-deux-langues» que
j’avais découvert grâce à mon lapsus, à la «langue d’étonnement» . . .
Et c’est ce jour-là que, pour la première fois, cette pensée exaltante
me traversa l’esprit: «Et si l’on pouvait exprimer cette langue par écrit?»
(Makine 1995: 251)
Charlotte had spoken in French. French had gone inside that izba,
which had always alarmed me with its sombre, heavy and very
Russian life. And within its depths a window had lit up. Yes she
had spoken in French. She could have spoken in Russian. That
would have taken nothing away from her re-creation of the moment.
So a kind of intermediary language did exist. A universal language!
I thought again about that ‘between two languages’ which I had
discovered, thanks to my slip of the tongue, and I thought of the
‘language of amazement’ . . . .
That day for the first time, the inspiring thought crossed my mind:
‘Suppose one could express this language in writing?’ (Makine 2007
[1996]: 220)
Like many of his compatriots, Makine understands that he is neither
Russian nor French nor is he both Russian and French. Instead, he is
‘something else entirely’, something that is ‘not necessarily more or less’,
but that is ‘definitely different’ (italics original in Beaujour 1989: 6).
Wanner (2002: 124–5) argues that Makine’s concept of translation is
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very similar to that outlined in Walter Benjamin’s essay, ‘The task of
the translator’. Makine proposes ‘the issue of translatability as a quality inherent in poetic, rather than prosaic, utilitarian texts’. Makine also
indicates ‘that the translation may surpass the original’ (Wanner 2002:
124). All of this would suggest that Makine’s notion of a ‘langue intermédiaire’ which lies between Russian and French, is actually developing
into a ‘langue universelle’. (Wanner 2002: 124–5).
Other authors have presumed a similar ‘intermediate’ form of language. George Steiner, for example, writes about the existence of a
‘semantic magma, a wholly undifferentiated agglomerate of linguistic
competence’ which is subsequently separated into English, French and
German languages. He suggests that one of the ‘languages’ inside himself, which is possibly the richest language of all, is actually ‘an eclectic
cross-weave whose patterns are unique’ although ‘the fabric is quite
palpably drawn from the public means and rule-governed realities of
English, French, German and Italian’ (Steiner 1998 [1975]: 307–8).
In her analysis of bilingual Russian writers, Beajour also argues for
the existence of a ‘third tongue’. The ‘third tongue’ is a language that
‘cannot coincide fully with either of their other languages, or even
with some kind of forcible superimposition and compression of them
into some kind of laminate’ (Beaujour 1989: 55). Isabelle de Courtivron
(2003a: 7) proposes that migrant authors can write ‘from the absence of
what should have been’. Although an early language may have fallen
into disuse, the soundscape or the music of the early language remains,
‘leading one to write as on a palimpsest, in one tongue but always over
the body and the sound of a buried language, a hidden language, a
language whose ghosts reverberate in words’ (de Courtivron 2003a: 7).
This is like Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill’s description of the role of Irish in a
largely English-speaking Ireland. She remarks that while ‘Irish can often
be invisible in its own country’, she often feels that ‘it has a role akin
to that of yeast in bread’. Although ‘it may be invisible’, it is still an
essential ingredient: ‘It is what makes the culture rise.’ (Ní Dhomhnaill
2003a: 205).
Migrant and/or multilingual writers often generate new cultural forms
and foster diversity not just between but also within languages. In a
different context, Michael Cronin proposes ‘cultural negentrophy’ as a
way of thinking about the development of diversity in translation contexts (Cronin 2006: 129) – but perhaps it is also applicable here. In one
sense, these writers are translating themselves into new contexts, new
languages and new literary forms.
‘Cultural syncretism’ is the term Roger Bromley uses to describe these
contexts. He regards it as more helpful than ‘hybridity’ as that term has
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biological connotations. Moreover, hybridity has more relevance in an
individual rather than in a general context. Syncretism is applicable in
a more collective context and suggests forms of creativity and eclecticism that are relevant for this book (Bromley 2000: 97). Syncretism is
an active rather than a passive process and one which does not end in
a simple blend or melting pot. The process is on-going and dialogical.
It ‘is an instance of cross-cultural creativity’ which is typical of disaporic
writers and their cultural narratives. ‘Disaporic cultural fictions produce
an endless series of flexible cultural translations, arcs or bridges of new
possibility, brought about by a creative fracturing of surface cultural
representations.’ (Bromley 2000: 97).
The important element in this process is the creativity that occurs at
the edge. This could be set in the context of Roland Barthes’ definition
of interdisciplinarity which is something that occurs at the cutting edge
of disciplines – rather than something that results from different combinations of these disciplines. ‘Interdisciplinary studies . . . do not merely
confront already constituted disciplines.’ If one wishes to embark on
interdisciplinary work, ‘it is not enough to take a “subject” (a theme)
and to arrange two or three sciences around it’. Instead, ‘Interdisciplinary study consists in creating a new object, which belongs to no
one.’ (Barthes 1972: 72). The space between is what matters. ‘To that
end, we should remember that it is the “inter” – the cutting edge of
translation and negotiation, the in-between space – that carries the burden of the meaning of culture.’ (Bhabha, 1994: 38; italics original).
Syncretism changes, transforms and articulates.
Diasporic writers frequently operate at the ‘edge’ of one or more languages, generating new forms and expressions that are both familiar and
foreign. Migration is both a loss and a gain. ‘When the smoke clears,
we are faced with charred pieces of identification, shards of language,
burned tongues, and cultural fragments.’ However, all is not lost. ‘[F]rom
the site of this fire, the phoenix of a transnational, bi- and multilingual
literature has arisen.’ Some of the best contemporary literature has been
penned by authors thinking and writing in a language that is not their
first or mother tongue (Seyan 2001: 7–8).
All of the writers that have featured in this book were born in Europe,
but some did not necessarily remain there. As noted in the initial
chapter, multilingualism and multiculturalism have been features of
European society for millennia and this is still the case. Europe’s languages form an integral part of the cultural heritage of the European
continent (Nic Craith 2010: 45). With the accession of Bulgaria and
Romania to the European Union in 2007, the number of EU official,
working languages increased to 23. These official languages are drawn
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from three language families – Indo-European, Finno-Ugric and Semitic.
Moreover, there are three alphabets (Latin, Greek and Cyrillic) used
within the Union. Current estimates suggest that at least 40 million
EU citizens regularly speak an unofficial EU language and more than
60 indigenous, regional or minority language groups can be identified within the current boundaries (see, for example, Macdonald
1997; McDonald 1989; Nelde, Strubell and Williams 1996; Nic Craith
2006). Along with the territorial languages, a number of nomadic languages are spoken on the continent (Binchy 1994; Burke 2000; Lehtola
2002; Seurujärvi-Kari, Pedersen and Hirvoonen 1997; Valkeapää 1983).
Europe’s linguistic mosaic also includes an increasing number of contested languages/dialects (Nic Craith 2000; Škiljan 2000). Europeans
have also become aware of the wealth of ‘non-European languages’ spoken on the continent (Cheesman 2001; Extra and Gorter 2001; Extra
2002).
This multilingual atmosphere is one of the greatest challenges for
contemporary Europe but it is also one of its greatest assets (Nic
Craith 2006). Sometimes people query whether a monolingual, Englishspeaking Europe would make life simpler for all (see Phillipson 2003,
2007). The implications of a monolingual space for the cultural landscape of Europe are enormous. Would any of the writers featured in this
book have been inspired to put pen to paper but for their contact with
different language environments? To what extent has the experience of
living in or between two or more languages contributed to the vast literary heritage of Europe? Is there a particular type of creative potential
released when a writer engages with two or more languages?
Bakhtin (1981: 293) suggests that ‘each word tastes of the context and
contexts in which it has lived its socially charged life’. The writers in
this book offer the reader a powerful sense of the exile and dislocation
that has been experienced by writers living ‘in-between’ two languages.
Ultimately, that sense of non-belonging has been the inspirational muse
for many memoirs and other forms of literary expression. Wrestling with
new languages has generated creative expressions that are an inspiration
and a joy for all of us who love to think about and engage with ‘the gift
of tongues’.
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Index
Agar, Michael, xii, 2, 6, 56–7, 59, 67–9,
126–8, 130, 175
Alexakis, Vassilis, 6, 19, 24, 43–4, 46,
69–70, 77, 84, 86–7, 110, 118–20,
151–2, 156–7, 160, 162, 166, 175,
178, 186
Almassy, Eva, 80, 157, 175
Antin, Mary, 17, 30, 117, 175, 178,
189
Appadurai, Arjun, 175
Archetti, Eduardo, 28, 176, 181–3
Arendt, Hannah, 105, 107, 176–7
Ascherson, Neal, 2–3, 85, 176
Auge, Marc, xiii, 176
Augustine, Saint, 123, 176
authenticity, 23, 31, 38, 40, 49, 135
Carson, Liam, 34, 57, 60, 64, 70–1,
91–3, 97, 142, 178
Cassirer, Ernst, x, 38, 178
Chiellino, Gino, 15–16, 19, 40–1,
81–2, 112, 170, 179
citizenship, 18, 22, 138
Clifford, James, xi, 27–8, 37–8,
179, 182
Codrescu, Andrei, 168, 179
colour, 65–6, 109, 170, 188
Cracow, 20, 24, 141
Cronin, Michael, 4, 54, 106, 113, 123,
130, 172, 179
Crystal, David, 179
Cuba, 15
cultural syncretism, 172–3
Babel, Tower of, 150, 154–5, 161, 178,
182, 192
Bakhtin, Mikhail, xi, 7, 30, 106–7,
159, 174, 176, 187
Bammer, Angelika, 101, 132, 134, 176,
183–4
Barthes, Roland, xi, xiii, 29, 173, 176
Bateson, Mary Catherine, 4, 176
Bauman, Zygmunt, 153, 177
Becker, Artur, 8, 113–14, 177, 179
Benedict, Ruth, 28, 126, 175, 177
Benjamin, Walter, xi, 84, 172, 177
Berlin, 11–12, 63, 88, 101, 139, 175
Besemeres, Mary, 177
Bhabha, Homi, 13, 173, 177
Boas, Franz, x, 55, 177
Bodrožić, Marica, 34
Böll, Heinrich, 67, 177
Bourdieu, Pierre, xi, 47, 131, 177–8
Bulgaria, 20, 173, 185
de Courtivron, Isabelle, 3, 10, 12, 19,
77, 135, 137–8, 172, 180, 183,
187–8
de Saussure, Ferdinand, 68–9, 180
Derrida, Jacques, x, 29, 42, 180
Donegal, 44–5, 92
Dorfman, Ariel, 4, 41, 180, 186
double vision, 157–9
Dúchas, 63
Duranti, Alessandro, x-xi, 180
Canetti, Elias, 6, 17, 20–1, 44, 78,
90–1, 98–9, 136–7, 178, 188
Carson, Ciaran, 61, 109, 161, 178,
184, 191
Enlightenment, 59, 62
Eriksen, Thomas Hylland,
26, 181
Europe, 1, 2, 6, 20, 22, 25, 52, 78, 129,
135, 138, 152, 173–4
Faust, 71–2
fieldwork, xii, 31, 38, 49, 62–8, 144,
183
Filip, Ota, 21–2, 64, 71–2, 85–6, 93–4,
120, 164–5, 166–70, 181
Foucault, Michel, xi, 38
Friel, Brian, 51, 54–5, 181,
185, 189
195
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196 Index
Gadamer, Hans Georg, x, xi, 56, 181
Gaeltacht, 58
Geertz, Clifford, x, xi, 27–8, 37, 182
‘thick description’, x
‘webs of significance’, x, 28
globalization, xi, 1
Goldschmidt, Georges Arthur, 19, 182
Grillo, Ralph, 182
Gumperz, John, x, 181–2
Hamilton, Hugo, 12, 19–20, 22–4,
33–5, 37, 40, 45–6, 52, 58, 60–1,
76, 84–5, 94–7, 101, 103, 108–10,
115–16, 122–3, 125, 135–7, 144,
147–8, 177, 182
Heidegger, Martin, xiii, 183
Heimat, 11, 62–3, 177
Herder, Johann Gottfried, 183
Herzfeld, Michael, 183
Hoffman, Eva, 1–2, 4, 20, 24, 30, 60,
72–3, 98, 103–4, 108, 111,
112–13, 117–18, 131–2, 136,
141–2, 148, 168, 176–7, 181, 183,
185, 189, 193–4
Humboldt, Wilheim von, 55, 183, 192
Hymes, Dell, x, 128, 182–4
Ignatieff, Michael, 184
interdisciplinarity, xii-iii, 173
intertextuality, 30
Israel, 25, 78
Kaplan, Alice, 23, 175, 184
Kazin, Alfred, 23, 184
Kellman, Steven, 6, 17, 47, 68, 73–4,
116, 178, 180, 184–5, 190
Kerry, 58
Kiberd, Declan, 92, 184
Kilito, Abdelfattah, 132–4, 184
Kockel, Ullrich, 184–5
Kristeva, Julia, xi, 6, 30, 76–7, 117–18,
144, 147, 154, 160, 185
Kristof, Agota, 185
Lacan, Jacques, 88–90, 142, 183, 185,
194
Lefebvre, Henri, 131, 185
Lerner, Gerda, 12, 19, 76, 78–9, 87,
110, 112, 185
Limerick, 33
linguistic
determinism, x, 49, 55, 57, 59,
68, 73
relativity, x, 49, 55, 57–9, 65–6
Ljubljana, 13
Lvovich, Natasha, 13, 20,
150–1, 185
Madrid, 6, 18, 165
Makine, Andreï, 9, 17–20, 23, 29–30,
40, 46–7, 79–80, 108–9, 123–4,
152–3, 158–9, 163, 166–7, 170–2,
179, 186, 190, 193
Malinowski, Bronislaw, 14, 123,
128, 186
Marcus, George, xi, 27–8, 179
Mead, Margaret, 28,
memory, 23, 25, 33–5, 40–6, 178, 185,
187, 189, 190
metanarrative, 31
Mexico, 25, 127
mimicry, 126, 132–8
Moscow, 12, 103
Nabokov, Vladimir, 20, 175, 187
names,
Derry/Londonderry, 53
personal, 8, 58–9, 94–5, 111–17,
120, 130
place, 51–3
Ní Dhomhnaill, Nuala, 12, 20, 58–60,
138–9, 144, 151, 162, 167–8, 172,
175, 187
Nuremberg, 10, 20, 63
Offenbach, 18
Otherworld, 59–60
O’Searcaigh, Cathal, 39–40, 44–5,
50–1, 63, 66, 76, 157–8, 188
Ó Treasaigh, Lorcán, 17, 19–20, 24, 32,
36–7, 52–3, 57–8, 66, 93, 97–8,
134, 136, 142–3, 154, 189
Ottenheimer, Harriet, x, 30, 59, 65,
189
Pavlenko, Aneta, 31, 37, 39,
46, 189
Prague, 22, 86, 164, 167
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Index
Rapport, Nigel, 155, 189
Reinbek, 19
Ricoeur, Paul, x, 190
Riemer, Andrew, 10, 39, 50, 54, 84–5,
100–2, 130, 132, 134–5, 138, 141,
190
Rodriguez, Richard, 23, 25, 181, 190
Rosaldo, Renato, 28, 189–90
Sante, Luc, 14, 46, 70, 80, 98, 111,
118, 190
Sapir, Edward, x, xi, 28, 55–6, 62,
73–4, 185, 191, 193
Sartre, Jean-Paul, 191
Semprun, Jorge, 6, 18, 145–7, 165–6,
187, 191
Seyan, Azade, 4, 31, 33, 40, 173, 191
Shteyngart, Gary, 80–1, 109, 141, 191
Siberia, 20, 120
silence, 6, 26–7, 64–5, 117–25, 171,
180–1
Silverstein, Michael, 191
Socrates, 106–7
Soviet Union, 13, 159
Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty, 52, 191
Stammtisch, 65
Stanišić, Saša, 8–9, 191–2
Stavans, Ilan, 25, 162, 192
Steiner, George, 6, 22, 51, 56–7, 60,
83–4, 154–5, 162, 172, 178, 185,
191–2
Svit, Brina, 10, 13–14, 153–4, 160–1,
192
Switzerland, 6, 20, 78, 136
197
Tawada, Yoko, 188, 192
Taylor, Charles, 105, 130, 132, 192
Tito, Josip Broz, 35–6, 177
tongue
grandmother tongue, 18, 23, 79
father tongue, 88–97
mother tongue, xi, 5, 9, 14, 19, 29,
43, 46, 73, 75–88, 100, 151–2,
154, 160, 162–3, 165, 170, 173,
188, 191
native tongue, xi, xii, 7, 19, 22–3,
26, 51, 56–7, 63, 72, 84–5, 88,
92, 95, 98, 100, 108, 133, 147,
159–60, 162, 168, 177
truth, 26, 32, 34–5, 36–8, 42, 49, 88,
106, 121, 136, 155, 179
Vienna, 12, 20, 78, 88
Vološinov, V. N., xi, 106–8, 193
Warsaw, 22
Weber, Anne, 14, 18, 77–8, 157, 159,
193
Whorf, Benjamin Lee, x, xi, 55–7, 67,
73–4, 185, 193
Wittgenstein, Ludwig, 6, 193
Wodin, Natascha, 3, 7–8, 10–11, 17,
19–20, 37–9, 42, 63–4, 96–7, 99,
102–3, 110, 116–17, 121–2,
139–40, 147–8, 169–70, 193
worldview, 4, 49, 54–61, 159
Wulff, Helena, 194
Žižek, Slavoj, 89, 194
10.1057/9780230355514 - Narratives of Place, Belonging and Language, Máiréad Nic Craith