Rite, Drama, Festival, Spectacle: Rehearsals toward a Theory of Cultural Performance 9780897270458, 0897270452

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D .C . M uecke, The C o m p a s s o f Irony (London, 1969), p. 129. Thom as Hanna, The Lyrical Existentialists (N ew York, 1962), pp. 281-282. Kenneth Burke, L a n g u a g e as S y m b o lic A c tio n : E s s a y s on Life, L it e r a tu r e , a n d M e t h o d (Berkeley, 1966), p. 13. Kierkegaard, pp. 448-450. Roy Quay, Cibecue Apache, quoted February 10, 1978. Richard Klein, “Prolegomenon to Derrida,” Diacritics 2(4):31—32, 1972. Rosalie Colie, Parcidoxia E p id em ica : The R e n a is s a n c e Tradition o f P a r a d o x (Princeton, 1966), pp. 7-8. Paz, p. 32. H yers, p. 33. ' Paul de Man, “Lecture on Irony,” University o f T exas, March 25, 1977. Schlegel, D ia lo g u e on P oetry a n d Literary A p h o r i s m s , p. 126. H ayden W hite, M e ta h isto ry : The Historical Im a g in atio n in N in e te e n th C entury E u r o p e (Baltimore, 1973), p. 37. M uecke, pp. 198-199. Paz, pp. 41-42. Deloria, p. 168. Soren Kierkegaard, The C o n c e p t o f Irony (Bloomington, 1968), p. 279. N ietzsch e, B e y o n d G o o d a n d Evil, p. 91. Erdoes and Fire, p. 237.

83. 84. 85. 86. 87. 88. 89. 90. 91. 92. 93. 94. 95. 96. 97. 98. 99. 100. 101. 102. 103. 104. 105. 106. 107. 108. 109. 110. 111. 112. 113. 114. 115. 116.

The D iv in e r a n d the D etective * Hilda Kuper

Glancing through my notebooks in search of a theme appropriate to a discus­ sion of ritual, drama, and spectacle, I unearthed references to a strange case of m u rder that not only contained some intriguing elements but also sug­ gested some avenues of speculation, structured and unstructured, that might be more suitable for an audience of broad interests and sympathy for leaps of the imagination than for more discipline-bound colleagues. In 1936, Sobhuza II, Ingw enyam a (Lion) of the Swazi, acknowledged as king by his subjects and as param ount chief by the British colonial au ­ thorities of the time, suggested that I go to N am ah a sh a in northw estern Swaziland to study tinyanga temitsi (specialists in herbs, the traditional curers) and, more particularly, tangom a (diviners or shamans). The more general curers, whose treatm ents pertained to a wide range of misfortunes afflicting hum ans, cattle, and crops, practiced throughout the country, but diviners who w ere consulted about more tragic and mysterious events operated primarily in isolated or frontier areas. N a m a h a sh a was an obvious choice. It was wild, mountainous, remote from developm ent, and its northern boundary was so arbitrarily drawn that subjects of a single Swazi chief were separated under three different foreign governments: British in Swaziland, Portuguese in M ozambique, and Af­ rikaner in South Africa, each with its own official language and separate legal system. I had been directed by Sobhuza to stay in Swaziland, at the village of a Mahlalela chief a few miles south of the Portuguese border. I arrived there late one afternoon by foot, having had to abandon my car after attempting to cross the Lutoja mountain by a foothpath, a “ sho rtcu t” sug­ gested by my assistant, rather than driving the long and devious route via M ozam bique and entering from the Portuguese side.

*This essay was written during a year spent at the Center for Advanced Studies in the Behavioral S cien ces, financed in part by the National Endowm ent for the Humanities. I would like to express my special appreciation to James Freeman, Ronald Cohen, and George Stocking for their lively interest and helpful criticism.

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While it was very easy, albeit illegal, to walk across the border, to cross by car was ano ther matter. One dirt road, or rather track, into Swaziland w ound through the little town of N am ahasha, w here all vehicles were stopped for inspection. There, the Portuguese were represented by a chefde-poste; the British by a Swazi police sergeant, whose main duty seemed to me to see that wines and other liquors available for purchase by anyone on the Portuguese side were not smuggled into Swaziland, where by British colonial law they were prohibited to Africans. My arrival was unexpected and unwelcome. A few weeks before, a terrible thing had happened. The chief, Sidloko Mahlalela, had been m u r­ dered. Several versions of the dram a were represented to me, with details incredibly contradictory and confusing, and since they are not pertinent to the main theme of this essay, I will omit them and simply present a few stark and more or less indisputable facts; for obvious reasons, apart from that of the murdered victim, all names are fictitious. Sidloko and a few companions had apparently driven on a spree to Lourengo M arques (now Maputo), the main city and capital of Mozambique. W hen they returned, the Swazi policeman, Sergeant Myeni, stopped the car and asked, “H ave you any white m a n ’s drink with yo u ? ” Sidloko replied disdainfully, “W ho are you speaking to ? ” The sergeant repeated the q ues­ tion, and when someone in the car told him to move out of the way, said, “1 will see for m yself.” He then leaned forward, peering into the car, holding a spear in his right hand. The driver put his foot on the accelerator, the car lurched forward, and the spear “en tered ” the body of the chief. The chef-de-poste rushed Sidloko to the nearest Portuguese hospital, which was some thirty miles away. The c h ie f’s companions were sent home. F o r his own safety, Myeni was put into a one-person cell in the jail at N am ah a sh a , and stayed there until fetched by a Sergeant van den Byl of the Swaziland police force stationed at Stegi, roughly twenty miles due south of N a m a h a sh a but several hours by car. W hen representatives of Sidloko’s kin came to the hospital to inquire how he was getting on, they were told they could not see him. On returning two days later, they were informed that he was dead and buried. He had been given a p a u p e r’s burial, thrown into a com m on grave. This horrendous treatm ent was reported to the Swaziland government, and Sergeant van den Byl was sent to investigate and was instructed to try to get back the body. The atm osphere in the village was thick with sorrow, fear, and suspi­ cion. A p roper funeral is the right of every person. Without it, there is a danger that the spirit of the deceased will wander, lost, angry, and hostile. It is the duty as well as the desire of kinsmen to give “their o w n ” an honorable and appropriate burial. The rituals mirror rank and status differences, and in this case it was also essential to recover from the corpse a bangle, symbol of chieftainship, to place on the arm of his successor. The Portuguese refused “for health re aso n s” to dig up the grave. This would not be the first case in which a corpse was not in evidence at a burial— the families of men who died

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working in South Africa, including those killed in accidents in the gold mines, could not see their dead and had to be satisfied with performing m ortuary rites over their belongings. It was naturally an adaptation that was deeply resented and lamented. M oreover, it was rumored that if the bangle w ere retrieved, it would be kept by the police, together with the spear and other exhibits, as evidence in the trial that was being prepared in Swaziland against Myeni. But none of the Swazi to whom 1 spoke believed that justice would or could be done by arresting Myeni, charging him, or even hanging him. It was in some w ays similar to the assassination of a Bobby K ennedy or a Martin L u th e r King. The killer of the form er was caught red-handed, the killer of the second confessed, but the question remained, Did he act alone, or was he part o f a conspiracy? But unlike the reaction to the deeds of Sirhan or Jam es Earl Ray, in the case of Sidloko there was no doubt in the minds of the Swazi that Myeni was not the real m urderer but an innocent and unwitting agent, and that any information he might provide would throw little or no light on the involvement of others, the truly guilty. My suggestions, made to a few close friends, that Myeni might have been bribed by a rival eager for the position of chief, or even that he might have nursed a personal grudge against the deceased, were listened to and discussed. They were finally rejected with the question, H o w could a policeman in governm ent employ really benefit by killing a chief in front of so many witnesses? W hen I expostulated that surely if he w ere not acting alone he might be able to tell w ho had made him do it, I was confronted with a rather stony silence. W hen I asked bluntly, why, then, did he do it, my assistant answered impatiently, “ H a v e n ’t you yet learned our customs? D o n ’t you know how batsakatsi work? Myeni knew nothing: he was lunjiwe.” Only then did I realize how obtuse I had been. B atsakatsi are evildoers with unnatural pow ers associated the world over with witches and sorcerers. In Swazi culture their pow ers are almost unlimited, and their techniques range from diret poisoning to the throwing of death from a d ista n c e .1 Lunjiwe was a type of witchcraft. I have since read Wilkie Collins’s The M o o n s to n e , and in writing of the episode of Sidloko, I recall the dramatic effect of the statement of Police Sergeant Cuff: “N o one stole the d ia m o n d .” In that classic, the disappearance of the fatal stone was unwittingly performed by the hero under the influence o f opium adminis­ tered to him without his knowledge at a time when he was suffering from intense anxiety. In the Swazi case it was witchcraft, not opium, that was believed to have guided the hand of Myeni to commit the crime, and to have provided the real villains with defenseless humans as their tools. B ecause of these beliefs, it was clear that evildoers could only be d e ­ tected by those with equivalent power. So while Sergeant van den Byl assisted the police in working up a case of accidental homicide, Sidloko’s clansmen, the Mahlalela, carried out their own investigations. These were more difficult, more controversial, and more dangerous. For they knew

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things that the police did not, and if they had would probably have dismissed as irrelevant and irrational as well as illegal. They “k n e w ” that the killing of the chief was no accident but rather the deliberate end o f a particular life in a series of conflicts at different levels and betw een shifting factions. The Mahlalela were among the oldest clans incorporated into the Swazi nation; at different times in their complicated history, and more especially since the boundary divided their people into Portuguese and British subjects and lim­ ited their available land, there had been sporadic outbursts of violence, triggered by incidents that, if not trivial, were not serious enough to account for the depth of reaction. Incidents such as a w opian’s adultery, the trespass of a herd of cattle into a field of maize, a fire in a hut, the smuggling of a few bottles of liquor across the border— these were immediate, not ultimate, causes of dire misfortune. Similarly, the mere presence of a chief did not signify internal unity or harmony. The appointment of a successor did not necessarily heal old breaches; more frequently it simply gave his supporters greater tem porary power. The appointment of every chief in Swaziland had to be confirmed by the king. Thereafter, those who still opposed the choice had to hide their antagonism. W hen a disaster such as the m urder of a chief occurred, it was essential to uncover the underlying antagonism expressed by persistent enemies. The Mahlalela investigations were as clearly prescribed by Swazi codes of justice as any written into a constitution. But in Swaziland, as in other colonies, under a Witchcraft Ordinance drawn up by enlightened W estern laywers who dismissed beliefs in magic as irrational, divination was p ro ­ hibited and the diviner, labeled a witch doctor, was subject to dire penalties. The diviner’s search for witches, the real evildoers, the batsakatsi, was equated with the crime of doing evil by witchcraft itself, so that there was a com m on saying among the people: “ U nder the white m a n ’s law good men are hanged and witches th riv e.” The Mahlalela went to work, without of course informing the police. Several decisions had to be made, including the choice of representatives to be sent to seek “the tru th” and which diviners were to be consulted. Five senior men, four of them relatives, the fifth a local governor, were selected. They left unobtrusively and crossed the b o r­ der into M ozam bique by foot, after dark. They were directed to consult two diviners whose reputations even I had heard of while at the capital. They deliberately did not consult a diviner equally well known who was within half a mile of their own village. It was logical to believe that in foreign territory they had a better chance of finding a diviner who would not be influenced by any particular faction, and they would face less risk of being discovered by the police of the country. The first diviner the Mahlalela consulted used a very well known te ch ­ nique of “throw ing” several symbolic objects onto the ground, interpreting their relative positions, and extracting verbal responses throughout the per­ formance. This diviner pointed out three specific relatives of the deceased; laHlophe (a classificatory mother of Sidloko); her natural son; and a half

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brother w hose ow n m other was dead. The consultants knew that laHlophe and her son w ere embittered by the fact that marriage cattle given for her only daughter had been used by Sidloko to take a wife for himself. He claimed this as his right since three head of marriage cattle received by his father for his (Sidloko’s) sister had been included in the bride price for laHlophe. While some m em bers of the family considered Sidloko, therefore, to have the legal right to the d a u gh ter’s cattle, they criticized him for e xer­ cising it at that particular time: he already had three wives, but his half brothers had none. Two of the consultants were very satisfied with the diviner’s findings. The remaining three were not. The second diviner gave a dramatic performance in a state of being “p o s s e s s e d ,” an equally widely practiced technique. H e appeared in exotic costum e, and though very old danced vigorously to the accom panim ent of strange chants by his followers. H e normally spoke in a quiet voice, but w hen he divined his voice was high-pitched and his words were cryptic. H e alluded to quarrels— quarrels through jealousy, quarrels through malice, quarrels through hatred— and to competition for wives, for cattle, and for position. H e did not commit himself to any specific persons, but his ambigu­ ously diplomatic p ron ouncem ents confirmed the divided suspicions of all those present. Both diviners received a fee for their services. The consultants later returned to the second diviner and asked him to use his pow ers for revenge upon those who had killed Sidloko, in return for which he would receive additional payment. “R evenge” can be w orked by magic, know n as lizekwa, which like lilumba (with which the policeman had allegedly been bewitched through the powers of lunjiwe) is not physically administered; it is retaliation sent from a distance. But whereas lilumba is used for evil purposes and is forbidden, lizekwa is believed to bring onto evildoers a punishment that they deserve, and is accepted by the Swazi as legitimate and moral. A greem ent to the successor to Sidloko had not been reached by the time the case against the policeman cam e before the high court at M babane, the administrative capital of Swaziland. The companions who had been with Sidloko were among the witnesses, and several others of the Mahlalela went with them in a hired lorry to hear the procedures. On a winding hill, the lorry overturned. Three people were killed. One of the dead was the half brother m entioned by the first diviner. The two other casualties had not been m en­ tioned by name but fitted the general pattern of discontent and disharmony described by the second diviner. The policeman was exonerated by the court, and transferred to ano ther district. It was argued, convincingly, that he had acted un d e r provocation by the deceased. According to George Steiner, Murder incarnates disorder; the discovery and punishment o f the assassin restore the structure o f the community to equilibrium. The instruments o f discovery can be those o f direct exposure by the gods or furies. The clan or

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com m unity may hunt as a vengeful pack. The killer may reveal him self through error or remorse. Often the avenger must identify and track down his own quarry. The history o f law is that o f the delegation o f vengeance; through gradual division o f labour, the mob becom es the night w atch.2

The real-life dram a summarized above hinges on concepts and te ch ­ niques outside the experience of the average tw entieth-century W esterner, in w hose society the detective appears as the professional equivalent of the diviner. The similarities and the differences betw een the two representative figures not only raise a num ber of general sociological questions on such issues as modes of recruitment, levels of techniques, and the nature of evidence, in different historical contexts, but also relate at a deep er philosophical level to problems of causality and perspectives of reality. Fortunately or unfortunately, while some of my best friends are divin­ ers, and divination is a topic explored with insight by many of my col­ leagues, my knowledge of detectives, w hether through personal acquaintance or through the anthropological visiting card of participant o b ­ server, is nonexistent. To com pensate for this, however, I, like you, have perm anent access to scripts in the form o f memoirs and diaries, and to that extensive corpus of fiction know n as detective stories, as well as to the com m entaries thereon by social historians and literary critics.3 According to these scholars, the genre reflects social and historical conditions, as well as portraying, with different degrees of skill, mysterious situations and fas­ cinating if unreal characters. Sergeant Cuff, Auguste C. Dupin, Sherlock Holmes, Lord Peter Wimsey, Miss Marple, H ercule Poirot, Sam Spade, and Charlie C han are famous throughout the W estern world; their extravaganzas appear more credible and more familiar than trips with Carlos C a s ta n e d a ’s D on Juan, or sessions of penetrating symbol exegesis by Victor T u r n e r ’s mentors, Sandom o and M uchona the H ornet, or even the routine perform ­ ances of the anonym ous diviners consulted in the Sidloko case. Perhaps detectives in real life may be compared to flesh-and-blood diviners, and detectives in fiction to their anthropological representations. There is an increasingly rich, beautiful and wonderful literature on di­ viners and their close spiritual kin, variously described as shamans, mediums, clairvoyants, or psychics.4 In this brief essay I will restrict my ethnographic references mainly to the Swazi, treating the sa ngom a as a specific example of a more general category of specialists identified by the essential quality of experiencing, not only believing in, communication with guiding pow ers within their universe. Diviners express through their p e r­ form ances a way of thinking about and perceiving reality beyond that of the visible and tangible. The initial, and crucial, distinction betw een diviner and detective is the mode of induction into their respective professions. Tangom a (plural) b e­ lieve that they are chosen or “called” to a vocation by spirit forces or powers beyond their control and for which they require a unique initiation and

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training; detectives have only themselves to praise or blame— they make the choice themselves, albeit from limited career possibilities. Swazi tradition states that from the beginning ancestral spirits “e n tered ” the bodies of selected earthly descendants, male or female, giving them wisdom to reveal the causes of misfortune and death, and imbuing them with pow er to show the way to security, health, and prosperity. This experience entitled them to be both more respected and more feared than other tinyanga (“ specialists”) who apprenticed themselves of their own volition. Possession is not a m eta­ physical concept of the spirit world; it is spirits themselves in their most obvious manifestation.5 A short text based on two interviews with Sipiwa N kam bule, whom I had know n as a teenager in the 1930s and again in 1966, illustrates the type of situation and general process involved in becoming a sagom a. After I married I w ent to visit my m other’s brother and while I was there he slaughtered a beast for me. H e was a very good and generous man, but his wife w as very jealous and I didn’t stay long. On my return hom e I heard my uncle had died. I began to sleep very badly. His spirit kept on calling me. I did not want to eat. I refused food. All my body ached. I got terribly thin. My shoul­ ders shook and my head split like a twig. I could not sleep. Every night I dreamed. They were terrible dreams. My husband called one in yanga after another to treat me. They could not help. My own mother was dead. Then one night I saw Mahube (a s a n g o m a ). I had never seen him before, but I knew where to find him. My husband fetched him and brought him to our home. He said, “A spirit has entered into your wife. It must be brought out. It must express itself.” I went with him to his village and he treated me. There were others there, also seeking to tw asa (be reborn). I stayed there many m oons. I thought I was mad. I did not want people, I did not want to speak. One night I ran away. I heard a song; it was my song, a song that my u n cle’s spirit gave me. I w ent along singing. People remembered seeing me and say they fed me, but I cannot remember any o f this. I remember only that I came to a pool betw een overhanging rocks. It was deep and still and I went inside. I have never been able to swim, but I went down, dow n, down. And at the bottom I cam e across a python and was not afraid. I took it in my hands. It looked at me. I was very happy. And I found this in the pool! [She show ed me a shell tied around her neck.] I cam e back to Mahube and told him all. H e too was happy for me. He taught me how to look after m yself as a diviner. Then I was ready to p o tu ia (do the final purification) and twasa.

Sipiwa grew from a healthy, cheerful girl into a strong, self-assured, h a n d ­ some w om an and a very successful sangom a. H er case history is typical of the sequence of episodes that culminates in a person becoming a diviner. An apparent illness is an essential initiation; the person is not sick but p os­ sessed; fulfillment requires training to maintain that connection. A relatively high proportion of Swazi diviners have some physical ab ­ normality— a blind eye, a squint, a nervous twitch, a shrunken limb. Origi­ nally I interpreted this as a predisposing symptom, but I later realized that apparent deformities were frequently subsequent effects brought about d u r­ ing the experience itself and that there were many diviners who w ere— and

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remained— perfectly normal in appearance, and a few who were extremely good-looking. A nother anthropologist, whose work I admire, has stated ex ­ plicitly that diviners are marginal men “through physiological abnormality, psychological aberrancy, or social-structural inferiority or o u tsiderho od ,” and has concluded that many exhibited psychotic or “paranoid tend encies.”6 The Swazi material does not support this conclusion; diviners may indeed be marginal, but to describe them as psychotic or paranoid would be to equate belief in the existence of the ancestors and their manifestations with paranoia or psychosis. It would be more accurate to follow D u rk h e im ’s insight that “no religion is false,” and to include among the believers the formal representatives— the diviners and other practitioners— who express the accepted belief. Swazi diviners act in response to appeals by clients, and it is only during that period that they are conspicuously distinguished or distinctive. Their calling imposes restrictions on their daily life that necessi­ tate self-discipline, aw areness, and control. Tangom a are in some respects exceptional, and in this sense marginal, but they are not sick in the technical sense of that term. Their clients, who are not fools, often include skeptics w hose skepticism does not extend to a general disbelief but only to suspicion about the qualifications of particular practitioners. Despite the fact that the profession inspires respect and is often lucra­ tive, most Swazi do not wish to follow it, and political leaders and members of the royal clan are positively discouraged from qualifying. To stop the spirit, to “close the w a y ” to the call, how ever, is considered dangerous since it may leave the person permanently delicate and deranged, an object of spite not only by the spirit that has been rejected but also by others angered at the reception given one of their kind. Several reasons were given to me for not wanting to accept the call. Most informants expressed a traditional co n ­ servative Swazi attitude to individual ambition: to be exceptional and c o n ­ spicuously successful evokes jealousy; it is better to be “o rdinary” and average. Others pointed out that a diviner’s life is circumscribed by taboos on sex, food, and general behavior and, in the case of political figures, these would interfere with their administrative duties. A few said that it is e x h au st­ ing to submit to the dem ands of a spirit stronger than oneself and to shoulder the responsibilities of others. Underlying these explicit reasons (or rationali­ zations) is an aw areness of the dangers of the experience of communication with “deep p o w e rs,” powers that are evil as well as good, that can be used to send misfortunes as well as combat them. The Swazi word for “p o w er” or “p o w ers” is emandla; ema- is a plural prefix, and emandla, of which there is only the plural form, is co n ce p ­ tualized as all-inclusive. The king, as Ingwenyama, is believed to have deeper pow er than any of his subjects and is reputed to be the greatest of all diviners even without undergoing preliminary possession; pow er through communication with ancestral spirits is part of the sanctity of kingship. C ontact with societies driven practically, as well as metaphorically, by mechanized means of pow er restricted but did not eliminate ta n g o m a . The

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Sidloko case illustrated how, during colonial rule, they continued to operate illegally. Since independence in 1968, traditional specialists, including tan ­ gom a, have been openly recognized; new specialists are also on the scene, and inevitably the social process of historic change has affected traditional practices and standing. Tinyanga in general are members of a growing class of entrepreneurs. Originally, in the preindustrial period, paym ent was lim­ ited and prestige dominant, but in recent years there has been runaw ay inflation and m any tinyanga are now demanding exorbitant fees. To try to protect the public from exploitation, Sobhuza called a meeting of alltinyangain May 1977, at which he asked them to approve a charter spelling out a code of professional conduct and a scale of fees. It is possible that tangom a will receive special consideration, and also be subjected to extra scrutiny; diviners who have not been through a full training have often been criticized as e m a h u m u s h i (“fra u d s”) by traditional believers. The myth of the diviner’s sacred origin persists; ordinary curers may learn their trade by practice, but diviners en ter it through suffering and illumination. Once qualified, they may be called to serve the establishment, but they are not initiated, as are polit­ ical appointees, into their office. Divination is one of the few professions in which independent, individual com m oners are able to gain special recogni­ tion, and to build up their reputations by demonstrable achievements. Very different from this is the historical background of the detective and the qualifications required for success. His profession is relatively recent, his validation m undane, his ancestry commonplace, his thinking profane. He was a p roduct of the city in a period of increasing violence. His motive was generally profit, pure but not always simple. Greed, ambition, curiosity, and excitem ent were factors that entered into his calculations. The man gener­ ally regarded as the first official detective in England was Captain Thom as de Veil, a F ren c h Protestant refugee, who in the early part of the eighteenth century acted as an agent for men of wealth and later becam e the first perm anent magistrate at Bow Street, where he indulged in w hat was known as trading ju stice— or, bluntly, selling protection to those who could afford to pay him. The lesser officials were known as thief-takers. Without honor and without shame, they were typified in Fielding’s novel (published in 1743)based on the life of Jonathan Wild, self-styled “Thief-taker General of Great Britain and Ire la n d .” F a r from being the scourge of the underworld, Wild was its most powerful member, a virtuoso criminal who ended his career as thief-taker and thief-maker on the gallows in 1725. C on tem po rary fiction reflected and embellished fact. In the gripping story of Caleb Williams, originally titled Things as They Are (published in 1794), William Godwin portrays among his rich gallery of characters, one nam ed Gines, who as a thief “not from choice but necessity” shifted from thief-taker to thief and back again. He is presented as a most vile creature, the evil, rapacious animal behind the mask of civilized man. Caleb, h o w ­ ever, regarded by critics as the first important detective in the English novel, starts as a country boy of humble and honest parentage, trained in truth and

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integrity. Obsessive curiosity even more than direct greed drives him to penetrate a tragic m ystery in the life of his good master; in the triumph of vindicating his own honor, Caleb destroys himself as well as his benefactor. Historically, de Veil, Wild, Gines, and Caleb are no more unique to Britain than tangom a to Swaziland. Their best known cross-cultural cousin in crime, Francois Eugene Vidocq, was a product of France. Vidocq served long periods in prison, but he so successfully mastered the m ethods o f the villains o f the underworld with whom he associated that he was accepted, in 1809, into the service of the French police, where he rose to the position of chief o f Sûreté (with a team of ex-convicts under his immediate command). H e retired from this office in 1827 to start a business venture of his own, and w hen this failed returned to the police, where he was given a more adminis­ trative role. In endeavoring to reinstate himself as a detective, he organized a spectacular theft. His double role, however, was discovered; he was dis­ missed in disgrace and died in 1851 in poverty. His dangerous personality and exotic career are perpetuated through literature. His early life is re­ corded in M é m o ir e s , published in 1828 under his name; later events are reported by LeD ru (1857). His image also lurks behind the frightening figure of B alzac’s Vautrain and, less distinctly, the enigmatic M onsieur Dupin of E dgar Allan Poe, whom H ow ard Haycraft calls “the authentic father of the detective story as we know it to d a y .” O ver the years the detective became increasingly respectable and the profession increasingly bureaucratized and “ scientific.” Thus in Britain, Sir R obert Peel introduced a regular constabulary in 1829, which was supple­ m ented in 1842 by a special branch devoted to detective work; this replaced the Bow Street R unners and laid the foundation of the Criminal Investigation D epartm ent of Scotland Yard, which served as the model for many other nations of the world. Writing of the system in 1955, a form er chief, C om m ander Hugh Young, presents an analysis of a highly complex organization of specialized d e p art­ m e n ts.7 H e describes the men simply as “neither imbeciles nor superm en, but ordinary hum an beings with no occult pow ers of divination, who must ho w ever possess such qualities as common sense, patience, training, experi­ ence, tenacity” (p. 48). Allan Pinkerton, one of the more literate as well as more respectable American detectives of the late nineteenth century (and founder of the agency that still carries his name), declares in The Spiritualists and The D etectives (New York, 1876)— a case study aimed at exposing spiritualists as dangerous humbugs— that “all his life he had one steady aim and that has been to purify and ennoble the detective service.” Descriptions of Sherlock Holmes, probably the most famous fictional detective, span some forty years (1887-1927). Holmes is developed into a hero of the late Victorian and Edw ardian middle class: an upholder of justice and morality, the perfect gentleman, with many accomplishments, som e­ what reserved and never crude, an am ateur violinist, and reader of good

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fiction. M ore recent heroes of fiction are drawn from all rungs of the social ladder. At one end is Dashiel H a m m e tt’s Sam Spade, the tough, hard-boiled, aggressive hero of The M altese Falcon, who speaks and acts in the idiom of those to w hom m urder is real and bloody. At the other end is Dorothy S a y e r’s creation, Lord Peter Wimsey, the epitome of snobbery and the finely honed public school intellect, a man with little lust for life, an incom ­ plete man, imperfect by his perfection. Som ew here in betw een is Agatha C hristie’s M onsieur Hercule Poirot, a man of Belgian extraction who talks in a literal translation of schoolboy French, messes around with his “little gray cells,” and solves improbable m urders by equally unpredictable operations. These detectives, how ever, are not really a part of the established fram ew ork of society; they belong neither to the police, the official guardians of the law, nor to the closed circle within which the plot develops. There is much to be said for the argument that “in fiction the detective is the extra-legal superm an who is called in to accomplish by extraordinary m ea­ sures w hat is impossible within the traditional organization of society.”8 Though the detective of fact or fiction is not stereotyped as paranoid or psychotic, nor as visibly marked by specific physical abnormalities, he may be described as “marginal” in the sense that he is compelled by the nature of his profession to cross established boundaries into the dangerous world of evil and misfortune, so that in spite of the improvement of his image over time, the imprint of his practical and profane origin remains. E ach society has its appropriate list of misfortunes and crimes that shape the paths of social dramas and underwrite individual tragedies. Though misfortunes are not identical with crimes, the two overlap and in formal structural terms both have been shown to indicate strains and c o n ­ flicts betw een groups and principles.9 W hereas the diviner’s role is more narrowly ritualized, his services extend beyond the d e tec tiv e ’s field of crime, partly because in the belief system in which the diviner works there is no duality betw een mind and matter, and the diviner’s training intensifies his perception. The contrast betw een the involuntary inspirational recruitment of the diviner and the deliberate empiricism of the detective is reflected in their respective m o di operandi. Their clues are drawn from different levels of reality; the medium is indeed the message. The diviner uses symbols (“o b ­ jects pregnant with meaning”)— the detective, empirical signs.10 Both articu­ late patterns of thought conditioned by particular types of social interaction. Techniques of divination are extraordinarily varied. Some seem very simple, others highly complex; they may be ranked in a hierarchy (like courts of appeal), or be alternatives and equal, but even the superficially most simple and “m echanical” are infused with the emotive and expressive quality of ritual. T he diviner’s selection of pieces (stones, roots, bones) is not arbitrary, and their positioning in a “th ro w ” is not considered random or attributed to chance. His attitude is different from that of the gambler th ro w ­ ing dice or the croupier at the roulette table, and it is even more different

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from the com m on-sense approach expected by the W estern empiricist. It is in the condition of possession that the expressive element of ritual is most dramatically obvious. ' Drawing again from my own notes, I extract my first impression of a s a n g o m a to whom my assistant introduced me fairly soon after I had ar­ rived. Since we did not approach his hom estead in a way that would indicate that we had come for a consultation, but simply as visitors, we were taken into a hut w here he was sitting with a couple of cronies. I was surprised, and a little disappointed, to find him insignificant in appearance— without m arked physical blemish or charisma. H e was quite short and terribly thin, his legs and arms like sticks; his voice was soft, his face calm, his eyes deepset and rather close together, almost expressionless. During this visit the only behavioral peculiarity I noted was that he inhaled tobacco snuff fre­ quently and sneezed loudly and vigorously. He did not partake o f the beer that the rest of us enjoyed. The only visible sign of his profession was a necklace of small horns, but he wore a ragged jack et and could easily have passed unnoticed in any crowd. The next time I saw him he was transformed. We had come to consult him officially and had earlier sent a message of our in ten t.11 We were taken to an open courtyard and asked to wait. After about half an hour we heard strange singing. Then he emerged, preceded by a small chorus of women. W hen the song ended, my assistant opened the consultation with the for­ malized phrase “ Father, we beg the h e a d ” and placed on the ground a twoshilling piece. H e picked it up casually without looking at us; I could not take my eyes from him. In addition to the necklace I noted earlier, a strange array o f animal-skin amulets adorned his arms and ankles; draped across his bare chest were strips of hide and pouches of snakeskin attached to a cord d e c o ­ rated with shells and feathers of different birds. A young boy held a hemp pipe for him and he inhaled deeply. Then he began to dance, or rather leap around in a sort of controlled frenzy, his legs like springs. His eyes shone like coals. In his right hand he held a switch decorated with beads and made from the tail of a wildebeest: a strange animal reputed to have horns while still in the womb. The tail is said to be sensitive to “the approach of an e n e m y ,” and is rendered even more potent by being dipped in concoctions that include the ground-up beak of a hawk (believed to “ smell” a carcass from afar), the fat of the elusive, hardbacked armadillo, and the eye of the powerful lion. H e shook the switch to and fro as he danced. After about half an hour, he stood still and shouted in a high voice “ A gree.” The w omen stopped their chanting and chorused “We agree,” and looked to us to take our part. Then he began to speak. His voice had a metallic, ventriloquist’s ring. H e m oved his head around as if he were hearing voices that did not com e from us. He seemed to be far away, speaking in part to himself, in part to people unseen. Yet every now and then he threw a quick glance in our direction. H e had hit immediately on the general reason for our visit. “So m e­ thing is lost,” he said. My assistant responded with obvious approval, “We

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a g ree.” “ It is lost by th eft.” My response was soft, my a ssistan t’s loud. “W hat is it?” Subsequent clues drew conflicting responses; he reduced the stolen object to a “d eco ratio n” and put the blame on a visiting stranger, a white person beyond his reach. My assistant, an intelligent,, questioning person, com m ented to me afterward that this diviner was much more successful in finding cattle that had strayed or been stolen than he was in “ seeing” or finding a golden brooch. My a ssistan t’s faith in divination was not destroyed, though his confidence in that particular diviner was diminished. Though I have p re­ sented the case som ew hat cynically, subsequent interviews convinced me that he was not conscious of deception, that during possession he “felt” intensified awareness; he also admitted that he thought his own pow er was on the decline and attributed this to the fact that he had not “re n ew e d ” his medicines according to custom and had deviated from the “right” way of the diviner. The case for the detective rests on a rationality within a system of logical and limited empiricism. In “A Study in Scarlet,” Holm es eloquently elucidates this approach: From a drop o f water . . . a logician could infer the possibility o f an Atlantic or a Niagara without having seen or heard of one or the other. So all life is a great chain, the nature o f which is known w henever w e are shown a single link o f it. Like all other arts, the Science o f Deduction and Analysis is one which can only be acquired by long and patient study, nor is life long enough to allow any mortal to attain the highest possible perfection in it.12

W atson says of the great master: H olm es is a little too scientific for my tastes— it approaches to cold ­ bloodedness. I could imagine his giving a friend a little pinch o f the latest vegetable alkaloid, not out o f m alevolence, you understand, but simply out o f a spirit o f inquiry in order to have an accurate idea o f the effects. To do him justice, I think that he would take it him self with the same readiness. He appears to have a passion for definite and exact k n o w led g e.13

After World W ar I there is a change in C onan Doyle and in his creation. In his autobiography there is a sense of the larger world beyond the control of the individual or even of human reason. Holmes the detective cannot solve the riddles of the universe. Conan Doyle himself became preoccupied with spiritualism and wrote on it, but nowhere does he attribute H o lm e s ’s unusual intuition and intelligence to this medium. Holmes was also depicted, how ever, as both a cocaine addict and a m aster violinist (who played his instrument to himself). Drugs and music are ancient ways of crossing the boundaries of the ordinary into the realm of visions— extraordinary experi­ ences of the illusion of Reality. Training o f m odern, real-life professional detectives, given in special government-controlled colleges, is empirical and practical. The “official

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w a y ” does not recognize insoluble mystery, though there are detectives in real life as well as fiction who speak of “intuition,” and the extraordinary successes of Albert Seedm an, chief of the N ew York City Police, in solving crimes is attributed even by his colleagues to a “ special instinct.” 14 While it is easy enough to recognize a diviner at work, it is often deliber­ ately made difficult to “ spot a detective.” Occasionally he appears in uni­ form— not in costum e— and more often he is a plainclothes man maintaining an anonymity rather than radiating a sacred identity.15 If he wears a mask, it is as a disguise, easily put on and lightly discarded. As a rule the dram a is in the situation, not in his performance, and though particularly in fiction the great detective may behave as impressively as a'diviner, his instruments are more “objective” and less symbolic. “I,” says H olm es, “have not had time to exam ine this room yet, but with your permission I shall do so n o w .” A s he spoke, he whipped a tape measure and a large round magnifying glass from his pocket. With these two implements he trotted noiselessly about the room, som etim es stopping, occasionally kneeling, and once lying flat that he appeared to have forgotten our presence, for he chattered away to him self under his breath the w hole time, and little cries suggestive o f encouragement and o f hope. A s I watched him I was irresistibly reminded o f a pure-blooded, well-trained foxhound, as it dashes backward and forward through the covert, whining in its eagerness, until it com es across the lost scent. For twenty min­ utes or more he continued his researches, measuring with the m ost invisible to me, and occasionally applying his tape to the walls in an equally incom prehen­ sible manner. In one place he gathered up very carefully a little pile o f gray dust; he examined with his glass the word upon the wall, going over every letter o f it with the most minute exactness. This done, he appeared to be satisfied, for he replaced his tape and his glass in his p o ck et.16

H o lm e s ’s colleagues, particularly those who belonged to the lower breed of police detective, pursued false clues, albeit equipped with equally “ scientific” tools. But Holmes knew the true from the false. H e was c o m ­ pletely self-confident. There was no problem he failed in the end to solve. It was, after all, “elementary, my dear W atson, elem en tary.” Diviners who are recognized as successful also boast excessively, and those who use symbolic objects build up the confidence of others by re­ counting w ondrous tales of how they were acquired and what they might mean. But they attribute their skills to unseen spirits, and their failures to more powerful people with evil intentions. A ware of the hazards and tragedies of the human condition, diviners also have the easier way out of being able to blame failures on agents other than the self. It should be obvious by now that diviner and detective do not look for identical evidence in their pursuit of “the tru th .” Once people believe that killing can be committed without close physical contact or connection with the victim there is little point in an alibi. Even if there were no visible signs of foul play, the verdict could be death by murder. It is the K oestler situa­

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tion, in which intent is action. The diviner who uncovers motives and inter­ prets them as deeds exacts revenge by similar means. The generalized underlying pow er is linked to events in the lives of real people, providing a theory of causality that, though couched in an idiom of personal relation­ ships, transcends the limited vision of natural causes provided by the em pir­ ical approach in contem porary science. In a world in which simultaneous events impinge at m om ents of disjointed time, in which new characters appear and old characters reappear, the diviner seeks to interpret conflicting intentions as an essential element in a continuing process. The detective begins his investigations with “the b o d y ” or the actual scene of the crime; time is often crucial, and though motives are investigated, action is evi­ dence. E ven so, in many cases the detective, moving step by step, testing, interrogating, observing, is unable to find the criminal. The deeper he digs, the darker it gets. Divination and associated practices and beliefs have often been dis­ missed as attem pts to explain the inexplicable and to deal with the un co n­ trollable in societies with limited technological knowledge. Misfortunes and conflicts are multiplying throughout the contem porary world, and in spite of longer life expectancy there are also more ways of dying— or of being killed— than ever before. Though there is evidence that certain magical p ro ­ cedures are being replaced by procedures that are more empirically based (“ scientific”), there is also evidence that diviners not only persist in third world countries that are acquiring more effective technological expertise, but are also growing in strength of numbers in sections of W estern societies deluged by new technological gadgetry. Empirical science may do more than it can explain. Anthropologists have m oved beyond the early evolutionary approach to “religion, magic, and science” and its essential, albeit obvious, functionalist correctives to more theoretical analysis of styles, models, and levels of “ stru c tu re s,” and the elusive forms of process. But questions of “m eaning,” of values, continue to be asked because hum an beings, by being human, think, feel, and articulate, and the answers continue to be controversial.17 In this essay I have avoided placing diviner and detective in the con ce p ­ tual fram w ork of ritual/science, irrational/rational, but have focused delib­ erately on performers and their perform ance in dramas that belong to real life and its fictions (the boundary between them is not always clear). The process of interaction continues after the particular denouem ent is reached or the curtain rung down on a cast; we can only surmise what will happen next; an end is inconclusive, the finale is not final. I would suggest that detective and diviner represent not only two genres of performers but two ways of thinking, distinguished in the words of J. Robert O ppenheim er as “the way of time and history and the way of eternity and timelessness, both of which are part of m a n ’s effort to com prehend the world in which he lives. N either is com prehended in the other nor reducible to it. They are, as we have learned to say in physics, com plem entary views,

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each supplementing the other, neither telling the whole story” .18 The ordi­ nary detective engages in a type of thinking based on sense perceptions, which by their very nature give information of the external world of physical reality only indirectly; the diviner’s thinking is encom passed in the world­ view of Einstein: “Pure logical thinking cannot yield us any knowledge of the empirical world; all knowledge of reality starts from experience and ends in it. Propositions arrived at by pure logical means are completely e m p ty ” .19 The diviner is not a primitive detective, not a prototype but an a rch e­ type, a being of a different quality and a different faith, with other powers of perception and execution. His resources are sacred, his source is inspira­ tion, his actions are based on a coherent s y s te n r o f belief validated by faith. In the m odern W estern world his apotheosis could be an O ppenheim er or an Einstein; his netw ork of relatives extends not only to spiritualists and th e o ­ logians but boundary-breaking scientists; “intuition” is a mirror image of inspiration or possession. The detective, who is more earthbound, more narrowly pragmatic, operates directly within restrictions of “common sen se ” in the public political arena. His less influential kin are to be found in the ordinary police force, his more influential kin in a D epartm ent of Justice or a Federal Bureau of Investigation. Detectives cannot eliminate diviners, though they have various techniques of discrediting or manipulating them. The diviner and detective who operate in the same existential world may reach similar conclusions by different means, and different conclusions by apparently similar means. In the Sidloko case, the diviners started off with a set of assumptions that led to their finding other m urderers than the policeman; the detectives of thepolice force exonerated the same man on completely different grounds. Diviners and detectives are not mutually ex ­ clusive, nor does one necessarily replace the other psychologically or struc­ turally. Though they move in separate directions, their paths cross at dark and critical intersections. A direct confrontation may evoke suspicion, fear, or anger. They may pretend not to see each other, but they still know that the other is there, and recognize a part of the self in the other.

NOTES 1.

2. 3.

4.

In Swazi culture, no linguistic distinction is drawn betw een witchcraft and sorcery, though som e people are believed to be born with the evil or injected with it, and others practice it deliberately through medicines or have specialists bring destruction on their behalf. See Hilda Kuper, A n A fric a n A risto c ra c y (N ew York, 1947), pp. 172-176. George Steiner, In B l u e b e a r d ’s Castle (N ew H aven, 1971), p. 141. A m ong the more com prehensive are Howard Haycroft, ed., The A r t o f the M y s te r y S to ry (N ew York, 1946), and Ian Onsby, B l o o d h o u n d s o f H e a v e n (Cambridge, M ass., 1976). The growing literature includes Mircea Eliade’s S h a m a n i s m : A r c h a ic T e c h ­ niques o f E c s ta s y (Princeton, N .J., 1970); W eston La Barre’s The G h o st D a n c e (Garden City, N .Y ., 1970); Claude L évi-Strauss’ The S a v a g e M i n d (Chicago, 1966); and I.M. L e w is ’ E csta tic Religion (Harmondsworth, England, 1971).

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5. There are several types o f p ossession. Among the Swazi possession by spirits o f animals or foreigners is diagnosed as harmful and such spirits must be exorcised (see Kuper 1947, pp. 163ff). 6. M ost notably, Victor Turner, R e v ela tio n a n d Divination in N d e m b u R itu a l (Ithaca, 1975), pp. 23-24. Eliade and Lew is are among those w ho reject the notion o f diviners as psychotics pr paranoid. 7. Hugh Young, M y F orty Years in the Yard (London, 1955). 8. William O. A ydelotte, “The D etective Story as a Historical S o u rce,” Yale R e ­ view 39: 76-95, 1950. 9. The ideas o f Evans-Pritchard in his pioneering study Witchcraft, Oracles a n d M a g ic a m o n g the A z a n d e (Oxford, 1937) have been developed, elaborated, and challenged. Writers w ho put the emphasis on bounded structures include M eyer Fortes, Max Gluckman, Jack G oody, Max Marwick, George Park, and M onica W ilson. A m ong those w ho are placing more emphasis on ideology are Edmund L each, John Beattie, Mary Douglas, Tom Beidelman, and Victor Turner. 10. For a brilliant discussion o f divinatory sym bolism , see R e v ela tio n a n d D iv in a ­ tion, pp. 207-246. Follow ing Jung’s distinction betw een symbol and sign, Tur­ ner argues that the more esoteric a m an’s knowledge, the more sym bols approximate to the status o f signs. “They becom e objects o f cognition and cease progressively to be objects o f emotion. The more they are known, the more they are mastered. The less they are known, the more they exert mastery. The prestige and influence o f the ritual expert depend on the simple fact. N e v e r ­ theless in N dem bu society, even for diviners, the figurines and substances they use never becom e true signs. This is because their meanings rest ultimately on axiomatic beliefs in the existence o f mystical beings and fo rces” (pp. 208-209). 11. Examining the question o f why som e cases are taken to diviners and others to officials in courts of law, Gluckman argues that “occult beliefs and practices have a strong moral com ponent and are most significant when som e major ambiguity [of principles] is present in social life, while other breaches o f moral­ ity can be dealt with in a straightforward rational secular manner.” Looking at it as an outsider— not as an insider— he concludes that the occult belief “conceals the conflict and disharmony it in fact produces” (Max Gluckman, The A l l o c a ­ tion o f R esp o n sib ility, M anchester, 1972). But all cases indicate som e moral ambiguity, and choice o f techniques and tribunal are often arbitrary. 12. Sir Arthur Conan D o y le, The C o m p le te S h e r lo c k H o l m e s (N e w York, 1930), p. 13. 13. Conan D o y le, p. 17. 14. Albert Seedm an and Peter Heilman, C h i e f ( N e w York, 1974). 15. Hilda Kuper, “Costum e and Identity,” C o m p a ra tiv e S tu d ie s in S o c ie ty a n d H istory, 15(3): 348-367, 1973. 16. Conan D o y le, p. 31. 17. See for exam ple the essays in Bryan R. W ilson, ed., R a tio n a lity (N ew York, 1970). 18. J. Robert Oppenheimer, S c ie n c e a n d the C o m m o n U n d e rsta n d in g (N ew York, 1954), p. 69. 19. Lawrence L eShan, The M e d iu m , the M ystic, a n d the P hy sic ist (N ew York, 1966), p. 76.

T il A C T O R S , A U D IE N C E S , & R E F L E X IV IT Y

A D eath 'in D u e Time: Construction o f S e lf a n d C ulture in R itu a l D ram a* Barbara G. Myerhoff

“W hen the fig is plucked in due time it is good for the tree and good for the fig.”

H um ankind has ever chafed over its powerlessness w hen facing the end of life. Lacking assurance of immortality and insulted by the final triumph of nature over culture, humans develop religious concepts that explain that, if not they, someone or something has pow er and a plan. Thus death is not an obscene blow of blind chance. N o religion fails to take up the problem, sometimes affirming hum an impotence thunderously. N evertheless, people yearn for a good death, timely and appropriate, suggesting some m easure of participation, if not consent. Occasionally, a subtle collusion seems to occur w hen human and natural plans coincide, revealing a mysterious agreement betw een mankind, nature, and the gods, and providing a sense of profound rightness and order that is the final objective of religion, indeed of all cultural designs. Belief and reality are merged at such times and death is more p artner than foe. The questions o f supremacy and pow er are rendered irrele­ vant, and an experience of unity and harmony prevails. This essay describes such an event, tracing its origins and its co n se­ quences over a period of several m o n th s .1The entire sequence is treated as a single event, a dram a of several acts. It is a social dram a in Victor T u r n e r ’s sense, but it is more strikingly a cultural drama, illustrating how a group draws upon its rituals and symbols to face a crisis and make an interpreta­ tion. It handles conflicts, not of opposing social relationships, but of opposi­ tion betw een uncertainty and predictability, powerlessness and choice. A *1 am much indebted to many people who helped me in various w ays, including Andrew Ehrlich, Laura Geller, Walter Levine, Riv-Ellen Prell-Foldes, Beryl Mintz, Morris R osen, Chaim Seidler-Feller, and Dyanne Simon.

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final reconciliation is achieved w hen the community selects from and modifies its prevailing conceptualizations, using some traditional materials, improvising and developing others, until it has made a,m yth of a historical episode and found messages of continuity, hum an potency, and freedom amid threats o f individual and social obliteration. s

DEATH A S A CULTURAL DRAMA Jacob K ovitz died in the middle of the public celebration of his ninety-fifth birthday, among friends and family gathered to honor him at the Aliyah Senior C itizens’ Community Center, which had become the focus of life for a small, stable, socially and culturally homogeneous group of elderly Jews, immigrants to America from Eastern Europe. The case is remarkable for several reasons: it illustrates the use of ritual to present a collective interpre­ tation of “reality,” and it dem onstrates the capacity o f ritual to take account of unplanned developm ents and alter itself in midstream into a different event. Further, it illuminates how one man can make himself into a co m m en ­ tary upon his life, his history, and his community, mirroring his social world to itself and to himself at the same time. The case is an example of the transformation of a natural, biological event— death— into a cultural drama, shaped to hum an purpose until it becomes an affirmation rather than a nega­ tion of life. Though quite rare in our times, such deaths are not unprecedented. The French social historian Philippe Aries2 refers to ritualized, ceremonial deaths as “ta m e d ,” and points out that in the Middle Ages, knights of the chanson de geste also tam ed their deaths. Forew arned by spontaneous realization of imminent departure, the dying person prepared himself and his surrou nd ­ ings, often by organizing a ritual and presiding over it to the last. Death was a public presentation, often simple, including parents, children, friends, and neighbors. Tam ed deaths were not necessarily emotional. Death was both familiar and near, evoking no great fear or awe. Solzhenitsyn, too, as Aries notes, talks about such deaths among peasants. “They d id n’t puff th e m ­ selves up or fight against it and brag that they w e r e n ’t going to die— they took death calmly. . . . And they departed easily, as if they were ju st moving into a new h o u s e .” Death was not romanticized or banished. It remained within the household and domestic circle, the dying person at the center of events, “determining the ritual as he saw fit.”3 Later, as the concept of the individual emerges, distinct from the social and communal context, the moment of death came to be regarded as an opportunity in which one was most able to reach— and publicly present— a full awareness of self. Until the fifteenth century, the death cerem ony was at least as important as the funeral in W estern Europe. In reading these historical accounts the anthropologist is reminded of

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similar practices in preliterate societies. H ere is a description of a death c erem ony among the E skim o s:4 In som e tribes an old man wants his oldest son or favorite daughter to be the one to put the string around his neck and hoist him to his death. This was always done at the height o f a party where good things were being eaten, where everyone— including the one w ho was about to die— felt happy and gay, and which would end with the a n g a k o k [shaman] conjuring and dancing to chase out the evil spirits. At the end o f his performance, he would give a special rope o f seal and walrus skin to the “execution er,” w ho then placed it over the beam on the roof o f the house and fastened it around the neck o f the old man. Then the tw o rubbed noses, and the young man pulled the rope. . . .”

All the elements of a tamed death are present also in the case of J a c o b ’s birthday party: his foreknowledge of death, its occurrence in a public cere­ mony, which he directed, his attitude of calm acceptance, his use of the occasion to express the meaning of his life, and the presence and participa­ tion of those with w hom he was intimate. Unlike the Eskim o or the medieval knight, Jacob constructed his death alone, without support of established ritual and without expectation of c o o p ­ eration from his community. This was his own invention, and his only p a rt­ ner was M a la k h -h a m o v e s , the Angel of Death, who cooperated with him to produce a trium phant celebration that defied time, change, mortality, and existential isolation. Through this ritual, Jacob asserted that his community would continue, that his way of life would be preserved, that he was a coherent, integrated person throughout his personal history, and that som e­ thing of him would remain alive after his physical end. It is not surprising that this accomplishment was achieved through ritual, which is unique in its capacity to convince us of the unbelievable and make traditional that which is unexpected and new.

THE W O RK OF R ITU AL Ritual is prominent in all areas of uncertainty, anxiety, impotence, and disorder. By its repetitive character it provides a message of pattern and predictability. In requiring enactm ents involving symbols, it bids us to par­ ticipate in its messages, even enacting meanings we cannot conceive or believe; our actions lull our critical faculties, persuading us with evidence from our own physiological experience until we are convinced. In ritual, doing is believing. Ritual dramas especially are elaborately staged and use presentational more than discursive symbols, so that our senses are aroused and flood us with phenomenological proof of the symbolic reality which the ritual is portraying. By dramatizing abstract, invisible conceptions, it makes vivid and palpable our ideas and wishes, and, as G eertz has observed, the lived-in order merges with the dream ed-of o rd e r.5 Through its insistence on

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precise, authentic, and accurate forms, rituals suggest that their contents are beyond question authoritative and axiomatic. By high stylization and ex tra ­ ordinary uses— of objects, language, dress, gestures, vand the like— ritual calls attention to itself, so that we cannot fail to see that its contents are set apart from ordinary affairs. . Ritual inevitably carries a basic message of order, continuity, and pre­ dictability. E ven w hen dealing with change, new events are connected to preceding ones, incorporated into a stream of precedents so that they are recognized as growing out of tradition and experience. Ritual states enduring and underlying patterns, thus connecting past, present, and future, abrogat­ ing history and time. Ritual always links fellow participants but often goes beyond this to connect a group of celebrants to wider collectivities, even the ancestors and those unborn. Religious rituals go farther, connecting m an­ kind to the forces of nature and purposes of the deities, reading the forms of m acrocosm in the microcosm. And when rituals employ sacred symbols, these symbols may link the celebrants to their very selves through various stages of the life cycle, making individual history into a single phenomenological reality. Ritual appears in dangerous circumstances and at the same time is itself a dangerous enterprise. It is a conspicuously artificial affair, by definition not of m undane life. Rituals always contain the possibility of failure. If they fail, we may glimpse their basic artifice, and from this apprehend the fiction and invention underlying all culture. Underlying all rituals is an ultimate danger, lurking beneath the smallest and largest o f them, the more banal and the most ambitious— the possibility that we will encounter ourselves making up our conceptions o f the world, society, our very selves. We may slip into that fatal perspective o f recognizing culture as our construct, arbitrary, conventional, invented by mortals.6

Rituals then are seen as a reflection not of the underlying, unchanging nature of the world but of the products of our imagination. When we catch o u r­ selves making up rituals, we may see all our most precious, basic u n d e r­ standings, the precepts we live by, as mere desperate wishes and dreams. With ritual providing the safeguards of predictability, we dare ultimate enterprises. Because we know the outcome of a ritual beforehand, we find the courage within it to enact our symbols, which would otherwise be p re ­ posterous. In ritual, we incorporate the gods into our bodies, return to Paradise, and with high righteousness destroy our fellows. What happens when a ritual is interrupted by an unplanned d e ­ velopment, when it is not predictable, when accident rudely takes over and chaos menaces its orderly proceedings? What do we do if death appears out of order, in the middle of a ritual celebrating life? Such an occurrence may be read as the result of a mistake in ritual procedure, as a warning and message from the deities, or as a devastating sign of human impotence. But there is another possibility. The unexpected may be understood as a

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fulfillment of a different, loftier purpose, and a new, higher order may be found beneath the appearance or may take account of reality and thereby fulfill its purposes. Thus a new meaning and a new ritual emerge, made from older, extant symbols and rites.

E T H N O G R A P H IC SETTING Before describing the birthday party, some social and historical background is necessary. At the time of this study, the relevant community consisted of about 4,000 people at the most. These individuals were spread over an area of about six miles around the Aliyah Center; the center m embership in­ cluded 300 people, about 200 of whom were present at the birthday party. The great majority of people belonging to the center were betw een 85 and 95 years old. M ost had been residents in the neighborhood for 20 to 30 years. N early all of them had lived as children in the little Jewish towns and settlements of E astern E urope known as shtetls. Yiddish was their mother tongue and Yiddishkeit, the folk culture built around the language and c u s­ toms of the shtetl, was a major emotional and historical force in their lives, though their participation in and identification with it varied in intensity throughout the life cycle. In great numbers, these people and others like them had fled their original homes, intent on escaping the extrem e antisemit­ ism, intractable poverty, and political oppression, which were becoming increasingly severe around the turn of the century. As adolescents and young adults, they came to the N ew World and w orked as small m erchants, unskilled laborers, craftsmen, and artisans in the E a stern industrial cities of America. On reaching retirement age, with their children educated, married, and socially and geographically remote, they drifted into their present community, drawn to the mild climate, the ocean, and the intense Yiddishkeit of the area. N o w they were isolated and old, but freed from external pressures to be “A m erican .” In this condition they turned more and more toward each other, revived Yiddish as their preferred language, and elaborated an eclectic subculture, which combined elements from their childhood beliefs and customs with modern, urban A m erican practices and attitudes, adapting the mixture of their present needs and circumstances. These circum stances were harsh. Family members were distant or dead. Most of the group were poor, very old, and frail, suffering from social and communal neglect, extrem e loneliness, and isolation. As a people, they were of little concern to the larger society around them. Their social, polit­ ical, physical, and economic impotence was pronounced, and except on a very local level, they were nearly invisible. A dded to these afflictions was their realization that the culture of their childhood would die with them. The Holocaust wiped out the shtetls and nearly all their inhabitants. The center members clearly apprehended the

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impending complete extinction of themselves as persons and as carriers of a culture. The group was entirely homogeneous in age, and except for c e re m o ­ nial occasions, no real intergenerational continuity existed. Their own m em ­ bership were being depleted constantly, and there was no others to replace them. Death and impotence were as real as the weather, and as persistent. M oreover, the social solidarity of the group was weakened by the m em ­ b e r ’s ambivalence toward one another, due in part to enforced association and perhaps, too, to displaced anger. Their cultural traditions inclined them to a certain degree of distrust of nonkin, and despite the stability, homogeneity, and distinctiveness of past experiences, their circum stances, and extensive time spent together, they had less than entirely amiable feel­ ings for each other. Factions, disagreements, and longstanding grudges m arred their assemblies, most of which took place in secular and sacred rituals within the center building and on benches outside it. But despite their ideological discord they were united by their common past. This was expressed as Yiddishkeit, in reference to the local customs, language, and beliefs that characterized these p eople’s parental homes and early life in the shtetl. Very few were orthodox in religious practices. They had broken with strict religious Judaism before leaving the Old Country. A great many were agnostic, even atheistic and antireligious. But all were passionately Jewish, venerating the historical, ethnic, and cultural aspects of their heritage. M ost had liberal and socialist political beliefs and had been active at one time or another in the Russian Revolution, various w o rk e rs ’ m ovem ents, labor unions, or similar political activities. Since the H olocaust, all were Zionists, despite some ideological reservations concerning national­ ism. F o r them Israel had becom e an extension of their family, and its p e r­ petuation and welfare were identified as their own. This constellation of beliefs and experiences— the childhood history of the s h tetl, Yiddish lan­ guage and culture, secular and ethnic Judaism, and Zionism— were the sa­ cred elements that united th e m .7 The subculture the grpup had developed comprised several distinct lay­ ers of historical experience: that of Eastern Europe, where they spent their childhood; of E astern America from the turn of the century until the 1930s and 1940s, w here they lived as adults; and of the California urban ghetto of elderly Jews, w here they spent the latter part of their lives. Though there were many discontinuities and sharp disruptions during these 80 to 95 years, there were some notable cultural and social continuities, particularly be­ tw een childhood and old age. These continuities seem to have helped them adapt to their co ntem po rary circumstances. N ot surprisingly, many of their rituals and symbols emphasized those situational continuities. It is likely that the elders would not have elaborated this subculture had they remained em bedded in a context of family and community. Their very isolation gave them much freedom for originality; they improvised and in­ vented, unham pered by restraints of their original traditions and social dis­ approval of authorities. They had only themselves to please. For the first

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time since coming to America, now in old age they were able to indulge fully their old love of Yiddish and Yiddishkeit without fear of being ridiculed as greenhorns by their sophisticated, assimilated children. N ow living again in a small, integrated community that emphasized learning, and where Yiddish­ keit flourished and individual freedom and autonom y were exercised in iso­ lation from mainstream society, they were able to revive their earlier responses to conditions they had known before. Their present poverty, im­ potence, physical insecurity, and social marginality repeated shtetl exis­ tence. Such continuity is adaptive despite its painful contents. People who have always know n that life was hard and fate unreliable, if not downright treacherous, are not surprised to encounter these hazards again. They know how to cope with them and are not discouraged. They never expected life to be easy or happy. “H a p p in e ss,” said Sarah, “happiness is not having a broken leg.”

D R A M A S OF E X ISTE N C E , A R E N A S FOR A P P E A R IN G Ritual is a form by which culture presents itself to itself. In ritual, not only are particular messages delivered, but the ritual also creates a world in which culture can appear. Further, rituals create a setting in which persons can appear, by appearing in their culture, by devising a reality in which they may stand as part. In their rituals, we see persons dramatizing self and culture at once, each made by the other. There is a satisfying replication: Jacob made up himself and his interpretation of his life through his autobio­ graphical writings. H e performed the final chapter w hen he died. C enter mem bers make up a world, which they enact. They enact their own exis­ tence as individuals as they participate in that world. J a c o b ’s death strengthened the center m e m b e rs ’ construction by making it more real, and by implying through his aw esom e performance that their constructed world was validated by divine or at least supernatural approval. Center life, though vital and original, was conspicuously made-up. It was an assembly of odds and ends, adaptations and rationalizations built out of historical materials that were used to deny that their present life was an accom m odation to desperate circumstances. It was further strained by the necessity of binding together people who had not chosen to be with each other, who were rejected by their kin, and who had lost most of those peers whom they regarded as truly like-minded. All culture is an invention, madeup in this sense, but greater depth of time and few er contradictions often make its work easier than it was here. Only continual and protracted c ere ­ monies could keep center mem bers from appreciating their differences; only regular, elaborate rituals could convince them that their way of life was real— a given and not a construct. The center provided a stage for the dramatization of their collective life, and also a place in which they could dramatize themselves as individuals. In

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it, they could appear, becom e visible, as continuing, living people. Without the center they were so cut off from human contact that it was possible to doubt their own existence. They needed each other as^ witnesses, particu­ larly because in extrem e old age the senses no longer give powerful m es­ sages of vitality. F o r many, sight, hearing, taste have faded. Wakefulness has merged into dozing. M emory has overtaken the present and blended with dream. There is no one to touch them or w hom they touch. They must reassure themselves of existence by receiving verification from outside their bodies. Their peers are only minimally useful in this: first, because they too are less acute and responsive; second, because they are in competition with each other for attention and often withhold or manipulate it to control one another. The desire for attention is the dominent passion or dynamic force that gives the community its unique form. The attention of outsiders in general, and younger people in particular, is eagerly sought. The center people turn to them in an attem pt to make a record of their existence and to leave behind with ano ther a record that they have been here. Having a photograph taken, being interviewed and tape-recorded, even being listened to by someone who will return to the outside world and who will rem em ber them after they are gone is urgent. By these activities the center people create arenas for appearing. Being overlooked is worse than being regarded as difficult, fool­ ish, irrational, or selfish. Neglect is more unbearable. Naturally, if they can, they prefer to be seen as worthy and important, but in this they require certain u ncom m on attributes: a willing audience, a com m and of themselves, and dem onstrable accomplishments. Lacking assurance that their way of life will continue, finding no con so ­ lation that a God would rem em ber their name, unable to draw on their own bodies for evidence of continuing vitality, they turn to each other as unwill­ ing but essential witnesses to their dramas of existence. In their ceremonial life they created themselves, witnessed each other, proclaimed a reality of their own making. Jacob was one of the most fortunate members of the community. He had the wherewithal to stage a drama not merely of existence but of honor. With his large, successful family, his accomplishments, and his com m and of himself, he was able to mount an exalted, ambitious proclamation on the meaning and value of his life. F o r many years, birthdays had been celebrated by the members in their small, dilapidated center. These were collective occasions, grouping to ­ gether all those born within the month— modest, simple affairs. Only Jacob K ovitz had regular birthday parties for him alone and these parties were great fetes. This reflected his unusual standing in the group. He was a kind of patriarch, a formal and informal leader of the group. He had served as its president for several years, and even after leaving the community to live in a rest home, he returned frequently and had been named president emeritus. He was the oldest person in the group and the most generally venerated. No

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one else had managed to provide leadership without becoming entangled in factional disputes. Jacob regarded himself, and was generally regarded by others, as an exemplar, for he had fulfilled the deepest wishes of most people and he embodied their loftiest ideals. Jacob K ovitz enjoyed the devotion of his children, four successful, educated sons, who de m o n strate d their affection by frequently visiting the center and participating in many celebrations there. At these times they treated the m em bers with respect and kindness, and they were always gener­ ous, providing meals, entertainm ent, buses for trips, and other unusual kind­ nesses. M oreover, w hen the sons came they brought their wives, children, and grandchildren, many of whom showed an interest in Judaism and Yiddishkeit. Family was one of the highest values among all the old people, and here was a family that all could wish for. Jacob himself had been a worker. He had made and lost money, but never had he lost his ideals and concerns for charity and his fellows. Without a formal education he had becom e a poet and was considered a Yiddishist and a philosopher. H e was not religious but he had religious knowledge and practiced the life of an ethical and traditional Jew. Jacob was a courageous and energetic man. After retirement he became active in organizing senior citizens’ centers, and he drew the attention of the outside world for what his people regarded as the right reasons. All this he managed with an air of gentleness and dignity. Without dignity, no one was considered worthy of esteem by them. Without gentleness and generosity, he would have aroused sufficient envy to render him an ineffective leader. He was accepted by everyone in the group, a symbol and focus of its fragile solidarity. Jacob also symbolized a good old age. He advised his followers on how to cope with their difficulties, and he dem onstrated that old age was not necessarily a threat to decorum , pleasure, autonom y, and clarity of mind. Following the program suggested by M oore and M yerhoff,8 the ritual of J a c o b ’s p arty-m em orial is described in three stages: (1) its creation, (2) its perform ance, and (3) its outcom e, sociologically and in terms of its efficacy.

C R E A TIO N OF THE C E R E M O N Y The explicit plan in the design of the cerem ony specified a format with several ritual elements that had characterized J a c o b ’s five preceding birth­ day parties. These were: (1) a brocha, here a traditional H eb rew blessing of the wine; (2) a welcome and introduction of important people, including the entire extended K ovitz family, present and absent; (3) a festive meal of kosher foods served on tables with tablecloths and flowers and wine, paid for mostly by the family but requiring some donation by members to avoid the impression of charity; (4) speeches by representatives from the center, sponsoring Jewish organizations under which the center operates, and local and city groups, and by each of the Kovitz sons; (5) entertainm ent, usually

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Yiddish folk songs played by a m em ber of the family; (6) a speech by Jacob; (7) a donation of a substantial sum to the center for its programs and for Israel by the family; (8) an invitation to those present to make donations to Israel in honor of the occasion; and (9) a birthday cake, songs, and candles. The form at had a feature often found in secular ritual dramas. Within it fixed, sacred elements alternated with more open, secular aspects, as if to lend authenticity, certainty, and propriety to the open, more optional sec­ tions. In the open sections, modifications, particularizations, and innova­ tions occur, tying the fixed sections more firmly to the situational details at hand, together providing a progression that seems both apt and traditional. In this case, for example, the brocha, songs,' donations, and toasts are predictable; they are unvarying, ritual elements and symbolic acts. The personnel, as representatives, are also symbolic, signifying the boundaries of the relevant collectivities and the social matrix within which the event occurs, but the specific contents of their speeches are less predictable, al­ though they inevitably repeat certain themes. In this case the repeated themes of the speeches touched on the c h arac­ ter, accom plishm ents, and personal history of Jacob; the honor he brought to his community and family; the honor the family brought to their father and their culture; the im portance and worth of the attending center m em bers; the beauty of Yiddish life; the commonality of all those individuals, organiza­ tions, and collectivities in attendance; and the perpetuity of the group and its way of life. The style of the cerem ony was another ritual element, familiar to all those who had attended previous parties, and familiar because it was drawn from a wider, general experience— that of many public festivities among strangers and mass media entertainment. It reached for a tone that was jovial, bland, mildly disrespectful, altogether familiar, and familial. It was set by a master-of-ceremonies (a son, Sam) who directed the incidents and the participants, cuing them as to the desired responses during the event, and telling them what was happening as the afternoon unfolded. Despite a seemingly innocuous and casual manner, the style was a precise one, reach­ ing for a particular mood— enjoyment in moderation, and cooperation, un­ flagging within the regulated time frame. Things must always be kept moving along in ritual; if a lapse occurs, self-consciousness may enter, and the mood may be lost. This is especially important in secular rituals, which are at­ tended by strangers or people from different traditions, to w hom the sym ­ bols used may not be comprehensible. Ritual is a collusive drama, and all present must be in on it. In this case specific direction was unusually important. The old people are notoriously difficult to direct. They enter reluctantly into someone e lse ’s plans for them; for cultural and psychological reasons, they resist authority and reassert their autonom y. F or biological reasons they find it hard to be attentive for extended periods of time and cannot long delay gratification. Programs must be short, emotionally certain and specific, skillfully inter­

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spersing food and symbols. The people can be engaged by the calling of their names, by praise, and by identifying them with the guest of honor. But their importance must not be inflated overm uch for they are quick to perceive this as deception and insult. F urtherm ore, the old people must not be too greatly aroused, for many have serious heart conditions. Perhaps it was the intense familiarity with their limits as an audience or perhaps it was the uncertainty that underlies all secular ceremonies that caused the designers to select as the m aster of ceremonies a directive leader, who frequently told the audi­ ence what was occurring, what would come next, and reminded them of what had occurred, reiterating the sequences, as if restatem ent in itself would augment the sense of tradition and timelessness that is sought in ritual. The affair was called a birthday party, but in fact this was a metaphor. The son Sam said in his speech, “Y ou know, Pa d o e s n ’t think a birthday is worth celebrating without raising money for a worthy Jewish c a u s e .” The event had a more ambitious purpose than merely celebrating a mark in an individual life. The birthday party m etaphor was used because it symbolized the p e o p le ’s m em bership in a secular, modern society. But as only a birth­ day, it had little significance to them. N one of them had ever celebrated their birthdays in this fashion. Indeed, it was the custom to rem em ber the day of their birth by reckoning it on the closest Jewish holiday, submerging private within collective celebrations. More importantly, the event was a simcha, a yontif, a m itzva h— a blessing, a holiday, a good deed, an occasion for cul­ tural celebration and an opportunity to perform good works in a form that expressed the m e m b e r s ’ identity with the widest reaches of community, Israel and needy Jews everywhere. Its most important message was that of perpetuation of the group b e ­ yond the life of individual members. This was signified in two ways, both of which were innovations and departures from K o v itz ’s usual birthdays. First, temporal continuity was signified by the presence of a group of college students, brought into the center during the year by a young rabbi who sought to prom ote intergenerational ties. It was decided that the young people would serve the birthday meal to the elders as a gesture of respect. That a rabbi was there with them was incidental and unplanned, but turned out to be important. Second was J a c o b ’s announcem ent that he was d o n a t­ ing funds for his birthday parties to be held at the center for the next five, years, w hether he was alive or not. Occasions were thus provided for people to assemble for what would probably be the rest o f their lives, giving them some assurance that as individuals they would not outlive their culture and community. A nother of the repeated ritual elements was the personnel involved. Most o f these have been identified, and reference here need be made only to two more. These were the director of the center and its president. The director, Abe, was a second-generation assimilated American of RussianJewish parentage. A social worker, he had been with this group a dozen

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years and knew the people intimately, usually functioning as their guardian, protector, interpreter, and mediator. He, along with Jacob and his sons, developed the form at for the cerem ony and helped conduct it. The presi­ dent, M oshe, was a man of 82, with an Hasidic background.9 He was a religious man with a considerable religious education, and a Yiddishist. It was to him that questions about Judaism and its customs were likely to be referred. After Jacob he was the most respected man in the group, and one of J a c o b ’s closest friends. Symbols carry implicit messages, distinguishable from the overt ingre­ dients intended by the designers of a ritual; they are part of its creation but not clearly planned or controlled. W hen they ,are well chosen and un d er­ stood, they do their work unnoticed. The following are the symbols within the planned cerem ony. Others were spontaneously brought in when the cerem ony was interrupted and they will be taken up later. M any of the symbols employed have been mentioned. Every Yiddish word is a symbol, evoking a deep response. The man Jacob and his entire family were significant symbols, standing for success, fulfillment of Judaic ideals, and family devotion. The dignitaries and the publics they re p re ­ sented, too, were among the symbols used. The birthday m etaphor with cake, candles, and gifts was a symbol complex along with “M .C .,” “Guest of H o n o r ,” and the tone of the program, which incorporated American, con­ tem porary secular life. Also present were symbols for the widest extension of Judaic culture and its adherents, in the form of references to Israel and m itzvot of charity and good works. The attendance of small children and young people symbolized the continuity and perpetuity of Judaism. The traditional foods symbolized and evoked the m e m b e rs ’ childhood experi­ ences as Jews; they were the least ideological and possibly most powerfully emotional of all the symbolic elements that appeared in the ritual.

A N T E C E D E N T CO N TEXT OF THE R IT U A L E v ery one at the center knew that Jacob had been sick. F o r three months he had been hospitalized, in intensive care, and at his request had been re­ m oved by his son Sam to his home so that he could be “properly taken care of out of the unhealthy atm osphere of a hospital.” Before Jacob had always resisted living with his children, and people interpreted this change in at­ titude as indicative of his determination to come to his birthday party. The old people were aware that Jacob had resolved to have the party take place w hether he were able to attend or not. People were impressed, first, because Jacob had the autonom y and courage to assert his opinions over the reco m ­ mendations of his doctors— evidently he was still in charge of himself and his destiny— and second, because J a c o b ’s children were so devoted as to take him in and care for him. But most of all they were struck by his determ ina­ tion to celebrate his birthday among them. They were honored and awed by

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this and waited eagerly for the daily developments about the celebration: details concerning J a c o b ’s health, the menu for the party, the entertain­ m ent— all were know n and discussed at length beforehand. As the day grew close, much talk concerned the significance of the specific date. It was noted that the celebration was being held on J a c o b ’s actual birthday. The party was always held on a Sunday, and as the date and day coincided only every seven years, surely that they did so on this particu­ lar year was no accident. Again, they noticed that the month of March was intrinsically important in the H ebrew calendar, a month of three major holi­ days. And someone said that it was the month in which M oses was born and died. H e died on his birthday, they noted. A w eek before the event, it was reported that Jacob had died. M any who were in touch with him denied it, but the rum or persisted. Two days before the party, a young w om an social worker, a close friend of J a c o b ’s, told the college group that she had dream ed Jacob died immediately after giving his speech. And she told the people that J a c o b ’s sons were advising him against coming to the party but that he would not be dissuaded. N othing would keep him away. The atm o sp here was charged and excited before the party had even begun. Abe, the director, was worried about the old p e o p les’ health and the effects on them of too much excitement. There were those who insisted that on the birthday they would be told Jacob had died. J a c o b ’s friend M anya said, “H e ’ll come all right, but he is coming to his own funeral.” A nd w hat were J a c o b ’s thoughts and designs at this point? It is possible to glimpse his intentions from his taped interviews with a son and a gran d­ daughter. In these, com m on elements emerge: he is not afraid of death but he is torm ented by confusion and disorientation w hen “things seem upside w a y s ,” and “not the way you think is real.” Terrible thoughts and daydream s beset him, but he explains that he fights them off with his characteristic strength, remarking, “I have always been a fighter. T h a t ’s how I lived, even as a youngster. I ’d ask your opinion and yours, then go home and think things over and come to my own decisions.” H e describes his battles against senility and his determination to maintain coherence by writing, talking, and thinking. H e concludes, I was very depressed in the hospital. Then I wrote a poem. Did you see it? A nice poem . So I’m still living and I have something to do. I got more clearheaded. I controlled myself.

Jacob had always controlled himself and shaped his life, and he was not about to give that up. Evidently he hoped he might die the same way. “I ’ll never change” were his last words on the tape. It was difficult for Jacob to hold on until the party and to write his speech, which seemed to be the focus of his desire to attend. Its contents were notew orthy in two respects: first, his donation and provision for five

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m ore parties; and second, his statement that whereas on all his previous birthdays he had important messages to deliver, on this one he had nothing significant to say. W hy, then, the desperate struggle to make this statement? The message, it seems, was that he could and would deliver it himself, that he was still designing his life and would do so to the end. The preparations for and the m ann er of the s p e e c h ’s delivery conveyed and paralleled its message.

THE P E R F O R M A N C E OF THE R IT U A L The day of the party was fair and celebrants came streaming toward the cen te r out of their rented rooms and boardinghouses down the small streets and alleys, several hours too early. That the day was special was clear from their appearance. The w om en came with white gloves, carrying perfectly preserved purses from other decades, and wearing jew elry, unmistakable gifts from their children— golden medallions bearing grandchildren’s names, “T ree of Life” necklaces studded with real pearls; Stars of David; a gold pen dant in the form of the letter Chai, H ebrew for life and luck. All were a n n o un cem ents of connections and rem em brance. Glowing halos from u m ­ brellas and bright hats colored the ladies’ expectant faces. Men wore tidy suits polished with use over well-starched, frayed shirts. The cen ter halls, too, were festively decorated and people were for­ mally seated. At the head table was the Kovitz family and around it the dignitaries. Jacob, it was learned, was behind the curtain of the little stage, receiving oxygen, and so the cerem ony was delayed for about half an hour. At last he came out to applause and took his seat. Music called the assembly to order and people w ere greeted with shalom, H ebrew for peace. The guest of hon or was presented, then introsuctions followed, with references to the K ovitz family as m ispoche (“kin”), the term finally being used for the entire assembly. By implication, all present were an extended family. Each m em ­ ber of the K ovitz family was named, even those who were absent, including titles and degrees, generation by generation. The assembly was greeted on behalf of “Pa, his children, his children’s children, and even from their children.” The religious brocha in H ebrew was followed by the traditional secular Jewish toast L e ’ Cheiim. Sam set out the order of events in detail, including a specification of when J a c o b ’s gift would be made, when dessert would be served (with speeches), when the cake would be eaten (after speeches), and so forth. The announcem ent of procedures was intended to achieve coordination and invite participation. The audience was apprecia­ tive and active. People applauded for the degrees and regrets from family m em bers unable to attend, and recognized the implicit messages of co n ­ tinuity of tradition, respect from younger generations, and family devotion that had been conveyed in the first few moments. The meal went smoothly and without any public events, though pri­

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vately Jacob told the president, M oshe, that he wished people would hurry and eat because “M a la kh -ha m o ves [the Angel of Death, G o d ’s messenger] is near and h a s n ’t given me much tim e .” As dessert was about to be served, Sam, acting as m aster of c e re ­ monies, took the m icrophone and began his speech, in which he recounted some biographical details of J a c o b ’s life and certain cherished ch aracteris­ tics. H e em phasized his fa th e r’s idealism and social activism in the Old C ountry and in America, and spoke at some length about the courtship and marriage of his parents. Though his m other had died 24 years ago, she remained a strong influence in keeping the family together, he said. During S a m ’s speech, Jacob was taken backstage to receive oxygen. People were restive and worried, but Sam assured them that Jacob would soon return and the program continue. Eventually Jacob took his seat, lean­ ing over to tell one of the young people in English, and M oshe in Yiddish, that he had little time and wished they would hurry to his part of the p r o ­ gram, for now, he said, “Ich reingle sich m utten M a lakh-ham oves. “I am wrestling the Angel o f D e a th .” The program was interrupted briefly when all those in charge recog­ nized J a c o b ’s difficulty in breathing and gave him oxygen at his seat. A pause of about ten minutes ensued. The thread of the ritual lapsed entirely while people w atched Jacob being given oxygen. M oshe and Abe w ere w o r­ ried about the impact of this sight on the old people. The previous year som eone had died among them and they had been panic-stricken. But now all were rather quiet. They talked to each other softly in Yiddish. At last Sam took the microphone again and spoke extem pore about his fa th e r’s recent life, filling the time and maintaining the ritual mood until it becam e clear that Jacob was recovering. Sam told the group that m aybe his wife’s chicken soup— proper chicken soup prepared from scratch with the love of a Yiddishe m am a— had helped sustain Jacob. This was received with enthusiastic applause. M ost of those in the audience were w om en and their identity was much bound up with the role of the nurturant, uniquely devoted Jewish mother. In fact, the earlier mention o f the importance and rem em brance of the K ovitz m other had been received by many w om en as a personal tribute. They also appreciated the appropriateness of a daughter-in-law showing this care for a parent, something none of them had experienced. Sam w ent on to explain that since leaving the hospital Jacob had “em barked on a new career, despite his old a g e.” He was teaching his son Yiddish and had agreed to stay around until Sam had mastered it completely. “ Since I am a slow learner, I think h e ’ll be with us for quite awhile.” This too was full of symbolic significance. The suggestion of new projects being available to the old and of the passing on o f the knowledge of Yiddish to children were important messages. Sam went on, extending his time at the microphone as he waited for a sign that Jacob was able to give his speech. By now Sam was improvising on the original form at for the ritual. H e made his an no un cem en t o f the gift of

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m oney, half to the center for cultural programs, half to Israel, reminding the audience that Jacob did not believe a birthday party was worth celebrating unless it involved raising funds for deserving Jewish causes. Still Jacob was not ready, so the microphone was turned over to Abe, who improvised on some of the same themes, again and again, touching important symbolic chords. He, like Sam, referred to Jacob as a stubborn man and to Jew s as a stiff-necked people, tenacious and determined. He reassured the assem bly that they were important people and would be re­ m em bered, that outsiders came to their center to share their sim cha and appreciate their unique way of life. They, he said, like Jacob, would be studied by scientists one day, for a better understanding of the indivisibility of mental and physical health, to see how people could live to be very old by using their traditions as a basis for a good and useful life. He finished by emphasizing J a c o b ’s most revered qualities: his devotion to his people, his learning and literacy, and his courage and dignity. He was an example to them all. “A n d ,” he went on, “you, too, you are all exam p les.” At last the sign was given that Jacob was ready. Abe announced the revised sequence of events: J a c o b ’s speech in Yiddish, then in English, then the dignitaries’ speeches, then the cake. Jacob remained seated but began his speech vigorously, in good, clear Y iddish.10 After a few sentences he faltered, slowed, and finished word by word. H ere are selections from his speech in translation: Dear friends: Every other year I have had something significant to say, some meaningful m essage w hen we came together for this yontif. But this year I d o n ’t have an important m essage. I d o n ’t have the strength. . . . It is very hard for me to accept the idea that I am played out. . . . Nature has a good way o f expressing herself w hen bringing humanity to the end o f its years, but w hen it touches you personally it is hard to comprehend. . . . I do have a wish for today. . . . It is that my last five years, until I am 100, my birthday will be celebrated here with you . . . whether I am here or not. It will be an opportunity for the members o f my beloved center to be together for a s im c h a and at the same time raise m oney for our beleaguered Israel.

T he message was powerful in its stated and unstated concepts, made even more so by the dramatic circumstances in which it was delivered. J a c o b ’s passion to be heard and to complete his purpose was perhaps the strongest communication. H e was demonstrating what he had said in the earlier inter­ views, namely, that he sustained himself as an autonom ous, lucid person, using thinking, speaking, and writing as his shields against self-dissolution and senility. Jacob finished and sat down amid great applause. His and the audi­ e n c e ’s relief were apparent. H e sat quietly in his place at the table, folded his hands, and rested his chin on his chest. A moment after Sam began to read his fa th e r’s speech in English, J a c o b ’s head fell back, wordlessly, and his m outh fell open. Oxygen was administered within the surrounding circle of

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his sons as Abe took the microphone and asked for calm and quiet. After a few m om ents, his sons lifted Jacob, still seated in his chair, and carried him behind the curtain, accom panied by M oshe, Abe, and the rabbi. Soon Abe returned and reassured the hushed assembly that a rescue unit had been called, that everything possible was being done, and that Jacob w anted people to finish their dessert. Be assured that he knew the peril o f coming today. All w e can do is pray. H e ’s in the hands o f God. His sons are with him. He most o f all wanted to be here. R em em ber his dignity and yours and let him be an example. Y ou must eat your dessert. You must, w e must all, continue. We go on living. N o w your dessert will be served.

People complied and continued eating. There w ere many who quietly spoke their certainty that Jacob was dead and had died in their midst. The conviction was strongest among those few who noticed that w hen the rabbi and M oshe left Jacob behind the curtain, they w ent to the b athroom before returning to their seats. Perhaps it was only hygiene, they said, but it was also know n that religious Jews are enjoined to wash their hands after contact with the dead. H en ce the gesture was read as portentous. The room was alive with hushed remarks: H e ’s gone. That was how he wanted it. He said what he had to say and finished. It w as a beautiful life, a beautiful death. T here’s a saying, w hen the fig is plucked in due time it’s good for the fig and good for the tree. Did you see how they carried him out? Like Elijah, he died in his chair. Like a bridegroom. He died like a t z a d d i k .“ M o ses also died on his birthday, in the month o f N is a n .12

O rder was restored as the dignitaries were introduced. Again the ritual themes reappeared in the speeches: J a c o b ’s w ork among senior citizens, the honor of his family, his exem plary character, and so forth. A letter to Jacob from the m ayo r was read and a plaque honoring him proffered by a council­ man. T hen a plant was given to his family on behalf of an organization, and this seemed to be a signal that gifts were possible and appropriate. One of the assem bled elderly, an artist, took one of his pictures off the wall and presented it to the family. A w om an gave the family a poem she had written honoring Jacob, and an other brought up the flowers from her table. The m o m entum of the ritual lapsed completely in the face of these spontaneous gestures. People were repeatedly urged by Abe to take their seats. The artist, H eschel, asked what would be done about the birthday cake now that Jacob was gone, and was rebuked for being gluttonous. With great difficulty

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Abe regained control of the people, reminding them sternly that the cere­ m ony had not been concluded. There remained one dignitary who had not yet spoken, Abe pointed out, and this was insulting to the group he repre­ sented. Abe was improvising here, no longer able to utilize the guidelines of the birthday m etaphor. The cerem ony theatened to break apart. In actuality, A be was worried about letting people go home without knowing J a c o b ’s fate. It would be difficult for him to handle their anxieties in the next few days if they w ere left in suspense. N o one w anted to leave. The circum ­ stances clearly called for some closure, some provision of order. The last dignitary began to talk and Abe w ondered w haM o do next. Then the phone rang and everyone was still. The speaker persisted, but no one listened. Abe cam e forward and announced what everyone already knew. God in His w isdom has taken Jacob away from us, in His mystery He has taken him. So you must understand that God permitted Jacob to live 95 years and to have one o f his most beautiful moments here this afternoon. You heard his last words. We will charter a bus and go together to his funeral. He gave you his last breath. I will ask the rabbi to lead us in a prayer as we stand in solemn tribute to Jacob.

People stood. A bout a dozen men drew yalm ulkes out of their pockets and covered their heads. The rabbi spoke: We have had the honor o f watching a circle com e to its fullness and close as we rejoiced together. We have shared Jacob’s wisdom and warmth, and though the w ays o f God are mysterious, there is meaning in what happened today. I was with Jacob backstage and tried to administer external heart massage. In those few m om ents with him behind the curtain, I felt his strength. There was an electricity about him but it was peaceful and I was filled with awe. When the firemen burst in, it felt wrong because they were big and forceful and Jacob was gentle and resolute. He was still directing his life, and he directed his death. He shared his w isdom , his life with us and now it is our privilege to pay him hom age. Send your prayers with Jacob on his final journey. Send his sparks up and help open the gates for him with your thoughts. We will say Kaddish. ” Yitgadal v e y ita k a d a s h s h m e h rabba . . . [Sanctified and magnificent be Thy Great N a m e ].” 13

The ritual was now unmistakably over but no one left the hall. People shuffled forward tow ard the stage, talking quietly in Yiddish. M any crossed the room to em brace friends, and strangers and enemies em braced as well. A m ong these old people physical contact is usually very restrained, yet now they eagerly sought each o th e rs ’ arms. Several wept softly. As is dictated by Jew ish custom , no one approached the family, but only nodded to them as they left. There were m any such spontaneous expressions of traditional Jewish mourning custom s, performed individually, with the collective effect of transforming the celebration into a commem oration. Batya reached down

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and pulled out the hem of her dress, honoring the custom of rending o n e ’s garments on news of a death. Som eone had draped her scarf over the mirror in the ladies’ room, as tradition requires. Heschel poured his glass o f tea into a saucer. T hen Abe took the birthday cake to the kitchen, and said, “ We will freeze it. We will serve it at J a c o b ’s memorial when we read from his book. He w o u ld n ’t want us to throw it away. He will be with us still. You see, people, Jacob holds us together even after his d e a th .” Finally, the center had emptied. People clustered together on the benches outside to continue talking and reviewing the events of the afternoon. Before long, all were in agreement that Jacob had certainly died among them. The call to the rescue squad had been a formality, they agreed. Said M oshe, You see, it is the Jewish w ay to die in your community. In the old days, it was an honor to wash the body o f the dead. N o one went aw ay and died with strangers in a hospital. The finest people dressed the corpse and no one left him alone for a minute. So Jacob died like a good Yid. N o t everybody is so lucky.

O ver and over, people discussed the goodness of J a c o b ’s death and its appropriateness. M any insisted that they had known beforehand he would die that day. “ So why else do you think I had my yalm ulke with me at a birthday p a rty ? ” asked Beryl. Sam com m ented, “After a scholarly meeting it is custom ary to thank the man. Jacob was a scholar and we thanked him by accom panying him to H eaven. I t ’s good to have many people around at such a time. It shows them on the other side that a man is respected where he came fro m .” B essie’s words were “H e left us a lot. N o w the final ch ap ter is written. N o? W hat more is there to say. The book is closed. W hen a good man dies, his soul becom es a word in G o d ’s b o o k .” It was a good death, it was agreed. Jacob was a lucky man. “Zu mir gezugt “It should happ en to m e ” was heard from the lips of many as they left.

SO CIO LO G ICAL C O N SE Q U E N C E S Two formal rituals followed. The funeral was attended by most of the group (which, as promised, went in a chartered bus), and a shloshim or thirty-day memorial was held at the center, w hen the birthday cake was indeed served, but without candles. At the funeral, the young rabbi reiterated his earlier statem ent c o n c e rn ­ ing the electricity he had felt emitting from Jacob just before he died, d e ­ scribed how Jacob used his remaining strength to make a final affirmation of all he stood for, and revealed that, at the last m om ent of his life, Jacob— surrounded by all the people he loved— believed in G o d . 14 In his eulogy, J a c o b ’s son Sam said, “In our traditions there are three crow ns— the crow n of royalty, the crow n of priesthood, and the crow n of learning. But a fourth,

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the crow n of a good name, exceeds them all.” Spontaneously, at the graveside, without benefit of direction from funeral officials, many old men and w om en cam e forward to throw a shovel of earth on the grave, som e­ times themselves tottering from the effort. Each one carefully laid down the shovel after finishing, according to the old custom. Then they backed away, forming two rows, to allow the Angel ofvDeath to pass through. They knew from old usage w hat was appropriate, what m ovem ents and gestures suited the occasion, with a certainty that is rarely seen now in their lives. M oshe, one of the last to leave, pulled up some grass and tossed it over his shoulder. This is done he explained later, to show that we rem em ber we are dust, but also that we may be reborn, for it is written: “May they blossom out of the city like the grass of the e a rth .” A month later, the shloshim was held. In it a final and official interpreta­ tion of J a c o b ’s death was forged and shared. He was a saint by then. He must be honored, and several disputes w ere avoided that day by people reminding one ano ther of J a c o b ’s spirit of appreciation and acceptance of all of them and his wish for peace within the center. The cake was eaten with gusto as people told and retold the story of J a c o b ’s death. Funeral and shloshim were the formal and public dimension of the ou tcom e of J a c o b ’s death. Informal, private opinions and interpretations are also part of the outcom e. These were revealed in subsequent individual discussions, informal interviews, casual group conversations, and a for­ malized group discussion on the subject. On these private, casual occasions people said things they had not, and probably would not, express in public, particularly about matters that they knew might be regarded as oldfashioned, un-American, or superstitious. In confidence, several people e x ­ pressed w o nd er at and some satisfaction in w hat they regarded as the divine participation in the event. One lady said with a chuckle, “You know, if the Lo rd God, Himself, would bother about us and would come around to one of our affairs, well, it makes you feel m aybe you are som ebody after all.” Said Bessie, X

You know, I w ou ld n ’t o f believed if I didn’t see with mine eyes. M yself, I d o n ’t really believe in God. I d o n ’t think Jacob did neither. If a man talks about the Angel o f Death when h e ’s dying that d o n ’t necessarily mean anything. E verybody talks about the Angel o f Death. It’s like a saying, you know what 1 mean? But you gotta admit that it was not a regular day. So about what really went on, I’m not saying it w as God working there, but w ho can tell? You could never be sure.

Publicly the subject was discussed at great length. A debate is a c h er­ ished, traditional form of sociability among these people. And this was cer­ tainly a p roper topic for a p ilp u lP A kind of pilpul was held with a group in the cen ter that had been participating in regular discussions. One theme considered by them in detail was the young social w o rk e r’s dream , in which she anticipated the time and m anner of J a c o b ’s d e a th .16 D ream s, they

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agreed, must be carefully evaluated, for they may be sent by God or the dem ons, and as such are not to be taken as prophecy on face value. After much discussion one of the learned men in the group said that perhaps the young w om an should have fasted on the day after the dream. This assures that the previous night’s dream s will not come true. Sam quoted Psalm 39, in which King David prayed to God to know the measure of his days. The request was denied because G od decreed that no man shall know the hour of his death. Could it be that God granted Jacob what he had denied King David? W hy had the girl had the dream? She knew nothing of these matters. W hy had it not come to one of them, who understood the significance of dream s? After an hour or so of disagreement only two points were clear. First, that the news of the dream had received widespread circulation before the birthday party; and second, that it added to p eop le’s readiness to partici­ pate in a com m em oration instead of a party. It made what happened more mysterious and more acceptable at the same time. Did it convince anyone that G od had had a hand in things? Some said yes and some no. Perhaps the most general view was that expressed by M oshe, who on leaving said, “ Well, I w o u ld n ’t say yes but on the other hand I w o uld n’t say n o .” A n o th e r aspect of the ritual’s outcome was the impact of the day on various outsiders. The attending dignitaries were included in the m om ent of c o m m u n ita s that followed J a c o b ’s death, and were duly impressed. Before leaving, one of the Gentile politicians told the people around her, “I have always heard a lot about Jewish life and family closeness. W hat I have seen here today makes me u nderstand why the Jews have survived as a p e o p le.” This praise from an official, a stranger and a Christian, to a group that has always regarded Christians with distrust and often deep fear, was a source of great satisfaction, a small triumph over a historical enemy, and an unplanned but not unim portant consequence of the ritual. The events of the day were reported widely, in local new spapers and soon in papers all over the country. M embers of the audience were given opportunities to tell their version of w hat happened w hen children and friends called or w rote to ask them, “Were you there that day . . .?” The impact on the center m em bers of the dispersion of the news to an outside world, ordinarily far beyond their reach, was to give them a tem porary visibility and authority that increased their importance, expanded their so­ cial horizons, and accelerated their communication with the world around them. These, along with their heightened sense of significance, were the ap paren t sociological consequences of the ritual.

THE E F F IC A C Y OF THE R IT U A L H o w shall the success of a ritual be estimated? H ow is one to decide if it has done its work? These are among the most complex and troublesom e q u es­ tions to be faced in dealing with this topic. It is not impossible to examine

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efficacy in terms of the explicit intentions of the performers. But it is n eces­ sary to go beyond this and inquire, too, about its unintended effects and the implicit, unconscious messages it carries. Then, one may ask, for whom did it work? F o r there may be many publics involved. In religious rituals even the deities and the unseen forces are addressed and, it is hoped, moved by the performance. The official plan for a^ritual does not tell us about this. M any levels of response may be specified, for this is not given by the formal organization of a ritual. Sometimes audiences or witnesses are more engaged by watching a ritual than are its central subjects and participants. W hen we inquire about conviction, it is necessary to ask also about the degree and kind of conviction involved, since a range of belief is possible, from objec­ tion and anger if the ritual is incorrectly performed, through indifference and boredom , to approval and enjoyment, and finally total and ecstatic convic­ tion. The long-range as well as immediate effects of the event must be taken into account, since rituals have consequences that reach past the moment when they occur; their outcom e is usually to be known only in due time. It is impossible to take up all these questions. The fieldworker never has such complete information. And the symbols dealt with in ritual are by definition inexhaustible in their final range of referents. Subjects cannot verbalize the totality of their apprehensions in these areas because so much of their re­ sponse is unconscious. Inevitably there are blanks in our inquiry, and ulti­ mately the fieldworker interested in such questions takes responsibility for inference in explanation, going beyond the observed behavior and “h a rd ” data; to do otherwise would mean losing all hope of understanding the issues that make ritual interesting in the first place. In discussing ritual, an analysis of outcom e is always an interpretation and an incomplete one. All rituals are efficacious to some degree merely by their taking place. They are not purposive and instrumental, but expressive, communicative, and rhetorical acts. Their stated purpose must be regarded not as an illustra­ tion of a piece of life but as an analogy. N o primitive society is so unempirical as to expect to cause rain by dancing a rain dance. N ot even Suzanne L a n g e r’s cat is that naive. A rain dance is, in B u rk e ’s felicitous phrase, a dance with the rain, the dancing of an attitude. The attitude is the one described earlier— collectively attending, dramatizing, making palpable un­ seen forces, setting apart the flow of everyday life by framing a segment of it, stopping time and change by presenting a perm anent truth or pattern. If the spirits hear and it rains, so much the better, but the success of the ritual does not depend on the rain. If a patient at a curing cerem ony recovers, good, but he or she need not do so for the ritual to have successfully done its work. A ritual fails w hen it is seen through, not properly attended, or experienced as arbitrary invention. Then people may be indifferent enough not to hide their lack of conviction; their failure or refusal to appear to suspend disbelief is apparent and the ritual is not even efficacious as a communication. In the case of J a c o b ’s death, matters are complicated because two rituals must be considered: the intended birthday party, a designed, directed

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secular affair with nonreligious sacred nuances, transformed spontaneously by a collectivity into a nonplanned, fully sacred religious memorial. The birthday party, as far as it went, was a success. It is hard to imagine how it could have failed to make its point and achieve its purposes, which were entirely social. It was convincing to all concerned and received by the audience with appreciation and cooperation. It dem onstrated social co n n ec ­ tions and implied perpetuity of a collectivity beyond the limited life span of its central figure. It honored the man Jacob and his friends, values, and traditions. It reached beyond its immediate audience to include and allow for identification with a wider, invisible Jewish community. The goals of the birthday party were relatively modest and not unusual for secular cere­ monies of this sort. The turning point occurred w hen Jacob died; the m es­ sage and impact of the d a y ’s ceremonies took on a new dimension, and the sacred ritual replaced the social, more secular one. In dying w hen he did, Jacob was giving his last breath to his group, and this was understood as a demonstration of his regard for them. His apparent ability to choose to do what is ordinarily beyond hum an control hinted at some divine collaboration. The collective and spontaneous reversion to tra ­ ditional religious death rituals was hardly surprising. Death customs are always elaborate and usually constitute one of the most long-lasting and familiar areas of religious knowledge. According to some authorities, saying K addish makes one still a Jew no matter what else of the heritage one has relinquished.17 The saying of Kaddish makes palpable the community of Jews. According to the rabbi at the party-memorial, the Kaddish always includes not only the particular death at hand but all a p e rs o n ’s dead beloved and all the Jews who have ever lived and d ied .18 M ourners coalesce into an edah, a community, connected beyond time and space to an invisible group, stretching to the outerm ost reaches of being a people, K ol Israel—the a n ces­ tors, those unborn— and most powerfully, o n e ’s own direct, personal experi­ ences of loss and death. F o r religious and nonreligious alike that day the Kaddish enlarged and generalized the significance of J a c o b ’s death. At the same time, the Kaddish particularized his death by equating it with each p e rs o n ’s historical, subjec­ tive private griefs, thus completing the exchange betw een the collective and the private poles of experience to which axiomatic symbols refer. W hen this exchange occurs, symbols are not mere pointers or referents to things be­ yond themselves. A transformation takes place” : symbols and object seem to fuse and are experienced as a perfectly undifferentiated w hole.” 19 Such transformations cannot be planned or achieved by will, because emotions and imagination, as D. G. Jam es observes, operate more like fountains than m ach ines.20 Transform ation carries participants beyond words and wordbound thought, calling into play imagination, emotion, and insight and, as Suzanne L anger says, “altering our conceptions at a single s tro k e .” Then participants conceive the invisible referents of their symbols and may glimpse the underlying, unchanging patterns of human and cosmic life, in a

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triumph of understanding and belief. F ew rituals reach such heights of inten­ sity and conviction. W hen this occurs, all those involved are momentarily draw n together in a basically religious, sometimes near ecstatic mood of gratitude and wonder. That J a c o b ’s death was a genuiiie transformational m om ent was attested to by a profound sense of com m u nita s and fulfillment that people appeared to have experienced'with the recitation of the Kaddish. We are interested in the unintended, implicit messages conveyed by ritual as well as the planned ones. Therefore, in this case it must be asked, W hat were the consequences of the set of items that suggested uncanny, inexplicable factors— J a c o b ’s references to the presence of the Angel of D eath, his seeming ability to choose the moment of his death, and the prophecy of his death in the form of a dream ? The questions are particularly im portant becau se ritual is supposed to deliver a message about predictabil­ ity and order, and here w ere intrusions beyond hum an control and therefore disorderly and unpredictable. Paradoxically, these very elements of the uncanny, mysterious, and unpredictable made the ritual more persuasive and more convincing rather than less so. All these surprises were clothed in a traditional idiom, and while perplexing were not unfamiliar. There w ere well-used accounts for such matters; there w ere precedents for prophetic dream s, the presence of the Angel of Death, the deaths of the tzaddikim, and of Moses. Conceptions existed for handling them, and if most people involved did not deeply believe in the dogma, they were not unwilling to consider the possibility that expla­ nations previously offered, though long unused, might have some validity after all. R enew ed belief in God at the end of life is hardly rare, and indeed it might even be that people w ere more reassured than frightened at the turn of events of the day. W hen a man dies, as Evans-Pritchard reminds us, a moral question is always posed: not merely, W hy does man die? But why this man and why now? In our secular society, we are often left without an answ er, and these celebrants, like most who have abandoned or drifted away from their religion, w ere ordinarily alone with these questions, dealing with ulti­ m ate concerns, feebly and individually. The result of J a c o b ’s death, h o w ­ ever, was the revival of the idea, or at least the hope and suspicion, that sometimes people die meaningfully; occasionally purpose and propriety are evident. D eath in most cases may be the ultimate manifestation of disorder and accident but here it seemed apt and fulfilling. M ore often than not death flies in the face of human conception, reminding us of our helplessness and ignorance. It finds the wrong people at the wrong time. It mocks our sense of justice. But here it did the opposite and made such obvious sense that it cam e as a manifestation of order. It helped fulfill the purposes of ritual, establishing and stating form drawn forth from flux and confusion. R em arkably enough, in this ritual the distinction betw een artifice and nature was also overcom e. The ritual, though unplanned, was not suscepti­ ble to the danger of being recognized as human invention. Ironically, be­

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cause no one was clearly entirely in control— neither Jacob nor the designers and directors— and because it unfolded naturally, the ritual was received as a revelation rather than as a construction. It did not suffer the usual risks of ritual, displaying the conventional and attributed rather than intrinsic nature of our conceptions. H ad there been no intimations of the supernatural, the death would probably have been.frightening, because it would have exag­ gerated mortal pow ers beyond the credibility of the people participating. The hints o f mystery suggested powers beyond J a c o b ’s control, making a religious experience of one that otherwise might have been simply bizarre. Despite the party and the resultant radical change of course, the celebration that occurred had that very sense o f inevitability and predictability of ou t­ com e which is the goal of all hum an efforts in designing and staging a ritual.

R I T U A L , TIM E , A N D C O N T I N U I T Y Any discussion of ritual is also a discussion of time and continuity; w hen the ritual in question deals with death and birth, the them es of time and co n ­ tinuity are throw n into high relief. Ritual alters our ordinary sense of time, repudiating meaningless change and discontinuity by emphasizing regu­ larity, precedent, and order. Paradoxically, it uses repetition to deny the empty repetitiveness of unrem arked, unattended human and social experi­ ence. F ro m repetition, it finds or makes patterns, and looks at these for hints of eternal designs and meanings. In ritual, change is interpreted by being linked with the past and incorporated into a larger fram ew ork, w here its variations are equated with grander, tidier totalities. By inserting traditional elements into the present, the past is read as prefiguring what is happening in the here and now, and by implication the future is seen as foreshadow ed in all that has gone before. Religious rituals are more sweeping than secular ones in this elongation of time and reiteration of continuity. The latter u su­ ally confine them selves to rem em bered hum an history, w hereas the form er transform history into myths, stories with no beginning and no end. Then time is obliterated and continuity is complete. To do their w ork rituals must disrupt our ordinary sense of time and displace our aw areness of events coming into being and disappearing in discrete, precise, discontinuous segments. This discontinuous experience is our everyday sense of time, used to coordinate collective activities; it is external in origins and referents, and does not take into account private responses, stimulation, states of mind, or motivation. Public chronological time is anath em a to the mood of ritual, which has its own time. Rituals sweep us away from the everyday sense and from the objective, in strum en­ tal frame of mind that is associated with it. By merely absorbing us sufficiently, ritual, like art, lets us “lose ourselves” and step out of our usual conscious, critical mentality. W hen successful, ritual replaces chronolog­ ical, collective time with the experience of flowing duration, paced a c c o rd ­

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ing to personal significance; sometimes this is so powerful that we are altogether freed from a sense of time and of awareness of self. This is ritual time, and it must be present to some degree to mount the mood of conviction concerning the messages contained in a ritual. But ritual is still a social event, and it is necessary that, within it, individuals’ temporal experiences are coordinated somewhat. They must be delicately synchronized, without obliterating the individual’s sense of an intense personal experience. Ordinary time is suspended and a new time instituted, geared to the event taking place, shared by those participating, integrating the private experience into a collective one. These m om ents of com m unity built outside of ordinary time are rare and powerful, forging an intense com m union that transcends awareness of individual separateness. Continuity among participants prevails briefly, in a sometimes euphoric co n ­ dition, which T u rn er has described at length as a state of c o m m u n ita s ,21 and which B uber calls Zwischenm enschlichkeit. Continuity of self may occur in rituals, especially rites of passage m a rk ­ ing stages in the individual life cycle, and this produces yet another experi­ ence of time. Personal integration is achieved when the subject in a ritual retrieves his or her prior life experiences, not as past memories, but as events and feelings occurring in the present. Then the person is a child or youth once more, feeling one with earlier selves, who are recognized as familiar, still alive, coherent. Coherence of the “I , ” a sense of continuity with o n e ’s past selves, is not inevitable, as James Fernand ez points o u t.22 The choas of individual history, especially when that history has been great and often m arked by num erous social and cultural separations, may be acute. The burden of memories weighs heavily on the elderly: the necessity for integration of a life is often a strong impulse. Reminiscence among the old is not merely escapism, nor the desire to live in the p a st.23 It is often the reach for personal integration and the experience of continuity, and for the recognition of personal unity beneath the flow and flux of ordinary life. Because ritual works through the senses, bypassing the critical, c o n ­ scious mind, it allows one to return to earlier states of being. The past comes back, along with the ritual m ovements, practices, tastes, smells, and sounds, bringing along unaltered fragments from other times. Proust was fascinated with this p ro c e s s .24 His work examines how the past may sometimes be recaptured with all its original force, unmodified by intervening events. This may occur when the conscious mind with its subsequent interpretations and associations is bypassed. Experiences of past time come back unaltered, often as spontaneous responses to sense stimuli; as Adam Mendilow d e­ scribes this process, it occurs when the chemistry of thought is untouched by intervening events and the passage of time.25 These numinous moments carry with them their original, pristine associations and feelings. This is timelessness and the past is made into present. It is, says Mendilow, a kind of

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hermetical magic, sealed outside o f time, suspending the sense o f duration, allowing all o f life to be experienced as a single moment. . . . These are pin­ points o f great intensity, concentrations o f universal awareness, antithetical to the diffuseness o f life (p. 137). '

These pin-points of timelessness are beyond duration and change. In them one experiences the essence of life— or self—as eternally valid; simultaneity has replaced sequence, and continuity is complete. Conceivably, any kind of ritual has the capacity to retrieve a fragment of past life. Rituals associated with and originating in childhood are more likely to do so, and these especially carry opportunities for finding personalhistorical continuity. Tw o characteristics of these rituals are salient here: first, their intensely physiological associations; and second, their great pow er and immediacy, coming as they do from the individual’s first e m o­ tional and social experiences. They are absolutely basic, arising in the con­ text of nurturance and dependence, evoking the familiar, domestic domain, utterly fundamental, preceding language and conception. In our world of plural cultures, the first domestic nurturant experiences are often associated with ethnic origins, bound up with first foods, touch, language, song, folk­ ways, and the like, carried and connoted by rituals and symbols learned in that original context. Ethnic ritual and symbol are often redolent of the earliest, most profoundly emotional associations and it is often these that carry one back to earlier times and selves. C onsider the statem ent made by one of the old men present at J a c o b ’s birth-death ritual. W henever I say Kaddish, I chant and sw ay, and it all com es back to me. I remember how it was w hen my father, may he rest in peace, would wrap me around in his big prayer shawl. All that com es back to me, like I was back in that shawl, where nothing bad could ever happen.

The Kaddish prayer was probably the most important single ritual that occurred the day of J a c o b ’s death. It was the most frequently and deeply experienced aspect of Jewish custom for the people there, the m ost ethni­ cally rooted moment, sweeping together all the individuals present, c o n nect­ ing them with earlier parts of self, with Jacob the man, with each other, and with Jews who had lived and died before. The life of the mortal man Jacob was made into a mythic event, enlarging and illuminating the affairs of all those present. H ere is ritual achieving its final purpose of transformation, altering our everyday understanding in a single stroke. Ultimately, we are interested in ritual because it tells us something about the human condition, the mythic condition, and our private lives all at once. It dem onstrates the continuity betw een one human being and all humanity. It does more than tell us an eternal tale; it sheds light on our own condition. J a c o b ’s death did this. Jacob, when the celebration ended, had become a point from which

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radiated the enlarged meanings of his life and death, as well as the immediate ones, the grand and the minute, the remote and the particular, all implying each other, until continuity had become tptal unity. J a c o b ’s death could not change the harsh realities. But if people lived only by harsh realities there would be no need for rituals, for symbols, or for myths. The pow er of rituals, myths, and symbols is that they can change the experience we have of the world and its worth. J a c o b ’s death rites may be considered an extraordinarily successful example of ritual providing social, cultural, biological, and spiritual continuity. M ofe perpetuation, more co n ­ nection, more interdependence, more unity existed when the day was over, making the oblivion of an individual and his way of life a little less certain than anyone had thought possible that morning.

NOTES 1.

2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

8. 9.

10.

The m ethods used to gather information for this essay included participant observation, interviews, tape recording, group discussions, films, and still pho­ tography. I taped and photographed the event described and later had access to 8-mm film footage taken during the celebration by one o f those attending. I interviewed Jacob K ovitz many times before he died, and interviewed members o f his family before and after. The final interpretation I developed was dis­ cussed with the family, w ho had no objections to it, though it varied in som e points with their own. All names used, including that o f the center, have been changed. See Philippe Aries, W estern A ttitu d e s to w a rd D e a th f r o m the M id d le A g e s to the P r e s e n t (Baltimore, 1974). Alexander Solzhenitsyn, C a n c e r W ard (N ew York, 1968), pp. 96-97. P. Freuchen, B o o k o f the E s k im o s (Cleveland, 1961), pp. 194-195. Clifford Geertz, “Religion as a Cultural S y ste m ,” in M. Banton, ed., A n ­ thropological A p p r o a c h e s to the S tu d y o f Religion (N ew York, 1966). Sally F. Moore and Barbara G. Myerhoff, ed s., S e c u la r R itu a l (Amsterdam, 1977), p. 22. Here I am distinguishing betw een “religious” and “sacred” and treating them as categories that may exist independently or be joined. Where ideas, objects, or practices are considered axiomatic, unquestionable, literally sacrosanct, they are “sacred ,” with or without the inclusion o f the concept o f the supernatural. Their sacredness derives from a profound and affective consensus as to their rightness; their authority com es from their em beddedness in many realms o f tradition. Over against the sacred is the mundane, which is malleable and negot­ iable. When sacredness is attached to the supernatural, it is religious a n d sa­ cred. When sacredness is detached from the religious, it refers to unquestionably good and right traditions, sanctified by usage and consensus. Sally F. Moore and Barbara G. Myerhoff, S y m b o l a n d Politics in C o m m u n a l Id e o lo g y (Ithaca, 1975). Hasids (Hasidim) were, and are, a deeply religious, semi-mystical group prac­ ticing a vitalized, fervent form o f folk Judaism originating in Eastern Europe during the mid-eighteenth century. All these people are com pletely multilingual and use different languages for different purposes, with som e consistency. For exam ple, political and secular

A D eath in D ue Time

11.

12.

13.

14.

15. 16.

17. 18.

19. 20.

177

matters are often discussed in English; H ebrew is used to make poem s, reminis­ c en ces, and arguments and bargaining. Yiddish, the m a m l o s c h e n , punctuates all the areas, but appears most regularly in times o f intense em otion. It is also used most in conversations about food, children, cursing, and gossiping. For som e, Yiddish has connotations o f inferiority since it was associated with fe ­ male activities, dom estic and familial matters (in the shtetls, few were educated in H ebrew and so Yiddish dominated the household). It was the language o f exiles living in oppression and, later, o f greenhorns. For others, the Yiddishists in particular, it is a bona fide language to be treated with respect and used publicly. Careful pronunciation, proper syntax, and avoidance o f Anglicized words are considered signs o f respect for Yiddishkeit. On the w hole, Jacob was always careful in his Yiddish, and this was seen as an indication o f his pride in his heritage. A tzaddik in Hasidic tradition is a saintly man o f great devotion, often possessing mystical powers. It is noted that important Hasids som etim es died in their chairs, and it is said that they often anticipated the dates o f their death. There is also a suggestive body o f custom surrounding the sym bolism o f the chair, which figures importantly in at least two Jewish male rites o f passage. In Hasidic weddings it is custom ary for the bridegroom to be carried aloft in his chair. And an empty chair is reserved for the prophet Elijah at circumcisions; this is to signify that any Jewish boy may turn out to be the M essiah, since Elijah must be present at the M essiah ’s birth. In fact, M oses died on the seventh o f Adar. He did, how ever, die on his birthday; he was allowed to “com plete the years o f the righteous exactly from day to day and month to month, as it is said, the number o f thy days I will fulfill” (Talmud Bavli Kaddushin 38A). H ence the tradition in folklore that the righ­ teous are born and die on the same day. Elijah did not die in his chair, how ever. He is believed to have “been taken up by a whirlwind into H e a v e n ,” passing out o f this world without dying. His “passage” was not a normal death in any event, and this is probably w hy his death was brought up in this discussion. These points were clarified in personal communication by Rabbi Chaim Seidler-Feller o f Los Angeles. In Jewish m ysticism , represented in the Kabbalah, a person’s soul or spirit is transformed into sparks after death. “Kaddish” is a prayer sanctifying G o d ’s name, recited many times in Jewish liturgy; it is known also as the M ourner’s Prayer and recited at the side o f a grave. Others disagreed with this and were certain that Jacob died an agnostic. They did not confront the rabbi on the matter, however; said H esch el, “If it makes the rabbi happy, let him believe it.” Literally, pilpul means “pepper” and refers to the custom o f lively scholarly argument about religious texts. Dreams were very significant among shtetl folk, being elaborately discussed and much used in pursuit o f sym bolic meanings and ritual usage. Indeed, four m em ­ bers o f the group ow ned and used dream books, which they had brought with them from the Old Country. Joseph Zoshin, “The Fraternity o f M ourners,” in J. Riemer, e d . , J e w ish R e f l e c ­ tions on D e a th (N ew York, 1974). The rabbi was in attendance fortuitously that day, in his capacity as leader o f the young people. Without him the Kaddish would not have been said. His unplanned presence was subsequently interpreted by many as another sign that the memorial was meant to take place when it did. Suzanne K. Langer, P h ilo so p hy in the N e w K e y (N ew York, 1942). D .G . James, S c e p tic is m a n d P oetry (London, 1937).

178 21.

22. 23.

24.

25.

Actors, A udiences, & Reflexivity Victor Turner, “An Anthropological Approach to th ev Icelandic S aga,” in T. Beidelm an, ed ., The Translation o f Culture: E ss a y s to E.E. E va n s-P ritc h a rd (London, 1971). James Fernandez, “The M ission of Metaphor in Expressive Culture,” Current A n th r o p o l o g y 15(2): 119-133. See R .N . Butler, “The Life Review: An Interpretation of Rem iniscence in the A g e d ,” in B .L . Neugarten, ed., M iddle A g e a n d A g i n g (Chicago, 1968), for a discussion o f the therapeutic functions o f reminiscence in the elderly. For further discussion o f this process, see Barbara G. M yerhoff and Virginia Tufte, “Life History as Integration: Personal Myth and A ging,” Gerontologist 15:541_543. ' Adam A. M endilow , Time a n d the N o v e l (London, 1952).

The R itu a l Process a n d the Problem o f R efle x iv ity in Sinhalese D em o n Exorcisms* Bruce Kapferer

The ritual gathering has been relatively neglected in much anthropological analysis of ritual performance. Discussion has focused on particular ritual roles, especially those which are central to the enactment of specific ritual episodes, rather than on those other individuals gathered at the ritual o cca­ sion. In so doing, anthropologists run the risk of impoverishing the analysis and understanding of ritual occasions. Such an approach reduces the c o m ­ prehensiveness of ethnographic description and docum entation of ritual as performance. I do not use the term “perform ance” in its restricted sense as enactm ent, the carrying into action of specific ritual events central to the recognition of a particular kind of ritual by cultural members. Instead, per­ form ance, in my usage, is an inclusive term that focuses on how the relation­ ships of all those gathered at a ritual occasion, the dynamics of the formation and re-formation of these relationships, are both constituted and ordered through the ritual. A concern with performance in this sense and a focus on the ritual gathering as a whole, especially with an attempt to integrate in to analysis those m em bers of a ritual gathering who appear to be outside or apart from the central ritual events, raises important questions about the analysis of ritual and could extend our understanding of ritual occasions. Tw o analytic concerns have dominated much recent anthropological discussion of ritual. The first relates to the analysis of the dynamics of ritual,

*The research for this essay was carried out during successive field trips to Sri Lanka betw een 1971 and 1977. I am grateful to the Social Science Research Council o f Great Britain and the Universities o f M anchester and Adelaide for supporting this research. A sp ects o f this essay were discussed with my friend and colleague Don Handelman o f the H ebrew University, and I am most grateful for his encouragement and stimula­ tion over the years. R oy Fitzhenry and Tom Ernst have always been willing to discuss and listen, and I am particularly grateful to them both. In my revision o f this essa y , I have benefited particularly from discussions with Charles Altieri, Renato R osaldo, Paul Riesman, and John M acAloon.

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its process and the way it achieves a variety of transformations. The second and related concern involves the general problem of meaning in ritual event and action, and includes such issues as the way ritual orders and com m uni­ cates experience. Both of these broad problems can be addressed through a closer a tte n ­ tion to the ordering of mem bers of the ritual gathering in the central episodes of the ritual. The work of Van G ennep and more recently of T u r n e r1 have already indicated this. Van G ennep records generally that various stages in rites of passage are marked by ritual subjects and other members of the ritual gathering standing in differing relationships to each other and to the central ritual events. T u rn er has expanded on this observation. He has argued that certain ritual symbols and their arrangement in ritual action are associated with particular modes of participation by members of the ritual gathering; these modes produce specific kinds of ritual experience and reflection. Both Van G ennep and Turner, however, subordinate the problem of the differ­ ential engagement of members of the ritual gathering to other concerns, in T u r n e r ’s case, the motivating and experiential properties of symbols and symbolic arrangem ents. A slightly different perspective on the ritual process (which nonetheless could be combined with that of Turner) is that developed by G ee rtz 2 in his study of the Balinese cockfight. G eertz is specifically concerned with the cultural and social properties of the performance con­ text, which generates an engagement and focusing of members of a gathering on the central action of the performance. H e distinguishes betw een “deep play” and “ shallow play,” the former referring to a situation where those assem bled are deeply experientially and emotionally engaged in the central action, and the latter referring to a situation where many of those assembled are relatively inattentive to the central action and not deeply committed to its process. The following analysis is aimed at extending the above approaches through concentrating more explicitly on the ritual gathering as a whole and the factors relating to the differential engagement of ritual participants. I will posit that the ritual process, its progression through various stages, is in large part effected through the dialectical interplay of the organization of symbol and action in the central ritual episodes with the changing integration of those individuals assembled in these episodes. 1 will also argue that the meaning and experience of ritual object and event, and transformations in these, are dependent on the way individuals gathered to the rite are ordered in relation to it. I am also concerned with the reflexivity of rites, particularly in relation to m em bers of the ritual gathering themselves rather than to the anthropologist as an outside observer. In the terms of this analysis, rituals achieve reflexivity in two related ways. First, rituals promote reflexivity by enabling individuals to objectify their action and experience in the context of the rite, and to stand back or distance themselves from their action within the rite so they can reflect upon their own and o th e rs ’ actions and un d er­ standings. Second, rites promote reflexivity to the degree that they reflect

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back on other contexts of meaning in the performance setting or in the social and cultural world out of which ritual emerges. The following discussion is based on a study of Sinhalese dem on exor/ cisms. Sinhalese have available to them a great number of healing rites,3 but it is in the large-scale dem on exorcisms (yak tovil) that the complex interplay betw een the enactm ent of central ritual events and m em bers of the ritual gathering can be best examined.

THE O R G A N IZ A T IO N OF S IN H A L E SE E X O R C ISM S The four most complex and elaborate major exorcisms are the M a h ason a S a m a y a m a , Sanni Yakkuma, R a ta Yakkuma, and the S u n n iy a m .4 E ach of these rites is perform ed over a 12-hour period from 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. (or 30 hours in the traditional Sinhalese time scheme). Sinhalese exorcists (edura) conceptualize them as being divided into three main periods: the evening w atch (sende yam a), the midnight watch (madu y a m a), and the morning w atch (aluyama). E ach of these periods corresponds to a different phase in the enactm ent of the rite. Thus, the evening watch is characterized by the giving of offerings to ghosts, demons, and deities, the midnight watch by elaborate dances, and the morning watch by extended dramatic sequences, which involve exorcists-actors in the roles of demons or legendary or mythi­ cal figures. All these rites, with the exception of the R a ta Y a k k u m a ,5 can be perform ed for male or female patients. Most patients, how ever, are women, though there is a m arked tendency for the Sunniyam to be performed for male patients.6 The decision to hold a major exorcism normally follows on a complex process of the definition of illness and the recognition that one dem on in particular is responsible for a patient’s affliction.7 While each rite is perform ed under the primacy of one specific demon (or class of demons), which gives its name to the rite, all major rites in fact are addressed to a greater variety of ghosts (preta) and demons. The Sinhalese, theory co n ­ cerning the nature of demonic attack rests on a humoral conception of illness and disease, both demonic and nondem onic.8 This humoral theory posits that the healthy body of a human being constitutes an equilibrium of the three humors (tri dosa), wind (vata), blood/bile (pita), and phlegm (sem a).9 Specific dem ons are associated with each of the humors. Attack by one of these demons not only causes an imbalance in the particular hum or co n ­ cerned but also throws the other humors out of balance, producing a general physical disequilibrium. This often necessitates the treatm ent of the patient in relation to a host o f demons other than the one primarily responsible for the illness. D em ons are marginal figures. Their presence is strongest, and they are most dangerous, at night, in places away from human habitation— at village edges, crossroads, river crossings, and cemeteries. Myth relates that they were banished by the Buddha from the world of human beings to their own

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separate world (yaksha loka). H ere they were put under the general control and overlordship of Vesamuni or Vaisravana (the god of the northern q uar­ ter). They were explicitly forbidden to pursue their form er activities of kill­ ing and eating hum an beings but were permitted to cast their gaze (yaksha disti) upon the hum an world. W hen they attack human beings, dem ons are understood to fix them in their gaze. Demons are most likely to take hold of a victim w hen he or she has come into contact with sources of impurity or when he or she is physically or psychologically “alone.” The Sinhalese term for psychological aloneness (tanikama) is a lso 'a synonym for demonic ill­ ness (tanikam dosa). Demonic attack manifests itself in a variety of physical, behavioral, and mental s y m p to m s .10 Of central importance is the way the victim (aturaya) is understood to conceptualize his or her relation to the supernatural. H ealthy hum an beings are understood typically to construct a cosmic unity headed by the Buddha. Below the Buddha are placed various categories of deities, followed by hum an beings, and below human beings are demons and then ghosts." They are essentially arranged in accordance with their degree of purity or impurity, with the most pure at the top and the most impure at the bottom. Dem onic victims, it is believed, do not conceive of the cosmic reality in this way. Rather they are understood to conceive of dem ons as having escaped from their lowly position in the hierarchy and from their subordination to the Buddha, the deities, and human beings. Thus freed, dem ons enter the world of human beings, control their every action, and give vent to their naked, natural and “uncivilized” passions— lust, greed, anger, hunger for human flesh, and so on. In serious cases of demonic illness, the patient is thought to see reality as populated by malicious d e­ monic forms and all social action as controlled and influenced by their malevolence. Designed generally to vtransform the patient from a state of illness to health, major exorcisms are directed, from the point of view of exorcists, to achieve the following results. First, the object of the ritual is to sever the real, magical, connection betw een the patient and demons, which is cultur­ ally typified in the belief that the patient is caught in their g a z e .12 The goal is achieved by summoning the demonic world, entering it, ensnaring the d e­ mons, and banishing them from the patient and the p atien t’s household. Second, exorcisms are organized to transform the way the patient c o n ce p ­ tualizes reality. If the patient maintains a demonic perspective upon reality, he or she is, in the view of exorcists, susceptible to renewed attack by demons. The patient must be brought to a realization of the “no rm al,” a c ­ cepted view of the rightful place of demons in the cosmic order. The patient must understand that demons are subject to control by human beings and to the control of the Buddha and various deities. Third, in the course of p e r­ form ance patients are shown that not all objects and actions in the social world can be related to the supernatural, let alone the malign supram undane,

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but simply can have everyday, mundane reference. In effect, the patient must be aware of the multiple realities of the everyday world as others un derstand and act within it. Symptomatic of the p atien t’s transition to health in the course of an exorcism in his or her demonstration of the c ap ac­ ity to discriminate betw een a num ber of possible responses to objects and actions in changing contexts and situations modeled upon everyday life. A final objective of exorcisms is to change the perspective others have of the patient as one afflicted. Isolation or aloneness is one of the preconditions of demonic attack, and unless the patient is brought into social interaction with “norm al” and healthy others, the illness is likely to continue. M em bers of the ritual gathering must accept a redefinition of the patient as cured if the p a tien t’s identity is to be transformed successfully from one of illness to one of health. It is w hen the identity of the patient is changed in the course of the ritual that healthy others can “normalize” their interaction with the patient.

R IT U A L SPAC E A N D THE A R R A N G E M E N T OF THE RITU AL A SSE M B L Y M ajor exorcisms are held at the house of the patient. Usually they are perform ed in public view at the front of the house. The physical layout of an exorcism rite— the location of ritual objects and structures— dem arcates the perform ance area. The performance space typically extends outw ard from the house veranda, covering an area, depending on the space available, ranging from 100 to 200 square feet. This area, known as the sirnava midula, is bounded by a variety of ritual structures. Offering “tables” (mesa, katarikki) to the four Sinhalese guardian deities (Saman, N atha, Vishnu, Kataragama) are placed one at each corner of the performance arena. There are other, more elaborate, structures as well (e.g., an offering table to the B uddha and the other guardian deities or mal y a h a n a v a ), including, in some cases, structures to specific demons, such as the pilluva for the sorcery demon Sunniyam. The most important and imposing structure, how ever, is the yakka vidiya, the “palace” of the major demon or demons afflicting the patient. In the course of the night, exorcist dancers and actors will emerge from it to perform before a patient and the assembled gathering. Behind the vidiya, and outside public view, is a small area, in which the exorcists don a variety of costum es for their performance. The yakka vidiya faces the house: thus the household of human beings confronts the “h ou sehold” of malevo­ lent demonic forces. The space betw een the house and the yakka vidiya can be conceptualized as liminal, “betwixt and betw een ” the “w orld” of human beings and the “w orld” of the malign sup ram u n d an e .13 The audience that gathers at an exorcism is seated on mats and chairs, arranged at either side of the performance arena, betw een the house and the yakka vidiya. Close kin of the patient will normally sit on the v eranda not far

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from the patient. Some mem bers of the ritual gathering collect inside the house. Male and female mem bers of the ritual gathering tend to be sepa­ rated. Male m em bers of the ritual gathering will sit outside, whereas female m em bers will generally congregate inside the house. They huddle around the doorw ay or peer out through iron-grilled windows at the demonic scene that unfolds before them. The ideas and principles that structure everyday Sinhalese social life are thus displayed in the formal arrangement of the ritual gathering. Factors that divide, differentiate, stratify, and separate Sinhalese in their daily experi­ ence govern the organization of the ritual audience. Chairs, for example, are reserved for high-status and influential members of the community. While the ostensible purpose of a rite is to return a patient to a state of health, the rite is also often an occasion for the definition of the hou seh old ’s social and political place in the wider community. It might be said that the occasion of a healing rite accentuates a sense of the structural order of everyday Sinhalese society and is a “celebration” of it. This is evident in the way the ritual gathering relates to the host household. R ank and status are a daily concern of Sinhalese. Individuals who rec­ ognize clear status distinctions between themselves will address each other by different pronouns indicative of gradations of respect. There are rules, connected with status, that govern entrance into the private social space of houses. M em bers of low castes and individuals of low status might only be allowed entry as far as the front gate or porch. Others of higher or equal status will be invited into the main living area and perhaps given a meal. Status is mediated by the m ovem ent through social space and in the content and structure of food transactions, as in many regions of South A sia.14 In Sri L an ka individuals who define each other as equal in caste rank or status typically exchange and share in food of similar type. Those of unequal status give and receive food of unlike nature. Thus, a low-status family will send fruit to higher-status mem bers of their community and may receive cooked curries in return. This pattern of food transactions is linked to an ideology of “ purity” and “im purity.” Fruit is a food that has not been contaminated by cooking, nor had its edible flesh brought into contact with the impurity of human breath and hands. Such an ideology is legitimated in the domain of religious and ritual practice. F o r example, supernaturals and their rank in a hierarchy are defined by the nature of the offerings given to them. Deities receive flowers and fruit, w hereas demons and ghosts receive cooked curries and such pollutants as marijuana (ganja) and even fecal m a tte r.15 Those who gather outside the house of an exorcism are relatively undif­ ferentiated in term s of the food that is distributed to them. Normally, they will be offered cups of tea, fruit, biscuits, and a variety of sweetmeats. In this context the household does not communicate any sense of inferiority or superiority, and is behaving in accordance with the everyday tenets of hospi­ tality. But when individuals from the audience are invited inside the house,

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the symbolic significance of food and commensality as a means of status distinction and definition is evident. E veryd ay meals are usually eaten in priv ate,16 and with the exception of major religious rituals or social events such as weddings, it is not generally know n with w hom one eats. Meals in the house of an exorcism are co n ­ ducted before a public gathering, and make assertions about status and define patterns o f social differentiation. It is com m on for a num ber of sittings for meals to occur at a rite. These typically begin after the initial offering stages of the rite and after the house has been purified. The sittings will occur at various intervals throughout the night. Only certain members of the ritual gathering are invited inside the house for a meal. Those who are invited first will be senior m em bers of the community with recognized high status. The best food will be served, and if the senior male of the house is not o f equal status to his guests, he will serve the meal. After the meal has been eaten, others will be invited inside; perhaps this time, if not before, the male head of the household will sit with the guests and be served by the womenfolk. Exorcists will also be served food. Because they are generally of lower caste than the household at which the exorcism is performed, they will not be invited inside the house. They will eat during pauses in the perform ance, seated on mats in the middle of the perform ance arena. It is tempting to view these aspects of the organization of the ritual gathering as simply another instance of the use of ritual for the presentation of household claims to social status. While this is undoubtedly a feature, the public enactm ent of status and social differentiation among m em bers of a ritual assembly bears a direct relation to the structure o f the ritual itself and the achievem ent of its goals. T he definition of a patient as suffering from demonic illness threatens the everyday world as it is socially and culturally typified by Sinhalese. The patient represents an alternative mode of ordering reality, an ordering that asserts the dom inance of demons over human beings. In this alternative reality, dem ons have broken free from the control of the Buddha, the deities, and hum an beings. Through the patient demons gain entry to the world of human beings and threaten to gain control of others. Immediately en ­ dangered are the other mem bers of the p atien t’s household and other kin. Their own action already is controlled to some extent by the patient’s d e ­ monic mood. Social interaction with the patient cannot be based on the principles of rational action that govern everyday social intercourse; the healthy and the patient must interact in terms of the demonic frame of reference. Culturally it is recognized that to adopt the patient’s mental per­ spective is to becom e vulnerable to demonic attack. Exorcists reduce this danger to household mem bers by mediating betw een the demonic world of the patient and the everyday world of healthy others. Individuals outside the household tend to limit their visits to the afflicted house and thus protect their own vulnerability to demonic attack. S'

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While the presence of a patient constitutes a threat, the exorcism is even more threatening. Exorcists conjure up the myriad ghosts and demons that crowd the terrifying reality of the patient. Dem ons enter into the midst of the ritual gathering. The boundary o f the performance arena affords some protection to the unafflicted members of the gathering, for it is marked out with ritual objects and structures that magically confine the m ovem ent of malign spirits. The organization of members of the ritual gathering in the setting of an exorcism further safeguards its members from the threatening reality that is created before it. The ordering o f relationship among those gathered to the rite constitutes a heightening of the everyday, its ideas and structural principles, in the face of an alternative reality. Insofar as the m em bers of the gathering are engrossed in activity framed by the reality of the everyday world, they are distanced and thus protected from having their thoughts and actions com m ented on and directed by the hellish world of demons. Many scholars, writing of healing rites in other ethnographic c o n ­ texts, have com m ented on the role of those who come to witness them as providing social support for a patient. But there is another possibility, at least for exorcisms in Sri Lanka. This is that as long as the ritual gathering is organized according to the ideas and typifications that govern the everyday world, it is providing support and protection for itself—for its own members. An exorcism provides a setting in which m em bers of the ritual gathering have objectified before them aspects of the everyday world in which they live and act— in the seating arrangements, the invitations into the house to eat, and so on. Brought face to face with one or another aspect, they are led to examine their experiences and events in the everyday world. To this extent they reflect upon it. The events of the ritual performance and the reality it constructs, how ever, are not necessarily active agents of this reflec­ tion. That one of the m em bers of the ritual gathering, in the person of the patient, should be attacked by demons motivates others to examine aspects of their everyday world and to determine a possible contributory cause. This is the most an exorcism ritual for much of its performance is directly in­ volved in the promotion of reflexivity— in the sense that the reality of the demonic com m ents on and relates to the reality of the everyday— among those who gather about it. We can now examine how m em bers of a ritual gathering are progressively related to the central events of ritual in such a way that the events becom e an active element in their reflection upon self and other.

D ISTAN C E A N D REFLEXIVITY All those who gather at a rite can be regarded as participants in it. They are, how ever, participants in a great variety of different senses. Thus they can be ritual subjects, or the focus around which the ritual events revolve, p er­ formers or spectators. These imply different gradations of distance, both

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physical and experiential, from the central ritual events. Although I will examine all the forms of participation outlined above, I will concentrate on the role of the spectators, for reflexivity— the ability of the demonic to com m ent upon the everyday— is highly dependent on the ability of the p a r­ ticipants in ritual to assum e the role of audience, that is to be distanced from their own actions and the actions of others. The term “aud ience” refers to the degree participants are distanced from the enactm ent of central ritual episodes. Most rituals can be con ce p ­ tualized as possessing a form, a set of rules and acts defined in relation to a specific fram ew ork of meaning; these rules are essential for defining its type. That many ethnographers can describe various ritual types purely on the basis of the statem ents of informants outside a perform ance context is testi­ mony to this fact. The enactm ent of ritual roles and behaviors in a particular setting constitutes a minimal definition of performance. The participants in a ritual occasion are differentially placed according to the degree to which they stand apart from the action and function as an audience. Individuals and groups in nearly all action situations are at one and the same time actors in particular roles and audiences to them. My argument here is closely allied to M e a d ’s 17 theory of the self and to that of others who share analytical concerns similar to those of M e a d .18 Individuals have a self and an aw areness of consciousness of it; in other words, they reflect upon it if they take the attitude of the “o th e r” and respond in a cc o rd ­ ance with a set of social and cultural typifications, what M ead called the “generalized o th e r” .19 Fundam ental to participation in everyday social life, to communication and meaning, is the act of reflexivity, w hereby individuals can engage in a conversation with self and with “o th e r.” The self is co n ­ stituted out of the interaction betw een the “I” and the “m e ,” the latter articulating the “I” with the “o th e r.” The “m e ” is to a large extent emergent from the interaction of the “I” with the “o th e r” and in turn comes to mediate this relation. It is through the “m e ” that the individual becom es an audience to himself. A self can be negated or transcended, transcendence here being a spe­ cial form of negation. In both instances, the individual fails to objectify a “m e ,” either as a result o f the loss of distance betw een the “ I” and the “m e ,” w hereby the “m e ” becom es totally absorbed into the “ I,” or by a loss of distance betw een the “m e ” and the “o th e r.” The “m e ” becom es identified with the “o th e r” so that the individuality of the “I ” is lost entirely. E ither of the two can involve a process of reification or extreme objectification,20 but the form er constitutes reification by reduction and the latter reification by adduction. E xam ples of these processes result in their extrem e mani­ festation in the negation or transcendence of self and are a variety o f the ritually induced trance. Thus, the demonic possession of a patient and the m om ent of the extrem e objectification of the demonic, w hen the patient becom es totally entranced, in fact, “b eco m es” the demon, is an instance of self negation through reduction. The multiple selves of a “norm al,” healthy

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individual becom e reduced to a single demonic mode of being. The demon assum es complete control over the patient and determines the p atient’s every action. The dem on comes to the patient and establishes a relationship of domination. This coming together of patient and demon asserts a situation of relevance not shared by others gathered around, for whom the role typification of dem on is not part of their own understanding of self. O ther trance states, particularly those where the individual is understood to enter into com m union with a godhead or the world of deities, might be better understood as transcendence through adduction: There is a drawing together of the multiple selves of the subject in terms of fundamental culturally valued and shared cosmic principles that underlie them; the individual rises above a self, becom es one with the deity, and through a sense of the deity unites with others in this oneness. Self negation through reduction is an individual ph enom enon leading to separation from others. Self negation through adduction is most regularly a group phenom enon establishing a unity with others but above the level of the self. The achievem ent of a total negation or transcendence of self involves a loss of reflexivity. In either instance there is no longer the objectification of a “m e ” that allows individuals to enter into a dialogue with themselves. In a sense, reflexivity as a process can lead to its own negation. This is most evident in certain contexts of meditation by Sinhalese Buddhists. Meditation employs the reflexive capacity of human beings to achieve the negation of self, which is an ultimate goal of the devout Buddhist. Reflexivity, or the capacity to think about and to reflect upon o n e ’s own actions and the actions of others, is promoted, or mediated, by the struc­ tures that organize action and that establish contexts of meaning. Ritual performance affords individuals the opportunity to stand apart from th em ­ selves, to objectify their own experience and that of others, to be an audi­ ence to themselves and tQ others, and to act reflexively. The efficacy of ritual to effect transformations of experience and identity, and to provide participants with deeper insight into the nature of their cultural and social life, depends on the ritual performance generating conditions for reflexive action. Ritual participants can be arranged along a continuum in terms of their behavior in the action setting of a ritual. At one extreme of the continuum are participants who are totally engaged in the action. To engage participants to the full potential of their structured integration to the central action of the rite is to render them relatively unreflexive and unconscious of the meaning and purpose of their action at the moment of their engagement in it. The normal everyday social self of participants is suspended, negated, or tran­ scended, so that they are consumed by, and have their actions determined by, the identity they assume. At the opposite end of the continuum are participants who are disengaged and who might be relatively inattentive to the central action of the ritual performance. In this instance, participants might conceivably not be in the position of audience, in the sense of being

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attentive or witness to the ritual action. We need, therefore, to look at the degree to which the organization of ritual performance influences the partici­ pation of individuals and groups and distributes them along a continuum betw een total engagement and disengagement.

E X O R C IS M P E R F O R M A N C E , FRAM ES, A N D THE S T R U C T U R IN G OF P A R T IC IP A T IO N The rules of ritual enactm ent contain instructions on the sequencing of ritual episodes, the symbolic actions and objects that must be presented, the mode of presentation itself, the m anner and content of music, song, dance, and acting, the categories of persons who must take performative roles, and so on. The rules of perform ance establish what I term a ritual frame. By “fram e” I refer to that often invisible boundary around activity which defines participants, their roles, the “ sense” that is accorded those things included within the boundary, and the elements within the environment of the activity that are rendered outside and irrelevant to it. This notion draws on a similar usage by B ateso n 21 and o th e rs.22 The rules organizing the ritual frame operate in a m anner similar to those that Goffman has termed transformational rules, which control the form and character of activity in focused gatherings: they “tell participants what they must not attend to . . . and . . . tell them what they must recognise,” and advise “what modification in shape will occur w hen an external pattern of properties is given expression”23 inside the frame. The organization of those who gather at an exorcism changes in the course of the performance. The main categories of individuals who attend the rite are the patient, the m em bers of the patient’s household and other close kin, the exorcist-performers, and finally a more diffuse category of persons including more distant relatives, neighbors, friends, and acquaint­ ances. The changing nature of the integration of sections of the ritual gather­ ing into the central action corresponds broadly with the phasing of the main ritual events into the evening, midnight, and morning periods. The evening watch lasts from approximately 6 p.m. to 9 p.m. Its start is signaled by the ritual seating of the patient (leda vadi karanava) and the singing of verses (namaskaraya) in honor of the Buddha and the four guar­ dian deities (Vishnu, K ataragam a, Saman, and Natha). The events of this period are enacted within a relatively small part of the whole performance arena, directly before the patient. The action orchestrated by the exorcists is oriented completely to the patient, members of the patient’s household, and other close kin who are gathered around the patient. Usually a senior male m em ber of the household sits beside the patient and occasionally assists with the giving of offerings to the ghosts and demons. T he evening watch summons to the ritual site those malign spirits who are principally involved in the p a tien t’s illness. An important objective of the

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exorcists is to ensnare ghosts and demons in specially constructed offering baskets (tattuwa), in which are placed offerings to them, and to remove or cut (kapanava) their influence over the patient. Essentially the period of the evening w atch is designed to construct the hellish, demonic world that is understood by exorcists and concerned others to have consumed the p a ­ tie n t’s total being. Through the ritual construction of a demonic reality, exorcists and others are enabled to enter both the world of the patient and that of dem ons, to intervene on the patient’s behalf, and to restore a sense of “well-being.” There is a barrier betw een the patient and the world of demons as it ritually unfolds. This is marked by the placement of various ritual objects immediately in front of the patient, on the mat upon which the patient is seated. One of the objects is a wooden pestle (mol gaha) with an iron tip. Dem ons are understood to be frightened of iron, and the w ooden pestle itself symbolizes the “walking stick” of M aha Brahma, the creator, which, as myth relates, he used to batter and control the capricious demons. During the evening watch the patient is still part of the everyday cultural and social reality as typified by others. In this period, the patient will be exhorted by exorcists and m em bers of the household to contemplate the life and thought of the B uddha as personal protection against demonic attack. The patient is expected by exorcists and others to be conscious of and attentive to the ritual activity. Any tendency of the patient to enter a trance is strongly resisted. Should this occur the exorcists will employ a variety of ritual devices to draw the patient back into a conscious state. In a sense, patients are, in this early part of the rite, capable of being an audience to their own actions and the actions of others. But the m anner of their integration to the central ritual action is likely to lead to a precarious hovering betw een a consciousness of or reflection upon a malevolent demonic reality and vari­ ous other realities. The patient at this point in the ritual proceedings gener­ ally indicates, through his or her behavior, that he or she is balanced on the threshold of a trance. This is promoted by the rules of ritual performance, which specify the nature of patient activity. The patient must remain seated throughout the ritual action and face the ritual performers. Patients are restricted to certain permissible movements and actions. They cannot get up and move among and talk with friends and acquaintances in the ritual gathering; their movements are restricted to the placing of offerings. While patients are exhorted by exorcists and others to think about an alternative reality, their overt actions are limited to, and organized within, the opposing reality of the demonic. I suggest that one conseq uen ce of this is that it leads patients to reflect increasingly upon the demonic in terms of the demonic, and not to reflect back upon the nature of their own everyday life, except in terms of the order of the demonic world as this is constructed in the ritual action. The patient as audience is only m ar­ ginally so, and tends toward the “total engagem ent” end of the distance continuum.

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At greater distance from the central events are the m em bers of the p a tien t’s household and other close kin. While they will occasionally enter its action context, as w hen giving offerings, they typically engage in activity directed to keeping dem ons at bay. Thus, at the end of each offering se­ quence, they will utter cries designed to prevent dem ons from totally e n ­ veloping the patient. They express their own psychological and emotional distance from the demonic world. Furtherm ore, they are firmly confined to activity that is part of the reality o f everyday life. They will greet and converse with friends and acquaintances, and move around the perform ance arena to discuss daily concerns. Although integrated into the central action, they are audience, spectators to it, potentially highly conscious of alterna­ tive ways of ordering reality other than that structured by the demonic. At the furthest distance from the ritual action, in a way disengaged from it, are the great majority of friends, neighbors, and acquaintances who at­ tend the rite. Their attention is hardly focused on the ritual activity at all. They drink, play cards, gossip, and continually move around the perimeter of the perform ance arena. Occasionally some will enter the arena and even cross betw een the patient and exorcists en route to the house. They can be seen actively to distance themselves from the ritual action and are firmly com m itted to acting in contexts of the reality of the everyday world. This is prom oted by the organization o f performance set within the developing ritual frame. The perform ance rules, organizing the ritual frame during the evening watch period, do not accord rights of entry into the central action to m em bers gathered at the rite, other than the patient and m em bers of the p a tien t’s household or close kin. Most of those who gather at the rite have a restricted view o f the ritual proceedings. They are presented with the backs of the performing exorcists, who cluster tightly around the patient, further limiting visual access to the ritual. Indeed the organization of perform ance and o f the ritual frame actively operates to exclude most of those who gather from the ritual action, rendering them outside and irrelevant to the d e ­ veloping theme of the rite. Friends, neighbors, or acquaintances who might at times pass betw een the patient and performing exorcists are in effect not there at all. In the setting of an exorcism during the period of the evening watch, the meaning constituted by the central ritual action exists side by side with the action and meaning of the param ount reality of everyday life. The two realities do not generally mix and are treated as independent and mutually exclusive orderings. Individuals can move betw een the two, but the set of understandings o f one mode o f ordering reality does not mix with the other, contradictory mode. The separation of the two is carefully orchestrated by the exorcists. Their own actions express both their bridging or mediating role betw een the two realities and their own degree o f distancing, or audi­ ence attitude, in relation to the central ritual action.24 Their activity facili­ tates both the elaboration of the demonic and the developm ent of the everyday reality that surrounds it. Thus exorcists continually move betw een

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their performance roles and action of the everyday sort in the environment of the rite. W hen not “on stage,” they converse among themselves and jok e and discuss daily events with the guests. E ven when engaged in a specific ritual task such as drumming, some exorcists will engage in this type of byplay. The very m anner of exorcist participation in the early phases of the rite indicates that they are both involved in, yet stand apart from, the terrible reality they are in the process of creating. Thus, during the initial offering sequences, exorcists will perform short dances. These are not the highly acrobatic, leaping, swirling dances to be seeru later, but rather involve a slight swaying, rocking motion from foot to foot, perhaps punctuated by the slow marking of the more complicated and energetic dance movements to come. Although the exorcists create the demonic, they also collaborate in, and help to maintain, the reality of the everyday. I have already argued that the demonic contradicts and is inconsistent with the “norm al” understandings and cultural typifications of nondemonically afflicted Sinhalese. W hat is problematic in an exorcism is that it must be developed in a context where everyday understandings already dominate. The rules of performance, by excluding many of those gathered from the central action, prevent those understandings by which healthy others organ­ ize their action, from entering into and subverting, prematurely, the fram ew ork of meaning within which an exorcism develops. The exclusion of a large section of the ritual gathering from the central ritual events is not only positive in that it enables the meaning of the rite to be elaborated; it is also positive in that it allows a further elaboration of the param ount reality of the everyday world. This is important for at least two reasons. First, as I have already indicated, reflexivity depends upon the ability of individuals to enter at once a reality as others construct it and, also, to stand apart from it, to “look a t” it from within the perspective of another context of meaning. The evaluation from another standpoint p re su p ­ poses the existence of alternative standpoints. Where alternative stand­ points are not available, or are in some way denied, the evaluation of o n e ’s own behavior and that of others is limited. A major concern of exorcists is to authenticate and to legitimate the fact that a patient is indeed ill because of the malign attack of specific ghosts and demons that they (and often m em ­ bers of the household as well as the patient) have already defined as being at the root of the patien t’s distress. Exorcisms are held in a community situa­ tion where the meaning contexts of the everyday world in the environm ent of the demonic allow those gathered to compare and docum ent their own behavior in relation to the patient, and to recognize the patient as indeed ill according to the given terms. Second, through the elaboration of the param ount reality of the everyday world along with that of the demonic, the reality the patient must perforce enter, and in terms of which his or her action must be organized in order to realize a transformation from illness to health, is made copresent and evident in the environment of the rite.

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In the subsequent period of the midnight watch, changes in the perform ­ ance rules radically alter the relationship of the ritual gathering to the central ritual events. These changes are accompanied by further developments in the style and content of the performance of the ritual and lead to a situation w here the finite meaning province of the demonic dominates and suppresses other contexts of meaning. It is during the midnight watch that elaborate and magnificent dances are performed. Exorcists, and often the patient, will assume most clearly the guise of some of the afflicting demons. The patient enters totally the realm of the demonic and is no longer partly held by a context of the everyday. The process of the total entry o f the patient into a frightening reality is begun in the earlier watch. The exorcist-performers, dressed as demons, will occasionally cross the barrier betw een their world and that of the patient and gather the patient up into their embrace. During the midnight watch, the envelopment of the patient by the demonic is represented by the patient entering a trance. The patient rises from where he or she is seated and dances possessed toward the dem on palace. In effect the patient crosses the physical space that separates the everyday world of the household from the malign supram undane. The patient has no self as this is culturally and so­ cially constituted in the param ount reality of everyday life. The patient is no longer able to reflect on the demonic, to “look a t” the world being created. The patient is the situation, is the demonic, and often speaks in the demon tongue; he or she is addressed by exorcists by the name of the dem on whose identity the patient has a ssu m ed .25 Interviews with patients after they have com e out of a trance indicate that they have no consciousness of their own action during this period. Their minds are blank. The patient who enters a trance will usually do so toward the close of the midnight watch, at the height of the performance of the major dance sequences, which cover the entire performance arena. The world of the demonic is carried through the medium of dance to those w ho have hitherto been almost completely distanced and separated from the central section. All who gather at the rite are now enjoined to focus their attention upon it. This focusing produces a change in the organization of the ritual gathering. Although mem bers of the assembly are still internally socially differentiated, the focused attention of the gathering on the central ritual events, on the dancers and the patient, subverts the structures in which everyday meanings are elaborated and set. Before the enactment of the major dance sequences, the m em bers of the ritual gathering can be conceptualized as being engaged in what Sch ütz26 terms a “w e ” relationship. The occasion of the exorcism produces an opportunity for them to engage in direct interaction. Through gossip and talk, individuals share information about self and other and ex ­ plore each o th e r ’s biographies and experience. This is disrupted, however, by the elaborately performed dance. The ritual gathering becomes less a differentiated and structured collectivity and becomes more a collection of

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individuals who are not engaged in interaction with each other yet who are united in their com m on focus upon the performance and'in their concern for the patient. The focusing of the ritual gathering propels those who were before excluded and separated from the ritual action into the role of audience. The reduction in distance, due to the change in the organization of the perform ­ ance and the use of performance space, brings members of the assembled gathering to the margin of the p atient’s world, and places them in a position similar to that of the members of the p atient’s household and close kin, achieved in the earlier ritual phases. The p atient’s reality is further d e ­ veloped and held up for inspection. In this process, also, the spectators are brought within the experiential range of the demonic. A critical element in the recognition of a n o th e r’s experience as a u th en ­ tic is the understanding that this o th e r’s experience is potentially a part of o n e ’s own. In essence what members of the ritual gathering see before them now threatens to enter into their own subjective experience. A major m etacom m unicative element of the midnight watch is the growing realiza­ tion among the spectators that the barrier betw een the reality of everyday life and the demonic world of the patient is fragile— a realization often visible in the responses of the guests. Thus, on occasion, I have witnessed spec­ tators enter a trance and dance possessed in the performance arena. C onsist­ ent with T u r n e r ’s27 observations concerning the character of liminal periods, exorcists and nonspecialists alike consider the period of the midnight watch as the most dangerous. It is dangerous not simply because the demonic in all its terrifying aspects is present, fully constituted in the midst of the everyday world of hum an beings, but also because it threatens to enter the subjective reality of “h ealth y,” “norm al” others, namely, the spectators and even the exorcist-performers. During the midnight watch the finite meaning province of the demonic comes to dominate and override all other contexts of m ean ­ ing. Indeed, it threatens the dissolution of those meaning contexts of the everyday. The process of focusing the ritual gathering separates the spectators from mutual interaction within which the everyday can be sustained. Now, insofar as they interact among themselves, they do so only indirectly and through the demonic created before them. There is no free m ovem ent among mem bers of the ritual assembly; gossip ends and card games are broken up. Individuals, it can be assum ed, retain a conscious sense of the everyday from their participation in these contexts before the ritual and during its early phases. They also know that the project of the exorcism is to restore the param ount reality of the everyday in the patient. Their focus on the perform ance, how ever, disengages them from interaction within which the everyday is realized, and involves them with the demonic, actualized before them. Thus, the focusing of all members of the ritual gathering creates the necessary condition for the domination of the demonic. The domination of the demonic over other contexts of meaning is rein­

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forced by a second process— the style of the ritual presentation and the emergence of symbolic types from within the context of a presentational symbolic mold. I suggest that where ritual is performed within a presenta­ tional symbolic medium, which also occasions the emergence of symbolic types consistent with the meaning established within it, ritual statements becom e unambiguous. Such moments in rites can be particularly frightening in exorcisms where the demonic is created as certain. The formation of symbolic types within the context of presentational symbolism produces a suspension or denial of the relevance of other frameworks of meaning, and negates the ability of ritual statements to reflect explicitly upon other co n ­ texts o f meaning. In fact, the capacity for ritual to act reflexively upon the world external to it is greatly impaired. Presentational symbolism, and the emergence of symbolic types, is inte­ gral to much of that which anthropologists study as ritual. These symbolic forms resolve contradictory meanings arising in the param ount reality of everyday life through their ability to deny or suspend the relevancy of these meanings, or by their ability to impart a greater resiliency to the ritual frame w hereby external elements can be introduced but subordinated and orga­ nized in relation to the dominant meaning set. Essentially I follow L an ger28 in the use of the phrases “presentational sym bolism ” and “presentational symbolic m old.” By them, I refer to the property w hereby symbolic acts and objects are tightly interwoven so that each imparts a similar sense and meaning to the other. The presentational symbolic mold o f an exorcism performance is established in the period of the evening w atch and elaborated and extended during the midnight watch. The utterance of words in magical incantation (m antra) and song (kavi) is a significant aspect of the early phases of the rite. The language used, h o w ­ ever, is not that in normal everyday use in the village or town. M antra and song variously employ Tamil, Sanskrit, Malayalam, Sinhala, and even P er­ sian w o rd s.29 F urtherm ore, mantra and song are combined simultaneously with music and dance. W ords, music, dance, the manipulation of ritual objects, color, and smell form a tightly integrated whole so that each imparts meaning to the other and, in turn, reinforces the other in the realization of the demonic world emerging from their integration. Separately, each sym­ bolic element of the performance is probably capable of a considerable connotative range, but the medium of presentation and the overall presen ta­ tional mold reduce the connotative range. This reduction and the drawing together of the elements within the presentational symbolic mold of the perform ance result in an internally coherent and consistent finite province of meaning relating to the bloodthirsty and terrifying demonic world. The major dance episodes of the midnight w atch further elaborate the presentational symbolic mold and the demonic. The dance celebrates the actual arrival at the ritual site of the demon or demons under whose primacy the exorcism is being performed. The exorcist-dancers themselves represent the demons. On occasion, they, as well as the patient, becom e possessed by

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demons. They hold lighted torches against bared chests to dem onstrate their magical powers. They swirl around the performance arena, moving ever faster to the rising, rhythmic beating of drums. The motions of the dance, and particularly such gravity-defying actions as balancing, wheeling, leap­ ing, tumbling, and circling, organize body action into a symbolic form that indicates control over the body by powers that do not normally condition body m otion.30 Set within the time structure of the dance, the world and powers of dem ons are made visible and confront— almost engulf—the audi­ ence. ' It is in conjunction with the creation of the demonic through the medium of presentational symbolism that demons as symbolic types emerge. The concept of “ symbolic ty p e s” has been elaborated by a num ber of au th o rs.31 Symbolic types are constituted above the level of social roles as these are usually described. Symbolic types differ from social roles in that the latter have their role correlates (e.g., father-son, student-teacher), which emerge in situations of reciprocal, face-to-face interaction. Symbolic types, of course, have their correlates as in dem on-nondem on, but these are abstrac­ tions existing outside the reciprocal typifications of ongoing social action. Further, symbolic types are usually accompanied by extremely stereotyped action patterns and are rem oved from a schema in which they have a status relative to o th e rs.32 Demons presented in the rite by exorcist-actors fit this description, for they have broken free from a lowly position in an ordered hierarchy. Social roles can be further distinguished from symbolic types: the form er are continually modified by the mutual tending of the role performers to each other; by the biographical knowledge individuals have of one another; and by the mutual awareness that each possesses other social iden­ tities potentially relevant in their interaction. Symbolic types define c o n tex ­ tual relevances and link them together, subsume them, with their own form. F o r example, the symbolic type of ‘fool’ makes the context of action a foolish one. Individuals who act as symbolic types have their action largely determined by the symbolic type. G r a th o f f 3 argues that symbolic types are likely to emerge in situations of social inconsistency or when some scheme of classification fails to main­ tain a unity of context. Rituals, as finite provinces of meaning outside of and, in the case of exorcisms, opposed to the param ount reality of everyday life, are occasions when social inconsistency threatens and everyday cultural and social typifications might fail to maintain a unity of context. It is, therefore, in ritual that symbolic types can be expected to emerge. Symbolic types tie individuals into the meaning context of ritual and force a unity upon it. The emergence and efficacy of symbolic types are illustrated in e x o r­ cisms during the period of the evening watch. After the initial offering se­ quences, the exorcist-performers begin to act out the symbolic types of demons. A white cloth is held before the patient. This cloth is symbolic of purity, and its absence of color is understood by exorcists to produce an emotional calm in the patient. The patient is, thus, briefly separated from the

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action, and thereby experiences a reduction in the senses by which human beings can apprehend their contexts of action. The cloth is suddenly swept away by an exorcist as demon, who plunges through the barrier (marked by a variety of symbolic objects) that separates the patient from the demonic world. This action, which is often repeated in the course of the rite, re p re ­ sents the nature of the demonic attack— sudden, unexpected shock. H ere the symbolic type of dem on further integrates the patient into the demonic. The dancers in the major dance periods of the midnight watch have a similar effect in relation to the members of the ritual gathering as well as the patient. As symbolic types, they threaten to cross the thin dividing line betw een the horrifying world of demons and that of everyday reality and effect, partially at least, an integration of the ritual gathering into the reality of the demonic. During the midnight watch, the focusing of the ritual gather­ ing on the central ritual events, the elaboration of the presentational sym ­ bolic mode through dance, and the clear emergence of demons as symbolic types integrate all those in the environment of the rite into the province of the demonic. Organized within the fram ew ork of this reality, members of the ritual gathering can reflect upon it, but only in terms of the demonic and not primarily with reference to alternative meaning contexts that lie outside it. In this sense, the organization of the performance facilitates their participa­ tion in the demonic and their experience of it. Insofar as they act reflexively, that is, maintain a social self, a “m e ,” in the context of the demonic, m e m ­ bers of the ritual gathering are constrained, by the very nature of their organization into the rite, to reconceptualize a self in terms of the demonic— in effect, to deny their social .self. It is this which renders the period of the midnight watch dangerous and frightening in the ritual assembly. During the midnight watch, therefore, both the greater elaboration of the presentational symbolic mold of the rite and the further development and reification of symbolic types within it create the potential for a heightened sense o f the demonic. Further, the distance betw een the ideas and actions expressed in the central events of the ritual and the mem bers o f the ritual gathering is reduced. The patient, by entering a trance, becomes one with the demon, and becom es, in fact, the personification of the symbolic type of the demon. Kin and those others hitherto outside the sense and meaning established in the ritual frame becom e tied to the finite meaning province of the demonic. They come to experience the demonic and, I suggest, begin to lose their capacity to reflect on the demonic in terms of the reality of everyday life. This is largely achieved by the development of a greater consistency within the ritual frame, which overwhelms the alternative nondem onic reality of mem bers of the ritual gathering. It is important to stress that the alternative realities of the everyday are not destroyed and that the distancing of the members of the ritual gathering is not so reduced that their capacity to act as audience— to reflect— is d e­ stroyed. The exorcist-dancers overelaborate their performance; they engage in what G offm an34 term s role-distance. Occasionally, they will “acciden­

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tally” drop a lighted torch and will complicate a dance m ovem ent so that their limbs becom e hopelessly entangled, and in the middle of a swirling dance they will trip and fall. The “flow” of the dance— of the demonic— is broken. In a sense they begin to play with the demonic in the context of the demonic. Through play they communicate the m etam essage that the terrible world of the dem ons has no determining necessity.35 As the period of the midnight w atch draw s to a close, special dances (adaw) are performed for selected individuals, usually the household head and other prominent p e o ­ ple, in return for small cash payments. Through these actions, the exorcists begin a process of reconstituting the everyday— the elements of its structure and the principles upon which it is based. The emergence of play and the introduction of aspects drawn from the everyday occur near the conclusion of the midnight watch, after the e x or­ cists, in their opinion, have magically severed the “gaze” that binds the patient to the malign supernatural. It remains for the patient to be made conscious of this and to be made aware also that action can be co m ­ prehended in terms of realities other than the demonic. The play element w eakens the internally consistent ritual world of demons, and makes possi­ ble the em ergence and realization of other ways of constructing reality. The change in the perform ance rules that allows members of the ritual gathering to join in the short datices (adaw) while maintaining their identities in the reality of the everyday begins a process in which the m undane is elaborated within the context of the demonic. There thus develops an increasing incon­ sistency within a ritual world that demons in their aw esom e aspect have hitherto dominated. A fundamental assumption guiding this analysis is that rituals, while they are occasions for the realization of inconsistencies and contradictions, nonetheless attem pt to resolve them and strive to establish an overall unity of context in meaning and action. Transformations occur in the symbolic representations elaborated by the ritual and the meaning conveyed through them, so that consistency can be reestablished within a ritual frame that the everyday now invades. These transformations and changes in the relation of ritual subject, performers, and other m em bers of the ritual gathering to the central ritual events are effected in the closing sequences of the rite, in the period of the morning watch. The ritual sequences of the morning watch, in large-scale exorcisms, are characterized by extended periods of masked comic drama. They begin after a long break in the ritual, known as the maha te (“big te a ”), when food and refreshm ents are served. By means of this break the param ount reality of everyday life is reestablished in the setting of the exorcism. M em bers of the ritual gathering, with the exception of the patient, gossip and talk among themselves. The sense of “w e ” is regenerated and organized in accordance with the schem ata of the everyday. W hen the ritual resumes, however, the everyday world is not separated from the world of demons. The world of menacing apparitions and dem ons and that of everyday, m undane life co ex ­

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ist in the one context o f action and meaning. In the course of the comic dram a, an exorcist-actor appears in the guise of successive apparitions and demons. E ach dem on emerges from the demon palace and twirls a boxlike rectangular structure (kapala kuduva), which has been erected directly in front of the palace. This structure represents an ordered cosmic unity as a Sinhalese should conceive it. At the top is the world of deities (deva loka), in the middle the world of human beings (minissu loka), and at the bottom the world o f dem ons (yaksha loka). The twirling and shaking of the structure represents the chaotic potential of dem ons— their threat to the cosmic order. The first dem on to enter, a torch-bearing apparition (pandam paliya), howls and shouts as it enters the arena but otherwise does not utter a word. It circles the perform ance arena, glowering at members of the ritual gathering and at the patient. At intervals, billowing clouds of orange flame rise from the torches it holds in its hands. The presence of the demon momentarily suspends the sense of the everyday and recreates the awful, horrifying real­ ity developed in the preceding sequences of the ritual. The appearance of P a n d a m paliya is brief and is immediately followed by a succession of other demon representations. They enter a context in which the everyday, as well as the demonic, receives elaboration.Each d e­ mon engages in extended dialogue with an exorcist, who takes the role of a “ straight m a n ”— o f a normal, healthy human being. Occasionally, the demon will address the patient and exchange words with other members of the ritual gathering. The discourse is centered on the exorcist “ straight m a n ” and couched in the everyday language of the marketplace, village, and town. It is a discursive symbolic m o d e36 distinct from the presentational symbolic mode of the ritual in the preceding periods. In a discursive symbolic mode, word and action are no longer tightly interrelated; they are freed to combine in a variety of ways to explore and realize an extensive connotative range relat­ ing to the realities both of the supernatural and of the everyday. Through the discursive medium of the comic drama, carefully controlled by the exorcistactors, the sense and meaning attached to object and action becom e increas­ ingly inconsistent, and the contradiction betw een the terrifying reality of the patient and that of normal healthy others is made apparent. It is important at this point to consider further some of the properties of symbolic types raised earlier. Symbolic types have the property of pro du c­ ing a coherency and consistency of meaning context. They do this by limiting and reducing the set o f contextual relevancies. They can also absorb into themselves the meaning and sense o f context elaborated for their em er­ gence. W here symbolic types emerge, they becom e highly durable. In such situations, there is extrem e redundancy, and a condition is established w hereby symbolic types can operate freely and independently of the sym ­ bolic medium in which they have been created. Symbolic types that are fully constituted and internally consistent have the ability to recreate the unity of sense and meaning o f context from which they emerged. Thus, successfully constituted and completed, they are em pow ered to carry over the meaning

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and sense derived from one context to another, possibly alternative and contradictory context of meaning. The liminal period of rites of passage or transformational rituals, such as exorcisms, provides a context in which symbolic types can emerge. Symbolic types are similar to what T urner has characterized as liminal symbols. T u rn er argues, however, that liminal symbols contain inconsistent, contradictory, and ambiguous meanings, and this enables them to bridge alternative contexts of meaning. T u r n e r’s argument can be modified and extended in relation to Sinhalese exorcisms. Symbolic types are, in my argument, only potentially ambiguous or inconsistent. Their contradictory or inconsistent quality is a consequence o f their linking alternative meaning contexts, rather than a reason for their use in bridging such c o n tex ts.37 Fu rtherm ore, w hen symbolic types or liminal symbols realize internal c o n ­ tradictions and inconsistencies in themselves as they are presented to, and b ecom e apparent to, ritual participants, this constitutes an aspect o f their process of dissolution or transformation. The appearance of inconsistencies within symbolic types signifies their inability to maintain a unity of context, and, like H um p ty D um pty, they fall and shatter and cannot be put together again— at least not in the same form as before. In such a situation, either of two things can happen. The symbolic type can be reconstituted in such a way that its elements form a new, transformed arrangement that enables a unity of context to be achieved. Alternatively, the failure o f one symbolic type might lead to the successive formation of others until one is discovered that successfully unifies the context and resolves contradictions. A num ber of factors can cause symbolic types to lose their efficacy or can lead to their transformation. Further, an understanding o f how symbolic types or liminal symbols are transform ed or negated is crucial for comprehending how rites are transformative. T he processes of transformation and negation of symbolic types of de­ mons are evident in exorcisms. The drama of the morning watch is organized through a discursive symbolic mode. The exorcist “ straight m a n ” elaborates and expands around the dem on contexts of meaning relating to both super­ natural realities and the everyday. The demons appear as unable to tie together a rapidly diversifying meaning context. They cannot speak proper Sinhalese. They are disrespectful to ideas and objects that Sinhalese hold sacred in normal life. They insult the Buddha. Their actions becom e inter­ preted in terms o f the everyday. The “ straight m an ” derides and abuses them. H e traps them in skillful repartee. The demons are shown to be u n ­ civilized, filthy, and uncouth as they fart and stumble around the perform ­ ance arena, uttering obscenities. These former objects of terror are reduced to role types that can be com prehended in terms of everyday typifications. Thus they assum e the identities of a town tough, a police sergeant, a govern­ ment bureaucrat, a politician, a flighty and em barrassed young woman, and so on. The dem ons absorb into themselves a great variety of meanings draw n from the supernatural and the everyday, and they thus becom e incon­

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sistent, absurd, comic figures. The absurd, ridiculous aspect of demons is validated by the response of mem bers of the ritual gathering, who laugh and otherwise express their am usem ent at the ponderous antics of dem ons as they try to make sense of the everyday world into which they are projected. D em ons express inconsistencies and impossible juxtapositions of meaning in their own form and action. The realization of these inconsistencies and impossibilities by mem bers of the ritual gathering is a realization o f the comic. The dem ons cannot maintain a unity of context in their mode as horrible, terrible figures of the earlier ritual episodes. If they are to maintain a consistency with the organization of reality as it is now developing around them, their terrible aspect must be reduced. The jo kes in the dramatic episodes achieve this reduction and dem onstrate that their horrifying aspect has no necessity in the everyday world. As terrifying specters, demons are shown to have no place in the param ount reality of daily life. Dem ons only make sense in terms of the everyday typifications of “norm al,” healthy Sinhalese if they are recognized as lowly, filthy and uncivilized creatures, distanced from the world of human beings and subordinate to them as well as to the B ud dh a and the deities, who exercise legitimate control over them. In an important sense, demons becom e comprehensible if they are no longer seen as symbolic types that determine and draw together the diverse realities o f the everyday world. D estroy ed as symbolic types capable of unifying context, the demons retreat from the perform ance arena. As they do so, they express their dis­ tancing from the m undane world of human beings and the fact that they have no place in it. They are transformed, and with them the reality they have hitherto summarized; they are relocated in their proper position in the cosmic order as defined by healthy hum an beings. W here they once domi­ nated, they are now themselves dominated. They are made comprehensible and consistent in terms of other symbolic types— the B uddha and the deities. As they leave the arena, they acknowledge the superiority of the B uddha and obey the com m ands of hum an beings to return to their own world. The discursive medium of dram a allows the param ount reality of everyday life to flood into and overwhelm the sense and meaning hitherto constructed in the course of ritual event and action. The patient becomes progressively isolated in a reality as others see it. The patient is also sepa­ rated from the support of close kin. They leave the patient’s side and adopt the attitude of others in the ritual gathering, who laugh derisively at the behavior of the actor as demon. As with other members of the gathering, close kin becom e completely distanced from the terrifying world of demons. If the patient is serious and distressed, he or she is believed to be still dominated by demonic thoughts. Such an attitude means there is inconsist­ ency in the sense and meaning com m unicated within the ritual frame. C o n ­ sistency can only be achieved by the patient adopting the attitude of those others now engaged actively within the organization of ritual event and action. W hen the patient laughs or otherwise shows am usem ent, he or she

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has becom e distanced from the world of demons, has reconceptualized them in terms o f the “ no rm al,” healthy typifications of others, and looks upon dem ons for what they are. Complete consistency in a transformed context of meaning is achieved when the patient laughs, and from this m om ent the exorcism rite hurries to a close. The patient, like the demons, engages in acts that acknowledge the superiority of the Buddha and the deities and the legitimacy of everyday typifications in accordance with which daily life is organized. The ritual is concluded with the destruction of various structures and objects used in the rite. They are heaped in a pile away from human habitation, often in undergrowth at the margins of the village or neighbor­ hood. With this, the ritual gathering disbands and individuals resume their daily tasks. The ritual action orchestrated by exorcists stands in a dialectical rela­ tion with those who gather at the occasion. Thus the changes in the relation of members of the ritual gathering to the performance and to each other both mark transitions in the ritual process and actively contribute to the establish­ ment, negation, and transformation of the meaning context contained within the ritual frame. F o r example, the exclusion during the early phases of most of those who gather at an exorcism from entry into the central ritual action allows the demonic to be constructed in the midst of alternative, contradic­ tory and potentially disruptive understandings. At the same time, this exclu­ sion facilitates the elaboration of the everyday among those who are kept apart from the demonic and its action and meaning context. The ritual p roc­ ess that leads to the focusing of the members hitherto excluded has the consequence of breaking down and disrupting the face-to-face interaction betw een m em bers o f the gathering. In essence, this focusing changes the internal organization of the ritual gathering and removes the structural bases w hereby the meaning contexts of the everyday can be sustained. This per­ mits the demonic to invade the everyday and to begin to dominate it. In such a way mem bers of the ritual gathering are brought within close experiential range of the demonic, which might be essential to their understanding of the plight of the patient. The ideas and structures of the everyday that reside with the members of the ritual gathering constitute a resource, which, when organized into the central action of the rite through the discursive medium of drama, transforms the meaning and sense of the demonic. The exorcists draw on the everyday knowledge of the gathering, objectify it, and organize the responses o f the gathering.

C O N C LU SIO N : PE R F O R M A N C E A N D R E F LE X IV IT Y M any anthropological analyses of ritual concentrate on the central acts and participants while neglecting others who gather for the occasion. The p re s­ ence o f guests or spectators is often regarded as marginal to the major aims of the rite. In the major dem on exorcisms o f the Sinhalese, however, the so-

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called spectators are found to be integral to the ritual process, that is, to the various transformations in individual understanding and the structuring of context achieved in the course of the rite. I have stressed the dialectical properties of ritual perform ance— the dynamic interplay of ritual act and symbol— with the members of the ritual gathering. The rules governing the enactm ent of particular ritual events, and the mode of symbolic ordering of these events, produce a structuring or differential engagement of members of the ritual gathering with the central events. This enables the sustaining of particular ways of ordering reality responsible for much of the transform a­ tional efficacy of the rite. But this observation only emphasizes one side of the dialectic. Again, this structuring of the gathering creates the conditions for a further empowering of the meaningful and experiential possibilities of ritual act and symbol. In addition, it establishes conditions for the trans­ formation of context. Thus the bringing of those hitherto kept apart from much of the central action into relations that engage them more immediately within it facilitates the transformation of the symbolic ordering and the meaning o f the demonic world. M ost anthropologists argue that rituals make m etacom m entaries, and thus are reflexive upon the nonritualized, param ount reality of everyday life. But the anthropologist is in a position that would lead to such an o b serv a ­ tion: the anthropologist is never completely part of the culture being studied, but always apart from it. The subjects of research, the people, are also objects; and this is dem anded by the nature of the anthropological discipline. The anthropologist, in a sense, assumes the role of a critic, for particular events are placed in the context of other events, are interrelated, contrasted and evaluated. Therefore, while rituals might typically be regarded as refle­ xive events by anthropologists, it does not necessarily follow that they will be similarly regarded by participants. This is a question that deserves much fuller and more careful analysis than it has heretofore received. In this essay I have been centrally concerned with the extent to which rituals do or do not lead to reflexivity for those engaged in them. A ritual leads to “reflexivity” when the context of performance sustains different modes of ordering reality and accents upon these realities. This is a potential structural property of a ritual as a performance, but it is not always present and, w hen it is, it is critically dependent on the way m em bers o f the gather­ ing are ordered with respect to the central events. Rituals move individuals through different positions (spatial and experiential) in relation to the ord er­ ing of act and symbol in the central events. A fundamental aspect of the ritual process, in the sense I suggest, is that it can shift the standpoint from which the individual interprets and experiences the meaning and the reality o f the central events. The standpoint might be such that members of the ritual gathering are hindered in standing apart from, and reflecting upon, the action in terms o f alternative contexts of meaning and action. This is so for the patient in the evening watch of an exorcism, who is positioned in such a way that he or she is progressively enveloped by the demonic. The p a tien t’s

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standpoint is one in which alternative ways o f ordering reality are system ati­ cally excluded. This is not so for other mem bers of thè gathering, who are located in the reality of everyday and who are able to look in upon the demonic from alternative perspectives. In the midnight watch, how ever, the mem bers of the ritual gathering, by focusing on the central action, change from being onlookers to being active participants. In the structural process of the rite they are no longer simply an audience to their own action and the action of others. They are the action and the situation of the demonic. In the morning watch, through the medium of the comic dram a alternative realities are presented. T he com edy of major exorcisms is in itself highly reflexive. Indeed, in exorcisms, reflexivity is the very essence of the comic. Through the com edy, individuals are enabled, and in fact enjoined, to adopt alterna­ tive perspectives on the demonic. They are redistanced in the order of the rite as audience. Their reflection on the meaning of the demonic is facilitated, and the pow er of the demonic to control action in the world is denied. Thus, in exorcisms, reflexivity comes and goes in an ordered se­ quence that is essential to the efficacy of the rite. T he approach I have developed here, albeit in a limited way, suggests some possible extensions and modifications of the important contributions other scholars have made toward the analysis of ritual performance. At the start o f this discussion, I referred to G e e rtz ’s distinction betw een deep play and shallow play. According to Geertz, it is in performances that can be characterized as deep play that the full and varied cultural resonances o f a society are portrayed. The perform ance involves mem bers o f the gathering in fundamental cultural and social ideas and relationships, the perform ance itself becoming a reflexive m etacom m entary on the lived cultural world of the participants. In certain respects, deep play is to shallow play what deep structure is to surface structure in structuralist analysis. But there is an important difference in that in structuralist analysis the surface structure can be generated from the rules or principles located in the deep structure: there is a definable relation betw een deep structure and surface structure. In con­ trast, G e e rtz ’s deep play and shallow play are separate, almost independent, possibilities of performance. My own analysis, however, indicates a closer relation— an interdependence. Shallow play exists together with deep play in Sinhalese exorcism rites, and this interdependence is vital to exorcism as a reflexive event, both for the participants and for the efficacy of the rite in effecting certain transformations in identity, meaning, and experience. T here are mom ents in exorcism of deep play, when members of the ritual gathering com e to live those cultural and social worlds they construct or have constructed around them. But during these moments they do not nec­ essarily reflect on life as they live it. Paradoxically, it might be in those m om ents in performance that G eertz calls shallow play, w hen those who gather at an occasion are relatively distanced from the central events, that participants com e to realize and com prehend their social and cultural realities. E xorcism s, and most rituals for that matter, provide m om ents of

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deep play and shallow play. Through this play, individuals can experience the world of their construction and then stand back and reflect upon its various meanings. Exorcism s constitute their meaning and transformations in meaning both through experieiicing and through reflection upon this e x p e ­ riencing. B oth G eertz and Turner, in their analyses of ritual symbols and action, draw attention to the wide range of meanings that can be attached to them. T u rn er writes of the multivocality of symbols. F o r him this multivocality is an inherent property of symbols. He stresses that the particular valencies of meanings of symbols that becom e apparent through performance are d e p e n ­ dent on their use and their positioning in a relational context com posed of other symbols. The perspective I have tried to develop here indicates a possible extension or at least a modification of this view. This is that the multivocality of symbols, or the variety of culturally meaningful interpreta­ tions that can be placed upon them by those gathered at a perform ance, is at least partly a function of the num ber of perspectives made possible by the structuring o f standpoints within the ritual process. The extension or co n ­ traction of the meaningful properties of ritual symbols and symbolic acts is both emergent from and a product of the range of standpoints structured into the perform ance context in the course of the enactm ent o f the ritual events.

NOTES 1. 2. 3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

Victor Turner, The F o re s t o f S y m b o l s (Ithaca, 1967); The R itu a l P ro c e ss (Chicago, 1969). D. Geertz, “D eep Play: N o tes on the Balinese Cockfight,” D a e d a lu s 101: 1-37, 1972. P. Wirz, E x o r c is m a n d the A r t o f H ea lin g in Ceylon (Leiden, 1954). A full discussion o f exorcism ritual and its social and political context is to be found in B. Kapferer, A Celebration o f D e m o n s (Bloom ington, 1983). I have excluded one major exorcism from consideration here— the Ira M u d u n S a m a y a m a (the gathering time o f the midday dem on), which is held for the B lood D em on (riri yaka). The rite is held over the midday period, usually betw een 11 a.m. and 2 p.m. The organization o f the early offering periods is similar to that in the other large-scale exorcism s. There is also a major episode o f dance, during which the patient frequently b ecom es entranced, which consti­ tutes the climax o f the rite. The exorcism ends with the burning o f an effigy— representative o f the patient and the illness. There are, how ever, no extended dramatic seq uences, as in the other major exorcism rites. The R a t a Y a k k u m a is only performed for female patients. It deals specifically with female-related disorders— menstrual difficulties, barrenness, pregnancy problems, and so on. If the cause o f the sickness o f a child is traced to the mother, a R a ta Y a k k u m a will also be held. The R a ta Y a k k u m a is performed for Kalu Yaka (the Black D em on), who mainly attacks w om en. Most o f the patients I observed w ho had the S u n n iy a m performed were rela­ tively successful local entrepreneurs. The difficulties they encounter in their business are readily attributed to witchcraft and sorcery. G. O beyesekere, “The Ritual Drama o f the Sanni Demons: Collective Repre­

206

8.

9.

10. 11.

12.

13.

14.

15. 16. 17. 18. 19.

20. 21. 22.

23. 24.

25. 26. 27.

Actors, Audiences, & Reflexivity sentations o f D isease in C ey lo n ,” C o m p a ra tiv e S tud ies in So c ie ty a n d H isto ry 11: 175-216, 1969; B. Kapferer, “Entertaining D em on s:'C om ed y, Interaction and Meaning in a Sinhalese Healing Ritual,” M o d e rn Ceylon S tu d ie s 6: 1-55, 1976 (republished in S o cia l A n a lysis 1: J 08—52, 1979). Traditional Sinhalese naturalistic medicine (ayurveda) is also based on a humoral theory and, indeed, the practice o f exorcists (yaksha bfiuta vidyava) is one o f its subdivisions. The humors are related explicitly by exorcists to the elemental substances (m a h a b h u ta s ) out o f which all matter is constituted. An excellent account o f the Buddhist conception o f the m a h a b h u t a s is to be found in Y. Karunadasa, “The Buddhist Conception o f Mahabhutas as Primary Elem ents o f M atter,” Univer­ sity o f Ceylon R e v ie w 22: 28—47, 1964. Kapferer, “Entertaining D e m o n s,” p. 108-52. M. A m es, “Ritual Presentations and the Structure o f the Sinhalese P antheon,” in M. N ash, ed., A n th r o p o lo g ic a l S tu d ies in Theravada B u d d h i s m (N ew H aven, 1966), pp. 27-50; G. O beyesekere, “The Buddhist Pantheon in Ceylon and Its E x ten sio n s,” in M. N ash, ed., A n th r o p o lo g ic a l S tu d ie s in T heravada B u d d h is m (N ew H aven, 1966), pp. 1-26. By “typification” I refer to the culturally objectified ideas in terms o f which Sinhalese organize their interaction. The usage o f this term relates explicitly to that em ployed by Berger and Luckmann in The Social Construction o f Reality. The term vidiya is derived from the Sanskrit vithi vithika, which means “street” or “house in a street.” Indeed the y a k k a vidiya is conceptualized by exorcists as com posed o f a number o f streets that intersect. In one sense it could be under­ stood as a place o f crossroads. The vidiya, as a street or a place where streets intersect, is a place for the representation o f disorder. While the vidiya is a house, it is also the place where the disorder o f the street intrudes. M. Marriott, “Caste Ranking and Food Transactions: A Matrix A n a ly sis,” Vik­ ing F u n d P u b lica tion s in A n t h r o p o lo g y 47: 133-71, 1968; L. Dum ont, H o m o H iera rch icu s (Chicago, 1970); N . Yalman, “On the Meaning o f Food Offerings in C ey lo n ,” S o cia l C o m p a s s 20: 287-302, 1973. O beyesekere, “Ritual D ram a,” 1969. Yalman, “Food Offerings,” 1973. G. H. Mead, M ind, S e l f a n d S o ciety (Chicago, 1934). W. James, Principles o f P s y c h o lo g y (London, 1891); A. Schütz, The P h e n o m e n o l o g y o f the S o cia l World (London, 1972). B. Kapferer, “Mind, S elf and Demon in Dem onic Illness: The Negation and Reconstruction o f S e lf,” A m e r ic a n E th no lo g ist 6: 110-33; 1979; A Celebration o f Demons. P. L. Berger and T. Luckmann, The Social Construction o f R eality: A Treatise in the S ocio lo g y o f K n o w l e d g e (London, 1971). G. B ateson, “A Theory o f Play and F antasy,” P sychiatric R e s e a r c h R e p o r ts 2: 44, 1955. E. Goffman, E n c o u n te r s : Two Studies in the S o cio lo g y o f Interaction (In­ dianapolis, 1961), p. 20; D. Handelman and B. Kapferer, “Forms o f Joking Activity: A Comparative A pproach,” A m e r ic a n A n th r o p o lo g ist 74: 293-9, 1972. Goffman, E n c o u n t e r s , p. 33. D. Handelman and B. Kapferer, “Symbolic T ypes, Mediation and the Trans­ formation o f Ritual Context: Sinhalese D em ons and T ew a C lo w n s,” S e m io tic a 30: 41-77, 1980. Kapferer, “Mind, S elf and Dem on in D em onic Illness,” 1979. A. Schütz, The P h e n o m e n o l o g y o f the Social World (London, 1972). V. Turner, The F o re st o f S y m b o ls, 1967; The R itu a l Process, 1969.

The Ritual Process a n d the Problem o f Reflexivity 28. 29. 30. 31.

32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37.

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S. K. Langer, P h ilo so p h y in a N e w K e y (Cambridge, 1951). S. J. Tambiah, “The Magical Pow er o f W ords,” M a n 3: 175-208, 1968. S. K. Langer, Feeling a n d F o r m (London, 1954); Kapferer, “Em otion and F eelin g,” 1979. O. E. Klapp, S y m b o l i c Lea d ers, Public D r a m a s , a n d Public M e n (Chicago, 1964); R. H. Grathoff, The S tru cture o f Social In c o n sisten cies : A Contribution to a Unified Theory o f Play, G a m e a n d S o cia l A c tio n (The Hague, 1970); E. Burns, Theatricality: A S tu d y o f Convention in the Theatre a n d in Social Life (London, 1972); Handelman and Kapferer, “Sym bolic T y p e s,” pp. 41-77. Grathoff, p. 122. Grathoff, p. 123. Goffman, E n c o u n te r s , 1961. B ateson, “A Theory o f Play and F antasy,” 1955; M. Douglas, “The Social Control o f Cognition: Som e Factors in Joke P erception,” M a n 3: 361-76, 1968. Langer, P h ilo so p h y in a N e w K e y , 1951. Handelman and Kapferer, “Sym bolic T y p e s,” 1980.

s

C arnival in M ultiple Planes * Roberto Da Matta

In previous works I have examined the Brazilian Carnaval in its general and globalizing aspects. H ere I wish to consider Carnival in its regional character and to discuss a group of problems related to the transformation of the everyday world into an “inverted universe.” I shall take as a basis certain fundamental categories of the Brazilian social universe and certain p ro c ­ esses of ritualization and symbolization. In Jorge A m a d o ’s O Pais do Carnaval (The Country o f Carnival),1 the central character, Paulo Rigger, says at a crucial moment, “I only felt Brazil­ ian twice. Once, in Carnival, when I danced the samba in the street. The other w hen I beat Julie, after she deceived m e .” The quotation is filled with significance. First, at the time of this novel, the nation was searching for the essence of what was truly Brazilian. In this context, Paulo Rigger’s outburst (or discovery) is as highly provocative as it is revealing. To be Brazilian for him is the equivalent of “dancing the samba in the street” (sambar na rua) and adopting the patriarchal behavior— typically heavy-handed and authori­ tarian— of “beating French m istresses” every time they deceive one. And, I should add, Julie deceived Paulo, the individualist son of a planatation ow ner, with one of his employees— a virile and muscular black who never experienced the existential dilemmas of his boss. The quotation implies a certain tragedy in discovering oneself as a B ra­ zilian. In other countries self-identification raises questions of a civic nature, referring to flags, hymns, crowns, or heroic struggles, but for our character, who is here a paradigm, to be Brazilian is to dissolve oneself in the mul­ titudinous disorder of dancing the samba in the streets and in savagely *1 should like to thank Gilberto Velho, E. V. de Castro, Anthony Seeger, Luiz de Castro Faria, Y vonne Leite, Myriam Lem le, and Otavio Velho for the discussion o f certain important points. Professor Manuel D iegues, Jr., and the Department o f Cultural Affairs provided resources for fieldwork. Joao Poppe, Marco Antonio M ello, Julia L evi, and Celeste Da Matta were my assistants during the 1977 carnival, and for this I thank them.

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beating a E u ro pean mistress. Thus, in the case of Brazil, the process of identification brings to the surface Carnival and the control of feminine sexual favors. ✓

THE H O U SE A N D THE STREET Paulo Rigger’s identification as a Brazilian involves two social domains. One of them is evidently the street, where the hero danced the samba (his partner was a mulatto woman). The other is the domain of the house— of the b e d ­ room, to be precise—-where the deceiving French mistress was eventually beaten. The opposition betw een street and house is basic and can serve as a powerful instrument in the analysis of the Brazilian social world, and above all in the study of its ritualization. The category “ street” indicates the world with its unpredictable events, its actions and passions. The category “h o u se ” pertains to a controlled un­ iverse, w here things are in their proper places. The street -implies m o v e ­ m ent,novelty, and action, while the house implies harmony, w armth, and calm. F urtherm ore, in the street one works; at home one rests. The social groups that occupy a house are radically different from those of the world of the street. In the home we have associations ruled and formed by kinship and “blood relations.” In the street, relationships are those of patronage and have an indelible character of choice, or imply the possibility of choice. In the house, relations are ruled “naturally” by the hierarchies of sex and age, with males and the elderly taking precedence. In the street some difficulty may be encountered in localizing and discovering the hierarchies, as they are based on other principles. Although both domains should be governed by a hierarchy based on re sp e c t,2 the concept of respect in the Brazilian social universe is above all characteristic of the relations betw een parents and children, especially in the relation betw een father and son. As a consequence of this, in the street one must take care not to violate unknow n or unperceived hierarchies. Similarly, care must be taken to avoid the circle of people who would trick, mislead, or dominate one, since the basic rule of the street is to deceive and to take advantage of others. Malandragem — taking advantage of others— is the Brazilian art of using the a m ­ biguous as an instrument for survival. In the street the world is seen as a H obbesian universe, w here everybody tends to be in some kind of com peti­ tion against everybody else, until some form of hierarchy can appear and impose order. But in the house everything is the inverse. H ere space is rigidly d e m a r­ cated, divided into verandas, parlors, dining rooms, kitchens, bathroom s, bedroom s, and invariably the serv a n ts’ area and service areas. Space is dem arcated in such a way that the house as a whole is a grouping of spaces where greater or lesser intimacy is permitted, possible, or prohibited. The opposition of street and house separates two mutually exclusive

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domains. Yet they can be interrelated in a complex way, since they may be expressed both in the form of a clear opposition and in tefms of gradations in a continuum. The spatial division of the Brazilian home itself suggests the possibility of gradation, of compromise^and mediation. The veranda is an ambiguous space betw een the house and the street, generally facing the street. The parlor, although within the house, is also an intermediate space, since it is where visitors are received. Also ambiguously situated between the interior and exterior worlds are the windows. From these one can see the street, with its movement, its constantly parading figures. It was from the windows that the girls of the house could enter into visual contact with their boyfriends, as Thales de A zevedo3 has observed. It is evident that certain areas of the house permit the world within to communicate with the world without, and thus the feminine (which is always under control) with the masculine. In addition, the kitchen is a special place, exclusively feminine and, even today, in this era of modernization and change, an area separated from the rest of the house and generally hidden— as opposed to the kitchen in N orth American and E urop ean houses. Still another ambiguous precinct is “the service a rea ” or the “ s e rv a n t’s area” (dependencias da empregada). This space relates the world of the house with the street, and with work, poverty, and marginality. Such observations lead to the plans of Brazilian cities and, by e x ten ­ sion, of cities of the Latin or Mediterranean world, since there appears to be a homologous relationship betw een the spatial organization in the house and the spatial organization of the city.4 At the level of the city, the “ street” is a category that has several subdivisions. Thus we have “my street” or “our stre et” in opposition to “ street” in general. In addition, the street is the place w here one has o n e ’s house, while the plaza constitutes an area of e n c o u n ­ ters, a kind of urban parlor. Plazas in the Latin world are always marked by geometrical and welltended gardens, in contrast to the parks of the Anglo-Saxon world. In addi­ tion, M editerranean houses have an internal patio, an area that functions as a kind of stage. (This occurs also in the villages of the Indians of the Ge and Bororo language groups in central Brazil.) This central area serves as a focal point for collective activities, above all rituals, and for m ovem ent from one part of the house to another. The distinctive feature of the domain of the house seems to be control over social relations, which implies a greater intimacy and a lesser social distance than elsewhere. The house is the seat of “ my family,” “my people,” or “ mine o w n ,” as people say colloquially in Brazil, but the street implies a certain lack of control and a distancing between self and others. It is the locale of punishment, of “life’s toils,” and of work. The street is where one encounters what the Brazilians call the hard realities of life. It is an area of confusions and novelities, where robberies occur and where it is necessary to walk carefully, suspicious and alert. In sum the street, as a generic cate­

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gory in opposition to the house, is a public place, controlled by the govern­ ment or by destiny— those impersonal forces over which we have minimal control. In this sense the street is equivalent to the category scrub land (mato) or forest (floresta) of the rural world, or to the “nature” of the tribal world. In each case we are speaking of a partly unknow n and only partly controlled domain peopled with dangerous figures. Thus it is in the street and in the forests that the deceivers, the criminals, and the spirits live— those entities with w hom one never has precise contractual relations.5 The category “ street” thus expresses both a particular place and a c om ­ plex social domain. One says in Brazil: “I ’m going to the street” thus indicat­ ing that one is going to the commercial heart of the city, or to a city in the case of a person who lives in a town or on the limits of an urban area. In the same way the expressions “ street kid” (moleque de rua) and “out on the street” (jd para a rua) are very powerful and offensive expressions, desig­ nating in the first case a person without any family roots or moral scruples and in the second anyone without a precise social position. H ence, to throw som ebody “out of the h o u se” is synonymous with removing that person from a precise social netw ork or from a group of marked moral positions. To leave o n e ’s house in Brazil is a difficult choice, even a punishment, d e p en d ­ ing upon the situation. The category “ street” can be divided into two others: the dow ntow n area (centra) and the plaza. In fact, in the Brazilian urban world, we always have the house (as a term referring to the place where one engages in greater intimacy), the plaza, and the dow ntow n area. The plaza represents the aesthetic aspects of the city: it is a m etaphor of its cosmology. In it are located the gardens and the buildings most basic to the social life of the com m unity— the Church, representing religious power, and the governm ent offices, representing political power. In contrast, com m erce is centralized dow ntow n, in the area where impersonal transactions take place. Evidently, in many cities the do w ntow n coincides with the plaza. W hat is basic, h o w ­ ever, is to maintain a separation betw een the domain of pow er (temporal and religious) and the domain of the economy. The spheres may be com plem en­ tary; they are not identical.6 The domain of the plaza is an arena for encounters, a place where various social segments may or may not appear in a structured way as in civic rituals. In the d ow ntow n area of a city, in opposition to the plaza, the rules of encounter, of hierarchial complementarity, are not obeyed. Instead, it is the locus of individualism, born of the impersonal and competitive laws that regulate supply and demand. The duality of street and house is confirmed by the existence of c o m ­ plete sets of roles, objects, and actions that must appear in one or the other domain. Beating and scolding, for example, are actions that should occur in the private part of the residence, where this kind of intimacy can occur. The opposite is the case in political conflicts, which, in principle, should occur in

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the streets and above all in the plazas, near the governm ent buildings. Sleep­ ing, eating, bathing, sexual relations, and other modes of obtaining physical satisfaction should occur in the universe of the house, where people re cu p e r­ ate from the w ear and tear of daily life. Everything that pertains to the use, care, and recuperation of the body, and as a consequence implies rest and renewal is related to the domestic world. Actions that speak more of the external aspects of social life are related to the public world, the world of the street. In Jorge A m a d o ’s book, Paulo Rigger beats his mistress in the house and participates (brincar, literally, “to play”) in the Street Carnival. “ S treet” here refers to the streets of the dow ntow n area of the city. But the more or less perplexed tone o f his observation permits us to say that in this case we are confronting a strong opposition. In fact, the place of a mistress is in the street, not in the house. And the place to sing and dance the samba, particu­ larly in the case of the upper class, is in a house or a club, never on the street. In the characterization of O Pais do Carnaval we can thus see that Jorge A m ado is using an inversion, removing objects that should be in the house to the street (dance and song), and putting objects that should be in the street in the house. Thus Julie, the French mistress, comes to have a perm anent relationship with the hero. The inversion is so symmetrical that we cannot avoid seeing it as an intuitive and commonplace dramatization.

D IALECTICS, SYM B O LIZA TIO N , A N D R IT U A L IZ A T IO N “H o u s e ” and “ street” as sociological categories imply opposition and also gradations, as in the case with the segmentary oppositions of the N u er in the classic description by E vans-Pritchard.7 Thus the street itself can be seen and manipulated as if it were an extension or a part of the house, ju st as parts of a house may be considered under certain circumstances as part of the street. As an example o f the first case we can consider the houses of some sections of Naples or the squatter settlements (favelas) of Rio de Janeiro, where it is difficult to dem arcate the boundaries of the houses and the streets. The same problem occurs with the old Brazilian custom, still to be seen in many cities, of putting rocking chairs on the sidewalks at dusk. For the second case, we can refer to the verandas and parlors, where the family places its procelain and china in special display cabinets. On the walls of the parlor the portraits of ancestors used to hang, immobile and somber. The parlor was thus really an intermediary world betw een the house and the street. In fact, the only way to understand correctly the dichotomous o p p o ­ sition is to see it in its own logic, in the articulation of the domains; for it is through their dialectic— their reciprocal relations— that we can escape the conceptual rigidity that frequently leads to a typically formalist and tax ­ onomic view. We have seen that these domains of street and house mark more than

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mere discrete spaces. They also allow us to perceive social roles and ideologies, actions and specific objects, since all of these constituent ele­ ments of a society and a culture are not independent or individualized in the social structure. On the contrary^ they are always associated in such a way that for each domain there are corresponding social roles, ideologies and values, appropriate actions and specific objects, some invented especially for that domain of the social world. Thus, all roles articulated into a su bstan­ tive (or substantial) ideology, and consequently linked to body and blood (as with roles related to kinship and affinity), should occur in and be engendered by the house. But all of the roles involving choice and will (these things of “ soul” and “morality”), as in the case of voluntary associations such as clubs, political parties, and other forms of civil corporation, are part of the public world, of the domain of the street. The same association occurs with objects and actions, since no one expects to encounter beds, kitchens, and clothes closets in an office, in the same way that in a house everything that is related to the domain of work should be located in a circumscribed, and probably special, space. Dislocations of objects, like the appearance of so­ cial roles outside their respective domains of origin, are responsible for the clues (which end up leading us to the criminals) and for “ scandals,” “ sc e n e s ,” “d ra m a s,” and “dirtiness,” since they provoke an acute co n ­ sciousness of the interference of one domain in a no ther.8 Social systems with differentiated spheres or domains presuppose a gram m ar or logical ordering among themselves. In general, we pay a great deal of attention to social roles as individualizing elements in the social system, like phonem es in a lan­ guage, ignoring the possibility of seeing them as parts of specific systems and subsystem s of the social world. But social roles form, jointly with other elements, clear sets that mark and are marked by their original domains. D isplacement and passage from one domain to another are responsible for a variety of processes, and it is through passage that the elements may be seen as inverted, reinforced, or even neutralized.9 If an object or role passes from one domain to ano ther quite rem oved and contradictory in terms of a given social system (says, the domains of life and death among ourselves), this object tends to be the focus of strong allusions. The effort needed to make it return to the sphere of its origin will probably determine the strength of its evocative power. The distance between domains calls attention to the o b ­ je c t, transforming it. A skull is nothing more nor less than a skull w hen it is in a grave, for that is its place. It comes to represent much more in the hands of a man or in a drawer. In the same way, the implements and tools of peasants and w orkers, such as the sickle and the hammer, which in a shop or in the field are inoffensive objects and entirely functional, completely lose their operational function and gain in evocative pow er when they are placed on a flag and transformed into weapons of social revolution. In the field or shop they were tools. On a flag they are clues (pistas) and, as dislocated objects, symbols. The heart of the symbolizing process is thus the passage of an object or

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its appearance in a different domain. This would seem to be important be­ cause we speak about symbols but in general do not specify the conditions that transform a mere object— a piece of leaf, a stone, a gesture, a book, an animal— into a symbol. But the change or passage of an element from one domain to ano ther is the fundamental part of the process of symbolization. Van G ennep raised the important question of rites of passage, but I believe it is important for us to retain the concept of movem ent, process, and disloca­ tion, inherent in this perspective, rather than cling to the categorical term ritual. U nderstanding dislocation as the critical mechanism in the tran s­ formation of objects into symbols is basic to the understanding of what is a rite. This perspective permits us to see ritual as something that is created and no longer to see it simply as a finished and definitive type of social action, as is com m on in social anthropology. If, as I suggest, we must ask ourselves how a given object has become a symbol and under what condi­ tions this was possible, we must also ask under what conditions a given set of social actions is transformed into a ritual. Through the w ork of Victor Turner we know that the processes of symbolizing and ritualizing are interrelated and “go together.” I suggest that in both processes we have a phenom enon of consciousness, that is, of being aware. This is, in fact, the only common denom inator that I can see in the so-called world of ritual, constituted, as it is, by an infinite num ber of qualifications. In this way to ritualize—ju st as to symbolize— is fu nd am en ­ tally to dislocate an object from its place, a process that brings a clear consciousness of the nature of the object, of the properties of its original domain, and of its adaptation to its new locale. Thus dislocations bring on a consciousness of all the reifications of the social world, w hether arbitrary or necessary. F o r this reason the world of theater, with its artificiality and arbitrariness, is able to move us. Through the artificial, we end up being m oved by and, ourselves, mobilizing the real world, which is completely dislocated on the stage through the agency of actors. In the same way, we are perplexed and highly conscious of a mental disorder when we see som e­ one washing his hands in a complusive and systematic manner. H ere, as in all cases of dislocated gestures, the washing of the hands ceases to be a functional gesture and has only an allusive, symbolic content. It is the dislo­ cation of the gesture (to wash the hands without “ritual” or “hygienic” necessity) that makes us perceive the mental d e rang em ent.10 Victor T urn er raises this problem in his reflections on rites of passage and the use of masks on these occasions. H e observes that in Central African masks the size of everything is disproportional. All of the objects are characterized by exag­ geration. H e then asks, “W hat is the point of this exaggeration amounting sometimes to caricature? It seems to me that to enlarge or diminish or discolor in this way is a primordial mode of abstraction.” " To abstract is to be able to com pare and distinguish objects, relations, and social domains. Thus the exaggeration, as T u rn er implicitly emphasizes, is a privileged way of making the novices conscious of certain basic features of their society. But how is this realized? The mechanism is clear: there is a dislocation of

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objects (the junction of man and animal through masking), a passage that allows one to com pare and thus synthesize different planes o f the same tribal reality. T u rner is quite clear as to the importance of the process of making things conscious in ritual, although he does not take it as the central process. H e says, “M onsters startle neophytes into thinking about objects, persons, relationships, and features of their environment they have hitherto taken for g ra n te d .” 12 It is important to call attention to the process of dislocation since e v ery ­ thing would indicate that through it we can exaggerate (or reinforce), invert (or dissimulate by changing their positions), and also neutralize (or diminish or omit) qualities, and thus becom e conscious of basic processes and social spheres. It is also important to rem em ber that passage and dislocation are at the heart of the ritual process, even in complex societies with social domains far rem oved from one another. Thus, instead of having systems w hose basic characteristic is the interrelationship of complementarity of domains, as occurs in the tribal world or in traditional societies, in industrial societies we have competition, conflict, and contradictions among the diverse spheres of social reality. Dislocations here are visible and nearly always involve the contamination of all the domains by only one of them. That is what happens, for example, with rituals of sport when everything related to physical culture comes to dominate the social system. In the tribal universe things tend to occur in the inverse m anner, with dislocations in the sense of individualizing relations, persons, or social categories, since here we have systems w here everything tends to be related to everything e lse .13 Dislocations of objects in complex societies— the ritual process in industrial societies— always create symbols that should be dominant, serving as points of reference for the contamination of the entire system. It is not accidental that nearly all of these symbols are objects that, in their original domains, are associated with altitude and elevated things: the eagle, the cross on the top of the hill, the stars, moon, and sun; or with pow er or strength: the lion, the griffin, or the sword. The symbolism of our flags, and our symbolism in general, is the dramatization of p ow er as a totalizing element in a system that frequently lacks a center and is fragmented in its readings o f experience. Our m etaphor of p ow er is thus made through the joining of the high with the low, as if elevation (or the use of an object from above in a social context) could provoke a union of all and consequently end differences among the diverse domains that constitute our social experience. In the tribal world, on the other hand, the dialectic appears to be much more that of equivalent spheres, related horizontally, as is the case of the world of nature and of society. H ere, as I have already said, the problem would appear to be that of individualizing, which is equivalent in these societies to curing. Clearly one o f the critical problems raised by the dialectic of street and house is to know which objects pass from one to the other domain and under what circum stances this occurs. One should ask when it is possible to m od­ ify the domestic world or the public world, w hether to transform one of these domains into the other, or simply to emphasize one o f them. Here,

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w hen we raise the problem of dislocation and of mediation, we are seeking the m etaphor— the essential and critical link betw een these domains within the basic code that governs Brazilian culture. In this way we can suggest that there are situations in which the house,extends itself into the street and into the city in such a way that the social world is centralized by the domestic metaphor. On the other hand, we could have inverse situations, w hen the street and its values tend to penetrate the private world of the residence, with the world of the house being integrated into the m etaphor of public life. It is also possible for the two worlds to be related through a “double m e ta p h o r,” with the domestic invading the public and, in turn, being invaded by it. In this case, society creates a special space and time, truly inter­ mediate betw een the intimacy of the house and the respectability of the street. We shall see how this occurs in the case of the Brazilian Carnival.

BA SIC FO RM S OF D ISLO C ATIO N A basic relationship exists betw een social domains and the roles, ideologies, gestures, and objects contained in them. The basic concern is to discover the points of origin of a few of the social dislocations. We know that a complex society is filled with diverse m ovem ents and passages. In everyday life these passages are indelibly m arked by the dialectical rhythm of home and work. We call this frenetic m ovem ent rush hour. W hat we mark and are conscious of is not the m om ent of passage but rather the impulse to move on— the rush. W hat is important is the leaving or arrival. In the daily world, then, what we consider basic is what occurs either at w ork or at home. The dialectic is really that of the poles standing in opposi­ tion and in frank comparison, competition, or reciprocity: when we are at w ork we think about our home, our beer, and our favorite chair, w hereas w hen we are at home we talk about our work and our coworkers. In the ritual world, or rather in the dislocated world of ritual and c o n ­ sciousness, there is a fundamental difference: it is the travel that becomes important. In this context the leaving and arrival are less important than the m o vem ent itself, which becom es the ritualized element and, for this reason, is raised to consciousness. We have, therefore, a continuum that goes from the most unconscious and banal travels (such as our frequent rush hours) to the quasi-epic jo u rn e y s, the wanderings of a pilgrimage, w here the funda­ mental thing is to travel and p ro gress.14 Daily travel is functional, rational, and operational, since it has a specific aim: work, shopping, business, or study. But in ritual travel, or rather in the conscious travel of ritual, the aim and the travel itself becom e more or less the same. Thus the normal daily dislocation is inverted, since one no longer concentrates only on the goal but also on the travel itself. In ritual travel, what one looks for at the point of arrival is nothing concrete, palpable, or quantifiable, but instead blessings, cures, and signs of faith.

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Within the Brazilian social world there are other kinds of jo urn ey s, in addition to pilgrimages, each kind clearly expressing the point of departure and point of arrival and, thus, each capable of creating (or inventing) diverse ritual moments. In pilgrimages, as I said above, a man transforms himself into a pilgrim. He leaves his house, where he is personalized by a netw ork of kinsmen, compadres, and friends with w hom he has relations of com plem en­ tarity, and goes to en counter his diffuse companions of faith. The intention o f the jo u rn e y seems to be gradually to replace ties of substance with social and political ties of a more universal order, provided by religion. The p ro b ­ lem is thus to transform the son of so-and-so into someone much more generalized, such as “ son of G o d ” and brother of all the other pilgrims, no m atter how bad his material, moral, and spiritual condition may be. The pilgrimage implies a dislocation, a jou rney that relates the most intimate with the most universal until one can return again to intimacy, since w hen the travel is successful, one has again reached a formerly lost intimacy with God and through that with all the rest of mankind, including o n e ’s family. The second type of jo u rn e y is the procession. In this way of moving we have a basic variation of the pilgrimage. F o r while in the pilgrimage it is we who go, as Turner has said, to the encounter with the center, here it is the center (represented by the image of the saint) that leaving its sacred niche, comes to encou nter us. Therefore, we may or may not leave our houses, and if we do so, we take part in an orderly group with a clearly defined center, namely, w here the saint and the authorities are located. In the Brazilian case, processions— like military parades— take familiar trajectories, sanctifying streets and alleyways of residential neighborhoods or the periphery of the city. Generally, processions avoid the commercial centro, a universe profane to the point of being in competition with the values and ideals of faith. Thus the procession passes through streets where families can see and thereby receive the saint in their residences. In the procession, it is the sacred that enters into the houses and, according to the religious specialists, into the hearts of each of the spectators and participants in the procession. This being the case, a procession is a m om ent in which the saint, being above everyone, overcom es the dichotomy o f house and street, creating his or her own social domain. Carried on a litter and raised higher than the surrounding crowd, the saint is actually elevated and above others, uniting the believers into a brotherhood as they transfer (often with sincere and perturbing emotion) their sentiments of filiation during the moment of passage. Thus the saint, in passing, creates relationships that are often sparked by the faith-filled gaze of the devotees. The corporality of the saint grows and crystallizes during the very moment of the passage. As the saint passes and is seen, the faithful may transfer temporarily their group, class, or social loyalties to this new focus. This is what occurs, perhaps, when people say they were blessed by a saint. What is involved is a redefinition: group and other loyalties are dissolved in favor of an intimate, visual, pene­ trating, and affective relationship. Further, by means of the saint, a relation­

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ship develops that includes all of those who are following as well as those who are w atch ing .15 It is precisely in these moments that miracles and favors from the saint may appear in the world of men. H ere the streets are transformed and the frontiers betw een street and house are w eakened. In processions, no one refuses water to the partici­ pants, and the whole space is occupied by those who are related to the saint. The atm osp here is one of the transferring of loyalties and of opening oneself to the sacred domain. Thus windows and doors should remain open. C u r­ tains and the best embroidered linen, as well as festival vases of flowers, are placed in the windows and on the verandas. All this is done so that the saint can “ see” the house, in a dramatization of opening and of the relational domain that should pertain among men and their saint, even in their resi­ dences, where people have their strongest loyalties. We have, thus, the sacred, the saint, entering and being received into the houses. The procession raises the question of “ sacrifice,” even when it is a festival to com m em orate a saint’s day. In this context, to sacrifice oneself signifies the use of o n e ’s body for the saint. To follow the procession, re­ gardless of w hether it is difficult, implies this sacrifice, in which the body ceases to operate as an instrument of pleasure in order to serve the sacred. The transference of loyalties, now on the most intimate level, implies the expression of corporate loyalty through the use of the body itself. The social field of a procession is thus an intermediary domain, where the body as­ sumes a central position. Clearly, it is for this reason that the saint can cure sickness and festering sores. It is as if the “body of the believers” has lost its frontiers and, in the most fervent moments, can join itself with the body of the image, giving it life. It is during this moment, when the public and private lose their meaning, that cures become possible. The climate is one of ex ­ treme tolerance for the destitute and the weak in general. In fact, all are with and for the saint, w hose social existence is assured exactly because he or she is able to transcend all of the divisions and differences. This is the proof that the sacred is truly above u s .'6 A second form of procession is the military parade. H ere, too, men walk as in a procession, with one person behind the other, all going forward. But it is curious that we use the expression parade (Portuguese parada, from the verb parar “to sto p”) to designate this form of the relationship betw een the world of the house and the public universe. There are two starting points in parades: the soldiers begin from their barracks and the onlookers from their residences. The dramatic moment of a parade is the demonstration of force, w hen the men who are armed and prepared for w ar present themselves in uniform with their formations completely coordinated, and are applauded. In contrast with processions and their open and emotive m ovem ents, there is an absolute control of movements in the parade. In parades there is also an emphasis on division and separation. This is a fundamental point: in a p ro­

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cession people can enter or leave the whole because it is formed of a nucleus surrounded by a fluctuating, diffuse area. But in parades this never occurs. In this kind of event there are only two camps: those who are qualified to be inside the order and the rigid hierarchy of the event and those who are outside the isolating ropes and can only see what goes by in the street. The dramatization of the military parade is thus the hierarchical separation of positions. In the case of Brazil and other peripheral countries, the Armed Forces ap pear as the most crystalline personification of the state in its most ordered, disciplined, obedient, and powerful aspect. Perhaps for this reason parades in Brazil nearly always occur in the very heart of the city. The people who take the com plem entary role to the m archers— the onlookers— must leave their homes to see the parade. We have, then, the superordered military on the march, all clearly differentiated by their corporations, armed and uniformed, silent and absolutely solemn. And on the other hand, sepa­ rated by ropes, we have the people as a crow d— undifferentiated, talking, moving about, impressed by the military and the discipline of the m o v e ­ ments, and accom panied by their most precious possessions: their adm ira­ tion, their obedience, and their children, who are having their first lessons in practical citizenship. During a parade the center of the city is reconquered by order and molded in a civic and moralistic way, losing in the process the ch aracteris­ tics of its daily life of highly individualistic economic transactions. The important figures in the parade are the authorities, motionless in a reviewing stand, watching the contingents pass by. The focuses are the flag and the other national symbols, incarnate in the persons who occupy high places in the structure of p o w er that is the state. The rigid separation betw een the m assed crowds of onlookers and the authorities and soldiers clearly reveals the skeleton and the dram a of a society: the street and the plaza are taken from the people and becom e the domain of soldiers who, armed and uni­ formed, are renewing their ties of loyalty with the authorities. H ere the opposition betw een house and street is mediated by a rigid social body, strongly divided, with the houses being virtually dragged into the public world that recruits them, as it did with the soldiers. W hereas the participants act as “b ro th e rs” in the religious procession, here they are “fellow citizens,” some of w hom occupy high places in order, while others fill the hum bler roles of undifferentiated onlookers. Still others, the soldiers, are the third part and the key to the setting: they are materializations of pure power, or rather of po w er in its most instrumental and open— or brutal— form: armed and prepared for war. And in this case, to make way for the parade is, in fact, to keep the people far from the plazas and streets, reaffirming that in this social world the role of the masses is that of onlooker. Finally, a third form of procession is the desfile, which literally means to “walk in a file.” It is applied primarily to the processions in Carnival.

t

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THE IN V E N T IO N OF C A R N IV A L One of the characteristics of the Carnival desfile is that it is part of the socalled Street Carnival. This is opposed to the closed forms of Carnival, which occur in private clubs. These latter are in fact “H o u s e ” Carnivals (carnaval caseiro): before balls in private clubs becam e popular, around 1840 in Rio de Ja n e iro ,17 Carnival took place in private houses without any public observation. It was a family and neighborhood festival, very similar to its original form, the famous entrudo from Portugal. The Street Carnival, in contrast with a Club Carnival, is a classic segmentation. In the street, Carnival assumes the form of an open encounter, in Rio de Janeiro domi­ nated by the desfile of the Samba Schools. In the clubs the ambiance is more clearly defined, since the physical space itself is private. To view this seg­ mentation as rigid, however, would be a mistake. In fact it takes only a little reflection to see that there is a correspondence betw een street and club. They both repeat in their respective contexts the same oppositions. Thus, in the open street Carnival, the desfiles of the Samba Schools or blocos involve a closure of the Carnival space since they are clearly defined associations of persons who come together to perform a desfile. W hen they pass by there is a clearly defined public that only w atches the performers who display th e m ­ selves. And here, too, there are gradations. By the same logic, in the Club Carnival, the closure is relative for two reasons. First, one must purchase admission to the balls, a typical feature of Carnival e v e n ts .18 Second, inside the club, a structure is created that again represents the opposition. In the clubs there is a stage where the orchestra sits. There is a large hall w here people individually or collectively participat­ ing in Carnival can enter and leave as they wish. Finally, along the walls of the hall there are tables and chairs and, raised above the tables on a plat­ form, the “b o x e s .” These are closed spaces with tables and chairs. There is thus a repetition of the logic of the Street Carnival with more or less well ordered spaces and planes. In the hall, which is the arena of the festival, the plane is either individual or collective. H ere we have an open structure, like the street itself, with a perm anent desfile of celebrants (called folioes, “crazy people”), “playing” alone, in couples, or collectively. They circulate slowly around the hall in such a way that everyone is seen by everyone else, including those who are at the tables and in the boxes. The space occupied by the tables and boxes is a much more private and less open plane, for here there are corporate groups of people, usually families or groups of couples who are friends. The area of table and box thus symbolizes the house, the place from which people observe the others passing by. In the case of the boxes, the space is even more closed, and people there can be seen even better by those who are on the floor of the hall or elsewhere in the club. From the box, to the table, to the hall we have a perfect continuum. The continuum can always be reformulated in terms of “play in the hall” in opposition to “play in the b o x .” Here we can observe the same oppositions we have seen betw een street and house. In addition, at the tables and in the s

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boxes one can rest: drinking, eating, and ceasing to dance and sing in the characteristic way that is “playing Carnival.” To renew the body at the table thus brings this area still closer to the features of the house as a social category. The hall, then, is like the street— a place where energy is spent to be later renewed at a place of rest. Thus Carnival, like daily life, has two fundamental planes: the street and the house, but each has the central elements of the desfile. In the club people circulate in the hall; in the street people are incorporated in groups. There is a true equivalence betw een the closed space of the clubs and the similarly closed space of a corporation. The more closed a Carnival c orp ora­ tion, the closer it is to the reality of the hall of a club because the greater will be its capacity to use a part of the street for itself alone.

A Special S p a c e W h ether it be in the street, alley, plaza, avenue, club, school, or home, Carnival requires its own space. E ven in the club, with its own closed space, it is necessary to prepare that space. To this end the walls are decorated with motifs related to Carnival. A South Seas beach, Rio in an earlier era, designs that recall paintings by Picasso, or even a D a n te ’s Inferno, transform the club. Thus, even w hen space is clearly dem arcated, within it another space is created, designed exclusively for Carnival. The same thing happens with urban space. The commercial center of the city is closed to traffic so that people, w hether or not they are associated with the typical corporations of Carnival such as the blocos and Samba Schools, can occupy it without difficulty. The street or avenue is thus d o ­ mesticated. M ost of the time, the streets of Rio and other Brazilian cities are deadly areas, with automobiles moving at high speeds. During Carnival, how ever, these tense, high-speed areas take on the aspect of a medieval plaza, where people walk in place of cars, watching or taking part in the festivities. The business district is transformed into a place for all the en ­ counters and dramatizations typical of Carnival. The center of the city becomes really the center in spite of the holiday. In Rio de Janeiro and other cities the normal movements of holidays are inverted during Carnival. Instead of people leaving for the beaches or the more festive and leisure-oriented neighborhoods, they move toward the c en ­ ter of the city, ju s t as they do on a workday. Further, during Carnival the actual process of going to the city center is festive (and highly conscious), with people singing, dancing, and beating samba rhythms in the buses and trains. Such an event is obviously not due to a sudden improvement in urban transport during Carnival, but to the fact that the interior space of the transport is transformed into a Carnival space. The bus o r train is no longer transporting workers who must be in the office or factory at a fixed hour, but celebrants who ensure that things will begin only when they arrive. The moment of passage into an overloaded public transport, in the everyday

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world considered one of the most hellish of urban infernos, becom es a moment of great creativity during Carnival. It is a moment to be lived in­ tensely, through smiles, jo k es, and body contact. It is conscious movement from place to place, and for precisely ttiis reason it is highly ritualized and inverted. This is very different from the travel to work, which cannot be “enjoy ed ” because during it we are in an empty moment of time, time that has to be killed.19 The urban world is set aside for Carnival. But that is not all. This area itself has many spaces within it. Entire streets take on an almost private aspect, similar to the houses along them. With thfeir own lighting and d e co ra­ tion, these streets open themselves to the houses and have their own desfile and costum e competitions. Similarly, the entire city is reordered in such a way that the d ow ntow n becom es a multitude of small niches, little plazas, where people can meet and have their own small carnivals. The m a y o r’s office undertakes the decoration of the city, creating these spaces by erec t­ ing stands on the corners of certain avenues and contracting musical groups to play on them. Rio de Janeiro, seen as a megalopolis in the everyday world, is suddenly changed into a great num ber of Carnival subdivisions, each with its own stand, band, and celebrants. The usually impersonal and unarticulated city becom es personal, communitarian, and, above all, c rea ­ tive, allowing for the differences of neighborhoods, classes, and social c ate ­ gories. But all of this variation is within a single style: the Carnival style. The m ovem ent of Carnival does not differ from other ritual m ovem ents, since all require a special place for their realization. The clear contrast, how ever, betw een the Carnival desfile and military parades and religious processions is in the size of the area and its period of occupation. In parades and processions the public space (streets, avenues, alleys, and plazas) is occupied for a few hours— a morning or an afternoon. In Carnival, however, this occupation lasts for at least three days. There is also a long period of preparation. F o r this reason a special transit plan, which requires c o n ­ siderable elaboration (especially in a large city like Rio de Janeiro) is devised and implemented. In addition to the smaller platforms mentioned above, a gigantic grandstand is erected to enable people to watch the desfile of the Sam ba Schools on Sunday. The grandstand holds a total of 60,000 people, and includes bathroom s and medical services for the onlookers. Seats in the grandstand are hierarchically divided by price. There are also expensive boxes for small groups of persons and places for the press and for visitors. The space here is clearly marked, with the street itself being occupied by the com m on people, who come to live in it. The desfile, involving about 12,000 people in the case of the Sam ba Schools of the first group, occurs inside a virtual canyon of watchers. Instead of frenetic and deadly rides in automobiles, we have in Carnival an inverted m ovem ent, without goal or single direction. The peripatetic m ovem ent of Carnival is highly ritualized because it is highly self-conscious. It is not very important where one wishes to go or how one gets there, what

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becom es important is simply the act of going without direction, enjoying the act of walking, occupying the streets of the commercial heart of the city, the locale of impersonal and inhuman laws of transit in the daily world. In the Carnival o f 1977, I §aw people sleeping, urinating, and making love on the benches in the little plazas in the center of the city. I also saw people with their families, including wives and children, cam ped out in the middle of the city. Seated in collapsible aluminum chairs with bottles of w ater and coolers of beer, they unself-consciously watched the steady file of groups of celebrants and Carnival blocos. N earby, children were sleeping in the family car. It was like an inverted picnic, taking place in the middle of the savage and devouring asphalt, which was for the time transformed and d o ­ mesticated. Rio Branco A venue, the Brazilian Wall Street, was transformed into a row of houses, with the spirit characteristic of streets in the small tow ns of Brazil. I noted this same transformation on Cinelàndia, a plaza located at the end of Rio Branco Avenue. In the everyday world this is a meeting place for homosexuals and is therefore normally avoided by families. On Rio Branco A venue, w here people usually walk rapidly, p re o c ­ cupied with the act of arriving, I met people walking without the least signs of preoccupation. N o one was looking for anything or hurrying to reach an appointm ent, concerns that make us forget the pleasure of the act of moving. On the contrary, everyone becam e part of a single unit with the com m on goals of Carnival. During Carnival one looks for “hap piness,” “a smile,” “m u sic,” and sexual pleasure in these moments. The thousands of people becom e a single crowd called simply “the people” or “the m a ss e s.” They search together for these goals, which still elude the politicians and the urban planners. Fundam entally people pursue pleasure and luck, happiness and well-being. It is precisely this that impedes corporate precision and leads to the remarkable openness that ends up uniting (as in a truly religious moment) the people as simple celebrants— as members of a single human species in its eternal search for happiness and as Brazilians. The social roles of family m em ber, resident of a neighborhood, or m em ber of a race or an occupational or social category are sifted to leave only the pure truth: we are all this, but only this: men and w omen looking for pleasure within a certain style, and because of this, we are equally Brazilians.

A Multiple S p a c e On Rio Branco A venue and Cinelàndia the street becomes the stage of a theater whose perform ances have no fixed text. Spontaneous dramatizations are improvised by those in costume. There is an intense participation be­ tw een the “a cto rs” and “ s p ec ta to rs.” Everyone can mix and change places in the modification of fixed social positions that, for Bajtin, characterizes truly popular spectacles, where the people represent th em selv es.20 Here, too, the roles of actor and spectator are spontaneously questioned. One sees

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the maternal figure, the ideal housewife who cares for her husband and her children by day and at night watches a soap opera on television. W oman is seen as a generic category in the Brazilian culture, strongly (though p a ra ­ doxically and simultaneously) associated with the world of sin (by means of the prostitute) and with that of purity (by means of the Virgin Mary). All of these characters are represented by men— some homosexuals, some not— dressed as women. So dressed, they arouse both envy and condescension. It is com m on for onlookers to shake their heads in disapproval, but to watch closely these men who, dressed as women, bring into play the basic figure of the world of the house. One of these men was dressed as a pompous grande dame, with jew els, furs, and makeup incapable of hiding her age, bringing into play both social class and femininity. Another, elsewhere in the plaza, brought to the fore (through inverted and grotesque imitation) the mysteries and complications of feminine physiology: feigning menstruation and reveal­ ing to the onlookers the proper means of indicating that condition. Others, in groups, provoked the onlookers, involving them in moral harangues and com m entaries on the enorm ous number of homosexuals in the modern world. At play were two opposite domains. On the one hand there was the universe of the street, to which the homosexuals belong. On the other hand there was the universe of the house, anchored in its strict customs and morality of the family, where there is only room for the dichotomies that guarantee the reproduction of the system: man and woman, elderly and young. On the other side of the street, a few meters farther along, and within the same space, two young women were walking. They were dressed as seducers, wearing clothing that did not cover, but instead revealed. There, in the middle of the multitude they were not assaulted. On the contrary, they assaulted the men, the Brazilian m achos who during Carnival let their masks fall and showed themselves to be incredibly and surprisingly timid in sexual encounters. F a rth e r along ,were four or five youths dressed as Arabs. Each had a long robe and carried a briefcase. Their faces were serious and they carried on their backs a sign that read Owners of the World. At another corner, an elderly gentleman solemnly puffed a pipe and looked on the passing spectacle with a grave face. He was an executive, with his c h aracter­ istic briefcase. But he had no pants. And thus he dem onstrated, as Bajtin has shown, that Carnival is the glorification of things that occur from the waist down, in opposition to the repressive and hierarchical world of the bourgeoisie, w here the soul has a hypocritical primacy. Faced with all of this, we are obliged to forsake our traditional roles. We cease to be and instead live the moment of com m unitas.21 In Carnival, in its typical space, the instant overcom es time and the event becomes more than the system that classifies it and gives it a normative meaning. It is for this reason that the word most often heard is “craziness” (loucura). “This is crazy!” we say to each other, looking upon the scene. It is crazy because all space is inverted, dislocated, and everything is called into question. Crazy

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because we are in the street and it has suddenly becom e a secure and human place. Crazy, finally, because our social world, which is preoccupied with hierarchies and the logic of knowing o n e ’s place, is offering more openings than we can possibly take advantage of.

A R ite w itho ut a P atron In addition to creating this space, which generates a carefree ramble, w ith­ out goals and highly conscious, ritualized, and euphoric, Carnival is a m o­ ment without a patron. It is for everyone. This appears to be basic, for in a society such as Brazil everything is normally under the rigid control of dominant codes. As a consequence one cannot (perhaps, one should not) allow a festivity without a patron, a subject, a center, or an owner, as is commonly said in the rural and urban regions of Brazil. In fact, it is c o m ­ mon, w hen speaking of ritual moments, to say “W ho is the ow ner of the festival?” or “ F o r w hom is this festival?” Reunions of a collective character (above all, those that are programmed) should have a center, a subject, or a destiny for which they take place. This is precisely what occurs in religious processions, w hen homage is presented to a saint, commem orating the date of his or her birth, death, or passion. It is also what happens in military parades, w hen a national or regional hero is com m em orated on the date of his birth or of his heroic act. The same occurs in pa ssea tas (“protest m a rc h e s ”), w here the purpose of the march is to dem onstrate against some attitude considered unjust by the marchers, here called manifestantes, a w ord with negative connotations in Brazil, kingdom of conformity. As in the religious processions and the parades, the intention of the group is clear: to com m em orate and to protest. In sum, the meaning of the festival, the march, the reunion is known. It is precisely this that provokes people to congregate, to gather together, and finally to incorporate themselves; individuals must have a com m on goal in order to transform themselves into a body, a group, or an association. If a ritual has a subject or an owner, that becomes the focal point. It provides at the same time a motive, meaning, and unity. But who is the ow ner of Carnival? To this people reply, “E ach plays Carnival as he c a n ,” because “Carnival belongs to ev ery b o d y .” Carnival is perhaps the only na­ tional festival without an owner. In the innocence of the sayings above, there is a strong distributive, democratic, and naturally com pensatory content. This in a society ex ­ tremely devoted to the imposition of forms and fixed formulas— largely with a definite juridical form at— on ways of doing, reproducing, commemorating, and ritualizing. Both in the street and at home the Brazilian is normally subject to fixed rules that demand a constant relationship betw een him and his group. The intention of the Brazilian social order is to make the indi­ vidual dissolve and disappear. W hen faced with a conflict betw een his indi­ vidual will and a course of action dictated by norms and rites, the Brazilian

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oscillates, conciliates, and interprets. He is never the true controller of himself but rather is controlled by laws, norms, and decrees. At home he is subject to the rigid code of love and respect to his family, a group seen as inevitable and inescapable, in which he is a perpetual d e p e n ­ dent and in which his individuality is frequently dissolved. Yet it is within the family that one learns to be “som eb od y” and becom es a person, specifically, an integral m em ber whose absence would be felt by the group through “longing” (sa u d a d e , from the Latin solitate, solitude). The world of the family and of the house is focused on the complementarity betw een rules and men, events and classifications, elderly and young, masters and ser­ vants, men and w om en, parents and children, respect and obedience, blood and social relations. The world of the street is the opposite. H ere the individual is torn loose from his moral and com plem entary group and subjected to the impersonal codes of traffic, of supply and demand, of the municipality and the state. It is not an accident that in this hostile world, which is nearly always lacking in hierarchy and complem entarity, the Brazilian uses rites of distancing and reinforcement. These are implied in the expression “Do you know to whom you are talking?” which is used w henever anyone feels himself being crushed by impersonal norms and wishes to dem onstrate that, after all, he is “ s o m e o n e .” , In Brazil, therefore, it is essential to ritualize every passage betw een the domains of house and street. To prepare to leave the house is a way of making reflexively conscious (thus ritualizing or dramatizing) this passage from a secure place, w here complementarity and hierarchy reign, for another, far more individualistic place, where one is anonymous. Dress and appearance (which includes the way of walking, speaking, and gesturing) help to maintain o n e ’s position as the m em ber of a house. The preoccupation with clothing and appearance, above all in the act of going (or being) in the street, dem onstrates the desire to mark the body with social indicators. This prevents anonymity and serves as an instrument to permit the establishment of hierarchy and to create spaces where each person can perceive and know “with whom he is talking,” especially in the individualized universe of the street. To remain outside of some encompassing and hierarchical totality leaves the person subject to definition by impersonal laws: religion (as with the law of hum an charity) or the state (by means of laws that protect the individual).22 But neither the law of charity nor the laws of the state link the individual to a concrete and present social group. On the contrary, they link him as an individual to abstract entities, such as H umanity or the People. To be in this anonym ous situation, in the middle of the “ lonely c ro w d ,” is a situation that every Brazilian seeks to avoid. The pattern is rather to d e m o n ­ strate systematically that one is confronted with a special case, by a person who is not o n e ’s equal. To accept the contrary profoundly threatens a per­

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s o n ’s self-esteem. The Brazilian multitude thus always looks for the axes of hierarchy and complem entarity, attempting to avoid impersonal submission to more general norms that make individuals equal to one another. We can therefore say that all social situations have some ow ner in Brazil. If it is not a concrete person, it is a saint. If not a saint, then a hero, or even some abstract social domain itself. Always some code must be imposed so that the situation can be read and classified. But in Carnival the laws are liminal. It is as if a special space had been created away from the house and above the street, where everyone could be without their preoccupations with their groups of birth, marriage, and o c cu ­ pation. Being above and away from the street and the house, Carnival en­ genders a festival outside of the everyday social world without the individual being subjected to the fixed rules of belonging or of being somebody. F o r this reason everyone can change groups and everyone can cut in and create new relationships and unsuspected solidarity. In Carnival, if the reader will permit a paradox, the law is to have no law. This is the inverted ideology of the festival. Obviously this does not mean there are no regularities or fixed p ro c e ­ dures in Carnival. The general principle of no law is homologous with refus­ ing to treat the celebration as belonging exclusively to a certain group, segment, or social class.23 Because of this, Carnival is multiple and permits the exercise of an extrem e degree of social creativity. In it we celebrate diffuse and inclusive things, such as sex, pleasure, happiness, luxury, song, dance, and joking. All of this is summarized for us in the expression “to play C arnival.” If Carnival celebrated sexual union (and not sex), it would be centered in a structure and would be the festival of couples and of union. The ow ner or patron would be the institution of marriage (this routine of sex; this machine o f social reproduction). If, on the other hand, Carnival cele­ brated belonging to a perm anent group— for example, through commensal ity— it would have the family as its owner. Its world would then be that of the house and it would be limited to an exclusive group. Similarly, if C ar­ nival w ere a festival of wealth— and not luxury— it would have as a subject a social class. F urtherm ore, if Carnival were centered in discursive speech and on walking— instead of on song and dance— it would be a ritual of order, a cerem ony of reinforcement and structure. But the focal point of this ritual is the human universe at large, with its perennial suggestion of inclusiveness and community. F o r all of these reasons, Carnival cannot have an owner. This claim makes possible the observation that all other festivals in the Brazilian social world have an ow ner or a patron. In the same way, a festival without an ow ner is primarily a festival of the destitute and of the dom i­ nated, for in the daily world they possess nothing (except their bodies and their labor, their mystical powers and their hunger to live). They can only be the center of an inverted and paradoxical festivity, one that does not involve law and owners but that can be possessed only by those who have nothing. It

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is for this reason that Carnival can be the subject of all the social projections. It appears, therefore, as an immense social screen, where multiple visions of social reality are projected simultaneously.

Carnival G roups In Brazil there is a general belief that during Carnival anything that happens is not serious. It is a curious belief, because in fact many civil institutions have changed and disappeared while these poor, imprecise, and unpretenti­ ous Carnival groups continue with their old vigor, giving an impression of the perpetuity characteristic of a corporation. In fact, class associations, schools, clubs, political and scientific ideologies, religious creeds, government orgaizations, and political parties have an ideology of perm anence, while nearly always defining themselves as revolutionary. In fact, they have risen and died with a frightening velocity in our social scene. In the end we are left with the traditional things: family (and the house) and work (and the street), paradoxically maintaining the soccer clubs, carnivals, and the illegal gambling networks that receive the bets of our “game of the animal” (jogo do bicho).24 Everything that is defined as being neither serious nor bourgeois remains. The rest, subject to the waves of enthusiasm, and the ideological ecstasy of the elites and the well­ born, always changes and disappears. In Carnival, then, we already have an organizational inversion. The groups arranged in order to “play” (to dance the samba and sing), that is, the groups of “inconsequentiality,” to employ G offm an’s expression,25 assum e a frightening perm anence. Further, such organizations are based on imprecise ideas, bringing together people who, in addition to being uneducated (or even illiterate), are— as the middle class says— politically alienated. But the truth is that, ju st as occurs in religious brotherhoods (permanent groups with a long history in some Brazilian cities), we have here precisely that which the petty bourgeois critic frequently forgets, despite its being the heart of any organization: the interest born from within that obeys the genuine im­ pulse of the person or group itself. In this sense Carnival groups are among the most authentic and spontaneous forms of association. They do not fol­ low any external model. They did not originate in any political or sociolog­ ical handbook. They were not implemented through a specific and conscious plan of development. Furtherm ore, they did not come from those imitated countries, France and England. Thus they are not the means of responding to a world that certain groups believe exists as an absolute and unique reality. On the contrary, they are a way of opening a dialogue with the structure of social relations operating in Brazilian reality. This is where their authenticity and perm anence reside. A general overview of these groups is revealing. In Rio de Janeiro, it is widely believed (especially among the elite) that Carnival is above all the desfile of the Sam ba Schools. Yet there are, in fact, many other groups that

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share the Carnival space. Thus, in addition to the great desfile of the first­ group Samba Schools, there are also the desfiles of other organizations— such as the blocos, grupos de frevo, grandes sociedades, the ranchos, and the Sam ba Schools of the second and third groups. Since all these desfiles or presentations imply a judgm ent and a competition, their relationships to each other are dynamic and possess notable consequences, such as a dramatization of certain aspects of Brazilian society. This being the case, although the great desfile is a paradigm of Carnival,26 the Samba Schools, ranked hierarchically into groups, already have a complex relationship among themselves. In the first group there is a total of 12 schools, each with 4,000 participants in the desfiles by 1969. Since 1969, however, the A ssocia­ tion of Sam ba Schools of the State of G uanabara (now the State of Rio de Janeiro) has limited the maximum num ber of participants in the desfile of each Sam ba School of the first group to 2,500. In the second group there are 18 schools with a som ew hat smaller num ber of participants. Finally, the third group is com posed of 14 Samba Schools, with a maximum of 700 participants in the desfile. In addition to this internal division, the Samba Schools are in a constant process of intercommunication. Each year some schools pass from one group to another, depending upon their position in the desfile of the year before. T hus, for example, the desfile of the schools of the first group is always open to the school that obtained the second place in the desfile of the second group the year before. In the same way, as A m aury Jorio and Hiram Araujo have indicated,27 the last two schools of the first group participate in the desfile of the Sam ba Schools of the second group in the following year. The same rules operate in the schools of the second group with respect to those of the third group. The system of Samba Schools is thus clearly hierarchical but equally perm eated with slow, gradual reclassifications, so that it is possible for any school to rise or descend. And the time for this is, of course, the m om ent of Carnival, when the society opens itself to a series of competitions and judgm ents, or rather to reclassification. The effort made to reconcile the original position of a school with its performance in a given desfile is highly dramatic. This includes not only the evaluation of each school during a certain m om ent (the desfile) but also the determination of its position within a given group. There is nothing more dishonorable for a group than to be “declassified,” that is, placed in an inferior g roup.28 In addition to the Sam ba Schools there are blocos carnavalescos. The name bloco gives the idea of something compact, solid— of corporation and synchronization. In fact, the same occurs with the term “ Samba School,” a group that arises corporately and is invested with the functions of “teaching” the “ S a m b a ”— dance, sex, and happiness. In Rio de Janeiro there are three types of blocos: the blocos de enredo or desfile, blocos de embalo or empolgagao, and the blocos de sujo. In the Carnival of 1977, about 137 blocos de enredo paraded in desfiles, each with about 1,000 participants; 31 blocos de embalo paraded, each with about

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1,500 m em bers; and about 24 blocos de sujo, each with about 100 persons, also paraded. Adding these to the samba schools, the grupos de frevo, ranchos, grandes sociedades, and so on, we have a highly expressive n u m ­ ber of people and of organizations, even for a city the size of Rio de Janeiro. The difference betw een blocos and the Samba Schools is immediately apparent in their names. The bloco, as the word indicates, is something like Le B o n ’s multitude: large, powerful, dominating, but without the necessary internal order to elaborate and portray a dram a capable of making an impact or clearly expressing a certain point of view. The bloco orders itself in a much freer way than does the Samba School and has, as a consequence, a simpler desfile. The bloco is powerful and animated, but not very refined in internal order either during the desfile or during the rest of the year. Thus they are called blocos de embalo (or empolgaqao) and blocos de sujo. The words embalo and empolgagao clearly indicate the sense of the “pow er of the bloco” w hen it is able, during thQjdesfile, virtually to possess, rock, or incorporate the spectators, integrating them with the members of the bloco, thus abolishing the separation between the paraders (desfilantes) and the onlookers. The name of the third type of bloco (sujo) evokes a fantasy without a definite form. The m em bers are “dirty” (sujo), as if reduced to an embryonic social material, like the novices in the initiation rituals which Victor T urner analyses. The sujos thus ask to be reborn socially, since in the everyday world they represent the pariahs, the lowest of,the low, those at the end of the line socially, w here nature and culture, uterus and colon, sewer and the basem ent are confused. Only in Carnival can they be represented in a co rp o ­ rate way. H ere, in addition to being able to threaten everyone with their appearance, which does not allow for distinctions of sex or age, they intimi­ date also by doing “dirty” things (sujeira)—-jokes in bad taste, aggressive and practical jokes. The term “school,” designating associations of people who are destitute in the everyday world, raises a different paradox and inversion typical of the Carnival world. The name is fixed by time for groups acknowledged to be ignorant, systematically persecuted by the police, and resident in the squat­ ter settlements on the hills of Rio de Janeiro.29 Those who, in the everyday world, live learning rules and occupying kitchens and factories appear now as professors, teaching the pleasure of living brought up to date in the songs, the dance, and the samba. They reveal a fantastic vitality and love of life behind a surprising pow er of regimentation and order. All this is translated by the generosity that is typical of systematically exploited groups. The fact that the blocos are organized in a far simpler way than the Samba Schools makes it possible for the former to distinguish themselves from the latter by saying, among other things, that the schools “ no longer obey the Carnival tradition,” that they are racially and socially mixed (that is, full of people from outside; from other neighborhoods and social seg­

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ments), that they are “for the tourists” and not for the people, and that the schools do not parade spontaneously but put on a “ sh o w .” The blocos are expressions of much purer Carnival values, oriented tow ard ritualization of the solidarity of their neighborhoods— as with the famous Carnival Cor does of old Rio. T he blocos see themselves as supporters of neighborhoods and neigh­ borliness, ph en om ena that many tend to see as irrelevant in the m odern urban world. The blocos reproduce distinctions of family, race, education, and occupation and unite all o f their members in a single corporation, “tribe,” or bloco. Thus their desfiles have a simpler choreography, often based on dramatization of “a ttac k s” and “defenses,” with the men attacking the w om en of the bloco itself. The blocos redivide the city, taking as a central point their residence in a c om m on area (the phenom enon of neighborliness and neighborhood). The sam ba schools frame their corporate unity in the possibility of creating a space that, although linked by an umbilical cord to the “hill,” th z fa v e la , and poverty, allows the addition, for Carnival, of the rich, white, and wellborn to the p o o r and black. T he schools focus on social segment and class but prom ote a systematic integration of these classes in their highly complex desfile. According to the vision of the participants in the blocos, the schools are m uch m ore universalist and oriented toward the outside, while the blocos are particularist and oriented toward tradition and the neighborhood. A n o th e r evident level of contrast is that the blocos participate in Carnival without the elaborate costum es or important internal divisions characteristic of the Sam ba Schools. In fact, the internal structure of the blocos always presents a binary character. Thus there is a com issáo de fr e n te (a group that opens the desfile and is the “visiting c ard” of the bloco), in contrast with the m em bers of the bloco in general. Some members of the bloco sing and dance, in contrast to the percussion band (bateria). And finally there is the division into alas (minimal internal segments). H ere they are divided in a very simple way: into “richer” alas and “p o o re r” alas. In the Samba Schools, by contrast, the internal organization for the desfile (and even outside of it, in the everyday world) is extremely complex. The schools consist of dozens of alas with appropriate names, in addition to the com issóes de fr e n te , alas of w omen in Bahia dress (obligatory in Samba Schools and traditional in Rio de Janeiro), and the famous and meaningful destaques (people who ap pear alone, set apart, in the desfile). To understand further this organizational complexity, we will examine a Carnival society that paraded in 1977, in Niteroi, a city in the greater Rio de Janeiro area. This school, as is the general rule, presented a relatively elabo­ rate story. Its them e was a tribal myth, based on the story of Atlantis and entirely made up by the intellectual m entor and Carnival “director” o f the school. The school dem onstrated in its desfile an urban and extremely elabo­

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rate version of tribal groups. The school prepared itself for the desfile with the following elements or dramatic units: alas de evolugdo (dancers who move in synchronized movements), alas de passistas (dancers of the samba), destaques (isolated persons, richly dressed, generally w om en and homosexuals), figuras de enredo (basic characters for the theme that the school was presenting), allegorical floats (relatively large constructions rep­ resenting objects related to the theme), and finally the porta-bandeira and mestre-sala (obligatory persons who carry the school flag and dance). These latter are dressed as figures in the court of Louis XIV. The school presented 100 different “ scenes” in a procession. It dis­ played 17 destaques (all homosexuals and women), 42 alas de evolugdo (all individualized by means of names, costumes, and special choreography), 34 alas de passistas (with individual costumes but uniform dance steps), 17 figuras de enredo (also highly individualized) and 4 allegorical floats. The elements were ordered to permit the creation of an appropriate climate for the presentation of the theme and the aud ience’s understanding of it, to awaken the em pathy of the spectators for the school through its presentation of song, rhythm, theme, and to avoid provoking a feeling of tedium during the long desfile. The internal division into alas allows diversification and contrasts the constituent com ponents of the organization, thus “telling the s to ry .” But in this form of presentation the basic elements are processes of the massing and the individualizing of the performers. Since the school is obliged to represent a “Brazilian th e m e ,” it always chooses to give it an epic treatment. Thus the individual (the mythical or national hero) is opposed to a mass (of slaves or commoners). The dialectic of massing and individualizing is basic, even beyond the presenting of themes. The percussion band of the school is a mass, since it parades as a group in a uniform costume. Yet the percussion band produces what is most individual about the school, its tradem ark in opposition to the others: the music that accompanies the song sung by the mem bers of the school. The alas present the same process. The alas de passistas generally allow an individualization of their members through their abilities in dancing the samba. The alas de evolugdo can be more massive, with their m em bers making uniform m ovem ents. But it is necessary to stress that each of the alas has its own name and is, by definition, individual and treated as such within the school. This individualization is never left entirely free, since it is framed within a large presentational scheme in which it must perform a role and thus contribute to the whole. And here, it seems to me, the organization of the Sam ba Schools repeats, or reflects, the polarization of the Brazilian social world betw een the house and the street, the individual and the mass. The Sam ba School is a collective organization, but one that allows the destaque, or setting apart, an extreme form of individualism. In the same way the school is divided into alas that may or may not grow, multiply, or disappear, and also may enter into open competition with other semi­ independent units. Everything indicates, however, that the Samba School in

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the Carnival desfile tends to present an individualistic ideology, w here everything has its own mark, a touch of distinction and personality, a d e sta ­ que. If in the everyday world the school suppresses individualities and is powerfully ordered around the authoritarian pow er of its president, as Leopoldi stresses,30 in C a rn iv afit allows the freeing of the individuals: first, by its own individuality as a corporate group in opposition to other groups of the same kind, and second, as a group that is com posed of a certain num ber of nam ed units with a certain autonomy. Each of these units prom otes its own individuality within this dual code. Occasionally this corresponds to a single person who, in the m om ent of the desfile, becom es a celebrity (the suprem e m om ent for all participants in the desfile). Sometimes the individu­ ality consists of an ala de passistas that dances the samba in synchrony. The Sam ba School, in its desfile, expresses the association betw een the collec­ tive and the poor, in opposition to the individual and the rich. F o r everything that is rigorously collective in the school (such as the percussion band) is poor and uniform. But everything that is set apart is luxurious and rich. This m ore detailed study of the structure of the Sam ba School confirms w hat we have already mentioned. In the blocos the order is given in a binary and com plem entary scheme (based on the division betw een musicians and participants, men and women, alas of the “rich” and the “p o o r”). But in the Sam ba Schools the internal division into multiple alas allows an enorm ous flexibility. The alas can grow, diminish, create their own rules and styles, have their own names, and present their own innovations. F o r this reason the sam ba schools can join rich and poor, blacks and whites, employers and em ployees, those “inside” and those “o utside” (sam bistas and sambeiros). In fact, the entire organization of the Sam ba School is based on these sem iautonom ous and powerfully articulated groups. Thus in the Samba Schools we have a formal structure, com posed of a president, vice­ president, and various administrative sectors. This fixed structure organizes the daily routine of the group and is its center, completely linked to the local roots of the organization. In the period of preparation for Carnival (begin­ ning in August) ano ther structure is added to the nucleus, like the tail of a comet. It is m uch m ore open and unites a Carnival group, presidents of the alas, and com ponents in general. As Leopoldi dem onstrated, the two struc­ tures are superim posed and articulated. The center nucleus catalyzes and holds together the tail, which is far more diffuse and which operates with hum an resources from outside. There is thus a complex binary division, with a nucleus controlling the daily routine and commanding all the operations, but opening the way for another structure during the organization of car­ nival. We have, therefore, as G oldw asser31 and Leopoldi have pointed out, a tension betw een the managers of the everyday and the managers of the talent. The Sam ba School seems to have a distinct organizational order. In its center there is a nucleus of people strongly linked by kinship ties, residence, skin color, and general conditions of social existence. These are the

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“ o w n e rs ” or “p a re n ts ” o f the association: its founders, creators, and moral sustainers. Around this center there is another, much more flexible and diffuse order oriented to the exterior world. H ere people enter and leave, not having the same kinds of basic loyalties as those who are at the center. This is the area of the “m e m b e rs,” the “a d e p ts,” the “ sym pathizers,” or “clients” of the system. These are the people who pass through the school using its services. B etw een the groups there is a clear hierarchy, although all are m em bers of the same “association.” This point is basic to the social definition of associations form ed in societies with a strong sense of hierarchy. Thus in the Brazilian case, the sam ba school, bloco, tenda espirita or umbandista, charitable associations, religious sisterhoods, soccer clubs, and even political parties are institutions m arked by an egalitarian and sometimes inspiring individualistic ideology superim posed on a familial, patronal, and authoritarian nucleus— the real center of the so-called association. In this nucleus, however, the ideology is clearly hierarchical, with age, kinship ties, neighborhood, and friendship constantly operating on the egalitarian framework. F rom this perspective, we see that such associations are not societies in the classic and liberal sense of the term, that is, associations of individuals with the same rights before a set of rules (or laws) that they themselves instituted for their own govern­ ment. But despite the self-definition of such groups as “associations,” they are, in fact, familial or patronal groups in which the space generated by the group transforms the individual into gente, or person. It is thus the group that makes the person, not the egalitarian union that makes the group. Once the group is formed and legitimized, it separates itself from its mem bers, being reified in its laws. It finally operates in this internally divided fashion. It is difficult to say w hether this is a general phenom enon to be found in all Brazilian associations, or if it only occurs in the “popular” institutions form ed by low-status groups, such as Samba Schools, blocos, and tendas espiritas. I suspect that the phenom enon of the “c o m et” type of internal division is generalized. If this is so, one could say that Brazilian institutions are always m arked by an ideology of openness to the inclusive society. As long as the central nucleus is always strong, they have nothing to lose by inclusive generalization. This being so, their ideology will always be that of diffuse causes. In societies like Brazil, the study of Carnival groups reveals an e n or­ mous difficulty with closure. The internal structure of the group itself makes it difficult for it to be transformed into an instrument of neighborhood, segment, or class, because it allows everyone to be part o f it, w h ether on the practical or on the ideological plane. The intention of a Sam ba School is never to transform itself into a closed institution, or a total institution, in the sense of G offman,32 but rather to “ seduce” the largest num ber of people possible, above all those of the dominant class. Thus the members are im­ prisoned in a social and political paradox. To the extent that they could be political instruments due to their pow er of penetration, they have to open

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themselves to all groups of the society. Their success and popularity result in their ceasing to be truly representative of a single group. This being the case, such low-status group associations have in their divided internal order values that result in their diffusion and linking to the upper-status groups of the society. A nd this, as we saw, occurs without the risk of losing their center. Conciliation is once again the central point of the social dynamics of these groups and of the society of which they are a part. Because of this Sam ba Schools (and many other similar institutions) serve as arenas of mediation betw een social segments with conflicting social and political inter­ ests. It would appear that in Brazil total institutions have been relegated to minimal areas of the social system. It is as if there were a prejudice against groups precoccupied with defining their external and internal frontiers through a strong group ethic. The Church and the armed forces are the only groups in Brazil that act on the national level as true total institutions. The others, w hen they have a strong ethic and a preoccupation with the definition of frontiers, are judged to be antipopular or antidemocratic. The notion of dem ocracy itself tends to becom e confused with a position of preventing the closure of social groupings in Brazil, which impedes the formation of interest groups with political representation, and consequently, politically powerful groups. In this two-party “c o m e t” system, which is capable of joining the house (the nucleus) with the street (the periphery, the others), lies the root of political movements. An example is popularism, that kind of Carnival of p ow er in which everything and nothing is simultaneously represented and, apparently, resolved. This form of structuring is an impedi­ ment to the formation of total, individualizing, and therefore representative institutions. In the Brazilian social scene, we encounter the creation of institutions situated halfway betw een closure and openness, such as the soccer club. Although the club is evidently closed, the group of fans is always open, allowing the accumulation of thousands of sympathizers. Brazilians sy stem ­ atically create situations in which a social inversion is possible, for there will always be an e n co unter of values and objects situated in social domains distant and antagonistic in the everyday world.

C O N C L U SIO N In the course of this essay I have tried to show how Carnival redefines the Brazilian social world. F o r this it was not enough simply to show that during Carnival the world is inverted. It was necessary to indicate the course or orientation o f this inversion, since both the rule and the cultural domains and objects on which the rule operates are basic. This being the case, I began with the opposition betw een street and house. The Brazilian social world molds itself around this complex and

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segmentary dichotomy. The ritual sphere elaborates these domains, either in an attem pt to transcend or in an attempt to separate or reinforce the two worlds. In religious processions the house is invaded by what happens in the plaza, in the churchyard, and in the street, while in military parades the house simply disappears as a category,s since the event occurs in the very center of the city, necessitating a dislocation and transforming all the m em ­ bers of a family into Brazilian citizens. In Carnival, everything occurs as if society were finally able to invent a special space where street and house encountered each other. The festival has public aspects (such as the desfile and formal groups), but it also allows a num ber of gestures and social actions that in general occur only in the house. This dislocation of objects (social roles and values) from one domain to an other allows the elaboration of a few basic hypotheses on the definition of symbol, ritual, and drama, as well as on their fundamental principles. The ritual universe (as well as that of drama) is that of visible things, of correct things (prescribed, even if shocking or uncommon) and therefore of things that are set apart and dislocated. It is on stage that open and cruel m u rder is allowed; in the stadium that— through highly individualistic and fair competition— a hierarchy is established; and in Carnival that we allow a confusion of the rules of hierarchy. Thus, if the ritual world has a grammar, it is certainly not that which governs the sequence of actions in the everyday world. The sequence of ritual could be created on the consistent and obsti­ nate use of three well-known social principles (and consistency and obsti­ nacy are two characteristics always necessary for a “ritual action”): inversion (which engenders joking), reinforcement (which leads to respect), and neutralization (which leads to avoidance or social invisibility). Each allows the dilation, recutting, exaggeration, and turning inside out of the routines of the daily world—just as do good directors of theater or cinema, these shamans of the contem porary world. Because of the necessary co n ­ sistency in the application of a rule (activated in an absolute and obsessive way), rituals frequently need special spaces, programmed and established beforehand. Ritual thus demands a preparation (which helps its consistency) and obviously a high degree of understanding of what will happen, while the routines of the daily world simply occur: they are seen as “natural” and thus tend to becom e automatic. In rituals the routine is interpolated, inverted, and reinforced. The aim is a search for consistency that, in fact, is never obtained in “real life”— w hether because actors are never pure instruments of rules and of society (they also have their own interests), or because the rules themselves are contradictory. This is why we speak of daily life as “h a rd ,” “difficult,” and “deceiving.” And the way these contradictions are confronted is through locating their institutionalization at the level of “na­ tu re ” through an enorm ous and systematic automatization and reification. In ritual, how ever, everything happens differently. H ere it would seem that we wish for the consistency that all the idealized versions of the social world appear to reveal. F o r this reason rituals demand preparation— as do

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spectator sports, cinema, and theater. And since we want a consistent world— opposed to the automatization of the everyday— we radicalize life in rituals, making it take on again a shine, rigor, certainty, and contrast. We create, then, a special space where the routines of the daily world are broken and w here it is possible to observe, discuss, or criticize the real world seen standing on its head. F o r this reason, rituals should always be studied in contrast to the everyday. Both are part of the same structure, like the two faces of the same coin, and expressions of the same social principles. In fact, rituals are equally part of the social world, but they are m om ents in which sequences o f action are broken, dilated, or interrupted through the disloca­ tion of gestures, persons, ideologies, or objects. Take, for example, the case of an ordinary man during Carnival. In the morning he remains in bed, recuperating from the events of the preceding night, w hen he enthusiastically celebrated in the street or in a club until the small hours. H e thus ceases to prepare himself for w ork or for leisure (for Carnival is not a com m on holiday). At noonday he eats very little, since Carnival does not m ark the meal through special foods, as occurs in many Brazilian rituals. On the contrary, it is time to eat little and celebrate a lot, in a typical attitude of “castigating” the body. After all, the w ord “carnival” comes from a Latin phrase meaning literally ”to take away the m e a t.” In the same way it is precisely because there is no special food that families are isolated. Carnival does not prom ote family reunions in the houses, but rather reunions of individuals in the streets. Thus there is nothing to hold a person at home. In the afternoon our actor takes a bath (an essential operation for leaving the house) and goes to the street, w here he will stay until the next day. A sked w here he is going, he will say simply that he is going to see Carnival. In fact, the whole point of the festival is precisely in not knowing w hat will happen in a world where adventure is finally radicalized because petty bourgeois social life (constructed on small contrasts betw een right and wrong, sin and virtue, certainty and uncertainty) is suspended and inverted. The actor does not cease sleeping, eating, relating to others, entering and leaving the house, changing clothes, and so on. But now his world comes to be lived with a clear element of decision and consciousness. And more, life comes to be evaluated through such motivations as “to have to have fu n ,” “to have to have a d v e n tu re ,” “to make something h a p p e n ,” which are paradoxical because opposed to the daily world. If in the real world I look for certainty, in Carnival I am radically convinced that I will en counter uncertainty. This, without a doubt, is one of the paradoxes of the ritual world. Ritual and film reveal that what is important is not “rationality” or “know ledge” or “moral basis” or the moment o f arrival. W hat is important is the m eans, the way, the journey. The sequence is thus dislocated. Our actor no longer wakes up to rush to work in the “natural” sequence of his daily shuttling betw een house, work, and house, since he leaves the house to take part in a Carnival desfile. The street w here he celebrates, the commercial heart of the city, the onlook­

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ers who observe and applaud— the whole world around him is turned into his house. The order of things is dislocated and everything becomes full of emotion, allusive, symbolic, and representational. While the daily desfile is painful and functional, since it has definite objects and its means are equal to absolutely precise ends, the ritual desfile is pleasurable, open, and without rigidly defined objectives, in the first case, what is important is to leave and to arrive, regardless of how one arrives. In the second, inversely, what is basic is how one goes, never where one arrives. This is what characterizes the “ symbolic w andering.” It is like a curing ritual. After all, why cure if everyone does? The basic object of the cure is to make the patient live. And to live is to be subject to everything. W hen some theoreticians of ritual ask why such a complex mode is developed only to relate such a simple m es­ sage, they forget that at the rational, intellectual, distant level, which is uninterested in symbolic march, everything really is painfully simple. It is as if the researcher were only interested in the entrances and exits, never in the heart of things, the centers, the disproportions betw een means and ends. This disproportionality is precisely what characterizes the logic of the sym ­ bolic.

NOTES 1. Jorge A m ado, O Pais do Carnaval (Sao Paulo, 1970). 2. Eduardo Viveiros de Castro, “O D evido R esp eito ,” Programa de PosGraduacao em Antropologia Social, Museu Nacional (Rio de Janeiro, 1975). 3. Thales de A zev ed o , N a m o r o a A n tig a : Tradicao e M u d a n c a (Salvador, 1975). 4. In Brazil it is a sign o f poverty to reside in a space undifferentiated internally or externally, since w hoever resides in that w ay is certainly subject to the confu­ sions o f mixture, a sign o f great social inferiority. In a word, houses o f a single room can lead to “m ix-ups” (bagunca), a typical state o f “dirtiness” or social confusion. Many Brazilians are shocked, therefore, at the lack o f fences b e­ tw een houses in U .S . cities. 5. For a study o f these entities in the A m azon region, see Roberto Da Matta, “O Carnaval com o um Rito de Passagem ,” in En sa io s de A n tr o p o lo g ia Estrutural (Petropolis, 1973). 6. The implications o f this point are important and have been considered by Max W eber and Louis Dumont. For the Brazilian case, see Simon Schwartzman, S a o P a u lo e o E s ta d o N a c i o n a l (Sao Paulo, 1975) and Otavio Velho, C apitalism o A utoritario e C a m p e s in a to (Sao Paulo, 1976). 7. E. E. Evans-Pritchard, The N u e r (Oxford, 1940). 8. See Mary Douglas, Purity a n d Danger: A n A n a ly s is o f C o n c e p ts o f Pollution a n d Taboo (N ew York, 1966). Elaborating on the notion o f dirt, Douglas sug­ gested the idea o f the dirty as an object out o f place. 9. For an exposition o f the three mechanisms basic to ritualization, see Roberto Da Matta, C arnavals da Hierarquia e da I g u a ld a d e (Rio de Janeiro, 1975). 10. Freud is responsible for the example. I am thus trying to show how the notion o f dislocation is basic to the world of sym bols. In addition I want to demonstrate how o b sessiv e gestures and “automatic things” are really dislocated. 11. Victor Turner, The F o r e s t o f S y m b o ls (Ithaca, 1967), p. 103. 12. Turner, p. 105.

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Max Gluckman, “Les Rites de P ssa g e,” in E s s a y s on the R itu a l o f Social R e l a ­ tions (M anchester, 1962). 14. Victor Turner, D r a m a s , Fields a n d M e ta p h o r s (Ithaca, 1974); Victor and Edith Turner, I m a g e a n d P ilgrim age in Christian Culture (N ew York, 1978). 15. Durkheim speaks o f the symbol as the true mediator o f individual c o n scio u s­ ness. Although I believe his theory o f the totem as symbol to be wrong when applied to societies in which the individual is not a moral or social category, Durkheim was correct in projecting what he saw in his society on that o f the tribal world. Thus, for Durkheim, symbols have the function o f linking sepa­ rated individuals and, as such, should be above them all. O bviously, he is speaking o f a sym bolic world that is typical o f individualistic societies where the domains are linked only by means o f strong dislocated images. (See Emile Durkheim, The E le m e n ta r y F o r m s o f Religious Life, chap. 7.) 16. Isidoro Maria A lves made a thorough study o f Cirio de N azaré in Belém do Pará, probably the largest religious procession in Brazil, and many o f these ideas were developed in discussion with him, as well as from seeing his films o f the procession. 17. Eneida, H istoria do Carnaval Carioca (Rio de Janeiro, 1958), p. 29. 18. In contrast to the ball o f the daily world, the Carnival Ball is a source o f profit for many clubs. This being the case, they “op en ” up during Carnival. The Yacht Club o f Rio de Janeiro, for exam ple, which is a closed association o f the upper class, in Carnival promotes its famous Hawaiian Ball, usually open to anyone w ho can buy an entrance ticket. 19. Erving Goffman, Interaction R itu a l (N ew York, 1967). 20. Mijail Bajtin, L a Culture P o p u la r en la E d a d M e d ia y R e n a c im i e n t o (Barcelona, 1974). 21. Victor Turner, The R itual Pi 'ocess (Chicago, 1969). 22. Louis D um ont, “A Fundamental Problem in the Sociology o f C aste,” C o n trib u ­ tions to Indian S o c io lo g y 9(3): 17-32, 1966; H o m o Hierarchicus (Chicago, 1970). 23. I recall here the classic thoughts o f Florestan Fernandes (O N e g r o e o M u n d o dos B ra nc o s, 1972) on the paradoxical Brazilian prejudice o f not having any racial prejudice. It appears to me that this is another case in the nearly intermi­ nable series o f labyrinths existing in Brazilian society, where assumption o f social and political responsibility is simply impeded (and not desired). In this way the case o f nonprejudice as prejudice belongs to the same group o f facts mentioned above, where there is a celebration w hose law is not to have law. Everything indicates that by proceeding in this way, society regards basic social and political mechanism s as natural processes. 24. This is a kind o f game where a number, which is drawn with the state lottery, is associated with an animal, one o f a list o f 25 bichos or animals in alphabetical order. The totem ic association o f the number with the animal allows dreams to have greater suggestion, since it translates the impersonal (the number) into a highly personalized system (the animal). At the same time it is exactly this association, and what it allows in terms o f the calculating o f strategy to encircle the animal and “hit it” (in a language typical o f the hunter o f luck), that gives the j o g o do bicho its enorm ous popularity. Curiously, the game is illegal, although it is played without the least problem in all large Brazilian cities. 25. Goffman, p. 149. 26. Roberto Da Matta, “Constraint and License: A Preliminary Study o f T w o Bra­ zilian National Rituals,” in S. F. Moore and B. Myerhoff, eds., S ecu la r R itu al (Amsterdam, 1977). 27. Amaury Jório and Hiram Araújo, E sco la s de S a m b a em Desfile: Vida, P a ixa o e S o r te (Rio de Janeiro, 1969), p. 25. 28. I observe that the word “declassification” has terrible social connotations in

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29.

30.

31. 32.

Brazil. To say that som eone is “declassified” signifies that he is an “individual,” a person torn from his group, som eone without class or principles— in sum, marginal. For the origins o f the Samba Schools, see Edison Carneiro, F o lg u e d o s Tradictionais (Rio de Janeiro, 1975); Sergio Cabral, A s E sc o la s de S a m b a (Rio de Janeiro, 1974); and Maria Julia G oldw asser’s O Palacio do S a m b a . (Rio de Janeiro, 1975). Jose Savio Leopoldi, “E scolas de Samba, Ritual e S o cied a d e,” Programa de Pos-Graduacao em Anthropologia Social, Museu Nacional (Rio de Janeiro, 1975). Maria Julia G oldw asser, O Palacio do S a m b a . Erving Goffman, M a n ic o m io s , Prisoes e C o v e n to s (San Paulo, 1974).

1

O lym pic G am es a n d the T heory o f Spectacle in M odern Societies * J o h n J . MacAloon

In merely eighty years, the Olympic G am es have grown into a cultural perform ance of global proportion. Participants in the G am es— athletes, officials, dignitaries, press, technicians, support personnel, as well as artists, performers, scientists, and world youth campers attending ancillary c o n ­ gresses and exhibitions— now number in the scores of thousands and are draw n from as many as 151 nations. Two or three million persons w atch the events live, and the broadcast audience is staggering. According to rea­ sonable estimates, 1.5 billion people— approximately one out of every three persons then alive on the earth— watched or listened to at least a part of the proceedings at M ontreal through the broadcast media. Adding a “guessti­ m a te ” of the n e w spaper audience and of those interested in the G am es but prevented by political censure or the lack of facilities from following them, the figure rises to something like half of the w o rld ’s population. H ad the 1980 M oscow G am es not been truncated by boycotts, the television audience alone might have exceeded two billion. The faces of entire cities have been permanently altered by the Games, and their impact on regional and national economies is considerable. Total expenditures in M ontreal reached $1.5 billion and the ensuing debt, $990 million. The volume of symbolic exchange— interpersonal, national, and cross-cultural— defies quantitative description, but is even more prodigious and remarkable. Throughout their modern history, the Olympics have vari­ ously rejuventated or destabilized political regimes. The first G am es in *1 ow e a special debt to each o f my colleagues at Burg Wartenstein and to the Wenner-Gren Foundation for Anthropological Research. This essay was read by several additional persons w hose encouragem ent, criticisms, and suggestions have benefited it. A m ong them are D on Handelman, Donald L evine, Michael Schudson, Carl Pletsch, Janet Harris, Thomas Buckley, Elihu Katz, Daniel Dayan, Jorunn Jacobsen, and Robert Stark. To Victor and Edith Turner, who nurtured my fascina­ tion with the Olympic G am es, I ow e particular gratitude.

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Athens in 1896, helped topple two consecutive Greek g o v e rn m e n ts.1 More recently, an American president convinced much of his'nation that, short of sending a bomb or an army, the most serious political step that could be taken against the Soviet Union was n ot sending an athletic team to “their” Games. N ot a few individuals have had their lives taken or saved, their pockets lined or emptied, their happiness ensured or stolen from them by the Olym ­ pics. F o r many, many more, the routines of daily life grind to a halt for two weeks every four years. Weddings are postponed, crops go untended, work is interrupted, and the Olympics crowd most other topics out of c o n v ersa ­ tion. In short, the Games are an institution without parallel in nature and scope in the twentieth century. Insofar as there exists, in the HegelianMarxian phrase, a “world-historical p ro c e s s ,” the Olympics have emerged as its privileged expression and celebration.

THE G E N R E S OF OL YM P ISM As a self-consciously de novo enterprise born with few precedents into a world assum ed by the R én ov ateu r Pierre de Coubertin (1863-1937) to be skeptical, if not hostile, O lym pism ’s charter texts and official ideological statements are full of explicit consideration of various forms of symbolic action. Judgments on the qualities of performative genres are a central part of Olympic ideology itself. As Ernst Gombrich has argued for pictorial art, so is it also with the Olympic G am es.2 Form and purpose cannot be dis­ sociated from one ano ther if the Games are to be understood as dynamic sociocultural p ro c e sse s.3 N either will it do to subsume the entire Olympic phenom enon und er one traditional rubric— for example, “ritual.” If it is true that genre theory is today moribund in literary studies, R aymond Williams is surely correct that this sort of “cram m ing” is in large measure to blam e.4 Such a tactic will also shatter the performative approach to cultural studies before it has the o p p o r­ tunity to consolidate. At the same time, unchecked multiplication of p er­ form ance categories will sacrifice accumulated anthropological knowledge and will have a similarly crippling effect that Williams also notes in the history of literary criticism. The genres discussed below— spectacle, festival, ritual, game— by no means exhaust the roster of performance types found in an Olympic Games. But they are semantically and functionally the most significant. The order in which they are discussed reflects a passage from the most diffuse and ideo­ logically centrifugal genres to the most concentrated and ideologically c en ­ tripetal. Spectacle and game appeared earliest, festival and ritual consolidated later, in Olympic history.5

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S p e c ta c le Of all of the genres of cultural performance, the spectacle is the least well know n by anthropologists. The ethnography of particular spectacles is in its infancy and comparative studies do not yet exist. The following attem pt to catalog the distinctive features of the spectacle is to my knowledge the first. 1. The English word “ spectacle” derives from the Latin intensive specere “to look a t,” and ultimately from an Indo-E uropean root spek “to o b ­ serv e .” The dictionary definition echoes this etymology, defining “ spectacle” first of all as “ something exhibited . . . a remarkable or n o te w o r­ thy sight.” Spectacles give primacy to visual sensory and symbolic codes; they are things to be seen. H en ce we refer to circuses as “spectacles,” but not orchestral performances. 2. N o t all sights, how ever, are spectacles, only those of a certain size and grandeur, or, as the dictionary puts it, “public displays appealing or intending to appeal to the eye by their mass, proportions, color, or other dramatic qualities.” F o r example, only films employing a “cast of th o u s a n d s ,” impressive scenery, and epic historical or religious them es are designated as spectacles. 3. Spectacles institutionalize the bicameral roles of actors and audi­ ence, performers and spectators. Both role sets are normative, organically linked, and necessary to the performance. If one or the other set is missing, there is no spectacle. Thus, in a strict sense, it is not the case that “most ceremonies and rituals are spectacles,” as Max and M ary Gluckm an have claim ed.6 Certain rituals require no audience, and though rituals involve grand interests and are often visually impressive, the congregation is rarely free simply to watch and to admire. If its attention to the altar, catafalque, or dance plaza is characterized by no more than “distanced o bservation ,” it is typically thought guilty of bad faith, sacrilege, or hypocrisy likely to threaten the efficacy of the performance. N o r does ritual usually permit the optional­ l y generic to the spectacle. Ritual is a duty, spectacle a choice. C o nse­ quently, we speak of ritual “degenerating” (“de-genre-ating”) into spectacle: E a ster into the E a ster Parade. O f course, “exotic” rituals may be perceived as spectacles by outsiders who happen upon them— explorers, tourists, or anthropologists. But these outsiders commit a “genre e rro r” analogous to what Gilbert Ryle has called a “category e rro r,” and Clifford G eertz an error in “p erspective.” Since their roles as observers are not built into the structure of the perform ance itself, o u tsid ers’ typifications of ritual events as spectacles are at best m etap ho r­ ical, or rhetorical, as with Freud adjuring his readers to call up before their eyes “the spectacle of a totem m eal.”7 Just as one c u lture’s rituals may be erroneously taken for a n o th e r’s spectacles, so too unfamiliar styles of native ritual participation may seem

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like “ simply w atching” to an outside observer, as w hen Evans-Pritchard w rote of a N u e r exorcism: v It w as very noticeable during the cerem ony how those present, as is often the case in N uer cerem onies, chatted among them selves, asked for tobacco, and so on. They evidently, especially the children, enjoyed the spectacle. . . . [The p o ssessed man] him self s h o w e d little concern for what w as going o n .8 (empha­ sis added)

In his brilliant analysis of Sri Lankan exorcism, Bruce K apferer shows how unwise it is to make such judgm ents without reference to the cultural deter­ minants of audience style and the behavior of the afflicted. O ther societies most certainly have their spectacles, and, as I shall show in this essay, rituals may be nested within true spectacles. But unless the genre is recog­ nized as analytically and performatively discrete, and unless attention is paid to “em ic” categories and norms, neither ethnographers nor culture theorists will find any coherent place for the spectacle within their accounts. M etaph or will overw helm analytical precision in the theory of the spectacle in just the same way as it did Frobenius and Huizinga in their important early studies of play.9 This is not to say, how ever, that the metaphorical uses of the word “ spectacle” are without interest in our own cultures. Our English trope “making a spectacle of on e se lf” (in French, se donner en spectacle) reflex­ ively confirms the first three distinctive features of the genre by inverting them. W hat is private or hidden becomes publicly exhibited; w hat is small or confined becom es exaggerated, grand or grandiose w hen we make a specta­ cle of ourselves. And our comrades or strangers are forced into the role of spectators to our unusual behavior. In recent times, behavior so described is always untow ard and embarrassing, and the trope is accusing and deroga­ tory. But as recently as the turn of the century, “making a spectacle of o n e se lf” could be a noble act. Here is William J a m e s ’s description of the death of a friend and colleague: Poor Frederick M yers died here a fortnight ago, in great suffering from his breathing, but a superb spectacle, awakening especially the admiration o f his doctors, o f the indifference to such temporal trifles which the firm conviction of continued life will give a m an.10

The reasons for this shift in the history of speaking are as fascinating as they are unknow n. Certainly, they must be discovered before a complete theory o f the spectacle can be offered, and later I will speculate on the problem. 4. Spectacle is a dynamic form, demanding movem ent, action, change, and exchange on the part of the human actors who are center stage, and the spectators must be excited in turn. Certain plastic artw orks, like C hristo ’s “Running F e n c e ” or S m ith so n ’s “Spiral J e tty ,” are visually spectacular, but are not spectacles. And though “ spectacle” is often confused in com m on

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speech with aesthetic categories like K a n t’s “ sublime,” the use of the former to describe natural ph en om en a is metaphorical, as the sixteenth-century Swiss humanist K o n ra d G essner recognized when he wrote of the Alps: “It is such a pleasure for the mind to admire the immense masses of the m o u n ­ tains, like a spectacle, and to lift up the head almost into the clou ds.” 11 The Olympic G am es do not merely fulfill these criteria, they are specta­ cle par excellence, a type case against which all others may be compared. The G am es are irreducibly visual. Quite literally, they must be seen, and seen in person, to be believed. Though it has played a capital role in the spectacular quality and growth of the Games, television, even of the highest technical standard, reduces the spectacle to constricted little rectangles of color and form, systematically impoverishing the spectacle’s gifts to the hum an eye. The crowds streaming toward vast stadiums of concrete and glass, enclosing vibrant patches of brilliant green or burnished hardw ood upon which athletes and officials in richly hued uniforms parade, process, and compete; the city transform ed by banners and emblems, sidewalk art shows, impromptu dancers, singers, clowns, and street musicians; the haw kers of souvenirs and drinks, the scalpers of tickets, spilling over into the streets, calling their bids in a dozen languages; the hundreds of ushers, police, and civic authorities attempting to keep order among the thousands of tourists and fans milling about or congregating in bunches to exchange gossip, rumors, names, stories, and, lately, badges and emblems: the sheer scale and intensity of it all mock the puny efforts o f the television cam era to capture it in two-dimensional images. The Olympic Games have inspired a wealth of written and spoken com m entary, and symphonic, balletic, and plastic artworks. Often these are rich and provocative, but they are c o m ­ mentaries on the spectacle, interpretive glosses that cannot capture the vi­ sual ecstasies and terrors of the original. Only film effectively translates the spectacle into another medium, and only two films of the scores that have been made— Leni Riefenstahl’s Olympia of 1936 and K on Ic h ik a w a ’s film of the 1964 Tokyo G am es— have really succeeded in capturing the epic visual quality in the G a m e s .12 As for the spectators, their role is secure, and often predom inant in organizational matters. Every effort is made to accom m odate them in the choice of host cities, the design of stadiums, and the arrangem ent of the program. In the eleventh-hour controversy over w hether to cancel the M ontreal Games because of C a n a d a ’s unprecedented refusal to admit the Taiw anese team into the country, even though it was recognized by the International Olympic Committee, the public statements of I.O.C. mem bers expressed as much concern for the disappointment of the spectators as for that o f the athletes. Fanciful proposals that the G am es be conducted without spectators, proposals put forward occasionally in response to abuses, are taken by the I.O .C. to show fundamental ignorance of the aims o f the Olym­ pic m ovem ent, for, as Coubertin wrote in 1910, “the crowd has a part to

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play, a part of co n se cratio n .” 13 Moreover, the m ovem ent is now utterly dependent upon television revenues, that is, upon the 'spectators, for fiscal viability. Finally, it seems unnecessary to dwell on the dramatic character of the focal performances that bring spectators and participants alike to the Games. The athletic contests do not merely involve dramatic movem ent, they are pure m ovem ent dramatized.

S p e c ta cle a n d F estival Additional features of the spectacle can be highlighted by contrasting it with the related genre of festival. Again, etymology is enlightening. The English w ord “festival” derives from the Latin fe stivu s “gay, merry, lighthearted” and from the noun f e s t u m “festival” or “festival tim e.” The latter is used specifically for the great Roman feasts, such as the Lupercalia, Lemuria, Saturnalia, and Vestalia. Congruently, the dictionary defines “festival” as both a certain “jo y o u s m o o d ” and as “a time of celebration marked by special observances . . . a program of public festivity.” Spectacle, by contrast, denotes no specific style or mood aside from diffuse w onder or awe. Rather, a broad range of emotions may be intensified or generated in the spectacle. We speak of “fearful spectacles” as well as “jo y o u s spectacles.” M oreover, festivals are less bound externally to calen­ dars and internally to fixed programs of “ special o b se rv a n c e s.” Spectacles tend to be irregular, occasional, open-ended, even spontaneous, and the ever aggrandizing ethos of the spectacle, with its generic maxim “more is b e tte r ,” tends to destroy the symmetries of balance, harmony, and duration that distinguish traditional festivals. H ence the genres of spectacle and fes­ tival are often differently valenced. While we happily anticipate festivals, we are suspicious of spectacles, associating them with potential tastelessness and moral cacophony. We tend, for example, to associate the R om an circus games rather than the medieval tournam ent with the term “ sp ectacle.” In festival, the roles of actors and spectators are less distinguishable than in spectacle, where the increased emphasis on sight, often at the expense of other modes of participation, seems to increase the threat of oversight. The following review, which appeared in a Chicago newspaper, makes the point with regard to cinematic spectacles, in this case A lexander the Great (1966). “Richard B urton (in blond hair) makes a good Alexander, but this attem pt to film an intelligent spectacle mainly proves that an intelligent spectacle is a contradictory proposition.” Again we find that w hen individual experience is characterized through reference to the performative genre of spectacle, intellectual and moral am ­ biguity reappears. C hristopher Ish erw o o d ’s retrospective account of his Berlin days includes this passage: Only a very young and very frivolous foreigner, I thought, could have lived in such a place and found it amusing. H adn’t there been something youthfully

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heartless in my enjoyment o f the spectacle o f Berlin in the early thirties with its poverty, its political hatred, and its despair?14

In H erm an n H e s s e ’s parable of 1919, “Z a ra th u stra ’s Return: A Word to G erm an Y o u th ,” the moral content of the trope is inverted. Yet this inver­ sion too depends for its ethical surprise on the preexistent moral ambiguity and skepticism that surround the term “ spectacle” for the reader. Z arathustra comes upon a demagogue haranguing the crowd from atop a vehicle. W hen the speech is finished, the young men rush up to Z arathustra to plead for leadership and salvation in their day of greatest affliction. Z arathustra rem arks how pleased he is to see them “play-acting,” for men are “never so honest as th e n .” The young men heard him and exchanged glances; they thought there was too much mockery, too much levity, too much unconcern in Zarathustra’s words. H ow could he speak o f play-acting when his people were in misery? H ow could he smile and be so cheerful when his country had been defeated and was facing ruin? H o w could all this, the people and the public speaker, the gravity o f the hour, their own solem nity and veneration— how could all this be a mere specta­ cle to him, merely something to observe and smile at? Should he not, at such a time, shed bitter tears, lament and rent his garments?15

Again, it must be noted that such reflexive, intentionally negative, or unself-consciously skeptical literary uses of the term “spectacle” as we have seen in the quotations from H esse, Isherwood, and Evans-Pritchard, resp ec­ tively, w ere not at all typical of the middle and late nineteenth century. To the example of William Jam es that of Ernest Renan may be added. Renan, we are told by a biographer, wished that his death and funeral would be “one of the finest moral spectacles of our age.” 16 Are we to understand the literary image as a metaphorical reference to real cultural perform ances? Does the striking alteration over time of the meaning and moral valence of the trope depend upon and give evidence for parallel changes in public spectacles themselves? W hat contem porary performances do these writers have in the backs of their minds as models? Or is the m atter historically more co m ­ plicated than this? Are the developments of the trope and of the perform a­ tive genre both responses to a larger and more complicated skein of social and cultural changes in the modern world? G eertz has argued from the case of the Balinese cockfight that cultural performances may be understood as “ stories a people tell about th em selv es.” 17 Perhaps the growth of the specta­ cle genre in the modern world is to be understood as a public form of thinking out, of telling stories about certain growing ambiguities and am biva­ lences in our shared existence. In their performances, our poets reflect our spectacles back to us in single figures of speech. F o r the m oment, one thing is clear. Just as the word “festival” could not be substituted for “spectacle” in any o f the texts cited, so too the perform a­ tive genres o f festival and spectacle are in frank opposition to one another. While the Olympic G am es are our grandest spectacle, they are simulta­

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neously a festival, and much of the character and history o f modern Olym­ pism is contained in the dialectic betw een these two genres of cultural performance. The same forces that have precipitated their spectacular qual­ ity are responsible for much o f the global popularity o f the Games. Yet the hierarchy of the Olympic m ovem ent has persistently declared itself against spectacle and for festival. Coubertin called the Games “a festival of human unity” and, by 1935, he had grown worried that they might become “only theatrical displays, point­ less sp ectacles.” 18 Successive generations of Olympic officials have followed the fo u n d e r’s lead by banishing the word “spectacle” from the official lexi­ con in favor of “festival,” which is endorsed and self-consciously pursued. F o r example, M onique Berlioux, former French swimming champion, press attachée to Georges Pompidou, and executive director of the I.O .C ., created a storm in Montreal when she complained to the press that the Games there lacked “a sufficiently joy ou s and festive a tm o sp h e re .” She cited the forbid­ ding size of the facilities, the omnipresent security forces, and the paucity of colorful Olympic banners around the city. Candidate cities are conscious of the I . O .C . ’s concerns and often include in their proposals promises to minimize the spectacular character of the Games. Munich, for example, pledged itself to an “intimate Olympics.” The official end orsem ent of the festival genre includes both mood and program. In 1918, Coubertin wrote, “If anyone were to ask me the formula for ‘Olympizing’ oneself, I should say to him, ‘the first condition is to be jo y fu l.’ ” 19 Yet as they have gained prestige and scope, the Games have becom e increasingly troubled by political, economic, and organizational struggles. The M oscow imbroglio, the huge Montreal debt, the Munich m as­ sacre, the South African and Rhodesian questions, the repression of the M exican students, the ritual protests of black Americans, the cold w ar bat­ tles of Russia and the United States, and H itler’s attem pt to co-opt the Games: these are the most recent, dramatic, and familiar examples. The joyfulness of the Games has become increasingly problematic. And on the microsocial level, for those spectators who take little interest in politics and for w hom ever grander arrangements are made, the cautions of the ancient Stoic Epictetus are still salient today. But som e unpleasant and hard things happen in life. And do they not happen at Olympia? D o you not swelter? Are you not cramped and crowded? D o you not bathe badly? Are you not drenched w henever it rains? D o you not have your fill o f tumult and shouting and other annoyances? But I fancy that you bear and endure it all by balancing it off against the memorable quality o f the sp ectacle.20

F o r most participants and spectators, at least enjoyment and probably jo y have been the dominant moods during the Games. Personal discomforts and surrounding controversies retreat from the mind in medias res. “ Let the Fun Begin” read a banner headline in a Montreal new spaper on opening day

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in 1976, expressing the anxious wishes of millions. But these days a strong foreboding remains about the fate of the Games in general and about the likelihood of joyfulness persisting from one day to the next within each Olympics. The immediate causes vary from one Games to the next, but the overall shift is steady and unremitting. The emotional unpredictability of the spectacle has challenged, and perhaps now supersedes, the more reliable affective structure of the festival. On the formal, programmatic level, the I.O .C. attempts to fix and to maintain the external and internal boundaries of space, time, and intention that distinguish the festival from the more centrifugal, diffusive, and p e rm e ­ able spectacle. The Games are bound to a calendar, occurring once, and only once, every four years. Indeed, the Olympic m ovem ent has its own calendar.21 The I.O .C. has waged a persistent legal and rhetorical battle to protect its m aster symbols and emblems (the name “Olympic G a m e s ,” the five-ringed flag, the motto Citius, Altius, Fortius, the Olympic medals, the sacred flame) from unauthorized u s e .22 Self-consciously conservative with its symbolic resources, the hierarchy accedes to very few of the hundreds of requests it has received for patronage and support.23 The I.O.C. has re­ peatedly rebuffed proposals that it decentralize and expand. Since 1915, w hen Coubertin chose Switzerland as the appropriately symbolic home for himself and for Olympism, the m ovem ent has been centered in L au sanne, w here a paid staff of less than twenty labors in a municipally donated chateau. Though National Olympic Committees have bureaus in each m e m ­ ber nation, the I.O .C. refuses to open any branch offices and has resisted other sorts of bureaucratic elaboration. Olympic officials have sought not only to regulate the boundaries b e ­ tw een the “outside w orld” and the festival but also to preserve balance and harm ony within it. Long before the Games had attained their mass popular­ ity and had begun their genre shift into spectacle, Coubertin worried inces­ santly about their “e u ry th m y .” In 1906, he wrote: The crowd o f today is inexperienced in linking together artistic pleasures o f different orders. It is used to taking such pleasures piecem eal, one at a time, from special fields. The ugliness and vulgarity o f settings do not offend it. Beautiful music thrills it, but the fact that it sounds amid noble architecture leaves it indifferent. And nothing in it seem s to rise in revolt against these wretchedly banal decorations, these ridiculous processions, these detestable cacophonies and all this frippery which com pose what nowadays is called a festival— a festival where one guest is always missing, taste.24

Coubertin saw the fragmentation of public celebrations not merely as a local problem for the Olympic Games to solve but as something diagnostic of modernity itself. In 1910, he asserted that: The men o f old p o ssessed the feeling for collective m ovem ent which w e have lost. . . . They had acquired and developed their superiority through custom . . . . It must be admitted that the singularly human character o f the then

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prevalent cults facilitated this acquisition and developm ent. N ow ad ays scarcely any public cult is possible and its manifestations,could in any case scarcely take a similar form. A s for lay festivals, nobody has anywhere su c­ ceeded as yet in giving them an appearance o f true nobility and eurythm y.2N

The concern for order, nobility, and taste underlies most of the regula­ tions issued by Coubertin and his successors. Among them are the statutory limitation of the festival to seventeen days or less, a maximum of three national entries (or one team) for each event, strict criteria for adding new sports to the program and concerted efforts to reduce the present num ber of competitions, representation by nation-states only, severe contractual re­ strictions on the powers of the host city and the organizing committee, minute supervision of rites and ceremonies, and a close watch on ancillary cultural programs. The more-is-better ethos of the spectacle, “gigantism” in Olympic vocabulary, is the sworn enemy in all this, even as the festival reaches out to encom pass the whole world. While spectacle and festival are in opposition to each other, at the same time they share a key feature. Both are, in fact, “m egagenres” or “ m etag enres” of cultural performance. N either specifies directly what sort of action the participants will engage in or see. Instead, each erects an additional frame around other, more discrete performative genres. There are religious festivals, dram a festivals, commercial festivals, opera and film fes­ tivals, arts and crafts festivals, even culinary festivals, as well as com bina­ tions of these. So too with spectacles. These metagenres are distinguished by their capacity to link organically— or as Coubertin would have it, to reunite historically— differentiated forms of symbolic action into new wholes by means of a com m on spatiotemporal location, expressive theme, affective style, ideological intention, or social function. In each of these ways, Olympism attem pts to marry the genres of ritual and game.

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R itu a l

F rom the earliest years of the movement, Coubertin emphasized the impor­ tance of Olympic ritual. In 1910, he wrote: It will be realized that the question o f the “cerem onies” is one o f the most important to settle. It is primarily through the cerem onies that the Olympiad must distinguish itself from a mere series o f world championships. The O lym ­ piad calls for a solem nity and a ceremonial which would be quite out o f keeping were it not for the prestige which accrues to it from its titles o f nobility.26

Ritual is usually distinguished from other forms of ceremonial behavior in two ways. Ritual invokes and involves religious or sacred forces or, in Paul Tillich’s phrase, the locus of a p eop le’s “ultimate c o n ce rn .” And ritual action effects social transitions or spiritual transformations; it does not merely mark or accom pany them. These two features are intimately related

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in the ritual process. As the works of Victor T urner have amply shown, the efficacy of ritual within the ongoing process of group life is dependent upon the ritual’s capacity to place actors into direct, relatively unmediated co n ­ tact with the very ground of structure itself. Or, as Terence T urn er puts it, “the basic principle of the effectiveness of ritual action. . . . is its quality as a model or em bodim ent of the hierarchical relationship betw een a conflicted or ambiguous set of relations and some higher-level principle that serves, at least for ritual purposes, as its generative mechanism or transcendental g ro u n d .”27 The “transcendental ground” of Olympic ritual is the idea of humankind-ness. In Olympic rituals, the symbols of generic individual and national identities are assem bled and arrayed in such a way as to model, or to attempt to model, the shared humanity that is both the ground of the structural divisions the symbols condense and portray as well as the ultimate goal of Olympic ideology and practice. T he experiential truth of the model, and, therefore, the efficacy of the rituals, is dependent upon experiences of what Victor T urner calls com m u nita s within the ritual performances. In Olympic ritual, at least in official and many unofficial interpretations of it, the “higher­ order principle” discussed by Terence T urner and the sought-for experience stressed by Victor T u rn er are one and the same thing. Coubertin insisted repeatedly on the religious character of the Games. H e w rote in 1929 that “the central idea” of the Olympic revival was that “m odern athletics is a religion, a cult, an impassioned soaring.”28 But only Olympic athletics, by virtue of their “titles of nobility,” could be fully c o n ­ nected with the worship of humanity. Coubertin belonged to the tradition of F ren ch social thought that D. G. Charlton has called the search for a “ secu­ lar religion.” Coubertin challenged the dualism of the conservative Catholi­ cism in which he was raised and objected to the supernaturalism of the Church and its antagonistic attitudes toward the liberal political and social currents of the day. At the same time, he retained from Catholic practice the stress on ritual evocation of religious sentiments as against the elaboration of intellectual dogma. In 1897, he wrote: In reality, there is no such thing as a really rational religion. A really rational religion would exclude all idea o f worship, and would consist only in a set o f rules for upright living. . . .Reason, which the Frenchman so readily o b ey s, has finally established the n ecessity o f the religious sentiment. Science has shown that it is pow erless to take its place. If one glances about him, he perceives how profound is the religious sentiment o f our ep o c h .29

It took Emile Durkheim rather longer to arrive at this conclusion. The Olym ­ pic G am es can be seen as an answ er in action to D u rkh eim ’s call for “new feasts and c erem o n ies” to guide m ankind.30 C o u b ertin ’s class background, his personality, and his early identity struggles committed him throughout his life to the individual as the unit of hum an moral being, and he bequeathed this stance to Olympism. At the

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same time, as a French patriot and a political historian, he took the nation­ state to be the most salient unit of modern social organization and solidarity. Olympic rituals incorporate the three structural identities of individual, na­ tion, and humankind and, officially at least, recognize no other social units.31 C o u b ertin ’s vision of a world community was based upon a philosoph­ ical anthropology. Anticipating distinctions later made by Marcel M au ss,32 Coubertin discriminated betw een “cosmopolitanism” and “true inter­ nationalism” in 1898.33 The former view derides and devalues the significance of nationality and discrete cultural traditions and calls for a world citizenry in which all such differences are overcom e and finally a b an ­ doned. The latter, “true internationalism,” understands cultural differences as an enduring and marvelous feature of the human landscape and argues that world peace depends upon the celebration of human diversity and not the eradication of it. This was C oubertin’s position. “H u m a n k in d ” exists, he thought, not in spite of, but because of social and cultural diversity, and the task of revived Olympism was, in Ruth B enedict’s phrase, to make the world “ safe for differences.” Generalizing from his own life, Coubertin insisted that internationalism is not incompatible with patriotism, at least with p a­ triotism “rightly u n d e rsto o d .” Properly speaking, cosm opolitanism suits those people who have no country, while internationalism should be the state o f mind o f those who love their country above all, w'ho seek to draw to it the friendship o f foreigners by professing for the countries o f those foreigners an intelligent and enlightened sym pathy.34

In emotionally evocative ways, Olympic symbols condense and Olympic rituals model these broad and broadly modern social processes and p sy ch o ­ logical configurations. In earlier studies I have subjected Olympic rituals to extensive processual symbolic analysis. H ere I can only point out that Olympic rituals are organized around the classic schema of rites of passage first recognized by Arnold van Gennep. The opening ceremonies, including the lighting of the sacred flame at Archaia Olympia and its relay to the “N ew Olym pia,” are rites of separation from “ordinary life,” initiating the period of public liminality. The opening ceremonies stress the juxtaposition of national symbols and the symbols of the transnational, Olympic, “h u m a n ” community. The a th ­ letes and officials process into the stadium in national groups marked by the flags, anthems, emblems, and costumes of their motherlands. The p roces­ sion and arrangem ent on the field expresses cooperative unity, though a unity of ordered segmentation. In the second stage of the rite, a liminal period reduplicating the overall liminality created by the opening cerem ony as a whole, the Olympic flag is carried into the stadium and lifted above all the national flags, the Olympic anthem is played, and the sacred flame ar­ rives to consecrate the festival. The president of the I.O.C. invites the chief of state of the host nation to pronounce the formula opening the Games. In

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each of these ways, the symbols of the Olympic community are positioned hierarchically over and above the symbols of the nation-states, but without contravening them. The third stage or phase of the opening cerem ony has lately consisted of a highly choreographed and visually alluring pageant of dance and music that shifts the mood from the excited expectation and high solemnity of the first two phases to the jo y that is prescribed as the dominant m ood of the festival. F o r the spectators, the games themselves and the victory ceremonies are rites of intensification, whereas, according to much official exegesis, they are rites of selection and initiation for the athletes. H ere a third level of identity comes to the fore, that of the individual, represented by the indi­ vidual athlete. In the victory ceremony, the individual’s unique achieve­ ment, iconically symbolized by the athlete’s body, is first honored with the symbolic rew ards of the Olympic community— the medals and the olive fronds cut from the grove of Zeus in the sacred precinct of Archaia Olympia, handed over to or draped upon the victorious athletes by a presiding mem ber of the I.O .C . Then the nations of the victors are honored by the raising of their flags and the playing of the ch am p ion ’s national anthem. Simulta­ neously, according to official exegesis, the nations, through their m aster symbols, are offered the opportunity of honoring the victors, presented now in their double identities as native sons and daughters and as initiated rep re­ sentatives of a wider hum an community, which, through them, these nations are sum m oned to recognize. The sight of heretofore stoic and “Olympian” athletes weeping under the immense symbolic weight of the victory rite is surely one of the most powerful and evocative images generated by the m odern world. The closing ceremonies are rites of closure and reaggregation with the normative order. H ere the role of the national symbols is altogether reduced. Only the anthems of G reece and of the present and of the subsequent host nations are heard. The flags and name placards of each country are sepa­ rated from the athletes and carried into the stadium in alphabetical order by anonym ous young w om en recruited from the citizenry of the host country. Since 1956, the athletes “m a rc h ” in a band, not segmented by nationality, dress, event, or degree of Olympic success.35 This is offered as a ritual expression of the bonds of friendship and respect transcending barriers of language, ethnicity, class, and ideology that the athletes are said to have achieved during the festival. At the same time, it is a symbolic expression of the hum ankindness necessary and available for all men and women, a final display and emotional “p r o o f ” that patriotism and individual achievement are not incompatible with true internationalism but are rather indispensable to it. After the Olympic flame is extinguished and the Olympic flag lowered and solemnly carried from the stadium, moments during which I observed w idespread weeping in the stands at Montreal, the assembled thousands and the space that they occupied are released into an extraordinary expression of spontaneous c o m m u n ita s .36

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O f course, there are other kinds of “typical” Olympic ritual experiences than those I have described, ju st as there are many unofficial exegeses of Olympic ritual symbols. Olympic rituals have been the staging place for international quarrels, chauvinistic episodes, intranational conflicts, and egotistical displays. Indeed, the Games have produced a debate over the social efficacy o f public ritual that is in certain ways unique in the modern world, a debate that inevitably recalls for the anthropologist the famous c ontroversy betw een Malinowski and Radcliffe-Brown over the anxietyreducing and anxiety-producing character of traditional rites. T he fantastic release of human joy in the Olympic Games is intimately related to the festival frame that surrounds these solemn rites. But there is as well a terrifying fear, an omnipresent sense of tragic consciousness that haunts an Olympic Games. It has to do with the fate of ritual and festival experiences w hen they becom e em bedded within a spectacle.

Games Anthropologists have recently begun to appreciate the immense importance of games and sports in modern life.37 In this they have lagged behind p sy­ chologists and behavioral scientists. A nthropology’s traditional emphasis on “primitive” societies, w here adult games tend to be irreducibly bound up with religious, mythic, or sociostructural processes, has impeded awareness of the discrete role games play in societies such as our own. Mutatis m u ta n ­ dis, games and sports have been taken for granted as features of the modern landscape w hen, in fact, organized sport as we now observe it is a re m a rk ­ ably recent innovation, barely a century old. W hen Coubertin called for the resurrection o f the Olympic Games in 1892, he had simultaneously to win over a mass public to the concept of international sport itself.38 Even m ore than disciplinary priorities and historical myopia, the nature of the phenom eno n itself has frustrated anthropological understanding. Gam es, and play-forms in general, are perhaps the most paradoxical of all cultural processes within societies with such value structures as our o w n .39 In what follows, I present a condensed summary of the apparent paradoxes with which any study of W estern play-forms must necessarily begin, aware of many phenomenological and conceptual complexities I ignore. 1. As fo r m a l structures, games always involve fixed and public rules, predeterm ined roles, defined goals, and built-in criteria for evaluating the quality of the performance. The rules are for the most part nonnegotiable and internally coercive. As long as they are respected, the game is a social system without deviance. And yet now here have adult games and sports made greater inroads than in cultures typified by individual autonom y, o p ­ tional and diversified role choice, contempt for coercive norms or for the voluntary acceptance of such norms, cultural pluralism, and class and status stratification. M oreover, game rules circumscribe an artificial and distinc­ tively narrow subset of potential human actions. N evertheless, games come

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to be “as large as life” (“Is chess like life? Chess is life!”— Bobby Fischer) typically in those societies that provide their m em bers with unprecedented am ounts and kinds of information about how varied human existence can be. 2. Certain affective I experiential qualities of games seem to conflict with the hidebound ch aracter of the rules, particularly in cultural milieus w here “fu n” is associated with deviance. M oreover, the affective spectrum of play is itself curiously polarized. Games are fun, “entertaining,” “enjoy­ a ble,” “lighthearted.” And yet games regularly carry off the players into states of utter earnestness and commitment, at times becoming a rapture or a sickness unto death. 3. On the m otivational Ifu n c tio n a l levels, games are the veritable type of free, voluntary activity. As Sartre has written: “As soon as a man ap­ prehends himself as free and wishes to use his freedom, . . . then his activity is play.40 G am es are autotelic, intrinsically interesting, self-rewarding, selfactualizing. One plays for the experience of play. Games are, in and of themselves, “good for nothing” with respect to extrinsic rew ards of self­ esteem, money, status, and power. Yet games can and do have important psychological, economic, social, and political consequences of which the players and the larger audience are quite aware. Indeed, “playing gam es” has becom e a root m etaph or and analogue for the generative process in science, art, warfare, com m erce, and politics precisely in cultures that are at the same time derisive of “mere gam es” as standing apart from or in opposi­ tion to “the serious life.” 4. As s e m a n tic !s y m b o lic !c o m m u n ic a tiv e systems, games at one level seem absolutely simple. If one knows the rules, one can readily play across linguistic or even species lines. The meaning of games, however, is deeply paradoxical. Gregory Bateson has draw n an elegant analogy betw een the semantic structure of games and E pim en ides’ classic logical paradox (1972:184ff.). The m etacom m unicative message “this is p lay,” which com poses the play frame, has the following logical structure:41 All statements within this frame are untrue I love you I hate you And on the communicative level of the actual contents of the frame, ludic symbols not only share multivocality and polysemy with other dominant cultural symbols but also tend to embody to an extrem e degree what Victor T u rn er calls “polarization of meaning.” Athletic body symbols, in particular, are at once highly iconic and have a rich variety of metonymic referents at the “ sensory-orectic pole” and at the same time may take on an extraordi­ nary perfusion of metaphorical referents at the “cognitive-ideological p o le.”42 Athletic games, often on the evidence of the Olympics, have re­

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peatedly been described as a universal language. The word “universal” clearly will not d o .43 But if one limits the claim to m o d e r a a n d “modernizing” societies, there is some irrefragable truth to it on what semiologists would call the level of the code. But on the level of the “dialect” it is something else again.44 And on the level of the “m essage,” there is often Babel in the a b ­ sence of consecutive translation.45 There are as many routes through these dilemmas as there are theories, ideologies, and cultural contexts of play. Certainly, no full account of the G am es can be made without considering the range of interpretations made of them. H ere I can only sketch C o ub ertin’s, which he bequeathed to genera­ tions of orthodox followers in the I.O .C .46 Coubertin was profoundly discomfited by w hat he saw as the rigidification and spiritual desiccation of his contem poraries. His visions at A rchaia Olympia and in the Chapel of Rugby School led him to the ancient Greek and British schoolboy athletes as contrasting models of human wholeness, of the integration of mind and body, effort and discipline, ambition and loyalty, self-sacrifice and joy. He asked: Is an individual a man in the full sense o f the word if he is forever worried about husbanding his strength and limiting his initiatives, and takes no pleasure in expending him self beyond what is expected o f him? But at the same time is an individual a man in the full sense o f the word if he does not take pleasure in investing the intensity o f his effort with smiling calm and self-mastery, and in living within a framework o f order, equilibrium, and harmony?47

Students of French thought and character will recognize in these lines the enduring tension betw een the values of prouesse and ordre et mesure in French social history.48 Prowess is a value particularly associated with the French aristocracy. The marginality of the aristocracy in Third Republic Fran ce caused men like Coubertin to seek new realms in which to enact the traditional values in which they had been raised. Coubertin found a solution to his own marginal social identity in athletic games. So, too, he saw in them both an expression of the vibrant forces of the modern order and a therapeutic inversion of its deficiencies, an instrument of renewed hope and reform on a societal scale. By contrast with the stultifying routines of modern life, game rules are freely and joyfully accepted. Because of, rather than in spite of, the rules, a “healthy drunkenness of the blood,” an “ impassioned soaring which is c a p a ­ ble of going from play to heroism ” is made possible. The game invites, indeed dem ands, w hat “ordinary life” inhibits— individual initiative beyond what is merely required— in contrast to both the sickly conformism and the antinomian excesses masquerading as “individualism” that Coubertin saw as characteristic of his contemporaries. In his study of Carnival, R oberto Da M atta has argued, following Dumont, that in hierarchical societies, to dram atize is to equalize; whereas, in ideologically egalitarian societies, to dram atize is to produce hierarchy. Athletic games do both at once, which is

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one reason why both hierarchical and egalitarian societies find Olympic contests dramatic and entrancing. As contests with winners and losers, games model hierarchical social arrangements. At the same time, and here Coubertin placed his stress, games model egalitarian social systems. W here the rules are know n and accepted, they are equally binding on all, and a p e r s o n ’s status or wealth has no direct bearing on the outcom e of the game. In the Republic of Muscles, as Coubertin called it, the only inequalities recognized are those of achievem ent and not of ascription. Games are c om ­ petitive, but they are also cooperative, voluntary competitions. M oreover, they produce events, not objects that can be bought and sold. “In my opinion,” Coubertin wrote in 1925, “the future of civilization rests at this m om ent neither on political nor on economic bases. It depends solely on the direction which will be given to education.”49 By “education” he m eant both schooling in the narrow sense— the reform of pedagogy being his first concern—-and, in a wider sense, the education of m ank ind ’s vision of itself. Coubertin passionately believed with his contem porary Durkheim that a society is “above all the idea it has of itself” and that the “revivification [of ideals] is the function of religious or secular feasts and ceremonies . . . m om ents [which] are, as it were, minor versions of the great creative m o ­ m e n t.”50 At the turn of the century, athletic games enjoyed a political and c o m ­ mercial irrelevance by comparison with what was to follow. Games struck C oubertin as peculiarly apt vehicles for delivering man from the constricting vision of h o m o econom icus. The athlete devoted his extraordinary effort and discipline for no other reason than the love of the game itself, and only am ateurs were to be admitted to Olympic competition. The G am es would therefore provide, so Coubertin thought, dramatic evidence that men are not, and need not be, dominated by material interests in order to achieve moral status and collective approbation. So, too, I.O .C .m em bers were to be sportsm en who donated their time and resources without material reward, and as unelected “trustees of the Olympic Id e a ,” were to owe allegiance to no political unit but to the world community. Drawn from many nations, their corporate activity would model, as would that of the athletes, the belief that the capacity to recognize and to celebrate different ways of being human is a precondition for the notion of “human being” to have any meaning at all. G am es provide, Coubertin thought, a universal dramatic form and a univer­ sal language through which otherwise distant and uncommunicative peoples might ap pear and speak to one another. To ask the peoples o f the world to love one another is merely a form o f childishness. To ask them to respect one another is not in the least utopian, but in order to respect one another it is first necessary to know one another. . . . Universal history is the only genuine foundation o f a genuine peace. . . . To celebrate the Olympic Games is to appeal to history.51

Coubertin wrote volumes of “universal history” and meant the phrase in its

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i-------------------------------------------- (THIS IS S P E C T A C L E ) -------------------------------------‘

ALL STATEMENTS WITHIN THIS FRAME ARE GRANDILOQUENT AND ALLURING BUT MERIT SUSPICION,

n

THIS IS FESTIVAL ALL STATEMENTS WITHIN THIS FRAME ARE SUBJECTS OF JOY AND HAPPINESS, __________________________THIS IS RITUAL ___________________________ ALL STATEMENTS WITHIN THIS FRAME ARE TRUE AND REPRESENT THE MOST SERIOUS THINGS. THIS IS GAME ALL STATEMENTS WITHIN THIS FRAME ARE UNTRUE. WE ARE THE SAME. WE ARE DIFFERENT. ________ THIS IS THE T R U T H _________ WE RESPECT EACH OTHER BECAUSE WE ARE THE SAME IN OUR DIFFERENCES. WE RESPECT EACH OTHER. WE DISPARAGE EACH OTHER.

Figure 1.

The Olympic performance system: orthodox form.

French academic sense, but in the context of the Olympic games it takes on a new meaning, which he understood but could not quite formulate. The Olympic Games provide a kind of popular ethnography. Lured by the in­ trinsic appeal of games and the desire to back o n e ’s national champions, the spectators are additionally presented with a rich mosaic of cultural imagery in a festival designed to entertain and to delight, but also to educate and to inspire.

O LYM P IC G AM ES: A R A M IF IE D P E R F O R M A N C E TYPE The preceding sketch of the distinctive features of the four central performa­ tive genres of the Olympic Games ought to make clear why lumping the entire performance system under the single rubric of sports or creating some new bastard category like ludic secular ritual will not do. These genres are distinctive forms of symbolic action, distinguished from one another by athletes, spectators, and officials alike. While certain features are shared

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betw een genres, others are in tension or in opposition, both categorically and in context. On the level of official ideology alone, we have seen that only three of the four genres are legitimated. The spectacle is regarded as intru­ sive. M oreover, we have noted in passing that official com m itm ent to and confidence in the marriage of game, rite, and festival does not always w ork out so “happily” from the I . O .C . ’s own perspective. This, we may be cer­ tain, has as much to do with the nature of the genres as it does with the potentially explosive them es and social arrangements performed differ­ entially within them. At the same time, the Olympic Games form a single perform ance system. The genres are intimately and complexly intercon­ nected on all levels: historically, ideologically, structurally, and performatively. Thus we are forced to recognize that the Olympic Games represent a special kind of cultural performance, a ramified performance type, and we are forced to seek for new models and methods of analysis that will allow us to understand the relationships betw een the various forms of symbolic ac­ tion without losing sight of their distinctive properties. In w hat follows, I suggest such an approach, displayed figuratively in the form of two diagrams that draw their initial inspiration from the insight of Gregory B ateson already discussed. N ot only play-forms, but all established genres of cultural perform ance can be seen to have specifiable, metacommunicative frame markers that organize the variable contents o f the frames into semantic fields within their contextual cultures. In Figure 1, I propose such m etam essages for the frame markers “This is ritual” and “This is fes­ tival,” and I suggest the metacom m unication that now seems to accom pany the emergent genre o f spectacle. The visual metaphors of the diagrams— rectangles— preserve the original m etaphor of the frame and iconically model the way in which Olympic genres are “n e ste d ” within one another. Three-dimensional representations would, in other ways, be more suitable. F o r example, one may visualize the diaphragm of a box camera, telescoping inward toward m ore focused performances and more defined insights. S y m ­ bolic themes (“images” in this metaphor) that recur throughout the Olympics (expressions of social identity, for example) would then be seen to occupy a virtual space on the long, undifferentiated axis through the center of the apparatus. Only in cross-section would specific instances of the recurrent “image” be located as to genre (the folds of the diaphragm in the metaphor). Or one may think of a set of Chinese boxes. This representation has a double advantage. The set of boxes may be initially presented disassembled, with one or several of its mem bers missing. The recipient may happily toy with the boxes at hand without ever suspecting that the set is incomplete. This is exactly the situation of millions of television viewers who de­ pend upon the program decisions of television executives for their knowl­ edge of the Olympic Games. In the past, the American netw orks have typically covered the games and the rites, but have paid almost no attention to the festival. In my own fieldwork in Montreal, I found time and again that longtime Olympic fans who were seeing the Games in person for the first

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time were altogether surprised to discover the mass street festival within which the athletic performances were embedded. E ven .more surprisingly, my interviews with Olympic athletes have turned up examples of c o m ­ petitors w ho w ere so restricted by their physical and psychological training regimens at the G am es that they too were mostly unaware of the vast festival surrounding the athletic competition. Indeed, in actual ethnographic cases, my findings suggest that very few Olympic actors or audiences are operating with a full set of “ Chinese (Olympic) b o x e s.” In addition, the three-dimensional visual m etaphor of the Chinese boxes allows us to configure the nature of performative “fram es” in a more sophis­ ticated way. As Goffman recognizes in Fram e Analysis, which builds upon Bateson in a very creative way, frame markers provide more than metacommunicative rules for evaluating the actual and variable contents of the p er­ form ance enclosed within the frame. In and of themselves, frames have the additional properties of pretypifying and “inducing fitting actions.”52 For example, the frame m arker “This is ritual” not only delivers the metacommunicative message that “all statements within this frame are true and re p re ­ sent the most serious things,” it also orders us to expect reverential d em eano r from the actors within the frame and to conduct ourselves a cco rd­ ingly. Exactly w hat constitutes “reverential d e m ea n o r” is dependent on the actual contents of the performance and on the sociocultural context in which it is performed. In the “Chinese b o x es” model of a ramified performance system, the perim eter of each box represents the metacom m unicative m e s­ sage associated with each frame, while the vertical edges represent these additional specifications of the frame, specifications that include, inciden­ tally, aspects of each m em ber of K enneth B u rk e ’s “dramatistic p e n ta d .”53 It is precisely this capacity for elaboration in the face of ethnographic and theoretical complexity that makes this model so useful in the analysis of complicated phen om ena like the Olympic Games. I will retreat, how ever, into two dimensions for my diagrams and, for the m oment, into the relatively simple problem of mapping the semantic fields of the Olympic Games as they were intended by the founder and as successive generations of Olympic officials have attem pted to maintain them. This map is to be found in Figure 1. The outerm ost frame, that of the spectacle, is pictured as a dotted line to represent the I . O . C . ’s awareness of its existence as well as its m e m b e rs ’ persistent attem pts to keep it from coalescing. I have altered the contents of “ B a te s o n ’s b o x ,” the game frame, to better represent C o ub ertin’s vision. As noted above, Coubertin found the language of love and hate utopian, prefer­ ring to speak instead of respect and disrespect of the peoples of the world for one another. In their public documents and speeches, I.O.C. hierarchs have never deviated from this ideological course set by the founder, so I have included it as content of the game frame. As we also saw, the Olympic athletic contests were intended as well to model the philosophical anthropol­ ogy upon which Olympic ideology is based, and I have included these

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them es (“We are the sam e” / “We are different”) in the game frame. I have also included an other space within it— a frame of revelatory truth. While Coubertin recognized and appreciated certain of the ambiguities and paradoxical qualities of games, their aspects of pretense and make-believe that form the phenomenological bases for the metamessage “All statements inside this frame are false,” others he did not. And, in any case, he believed that in the “deep play” of the Olympic Games paradoxes would be resolved and a dramatic revelation of higher-order, noncontradictory truths would o c cu r.54 This model makes it possible to formulate a paradigm: participants (ac­ tors and audiences) en ter the performance system through festival, ritual, or game; in play the “tru th ” is revealed; once the truth is revealed, it is co n se ­ crated by ritual; then it is enjoyed through festival.* A second process now occurs. Since the same themes, symbolic types, and social identities co m ­ pose the contents of the ritual and the festival frames, the peripheries are now revealed to be identical with the center, and the sudden recognition of the unity of the perform ance system adds renew ed experiential p ro of for unity of the truth. In the course of particular Olympic Games, these p ro c ­ esses may be repeated many times over. Within the boundaries of the fes­ tival, within its liminal space and time, the “tru th ” is experienced in the indicative mood, as an absolute “is.” U pon reaggregation with the normative o rder at the close of the Gam es, the contrast betw een the “elementary forms of the Olympic life” and the diffuse and complicated forms of “ordinary life” is made painfully manifest. The truth is preserved by its transformation out of the indicative and into the subjunctive. It becomes a great “could” and “o u g h t.” F o u r years later, it will again be renewed. Though far more self­ conscious and explicit than any account to be found in official or semiofficial Olympic literature, this paradigm accurately represents, as an ideal type, the meaning of the Olympic Games as desired and experienced by their hierarchs and orthodox partisans. But genres and frames have histories. The model presented in Figure 1 is abstracted from history in three ways. First it models the Olympic Games in their developed form. Even as an ideal type, it does not model the Athens G am es of 1896 or the St. Louis Games of 1904. Second, it makes only implicit connections betw een Olympic genres and frames and those same genres and frames elsewhere in cultural process. Third, it isolates orthodox paradigms and exegeses from variant understandings of the Olympic Games, understandings influenced by the fate of these same genres and frames in wider cultural ahd historical contexts. The first of these problems is co n ­ sidered in This Great Symbol, where I provide a historical account of the developm ent of the Olympic performance system. H ere I will consider only key aspects of the second and third problems. *Don Handelman has helped to clarify my thought here and to formulate this paradigm.

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Actors, A udiences, & Reflexivity _______________________________________ THIS IS SPECTACLE ________________________________________ ALL STATEMENTS WITHIN THIS FRAME ARE GRANDILOQUENT AND ALLURING BUT MERIT SUSPICION. IS THIS FESTIVAL? N

”

ARE ANY STATEMENTS WITHIN THIS FRAME SUBJECTS OF JOY AND HAPPINESS? ___________________________ IS THIS RITUAL? ____________________________ ARE ANY STATEMENTS WITHIN THIS FRAME TRUE? DO ANY OF THEM REPRESENT THE MOST SERIOUS THINGS? __________________ IS THIS GAME? _________ ____________ ARE ALL STATEMENTS WITHIN THIS FRAME UNTRUE? WE ARE THE SAME. WE ARE DIFFERENT. --------IS THIS THE T R U T H ? --------WE RESPECT EACH OTHER BECAUSE WE ARE THE SAME IN OUR DIFFERENCES. WE RESPECT EACH OTHER. WE DISPARAGE EACH OTHER.

Figure 2.

The Olympic performance system: a transformation.

By the late 1920s and early 1930s, cultural history had, so to speak, caught up with the Olympic movement. Until that time, the semantic b o u n d ­ ary “This is play” had remained more or less intact around the games of the Olympic Games. In turn, this protected the festival frame as well, and it afforded Olympic rituals a certain serenity within which to condense and elaborate. But largely due to the success of the Olympics themselves, a mass efflorescence of organized sport, first in Euro-American cultures, then worldwide, drew down upon the Games of the twenties and thirties ideolog­ ical, political, and commercial interests of every sort. What Goffman calls frame breaking and out-of-frame behavior, or persistent threats of these, have troubled the G am es increasingly ever since. The professionalization of sports and the transformation of atheletes into celebrities, the growing number-fetishism and specialization in athletics, the increased role of technology and of hy perextended training periods in sports success, the growth of ath­ letic bureaucracies, the recognition of sp o rt’s importance and the incorpora­ tion of sports success by the dominant world ideologies, the takeover of the selection, preparation, and financing of the teams by national governments

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and corporate interests, the counting of medals as propaganda and ersatz warfare, the attem pts to co-opt the Games for chauvinistic purposes by host nations, and their use as a stage for “jock-strap diplom acy,” saber rattling, regime building, and, finally, terrorism by insiders and outsiders alike: these developm ents represent in a general way the penetration of the “ stuff of ordinary life” into the public liminality of the Games. And as ordinary life has changed, so have the Games been forced to change. These developm ents have produced semantic shifts in the frames of Olympic performances. I have diagrammed these shifts in Figure 2. The most notable o f them has been the transformation of the frame markers from the indicative to the interrogative mood. B ateson has theoretically antici­ pated the concrete, observable shift in the Olympic play frame. He writes of “a more complex form of play” in which “the game is constructed not upon the premise ‘This is p la y ’ but rather around the question ‘Is this p la y ? ’ ”55 He adds in passing that this form of interaction has its ritual forms too. The question “Is this ritual?” marks a general uncertainty as to w hether Olympic rites do em body “ultimate c o ncerns” or are instead “mere p ag eantry,” and as to w hether or not they are truly efficacious processes through which actors and audiences gain passages to and through novel realms of meaning, nonordinary states of being, and liminal statuses and roles. And if joyfulness cannot be reliably anticipated, either because of chronic disputes and inter­ ruptions or because of the moral ambiguities of the events themselves, the third frame also becom es questionable: “Is this festival?” This brings us again to the spectacle with which we began. In Figure 2, the spectacle frame is fully drawn in. Since the 1930s, the Olympic Games have grown into the m odern spectacle par excellence. On the one hand, this is in spite of the best efforts of the I.O.C. to prevent it. On the other hand, the desire of the hierarchs to reach a mass audience (e.g., television) and their willingness to renegotiate certain key structural principles (e.g., amateurism) in order to accom m odate as many nations as possible and to ensure the quality of the performances have made the edging into spectacle inevitable. The coalescence of the spectacle frame occurred simultaneously with the transform ation of the other frame markers into the interrogative mood. Together with the changes in the contextual meanings of games previ­ ously discussed, the arrival into spectacle is the principal cause of this transformation. As noted earlier, the aggrandizing ethos of the spectacle attacks the unities ordered by the festival frame, and the licensing of passive spectatorship contravenes the ritual com m and that all be engagé. Games too, insofar as they are em bedded within a spectacle, tend to be taken as “mere g a m es,” “mere entertainm en ts,” rather than as “ metaphors that are m e a n t.” The more diffused and optional attention becom es, the less clearly defined, noticeable, and corporate are the frame boundaries and the pas­ sages betw een semantic fields. N ew institutions like the tourist agency and additional performances like the television commercial invade the Olympic perform ance system and reduce the sharpness of the boundaries between Olympic space and time and daily life.

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On an other front, the elaboration of the spectacle may be seen as a response to the same external social conditions that make festival, ritual, and game already less defined and consensually delimited in the contextual cultures. It has been well known since the early work of Durkheim that in . . . s . . . . . complex, industrialized societies, culturally pluralistic and ethically indi­ vidualistic in fact or in value, the collective representations tend to be so abstract and even vague that either they have little force in ordering group behavior or else offer reliable expectations solely on the level of “least com m on d e n o m in ato r.” At the macrosocial level of the nation-state, this view is still a commanding one. H ow much more true must it be at the megasocial level of the Olympic “world com m unity” that includes some 151 nations, among them capitalist and collectivist industrial states, d e m o c ­ racies, fascist and socialist dictatorships, theocracies, monarchies, and all of the transitional types lumped under the unhappy term “developing n ations.” The inability to count on festival joy, to agree on ultimate concerns and therefore share a sufficiently concrete exegesis of Olympic ritual symbols, and the inability to trust that Olympic Games are really games all promote the growth of the spectacle. At the same time, the spectacle’s satisfaction with entertaining and pleasing the eye at the expense of stimulating the mind, piquing the conscience, or exciting the body turns persons further away from festival, ritual, and game. In Figure 2, I have also placed the contents of the innermost box into the interrogative. I.O .C. conservation o f its traditional mission has kept the symbol vehicles and the ideological themes of the Olympic G am es constant under the new regime of the spectacle. The abstract issues of hum an kin d­ ness and mutual respect remain at the center of each Olympic Games. But the exigencies of the spectacle now offer such persistent distractions and so many contradictory messages that if participants “arrive at the c en te r” at all, the truth they find revealed there may be no more than a question. Returning outw ard, participants find no assurances. Rituals that may not be rituals cannot consecrate; festivals that may not be festivals cannot cause one to en-joy. And, in any case, in an already too doubtful world, what does the consecration and enjoyment of questions add to the “ stuff of everyday life” ? Perhaps a great deal if the questions are provocatively focused, dramatically presented, and resolutely engaging of o n e ’s affective and moral resources. But these are exactly the qualities of cultural performances that are most endangered by the shifts in the frame markers mapped in Figure 2. H ere, as in the first paradigm, the center may be experienced as finally identical with the periphery: the skepticism embedded in the metamessage of the spectacle frame has been found to inhabit every locale within the performance system. The Gam es, it is then said, are “idealistic,” by which is meant that they ask the “ same old” questions about world peace and human understanding, in grandiose and “naive” (spectacular) fashion, and produce not answers, “just sym b ols.” This last phrase is a widespread and distinctively modern W est­ ern expression. It suggests another set of shifts in the frame markers of festival, ritual, and game associated with the rise of the spectacle.

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Spectacle, at least with regard to its metamessage, is a reflexive genre. In the tw entieth century at least (recall the evidence of the changes in the spectacle trope), the spectacle invites what it simultaneously cautions against: delight in its contents. Its contents are images— grand, alluring, unusual, epic images— but “mere images.” The metacommunication of the spectacle frame says “admire but do not be d eceived .” The interrogative markers “Is this festival?” “Is this ritual?” and “Is this gam e?” are also reflexive, albeit in a different form. In this new way, it is not surprising to observe the correlation betw een the coalescence of the spectacle frame around the G am es and the transformation of the frame markers of Figure 1 into those of Figure 2. The performance system is now left in a hyperreflex­ ive state, a state that is, as we know, a most unpleasant one for human actors and audiences. It is a state not long tolerated, for it not only destroys simple entertainm ent but soon produces great anxiety. One way for Olympic p a r­ ticipants to mitigate that anxiety is to regain “flow” by returning to (or for the first time gaining) credence in one or more of the indicative (reflective, but unreflexive) frame markers portrayed in Figure 1. But another way is to reduce reflexivity by adopting instead a new set of indicative, though highly qualified frame markers. Our contem porary cultural contexts supply just such a set: “This is mere enjoyment (festival),” “This is mere ritual,” “This is mere (just a) g a m e .” In this transformation of the Olympic performance system, one of two things may be expected to happen to the innermost frame. If participants issue from cultural contexts that permit the association of revelation with P lato ’s “noble gam es” but oppose it directly to “mere g a m e s ,” no revelation is likely to occur, and the innermost frame in effect disappears. O r else, as Donald Levine has suggested, the inner revelation becom es a resonance of the frame itself: “We are all one because we are all game pla y ers.”

TOW ARD A TH EO RY OF SPECTACLE As we have seen, Olympic officials have consistently regarded spectacle as an unfortunate accretion onto the Olympic performance system. In their view, spectacle is associated with tastelessness, gigantism, moral disorder, and the surrender of the high purposes of the Games to mere entertainment. As a general ju dg m en t on spectacle, this view is now widely shared through­ out m odern cultures, anyw here an ethnography of speaking reveals the co m ­ plex o f “m e re s” (symbol, ritual, game, image, model, entertainment). M oreover, there is ample evidence to be drawn from the history o f the Olympics and of other tw entieth-century spectacles to support this verdict, and it would be justifiable as well as fashionable to leave matters at this. To do so, how ever, would deprive us of exactly the insights into contem porary social and cultural life that contemplation of the spectacle uniquely affords. To get at these insights two questions must be explored: H ow is the e m er­ gence o f ramified performance types to be understood and situated in cul­

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tural history? W hy is it the spectacle and not some other genre that appears to have trium phed? Olympism is a m aster example of what Victor T urn er calls ideological c o m m u n ita s , a claim and a plea for “ seeing through and behind” the polit­ ical, racial, ethnic, and linguistic boundaries that divide humans from one another, not by erasing them from the consciousness of the actors, but by demonstrating a deeper commonality that undergirds the normative order and makes it possible. T u rn er writes that the boundaries of the model of human interconnectedness described by ideological co m m unitas are “ideally coterm inous with those of the human species.”.56 The ideology of Olympism is an empirical case of this general proposition, and a more significant case than its philosophical rivals because of the extraordinary practical success of the G am es that attem pt, at least, to em body the ideology in action.57 In T u r n e r ’s many writings on the topic, com m unitas has been intimately linked with liminality and with a structural and historical theory of cultural p e r­ form ance genres. T urner first associated com m unitas with the liminal phase of rites of passage in traditional societies. Subsequently, he extended the linkage to isomorphic moments wherein the actors find themselves in pas­ sage betw een social states. Lately he has introduced a distinction betw een liminal and “liminoid” (liminal-like) phenom ena, including genres of cultural perform ance, in his partition. The developm ent of liminoid genres of cultural perform ance is variously represented by T u rn er as a fragmentation, a fissioning, and a differentiation of liminal perform ance types (especially, ritual) that formerly governed the lives of entire peoples. V

In com plex, modern societies both types coexist in a sort o f cultural pluralism. But the liminal— found in the activities o f churches, sects, and m ovem ents, in the initiation rites o f clubs, fraternities, masonic orders and other secret societies, etc.— is no longer societyw ide. N or are liminoid phenom ena, which tend to be the leisure genres o f art, sport, pastimes, gam es, etc., practiced by and for particular groups, categories, segm ents, and sectors o f large-scale in­ dustrial societies o f all ty p e s.58

Spectacle, according to T u r n e r’s criteria, seems to be an excellent example of the liminoid, and he so regards it. The spectacle has emerged in ju st those social types he finds to be the hearths of the liminoid, and it has grown to preem inence in industrialized societies, w hether capitalist or collectivist. Spectacles are, for the most part, disconnected from calendrical and social rhythm s, and participation in them is voluntary, not obligatory. The in­ stitutionalized role of the spectator seems to contrast with liminality, and the mass quality of the spectacle seems to preclude the actors from sharing in concerted ways the interpretation of the event. Thus the spectacle appears to be a privileged m arker of the differentiation of social units and solidarities and of the fragmentation of liminal performance genres. W hatever spon tane­ ous co m m un itas experiences happen within the spectacle must then have only an idiosyncratic or small-public character and be unlikely to “add up

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to ” anything more. Therefore, since Olympism is an ideology of com m unitas and the G am es were designed to provide predictable co m m unitas experi­ ences on a broad scale, the hostility of Olympic officials toward the consoli­ dation of the spectacle seems to be canny and wise. This would hold w hether or not spectacle is responsible for the weakening of festival, ritual, and game, or w h eth er both trends are coeffects of the same external social evolution. And yet, this analysis of the spectacle seems somehow skewed and incomplete. If, instead of taking spectacle exclusively as the break do w n and “heterogenization” (“hetero-genre-ization”) of prior cultural conditions, we ask in addition w hat spectacle points toward, w hat generative potentials and auspicious beginnings might lie within it, certain facts previously mentioned emerge in a new light. The Olympic spectacle is in several ways unlike other examples of the genre. It is practiced by and for particular social segments and groups; it is calendar-bound and attuned to biological rhythms through its emphasis on youth; it is concerned with such global social crises as racism, terrorism, and world war, in an active as well as a reactive w a y .59 M oreover, the idea of “world c o m m u nity ” is no longer simply a humanistic pipe dream , but in­ creasingly a set of facts and challenges. The interlocking of national economies to the point where “national eco n o m y ” is losing its meaning, worldwide commodity and energy shortages, shifts in the balance o f pow er tow ard the so-called Third World, global pollution, nuclear proliferation, mass tourism, the spread of the electronic media, as well as the steady m arch of urbanization and industrialization: though unevenly perceived and unequally salient in the various corners of the world, these are facts forcing their ways into the consciousness of multitudes of hum an beings. As they do, new institutions (e.g., multinational corporations, the E u ro pean E c o ­ nomic Com m unity, the Trilateral Commission, the Conference of Nonaligned N ations, the Pan-African Congress) and new m etaphors (the “Global Village,” “ Spaceship E a r th ”) are simultaneously generated. The Olympic G am es are the only venue other than the United Nations w here the majority of the w o rld ’s nations meet on a regular basis to engage in self­ consciously co m m o n activity. A few more nations are represented at the U .N . than in the G am es, but the Olympic audience is far larger, in no small part because of the U . N . ’s failure to generate evocative ceremonials. I would speculate that the size o f the Olympic audience owes as much to the felt need for living, dramatic images of the “o th e rs” with w hom we are increasingly conscious of sharing a biosphere and sets of political economies and ways of living as it does to the intrinsic interest in sport or to patriotic or chauvinist loyalties. From a subjective standpoint,the world has not shrunk, as we like to say, it has immeasurably expanded. Spectacle may be that genre which most reflects and refracts this social expansion, this extension of vision, this opening of the “e y e .” More than the worship of “bigness” for its ow n sake, more than cheap thrills and decadent pleasures is required to account for the triumph of the spectacle as an organized genre of cultural

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perform ance. If, in our daily lives, we must increasingly take account o f the “ size” of the earth, then our performances must surely take account of it too. Spectacle may be society in action, groping on the level o f expressive cul­ ture, tow ard a new order in a changing world. But spectacle, as I have labored to show, is only one of the genres composing the Olympic performance. That system is of the special sort I have labeled a “ramified performance ty p e .” In T u r n e r’s terms, the liminoid genre o f the spectacle encloses other liminal genres such as festival and ritual within the Olympic Games. But this is more than simple addition or accretion, more than a simple reframing. The genres act and react upon one a no ther in intimate and ordered ways. The system is ramified, not simply laminated, and it is a system .60 Why spectacle in particular, and what does the discovery of ramified performance types suggest for T u r n e r’s theory of the fragmentation and constriction of the liminal in the modern world? Spectacle has destructive effects on genres like festival, ritual, and game, genres that reduce in their various ways the distance betw een actors and audiences, that dem and that all take active roles in the perform ance, and that all agree at some level on the typification and transcendental ground of their actions. These are powerful effects and must not be underestimated. At the same time, how ever, in cultures that already emphasize individuality, minimize the sense of obligation and responsibility for collective action, and inbreed hostility toward, for example, ritual, spectacle may have an unanti­ cipated “positive” effect. The spectacle frame erected around ritual may serve as a recruiting device, dissembling suspicion toward “mere ritual” and luring the proudly uncommitted. Those who have come simply to w atch and to be w atched, to enjoy the spectacle or to profit from it, may find th e m ­ selves suddenly caught up in actions of a different sort at levels of intensity and involvement they could not have foreseen and from which they would have retreated had such participation been directly required or requested of them. In this connection allow me to introduce two cases that illustrate the recruitm ent of persons by spectacle into ritual and game. A young American w oman who w orked for three years at the I.O.C. headquarters in L a u san n e told me: I just came to work here because I needed a job. All I knew about the Olympics was that they were “the greatest spectacle in sport,” as Jim M cK ay, the televi­ sion guy, says. And then everyone around here, well most o f them, really laugh about all that Coubertin stuff, world peace and all that. When Munich came along, I decided to go over though I didn’t feel terribly excited or anything. I was sitting in the Opening Ceremony and I couldn’t believe it. W hen the torchbearer cam e into the stadium and the crowd roared, I suddenly began to cry. I remember thinking, “So this is what it’s all about!” I d o n ’t think I’ll ever forget that m oment as long as I live.

A businessm an from N ew York City, whom I happened to sit next to in the stadium early in the track events at Montreal, told me that he did not follow sports very much and knew nothing about track, but that he and his wife happened to be passing through Montreal on vacation. “W e ’re ju st tourists,”

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he said, “and thought we shou ldn ’t miss this so we could tell our friends back in the city we were h e re .” As the afternoon wore on, he began to forget about the ticket prices and the quality of the hot dogs. He barraged me with questions about track, the competitors, and Olympic history. W hen two A m ericans came first and second in the 400-meter hurdles, he was ecstatic and visibly m oved during their victory ceremony. His vacation plans were shortly forgotten and his one-day stay turned into a week. I saw him twice again, once arguing about communism with some French students in the plaza outside the stadium, and again at the closing ceremonies, which he said “were like being in ch u rch ” and “choked me up when they took down the [Olympic] flag.” I have collected many such case materials that dem onstrate involve­ ment in spectacle as a recruitment agency for festival, ritual, and gam e.61 This leads to an oth er coding of the semantic frame of spectacle than the skeptical “mixed m essage” of Figure 2. Spectacle additionally gives the m etam essage “all you have to do is w a tc h ,” thus liberating individuals to want to, to be free to do more than watch. Thus spectacle, taken in isolation as a single perform ance type, represents a further differentiation of the liminoid from the liminal. But em bedded in the context of the Olympic perform ance system, it emerges as a sort of servom echanism for the liminal genres nested within it, Taken as a whole, with its system of interacting genres, the Olympic G am es represent a complex performance type that stands historically betwixt and betw een two cultural moments: the fragmen­ tation into “liminoidality” of liminal genres once capable of transporting entire societies outside of their ordinary boundaries of space and time (and of providing society wide co m m u nitas experiences), and the developm ent of neoliminal genres out of the liminoid to provide such experiences for e m er­ gent social units w hose outlines we can now but dimly foresee. Indeed, the study of the Olympic G am es leads us to risk a general hypothesis about the cultural future. Neoliminality in the modern world will lie, not in the a p p ear­ ance of some single, novel genre of cultural performance, but precisely in the em ergence of ramified performance types of the sort exemplified by the Olympic G a m e s.62 In other words, having passed from the one to the many, we shall regain the one only by embodying the many within it.

S p e c ta c le a n d the R ea lly R e a l But again, w hy the spectacle? W hy did festival not suffice as a metagenre promoting the (re-)joining of ritual and game in Olympic history? So far, the following answ ers have been offered. By requiring joyfulness, the festival frame cannot incorporate the very unjoyous, saddening, alienating, som e­ times tragic events that have come to be part of Olympic experience. Specta­ cle can do so for it specifies no further affect than diffuse w onder or awe. Festival dem ands engaged participation, leaving little room for dispassionate behavior. Spectacle, on the other hand, licenses such behavior in the mode o f distanced observation— spectatorship. By prescribing only watching,

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leaving the rest to the dialogue betw een the observer and the “ sights,” spectacle accom m odates the optionality and individual choice, which are widespread m odern values. M oreover, the Olympic project commits itself to bringing the G am es to the whole w o rld’s attention. Since only a handful of millions can attend the Gam es, this has m eant television. There may be media festivals, but a festival by media is a doubtful proposition. Festival means being there; there is no festival at a distance. Though television constricts, reduces, and cheapens the spectacle, often turning it from an event into a commodity, the two “m edia” share many essential properties. Certainly there is no fundamental contradiction betw een them. But these answ ers to the question “Why spectacle?” are as yet incom ­ plete. The spectacle frame implies more than distance and optionality. It specifies doubt, skepticism, reflexivity, moral ambiguity and ambivalence as well. W hence these? To seek an answer, we must turn outw ard to the cultural contexts that have given birth to the spectacle and continue to nourish it. As my earlier remarks on spectacle as a literary trope and as a performative genre were intended to suggest, the spectacle has a history and is itself part of a larger and more complicated epoch of historical change in the self-perception of persons and peoples. In its every aspect— from the etymology of the word, to the m etam essage of the frame, to the sensory and symbolic codes it activates, to the behaviors it prescribes— the spectacle is about seeing, sight, and oversight. The spectacle produces and consists of images, and the triangular relationship betw een the spectacle, its contents, and its contextual cultures is “a b ou t” the relationship betw een image and reality, appearing and being. My claim is that this same theme is a predominate one throughout EuroA m erican (and doubtless other) cultures. M oreover, and more especially, I suggest that the question of the relationship betw een appearance and reality has becom e a peculiarly vexing, even obsessive preoccupation of modern men and women. We seem to have lost our way with it in a fashion and to a degree that the problematic now seems distinctive, even diagnostic of “m o dernity” itself. Certainly, philosophers, poets, prophets, and dramatists have made the troubling relationship betw een image and reality their special province since the recorded beginnings of W estern cultural history. But at least since the fifteenth c en tu ry ,63 and still more after the Industrial R evolu­ tion, this question of questions has ceased to be the property of intellectual elites and has becom e the stuff of everyday life for masses of people. In The German Ideology, M arx wrote that “in ordinary life, every shopkeeper is very well able to distinguish between what somebody professes to be and what he really is.” It is doubtful that this was true in 1846; it is certainly not true today. F ew of us— shopkeepers, shop stewards, shop owners, shop­ pers— seem any longer so confident in our abilities to tell the apparent from the real. Many of us, to hear us talk, even seem to doubt the existence of a “reality” itself. It is not possible here to mount a full argument for this thesis, one

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fraught with the dangers of truism and cant. Instead, I offer as illustrations of the arguments that might be made two important pieces of kulturkritik, a genre of great and underappreciated interest for social scientists seeking landmarks in uncharted territory. These are Daniel B oorstin’s The Im ag e: a Guide to P seudo-E vents in A m erica and Guy D e b o r d ’s The Society o f the Spectacle Stranger bedfellows could not be imagined. Boorstin is, of course, a conservative, a renow ned historian whose books are read by many thousands, and presently Librarian of Congress. D ebord is a radical French situationiste w hose rose to political prominence with that neo-Marxist, sur­ realist m ovem ent in the course of the “ev en ts” of May 1968 in Paris.65 The Society o f the Spectacle was published in 1967 and was immediately d e­ nounced by both the right and the “old left” as anarchist, adolescent, and nihilist. The Im a g e appeared in 1961 (though very much a book of the 1950s), and was celebrated in the urbane and liberal press in the U .S. Their conclu­ sions also differ in the extreme. Debord calls for a revolution of sorts; Boorstin pleads for a return to the traditional verities of the American dream. The incongruity of this pair makes all the more remarkable, even shocking, their general agreement on the nature of modern disorder. Boorstin speaks for both w hen he writes, “We have used our wealth, our literacy, our technology, and our progress to create a thicket of unreality which stands betw een us and the facts of life.” M oderns are victimized by m anufactured imagery, addicted to pseudo-events (Boorstin) and pseu d o ­ enjoym ent (Debord), and deprived of standards of reality to guide them through the hall of mirrors that is modern life. Boorstin argues that we have substituted media happenings for events, celebrities for heroes, tourism for travel, credibility for truth, public relations for public improvements, stars for actors, images for ideals, and polls for political discourse. Thus, says Boorstin, “It is not the menace of class war, of ideology, of poverty, of disease, of illiteracy, of demagoguery, of tyranny, though these now plague most of the world. It is the menace of unreality [that confronts u s].” B o orstin’s description of contem porary life is compelling, especially for an American, but there is a false step in it (pointed out to me by Michael Schudson). In his discussion of “that first modern m aster of p seu d o-even ts,” P. T. Barnum, Boorstin writes: “Contrary to popular belief, B a r n u m ’s great discovery was not how easy it was to deceive the public, but rather, how much the public enjoyed being deceived. Especially if they could see how it was being d o n e .” This view, it seems to me, comes nearer the truth than the portrayal of the m odern public as simple dupes and victims that dominates B oo rstin ’s book. M oreover, the formulation can be taken a step further: people enjoy their skepticism, doubt, and sense of illusion w hen they know that u nd erneath they really believe. The point is that at all levels of the social hierarchy Americans, and not only Americans, are highly suspicious of, and at the same time playful with, the very illusions Boorstin catalogs. The image of the passive victim will not now do. Great numbers of m odern men

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and w om en are highly reflective, even reflexive, about their own loss of consensus about “what is real and what is n o t.” And they are active agents in the creation of events and performances that, how ever much they deepen the quandary, stand also as public forms of condensing, displaying, and thinking it out. W hat Boorstin denounces as the appeal of “the neither true nor false” may indeed be a sophisticated recognition that some things are neither true nor false, or “not yet tru e ,” or “ought to be false.” This leads us to D ebord, to his false step, and again to the spectacle. While less sanguine about class war, poverty, and political oppression than Boorstin, D ebord too stresses the subjugation of “all reality to a p p ea r­ ance, which is now [social labo r’s] product . . . where the commodity c o n ­ templates itself in a world it has c rea te d .” Once alienated “only” from the products of their labor, men and w omen are now additionally alienated by the replacem ent of objects with fetishized images (“ image-objects”), and by “pseu d o -n e e d s” and “pseudo -abu nd an ce” created, m arketed, and consum ed by still new er capitalists engines. Aside from a passing rem ark on natives w ho “ spectacularize their festivals” for tourists, and despite precedents in the tradition of social criticism he is continuing, Boorstin does not use the language of spectacle.66 In D e b o rd ’s text, however, the use of “ spectacle” as a trope reaches its logical extreme: society itself, the whole of it Debord claims, has becom e spectacle. But Debord refuses to recognize the metaphorical nature of his use of the term, and time and again he draws near to acknowledging spectacle as a discrete cultural genre only to retreat each time in order to preserve his more grandiose claim. D e b o r d ’s thesis is marred by his refusal to distinguish spectacle as an organized genre of cultural performance from the ways in which social life in general is like a spectacle and affords an environment within which the spectacle grows. N ot only is the claim that all society is a spectacle cheap wisdom, but it contradicts the very program of the situationists. As Alain Touraine noted in 1968, “The situationists . . . make use of street theatre and spontaneous spectacles to criticize society and denounce new forms of al­ ienation.”67 H ow does one cure the disease with another dose of the disease? D ebord does not explain, or even seem to notice the contradiction. The resolution lies in recognizing the properties of spectacle as a dis­ tinct genre. The spectacle is, in itself, neither good nor bad, neither libera­ ting nor alienating. Its moral value resides in the complicated interaction betw een the spectacle frame, its contents (which, as I have shown, may include other frames), and its sociocultural context. In other words, in the evaluation of particular spectacles. But we can go farther and make a more general claim. N o one is any longer even remotely suspicious of the view that the rise of the novel as a distinct cultural genre in the eighteenth century was intimately connected with the disrupting efflorescence of individualism in that period. Just so, may we doubt that the growth of the spectacle as a discrete genre is an immediate response to the problematic of image and reality that Boorstin

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and D ebord, I think rightly, insist is the m aster cultural confusion of the present era? The forging of a new genre of cultural performance out of diffuse cultural them es and anxieties is nothing else than an attem pt to gain control over them. This is what spectacle means in the m odern world, for the clients o f Barnum , for F ren ch radicals creating their “ situations,” and for the millions o f partisans and antagonists of the Olympic Games. But an attem pt at control is not the same thing as control; cultural adaptations are not always adaptive. Do the presuppositions of the genre frame of spectacle, even in a ramified performance system like the Olympic Gam es, necessarily ov erpow er the realities they symbolically express and manipulate, reducing them to mere appearances? Does the spectacle n eces­ sarily produce, in H an nah A re n d t’s term, the “banalization” of both good and evil? Ought not the Olympic hierarchy be less concerned with p rev ent­ ing the “interference” of “outside” political and economic interests and more caring that these “realities” be treated forthrightly within the spectacle— treated as more than unfortunate givens to be “tra n sce n d ed ” ? Boorstin excuses am ateur sport from his critique, calling it “one of our few remaining contacts with an uncontrived reality: with people really strug­ gling to win, and not merely to have their victory reported in the p a p e rs .” D ebord does not discuss it.68 N either mentions the Olympic Games, but my own fieldwork convinces me that their critiques pierce to the heart of Olym ­ pism. If the images of shared humanity generated by the Games simply ignore the structural realities that separate men from one another; if they encourage actors and spectators to take “life as but a gam e” ; if our rom ance with a Romanian gymnast, awe at a C uban sprinter, and admiration of a C anadian high ju m p e r lead to thoughts of state socialism and capitalist d e ­ m ocracy as “all the sam e ” ; if our delight as white Americans, English, or F ren c h in the victories o f black countrym en is taken uncritically as evidence for racial progress at home— then the spectacle has made us victims o f the m ost dangerous illusions. If so, then the language of Olympism is a lexicon of deceit, and the G am es are a theater of self-delusion. This sort of thing happens all the time in and through the Olympic Games. Simultaneously, how ever, the Games generate completely contrary experiences. Spectacle, at least Olympic spectacle, is full o f events that make us notice and heed moral and social boundaries that have becom e blurred and banal in daily life. Our daily existence is fraught with illusions. We regularly mistake having read about something or having seen it on television for having really experienced it. Often in the Gam es, we en ­ co unter the genuine article. As much as they are a bourgeois theater of delusions, the G am es are equally full of sudden shocks, like B re c h t’s “thea­ ter of p roblem s” or A rta u d ’s “theater of cruelty.” Take the most striking and tragic of recent examples, the Munich m as­ sacre. Terrorism was nothing new in 1972. Who had not read about it or w atched it on TV? One might even say that it had come to be taken for granted in the con tem porary world as “something we ju st have to live w ith .”

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But at Munich, terrorism was yanked out of the banal and burned into the hearts and minds of millions across the earth. The Games provided the ultimate stage for the terrorists, and the rest of the world an avenue by which terrorism was “re-bo un ded,” returned from a “fact of life” to a fact. H ere is the speech of Willi Daume, president of the Munich Organizing Committee, delivered at the Olympic memorial service for the dead. For us w ho planned these Games o f the 20th Olympiad with confidence in the good will o f all men, today is a day o f immense mourning. Even in the world o f crime, there are still som e taboos, a final limit o f dehumanization beyond which one dares not go. This limit was crossed by those guilty o f the attack on the Olympic Village. They brought murder into this great and fine celebration o f the peoples o f the world, this celebration that had been dedicated to p ea ce.69

The only word appropriate to describe the killings was “ sacrilege” ; it fell from the lips of the most diverse individuals— I.O.C. members, athletes, Golda Meir, and sportswriters across the world. “Sacrilege,” “ta b o o s,” and “all the values that make life worth living” : C o ub ertin’s claim that the Olym ­ pic G am es are a cult, and Olympism a religion seemed suddenly not so far­ fetched. In the most tragic of ironies, the m assacre reflexively revealed the enorm ous emotional and spiritual investment the world has in the Gam es, an investment usually concealed behind the bickering and skeptical disclaimers that accom pany the spectacle. Again, ironically, the m assacre generated the most profound mass co m m unitas experience in Olympic history. A shaking G ustav H einem ann, president of the G erm an Federal Republic, took note of both in his memorial speech. The Olympic Idea lives on. Our commitment to it is more powerful than ever. In the events that we have just lived through, there is no line dividing North from South, East from W est. Where the break com es is betw een the brother­ hood o f all men w ho wish for peace and hatred o f those w ho exp ose to the worst o f dangers all the values that make life worth living.70 s

The example is admittedly extreme and never, one wishes, to be re­ p eated .71 But in less frightening and provocative ways, the reimagining and reencountering of structure, of the ordinary, goes on continuously at and in and through the Olympic Games. Are capitalists predatory sharks out solely for themselves and the almighty dollar? Are communists all robots under mind control? Are black people physically superior to whites? Do athletes have underdeveloped personalities? Are w omen athletes sexually th re a ten ­ ing or attractive to men? Is love possible between rivals? Are the Japanese inscrutable? The French pompous? The Germans boors? The Americans ignorant? The Italians feckless? The Indians haughty? The Brazilians gay? The Mexicans m ach o?72 Is there such a thing as humankind? Or are there only humans? As much as they are an antistructure, the Olympic Games create a sort of hyperstructure in which categories and stereotypes are co n ­ densed, exaggerated, and dramatized, rescued from the “taken for gran ted ”

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and made the objects of explicit and lively awareness for a brief period every four years. While spectacle takes the “realities” of life and defuses them by co n ­ verting them into appearances to be played with like toys, then cast away, it simultaneously rescues “reality” from “mere a p p earan ce” and re-presents it in evocative form as the subject for new thought and action. The Olympic G am es offer a m aster example of this strange double dynamic. As ethnog­ raphers of the spectacle we must describe both of these processes. As an ­ thropologists we must attempt to understand the characteristics of the genre that make such contradictory effects possible. As humanists— and human beings— w ho must evaluate the societal effects of such perform ances, we must decide which dynamic is the dominant one.

NOTES 1.

John J. M acA loon, This G rea t S y m b o l: Pierre de Coubertin a n d the Origins o f the M o d e r n O ly m p ic G a m e s (Chicago, 1981). 2. Ernst Gombrich, “Form and Purpose,” Lecture given at the U niversity o f Chicago, May 1978; The S e n s e o f Order: A S tu d y in the P s y c h o lo g y o f D e c o r a ­ tive A r t (Ithaca, 1979), pp. 145-148. 3. This is what makes the Olympic Games especially suited for the culture-asperformance approach. What distinguishes cultural performances from other kinds o f cultural facts, and this approach from others, is the indivisibility o f form and purpose. 4. Raymond Williams, M a r x is m a n d Literature (Oxford, 1977), pp. 180-182. 5. M acA loon, pp. 269-271. 6. Max and Mary Gluckman, “On Drama, Gam es, and Athletic C on tests,” in Sally F. Moore and Barbara G. Myerhoff, ed s., S e c u la r R itu a l (Amsterdam, 1977), p. 227. 7. Sigmund Freud, T o te m a n d T aboo (N ew York, 1950), p. 140. 8. E. E. Evans-Pritchard, N u e r Religion (Oxford, 1956), p. 37. 9. L eo Frobenius, K u ltu r g e s c h ic h te A frikas (Zurich, 1932); Johan Huizinga, H o m o L u d e n s (B oston, 1955). 10. Ralph Barton Perry, The T h o u g h t a n d Character o f William J a m e s , vol. 1 (Boston, 1935), p. 439. 11. E. Maeder, The L u r e o f the M o u n ta in s (N ew York, 1975), p. 8. 12. Riefenstahl’s O lym p ia is arguably the greatest documentary film ever made. The Games have played an important role in the creation o f new artistic genres, such as Xalita Indian “tourist art” after M exico City; in the revitalization of peripheral branches o f artistic tradition, such as public sculpture and stadium architecture; and in the spread o f electronic media, especially television. The first commercial transmission o f any magnitude took place from the stadium in Berlin in 1936, and several other television firsts have been connected with the Olympics. Even now the sale o f new TV sets rockets around the world every four years. 13. Pierre de Coubertin, The O lym pic Idea: D iscourses a n d E s s a y s (Stuttgart, 1967), p. 32. 14. Christopher Isherw ood, The Berlin Stories (N ew York, 1963), p. x. 15. Hermann H e sse , “Zarathustra’s Return: A M essage to German Y o u th ,” in I f

276

16. 17. 18. 19. 20.

21.

22.

23.

24. 25. 26. 27.

28.

Actors, A udiences, & Reflexivity the W ar G o e s On: R eflectio n s on War a n d Politics (N ew York, 1971), pp. 88­ 89. H. W. Wardman, E rne st R e n a n : A Critical B io g ra p h y (N ew York, 1964), p. 206. Clifford Geertz, The Interpretation o f Cultures (N ew York, 1973), p. 448. Coubertin, p. 131. s Coubertin, p. 57. H. W. Pleket and M. I. Finley, The O lym pic G a m e s : The First T h o u s a n d Years (N ew York, 1976), p. 54. While the site of ancient Games was fixed in Elis, and while there are periodic calls within the m ovem ent for a stable venue, the modern Gam es remain a traveling show. Each host city is thought o f as a “N e w O lym pia,” connected symbolically to the ancient tradition by the celebration of the festival. “People meet at O lym pia,” wrote Coubertin, “to make both a pilgrimage to the past and a gesture o f faith in the future.” The resem blances betw een religious pilgrimage and journey to the “N e w Olympia” are marked. As Victor and Edith Turner have noted, modern pilgrims and tourists (and Olympic “fans”) are more closely related than w e think. Borrowed from the ancient Greeks, the Olympic calendar divides history into “O lym piads” and “Olympic Eras.” An Olympiad is a four-year period opened and closed by the celebration o f the Games. The succession o f Olympiads from 1896 to the present com pose the “Modern Olympia Era,” whereas the period betw een 776 B.C . (traditionally the first Olympic Games) and A .D . 393 (the edict o f T heodosius I banning pagan festivals, including the Olympic Games) com posed the “Ancient Olympic Era.” Coubertin quaintly referred to the inter­ vening centuries as “The Dark A g e s .” If an Olympic Games cannot be held because o f war (1916, 1940, 1944), the Olympic clock nonetheless keeps ticking. The period 1940-44, for example, is officially referred to as “an Olympiad during which no Games were held.” The Olympic calendar is unlikely to surpass the Christian in salience, but it is more than a historical conceit. Several o f my informants recall significant events in their lives by spontaneously placing them in reference to the Olympic Games. Moreover, the psychological and behav­ ioral times o f Olympic officials, top-class athletes, and devoted fans are very much organized into quadrennial rhythms by the Olympic calendar. This effort has been surprisingly successful. Since international law is backward and offers little assistance in this matter, this success has to be attributed in no small part to the voluntary forbearance o f would-be usurpers. The I.O.C. does permit the Gam es Organizing Committee o f the host nation to sell the rights to its emblem to corporate sponsors, a controversial decision. This reticence extends even to events conceived o f as ancillary com ponents o f the festival, like the 1976 International Congress o f Physical Activity Sciences in Q uebec City. Even the International Olympic A cadem y, located at Archaia Olympia and dedicated to promulgating the orthodox Olympic gospel, required years to win I.O.C. patronage. Coubertin, p. 17. Coubertin, p. 34. Coubertin, p. 34. Terence Turner, “Transformation, Hierarchy,and Transcendence: A Reformu­ lation o f Van G en n ep ’s Model o f the Structure o f Rites o f P assage,” in Sally F. Moore and Barbara G. Myerhoff, eds., S e c u la r R itu a l (Amsterdam, 1977). Coubertin, p. 118; cf. John J. M acAloon, “Religious Them es and Structures in the Olympic M ovem ent and the Olympic G am es,” in Fernand Landry and W. A. R. Orban, ed s., Philosophy, Theology a n d H istory o f S p o rt a n d o f P h y s ic a l A c tiv ity (Miami, 19780.

Olympic G a m es a nd the Theory o f Spectacle 29. 30. 31.

32. 33. 34. 35.

36.

37.

38.

39. 40. 41.

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Pierre de Coubertin, The Evolution o f F ra n ce u n d er the Third R e p u b lic (B o s­ ton, 1897), pp. 303-304. Emile Durkheim, The E le m e n ta r y F o r m s o f the R elig io u s L ife (N ew York, 1965), p. 474ff. It is not surprising that ritual protests at the Olympic Games are typically made in the name o f ethnic, racial, o f ideological groups, such as the protests o f black Americans in 1968 and 1972. Gender distinctions are also formally represented, though they are understood by those concerned to be biological, not social categories. Marcel M auss, Oeuvres, vol 3 (Paris, 1969), pp. 573-639. M acA loon, This G reat S y m b o l, pp. 262-269. Pierre de Coubertin, “D o es Cosmopolitanism Lead to International Friend­ liness?” A m e r i c a n M o n t h l y R e v i e w o f R e v ie w s 17:429-434, 1898. In Olympic folklore, this innovation is attributed to an anonym ous Australian schoolboy o f Chinese descent w ho wrote to I.O.C. president A very Brundage, pointing out to him the sym bolic appropriateness o f the gesture. Until that time, Brundage is said to have feared the “disorder” such a change would introduce. The boy recognized the order in disorder that the old man could not see. In Montreal, hours after the television cameras had been turned off and the officials had gone “h o m e ,” indeed far into the night, thousands remained exult­ ing together on the field and in the streets, hugging and kissing com plete stran­ gers no longer com pletely strange, holding impromptu races and long-jump contests in the suddenly liberated play spaces, cheered in a dozen languages by “com m on folk” now occupying the q u een ’s box. E veryw here, persons e x ­ changed flowers, seat cushions, pieces o f clothing, photographs, currency, souvenir shards o f pottery and splinters o f w ood broken from the equestrian apparatus left lying about. Athletes were seen to ask spectators for their auto­ graphs, and a harlequin in whiteface, who for two w eeks had wandered through the festival wearing a sign reading The Olympic Clown, for the first time was seen to smile. Only at long last, and reluctantly, did this “holy riot o f identities,” this mass delight in “species-being,” wind to an end as people drifted out to find their cars or a train back into the city. For a useful historical review o f this subject, see H elen Schwartzman, Trans­ f o r m a t io n s : The A n tr o p o lo g y o f Ch ild ren ’s Play (N ew York, 1978). Much ink has been spilled on the definition o f sport. I prefer the simple taxonom y o f Guttmann (F r o m R itu a l to R e c o rd : The N a t u r e o f M o d e r n Sports, 1978). The relationship betw een “play” and “gam e” is more complicated. Many take the position that the tw o categories are fundamentally disjunctive, arguing that play is spontaneous and free, while games are distinctively rule-bound. I believe this position is overstated and agree with Grathoff that play and game have a “co m ­ mon sym bolic ty p e .” On the matter o f rules, the difference is in their nature, not in their presence or absence. While game rules are explicit, con sciou s, corpo­ rate, and jural, play rules are often tacit, preconscious, individual, or natural. For exam ple, the law o f gravity is certainly a rule in the “free play” o f kicking a ball around or gamboling in the park. See Eugene W eber, “Pierre de Coubertin and the Introduction o f Organized Sport in F ran ce,” J o u rn a l o f C o n te m p o r a r y H istory 5:3-26, 1970; and Jacques Ulmann, D e la g y m n a s t iq u e a u x sports m o d e r n e s (Paris, 1971). Richard H. Grathoff, The S tructure o f Social In c o n sis te n c ie s (The Hague, 1970). Jean-Paul Sartre, B e in g a n d N o t h i n g n e s s (N ew York, 1957), pp. 580-581. This wonderful formulation itself invites playing around with. For exam ple, change it to “all statements inside this frame are true; I love you; I hate y o u ”

278

42.

43.

44. 45.

46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54.

Actors, Audiences, & Reflexivity and one has a blueprint for psychological ambivalence and an invitation to rethink and to revise Freud’s theory o f play as “repetition co m pu lsion.” Place the statement “all statements within this frame are untrue” outside the frame and one gets something else again, something also rather interesting. S ee Victor Turner, The F o re st o f S y m b o l s (Ithaca, 1967), pp. 59-91, and Mary D ouglas, N a t u r a l S y m b o ls : E xplorations in C o s m o lo g y (N ew York, 1970), pp. 65-81, for contrasting accounts. For exam ple, the Tarahumara Indians of Chihuahua, M exico, are widely known to be the finest long-distance runners in the world, judged according to empir­ ical criteria o f physiological performance. Repeated efforts made to enlist Tarahumara for the Olympic Games have failed. A w ay from their canyons, fed strange food, and enjoined to run around a flat ground o f cinders, with no ball to kick and without the bracing ministrations o f their sorcerers, all in service to a watch: this apparently made little sense to the Tarahumara. The w orld’s finest distance runners could not “speak the language” o f Graeco-European distance running. Team handball “sa y s” little to an American; baseball says little to a Bulgarian. When Alberto Juantorena said that he won his Montreal victories “for the Cuban revolution,” his American interlocutors understood what he meant. When he said that he won “because o f the Cuban revolution,” that did not com pute. It is said that once a group o f American sportswriters were granted an interview with Fidel Castro. Seizing their chance to “confront him ,” they asked, “Mr. Castro, isn ’t it true that in your country sport is entirely mixed up with politics?” “Mixed up with politics?” Castro responded. “N o ” (winks and conpiratorial elbowing all around), “sport is politics!” The reporters were dumb­ struck; something in their cultural wires shorted out. See M acA loon, This Great S y m b o l, for a full account. Coubertin, The O lym pic Idea, p. 55. Jesse Pitts, “Continuity and Change in Bourgeois France,” in Stanley Hoffman, ed., In S e a rc h o f F rance (Cambridge, M ass., 1963). Coubertin, The O lym pic Idea, p. 99. Durkheim, E le m e n ta r y F o rm s, p. 470; Sociology a n d P hilo so p hy (G lencoe, 111., 1953), p. 92. Coubertin, The O lym pic Idea, p. 118. Erving Goffman, F r a m e A n a ly sis (N ew York, 1974), p. 247. Kenneth Burke, A G r a m m a r o f M o tiv e s (Englewood Cliffs, N .J., 1945), p. xv. In one sen se, it is not fair to Coubertin’s view o f things to portray the matter as I have, for many o f his writings suggest that he did not see this revelation as something other than play, a new frame or genre, but the hidden core o f play itself. But other Coubertin texts seem to justify this formulation. O f all the ancient com m entators, Pindar was his favorite: “The Gods are friends to the G a m es.” Coubertin cherished what Bowra has called Pindar’s interest in “the part o f experience in which human beings are exalted or illumined by a divine force . . . a marvelously enhanced con sciou sness [which for Pindar and for Coubertin] was the end and justification o f life” {The O des o f Pindar, 1969, pp. xii, xv i-x v ii). Like Pindar, Coubertin was perfectly accustom ed to discovering that “marvelously enhanced c o n scio u sn ess,” as well as the particular revelation at issue here, elsew here than at the center o f games. Therefore, it seem s justified to include revelatory truth as a separate frame (a frame, incidentally, without a m etam essage) within the others. A conscious and explicit sense o f noncontradictory, revelatory truths concealed within the apparent paradoxes of play may be more typical o f non-Western play-forms in cultures that have no functional equivalent o f the Puritan ethic, for example, Chinese wan play, Zen

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55. 56. 57.

58. 59.

60.

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archery, or Pueblo ritual clowning. It is worth recalling the contemporary flirta­ tion with a “theology o f play” among such Western Christian theologians and comparative m ythologists as Moltmann, Miller, N eale, K een, Cox, and Volant, work that attempts to turn the Christian mythos and Christian practice in this direction. The general point is that the presuppositions o f B a teso n ’s box are culturally determined. " Gregory Bateson, S te p s to an E co lo g y o f M in d (N ew York, 1972), p. 182. Victor Turner, “Liminal to Liminoid in Play, Flow , and Ritual: An E ssay in Comparative S y m b o lo g y ,” R ic e University S tu d ies 60:82, 1974. Like most ideologies, Olympism fails to recognize itself as such. Indeed, it proclaims itself an “anti-ideology” with respect to social formations, political creeds, ethnicity, and religion. Sports, it says, ought to be (and therefore can be) transcendent o f their social and cultural contexts. This is, o f course, an ideology like any other, and no matter how true it b ecom es in practice for three w eek s every four years, for all but a few persons it loses out in the interims to its more particularistic rivals. Metaphorically speaking, the Olympic family is vast indeed; sociologically speaking, it is rather small when explored outside o f the context o f the festival itself. Turner, “Liminal to Lim inoid,” pp. 84-86. While the suspension o f the Games because o f the two world wars had little sym bolic effect in itself, the resumption o f the Games after those wars provided powerful sym bols o f the world com e back to its senses. Similarly, the first reappearances of Germany and Japan in the Games were widely discussed and experienced as rites o f reincorporation o f these nations into the world com m u­ nity. This process can even today be reexperienced through film. The w hole devastating period o f the Second World War is bracketed betw een two over­ whelming images: the torchbearer carrying the sacred flame toward the stadium in Berlin in 1936 in Riefenstahl’s “Olym pia,” and the torchbearer carrying the flame through the ruins o f Hiroshima in 1964, shot from a helicopter by Kon Ichikawa. The first appearance o f Soviet Russia in the Helsinki Games o f 1952 was another sym bolic marker o f great importance, as was the presence o f the Games in M o sco w in 1980. The Munich massacre was all the more disastrous sym bolically, given G erm any’s unstated but deeply felt concern to exorcise on the playing fields o f Munich the residual memories o f other events ten miles aw ay in Dachau. This was brought home to me in an interview with the editor of a well-known German newspaper. After first treating my questions about the “entertaining diversions” of Munich with polite indifference, she suddenly changed emotional frequencies, becam e another person, and recalled with growing passion the entry o f the German team into the stadium. “Germans marching in rank and order, those terrible memories. But these were athletes, not soldiers, young people full o f jo y , so joyous! The day was so bright and the pageant so colorful, I was quite overcom e when I saw it.” The subsequent massacre destroyed all this, she said. “It was another terrible tragedy for the German p e o p le .” The banishing o f Rhodesia and South Africa from the Olympic m ovem ent must also be mentioned. The extreme concern o f these regimes to regain admission to the Games has had practical consequ en ces for apartheid and is one further indication o f the instrumental as well as the expressive power o f the Games as sym bolic action. In the sense that changes in any part o f the system are apt to produce changes in all its other parts, not in the sense that it is self-contained, and without conflict, contradiction, and “v a ca n cy .” Like all “natural” cultural entities, the Olympic performance system displays what Sally Moore aptly termed “the indetermi­ nacy principle.”

280 61. 62.

63. 64. 65. 66.

67. 68. 69. 70. 71.

72.

Actors, A u d ie n c e s , & Reflexivity M acA loon, This Great S y m b o l, pp. 208-275. This is why scholars o f cultural performances must avoid the Scylla and Charybdis o f genre lumping and genre splitting, for substantive as well as methodological reasons. The pervasiveness o f these two approaches has been responsible for the failure to recognize the existence o f ramified performance types. Johan Huizinga, The W aning o f the M iddle A g e s (N e w York, 1954). Daniel Boorstin, The I m a g e : A Guide to P s e u d o -E v e n ts in A m e r i c a (N e w York, 1961); Guy Debord, The S o c ie ty o f the S p e c ta c le (Detroit, 1977). See Bernard E. Brown, P ro test in Paris (Morristown, N .J., 1974), and the anonym ous work, The Blind M a n a n d the E lep h a n t (Berkeley, 1975). Robert Park, still a reporter and not yet the pioneer o f American sociology, wrote in the 1890s: “Walking on upper Broadway or down to the Battery on a bright afternoon, or watching the oncoming and outgoing human tide as it poured morning and evening over the Brooklyn Bridge, was always for me an enthralling sp ecta cle.” Schudson has excavated this and several other illustra­ tions o f the widespread perception that “the cities o f the late nineteenth century were sp ectacles” in his provocative social history o f the American newspaper, D isco verin g the N e w s (N e w York, 1978). Quoted in The Blind M a n a n d the Elephant. See Jean-Marie Brohm, Sport: A Prison o f M e a s u r e d Tim e (London, 1978), for the split in the French Left over sport. Serge Groussard, The B lo o d o f Israel (N ew York, 1975), p. 438. Groussard, p. 441. I would argue that the Games have becom e a sort o f collective divination about the fate and condition o f the world. At Montreal the fact that the Games took place at all and that terrorists did not strike produced an audible sigh o f relief and renewed hope after the shattering experience o f Munich. Despite the fact that the “show usually goes o n ,” the w eeks prior to the Games since the early part o f the century are full o f claims “that this will be the last o n e .” It is impossible to understand this except as a nervous dramatization o f our hopes that the ensuing divination will be reassuring and that the Games will go on forever. Such popular ethnography o f stereotypes is not a new thing. Jack G oody re­ prints a marvelous eighteenth-century chart o f Austrian stereotypes o f ten European peoples. (See Jack Goody, The D o m estic a tio n o f the S a v a g e M ind, Cambridge, 1977, pp. 154-155.) Indeed, though anthropology has been slow to perceive it, there is no people without its images o f the “others.” Their role in internal social life remains to be systematically explored. This Great S y m b o l considers the precedents and role o f popular ethnography in the origins o f the modern Olympics (pp. 44-47, 134-136, 236-241, 262-269).

(CONTINUED FROM FRONT FLAP)

essay deals, in a different key, with the them e of play and oppression or death, and together they address the problem of what is cross-culturaliy invariant, contextually unique, and individually created in per­ formance structure and style. As a state-of-the-art demonstration of the contribution of cultural performance studies to general culture theory, the book will attract the interest of students and scholars in many fields. In its effort to tran­ scend such conventional dichotomies as sa­ cred and secular, primitive and modern, ludic and tragic, “high” and “p o p ,” or oral and written, this collection is sure to be widely imitated. Contributors to Rite, Drama, Festival, Spectacle include Barbara Babcock, R o­ berto Da Matta, Natalie Zemon Davis, Bruce Kapferer, Hilda Kuper, Barbara Meyerhoff, John J. MacAloon, Sophia Morgan, Victor Turner, and Frank W. Wadsworth.

About the Editor John J. MacAloon is Associate Professor of Social Science at the University of Chicago as well as an associated faculty member of the D epartm ent of Anthropology and C o­ Director of the Center for Curricular Thought. A form er Danforth Foundation and Mellon Foundation Fellow, he has also taught at the University of California, San Diego. Professor MacAloon is the author of This Great Symbol: Pierre de Coubertin an d the Origins o f the M odern Olympic G am es (1981) and of essays on interna­ tional sport, cultural performance theory, and the anthropology of the nation-state. Recently he was chosen to lead an interna­ tional team of anthropologists in a study of intercultural relations at the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics.

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ORIGINS OF TH E STATE The Anthropology of Political Evolution R o n a l d C o h e n & E l m a n R. S e rv ic e, e d ito r s “the book is an important source of fact and opinion about the origins of states.” Paperback, 240 pp.

—American Anthropologist

HIERARCHY AND SOCIETY Anthropological Perspectives on Bureaucracy G e r a l d M. B r i t a n & R o n a l d C o h e n , e d ito r s “Altogether, this collection should be highly com m ended for the new ground that it breaks and should be welcomed not only by anthropologists but by professionals from the other social sciences as well. . . .” *

Paperback, 192 pp.

—Silliman Journal

NUM ERICAL TECHN IQ U ES IN SOCIAL ANTHROPOLOGY ASA Essays in Social Anthropology, Vol. 3 J. C ly d e M itc h e ll, e d ito r “Each of the eight contributions . . . illustrates the application o f a numerical technique to an anthropological problem. The ed itor’s introduction is very informative and highlights the vo lum e’s important methodological issues.” Paperback, 304 pp.

—Contemporary Sociology

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