Toward Diversity and Emancipation: (Re-)Narrating Space in the Contemporary American Novel 9783839435083

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Marcel Thoene Toward Diversity and Emancipation

Lettre

Marcel Thoene (Dr.) studied English and American Literature at Bielefeld University and SUNY Albany. His research interests include the American novel, early American literature as well as theories of American culture and history and literary theory.

Marcel Thoene

Toward Diversity and Emancipation (Re-)Narrating Space in the Contemporary American Novel

This work was accepted as a doctoral dissertation at the University of Bielefeld in 2015.

Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de © 2016 transcript Verlag, Bielefeld

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Cover layout: Kordula Röckenhaus, Bielefeld Cover illustration: St. Louis Gateway Arch, wikimedia commons (CC-BY-SA-2.5), photographer: Kelly Martin, 2006. Typeset by Justine Haida, Bielefeld. Printed in Germany Print-ISBN 978-3-8376-3508-9 PDF-ISBN 978-3-8394-3508-3

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments  | 9 1.) Introduction: Contemporary American (Literary) Studies, the Spatial Turn and Narrativity  | 11 1.1) 1.2) 1.3) 1.4) 1.5) 1.6)

The Significance of Space in American Studies | 25 Spatial Narrativity and U.S.-American (Literary and Cultural) Studies: Overview and Desideratum | 30 Theoretical Remarks: Space as Part of the Historical Narrative | 42 Undisclosed Sit(d)es: Redirecting Scholarly Attention Towards Space | 47 Foucault’s Heterotopias and Historicized Space | 52 The Intersection of Space and Time: Locating Spatial Narrativity | 57

2.) Key Tropes of Space in U.S.-American Cultural History  | 61 2.1) The City upon a Hill: Puritan Spatial Thought and the Beginnings of American Exceptionalism | 65 2.2) The American Revolution – The Modern Nation State as Spatial Entity | 69 2.3) 19th-Century American Expansionism: On the Symbiosis of Space, Politics and Ideology | 73 2.4) Transition, Redefinition and Relocation: The Early 20th Century as an Example of Spatial Transformation | 81 2.5) America in the Second Half of the 20th Century: The Spatial Qualities and Metaphorics of Foreign Policy in the Light of Confrontation and War | 84

3.) Literary Tradition: Space in Earlier Periods of U.S.-American Literature  | 93

4.) Re-Thinking Narrative Theory for Contemporary Literature  | 105 4.1) Narrative, History, and the Significance of Textuality | 111 4.2) “The Long and Winding Road”: A Basic Taxonomy of Spatially-Induced Narratives | 114 4.3) Outsourcing Space: Towards a Spatial Perspective of Narrative | 119 4.4) Narrative Concepts, Categories and their Spatial Qualities: Narrative and Diegesis | 121 4.5) Theorizing Levels and Dimensions of Narrative Space | 126 4.6) Narrative Heterotopias | 132

5.) Jonathan Franzen — The Corrections  | 139 5.1) St. Jude as Place and Space: A Pessimistic Representation of the American Midwest | 139 5.2) St. Jude as the Other: Gary Lambert’s Perception of his Hometown | 141 5.3) One Last Christmas: St. Jude’s Significance as Contact Zone | 144 5.4) Re-Spatializing St. Jude: WASP America and the Narrative of Failure | 146 5.5) St. Jude’s Idyll: Space and Spatiality in Alfred Lambert’s Recollection of the American Midwest | 149 5.6) St. Jude and the Burdens of Family Life | 154 5.7) A Simultaneous Collision of Spaces: The Narrative Heterotopia in The Corrections | 159 5.8) Reconfiguring St. Jude: Coming to Terms with The Corrections | 168 5.9) Corrected Spaces: A Reevaluation of St. Jude | 173

6.) Toni Morrison’s African American History Trilogy  | 179 6.1) Sweet Home vs. 124 Bluestone Road: Spatial Constructs and Imagery in Toni Morrison’s Beloved | 179 6.2) The Urban vs. the Rural: The Role of the City in the Construction of African American Biographies in Jazz | 196 6.3) Paradise: The Representation of an Attempt at Creating African American Spatiality | 208

7.) Luis Alberto Urrea — Into the Beautiful North  | 227 7.1) Spatial Contrasts in Urrea’s Into the Beautiful North: Tres Camarones and Imaginaries of “Los Yunaites” | 227 7.2) Tijuana and the Border: A Representation of the Borderlands | 243

7.3) Across the Border: Into the Beautiful North as a Narrative of Empowerment | 254 7.4) Bringing it all Back Home: The Representation of Tres Camarones Vis-à-Vis “Los Yunaites” and Nayeli’s Search for her Father | 258

8.) Sherman Alexie — Reservation Blues  | 269 8.1) Coming Full Circle: Sherman Alexie’s Reservation Blues and the Spatiality of Tragedy and Failure | 269 8.2) Narrating Enclaves: The Reservation as Space of Isolation and Despair | 274 8.3) “Coyote Springs”: The Journey as a Representation of Overlapping Spaces | 288 8.4) Narrativizing the Reservation Blues: The Cultural Emancipation of Thomas and Chess | 299

9.) Conclusion  | 307 Works Cited   | 317 a) Literary Works and Other Primary Sources | 317 b) Secondary Material | 318

Acknowledgments

The present study was accepted in slightly different form as a doctoral dissertation in the field of North American Literary and Cultural Studies at Bielefeld University in 2015. As is typically the case with PhD theses, too many people deserve a heartfelt “thank you” than can be accounted for here. However, I would like to express my gratitude to at least some people who have accompanied me along the “long and winding road” toward the finalization of this project. The biggest thank you goes out to my parents, Inge and Peter Thoene, for their support in everything I’ve been doing. There are things too numerous to mention, so I’ll keep it short: Thanks to both of you for everything. Speaking of family, my in-laws – Birgit and Friedrich-Wilhelm Tesch, Brunhilde Tesch, and Werner Heyn, deserve a big thank you. I’ve really found a home and a second family here, and that is in no small part thanks to you. Prof. Dr. Wilfried Raussert, my supervisor, has accompanied the writing process of this work with superb accessibility, constant feedback, encouragement, and very helpful criticism. Thank you, Willy, for your focus, inspiration and guidance. Prof. Dr. Ralf Schneider, my second supervisor, has not only provided critical and helpful insight with specific regard to the theoretical parts of this work, but is simply a great teacher and educator. The seminars and discussions with him have greatly contributed to my interest in thinking about literature theoretically. Thank you, Prof. Schneider. Lest I forget, a very big thank you goes out to my teacher, mentor, and friend, Dr. Thomas Göhler, who has been more than formative in both, fostering my interest in American Studies as well as sparking my interest in and developing my own approach to teaching. Last, but certainly not least, I wish to thank my wife Katharina – for being herself, for keeping up with me (and my ramblings – not only during the writing stages of this project!), and simply for being with me.

1.) Introduction Contemporary American (Literary) Studies, the Spatial Turn and Narrativity “I take SPACE to be the central fact to man born in America [...]” C harles O lson , Call me Ishmael, p. 11

Literature, and narrative in particular, is essentially an art of time, Gotthold Ephraim Lessing (qtd. in Zoran 1984: 102 ff.) tells the reader. While this statement in its radicality has not held true for a long time, narrative has traditionally been viewed as an art form crucially dependent on the temporal, whereas the spatial has been continually marginalized and degraded to representing an empty shell, a background in contrast to which story and discourse develop over the course of time. Only in recent years, after the socalled spatial turn proclaimed by Edward Soja have the humanities, and with them, literary and cultural studies, re-discovered the dynamics of space and the effects it has on aspects of personal life, cohabitation, migration and other social realities, or representations thereof. The spatial turn constituted a move away from the notion of space as the background against which events unfold in time. It reestablished space as a quintessential element in producing and structuring human life as well as its reflections in art and literature. Spaces entail a social component. They are rendered dynamic by the subjects that inhabit them, creating a reciprocal interaction shaping people which in turn build and reconfigure their spaces. The implications that these observations carry hint at one particular hypothesis, namely that space and spatiality as space’s specifically social and/or metaphorical manifestation (cf. Soja 1989: 79) contain a narrative aspect central to the genesis of actions eventually represented in stories and novels. Space and spatiality are related to one another. Concretely and building on Soja’s definition, space denotes palpable rooms, places, locales/locations and structures (or their cultural inscriptions). It describes strategies of structuring and categorizing human experiences. Spatiality, by contrast, functions as a mode of representation in

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which such categories or their interrelations are reflected to the reader in a wide variety of forms, such as hierarchies, networks, trajectories, movements, intersections and practically any social reality that can be represented as such. Therefore, spaces are concrete concepts on the one hand and highly suggestive metaphors on the other hand, particularly against the background of U.S.-American cultural history. Accordingly, U.S.-American stories contain special implications for narration. I hypothesize that space is in itself a diegetic category without which these narratives are incomplete. In conjunction with this, it is primarily space that underlies (particularly contemporary) U.S.-American literary narratives, both in terms of content (culture) as well as in terms of their aesthetic (narrative discourse) and representational (characters) dispositions. Nicole Schröder, author of the most recent, and, in my understanding, only explicit study on the connection between U.S.-American cultural history and contemporary U.S.-American literary studies from a spatial point of view, writes, “[l]iterature as a social practice is inextricably intertwined with the production of space – thus, literature can, to paraphrase bell hooks, ‘interrupt, appropriate, and transform’ conventional spatial layouts, i.e. it can be used to question spatial productions, most notably those based on the norms and values of society’s dominating groups: ‘Spaces can tell stories and unfold histories[…]’” (2006: 13). The stories told by the contemporary novels chosen for examination represent acts of emancipation and are on all three levels heavily influenced by the qualities assigned to space by bell hooks above. Mark Rupert summarizes emancipation as follows: “‘[...]Emancipation’ entails equal status of individual citizens in relation to the state, equality before the law, regardless of religion, property, or other ‘private’ characteristics of individual persons.”1 This is the starting point for this project, which attempts to identify spatial narrativity and analyze its function in contemporary U.S.-American prose.2 From the theocratic Massachusetts Bay Colony, during the existence of which John Winthrop illustrated the colonies as a “city upon a hill” (2003: 105 ff.) to the process of becoming a nation, the ensuing expansionism against a perceived frontier on to the New Frontier coined by President Kennedy in his 1960 nomination speech3 and the notion of the war at home brought about 1 | URL:http://web.archive.org/web/20090322060613/http://faculty.maxwell.syr. edu/merupert/political_and_human_emancipation.htm (February 3, 2015, 1.13 p.m.). 2  |  For reasons of clarity, it should be mentioned that this project builds on my previously unpublished Master’s thesis. Therefore, parts of chapters 1, 4, 5 and 9 have been adopted from: Thoene, Marcel. Towards a Reconsideration of Space and Spatiality in Narrative Theory: The Contemporary American Novel as Exemplified by Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections. Bielefeld University: MA Thesis, 2010. Unpublished. 3 | Kennedy, John F. “Accepting the Nomination for President of the United States at the Democratic National Convention.” URL: http://www.jfklibrary.org/Research/

1.) Introduction

by the attacks of September 11, 2001, U.S.-America has maintained a genuine spatial quality as part of her cultural narrative. In order to outline a deeper comprehension of a distinctly U.S.-American literary narrative, it is first necessary to analyze and redefine the intersection of space and time in terms of their theoretical convergences. These are based on the following assumptions: a) Any type of geographical surrounding is assigned its characteristic reciprocity as soon as it attains cultural significance. Once a space is culturally inscribed, this inscription has the means to influence, shape and control what occurs inside its boundaries. b) In addition to the dimension of arrangement reflected in the category of spatiality, spaces are highly constructivist entities that shape narratives. These narratives are influenced and represented by and in their concrete geographical surrounding, the characters moving in it as well as their narrative discourse. c) Spaces, spatial constructs and their inscriptions overlap. In accordance with this rather simple matter of fact, it must be acknowledged that they have to be constantly re-negotiated. d) Narrative space in the U.S.-American context is realized most convincingly by the close connection between literary and cultural narratives. e) No narrative can be realized without temporality, and examining those structures remains one of the crucial challenges for literary analysis. Space and spatiality, though prominently featured particularly in U.S.-American fiction, have been out in the open for everyone to see, only that they have been overlooked as story-influencing elements. U.S.-American narratives are frequently inspired by the spatial concepts and categories underlying them, making American literature the most viable tool to examine spatial narrativity. This project positions itself at the crossroads of U.S.-American cultural and literary studies, attempting to fulfill a strong desideratum to reconcile space and contemporary U.S.-American narrative. As Alan Bilton (2002) writes, It is interesting to note how many of the novels […] are concerned with maps, exploration and representation, the search for some kind of redemptive space.[…] even with nature tamed and the wilderness crisscrossed by freeways and shopping-malls, this motif still doesn’t seem finished with. The search for some kind of virgin territory underpins much Ready-Reference/JFK-Speeches/Address-of-Senator-John-F-Kennedy-Accepting-theDemocratic-Party-Nomination-for-the-Presidency-of-th.aspx (January 6, 2011, 4:32 p.m.).

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Toward Diversity and Emancipation of the writing […] Nevertheless, the idea of aesthetic territory left to explore, things still unsaid, visions not yet witnessed, remains central to contemporary fiction […] This space – at once within the language and out there – perhaps accounts for the otherwise incomprehensible vitality of the novel in an age of ostensible exhaustion. (13/14)

Indeed, in U.S.-American literature, the above-mentioned spaces, spatialities or relations between them function either as trigger and/or central trope, informed by the cultural characteristics underlying them. It is remarkably characteristic of U.S.-American culture that certain spatial categories are foregrounded in such a way that they provide a heavily inscribed fragmentation of the larger whole into ideological and historical units of the “Midwest”, the “Northeast”, the “Deep South” or the “West”, connecting them to the human experience of going “out west”, moving “back east” or “down south”, or living “up north”. Paradoxically, these spatio-regional traits are inscribed with cultural features that appear not to unite, but to further subdivide a political entity that is, in theory, supposed to function as “one nation under God, indivisible[…]”4 (emphasis mine). As a result of this, various forms of U.S.-American narratives have been examined profoundly in their individual constitutions, such as the transcultural or urban novel (cf. Keunen and Eeckhout 2003, Gurr and Raussert 2011), yet the underlying concepts of space and spatiality that play a decisive role in defining these narratives have not been carved out to a large enough degree. Therefore, the spatial facet of U.S.-American culture in its literary manifestations should become more salient. This approach is situated much closer to the dynamic role that Soja and others assign to space. Löw et al. (2007) take that notion a step further, creating a duality which manifests itself in the reciprocal interaction between structures and actions (cf. Löw et. al. 2007: 63). One such example, particularly in a U.S.-American context, can be seen in the idea of suburbia. This very much inscribed space was specifically constructed in the wake of the white flight in the 1950s. The ensuing process of suburbanization, however, has equipped the suburb with traits and socio-ethical codes of behavior so that it fulfills a normative function for those moving into a suburban area. In short, it elicits certain types of behavior. Specifically, Kim Goudreau (2006) writes about suburbia, [a]lthough the suburb is very organized and expectations for behavior exist, relationships are best characterized by moral minimalism” (24). She proceeds to observe that “[y]et from the relationships within the house outward, there is minimal engagement between members with regard to expectations in terms of strong convictions. Furthermore, conflict, an element of intense human relationships, is avoided at all cost. Activities are 4  |  “The Pledge of Allegiance.” http://www.ushistory.org/documents/pledge.htm (November 28, 2011, 8.20 p.m.).

1.) Introduction avoided that might trigger conflict. Living in this habitat seldom requires cooperative effort or mutual reliance” (ibid.). “At the cultural level, the suburb is an example of lived morality […] that […] follows the drive for success, survival, happiness and health. (25)

The spatial is thus more than the immediate environment in which actual people or fictional characters live, act and react. Nünning (cf. 2009: 40) already specifies narrative as distinctly literary, but at the same time, his view of space as generative of other texts opens up a discourse of spatial narrativity which on the one hand includes the literary creation of spatial constructs while acknowledging on the other hand a non-fictional impact of spatiality. Literature, however, functions first and foremost as a form of cultural representation, and as such is embedded in and testifies to the cultural narrative that produces it. Morley (2009) confirms this for the American case in stating that [t]he American literary tradition, of course, has long been complicit in the invention of America. From the Puritans through to Emerson’s call for a national literature, writers […] have sought the institution of a communal, sovereign and exceptional identity based largely on nothing more than an imagined, shared purpose and ideology. The elusive national epic has naturally been instrumental in the institution of this sense of American-ness. Given the epic’s self-proclaimed role to sing the song of nations, […] it is unsurprising that American writers have, through the centuries, sought to capture the illusory magic of its binding qualities. (14)

Furthermore, Emory Elliott ascribes an exceptional proximity of U.S.-American (high brow) literature to its cultural history: As a scholar and teacher of American literature, I believe that our serious writers have always possessed a high degree of skepticism about what most Americans think they know about USA history and culture and that they are often motivated by the desire to expose hidden realities, deconstruct myths and illusions, demystify hallowed events and individuals, re-imagine the past, and re-invent memories so that they may serve the social, political, and spiritual needs of the present [...] (2005: 230).

This proximity between culture and literature renders U.S.-American narratives particularly fit for analysis under the spatial paradigm. Core U.S.-American beliefs, values as well as cultural traits such as the U.S.-American space myth, have not only been prominently featured, but have themselves played a prominent role in constructing what we refer to when saying “U.S.-American literature”. Literature writes representations. Canonical authors ranging from Anne Bradstreet, William Bradford, Hector St. John de Crèvecœur, Washington Irving, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau to romantic/realist and modernist writers such as Nathaniel Hawthorne, Mark Twain, Stephen Crane,

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John dos Passos and John Steinbeck, to name but a very few, helped write imaginaries and deconstructions of U.S.-America through the prism of space. Their contemporary counterparts, equipped with the sum of U.S.-American discourses, find themselves confronted with the transnational and -cultural as well as the (post-) multicultural challenges the nation faces. In their literature, they make an attempt at coming to terms with who they are, and where “America” as a conglomerate of overlapping spaces private and public, social and political, ethnic and intercultural, is headed. As Ruland and Bradbury (1991) observe, “Gertrude Stein similarly declared the United States – with its historyless history, its novelty and innovation, its space-time continuum, its plenitude and its emptiness – the natural home of the ‘new composition.’” (xi, emphasis mine) An analysis of an U.S.-American literary narrative should therefore take into consideration the special cultural role space takes in shaping it. Why choose contemporary novels as the genre best suited for such a desideratum? According to Anderson (2006), the novel embodies “the technical means for ‘re-presenting’ the kind of imagined community that is the nation.” (25) Anderson outlines how novels create an imagined community which subsequently, by means of print capitalism, creates a common connection between what is represented in the novel and its audience, resulting ultimately in a high degree of identification on part of its (possibly very many) readers, hence the creation of an imagined “national” context. Responding to what construes this imagined community, Anderson continues: First that they [the characters] are embedded in ‘societies’ [...]. These societies are sociological entities of such firm and stable reality that their members [...] can even be described as passing each other on the street, without ever becoming acquainted, and still be connected. Second, [they] are embedded in the minds of the omnisicient readers. [...] The idea of a sociological organism moving calendrically through homogeneous, empty time is a precise analogue of the idea of the nation [...] An American will never meet [...] more than a handful of his [...] fellow–Americans. But he has complete confidence in their steady, anonymous, simultaneous activity. (ibid., 25/6)

As such, the novel takes on a prominent role in the construction of nationally distinct forms of writing grounded in socio-cultural realities, but also in the construction of the nation as such, as it reproduces and infuses these sociocultural aspects into its readers minds until it reverses this effect: “fiction seeps quietly into and continuously into reality, creating that remarkable confidence of community in anonymity which is the hallmark of modern nations.” (ibid., 36) This reciprocity can in turn be read analogously to that between structures and actions in a spatial context. In the U.S.-American contemporary narratives chosen, it is space that forms the distinctiveness of U.S.-American writing, even if the different ethnicities represented in the novels employ space and spatiality

1.) Introduction

in different manners with different functions. Yet, space can be regarded as the superordinate concept under which these narratives can be united both in terms of plot and discourse. It represents the “simultaneous activity” (ibid.) outlined by Anderson that equips the novels with their Americanness, regardless of ethnic background. Why contemporary? As Ellerbrock says, “[l]iterature seismographically records currents of our times, some of which are hardly noticed. It does not make a principle difference whether those currents are of mental, cognitive or social origin. What authors, equipped with precise senses, perceive is poeticized in stories.” (2005: 123; my translation); in addition, Toni Morrison confirms this chronicling function of the literary author in stating that “are imaginative writers not ‘the most intellectually anarchic, most representative, most probing, of artists [?]...The languages they use and the social and historical context in which these languages signify are indirect and direct revelations [of] power and its limitations’” (qtd. in Saldívar 2012: xxxii). In terms of the contemporary, particularly the notion of the transcultural/-national is of great importance. Gone are the days of examining old white men’s literatures that in “[e]arly American Studies, especially in Europe, might be characterized as reeducation projects, because the main goal was to prove that the United States, the new world power and leader of the Western world, possessed a valuable culture of its own [...]” (Fluck 2007: 61). American Studies, according to Winfried Fluck, even in an era of globalization and a supposed crisis of national identity (cf. ibid., 73), is still concerned with analyzing (U.S.-)America and the influence of its power at home and abroad (cf. ibid.) As a matter of fact, Fluck argues, in the age of globalization, American power “is reconfiguring itself and may emerge in consolidated and perhaps even more effective forms than before.” (ibid.) Contemporary novels therefore represent the best methodological tool to examine cultural and literary redefinitions of U.S.-American characteristics on the basis of space. Embedded in processes of identity formation, they reconfigure this key element of U.S.-American culture so as to (re-)integrate their characters into the U.S.-American tradition by means of space. This is particularly true for the novels chosen to treat under this impression. Each of the novels redirects the above-mentioned, classical U.S.American space myth so as to challenge its long-accepted interpretations as one of dominance, expansion, oppression, virility and the jingoistic reading of U.S.-American exceptionalism. Simultaneously, they are also affirmative of the U.S.-American tradition because the recognize the centrality of space in U.S.American discourse5, and they are subversive because they challenge the power 5 | Space has always played a pivotal role in the construction of a U.S.-American imagined community. Holub writes that “[o]nly in the twentieth century has there finally

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structure that the space myth had represented thus far, accomplishing this by altering spatial structures and making use of a distinctly spatial manner of narration. Ultimately, the characters, supported by narrative discourse, in the novels employ the core U.S. values of liberty and individualism so as to render themselves visible as part of the American tradition. As a result, in each of the novels, individual liberty and emancipation function as links to simultaneous subversion and affirmation of the U.S.-American space myth, renegotiating it so as to challenge and overcome its WASP normative and hegemonic function. While Rupert’s definition of emancipation is based on Marxism, it is nevertheless general enough to be used as a working definition for this work. However, it should be modified to include the social categories of race, sex, gender, nationality, and social class so as to be fully applicable, as these are the categories that are reflected most prominently in contemporary U.S.American fiction. This redefinition of core U.S.-American myths on culturally idiosyncratic terms has the potential to alter the “imagined community” (Anderson 2006: 25/6) into one that more accurately reflects the trans-cultural challenges, struggles, but also chances faced by present-day U.S.-America. Starting with what has been hailed one of the central contemporary attempts at writing the “Great American Novel” inasmuch as it (de)constructs the “way [America] live[s] now” (cf. Grossmann 2010: 44)6, Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections illustrates the disintegration of the nuclear U.S.-American family. Rieckmann (2009) writes, “Hasn’t everyone been waiting for the Great American novel? The book continuing the glorious tradition of American Modernism, boosting the American literary nation back into the pantheon? This book finally seems to have arrived [...]” 7 (157). At the same been some acknowledgement that the acquisition of territory did not take place in an ‘uncivilized void’, and that the repercussions of the conquest of America can still be felt today, not only by Native Americans, but also by African Americans [...]” (2013: 11). In a similar manner, she interprets the borderlands as “spaces where transgression is both imminent and dangerous. [...] The frontier, hailed by Turner as a symbol of progress and democracy, is challenged by the Mexican-American frontera, highlighting how borders may serve both as bridges and boundaries.” (ibid.). 6 | It should be mentioned, however, that Grossman actually reviews Franzen’s then newly-published novel, Freedom. However, The Corrections is frequently named as a point of comparison, which renders his evaluation equally applicable. 7  |  Original German: “Haben nicht alle auf den großem amerikanischen Roman gewartet? Auf das Buch, das die glorreiche Tradition der amerikanischen Moderne fortführt und die amerikanische Literaturnation auch qualitativ wieder in höchste Sphären katapultiert? Dieses Buch, so wird anno 2001 zwischen New York und Baton Rouge gemunkelt, ist endlich angekommen.”

1.) Introduction

time, as Sybille Freitag (2008) suggests, Franzen’s novel represents “‘loss of order’” as “a central motif […] True to the realist tradition in which the novel is written, its plot, temporal and spatial frames and narrative perspective are clearly identifiable, and they structure the text in a rather straightforward, classical way.” (141) The narrative, on the surface level, appears straightforward and classic if read from that point of view, i.e. with a clear emphasis on the temporal structure and the actions occurring within that structure. Embarking from a rather spatially-oriented point of view, however, the novel gains an extraordinary quality in that the work can be analyzed using space as the primary paradigm eliciting, structuring and eventually shaping the narrative. The spatial –primarily represented by the Lamberts’ hometown of St. Jude, its values and the processes of coming to terms with it on part of the various family members – virtually transcends each page in the novel, and it leaves behind a dysfunctional model of what could be called a typically U.S.American family (cf. Dell 2005: 169 ff.). The problems the family encounters are very often based on the spaces they inhabit as well as the spatial categories structuring and determining their lives. Franzen’s innovation as a U.S.-American storyteller lies not primarily in the treatment of this subject matter, but rather in its discourse, which, by means of its post-postmodern/neo-realist approach (cf. Rohr 2004) to narrative has re-introduced space and spatiality as central interpretative paradigms in the creation of a specifically U.S.-American narrative. The Corrections revolves around fictional Midwestern St. Jude, which functions as a center of gravity for all Lambert family characters involved in the plot. While St. Jude retains this particular function in its place as the home of the Lambert family, it can simultaneously be interpreted in the context of the U.S.-American space myth in that St. Jude and its inhabitants are employed as symbols of core hegemonic U.S.-American values, coupled with a high dose of U.S.-American individualism, which particularly transcends Albert’s (gradually deteriorating) state of mind. Likewise, St. Jude’s intra-social dynamics provide a representation of the superficiality that has been lamented in the context of suburbanization. In that sense, St. Jude as an embodiment of suburbia and its attitudes provides a densified representation which, as part of this compressed nature, either serves as point of attraction or rejection, both of which are featured in the Lambert family. This also reveals the third purpose of St. Jude inasmuch as it acts as a catalyzer, putting the values which it symbolizes in flux by functioning as a suburban hub of intersecting trajectories which the fictional characters in the novel either embrace or reject. St. Jude, its conservatism and stagnation are featured prominently in the novel, being either challenged or defended by the different factions of the Lambert family. When St. Jude and its values do not inform the plot directly, its inscriptions move along with the characters they have created, providing

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a constant discrepancy/distance between socialization and present-day life, which underscores the prominent role of spaces in narrative discourse. In effect, everything that happens is measured against St. Jude and the values it represents. Eventually, in a somewhat romantic way, the characters have to make their “correction”, having to take sides. In the end, following trajectories taking the Lambert family characters from St. Jude to New York, Philadelphia, the high sea, Lithuania and back to St. Jude, the plot comes full circle, and it is the result of these endeavors and their measurable distance to St. Jude that the narrative asks the question of whether achieving happiness presupposes solitude, particularly for Enid, who at old age has the first chance at an emancipated life. Most of these observations are based on a refined understanding of narrative space or the interplay of space and time.8 Toni Morrison, as one of the most highly renowned American authors in her African American history trilogy has created an emancipatory narrative that no longer marginalizes African Americans, but deals with their experience while avoiding victimization. As such, emancipation is achieved by making use of African American cultural idiosyncracies so as to establish a parallel African American narrative of space which is closely tied to identity formation. Carlacio (2007) contends, “I begin all of my courses on Morrison by asking students to consider the role of narrative – of storytelling – in recording history [...] how we shape our identities, and how our identities are shaped through the telling of stories and through the places where we reside.” (157) Particularly in Toni Morrison’s African American History trilogy spaces, places or disparities between them stand at the center of plot and narrative discourse. Beloved treats the psychological ramifications of slavery inasmuch as it inquires about what people are capable of doing so as to protect their loved ones from harm, humiliation and enslavement. In fact, this paradoxical and challenging question – What is love? – pervades much of Toni Morrison’s work (cf. ibid., 158). However, Beloved also measures the distance and traces the trajectories between the two pivotal spaces which fundamentally inform the characters’ experiences: Sweet Home and 124 Bluestone Road. Jazz employs a similar dialectic between the Harlem of the 1920s, referred to as the “City” in a mixture of amazement and bewilderment, and several analepses from the points of view of the main characters, Violet and Jim, re-placing them into 19th century Dixie. Similar to Beloved, it is the profound incongruence of the two spaces that informs the narrative, with particularly the image of the “City” taking on a prominent role in structuring and conveying the narrative. 8  |  To prevent misunderstandings, it should be clarified that as opposed to Bakthin’s Chronotopoi, my understanding of space and time is that these two categories are not inseparable, but that it is their intersection rather than their innate togetherness that is at the core of narrative.

1.) Introduction

In another way, it responds to U.S.-American regionalism and the profound differences between center and periphery and urban and rural, particularly in terms of opportunity or lack thereof, blurring the boundaries between the regions by means of race and the struggle for personal identity. What remains central, however, is how the different spaces overlap in the protagonists’ struggle to resolve their conflicts, effectively shaping their thoughts and actions. Paradise represents the last element of Morrison’s African American history trilogy and plays with perceptions and attempted constructions of a black utopia, displaying the most obviously “spatial” novel in Morrison’s work. On the content level, Paradise is nothing less than the attempt to construct an African U.S.-American enclave simultaneously detached from and rooted in the (white) construct that is the state of Oklahoma. As such, it functions also as a narrative heterotopia, for it is indeed a place outside all other places, yet located right at the heart of U.S.-American society. In addition, it reverses the white U.S.-American space myth as it attempts to use the West as a safe haven for African Americans instead of a challenge for white expansionism. In mainstream U.S.-American mythology, the West functions as a dynamic line symbolizing progress. In Morrison’s discourse of African American history in Paradise, the West serves as ending point of a long struggle, creating a profound reinterpretation of this pivotal space in U.S.-American cultural ideology. The intra- and extra-textual levels work in remarkable conjunction. History and fiction become blurred, and one can be identified and generated only by means of the other (cf. Christian 2000 qtd. in Carlacio 2007: 158). What lies at the heart of these three narratives, which all connect literature and culture, literary narrative and historical narrativism, are in fact spatial categories which, once filled with life (or death) by the protagonists, exert a profound role in producing, structuring and (re-)narrating the story. Luis Alberto Urrea’s Into the Beautiful North reflects one of the most recent and most significant literary treatments of the borderlands discourse, which has come to represent one of the central paradigms in contemporary American Studies. Particularly Inter-American Studies9 with its focus on migration, social and intercultural dynamics and cultural interdependencies resulting from them has treated the US-Mexican borderlands extensively in the recent 9 | The term Inter-American studies is currently under discussion. Raussert (2014) proposes the “Inter-” be grasped as an idea rather than geographically: “In that sense Inter-American Studies envision a post-territorial understanding of area(s). With its critical positioning at the crossroads of cultural studies and area studies the field pushes further the postcolonial, postnational and cross-border turns in studies of the Americas toward a model of horizontal dialogue beyond constructed areas, cultures as well as disciplines.” (63)

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past, particularly from a transnational and -cultural point of view (cf. Haas and Herrera-Sobek 2012)10, treating la frontera as “as a transnational social, cultural, and geographic space.” (ibid.) This perception of the borderlands has led to two decisive redefinitions of U.S.-American narratives which have become delimited or demarcated on the one hand and, much like Toni Morrison does with African American history, been incorporated into mainstream U.S.American culture on the other hand. These redefinitions become manifest in two aspects: the latter border region [meaning the US-Mexican borderlands] represents a prime example of scholarly analysis, as it derives its relevance from its role as a delineating geographic marker highlighting the space/place of direct, physical confrontation and contact not only between two neighboring countries but also between Anglo- and Latin America, “First” and “Third” World. Informed by Postcolonial and Ethnic Studies perspectives, research on the U.S.-Mexico borderlands has explored the transnational history, cultures, and relations of this social and geographic space. As various scholars have noted, this border — la frontera in Spanish — today rivals, if not displaces, the frontier, the often mystified, ever westward-pushing zone of encounter and conflict between “civilization” and “wilderness” (Turner) as a conceptual paradigm of U.S.American national identity as well as of the research area of U.S.-American Studies. [...]11

From a purely spatial point of view, the dynamics sparked by the proximity and overlapping of two spaces – nation states encompassing different traditions and languages – can be studied as a result of migration, transculturation and spatial (in-)congruence in a pre-defined geographical area. On the other hand, it can be integrated into an already existing narrative in the process of overcoming the artificial separation of the 19th century. This accordingly serves the purposes of a more Inter-American interpretation on the basis of demarcation and delineation. It is striking how the borderlands discourse is likened to Turner’s frontier narrative, for the frontier implies continuous expansion of geographical space, whereas the borderlands geographically remain the same. The primary difference lies in the question of who or what moves a space and is in return moved by it, but in any case, there is a certain aspect of delineation, and this is the canopy under which the borderlands and the frontier can be united and under which the incorporation of the classical U.S.-American frontier discourse functions satisfactorily. Particularly in 10 | Haas, Astrid, and María Herrera-Sobek. “Introduction.” In: Journal of American Studies 57 (2012). URL: http://www.asjournal.org/archive/57/201.html (June 29, 2013, 9:07 a.m.). 11 | Ibid.

1.) Introduction

globalization-era American Studies, voices have called for a contextualization of U.S.-American history which does not stop at the borders of the United States, but which takes into consideration the manifold phenomena and interdependencies occurring between nations and spaces, which is what Bender refers to when he calls for the deprovincialization of U.S.-American history: “we must learn to juggle with the variables of time and space, to genuinely historicize both temporal and spatial relations.” (2002: 9) Very much in line with this deprovincialization and resulting dynamization, the borderlands discourse is one that constantly renegotiates identities, shaping biographies whose construction results from at least delineated, but possibly overlapping spaces and their inscriptions. Into the Beautiful North displays one such example of a maybe denationalized, but certainly deprovincialized borderlands narrative. In fact, it is a renaturalized representation of Mexican-US relationships, which had been interrupted and nationalized in the wake of the Mexican-American War of 1846-1848. However, traditionally, there has always been strong migration to the North (and back), as Heyck (1994) writes: “[...] movement north from Mexico is as old as the borderlands themselves. It continues today, [...] because it is deeply rooted in American history. The migration follows ancient trails and predates by centuries the creation of the river border [...] Culturally and psychologically, Mexicans are not emigrating to the Southwest; they are returning there, or [...] migrating within one homeland.” (318) Accordingly, Into the Beautiful North employs space and spatiality to create a narrative of emancipation and selfempowerment. Sherman Alexie’s Reservation Blues represents the final literary example, adopting the unique Native American perspective on and of space. This provides a viable interpretative paradigm inasmuch as it ascribes a special function of space and spatiality in a cultural representation of the people who have the most rightful claim to the land, which has shaped Native American culture significantly. It lends space a pre-Colombian/pre-Winthropian significance and demonstrates how the importance of space lies inherent in the American land. In Reservation Blues, the collision between Native, African- and WASP American cultures emanates from the Spokane Indian Reservation. Even though it is a place of isolation, desolation, and despair, it immediately assumes the role of a hub which unites a number of intersecting trajectories, most poignantly at the “crossroads”, where protagonist Thomas-Builds-the-Fire meets blues legend Robert Johnson in search of his long-sold soul. This encounter is to be read allegorically. While Johnson remains on the reservation, Thomas and his band embark upon a journey that can be well described as soul searching. Through their music, they attempt to infuse purpose into their existence which is inextricably tied to the spaces they deal with, whether it be New York City,

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Seattle, Spokane, the reservation or even past spaces which conjure up images and cultural memories of the Indian Wars of the 19th century. Eventually, Thomas manages to cut himself loose from conventions, expectations and the reservation, emancipating himself from the reservation. Paradoxically, the “rez” appears as the starting point of this process while symbolizing a dead end at the same time. Taken in conjunction, these novels represent acts of emancipation. The Corrections describes emancipation in the sense that Enid liberates herself from the confinements of her suburban lifestyle, including a post-mortem emancipation from her husband. Morrison’s African American history trilogy establishes an idiosyncratic interpretation of the U.S.-American space myth and therefore integrates African Americans into mainstream culture and history, providing a demarginalization of African Americans within the larger cultural narrative featured in U.S.-American history. Urrea’s Into the Beautiful North also makes use of perhaps the most classical of U.S.-American cultural products – the western movie – by recontextualizing it, empowering a number of Mexican youth who plan on invading – penetrating – US soil and, contrary to conventional “Promised Land” narratives, returning to Mexico to free their hometown from a gang of drug dealers, rendering the US as a culturo-ideological construct passive by selectively exploiting it. This results in a truly Inter-American narrative, achieved by means of space and its narrative representation. These acts of emancipation – in themselves renegotiations of the spatial category of hierarchy – are heavily informed by space and spatiality. The novels at hand are all based on concrete and metaphorical spaces. This is also reflected in their narrative discourse, which, through changes of perspective, level, and focalization, creates a narrative space that profoundly influences these novels. The objective in the following is to demonstrate how these contemporary U.S.-American novels contain spatial categories at their center which not only provide the material for the plot to develop, but are reflected also in their narrative dynamics. On the cultural side, these novels reinterpret space as one of the central tropes in U.S-American discourse, simultaneously affirming its cultural value and challenging it in the sense as it is adjusted to the transnational/-cultural realities existing in U.S.-American discourse today. In combination, these two aspects highlight the significance of the spatial in contemporary U.S.-American literary studies.

1.) Introduction

1.1) The S ignificance of S pace in A merican S tudies Space has long been complicit in constructing imaginaries of U.S.-America, of which the West certainly plays one of the most salient and important roles. This prominence of space in U.S.-American discourse is reflected in American Studies, whose preoccupation with conceptions of space will be treated briefly here. As a matter of fact, the space myth constructed around the frontier hypothesis lies at the very heart of American studies, as Paul (2014) affirms: [...] it has provided a host of resonant images for the American cultural imaginary, and has been highly influential in the study of American history, culture, and literature. It is thus no surprise that one of the earliest classics of American studies scholarship, Henry Nash Smith’s Virgin Land: The American West as Symbol and Myth, has lent its name to the first generation of Americanists: The Myth and Symbol School [...] (311/2).

However, it is not solely the West as such, but also the dichotomies between the rural and the urban and the old vs. the new that have shaped U.S.-American cultural imaginaries until the present day: “Pitting the rural West against the newly emerging urban centers in the East in the 19th century has shaped a whole range of dichotomies that are still at work today and have been described as the country vs. the city or the frontier vs. the metropolis [...]” (ibid., 312). However, it is also in the West that we find an intersection of the West as space and simultaneously spatiality in that it is “not focused on people, but on ‘[t]he land itself’ [...]” (ibid.), while functioning also as “‘a form of society rather than area’” (ibid.) Imaginaries of the West, however, are far from being the only matters of spatial interest within the context of American studies. However, it does function as one of the most productive and conspicuous approximations between space and its cultural inscriptions. The above assertion vividly describes the reciprocal interactions between structures and actions (cf. Löw et. al. 2007: 63) that above has been named as one of the cornerstones of spatiality. Likewise, it applies to Soja’s definition of space as “socially-based spatiality” (1989: 78) which works in conjunction with a certain contextual given. The connection between these observations and Soja’s postulations are of particular importance since Soja reintroduced space into critical theory by way of his Postmodern Geographies. Since both, the former work and its successor, Thirdspace, deal with critical re-workings of the construction of Los Angeles, one can locate the starting point for a specifically spatially-oriented research direction in American studies in the early to mid-1990s. Both works dynamized space in such a way that it became a viable research paradigm having had its origin in social studies and human geography, but now redefined so as to examine literary and cultural phenomena under a spatial perspective. Soja provides a politicized perspective, and if one refers to politics as, in the broadest sense, the organization of human

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cohabitation, Soja’s point of view provides a pivotal connection between social realities and their representations: Hegemonic power [...] does not merely manipulate naively given differences between individuals and social groups, it actively produces and reproduces difference as a key strategy to create and maintain modes of social and spatial division that are advantageous to its continued empowerment and authority. ‘We’ and the ‘They’ are dichotomously spatialized and enclosed in an imposed territoriality of apartheids, ghettos, barrios, reservation, colonies, fortresses, metropoles [...] and other trappings that emanate from the center-periphery relation. [...] Those who are territorially subjugated by the workings of hegemonic power have two inherent choices: [...] either [to] accept their imposed differentiation and division [...] or mobilize to resist [...] These choices are inherently spatial responses, individual and collective reactions to the ordered workings of power in perceived, conceived, and lived spaces. (Soja 1996: 87)12

Since the early 1990s, a significant branch of research has evolved, examining not only U.S.-, but also Inter-American conceptions of spaces and their (re-) configurations. The classical U.S.-American space myth has been wellresearched in terms of traditional U.S.-American narratives of exceptionalism, dominance and expansionism or criticism thereof (cf. Mackenthun 2009, Slotkin 1972, 1992) of which “the West” and all its implications (to be specified in Chapter 2) might be the strongest example. The spatial turn, however, allows for a more dynamic reading of interaction both in domestic U.S.-American as well as transnational, Inter-American perspectives. In fact, and perhaps as one of the incisive ramifications of spatial studies, which also signaled a significant influx of sociology and (human) geography, including such categories as migration and intercultural contact (zones), into classical U.S.-American cultural and literary studies, is the opening up of American Studies towards being a more transnational/intercultural discipline. Even though voices of classical Americanists have called this redefinition, a “break within the history of American Studies” “heretic[...] to the American cause” (Claviez 2003: 329)13, the directions in which (U.S.-) American Studies 12 | Soja, utilizing people as the missing link between power and space, and thus, as visible manifestations of spatiality, activates these people and in conjunction with this automatically foregrounds the spatial. The dynamisms contained within this conception of space are multi-directional. It is imperative that spaces be perceived as socially construed entities comprising the factors movement, mobility, locale, location, inscription as well as a heterotopian manifestation. 13  |  Claviez at this point criticizes Alan Wolfe, who accuses the New Americanists of a “hatred for America so visceral that it makes one wonder why they bother studying America at all.” (Claviez 2003: 329)

1.) Introduction

are headed appear to be clear. In his landmark 2002 volume on The Futures of American Studies, Donald Pease clearly outlines American Studies’ home in the trans- and postnational paradigms. In order to illustrate his assertion, he focuses on the literary scholar C.L.R. James’ reading of Moby-Dick which grew out of his detainment on Ellis Island in the 1950s.14 Involuntarily, James invented a strand of American studies long before any such concept as postnationalism or transnationalism existed or had their heyday. Specifically, Pease writes: Elucidating the difference between Melville’s message and the fact that it could not be recognized as American, opened up the paradoxical space of the postnational through which James transmitted the future of American studies. [...] The disciplines within in the field of American studies intersected with the United States as a geopolitical area whose boundaries field specialists were at once to naturalize and police. [...] Rather than corroborating the exceptionalist imperatives organizing the field of American studies, James questioned the dominant discourses and assumptions within the field. He cast U.S. exceptionalism as a national fantasy15 installed within the field of American studies as an impediment to the emergence of this irrecuperably transnational movement. (2002: 157)

Indeed, the 1990s proved to be a fertile ground for the beginning of a transnationally-oriented American Studies, moving away from the strictly U.S.American perspective and aspiring towards examining interdependencies, ties and reciprocities between the USA and its predominantly southern neighbors. Historically, this served as re-defining the U.S.-Mexican relationship. Saldívar, one of the most influential scholars on Borderlands studies, explicates: “How can a map tell how the U.S.-Mexico borderlands were once an ecological whole, with Mexico blending into the present-day southwestern American landscape?” (1996: 18) Saldívar answers this question himself at the end of his volume when he writes that the aim must be to

14  |  James had been arrested for alleged subversion and was supposed to be deported from Ellis Island. At the time, even though he was eligible for U.S. citizenship and having passed the necessary procedures, he was arrested under legislation of the McCarranWalter Act which allowed the expulsion of subversives if authorities thought certain immigrants did not have the ‘cultural literacy’ to live in the United States. (cf. Pease 2002: 135) 15 | Pease would use this term as a central point of criticism for his own treatment of U.S.-American exceptionalism published in 2009, to be featured in the upcoming chapter.

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Toward Diversity and Emancipation map [...] out the phantasmatics of Nuestra América’s borders in our own complex time. So what began in New England America as mainline American studies became, years later, [...] a trail into the intricate symbologies of American cultural studies [...].My own view of American studies, fully formed [...], was that mainline America was an ‘artifact’ made foundational text by academics and soldiers, anthropologists and emerging traveling theorists. (ibid., 160/1)

Essentially, Saldivar argues that our perception of U.S.-America is an artificial ex-post construct that de-naturalizes the complex interdependencies between these spaces making up what he refers to as “Nuestra América”. As a logical result, a more refined and reliable version of American studies should be emdedded into this transnational context, with the spaces in question serving as hubs and contact zones, as fruitful entities producing, structuring and maintaining human interaction. In his 2012 follow-up to Border Matters, Saldívar defines what he calls “Trans-Americanity”, whose main inquiries can be outlined as follows: “I am, therefore, interested in stretching the mainline and (traditional) comparative structures of ‘American studies’ – its disciplines and methods [...] How do Americanity’s many idioms of spatio-temporality provide a way to think ‘otherwise’ about the new comparative and post-exceptional American studies?” (ibid., xxvii, emphasis mine) These inquiries open up a potentially fruitful field of research, for they provide for a contact zone between the classical American studies treating U.S.-America’s cultural and literary idiosyncracies while questioning their authority in a transnational context. As is hypothesized above, the aim of this project is to demonstrate how contemporary U.S.-American prose simultaneously affirms and undermines what Saldívar refers to as mainline America(n studies). In the same manner, Trans-Americanity strikes a bridge between mainline U.S.-American discourses and their challenges in the 21st century through the prism of never-before-seen mobility, cultural variety and interrelations between the various nations of the Americas. Space is one of the primary means through which the Americas are being analyzed at present, which already becomes apparent when examining the semantics of recent research paradigms in American studies: “Trans-Americanity”, for instance, ascribes a certain permeability to the what it means to be American, whereas the transnational approach looks at redefinitions of the Americas as contact zones. Transcultural approaches might deal with a single space, but illuminate various of its culturally construed imaginaries. In other words, the days of parallel nationalized concepts seem to be counted. According to Donald Pease, the scholarly discipline that is American studies has itself become a heterotopia:

1.) Introduction In effect, James reorganized the field as a space that Michel Foucault has called a ‘heterotopia.’ Written in a place that, while internal to the U.S., was external to the norms regulating other cultural spaces, Mariners permitted the analysis, contestation, and reversal of those norms. [...] James reimagined the field as a postnational space that engendered multiple collective identifications and organizational loyalties. It convoked networks of association and of intersections that produce juxtapositions confusing the same with the different, the near with the far, and that create and reflect social spaces mediating with distant and dissimilar ones. (2002: 158)

As such, American Studies is by itself a construct that has space at its heart. In this sense, the spatial turn proclaimed by Soja is, with regard to American studies, less of a novelty, but a rediscovery and a revitalization of a central American characteristic, only from a different angle of vision, which is where its true innovation can be discerned. Bender proposes that American studies scholars must seek [...] a respatialization of the historical narrative in a way that will liberate us from the enclosure of the nation, it is important that we avoid imprisoning ourselves in another limiting conceptual box. Rather than shifting our focus from the nation to some other social/territorial unit, we would do better to imagine a spectrum of social scales, both larger and smaller than the nation and not excluding the nation. (2002: 8)

Taken in conjunction, there exists a trialectically structured contact surface consisting of the elements of American studies as heterotopia, as well as transand postnational while refraining from the idea of the nation. Yet, the nation still plays an important role in the construction of narratives, be they cultural or literary. It functions as a means of identification and as symbol of certain inscriptions written onto that political space, against which specific discourses must be measured and redefined. Cultural inscriptions as powerful as those projected onto the U.S.-American nation can also be measured in terms of how these attributes work with non-majority cultures, transferring us from a transnational to a transcultural level. Indeed, the transnational and -cultural is one of the central paradigms in contemporary American studies. As Gutenberger (2010) writes: The transnational, and by implication the transcultural, have been flourishing since the late twentieth century as interpretive lenses because they turned out to be fruit new ‘concept-metaphors’ to describe the ‘contemporary era as such’ (Szeman 200). Consequently, the transnational and the transcultural have also become relevant to interpretations of contemporary identity formation. Furthermore, transnational theoretical approaches demand ‘the end of thinking about culture primarily in relation to geographic space’ (Szeman 212). (280; emphasis mine)

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With regard to American studies, this has signified a paradigmatic shift away from majority culture output towards a more refined, diverse and representative focus of U.S.-American cultural and literary facets. In a way, this has also led to a respatialization of U.S.-American cultures, as formerly marginalized ethnic groups such as Native Americans or African Americans16 have been repositioned to the center of scholarly attention which takes particularly U.S.American studies in another direction than the educational/normative function it once held according to Winfried Fluck (cf. 2007: 61). In conjunction with a heterotopian comprehension of U.S.-American studies, this centralization of marginalized groups contributes to the above-proclaimed emancipation processes of non-majority culture writers. American Studies, whether or not restricted to the United States, is a spatial discipline, both in traditional as well as in post-Sojan perspectives. Therefore, it is only consequential that, upon establishment of transcultural and refined readings of U.S.-American culture, a re-reading of U.S.-American (contemporary) literature through the prism of space must be attempted.

1.2) S patial N arr ativit y and U.S.-A merican (L iter ary and C ultur al) S tudies : O vervie w and D esider atum Paradoxically, even with the significant influx from cultural studies (seminal texts from this realm include Weigel 2002 and Joachimsthaler 2004), sociology, (such as Soja 1993 and 1996) as well as human geography (for instance, Massey 1993/1999/2005, Döring and Thielmann 2008), prospects for a spatially-oriented approach to narrative appear to have been marginalized in the same manner as space has been left aside in the genesis of story and discourse. Despite the interdisciplinary nature of the spatial turn, its narrative implications have been left unregarded according to Ansgar Nünning, who calls for a reconsideration of space and spatiality in the realm of a culturallyoriented narrative theory: “Fifth, a particularly strong desideratum calls for narratological research based on cultural history. [...] There is ample need for a reconstruction of different historical, epoch-specific and national models of culture and space.” (Nünning 2009: 48/9; emphasis and translation mine)17 16 | With specific regard to African American auotobiography writing, Gutenberger (2010) writes that their writing “has to be regarded as a special case because many African American autobiographers their transcultural existence in the United States is not based on (coluntary) immigration but on forced migration and enslavement.” (281) 17 | Original German: “Ein besonders großes Desiderat für eine kulturgeschichtlich ausgerichtete Erzählforschung besteht schließlich fünftens darin, dass es […] einer

1.) Introduction

Even though depictions and representations of space have yielded a large number of essays in a number of literary genres, a systematic approach to narrative space, particularly from a cultural history perspective has not been satisfactorily proposed at this point. As Nünning asserts, Even though there is no scarcity of approaches towards researching the literary representation of space, there is no similarly systematic analytical framework as known by narratology for analyzing the communicative levels of plot structure, narrative discourse, perceived speech or temporality. What is more, even in standard works on narrative theory and the analysis of narrative, the search for an independent chapter on the representation of space remains in vain. (2009: 34)18

Nünning’s statement about the incorporation of space into mainstream narratology is not entirely accurate anymore, as more recent introductory volumes on narrative theory as well as works that provide an overview of the discipline do include a spatial aspect which, however, still emphasizes the supplementary/complementary role space has assumed in narrative discourse. Bridgeman (2007) in her chapter “Time and space” in David Herman’s introductory volume to narrative dedicates three of thirteen pages of her article to the category of space, which appears symptomatic of the above criticism that the spatial has been marginalized in literary and specifically narrative theory. While the categories Bridgeman mentions – scope, proximity, distance, private vs. public spaces, inclusion vs. exclusion – (cf. 60 ff.) are all manifestations of spatiality, she does not respond to the narrative qualities and prominent roles in creating the narrative that these very categories play. Gradually, this view seems to be remedied as time progresses, as Herman (2009) views the spatial as an element essential to creating what he calls a “storyworld”, which he defines as follows: Storyworlds can be defined as the worlds evoked by narratives; [...] Mapping words (or other kinds of semiotic cues) onto worlds is a fundamental [...] requirement for narrative sense-making; yet this mapping operation may seem so natural and normal Rekonstruktion unterschiedlicher historischer, epochenspezifischer und nationalsprachlicher Kultur- und Raummodelle bedarf.” 18  |  Original German: “Zwar gibt es keinen Mangel an Ansätzen zur Erforschung literarischer Raumdarstellung, doch ein ähnlich systematisches Raster von Analysekategorien, wie es die Narratologie etwa für die Analyse der Kommunikationsebenen, der Handlungsstruktur, der erzählerischen Vermittlung, der erlebten Rede oder der Zeitdarstellung entwickelt hat, liegt im Hinblick auf die Raumdarstellung bislang nicht vor. Mehr noch: Selbst in den meisten Standardwerken zur Erzähltheorie und Erzähltextanalyse sucht man vergeblich nach einem eigenen Kapitel zur Raumdarstellung.”

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Toward Diversity and Emancipation that no ‘theory’, no specialized nomenclature or framework of concepts, is necessary to describe and explain the procedures involved. (105)

The spatial is defined as the “WHERE dimension” (ibid., 131) of the text, which Herman bases on structuralist/semiotic approaches and latter-day cognitivist approaches to narrative theory. By contrast, Herman’s own approach uses these and additional aspects in order to “suggest how particular textual cues prompt interpreters to spatialize storyworlds, that is, to build up mental representations of narrated domains as evolving configurations of participants, objects and places [...] (ibid.) As such, it indirectly focuses on the reader, which positions this approach into the realm of the aesthetics of reception. Of course, a storyworld remains a hermeneutic item in that it is perceived based on the reader’s aesthetic predispositions and life experience. In contrast to this present approach, however, it is not rooted within a larger cultural narrative. What it does provide is a first glimpse at a more generative nature of space in narrative when one focuses on Herman’s hypothesis that “textual cues prompt interpreter to spatialize stories” (ibid., emphasis mine). However, the more time goes by, the more attention is granted to the spatial. In Herman et al.’s 2012 volume on the current state and possible perspectives of and on narrative theory, space occupies a chapter of its own, encompassing a number of subchapters related to terminological differentiations of setting and description, the ideological (and therefore extratextual) position which the scholar assumes using the example of feminism. In addition, a central realm of spatial narrativity is the aspect of “narrative world-making”, a term coined by David Herman et. al., and which they subdivide into the following crucial questions: 1. Where did/will/might narrated events happen to the relative place of narration [...]? 2. How exactly is the domain of narrated events spatially configured, and what sorts of changes take place in the configuration of that domain over time? 3. During a given moment of the unfolding action, what are the focal constituents [...] as opposed to the peripheral [...] constituents? 4. Whose vantage point on situations, objects and events of the narrated world shapes the presentation of that world at a given moment? (2012: 98)

These questions represent another step towards the salience and key functions of space in narrative discourse. While space as a research paradigm has existed for a while, its productive and emancipated role in the creation of narrative has been neglected largely. The above inquiries are the first ones that explicitly highlight the consequences of a changed spatial arrangement for any narrative. The fact the Herman et al. partially demonstrate this by the example of the

1.) Introduction

Mississippi River in Huckleberry Finn is a bonus considering the roots of this work in (contemporary) U.S.-American fiction and provides an earlier hint at the close connection between space and U.S.-American literary narratives. However, it is not solely the above inquiries which show signs of spatial prominence in narrative. Brian Richardson as co-author of the same chapter in which Herman poses his inquiries, focuses on the principal distinction between mimetic and antimimetic as part of narrative space, consequently centering on the “ontological nature of the fictional storyworld – that is, what exactly exists out there – that most instantly demands our attention.” (ibid., 103) Following a number of interpretative layouts of international literature, he presents focalization as the one spatio-narrative category having the potential to “locate impossible perceptions in natural spaces as well as as fixing ordinary perceptions in impossible spaces.” (ibid., 109), yet does not provide systematic access to focalization as a spatial category. Perhaps this is owed to Richardson’s treating the (anti-)mimetic properties of such narrative categories rather than the other paradigms he distances himself from, such as “geographical, psychological, social, metaphorical, allegorical, ideological, and self-reflexive sites and spaces.” (ibid., 103) However, it is well possible to focus on focalization without limiting it to philosophical areas of interest such as ontology. In fact, narration as such is spatial. In recent years, a number of works on spatial narrativity have been published. None is – to my knowledge – based on a mutual interdependence on cultural and literary narratives springing from a specific culturo-geographical context. In a 2012/2014 web article in The Living Handbook of Narratology Marie-Laure Ryan provides a concisely written overview of directions that publications on spatial narrativity have taken in recent years.19 These directions can be subsumed under the following basic paradigms: First, the representation of concrete spaces in which the narrative occurs. Second, the spatial imagery employed so as to visualize space and spatiality. Third, the textualization of space, i.e. space’s realization in concrete (literary) texts, and fourth, extra-/ metatextual aspects of spatial form that responds to “a type of narrative organization characteristic of modernism that deemphasizes temporality and causality through compositional devices such as fragmentation, montage of disparate elements, and juxtaposition of parallel plot lines.” (Ryan 2014) In addition, yet somewhat outside of classical literary discourse, Ryan sees the intermedial aspect of space and spatiality as one of the primary future research domains. The technological opportunities for the creation (and subsequent

19 | Cf. Ryan, Marie-Laure. “Space.” In: The Living Handbook of Narratology. URL: http://www.lhn.uni-hamburg.de/article/space (April 14, 2014, 9.08 a.m.).

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narration) of entire worlds in computer games or other digital narratives are manifold, constituting a move away from classical narrative discourse (ibid.). In terms of concrete models, the only pre-Sojan account of a narrative theory of space was written by van Baak in 1983. Van Baak builds on the work of such scholars as Juri Lotman and Gerard Génette in a semiotic approach to spatial narratives. A half-decade before the earliest proclamation of the spatial turn by Soja, van Baak elaborated that “[t]he intimate connexions [sic!] between space and time in the human perception of reality find analogies in the semiotic strategies of language and literature expressing spatio-temporal phenomena [...]” (1983: 112). Bridging the gap between cultural and linguistic representation of two systems essentially establishing a type of order, van Baak fills this void with the so-called localist hypothesis: “‘The spatial organization is of central importance in human cognition.’ Lyons 1977,718 describes this theoretical tenet as ‘localism’, which (ibid.) ‘at its weakest, [...] is restricted to the inconvertible fact that the temporal expressions, in many unrelated languages, are patently derived from locative expressions.” (ibid.) Van Baak, adapting to Lyons’ position, at this early point reverses the central focus in literary narratives, i.e. the widely held belief dating back to Lessing’s times that literature is essentially the succession of events or their representations under the canopy of temporal progression (cf. Zoran 1984: 102 ff.). Instead, van Baak changes the spatial into the more active and the temporal into the more passive part of the space-time balance, thereby opening up a perspective of narrative which renders the temporal dependent on the spatial by means of linguistic realization. With regard to the narratable qualities of space and spatiality proposed in the course of this work, in summary, it remains to be said the principle activation of space had been attempted as early as the 1980s, even if van Baak provides only fractured, and somewhat randomly chosen, linguistic examples of the localist hypothesis (cf. 1983: 113). Basically, van Baak employs the linguistic basis of narrative20 so as to establish a link to the realm of the cultural when he writes that in “nearly all studies of literary space [...] somehow a difference is made between theoretical conceptions of homogenous, mathematically unlimited, continuous and empty space, and, on the other hand, the socio-dramatic [...] cultural space which is the essential space of literature.” (van Baak 1983: 125) This illustration of a basic dichotomy between two manifestations of space can be analogously likened to 20  |  Cf. also Ronen (1986) for a linguistic interpretation of space: “Space, the domain of settings and surroundings of events, characters and objects in literary narrative, along with other domains (story, character, time and ideology), constitutes a fictional universe. For the purpose of describing some features of fictional spaces, I assume that space is a semantic construct built with linguistic structures employed by the literary text.” (421)

1.) Introduction

the principle difference between space and spatiality, one being a theoretical constant force whereas the other item is in constant flux, subject to ever-evolving manipulation and dynamization, therefore acting as a primary catalyzer in the formation of narratives. His initial study is incomplete, but touching points to what would later become currents in the context of the spatial turn can hardly be negated. The most recent attempt at a systematized narrative theory from a spatial point of view is represented by Katrin Dennerlein’s Narratologie des Raumes, published in 2009. Dennerlein, upon a discussion of theoretical approaches from a wide array of fields, proceeds to forming a model reader so as to create a construct against which to measure her hypothesis. This says that the narrative formation of space occurs by means of interdisciplinary identification of spatial phenomena, representing a concrete literary structure to be examined by the literary scholar based the textual level as well as the aforementioned model reader (cf. 2009: 7/8), situating her approach significantly into the context of an aesthetics of reception. Dennerlein discusses some of the predominant directions which spatially-oriented research has taken since van Baak, responding specifically to the distinction between topography and topology and their relation to human geography as the home discipline of the spatial turn before presenting her own vision of space (cf. 2009: 206). Based on a model reader’s mental structure, Dennerlein characterizes her “space of the narrated world” as a metonymic term that consists of productive techniques (“Erzeugungstechniken”), discursive techniques (“Darstellungstechniken”) as well as the concrete space as part of what Herman what refer to as the storyworld (“Raum als Element der erzählten Welt”). It is particularly in the latter section that Dennerlein implicitly features elements from the realm of spatiality, such as spatial structures in the vein of realms, boundaries, pathways, landmarks and certain types of space, such as isolated, fixed, and (non-)elastic spaces (ibid.). This is prefaced by a taxonomy of space quoted from Antje Schlottmann, who subdivides the everyday usage of “space” into six categories based on social geography. The first, objectivity and object-being, outlines spaces as an opponent to the social. The second, referred to as categoriality and disparity, equips space with the power to form people according to its very own principles, i.e. the possibility to categorize people by means of assigning one particular trait to one particular person at one time. The third trait of space becomes manifest in its delimitation and additive nature, i.e. the fact that spaces can be delimited from one another and that the world as a space is nothing but the cumulative result of various spatial fragments, whereas its discontinuity, distinctiveness and homogeneity makes for the fourth marker of a certain space. The fifth marker is represented in the finiteness of space, implying a basic comprehension of space as container. Most interestingly and somewhat contradictorily in the last

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category, the spatial is presented as stable and continuous, and detached from time (cf. Schlottmann in Dennerlein 2009: 58/9). Schlottmann’s model as such represents a valuable approximation towards a definition of space. However, such container conceptions render an application to this project impossible, particularly with regard to capturing the emancipatory parts of the novels selected for analysis. This must be distinguished from the approach that Ryan calls “space as container” or space as context, which relates to non-fictional narration: “As Page (2011) and Herman (2009) have shown, when narrators and their audience are situated on location, narrators can use narrative techniques that are not available in distant storytelling, such as gestures and deictic expressions [...]” (Ryan 2014). However, in a fictional narrative, narrators can simulate these very movements, granting the same key function to space that is, albeit very implicitly, hinted at here. Dennerlein’s observations are of great value, yet miss one key factor: the generative nature of spaces, be they part of the everyday perception of space or a poietic creation as part of a literary text. The forcefields of spatial transformations can hardly be underestimated, as any transformation of a surrounding area ultimately modifies the very people living in these environments, as Dennerlein also acknowledges, even if somewhat implicitly (cf. ibid., 69). This changes the perception of a narratology of space, for if space functions as a primary catalyzer of social change, it should work as an engine behind the cultural practice of storytelling as well. As a matter of fact, space necessitates this facet. If space did not exert any influence on the subjects moving within it, it would be obsolete and arbitrary as an epistemological field of inquiry. Literature, however, is the exact opposite of arbitrariness, given how carefully crafted each utterance in a literary text, including narrative, is. What Dennerlein misses because it is simply not in the scope of her study is the cultural specificity of spatial concepts and the way in which these specifics not only serve as backdrop to, but lie at the very heart of narrative. In this way, her study enriches the narratological discussion of space particularly from a model reader’s perception of space, yet the context from which such narratives spring cannot be treated. However, single aspects, such as the notions of categoriality and disparity, but particularly the additive nature of space are highly valuable in that they provide starting points from which to depart towards a more refined, culturally narratable version of space. This takes up the call for an interdisciplinary and open approach to space in fiction as devised by Hones (2011) when she proposes a “literary geography”: Within the interdisciplinary context of literary geography, however, an imaginative mash-up of the precision of narrative theory and the theoretical stretch of spatial studies has evident possibilities; it might not only enable more detailed analysis of the

1.) Introduction ways in which apparently story-internal fictional space is grounded in specific narrative techniques, but would also allow for the understanding of narrative texts as emergent spatial events and for more detailed explanations of how those events happen, again and again [...] (688)

It is this connection and implicit desideratum mentioned by Hones that deserves further observation. While there is no shortage of research on spatial phenomena in contemporary U.S.-American studies21, with particularly InterAmerican studies having contributed much input to a spatial discourse of the Americas22, there is little research on spatial narrativity in relation to the spatial facet of U.S.-American culture and literature. Most recently, in a 2013 volume on Placing America, Holub outlines the centrality of space in U.S.-American discourse: One might start by probing the significance of spatial metaphors in the construction of a historical identity of the nation. What images are need to conceptualize America? The [...] ‘City Upon a Hill’ [...] The image became so central to the country’s ‘national imaginings’ [...] that numerous U.S. politicians of both major parties have utilized Winthrop’s phrase to market their agenda of American exceptionalism, a myth that, as William Spanos explains, ‘has determined not only the unilaterality of American foreign policy from the beginning of its existence but the very American culture on which this benignly aggressive foreign policy depends for its practice. (2003: 30).’ (Holub 2013: 10) 23

21  |  From multiple perspectives, America’s spatial mythologies have been the subject of increasing scholarly interest in recent years (cf. Löbbermann 2002, Lenz and Riese 2003, Fluck and Claviez 2003, Fluck in Benesch and Schmidt 2005, to name but a few). However, their impact on the literary narrative has not attracted quite as much attention as, for instance, urban studies or transcultural spaces have (cf. Brandt, Fluck and Mehring 2010; Gurr and Raussert 2011). 22  |  In fact, viewing Raussert’s glossary on the central paradigms/key terminologies in Inter-American Studies, the discipline is defined by spaces and their transversal (cf. 2014: 70 ff.). 23 | Holub mentions a number of spatial facets which I will treat in greater detail and based on a theoretical reading of space in chapter two of this work. However, her observations outline the significance of the spatial in U.S.-American cultural history, therefore justifying a closer inspection of aspects such as the aforementioned Puritan utopia, manifest destiny and expansionism, the frontier, the spaces opened up by the Cold War, Kennedy’s New Frontier, the borderlands discourse and the relocalization of national security to other than the national territories.

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Simultaneously, Holub does not restrict her focus to classical WASP U.S.American conceptions of space inasmuch as she briefly mentions Native and African American experiences under the focus of “regulation and confinement” (ibid., 11). She proceeds to write that [d]espite the intricate ties to issues of dominance and oppression in the instances of space depicted above, I in no way want to suggest that spatial relations in the Americas are solely to be explained in this manner. However, as conceptualizations of space ‘are tied to the relations of production, and to the ‘order’ which those relations impose [...] (Lefebvre 1974/2000), a more nuanced discussion of space in America also needs to pay attention to such factors. (ibid., 12)

In terms of the connection between the significance of space in U.S.-American culture and a literary representation of said importance, Michael Fuchs in his discussion of the contemporary novel House of Leaves writes in the same volume: “[...] America is all about space, for American history and identity have been intricately tied to issues of spatiality [...] [I]t is hardly surprising that its [House of Leaves’] discussion of America centers on the narratives that, in fact, make ‘America’ [...]” (2013: 106/7). This further represents the connection between U.S.-American literary and cultural studies, with space functioning as the syntagmatic connection that creates the close ties between literary and cultural narratives. One monograph in particular treats the significance/centrality of space in contemporary U.S.-American fiction, which is Nicole Schröder’s Places and Spaces in Motion. Schröder’s study represents a move towards a more refined perception of the spatial in U.S.-American literature and culture, but it is still driven primarily by the underlying concept of space as a means of representing the background to her observations, or in how far the literature she examines makes use of space as a means of representation as well as the “uses of spaces and places as metaphors of identity” (2006: 12/13). In fact, her overarching question/hypothesis is in how far “the literary works that will be considered here are themselves spatial productions as they create literary and poetic spaces that allow for alternative conceptions of what identities are, how they are made and how they can be placed within the intersection meanings of origins and roots, homes, communities and nations, border-drawings and transgressions.” (ibid., 13/14) She operates from the premise that literature is a spatial production per sé which then creates new spaces that allow for alternate readings of cultural phenomena. This approach is valuable and opens up intriguing inquiries particularly in the context of the spatial turn, yet omits what constitutes the narrative in the first place. In order to prove these assumptions, Schröder discusses two primary approaches to space that she names as central to her project, namely de

1.) Introduction

Certeau’s The Practice of Everyday Life, interpreted as a realization/a becoming of space through movement and mobility: “In walking, space is enunciated or actualized according to the way of walking, i.e. according to the manner as well as the direction of movement. [...] In walking, we can ‘deviate’ from well-trodden paths and improvise new ones and thus add to the possibilities of spatial productions [...]” (ibid., 38). In terms of her application of this concept to her choice of contemporary U.S.-American literature, she hypothesizes that the “authors discussed here functionalize such movements, wanderings, and border transgressions to question rigid and unchanging spatial constructions.” (ibid., 39) While the approach Schröder utilizes is in a way similar to the one proposed in the readings of the authors chosen here (with Toni Morrison’s Paradise serving as the notable intersection), it operates from a different premise inasmuch as she pays much less attention to Morrison’s narrative discourse, which is profoundly informed by the spatial. The other approach Schröder discusses is the intersection of time and space based on different conceptions of memory. Primarily building on the work of Pierre Nora and Aleida Assmann, Schröder characterizes spaces of memory as a result of ‘a play of memory and history,’ they are sites where memory [...] and history [...] grapple with each other. Whereas memory ‘is life,’ characterized by ‘permanent evolution, open to the dialectic of remembering and forgetting,’ history ‘is the reconstruction, always problematic and incomplete, of what is no longer. Thus, sites of memory reveal the struggle between official history (or histories) and individual memories as different voices invest these with different, frequently contrasting meanings. [...] As lieux de mémoire” [Nora’s own term] are sites open to signification and, therefore, invite different people or produce different (hi)stories, alternative memories can be validated here and claim validity. (ibid., 41/2)

While these statements are a step towards a more refined view of space in the construction of narratives, this approach misses the narrative facet of space in the construction of these lieux de mémoire. Schröder does allude to an activated/ reciprocal comprehension of space at another point: “Hence, the relationship between spaces, places and their inhabitants are complex and manifold. Just as they are produced and influenced by those who inhabit, cross, or travel through them (by way of social practices and relations), spaces and places in turn influence these inhabitants.” (ibid., 25) However, in relation to concrete situations, this seems to slip outside of her focus when she tries to connect it to sites of memory which she does not define spatially, but temporally. Using Nora’s approach results ultimately in the creation of sites which “no longer house living traditions, but display only mere traces of the past; they are what remains of ‘true memory’ [= the concrete recollection of past events]”

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(ibid., 40). This is somewhat contradictory in the context of the aforementioned notion that space is in itself a category that exerts an influence on people – here, however, the sites of memory are voids, empty spaces whose content diminishes gradually over temporal progression. As such, the role of the spatial as container, which she had set out to refute (cf. ibid., 22), is, even if unwillingly, strengthened. This interpretation allows for a more constructivist interpretation, albeit from only one side. The driving force of spatial transformation in this case, however, remains time. In a more activating manner, Schröder uses Aleida Assmann’s concept of “‘Gedächtnis der Orte’” (ibid., 42) implying a certain functionality of place that transcends the mere geographical location of a given site. This infuses it with cultural significance in that a place radiates signification, thereby evoking memories. Using reliability as connective element, Schröder interprets such places as tools for constructing history by means of (supposedly) historical narratives: “The colonial practice of creating a tabula rasa for the purpose of establishing and justifying colonial rule is one extreme example: signs of the other or of a possibly subversive past (and present), in which the colonial power has not played a significant role, are erased and replaced by those that fit the historical narrative of the dominant group.” (ibid., 43) Schröder also acknowledges the multiperspectival nature of places when she writes that “rival memories can be contained within [...] the same place, which becomes particularly visible where official histories and subversive memories intersect.” (ibid., 44) These are allusions to the discursive nature of space and place,24 but it appears as though the origins of spaces and spatialities as space’s social manifestation in discourse and constructivism are left aside. This is a missed opportunity, since it is these aspects which trigger functions that Schröder seeks to assign to space. Particularly, connections to scholars such as Foucault and Soja are theoretical conceptions which deserve further mentioning. Schröder’s focus lies on concrete literary texts much rather than theory. She writes “[w]hile the focus of this study is a decidedly literary one, its theoretic [sic!] framework draws on a number of studies from different disciplines for its understanding of space and place. Briefly, I assume that spaces and places are not static and given containers but ever-changing and processual phenomena. [...] I will argue that it is precisely this emergent nature of space that the authors instrumentalize for their own purposes.” (ibid., 18) However, I am convinced 24 | Quoting a number of scholars such as Massey, Tan, and Malpas, she explains that “space appears to be the more general term; it implies a certain expansion and is therefore to a certain degree unknowable, whereas place is commonly considered to be a smaller, more specific and local area [...] However, despite the differences between the two terms, it seems that both concepts are intimately intertwined and cannot be looked at separately.” (Schröder 2006: 45)

1.) Introduction

that the inclusion of more additional approaches as regards spatial dynamics yields more results in terms of a redefined comprehension of the concept, which subsequently lays bare the core of what Schröder refers to as the “emergent” nature of space. All of this taken in conjunction, Schröder’s observations open up another desideratum which is to be found in the creation of narratives and their respective spatial underpinnings, be they literary or cultural in their original manifestation. Contemporary U.S.-American literature appears to be the most fruitful departure for such an undertaking. The specific narrative qualities of space and spatialities in the U.S.-American context are largely ignored by Schröder. She herself maintains that the “authors take up models and motifs that are central to American literary traditions, such as the symbol of the American West, variations of the western Frontier as a threshold leading beyond the known or the westward movement, signaling a move away from the old to explore the new.” (2006: 245) Particularly the aspects mentioned by Schröder are quintessentially U.S.-American spatialities which are embedded in cultural narratives that have profoundly shaped U.S.-American identity. However, she seems to conceive of these aspects as a-priori-existing, somewhat isolated features of U.S.-American culture, ultimately omitting the narrative hidden beneath these spatial phenomena which can well be read as centerpieces to U.S.-American cultural ideology. As Benesch (2005) writes, [s]ince we believe that space, place and architecture both reflect and create the cultural specificity of any society [...] and that, when it comes to American spaces, as Charles Olson noted, has been perhaps the most important single driving force not only to build a new nation but to imagine one [...], America’s sense of space has always been tied to what Hayden White called the ‘narrativization’ of real events. (18)

As such, their part in creating literary narratives must be examined more closely. Attempting to resolve a certain contradiction between stasis and mobility which she detects in spaces and places, Schröder defines “literary spaces” (ibid., 45) as marked by [d]isplacement and deterritorialization [...] And although they [referring to the authors she has set out to analyze], too, see places as important to processes of identity formation, they critically question any straight-forward connection between place and identity in which place functions as the bedrock for our identity. Instead, the writers insist on a more complex understanding of spaces and places as constantly moving, characterized by hybridity and permeable, changing boundaries, which in turn makes the notion of a stable, homogeneous, and unchanging, ‘safely placed’ identity impossible. (ibid., 47/8)

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Schröder’s conception of a literary space fills one constituent part of a spatialized reading of contemporary U.S.-American literature, for she responds to the level of how space is being used to achieve the identity-altering effect she describes above. But once again, space is rendered passive, as it is merely being utilized as a tool for its effect to carve out aspects of U.S.-American fiction that might be related, but not intricately tied to, caused by, aspects of space and spatiality. This is not say that these observations are not valuable for the present study. Quite the contrary, they are indispensable for an analysis of the prominent role of space in literary discourse, but the other constituent part of this equation presupposes that the spatial lies at the very heart of the issues discussed in a literary novel. As such, the narrative must relate to cultural inscriptions on and of space and spatiality as well as their creative and narrative functions and subsequent manifestations. In fact, it should result from this, and if we are to believe Morley (2009: 14) and Fuchs (2013: 107) and Elliott (2005: 230) that U.S.-American literature particularly closely reflects U.S.-American culture and its narratives, a significant role of space must be derived from (contemporary) U.S.-American fiction. It is the connection with the narrative power of space that has moved into the focus of recent scholarship in literary studies that will provide the basis for a spatialized understanding of narrative rooted in the specificity of U.S.-American cultural history. Space, in its double function as affirming and subverting U.S.-American cultural ideology by being used as emancipatory concept on part of the characters in the novels, will be utilized as the primary interpretative paradigm to prove its salience in the creation, content and discourse of contemporary U.S.-American prose.

1.3) Theore tical R emarks : S pace as Part of the H istorical N arr ative “It is necessary to make as clear as possible the distinction between space per se, space as a contextual given, and socially-based spatiality, the space of social organization and production.”, Soja (1989: 79) asserts in what would become the earliest proclamation of the spatial turn not solely affecting cultural and literary, but social studies and the humanities in fields such as cultural/literary studies and history as well. Opening up this dialectic of space as mere background against which events unfold in time and space as dynamic agency in its own right, Soja argues against the prevailing notion of much of the 20th century, namely that space “had been treated as fixed, the undialectical, the immobile” (Latham 2006: 270). Consequently, the conception of the historical narrative, i.e. the observation that history constitutes narration and vice versa should comprise space just as well as time. What is meant by historicizing space? The

1.) Introduction

central significance of the historicization of space lies in its embedment in the historical narrative as Paul Ricoeur envisions it: Hemos propuesto siguiendo a los adversaries del modelo hemeliano, tratar la explicación histórica como una excrencia y un desarrollo de la comprensión narrativa, con la condición de que la dialéctica entre el aspecto configurativo y el cronológico sea considerada la misma un elemento constitutivo de la comprensión narrativa. Al reconocer de este modo, con el núcleo de la inquiry, de la explicación histórica, el proceso complejo de lo cronológico y de lo configurativo, se ha podido reafirmar la narratividad de la historia. Al mismo tiempo, se ha preservado tambíen la posibilidad de una intersección con la narratividad de la ficción. (1999: 157/8)

This rather universal approach to history allows for a receptiveness of space lifting it out of its traditionally perceived role as the static (cf. Massey 1992: 81). In being transformed into a part of history, space consequentially gains the same prerogatives as time. Viewed in this light, the dynamics of space can be traced in the same way as the unfolding of events over time. The crucial difference with regard to space, however, is that its orientation used to be perceived as synchronic rather than diachronic, although space’s dynamics can and should be studied over time as well. Therefore, this theoretical discussion of spatial tropes is aimed at integrating space into the historical narrative. This step serves to build a first interface to rediscover the close connection between space and time in the construction of history and, according to the premise of narrativism (cf. Ankersmit 2005: 220), narrative as the present’s structured interpretation of the past. This structured interpretation is subject to change, and thus a subject to historicization as well, eventually resulting in a narrative that reciprocally influences the trialectic25 of space, the human factor serving as the interface, and time. First of all, space and time are social constructions. While both concepts can exist a priori in form of contextual givens, both of them attain their meaning only through the human interface, that is the connections without which time would undeniably pass and an environment would undoubtedly exist. They become alive through principle divisions of the synchronic and the diachronic, as well as their spatial counterparts, distance and proximity, with perspective functioning as a modifying means. By inscribing meaning into places, as Low and Zúñiga (cf. 2006: 13) suggest, it is that significance which generates space 25  |  The trialectic is used by Henri Lefebvre in order to distinguish between “perceived”, “conceived” and “lived” space in his crucial work The Production of Space (cf. Shields 2006: 210). However, I am applying the concept of the trialectic for the purpose of clarifying the inextricable ties that are at the basis of any narrative, be it historical or fictional.

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and time as dynamic constituents of a cultural and historical narrative that can be traced, analyzed, but also fictionalized. As part of an aesthetic discourse, space is an essentially narrative category. In this sense, one is confronted with space as one of many constituents of the historical narrative. In the broadest sense the narrative is characterized by its narrativity, that is by the markers that equip the narrative with its quality “[die] unterscheidet zwischen narration (dem Erzählakt des Erzählers, discours (der Erzählung als Text bzw. Äußerung) und der histoire (der Geschichte, die der Erzähler in seiner Erzählung erzählt).” (Fludernik 2008: 10) Gerald Prince (2005) outlines narrativity as follows: “the degree of narrativity partly depends on the extent to which that narrative constitutes an autonomous whole representing discrete, particular, positive and interrelated situations and events, involving a conflict and meaningful in terms of a human project […].” (387) He proceeds to say that “narrativity is affected by the amount of commentary pertaining to the situations and events represented, their representation, or the latter’s context. Finally, narrativity is a function of the disnarrated 26 and of the richness and diversity of so-called virtual embedded narratives, story-like constructs produced in a character’s mind.” (ibid.) This relates to what Low and Zúñiga refer to as inscribed spaces: “Inscribed space implies that humans ‘write’ in an enduring way their presence on their surroundings.” (2006: 13), summarizing the historical/narrative dimension of space. Soja was certainly not the first scholar to attempt to deal with space as more than the referential system in which characters, both real and fictional, move in relation to time, as Hallet and Neumann (2009) suggest: Although space always assumed a central role in the history of European philosophy from Euclid to Kant for the modeling of receptive and epistemological postulates, it was not until the early 20th-century that the category of ‘space’ became a constitutive part of cultural theory. In the cultural theories of the modern age as well as in reconceptualizations of perspectives in the humanities, spaces provides a common vanishing point for the aesthetic [...], the philosophico-phenomenological[...] and the anthropological [...] examination of cultural configurations (13). 27 26 | The implications, alternatives, as well as choices of content and style that are not explicitly narrated but communicated by the text by means of inference (cf. Prince 2005: 387). 27  |  Original German: “Spielte der Raum in der Geschichte der europäischen Philosophie von Euklid bis Kant schon immer eine zentrale Rolle für die Modellierung wahrnehmungs- underkenntnistheoretischer Postulate, so wurde die Kategorie ‘Raum’ im frühen 20. Jahrhundert auch zum konstitutiven Bestandteil der Kulturtheorie. Sowohl in den Kulturtheorien der Moderne als auch in frühen kulturwissenschaftlichen Rekonzeptualisierungen geisteswissenschaftlicher Perspektiven bildet Raum einen gemeinsamen

1.) Introduction

This conception of space as Fluchtpunkt, as a philosophical Alamo position ignores the dynamic nature of space. This type of comprehension of space illustrates the concept as the last resort which can be referred back to for the sake of contextualization, historicization or politicization of events occurring within a geographical framework. This would reflect a referential system rather than a dynamizing agency. Indeed, according to Latham (2006), Soja “seeks to uncover in Postmodern Geographies […] an emerging counter-current within social theory that repudiates this dominant tradition of ‘historicism’ […] (270).28 While the influence of time, teleology and history undoubtedly constitutes a primary trait of human thinking and perception, it can do so only in conjunction with a construction of space moving beyond the Alamo position so as to establish a dynamic base which is significantly responsible for human interaction, and thus, generates cultural activity as well as cultural criticism to the same degree as time.29 As Hallet and Neumann confirm, “as opposed to the spatial concepts of modernity, social space was not detached from geographical space, but ‘space’ itself became a social construct, that is a signature of individual and social action.” (2009: 13)30 Löw et al. (2007) take that notion a step further, establishing a spatial duality which manifests itself in the reciprocal interaction between structures and actions: “We conceive of spaces as relational arrangements of living beings and social goods in places. Utilizing the concept of arrangement emphasizes that spaces are based first on Fluchtpunkt für die ästhetische[…], die philosophisch-phänomenologische[…] und die anthropologische[…] Untersuchung von kulturellen Konfigurationen[…]”. 28  |  Historicism by definition emphasizes the temporal progression of events, employing a teleological understanding structuring history in such a way that “a) some pattern is discerned in all of human history; b) a mechanism is identified that pushes history from one phase in the pattern to the next one; and c) predictions are made about the future course of history[…]” (Ankersmit 2005: 215). 29 | Sewell (1999) outlines two basic perceptions of the term “culture”. On the one hand, he explains, “culture is a theoretically defined category or aspect of social life that must be abstracted out from the complex reality of human existence.” (39), presenting the concept of culture as an “analytical tool” (ibid.). On the other hand, he states that “culture stands for a concrete and bounded world of beliefs and practices. Culture in this sense is commonly assumed to belong to or to be isomorphic with a ‘society’, or with some clearly identifiable subsocietal group. He further elaborates that “[t]he contrast in this usage is not between culture and not-culture but between one culture and another” (ibid.) 30 | Original German: “[g]egenüber den Raumkonzepten der Moderne allerdings wurde der soziale Raum nicht einfach vom geographischen Raum abgekoppelt, sondern ‘Raum’ überhaupt wurde als soziale Konstruktion, also als Signatur individuellen und sozialen Handelns gefasst.”

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the practice of arranging […] and secondly that spaces also prescribe a social order.” (63)31 They continue to elaborate that spatial structures[…] must be realized in actions, yet they also structure action. This duality of structure and action in this sense also represents the reality of space. […] Speaking of a duality of space thus expresses the conviction that spaces do not merely exist, but that they are constructed by actions and, as spatial structures embedded in institutions, are capable of influencing actions. (ibid.) 32

The key concept at this point is revealed in the relative nature that space encompasses. Of course, at some point in time, space is a natural given, a background. However, as soon as human beings inhabit this background, the nature of space moves from static to dynamic in that it regulates human actions just as human actions regulate space. In order to be capable of determining such rather concrete results, one must take a closer look at the principle of (An)Ordnung, as Löw et al. coin the term, or the basic social element of organization. They subdivide the principle of organization into two subcategories, namely that spatial constructions are based on a hierarchization of aesthetic perceptions33 on the one hand, and that spaces precondition a social order on the other hand (cf. ibid.). What can be disclosed at this point already is that space need not necessarily be a palpable room in which humans move. This perception of space is only one component of an overall spatial model. Particularly with regard to organization, space entails socio-political functions, becoming manifest first and foremost by thinking in spatial categories (cf. also Buchholz and Jahn 2005: 551). The first of the two organizational traits identified by Löw et al., the hierarchization of aesthetic perceptions, displays one such example of space as a category of thought rather than of the absolute entity mirrored by, for instance, a city. Hierarchization is spatial by definition, for we think of a hierarchy as a 31  |  Original German: “Wir begreifen Räume als relationale (An)Ordnungen von Lebewesen und sozialen Gütern an Orten. Mit dem Begriff der (An)Ordnung wird betont, dass Räume erstens auf der Praxis des Anordnens basieren […], Räume aber zweitens auch eine gesell­s chaftliche Ordnung vorgeben.” 32 | Original German: “[r]äumliche Strukturen müssen … im Handeln verwirklicht werden, strukturieren aber auch das Handeln. Die Dualität von Handeln und Struktur ist in diesem Sinne auch die Realität von Raum. … Die Rede von einer Dualität von Raum bringt so die Über­z eugung zum Ausdruck, dass Räume nicht einfach nur existieren, sondern dass sie im Handeln geschaffen werden und als räumliche Strukturen, eingelagert in Institutionen, Handeln beeinflussen können.” 33 | “Aesthetic perception” in this case denotes a generalization of the human experience in terms of the individual’s and/or society’s perception of it (cf. Wolf 2004: 3).

1.) Introduction

structured system of relationships, locating agents above or below each other. This deictic mode of organization accordingly forms a representation of space rather than space as such. However, the act of locating is what defines the core of the representation, and it is at this point that one is able to identify the influence that palpable space and its reflection can exert on human categorizing. The second trait of organization, which describes space as serving as a precondition for social order, is more closely related to the palpable room, for it is not the human being that acts in spatial metaphorics, but, on the contrary, space and specifically its cultural significance that informs the social order at hand. In conjunction, these two approaches based on the principle of interaction between human beings with each other as well as with their environment result in a construct of space that is simultaneously background and producer of culture in the second Sewellian sense. As such, space is not isolated any longer, but can be implemented directly into a character’s actions.

1.4) U ndisclosed S it (d) es : R edirecting S chol arly A ttention Towards S pace In Postmodern Geographies, Edward Soja introduced the spatial turn on a grand and vast scale in a U.S.-American context, but he was by no means the first scholar to put space and spatiality at the center of attention. Indeed, academics as renowned as Martin Heidegger, Ernst Cassirer, Mikhail Bakhtin and, of course, the French (post-)structuralists of the later 20th century such as Foucault, but also representatives of Marxism such as Lefebvre, de Certeau and Bourdieu, all maintained conceptions of space that were and still are more complex than the reading of space as an empty shell. Soja’s work, however, effectively condensed these approaches into a mold which resulted in a more dynamic perception of space. These fragments had existed already, but Soja reassembled them so as to illustrate his perception of space as a key concept in the production of human actions and/or their representations. Specifically, Soja says that space in itself may be primordially given, but the organization, and meaning, of space is a product of social translation, transformation, and experience. Socially-produced space is a created structure comparable to other social constructions resulting from the transformation of given conditions inherent to being alive, in much the same way that human history represents a social transformation of time. (1989: 79/80)

The parallel trait that Soja uncovers when he says that history is a social modification of time is striking. In effect, it relativizes the dimensionality of time and space, placing them in a new relationship to each other while equipping

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space with the same degree of narrativity as time. As a result, there are two referential constituents moving around each other which can be reconfigured at the mercy of the society determining their movements. In a more traditional reading of space, there would be absolute movement in both dimensions, but no relative dynamic, which provides the core of the structuring of human life. That is, time and space are constantly being renegotiated by society, and therefore subject to providing narrative material. In so doing, the frictions and conflicts resulting out of these re-mappings of the two constituents generate the essence of structuring society. The spatial constituent in this relative movement has been overlooked for much too long, and this represents the true core foregrounded in Postmodern Geographies. Two of the earliest theorists of space were Cassirer and Heidegger. They provided the philosophical nucleus of the prominence of space in the humanities, Cassirer arguing from an aesthetic, Heidegger reasoning from a phenomenological point of view34, and specifically paving the way for the two big branches having opened themselves to spatial interpretation in the 1960s and 1970s: sociology on the one hand, and, in the broadest of senses, cultural, including literary, studies on the other hand. The non-literary section of the humanities was confronted with a rebirth of space and spatiality as analytical categories. Michel Foucault wrote a poststructuralist reading of space when he created the idea of a heterotopia as a socially construed space as a result of various layers of discourse. Henri Lefebvre essentially decomponentialized space into its constituents when he came up with the concept of the trialectic

34  |  What Heidegger outlines is the social location of the self. Where Cassirer treats an approach to space that is focused on the individual way of gaining knowledge, Heidegger explicitly creates an outside reference, thereby establishing a connection between the self and the world in which it moves in relation to the social processes forming the reference points for a spatial reading of the configuration of society. In another sense, it adds another facet to the inward vs. outward dimension which Cassirer had initially established, for it ascribes the inward quality to the self and the outward quality to the manifold events of social reality. Heidegger proceeds to elaborate that “[d]as Platzeinnehmen muß als Entfernen des umweltlich Zuhandenen in eine umsichtig vorentdeckte Gegend hinein begriffen werden. Sein Hier versteht das Dasein aus dem umweltlichen Dort. Das Hier meint nicht das Wo eines Vorhandenen, sonder das Wobei eines entfernen[sic!] Seins bei...in eines mit dieser Ent-fernung[sic!]” (2006: 144). Heidegger, in admittedly complex sentences, expresses that the very existence of things, whether they be material (physical) or abstract (mental), is defined by where they are located in relation to what. The title of Heidegger’s essay, “Die Räumlichkeit des Daseins”, already hints at the existentialist nature of his argumentation.

1.) Introduction

of space that Rob Shields has referenced as being generated from the layers perceived, conceived, and lived space (cf. 2006: 10).35 These models and theories are, above all, united by their multi-layeredness. They encompass movement and mobility, which form the center of what must be analyzed if one intends to trace spatial qualities of social life. It is in their constructedness that spaces gain their social qualities. Lefebvre’s componentialized reading of space therefore contributed significantly to the idea that spaces are dynamic and subject to change. Their ensuing trait of backfiring at their creators accordingly identifies the reciprocal quality that any space comprises, lending it a quality allowing for the establishment of an interface between society, the spaces it creates and the environment by which it is, if not created, influenced itself. The concept of an interface between concrete entities (“society”, even though the term as such reflects a highly metonymous perception of different groups) and abstract constructions attempting to structure those entities (“spaces”) is crucial, for it unites two qualitatively divergent levels of interaction with each other, placing it on the same discursive level. In his landmark macro-theory of the dynamics within French society (or the lack thereof) Pierre Bourdieu explicitly formulates a “social space” made up of the distinction between social and cultural capital, with the distance between determining social class. (cf. 2006: 358) Bourdieu operates from a Marxist point of view. Politicization lies at the heart of spatial discourse, for spatiality always incorporates the quality of structuring social life or its representations. In politicization and historicization, spatial narrativity is foregrounded decisively. The political quality of space and spatiality rests in their ability to render visible and “write” the structures underlying societal developments, or, as in Bourdieu’s case, to identify and criticize deficits in rather static social models. A possible methodological tool of carving out such dynamics or stasis can be discerned in Michel de Certeau’s idea of trajectories. In de Certeau’s words, it is up to us to identify the “footsteps” appearing along the trajectory taken: “The act of walking is [...] what the speech act is to language [...] it is a process of appropriation of the 35  |  Lefebvre himself makes a distinction between spatial practice, the representation of space and spaces of representation. He outlines the spatial practice as containing the (re)production of the space, i.e. the ability to equip certain spaces and places with social meaning so as to situate them in relative position to society. Representations of space, Lefebvre maintains, occur on the level of organization and (social) means of production. In essence, this mirrors what Soja would later coin as spatiality, serving as the social manifestation of relationships between items, expressed by means of spatial metaphorics (cf. Shields 2006: 333) Spaces of representations, ultimately, are to be located at the symbolic level, where they are connected with the “concealed and subterranean side of social life.” (ibid.)

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topographical system […]; it is a spatial acting-out of the place; and it implies relations among differentiated positions, that is, among pragmatic ‘contracts’ in the form of movements [...]” (1984: 97/8). In addition and in particular, de Certeau makes a crucial distinction between space and place, or espace and lieu in the original French. For de Certeau, lieu essentially embodies what is already in existence before it is appropriated and attached with meaning by society. Espace, on the other other hand, is created as soon as soon as the lieu is lifted out of the realm of the passive into a more refined and defining sphere. In short, space is “practiced place” (ibid.: 117).36 “Place” is converted from a “constellation of fixed points” (Borst 2011: 120) to a heuristically viable network of actions social and political, cultural and literary.37 As such, it opens space up for the complexity of social dynamics in practice and representation. It also renders places fit for the multilaterality of appropriations with which they are confronted as spaces. Different readings of one and the same place result in a multitude of different spaces, and in this manner serve as different spatial practices, resutling in different (historical) narratives. Where these practices collide, there emerges a breeding ground for social action. As soon as that occurs, observers are equipped with the means of creating narratives, i.e. a structured means of expressing a certain discourse for the purpose of informing other recipients about the social action in question. This leads back to the factor of politicization and historicization. As soon as an acted-out place becomes a space, it has already gained a political quality in that it seeks to define that space as part of a certain discourse. If and when others make an attempt at doing the same, albeit from another perspective and for other purposes, the social interaction resulting out of this incongruent actingout of a place provides potential for historicization. The trajectories which de Certeau mentions are the methodological tool to achieve that. They represent the traces which hint at what was acted out at which time, and it is in them that 36 | For conceptions of space based on individual and collective memory, cf. the approaches by Assmann and Nora qtd. in Schröder 2006: 40-42: Assmann’s “‘Gedächtnis der Orte’” refers to a memory of place and simultaneously as a memory in place (cf. ibid., 42); Nora’s distinction between milieux de mémoire and lieux de mémoire is characterized as the difference between real memory in the sense of concrete human beings recollecting past events and its ex negative counterpart, i.e. the gradual dissolution of such concreteness. (cf. ibid.) 37 | Borst transfers de Certeau’s concept to the realm of the literary (cf. ibid.) The heuristic network which I mention, however, is detached from the confinement to a single discipline, or even from the distinction between the real and the fictional. Literature mirrors a representation of socio-cultural traits. As such, the heuristic network functions in fiction just as well as in whatever we conceive of as “reality”.

1.) Introduction

we find a significant interface between social spaces in Bourdieu’s sense and the multi-layered approach propagated by Lefebvre. It reflects also what Soja refers to as the “socio-spatial dialectic” (cf. 1989: 76). Methodologically, the best locales to study both spaces as well as the trajectories creating the cobweb of social dynamics between them are those serving as hubs in structuring human relationships, but which, in turn, are structured by human interaction. Such spaces result out of the socio-spatial interface, embodying a direct consequence of a clash of the concrete and the abstract. This can, but does not necessarily have to be, a metropolis such as New York or Los Angeles. Specifically with regard to Los Angeles, Soja contends that “‘the recomposition of urban form and social structures, and many other forces shaping the postmetropolitan transition have significantly reconfigured our urban imaginary, blurring its once much clearer boundaries and meanings while also creating new ways of thinking and acting in the urban milieu.’” (qtd. in Raussert 2011: 101) There is no reason, however, as to why Soja’s observations should be restricted to only one spatial category, i.e. the urban. While Raussert asserts that the “contemporary urban is inherently mobile.” (ibid., 100), I believe this argument should be extended: contemporary existence is inherently mobile, and thus subject to a shift of spatial constructs, as the individual moves within a social space that is altered along with the individual and his or her experience. This connects spatiality to a certain degree of experientiality. Movement and mobility, just as well as spatiality, cannot be traits ascribed exclusively to the urban. They can be found wherever there is a contextualized narrative providing the catalyzers of the individual’s actions. As soon as there is context, there is mobility, for at the very moment at which the individual acts within and reacts to this context, complex dynamisms shaped by the invisible connection between these two pillars can be detected. As a result, spatial modes of representation are almost automatically foregrounded, for the aspect of temporal progression is being omitted when one operates from the premise that the origin of complexity rests in the simultaneous nature of the actions in question. Jens-Martin Gurr recognizes one primary aspect of simultaneity: it serves as an amplification of spatiality inasmuch as it focuses on the direct confrontation of divergent pathways that encounter each other at the same time (cf. 2011: 12/13). Granted, the pathways did not come into being in a temporal or historical vacuum, but at the moment at which their junction is taking place, they are de-historicized38, and, therefore, de-temporalized, stripping them of a

38  |  I use de-historicization not in the sense that Roland Barthes employs it in Myth Today (cf. 1994: 114). De-historicization in this case rather refers to the theoretical point at which the convergence of the aforementioned trajectories or pathways is so

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substantial part of one crucial element in their ontological situatedness, and in return emphasizing the spatial.

1.5) F oucault ’s H e terotopias and H istoricized S pace One of the most groundbreaking scholars to deal with spatiality from a poststructuralist point of view was Michel Foucault. He had written Of Other Spaces as early as 1967, but this crucial essay was not as widely received as it should have been until 1984, for Foucault had only presented his idea of the heterotopia in a lecture, never having intended its publication proper.39 However, Foucault recognized the significance that spatiality took and still takes on in narrative, and he was perhaps the first post-WWII scholar to deal with space and spatiality in such a revolutionary manner. Specifically, Foucault writes: “The present epoch will perhaps be above all the epoch of space. We are in the epoch of simultaneity: we are in the epoch of juxtaposition, the epoch of the near and the far, of the side-by-side, of the dispersed. We are at the moment, I believe, when our experience of the world is [...] a network that connects points and intersects with its own skein.” (1986: 22) Bearing in minds Foucault’s crucial contribution to the term “discourse”, his text on heterotopias serves as a prototype of spatial narrativity. The basic premises established here still find themselves at the very heart of spatial studies, i.e. the historicity of spaces, the dynamics of attributes that society inscribes into spaces, or simultaneous significations that spaces signal to different recipients, which are all paradigms providing material for a plenitude of (historical) narratives. As such, Foucault in his text also paves the way for the manifold narratives to grow out of these spatial (his-)stories, and therefore embeds spatiality in a concrete framework whose abstract stories still inform the manner in which we conduct ourselves in certain locations. Foucault writes, “it is necessary to notice that the space which today appears to form the horizon of our concerns, our theory, our systems, is not an innovation; space itself has a history in Western experience and it is not possible to disregard the fatal intersection of time with space.” (1986: 22) If indeed space comprises a history of its own, one has to inquire about the nature of this history. Foucault himself answers the question by referring to dialectical oppositions, such as medieval concepts of place marked by their

imminent that the spectator/reader/listener/viewer is so close as to lose track of the tajectories’ temporalities. 39 | ht tp://foucault.info/document s/heteroTopia/foucault.heteroTopia.en.html (February 29, 2012, 7:49 p.m.).

1.) Introduction

constructed differences, such as spaces sacred vs. profane, secured vs. open, urban vs. rural (ibid.) and others so as to illustrate that [t]his problem of the human site or living space is not simply that of knowing whether there will be enough space for men in the world –a problem that is certainly quite important but also that of knowing what relations of propinquity, what type of storage, circulation, marking, and classification of human elements should be adopted in a given situation in order to achieve a given end. Our epoch is one in which space takes for us the form of relations among sites. (ibid., 23)

At a later point, he acknowledges: “We do not live inside a void that could be colored with diverse shades of light, we live inside a set of relations that delineates sites which are irreducible to one another and absolutely not superimposable on one another.” (ibid.) It is at this point that the political nature of space not only as palpable room, but simultaneously in its trait as a social category becomes transparent. In the reading employed here, heterotopias provide a pivotal tool for structuring power relations between different sorts of people and social groups, which is of central importance for the ensuing readings of the contemporary U.S.-American novels as acts of emancipation. If we take into consideration the basic assumption of the spatial turn that space and spatiality mirror and structure societal currents and states, the underlying concept of any spatial concept is mirrored in the factor of arrangement and how it affects the social syntagms of the groups in question, as well as their potential interdependencies on one another. More specifically, Doreen Massey in an essay based on Foucault’s heterotopias, holds: Thus, the spatial is socially constituted. ‘Space’ is created out of the vast intricacies, the incredible complexities, of the interlocking and the non-interlocking, and the networks of relations at every scale from local to global. What makes a particular view of these social relations specifically spatial is their simultaneity. It is a simultaneity, also, which has extension and configuration. But simultaneity is absolutely not stasis. Seeing space as a moment in the intersection of configured social relations (rather than as an absolute dimension) means that it cannot be seen as static. There is no choice between flow (time) and a flat surface of instantaneous relations (space). Space is not a ‘flat’ surface in that sense because the social relations which create it are themselves dynamic by their very nature. It is a question of a manner of thinking. It is not the ‘slice through time’ which should be the dominant thought but the simultaneous coexistence of social relations that cannot be conceptualized as other than dynamic. Moreover, and again as a result of the fact that it is conceptualized as created out of social relations, space is by its very nature full of power and symbolism, a complex web of relations of

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Toward Diversity and Emancipation domination and subordination, of solidarity and cooperation. This aspect of space has been referred to elsewhere as a kind of ‘power-geometry’. (1992: 80/1)

This conceptual opening ties in with the political quality that space can be assigned. However, proceeding from both Foucault and Massey, the quality does not remain solely political, but is expanded to the realm of the historical. Bearing in mind Ute Frevert’s definition of political history (cf. 2002: 152), it is apparent that each re-arrangement or negotiation, or even a meta-discourse of the Masseyan power geometry is a political act in itself that must be historicized so as to be fully grasped.40 However, if one analyzes space in relation to its influence on socio-political phenomena, a diachronic angle of vision is almost inevitable. Space is no longer the “absolute negation of time” (Massey 2005: 37). On the contrary, if space is to be included in the historical narrative, then it is required to travel alongside time, for only in conjunction can both concepts provide a clearer picture of history and its power geometries that have been influencing interpersonal, -cultural and -national relations. More radically, Massey proposes a reciprocal influence of time and space on each other: “At minimum, for time to be open, space must be in some sense open too. The non-recognition of the simultaneity that is the spatial can vitiate the project of opening up temporality. […] Levering space out of this immobilizing chain of connotations both potentially contributes to the dislocations necessary for the existence of the political, and opens space itself to more adequate political address.” (ibid., 48)41 In terms of a heterotopian view of space, it must consequentially be referred to its social constructedness. Foucault opens up several discourses of what a heterotopia constitutes. His general definition already hints at the abstract nature of space, and so reconciles palpable geographical space and (metaphorically) construed spaces in that he refers to heterotopias as places outside of all places even though they can be located (cf. 1986: 24). Soja quotes Foucault as saying that “these links between space, knowledge, power and cultural politics must be seen as both oppressive and enabling, filled not only with authoritarian perils but also with possibilities 40  |  As, for instance, Terry Eagleton (1996: 169) and Ute Frevert (2002: 152) opine, the political constitutes no longer the analysis of the interaction of nation states and their leaders, but much rather the structuring and negotiation of power relations between individuals and entities such as social groups. 41  |  In an earlier article, Massey paves the way for her 2005 work For Space: “Rather, for time genuinely to be held open, space could be imagined as the sphere of the existence of multiplicity, of the possibility of the existence of difference. Such a space is the sphere in which distinct stories coexist, meet up, affect each other, come into conflict or cooperate. This space is not static, not a cross-section through time; it is disrupted, active and generative.” (1999: 276)

1.) Introduction

for community, resistance, and emancipatory change.” (1996: 87) This attaches an additional dimension to the spatial duality proposed by Löw et. al above. The political quality assigned to spaces by Foucault, and later on, Edward Soja, equips this basic dichotomy with a social quality bearing concrete significance for the development of human interaction. The double-sided functionality, i.e. the chance of simultaneously resulting in oppressive or liberating structures adds another layer to the salience of space. The contemporary U.S.-American fiction to be dealt with in the later part of this work makes use of precisely this in that they utilize a hegemonic conception of space against the hegemon, i.e. what Saldívar would call “mainline America” and others simply WASP America. Foucault and Soja go hand in hand in their basic line of argumentation that “space” is a means of representation just as much as it is one of actual construction, as Thomas Flynn (2007) confirms: “The best known examples of Foucault’s ‘spatialized’ reasoning appear in his masterwork, The Order of Things, and in his genealogy of the penal system Discipline and Punish. [...]” (60). Space deals with point of view and perspective, but spatiality is composed of these two categories and its variants. Spatiality is the representation of social reality in culturo-geographical metaphorics. Where the phenomenologists created a variety of layers and categories working with or against each other in terms of directionality, Foucault uses those categories to literally dig deeper, i.e. to make directionality his own and to uncover the hidden ores underlying them. In that way, the archaeologist and the phenomenologist work hand in hand; one establishes the foundation, whereas the other gets his hands dirty. The geographer, represented by Edward Soja in this reading, then serves as the figure to render this connection visible to the reader. Whether it be “classical” geography, topology, topography, or social geography with Marxist overtones, the geographer principally narrativizes geography. Geography here must be understood most literally: the writing of the earth, incl. everything that occurs on it. Operating from this premise, the geographer is the chronicler of our day. He records relationships, dynamics and movements within societies and in the structures they create, turning them into coherent narratives. This is also where historians and geographers are at the closest distance, at least methodologically: narrative functions as the metonymic syntagm between the temporal and the spatial. All this serves to illustrate one primary point: history cannot exist without geography, and time cannot exist without space. The representation and construction of space as one of the primary informing categories of history is not solely a by-product of the development of the humanities; on the contrary, it is at the very heart of history, and therefore informs any narrative as profoundly as time. Treating literature, Sten Pultz Moslund argues for a consideration of the heterotopia as an omnipresent factor in structuring, indeed, forming human

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cohabitation: “There are numerous approaches to the study of place in literature – place as mapped by discourses and power; place as a transplatial [sic!] contact zone; place as a dynamic process or event; place as emotional, imagined, remembered, or experienced by the senses.” (2011: 30) A place mapped by discourse, as he chooses to express it, represents a culturally encoded realm whose power radiates in such a way that it is carried through time, becoming a tradition so as to hold a prominent place in a culture’s basic mindset. Literature might be located first and foremost in the area of the fictional, yet it is this very trait allowing for a more experimental discourse of place because it is less tied to, for lack of a better expression, scholarly conventions. In terms of methodology, literary texts employ a clearer prism when it comes to recognizing the importance of space and spatiality in cultural discourse. Fictionality functions as a medium granting readers the rights to take shortcuts in terms of spatializing thoughts or their representations. There is no need for a specified textual form, which in itself functions as an extratextual tool used for mapping. In addition, Moslund, in line with Foucault, singles out the micro-, meso- and macro-constructedness of space. In essence, there exist three layers of spatiality in a text: the extra-textual form, the intra-textual topological relationship between the subjects of the story, as well as the meso-level, which can be located in the socio-cultural context of a given literary work. The microlevel accordingly refers to the spatial experience of the individual. In any text, there exists an interplay between these spatial layers, and it is this interplay that makes up, defines and negotiates the spatial experience of whoever is featured in the story. Literature is not the only means by which such experiences can be identified, but it is the medium that perhaps best facilitates what is otherwise methodologically iffy. If fictional narratives allow for a more precise view on the spatial qualities of likwise constructed, but non-fictional narratives such as history, then the function of a heterotopia in narrative is to unite in certain spaces, concrete or abstract, the conglomerate of discourses that is greater than the sum of its parts. Simply put, heterotopias in narratives function as a means of localizing42 cultural sentiments, perspectives and dispositions.43

42  |  By “localizing”, I do not mean “locating”. Localizing, in my understanding, is much indebted to the power of discourse and its construction. While a localization can coincide with a certain concrete place, it does not necessarily have to, and thus remains primarily abstract. 43 | By dispositions, I am not referring to the famous Bourdieuean use of the term. I make use of it in a general manner that is not tied to Marxist Sociology.

1.) Introduction

1.6) The I ntersection of S pace and Time : L ocating S patial N arr ativit y It is the heterotopias which lay bare the intersection of space and time. Based on the above observations, heterotopias maintain concrete functions in clearly defined terms, established by the collision of cultural value on the hand and the passage of time on the other. For instance, McDonogh (1993) exemplifies the tremendous influence of space and time on the razing of Penn Station in New York City in the 1960s: “The elimination of such landmarks, whose powerful presence echoes John Mock’s observations […], approaches the social creation of an absolute emptiness. Although the space may be filled, residents often continue to use it as a referent in absentia: ‘right where the market used to be.’”(8) The temporal-spatial origin of the Penn Station example is made visible by the resident who is quoted as saying that the physical space was home to a market in former times. One encounters the two dimensions of time and space simultaneously, and they come to full fruition on account of the narrative delivered by the resident. On the one hand, there is the void, the empty room that was filled at some point by its inhabitants in form of a market. This alone would suffice to assign to space a social role, for the market, in metaphoricoeconomic as well as historical terminology is a place where a certain type of human interaction occurs, based on the centrality of the market in relation to the rest of the community. However, the void, which can be described as a type of mold, does not prescribe usage for a single purpose, and the space of the market becomes dynamized, as it would later form Pennsylvania Station. The dynamization, not the initial creation, of space is what must be placed at the center of attention. In the course of dynamization of the mold, we detect the two components most crucial to the space-time interface: the dependency of space as a socially modifiable construct on time. While the void might not be reliant so much on time, the space that fills it certainly is. The resident in McDonogh’s example specifically alludes to it in his statement. In using the past tense (“where the market used to be”), he closes the gap between space and time, unifying both concepts under the umbrella of a historicization of space, which includes a historical dimension. Space fills the void and can be altered, which is what essentially historicizes it, for historicization describes an event that has been transformed into an object of historical analysis (cf. Ohnuki-Tierney 2001: 213/4). Particularly in terms of a multiperspectival approach to space, the question of the composition of space therefore must also be one that tackles the category of the observer’s position, entailing the modes of “afar” and “up close”, as Seeliger (2011) contends:

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Toward Diversity and Emancipation The idea of a ‘distanced gaze’ could be interpreted in different ways. On the one hand, it could be seen, with Löbbermann, as the only position from which it is possible to take in ‘the whole picture’ instead of meaningless particularities. In this interpretation, the view from afar would be the only way of realizing the true nature of the city. [...] On the other hand, the perspective could be linked to a merely uninvolved ‘tourist gaze’, as it has frequently been interpreted [...] (135).

Seeliger opens up a fruitful dialectic at this point, marking the spatial countercategory to the synchronic/diachronic distinction of the temporal. The difference between a gaze from afar and a view from up close manifests itself in the angle of vision required to derive information from the visual impulses provided by the space around the observer. The angle of vision therefore makes up the spatial dynamic behind spatiality and its composition. As soon as it is altered, so is the viewer’s perspective on a space as a container of a multitude of cultural sentiments. At this point, one can recur to Löw et. al., who, even if in a different approach, outline the crucial significance of the interplay between structures and actions (cf. 2007: 67). The combination of structure and action therefore requires mobility on part of the observer, who is required to constantly alter position, perspective and angle of vision when intending to draw as complete a map of a certain space or place as possible. To speak in the previously utilized metaphors of geographer and archaeologist, the latter does the field work while the former structures the items brought up in a manner that can be represented in a map, and therefore, essentially, a narrative.44 The mechanisms and tools to analyze such dynamics afterwards may be of many origins. It is, however, crucial to identify the dynamic nature of space, which is fueled by the subjects moving within what Soja calls the “contextual given” (1989: 79). Accordingly, these subjects create social spatiality, which, as soon as it is constructed, is subject to change, caused by a multiplicity of factors such as social interaction, political organization, cultural heritage, intercultural contact or simply the mobility that subjects in modern societies have to maintain so as to position themselves vis-à-vis an ever-changing world. The trajectories subsequently opened up by these categories leave traces for the archaeologist to detect and for the geographer to narrativize. Therefore, the key figure in the genesis of spatiality is the human being. As Foucault observes, places contain history (cf. 1986: 22), but they also put it in jeopardy, as Pamela Gilbert observes:

44 | Cf. Ryan, Marie-Laure. “Narrative Cartography: Towards a Visual Narratology.” In: Kindt, Tom, and Müller, Hans-Harald (eds.) What is Narratology? Questions and Answers Regarding the Status of a Theory. Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2003. 333-365.

1.) Introduction in postmodernity – specifically, the late twentieth century on – as history (time and narrative) is destabilized, it is space that comes to be the arena in which meaning is created. As narrative, with its emphasis on an understandable causality, on the coherent and universal (usually white, Western male) subject, and on a historical teleology, came to seem increasingly suspect, many theorists turned away from time and toward space – spatial relations would reveal to us a complexity and materiality which was being hidden away by narrative. And as both Foucauldians and Marxists agree, human experience of space is always mediated by human relations with the world, material and discursive. (103)

Gilbert’s assertions reveal the paradigmatic confinement and the outright hostility between adherents of the respective predominance of time and space. Spatiality, however, is one of the cornerstones of the human experience, both in abstract and palpable manifestations. So is time. Both concepts can therefore be examined only at their intersection. They function as the syntagms that keep space and time together by acting in both constructs simultaneously. Just as important as the collaboration of time and space is the delineating quality space can comprise. While borders and boundaries become more and more blurred, space and spatiality can be discerned in remarkable unity in social phenomena such as what Setha Low (2006: 388) cites as “gated communities”: In the United States, the early settlements of Roanoke and Jamestown and Spanish fort towns were walled and defended to protect colonists from attacks. But with the virtual elimination of the indigenous population, the need for defensive walls ceased to exist [...] At the turn of the twentieth century secured and gated communities in the United States were built to protect family estates and wealthy citizens, exemplified by New York’s Tuxedo Park or the private streets of St. Louis. By the late 1960s and 1970s, planned retirement communities were the first places where middle-class Americans could wall themselves off.

At this junction, space and spatiality overlap in a concrete construction of a place uniting both concepts. If spatiality is taken to be the driving force behind the creation of spaces, gated communities are a prime example of the immediate relationship between structures and actions, to remain in Löw et. al.’s terminology. As Low writes above, gated communities first sprung in early colonial America so as to prevent an overlap of spaces constructed by colonists and native populations. Historically, these walls were needed for protection. Essentially, the modern adaptations of these intra-American borders evoke the impression of not necessarily a means of protection, but an unmistakable manner of saying that certain groups wish to stay amongst themselves. This becomes particularly viable when one examines the motifs and origins behind the modern versions of walled-off spaces: “The processes that produce

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urban and suburban separation in the United States also have a long history based on racism and racial segregation. Blacks continue to experience a high level of residential segregation based on discriminatory real estate practices and mortgage structures designed to insulate Whites from Blacks.” (ibid., 389) This observation reveals the interplay between space and spatiality, as well as the primacy of the social. Gated communities serve as an example of the powerful force of spatiality over spaces. In this case, it is a representation of certain societal dispositions that explicitly forms a structure, i.e. a walled-off habitat for people wishing to remain amongst themselves. In reality, we encounter at this point a trialectic of space, spatiality and time. Space and spatiality work in conjunction, and they do so under the canopy of the temporal, which in this particular outing manifests itself in the form of historical continuity, as African Americans, for instance, even though legally and institutionally equal to Whites, are still subject to everyday racism and de facto segregation.45 The trialectic at play here is one that unites the political power of a historically derived WASP-American discourse with the sovereignty over the creation, formation and eventual construction of space, with spatiality serving as the social force behind the concrete spaces. Ironically, the temporal facet of these observations does have a flipside. In an ever-evolving globalized world whose boundaries and borders are softened up continuously, gated communities appear like an anachronism, as the last resort for those adhering to a lifestyle in safety. In another way, they embody heterotopias, for they would truly constitute places outside all other places, not to mention that they generate divergent inscriptions from those on the inside and those on the outside. As has been attempted to show on the above, if one wishes to observe space and time from a narrative point of view, it is, perhaps, best to analyze what keeps both concepts together rather than deducting conclusions from spatial or temporal forms that do not work in relation to each other. However, the historicity and narrativity of and in space can rarely be disputed.

45  |  There is a vast field of literature treating continued racism and segregation in the United States, but a good overview is provided in: Sethi, Rajiv, and Rohini Somanathan. “Inequality and Segregation.” In: Journal of Political Economy 112 (2004), 1296-1321.

2.) Key Tropes of Space in U.S.-American Cultural History “[...] America is all about space, for American history and identity have been intricately tied to issues of spatiality [...]” M ichael F uchs , Placing America, p. 106/7

The aim of this chapter is to highlight landmark points in U.S.-American history which were profoundly influenced by the significance of space and spatiality in the country’s (his-)story. Particularly the United States and its notion of U.S.American exceptionalism form a very closely knit symbiosis of culture, politics and history that deserves more attention. American exceptionalism defines the conception of America as being an entirely different, exceptional nation without a qualitative judgment (cf. Shafer 1991: v) as well as a jingoistic, imagined nationalist construct (cf. Pease 2009: 8). Between these two interpretations, however, lies a viable paradigm under which one can examine the spatial facets of U.S.-American cultural history. As Cook and Glickman observe with regard to a refined approach to American cultural history, “[i]n actual practice, of course, the methodological strands running through these distinctions cannot be neatly or easily separated. And over time, the strands have only become more entangled. Our view, in fact, is many [...] of the field’s landmark works achieved their broad resonance precisely by combining culture concepts in powerful new ways.” (2008: 15) Culture shall then accordingly refer to any trait, characteristic, product or item that a social group regards as significant for itself and its individual members, particularly in connection to delimiting themselves from other social groups. What, then, is history? Bender (2002) views modern historiography as “inextricably linked with the modern nation.” (vii) This in itself assigns history a spatial quality. Benedict Anderson defines the “nation” as imagined, limited and sovereign (2006: 7). He outlines the imaginary as the shared imagination of a specific community, while he responds to the spatial factor of the nation in

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its trait of having clearly defined, though principally variable borders delimiting it from other nations. (cf. ibid.) Moreover, the aspect of sovereignty is defined by Anderson as the dream of nations to be free, of which the sovereign state was symbolic (cf. ibid.) Eventually, according to Anderson, crucial to the conception of the modern nation is the shared feeling of being part of the same group, i.e. community (cf. ibid.) However, as a caveat, one should keep in mind that this certainly does not rule out a diverse and dynamic society; however, the basic premises, or cultural values, on which the nation is founded, must be constructed as to allow heterogeneous groups to exist under those common values.1 This observation, which functions basically as a dichotomy of inclusion and exclusion, contains decidedly political aspects, particularly so with regard to a cultural perspective.2 The observations in Landwehr’s definition are of crucial significance for any cultural historical approach: he acknowledges the diversity of culture in referring to the multitude of agents partaking in political action, and subsequently describes their roles in constructing the structures organizing social life within a society. While they are not particularly new, these observations emphasize that any form of society is a product of its cultural premises. These premises can subsequently be narrated on the micro- as well as on the macro-level. This is supported by Bender, who states that “history is embedded in a plenitude of narratives.” (2002: 1) Bender essentially opens the spatial constituent of history up for discourse. In principally detaching it from traditional paradigms such as regions and areas, he transfers and extends the spatial to the sphere of social organization and production, effectively dynamizing a traditionally rather static approach (cf. Latham 2006: 270). Respatialization therefore serves as the lubricant in the trialectic of culture, 1  |  This is a historical observation – in recent times, the concept of nations as “limited, sovereign, and heterogeneous communities whose members share the same history have come under pressure.” (Schröder 2006: 30) Yet, the construct that is the nation state is the predominant form of socio-political organization existing today, and must therefore not be ignored. As mentioned above, my conception of “American history” responds to the narrative continuity of its cultural products. 2  |  Achim Landwehr defines a culturally-oriented perception of the political as the (re-) arrangement of symbolic structures signified to order the social: “das Politische [ist] die symbolische Ordnung [...] der der Charakter zugeschrieben wird –oder kulturhistorisch gesprochen: der Sinn verliehen wird-, politisch zu sein. [...] Die Kulturgeschichte des Politischen wendet sich gegen einen traditionellen Politikbegriff, der Politik von vornherein mit bestimmten Institutionen und Personengruppen gleichsetzt. Stattdessen zeichnet sich das Politische in kulturhistorischer Perspektive aus durch 1. eine Vielzahl politisch handelnder Akteure, die 2. mit der Hervorbringung symbolischer Ordnungen zur Organisation des Sozialen beschäftigt sind.” (2009: 90)

2.) Key Tropes of Space in U.S.-American Cultural Histor y

history and politics. To quote Bender, in “historicizing space, one inevitably historicizes time. To deprovincialize American history, we must learn to juggle the variables of time and space, to genuinely historicize both temporal and spatial relations.” (2002: 9) The relations he mentions are the key to any spatial understanding of history and the historical narrative to which he alludes in the above quote. What, however, constitutes what we might refer to as an American narrative in the first place? While the concept has been recently criticized as nationalist by scholars such as Donald Pease, who outlines American exceptionalism as a “transgenerational state of fantasy” (2009: 38), its crucial role in American history and national identity formation remains undisputed 3, even though, as Pease continues to write, “[t]he traumatizing images that insist within American exceptionalism’s transgenerational fantasy reach back to events that accompanied the nation’s founding [...] and project themselves into the present as images that confront historical narratives with what violates their conditions of representation.” (ibid.) This is to say that American exceptionalism serves as an artificial, and indeed very criticizable, construct that nevertheless allows for a closer examination of American history under this paradigm for the significance that the concept has held in American cultural history. In addition, it can be characterized by its habit of incorporating the various discourses which the United States as a political entity has generated over the years. Most importantly, U.S.-American narratives are informed and created by the spatial concepts and categories underlying them. There are three basic paradigms providing these categories. First, in the above-mentioned category of exceptionalism, one can find manifold examples of spatial underpinnings 3 | Pease writes specifically: “As a classificatory scheme, American exceptionalism has been said to refer to clusters of absent (feudal hierarchies, class conflicts, socialist labor party, trade unionism, and divisive ideological passions) and present (a predominant middle class, tolerance for diversity, upward mobility, hospitality toward immigrants, a shared constitutional faith, and liberal individualism) elements that putatively set America apart from other national cultures. While descriptions of these particulars may have differed, the more or less agreed upon archive concerned with what made America exceptional would include the following phrases: America is a moral exception [...]; America is a nation with a ‘Manifest Destiny’; America is the ‘Nation of Nations’; America is an ‘Invincible Nation.’ These conceptual metaphors do not supply definitions of America, but they do give directions for finding the meanings that are intended to corroborate the belief in American exceptionality. All of which leads to the conclusion that American exceptionalism operates less like a collection of [...] descriptions of American society than as a fantasy through which U.S. citizens bring these contradictory political and cultural descriptions into correlation with one another through the desires that make them meaningful.” (Pease 2009: 8)

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in American cultural history, such as the aforementioned city upon a hill, but also tendencies to reinvigorate such mythical concepts, for instance during the Great Awakenings. Second, expansionism and Manifest Destiny and their frequent invocations are quintessentially U.S.-American phenomena, as is the concept of the frontier and its various reinterpretations, such as Kennedy’s new frontier. Third, in the course of the 20th century, migration, movement, mobility and transnational/-cultural reconfigurations of space have been at the center of attention, challenging traditional conceptions of U.S.-America.4 It is not to be debated that such an approach still comprises a regional and geographical side; however, what Bender refers to as respatialization does not exclude that aspect; on the contrary, it expands it so as to diversify “space” with regard to its implication as a factor in producing regional, social, cultural and political significance. Respatialization in Bender’s sense allows us to transfer the spatial from the geographical to the social and from the territorial to the political realm, with the political in the broadest possible sense (cf. Eagleton 1996: 169; Frevert 2002: 152). The production of space, is, of course, borrowed from Henri Lefebvre’s notion of “space not as a geographical tabula rasa, an empty framework in which things happen, but as a product of social practices” (Merrifield 2006: 106). The productivity of space must then measure the degree and extent to which space underlies cultural concepts, and how lasting or continuous they accordingly appear to be in U.S.-American cultural narratives. In accordance with this, Orvell and Meikle (2005) identify a “necessity of re-envisioning American culture as the history of place-making and of the instantiation of meaning in the structures, boundaries, and configurations of space. Place [...] is the record of assertion and displacement, of authority and the subversion of authority, in short, of the symbolic investment of cultural meaning in space [...]” (10). The task at hand is to identify those parts of U.S.-American cultural discourse that are formed by their underlying spatial qualities. Whether to discuss concrete spatial concepts such as the Winthropian “city upon the hill”, grounded in concrete history or theoretical ideas such as Michel de Certeau’s “footsteps” and “trajectories” (cf. Schröder 2006: 38), the idea of socially upward and geographical mobility, or whether to dissect representations in form of a literary work, the narrative emerging from stringing these concepts together must be rethought in such a manner that, while they occur in temporal succession, the focus should lie on what lends structure and direction to them.

4  |  Cf., for instance, Saldívar, José David. Trans-Americanity. Subaltern Modernities, Global Coloniality and the Cultures of Greater Mexico. Durham: Duke UP, 2012.

2.) Key Tropes of Space in U.S.-American Cultural Histor y

2.1) The C it y upon a H ill : P uritan S patial Thought and the B eginnings of A merican E xcep tionalism The history of what is today known as the United States began with the Puritan settlement of present-day New England. Two major thoughts on which American Puritan identity was founded were spatial categories; the New Jerusalem, as some came to see the new land, served as a spatial metaphor for a godly kingdom that would relieve the foul, old world after the apocalypse. Indeed, the New Jerusalem appears in the Revelation: “[a]nd he carried me away in the spirit to a great and high mountain, and showed me that great city, the holy Jerusalem, descending out of heaven from God[...] (Revelation 21:10) From the Puritan perspective, it “was very much a Separatist Utopia” (Brogan 1999: 44), even though it actually denotes the world after the end of days. For Puritans, however, as far removed from what they knew as civilization as they might have been, a world according to their beliefs was as close to the New Jerusalem, and, therefore, to God, as possible. In conjunction with their key concepts of total depravity, limited atonement, and predestination, what was then known as the Massachusetts Bay Colony became an idealized worldly representation of their faith, even though they struggled hard to survive in it. As fervent believers in the Second Coming of Christ, the Puritans believed they were preparing themselves for the apocalypse, and so were approaching the end of history. Consequentially, both the temporal and the spatial component of the Puritan experience feature the specificity of their situation; at the end of history from a temporal point of view, and in God’s earthly kingdom (i.e. a de facto theocracy formed according to Puritan beliefs).5 From that point of view, the Puritans were at the forefront of humankind, the first, if not the only, to be saved from eternal damnation. Closely tied to the concept of the New Jerusalem, and to the Puritans’ self-conception of the chosen few is John Winthrop’s famed exclamation of the “city upon a hill”. Winthrop, as many of his Puritan contemporaries, was firmly convinced that “for the faithful of God, the times were bad and getting worse; that God was preparing a judgment against England, ‘and who knows, but that God hath provided this place, to be a refuge for many, whom he means to save out of the general destruction’.” (Brogan 1999: 43) Winthrop, whom Brogan quotes in this passage, isolates New England from the rest of the world, converting it into a place outside all other places, to put it in Foucault’s 5  |  Speaking of the colonies as a paradise-like place is a little misleading. Everybody knows the story of the First Thanksgiving, and how hard the inhabitants of Plymouth were struggling to survive. The closest account of the first years still remains Bradford, William. “From Of Plymouth Plantation.” In: Baym, Nina (ed.) The Norton Anthology of American Literature. 6 th Edition. New York: Norton, 2003. 76-94.

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terms. It can be accessed only by those who adhere to its rules; even if someone physically sets foot upon the land, he or she will not automatically access the refuge of the saved. This is to happen solely by joining their ranks according to Puritan convictions. To be encountered is the construed nature of New England as a safe haven for Puritan believers. Even though they themselves might have conceived of the place as a God-given refuge, it was the Puritan settlers whose social and religious conventions established the space inside of which lay salvation, and outside of which lay damnation. New England as an imagined or inscribed space and Puritan society were inextricably connected through the Puritan faith – it was the faith that established space and society alike, and it was only through the faith that one could actually occupy the space that was New England. Without faith, the space could not be filled, and without space, faith could not be lived. The Puritan imagination of New England therefore can be read as a heterotopia. Its construed side literally lay outside all other places, even though the place was there for everyone to be seen and accessed. It was the constructed side that established a narrative of inclusion and exclusion, of salvation and damnation, as well as of civilization and wilderness, the last of which would spark a number of other crucial American discourses. Winthrop himself, upon accepting to take charge of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, but prior to settling there, uses extensive spatial metaphors, establishing a direct link between the colony and ancient Israel as the symbol of the promised land for the chosen people: “Now thou the hope of Israel [...] knit the hearts of thy servants to thyself, in faith and purity. [...] Carry us into thy Garden, that we may eat and be filled with those pleasures, which the world knows not [...] Let us sleep in thine arms, and awake in thy kingdom.” (qtd. in Brogan 1999: 43) There is a clear intersection of space and time, as Winthrop provides linkage to the past by referring to Israel as temporal predecessor, and spatial model for Puritan society in New England. In essence, the spatial part of what Winthrop conjures up as “Israel” remains constant and is therefore capable of recreating that historical space. Other spatial metaphors include the peculiarly capitalized “Garden” and the “kingdom”. Both of these tropes refer to God. The “Garden” can be interpreted to embody the Garden of Eden, while the “kingdom” is to be understood as the New Jerusalem elaborated on the above, as it must be assumed that as the convinced Puritan he was, Winthrop invokes the “kingdom of heaven” (Matt. 3:2) which he seeks to implant in Puritan New England. Winthrop’s zeal to build a model society in a model space can hardly be disputed. And so, on the passage to America, Winthrop gave his famous sermon aboard the Arbella in October of 1629:

2.) Key Tropes of Space in U.S.-American Cultural Histor y The Lord will be our God, and delight to dwell among us as his own people, and will command a blessing upon us in all our ways, so that we shall see much more of His wisdom, power, goodness and truth, than formerly we have been acquainted with. We shall find that the God of Israel is among us, when ten of us shall be able to resist a thousand of our enemies; when He shall make us a praise and glory that men shall say of succeeding plantations, ‘the Lord make it like that of New England.’ For we must consider that we shall be as a city upon a hill. The eyes of all people are upon us [...] (2003: 105)

Winthrop’s words still serve as a crucial part of U.S.-American identity, and the city upon a hill has become an infamous idiom in the nation’s discourse. However, it was not Winthrop who first adopted the elevated position of the city upon the hill. Indeed, it is written in Matthew 5:14-15: “Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on an hill cannot be hid. Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house.” It is significant to note that Matthew’s version is a little more restrained than the rather straightforward meaning that Winthrop infuses into his reading. In Matthew, the city serves as model space because it already exists. Something that cannot be hidden implies a certain passive connotation, whereas Winthrop, by contrast, seeks to paint the colonies in bright colors so as to deliberately attract attention to the city upon the hill: “The eyes of all people are upon us.” (2003: 105) Repeatedly, there is a direct connection between classical theology and exegesis and an intersection of time and space in Winthrop’s sermon. The Puritans, however, not only thought of their model community as a sacred space from the outside. On the internal level as well, they indeed inscribed profound value to the categories that were time and space (cf. Walsh 1980: 85). Even if not quite as strong as in Matthew, the spatial component remains constant while the link to the past is one marked by linear temporality and transitoriness, but with a desire to recreate the historical state of things in a model space. The New Jerusalem described in the apocalypse functions as the space to be projected onto the place marked as the New World by the Puritans, designed to literally become “God’s own country”. Winthrop’s sermon, as well as the general notion of the New Jerusalem go to demonstrate that for New England Puritans there was a spatial category at the core of their convictions and beliefs. Their efforts to build a model society in a model space eventually became one of the seeds for the concept of American exceptionalism. Even though traditional definitions of American exceptionalism have been criticized increasingly over the past two decades (cf. Hoogenboom 2002: 64), “American exceptionalism permeates every period of American history and is the single most powerful agent in a series of arguments that have been fought down the centuries concerning the identity of America and Americans.” (Madsen 1998: 1)

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Classical, as it were, American exceptionalism is typically characterized as follows: “‘American exceptionalism’, summarized, is the notion that the United States was created differently, developed differently, and thus has to be understood differently – essentially on its own terms and within its own context.” (Shafer 1991: v) In the past, such definitions have attained the stigma of nationalism: “By the 1990s, however, exceptionalism had become a pejorative term to describe a belief in national superiority [...]” (Hoogenboom 2002: 64), and in Pease’s words, a “national fantasy” having grown out of and, more importantly, been redesigned to fit the current geopolitical climate (2009: 8/9) Bearing the above theological and religious implications in mind, it is relatively difficult to deny that Winthrop’s sermon promoted precisely that: an exceptional, and thus, superior space to the surrounding threats of sin, depravity and immorality. However, Winthrop’s motivation was clearly religious, and distance to such temptations therefore further contributed to the Puritan notion of being exposed as a city upon a hill, singling it out as a beacon. That very beacon now implicitly imposed on European Puritans the responsibility to follow a trajectory that would be dangerous and risky, but at the end of which they would reach the New Jerusalem, leaving behind them the foul, contested and corrupted world in which they had grown up. Such trajectories, which essentially function as teleological quests, remind the readers of similar paths taken to similarly idealized spaces, such as the exodus. The story follows a similar pattern, and the promised land, though purely earthly, serves as the idealized space comprising a plenitude of positive characteristics for those struggling to reach it, but most importantly, to be themselves. For Puritans, that meant the right to practice their beliefs. After all, Winthrop does invoke Israel (qtd. in Brogan 1999: 43) in order to describe his quest. With Puritanism, however, also came its very particular work ethic. Rooted in Calvinism, its secularized forms would account for many of the traits that are considered typically American today: “The ideology that accompanied republicanism was admirably suited to American society. it was in many respects a secular version of the Puritan work ethic, with its emphasis on regeneration, morality, hard work, thrift, and a common concern for an exceptional community that was likened to a city on a hill.” (ibid., 47.) As history progressed, Puritan beliefs, and, as Hoogenboom argues, exceptionalist convictions were adapted into the secular world. The city upon a hill, and the path leading to it, for that matter, was no longer an exclusively Puritan phenomenon. The New Jerusalem was stripped of its theological nucleus and took on the form of a material, not a spiritual space in which were entombed the basic hopes of numerous immigrants who crossed the Atlantic on that risky trajectory. The spatial thoughts at the heart of Puritan theology and ideology opened up a discourse that featured space, spatiality, trajectories and idealized

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communities, but also idealized conditions at its heart. These are central roots of American exceptionalism

2.2) The A merican R e volution — The M odern N ation S tate as S patial E ntit y The American Revolution created a nation state, the first truly modern one of its kind by forming a political space which was basically painted in the colors of republicanism. A political space, however, is not just a geographical sphere of influence. A nation-state necessarily is, yet the conception of a political space goes further: “Likewise, speaking of social, or even more specifically, political spaces have recently become en vogue. In so doing, space functions as a representation of a symbolic level on which the respective agents have to make their particular claims in case they want to appear legitimate and representative.” (Groh and Weinbach 2005: 12)6 This is to say that a political space can emerge wherever there are enough agents so as to create, or, in Benedict Anderson’s terms, imagine (cf. 2006: 7), the symbolic level on which concrete policies can be implemented. In conjunction with Achim Landwehr’s definition of the political from a cultural history point of view (cf. 2009: 90), that symbolic level is generated by cultural processes. In the American example, the genesis of a new political order had become obvious long before the formal Declaration of Independence on July 4, 1776, and the ensuing War of Independence, which would transform thirteen British colonies into thirteen American federal states, but simultaneously also a single nation. However, the political will required to transform these territories and to equip them with the concept of nationality was created in the about one and a half decades before that. The classical narrative about unfair taxation without representation because the British Crown was in financial trouble after the Seven Years War is known to many, but apart from causing wrath in the American colonists, it first and foremost created one aspect: an even greater distance between the motherland and the colonies. The geographical distance could be overcome, but not the ideological one. This ideological distance generated a critical void which would then be filled with the self-conscious American call for more involvement in the organization of their daily lives. It was the creation of a space that sparked the American 6  |  Original German: “Ebenso hat es sich seit kurzem eingebürgert, von sozialen Räumen oder gar spezifischer, von politischen Räumen zu sprechen. Dabei gilt der Raumbegriff als Veranschaulichung einer symbolischen Ebene, auf der die Akteure ihre partikularen Forderungen vertreten, wenn sie als repräsentativ und legitim zur Geltung kommen wollen.”

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Revolution. More than that, it was the creation of a “New World”, only that the New World this time was not confined to sailing as far west as possible, but to create a novel space and a novel society within the geographical boundaries of a nation state. In a way, this can be read in the context of America’s, and particularly New England’s, religious origins, which, ironical as it may seem, strengthened democratic behaviors during the first Great Awakening 7 and thus paved the way for the principally secular independence movement that would surface in New England at the turn of the 1760s. This New World which filled the void created by the ideological distance between the motherland and the colonies was to be constructed as follows: A belief in the regenerative quality of their resistance meant, for many Americans, that the Revolution was more than just a political revolt; it represented the creation of a fresh world, a republican world. Consequently, republicanism stood for more than simply the substitution of an elective system for a monarchy. It infused the break from Britain with moral fervor and an idealism linked inextricably with the very character of American society [...] Thus, the Revolution represented more than a rejection of British corruption. It required a reformation within provincial societies as well, a reformation defined in republican terms. [...] Emphasizing a morality of social cohesion, these people hoped to create an organic state joining individual citizens together into an indissoluble union of harmony and benevolence: a true nation. (Shalhope 1991: 656)

It is interesting to note at this point that the new world was not solely designed as a better place per sé – if Shalhope is to be believed, it appears the colonists and future “Americans” thought themselves on the moral high ground, adding another spatial dimension to their relationship with the motherland. Indeed, it reversed roles, as the moral fervor that Shalhope detects positions the Americans above the British Empire in terms of hierarchy. The blank created by the unfair treatment of the colonies by the British crown had therefore not only been filled, but also effectively reconfigured the relationship between the colonies and the motherland, at least on a symbolic level. From a cultural history point of view,

7  |  As the trade volume grew larger and larger and the colonies expanded significantly into the mid-Atlantic region, the once distinctly Christian-Puritan-Calvinist theocracy that used to be the Massachusetts Bay Colony swiftly became the secular pool of sin and depravity from which the Puritans had initially fled. However, “the old beliefs did not die easily” (Gura and Murphy 2003: 173), and what soon became known as the First Great Awakening began in the 1730s, attempting to reinvoke the initial city upon a hill (cf. Huntington 2004: 76). As the democratization of religion progressed throughout the thirteen colonies and the Great Awakening swept through colonial America, people were reassured of the, indeed, rather exceptional nature of their society.

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there were enough agents8 to rearrange the symbolic orders in such a way in the course of the 1760s that the idea of independence was pervasive enough so as to erupt into an all-out revolution9, bringing about a paradoxical topological situation between colonies and Empire: while the colonies were nothing but a geographical extension of the homeland, and thus one and the same by ius sanguinis (Marienstras 1991: 670), they were as far apart as commonly possible in their convictions. Therefore, the topological/topographical points of view are interesting to consider.10 In short, topography utilized in this sense deals with concrete cartography, referring to the medial status of maps as well as the political powers which cartographers can exert by describing the world. In addition, the topographical turn centers around settings of all kinds, such as “spaces of knowledge”, for instance, i.e. the spatial configuration in laboratories, offices and scriptoria. Primarily, the topographical turn focuses on contingency (cf. Günzel 2008: 222 ff.). Topology, on the other hand, is marked not by its bringing attention to space, but rather by its turning away from it so as to be capable of focusing on spatiality (ibid., 224/5). In other words: Topologies create distances from spaces so as to examine their spatialities. Joe Painter adopts a slightly revised point of view so as to define a topology: “Topology allows us to understand spatial relations not in terms of fixed distances over a flat surface, but in terms of simultaneous or real-time connections in which the distant is drawn near and the near is made distant.” (2008: 69) The colonies post-1767, after the infamous Sugar and Stamp Acts as well as the Townshend Act had been passed by British parliament, were at their maximum distance from the motherland, even though they still embodied the very same nation. By contrast, Britain and France, who had been at war with each other only a few years earlier and between whom hostilities still persisted, were a lot closer to each other. Both sought to exercise power over 8 | Shields (2000) maintains that “[t]he American Revolution was political, not cultural.” (86) However, the political and the cultural belong together, as the political organizes – (re)spatializes – the cultural. Vice versa, the cultural negotiates the terms of the political. I regard these two aspects as inseparably connected when discussing approaches towards a spatially-oriented cultural history. 9 | Although we should speak with caution here – while many elites were in favor of the Revolution, some of them remained loyal to the Crown. The general population was equally split up, so that we cannot talk about a unanimous acceptance of the Revolution (cf. Marienstras 1991: 670/1). 10 | In the context of the spatial turn, which as a term has come under critique in recent years (cf. Günzel 2008: 219), there have been a number of “sub-turns” in order to reduce the perceived topical reduction, two of them being the topographical and the topological turn.

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their colonies, and both had empires to maintain. Those leading the political upheaval (a reconfiguration of symbolic orders) in the colonies, even if unwillingly, transformed that very empire by their desire for independence. Thus, the colonies could be viewed as something of a heterotopia of deviation in Foucaultian terms. While the spaces that Foucault brings up are not even remotely comparable to nation states, they are all spaces of authority: sanatoriums, lunatic asylums and prisons (1986: 25). The British Empire functioned as a superior in relation to the colonies as well. In a similar manner, even though the colonists were not sent to America, they became a heterotopia of deviation as soon as they protested against taxation without representation. Suddenly, the British Crown was forced to deal with serious resistance from one of their colonies which was actually supposed to work in its favor. The colonies became a space within the empire, yet were located politically outside of the empire’s boundaries. The relationship between Empire and colonies was supposed to be clearly hierarchical, and therefore marked by a vertical spatiality if we recall its definition as devised by, amongst others, Doreen Massey (cf. 1992: 80/1), Edward Soja (1993: 76) or Martina Löw et. al. (2007: 63). Instead, the colonies decided to encounter the motherland on the same spatial level, consequently dissolving the hierarchy and eroding the empire’s authority. The rebels undermined and ultimately destroyed the authority of the British Empire, to which it had to react by means of penetration, to remain in Foucaultian terminology, which eventually resulted in the War of Independence, where the core act of emancipation in U.S.-American history emerges. This is represented in the Declaration of Independence: Nor have We been wanting in attentions to our British brethren. We have warned them from time to time of attempts by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration and settlement here. [...] We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our Separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, Enemies in War, in Peace Friends. [...] That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States; that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved.11

The War of Independence marked the instance in which the proclaimed independence had to be defended against the now enemy nation that was Great Britain. Once again, one can employ a topology in order to illustrate that the 11 | http://www.archives.gov/exhibits/charters/declaration_transcript.html (October 30, 2011, 8.20 a.m.).

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imagined model space that was the United States had to be seized from the lands that Great Britain still considered her own. Both parties were absolutely close to each other geographically, but at the same time far away from the other power ideologically. Territoriality is, of course, one of the first aspects one comes to think about when speaking about space, but the (re)conquest of a place is only a first step towards creating a new space, particularly if that space is supposed to be a nation state. The crucial factor is not conquest, but incorporation of the place, and its inscriptions, with those aspects eventually creating that different space.

2.3) 19 th -C entury A merican E xpansionism : O n the S ymbiosis of S pace , P olitics and I deology The 19th century, for the young nation-state that was the United States of America, was marked by territorial and ideological expansion, but also by the ruptures resulting in the Civil War and its aftermath. For the young American nation, such a conception of history can be found in what for the United States can be referred to as the short 19th century.12 It began with the Louisiana Purchase in 1803 and ended in Frederick Jackson Turner’s proclamation of the closing of the frontier in 1893. The short American 19th century was, amongst other aspects, one of (spatial) reconfiguration of the nation. Indeed, it founded one of the quintessential prisms through which Americans have identified themselves, and continue to identify themselves to this day: the symbol of “The West” (cf. also Paul 2014). The West, however, over time, has become more than the geographical place, which was never a consistent entity to begin with: “The geographical location of the West has continually moved as the reference from which it is defined changed. From the early Spanish and French colonies, to the incorporation of Alaska and Hawai’i as states in 1959, the United States as a nation has been in continual transition.” (Madsen 2010: 370) In addition, conceptions of the West have to be seen as detached from their purely geographical reading, and must rather be viewed as places borne out of imagined spaces (cf. Milner 1994: 2), which in turn fostered the comprehension of the now palpably generated West as a trope of opportunity and hope, even if hardship had to be overcome first. Therefore, the “‘new’ West 12  |  Periodizations of history do not always have to follow a strict calendar from, say, January 1, 1800 to January 1, 1900. Instead, they can perhaps be characterized more accurately by such events and socio-political processes which have shaped the grand narratives of those times. In this manner, historians such as Eric Hobsbawm and Jürgen Kocka have spoken about modern history in terms of the long 19th and short 20th century, respectively (cf. Hobsbawm 1995 and Kocka 2001).

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Studies [...] turns away from the understanding of the West as a process to focus more on the West as a place.”13 (Madsen 2010: 370) As a matter of fact, what is called “westward expansion” today grew out of different critical narratives, as Gesa Mackenthun elaborates: “The term ‘expansionism’ conjures up different critical narratives: first, a description of the process of territorial expansion of the United States in the nineteenth century; secondly, a wider description of American imperial attitudes from its inception as a nation until today; and thirdly, a description of the ideology that accompanies either of these processes.” (2009: 245) Mackenthun’s words hint at the multi-faceted nature of American expansionism, and at its long-lasting nature as well. Again, an intersection of space and time appears to be most fruitful to single out the spatial side of this phase in American cultural history. U.S.-American culture, as is written above, can and should be conceived of as a history of place-making (cf. Orvell and Meikle 2005: 10) – however, for a place or space to be made, its territory needs to be domesticated first, and it is here that the notion of expansionism in its broadest sense can be uncovered. The notion of place-making in this sense interacts well with all three of Mackenthun’s components of expansionism – it necessitates territorial expansion, fosters imperial attitudes and presupposes, yet simultaneously creates, ideological foundations of expansion(ism), such as the concept of “Manifest Destiny”. In holding that “American imperial attitudes” persist until today, Mackenthun establishes a direct link to the “classical” expansionism of the 19th century. Not only does this step lend recency to the topic in a time in which criticism of American foreign expeditions has drastically increased14 – at the same time it globalizes the discourse of American expansionism. Additionally, it renders this facet of American cultural history more narratable since from that point of view, the narrative is not a historical, but an ongoing one. Mackenthun further elaborates that “many scholars of American expansionism agree that the field of investigation should not be limited to the continent and the process of western 13  |  Madsen appears to be conceiving of the term “place” in a comparable manner to what I have thus far referred to as “space”. “Indeed, the relationship between space and place is complex and has been discussed rather extensively over the years. However, we work from the premise that a place becomes a space through the inscription of personal and social meaning, as opposed to the equally prominently held view that works vice versa.” (Brinkmann and Thoene 2011: 64) 14  |  Cf., for instance, the recent Iraq war, even though it hardly counts as traditional expansionism, but it does serve as an example of ideological expansion. After all, the political leaders cited bringing freedom and democracy to Iraq as one of the main reasons for the war (cf. President Bush’s address to the nation on March 19, 2003. URL: http:// georgewbush-whitehouse.archives.gov/news/releases/2003/03/20030319-17.html [November 16, 2011, 10:22 a.m.]).

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settlement but that, as the same ideology was deployed in the hemispheric and transoceanic schemes of the United States [...]” (ibid., 246). In such approaches, there is a universalist quality of American expansion, limited to neither the North American continent nor the 19th century. However, in a more specified reading of American expansionism corresponding to what is referred to as imperial attitudes above, one can, according to Gesa Mackenthun, discern four primary narratives determining American expansionism: “first, the providential narrative of the westward course of empire; second, the argument of legitimate action by the law of ‘nature’; third, the argument of geography and archaeology [...] and fourth, the argument of biological determinism and racial superiority.” (ibid., 252/3) Seeing as “[c]ausal determinism is, roughly speaking, the idea that every event is necessitated by antecedent events and conditions together with the laws of nature[...]”15, one can hypothesize protofascist undercurrents of this providential narrative of empire. Recurring to the Calvinist/Puritan ideas of the first settlers and their strong relationship to providence and predestination, we can detect a historical continuity between those settlers and 19th-century American expansionism. Puritans believed in predestination as devised by the God who revealed himself to them in the Bible. The space they created initially in New England was therefore a direct result of godly intervention. Laws of nature were no hindrance to this approach, for they, too, were believed to be made by God. In that sense, we can view the 19th-century expansion as a secularized version of predestination. The providential narrative of empire, as Mackenthun calls it, was employed as legitimization strategy serving as a “beacon to the as of yet uncivilized world beyond the already explored world. As such, America was little better than the power she had gained her independence from only a generation earlier.” (2009: 252/3) It was such attitudes that fostered the emergence of concepts such as Manifest Destiny. Manifest Destiny as a term was coined “by John L. O’Sullivan in the Democratic Review in 1845, in a comment that unites the twinned ideologies of Manifest Destiny and American exceptionalism. He refers to ‘our manifest destiny to overspread the continent allotted by Providence for the free development of our yearly multiplying millions’” (Madsen 2010: 373). It is important to acknowledge the concept in terms of its historical context, i.e. the annexation of Texas, to be followed by the Mexican-American War, which was another conflict related to expansion and territorial growth. Its spatial qualities lay in the rearrangement of borders, essentially shifting identities from one space to another, and overlapping in many cases, creating the borderlands whose discourse so profoundly shapes 15  |  Hoefer, Carl. “Causal Determinism.” In: Zalta, Edward N. (ed.) The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Spring 2010 Edition). URL: http://plato.stanford.edu/archives/ spr2010/entries/determinism-causal/. (November 16, 2011, 10.52 a.m.).

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contemporary American studies. The historical context reveals the – from today’s point of view – ruthless nucleus of “Manifest Destiny”. Even though defenders of O’Sullivan still exist16, “Manifest Destiny” was an aggressive ideology aiming at conquest at the behest of entire peoples. This can be further supported by an earlier article written by O’Sullivan in 1839, which brings the words “manifest” and “destiny” together for the first time: The far-reaching, the boundless future will be the era of American greatness. In its magnificent domain of space and time, the nation of many nations is destined to manifest to mankind the excellence of divine principles; to establish on earth the noblest temple ever dedicated to the worship of the Most High –the Sacred and the True. Its floor shall be a hemisphere – its roof the firmament of the star-studded heavens, and its congregation an Union of many Republics, comprising hundreds of happy millions, calling, owning no man master, but governed by God’s natural and moral law of equality, the law of brotherhood [...]17

O’Sullivan unites the dimensions that are time and space, making use of the cultural space suggested by the proclaimed American greatness. Moreover, he outlines the American geographical appearance by means of spatial metaphors – the hemisphere might as well be read as a sphere of influence, whereas there is no limit towards the sky, serving as another hint at the close connection between ideology and theological origins of the concept. Indeed, “Manifest Destiny”, particularly in this early formulation, unites space, politics and ideology in a symbiosis that lays out a clear trajectory for the United States: expand, or be damned. In more naturalist terms, one could read that statement as a protoDarwinist conception of life, corresponding to what Mackenthun outlines as the “Expansionist Law of Nature” (2009: 255) and a “finders, keepers” mentality which was originally proclaimed by John Locke (cf. ibid.) O’Sullivan’s article, contrary to Johanssen’s interpretation, can by no means be read as peaceful, considering the irony contained in this passage when bearing in mind that the Cherokee Trail of Tears occurred a mere year prior to the publication of the article: “America is destined for better deeds. It is our unparalleled glory that we have no reminiscences of battle fields, but in defence of humanity, of 16  |  Cf. Johannsen 1997: 10. Johannsen defends O’Sullivan by stating that “his Manifest Destiny was non-violent[...]”, arriving at the conclusion that “[i]t was destiny, moreover, that tied territorial expansion to the American mission. Mission and expansion were inseparably linked by Manifest Destiny.” (ibid.) 17  |  O’Sullivan, John L. “Excerpted from ‘The Great Nation of Futurity.’ The United States Democratic Review, Volume 6, Issue 23, pp. 426-430.” URL: http://www.mtholyoke.edu/ acad/intrel/osulliva.htm. (November 16, 2011, 11.35 a.m.; emphasis mine).

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the oppressed of all nations, of the rights of conscience, the rights of personal enfranchisement.”18 As a professional journalist and editor, O’Sullivan must have known about the Trail of Tears, and with that in mind, it is difficult to portray his view on what would become Manifest Destiny as non-violent or even peaceful. In any case, the spatial qualities of Manifest Destiny reveal themselves in a reconfiguration of spaces by often violent means. In terms of Manifest Destiny, the penetration results from the encounter of a Eurocentric worldview and what I would call a certain arrogance of power on part of those people who saw the West as naturally “theirs”, or as a God-given land on which to settle. Indeed, westward expansion and “Manifest Destiny” inspired some of America’s high-brow intellectuals to follow into this nationalist trap. Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote in 1844: I call upon you, young men, to obey your heart, and be the nobility of this land. In every age of the world, there has been a leading nation, one of a more generous sentiment, whose eminent citizens were willing to stand for the interests of general justice and humanity, at the risk of being called, by the men of the moment, chimerical and fantastic. Which should be that nation but these States? Which should lead that movement, if not New England? Who should lead the leaders, but the Young American?19

The cultural-historical impact of these words reveals the full extent of the ties between space, power, and ideology, legitimized by one of the leading American intellectuals, who was respected as such at his time already. Emerson establishes a hierarchy between the USA and the rest of the world. Elevating the United States to a higher level, and her citizens to a master status, Emerson, even if implicitly, calls for the de-facto subjugation of non-“Americans”, and renders “Americans” qualitatively exceptional. We therefore witness the intersection of the vertical and horizontal axes of American expansionism; the vertical axis becomes manifest in the political hierarchy that Emerson and the ideology he represents set up, while the horizontal axis embodies concrete expansion as well as the penetration of those spaces in their path. This convergence of politics in the broadest sense (cf. Frevert 2002: 152) and concrete geography forms a trialectic in conjunction with the ideological underpinning elaborated on the above. This symbiosis of space, politics and ideology is perhaps best summarized in the concept of the frontier. The importance that this concept, identified by historian Frederick Jackson Turner in 1893, held and to some extent still holds in American cultural history can hardly be overestimated, and it has been used and modified by generations of scholars to explain something 18 | Ibid. 19  |  Emerson, Ralph Waldo. “The Young American.” URL: http://www.emersoncentral. com/youngam.htm. (November 17, 2011, 12.32 p.m.).

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thought to display the “American character.” Likewise, the concept condenses various American discourses such as the ones formed by Puritanism, American exceptionalism, as well as the ideology of Manifest Destiny just outlined, subsuming them under the canopy of the frontier. According to Turner, the frontier renders Americans American. Specifically, he writes: “The frontier is the line of most rapid and effective Americanization. The wilderness masters the colonist. It finds him a European in dress, industries, tools, modes of travel, and thought.” (1994: 201) As the main hypothesis of this project, I have been arguing in favor of a key function of space and spatiality in generating cultural, and later on, literary narratives. In these few words, Turner literally activates and vitalizes the frontier as a factor used to strip the settler naked in order to redefine him vis-à-vis the great wilderness he faces. It functions a bona fide representation of space exerting influence on the people inhabiting it. Likewise, it provides the breeding ground for the characteristic reciprocity of space and spatiality in that the space that shapes people is simultaneously shaped by its people. Turner, however, utilizes the frontier to form what he conceives of as quintessentially American: “Thus the advance of the frontier has meant a steady movement away from the influence of Europe, a steady growth of independence on American lines. And to study this advance, the men who grew up under these conditions, and the political, economic, and social results of it, is to study the really American part of our history.” (ibid.) Yet, Turner’s analysis does not reach far enough, painting an all too romantic picture of what he names “the great west” (ibid., 200). In recent years, this romantic imagination of a binary opposition of civilization and wilderness as well as the resulting transformation of the latter has been undermined: “Recent scholarship, however, has suggested that such an arrangement is historically limited in two ways.”, Rachels and Watts (2002: xiv) maintain. They assert that the frontier was a much more complex matter, and functioned as a contact zone rather than vacant land. Indeed, “[f]irst, the natives of the American wests were usually already not only aware of whites, but were also in many cases intermarried and [...] entangled with western material culture.” (ibid.) They proceed to elaborate that “an identifiable ‘line’ between one culture and another oversimplifies the complexities of border and frontier experiences. [...] Finally, in recent years, the frontier has been more often defined as a ‘zone’ that is not necessarily geographically or chronologically contiguous.” (ibid., xv) This perspective adds a dynamic as well as the factor of mobility to the equation of civilization and perceived wilderness. It opens up the frontier for a two-way interpretation as opposed to Turner’s intellectual one-way street. While Turner’s influence has been huge, one cannot avoid the fact that his interpretation of expansion and the west is part of the same nationalist canon which generated “Manifest Destiny”. In a similar manner, Turner ignores

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the violent as well as racist overtones of American expansion, celebrating the genesis of the American character, consisting of “American values such as democracy, individualism, inquisitiveness, inventiveness, materialism and nervous restlessness, together with an inborn capacity to regenerate these character traits out of a continuous contest with the primitive forces of the wilderness.” (Mackenthun 2009: 251) Indeed, one of the few things that actually worked monodirectionally possibly was the dispossession of the people inhabiting the lands “civilized” by “American” settlers.20 However, the mythical constituent of the frontier has remained central in American cultural narratives, as it positioned the inscribed space that was “The West”, however fragmented it may have been, at the forefront of the American experiment. It delimited the West from the rest of the country, assigning a culturo-avantgardistic function to that particular place formed by the trialectic of space, politics and ideology. As a result, then, American history was not over, as Turner seemed to imply in 1893 when he talked about the closed frontier in his famous essay. The geographical frontier was just one aspect of expansion, which, however, bred traits now considered archetypically U.S.-American (cf. May 1994: 277). These regionalist overtones form another consequence which the frontier discourse has brought forth. Regionalism, however, must not be conceived of as a mere demarcation of one geographical area from another. While that is part of its mission, what is more important is to identify the dynamics of those traits that delimit a particular region from another. In modern regionalism, then, space and spatiality overlap to the extent that spaces can be relocated by means of spatiality. McNamara (2010) writes that we “ought, then, to understand regions in the way that structuralism understands language, as a system of differences with no positive terms.” (354) As a consequence, the formation of what we refer to as a “region” stands at the end of the process of re-bordering certain territories. What renders the frontier so significant as a condensed form of U.S.American cultural ideology is that, as Mackenthun is quoted as saying on the above, the frontier subsumes the crucial American discourses that have shaped the States’ identity beyond the territorial aspect contained in the palpable frontier. These socio-cultural ideals and values, are crucial constituents of American national identity. Penrose and Mole maintain that “[t]hose categories that inspire the greatest internalisation, that become personal and perceived as key to the survival of the self, are those that assume the greatest significance in structuring divisions of people and space as well the power relations and the structures of power that mediate them.” (2008: 277) It is relatively safe to say 20 | Cf. Gesa Mackenthun’s study on the early colonial period: Mackenthun, Gesa. Metaphors of Dispossession. American Beginnings and the Translation of Empire, 1492-1637. Norman, OK: Oklahoma UP, 1997. 193 ff.

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that the above classical U.S.-American values retain at least part of their origin in categories of space and spatiality, one of which is mirrored in the American frontier myth. The fact that many frontier territories were taken from their native inhabitants leaves an internal-colonial mark on American history. As a nationstate, as the spatial construct founded on a shared belief in the highest ideals and values, the US was the first modern democracy, and perhaps the most innocent state in the group of nations exerting power over others in its day; however, the de facto internal colonialism stripped the country of its supposed innocence long before the official age of imperialism began in the l890s. The Civil War, while only indirectly fought over matters of expansion, bore witness to a possible restoration of American’s innocence. The war, however, eventually resulted in a segmented America that added another axis to its cultural compass, i.e. the North-South axis, which sparked a century of tremendous economic inequality within the same political space. American expansionism in a stricter sense resulted in a fundamental loss of what little innocence could be claimed by the young nation. By the end of the 19th century, the United States of America engaged in imperialism, and, hence, imperial wars (cf. the Spanish-American War of 1898, or the conflict with the Philippines from 1899 to 1902 etc.) in order to pursue her interests. Despite the Monroe Doctrine, which basically spoke of non-interference in foreign affairs when- and wherever possible21, the US now actively sought to exceed its influence and partook in the Great Game before another brief period of isolationism preceding World War I. Over the course of the short American 19th century, however, America underwent crucial spatio-cultural and political transformations. The beginning of the 20th century would also designate the beginning of an American century, and it is in the confrontation of the United States with its opponents that we can discern the cultural-political impact of the spatial throughout the 20th century.

21 | http://www.ushistory.org/documents/monroe.htm (November 24, 2011, 1:11 p.m.).

2.) Key Tropes of Space in U.S.-American Cultural Histor y

2.4) Tr ansition , R edefinition and R elocation : The E arly 20 th C entury as an E x ample of S patial Tr ansformation The early 20th century marked a tremendously dynamic period in both, American and world history. In America, whose territory was not affected by World War I, the early 20th century designated a highly significant transformation of the cultural landscape, and later on, throughout the 1930s, also a change of the political and economic parameters against which “America” as a now consolidated nation firmly rooted in international affairs would be measured. The first crucial transformation of the rural and the urban can be ascribed to the “Great Migration” between, broadly put, 1910 and 1930. Apart from the general process of urbanization, entailing the usual socio-economic push and pull factors, the race question was, in addition to natural disasters in the South in 1915/16, one of the primary initiators of a massive black migration from the South to the North. Robert B. Grant specifically writes that for “the black Southerner, in addition to the infamy of Jim Crow, inferior schools, legal injustice, and lynching, a series of natural calamities made life more difficult than ever” (1972: 14). Speaking of legal injustice, one cannot omit the spatial effects of Plessy vs. Ferguson. The Supreme Court verdict from 1896 constituted the infamous “separate but equal” ruling and therefore turned the country de iure into a segregated community, acting against anything that America, as well as its most sacred documents (i.e. the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution) ever claimed. Despite the great American focus on social and geographical mobility, African Americans were effectively closed off from certain places and spaces. Social stratification occurred on other levels resulting out of the verdict as well. One of such realms is education. Through the “separate but equal” ruling, African Americans were tied to the spaces assigned to them. If one realizes that American public schools were and continue to be funded by ground tax for the most significant share, it is no surprise that African Americans left school on a considerably lower level of education than the average white person, and even white people in the South were harmed by the ruling. Hugh Brogan (1999) writes that [i]t [segregation] was also entering into a conspiracy to deny adequate education to the blacks, because the Southern states had no intention of giving blacks equal facilities, even if they were separate, and the Court had no intention of inquiring whether it had done so or not [...] The courts were carefully uninterested in such information, and the phrase ‘the equal protection of the laws’ in the Fourteenth Amendment was reduced almost to meaninglessness. Finally, Plessy vs. Ferguson damaged the education of

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The logical, and, one must assume, fully intentional ramifications of Plessy vs. Ferguson were sinister. From a human geography and/or sociological perspective, “spatial structures must be realized in actions, yet they also structure action. This duality of structure and action in this sense also represents the reality of space.” (translated from Löw et al. 2007: 65) The duality of structure and action served to reproduce this segregated space, initiating a vicious circle that could scarcely be penetrated from within. The Jim Crow South was officially institutionalized by the highest judicial organ of the United States, giving way to preserving and reproducing a socio-racial hierarchy and excluded African Americans by law. This, however, gradually changed when the economy gained more power, and consequentially, job opportunities arose in the much more industrialized North. In connection to the general situation in the South, it caused a massive exodus to the North (cf. Grant 1972: 14). The North certainly was not the Promised Land, to remain in this biblical terminology, yet, it was better than the conditions in the South. It would be far-fetched to read the Great Migration as the African American trajectory to the city upon a hill, as it is difficult to imagine such optimism and idealism in the early 20th century. What does resonate repeatedly is the notion of an exodus of African Americans: “News about the North, as was to be expected, constantly filtered down to Southern negroes. [...] As soon, then, as the late 1870s and 1880s they launched their first attempt to make their way into this fabled Canaan.” (Jackson 1991: xiv) This idea of an exodus to an alleged land of milk and honey structurally functions in a similar manner as the Puritan city upon a hill. The biblical and theological nucleus is very much the same: an idealized space offering a better life to those inhabiting it. The difference lay in the economic prerequisites of the migrating African Americans; of course, the North was not quite the land of milk and honey for them, even though it was much more progressive than the South. In the 1990s, Toni Morrison would use this nucleus to create an idiosyncratically African American space myth running parallel to its WASP conception (cf. Ch. 6), emancipating the black space myth. As a consequence, the Great Migration transformed spaces in the North. As Jackson continues to elaborate, “the steady trickle of southern blacks into the North grew to a flood [upon the outbreak of World War I], thus creating, among other things, the classical black ghettos of urban America above the Mason-Dixon line.” (ibid., xv) Aside from being special spaces of their own, marginalized accumulations of ethnic or cultural groups in a single space, these so-called ghettos, assumed a certain cultural and literary self-

2.) Key Tropes of Space in U.S.-American Cultural Histor y

dynamic which could not have occurred without the very specific conditions that created them. The most famous example certainly is the Harlem Renaissance, which was triggered by Great Migration African Americans and their offspring. Harlem allowed to them to refocus on themselves, and in their art, of whichever manifestation it might have been, treat their individual and collective fates. The first half of the 20th century was in many ways a phase of transition and transformation – cultural, as in the emerging modernist movement, racial, as in the Great Migration, and economic, as in the late Gilded Age, the “Roaring Twenties” and, ultimately, the Great Depression. The reconfiguration of spaces, however, is something that has gone overlooked, for the tremendous socio-political dynamics unleashed in this period inevitably created different spaces, which in turn created different people. The Great Depression is another manifestation of these socio-political dynamics and their relation to space and spatiality. Throughout its continuation, there was a profound transformation of the American cultural and political landscape. It reconfigured the topography and topology of American society. Socially, the dichotomy between the rural and the urban became much stronger, and simultaneously much more visible. Books such as Let us now Praise Famous Men by James Agee and Walker Evans redirected public attention to the plight of those Americans whose degree of poverty had largely been ignored before the Depression. On a cultural level, such examples connected the lowest socio-economic strata with forms of art and high, but also folk culture, functioning as spatial means of representing social structures. As a result, this process of approximation between classes caused a mainstream perception of the Depression that exceeded all previous confrontations with the plight of the American underclass, particularly in the South: “Because such [the foundation of the Farm Security Administration in 1937] government interventions in the nation’s economic life were controversial, the FSA created the Photography Unit under Roy Stryker to build support for New Deal policies by documenting the grim realities of the rural Depression.” (Dickstein 2009: 94) The convergence of governmental action and production of culture forms a symbiosis which assigned faces and fates to an otherwise rather abstract topic. Dickstein continues to elaborate that “[d]espite the journalistic nature of the this photographic work, the thirties were a period when journalism and art grew closely intertwined. Photography itself had a long history of documenting social ills [...] During the Depression this documentary approach took on tremendous new importance.” (ibid.) Transformation, redefinition and relocation therefore are central to early 20th-century American cultural history. If we are to buy into the notion of American cultural history as one of place-making (cf. Orvell and Meikle 2005: 10), the early 20th century contributes a significant part in the creation of socio-

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spatial dynamics. Spaces are realized in actions, but they also structure actions themselves, Löw et. al. contend (cf. 2007: 63) Consequently, the social processes that occurred in the early 20th century were of spatial origin. The spaces they created were indeed realized in actions, and structured actions themselves. Political hierarchies were challenged (vast social protest in the 1930s), social structures overturned (cf. the urban transformation process following the Great Migration), and cultural products converged in order to portray those hitherto unportrayed. All in all, America became a more dynamic society in the decades between World Wars I and II, even though the lesson had to be learned in a tough manner, having had to come to terms with the Great Depression and the world economic crisis. World War II gave things a completely different direction. What came out of this war, however, was a confrontation of spaces: The East and the West.

2.5) A merica in the S econd H alf of the 20 th C entury : The S patial Q ualities and M e taphorics of F oreign P olicy in the L ight of C onfrontation and W ar Following the end of World War II, world history would, for roughly the ensuing 45 years, be dominated by a dangerous confrontation between two blocs on the opposing ends of the political spectrum. The Cold War was more than the arms race, although this was certainly the most explosive fields of confrontation. For Americans, the Soviet Union was an “Evil Empire” (Engelhardt 2007: ix) long before Ronald Reagan made this infamous exclamation in the 1980s. The in hindsight rather exaggerated red scare transported by McCarthyism in the 1950s and the Cuban missile crisis in the early 1960s served as manifestation of fierce anti-communism on the one hand, and realization of the perils of bloc confrontation on the other hand. However, the “clash of civilizations” (to borrow Samuel Huntingon’s term outlining the perceived conflict between the liberal democracies and parts of the Arab world) served as a catalyzer of traits and issues thought of today as canonically part of U.S.-American cultural history. It is not a secret that certain traits and issues, particularly those related to identity formation, can be recognized much more easily in times of confrontation, and so, American “victory culture” originated from the epic struggle of good vs. evil from which the USA emerged victoriously: the Second World War. Engelhardt (ibid.) writes that in “in those years of the fifties, much of victory culture still seemed utterly glorious to us kids [...] In those years before television entered my house [...] all those marvelous voices [on the radio] leading me from the Old West to the Yukon and always into adventure.”

2.) Key Tropes of Space in U.S.-American Cultural Histor y

(310) Victory culture emerged from World War II, but the war’s ramifications generated another empire against which victory had to be achieved: the USSR. What shines through is that Engelhardt connects one space, which he labels the Old West, with an implied other space, i.e. the big opponent of his own youth, that is communism as an ideology and the Soviet Union as what was conceived to be communism’s concrete geographical manifestation. Taken together, the geographical (east and west facing each other) and ideological (communist dictatorship vs. capitalist liberal democracy) distance between the two super powers could not have been greater. On the other hand, their politics of space were topologically not so far apart, albeit emerging from entirely contrastive premises. There was an expansionist superstructure22 looming above both blocs, which could also be clearly derived from looking at their attempts to expand their spheres of influence, particularly in post-WW II Europe. The threat of a Soviet invasion of US territory had never been imminent; what was imminent, however, was a perceived communist threat from within, i.e. the transportation of a Soviet-type space onto American soil by means of infiltration, and afterwards penetration of core American values. Whitfield (1991) proclaims that “[c]itizens were expected to enlist in the Cold War. Neutrality was suspect, and so was a lack of enthusiasm for defining American society as beleaguered.” (10) In addition, on a micro-scale, there was also some confusion of the “private and the public realms”, which was “characteristic of the era.” (ibid.) Such spherical metaphors hint at the spatial traits of confrontations in general and ideological confrontations in particular in that they create different realms in which people behave differently so as not to deviate from the public standard on the one hand while retaining their private opinion on the other hand. Confrontations of this kind are expressed in the form of binary oppositions: good vs. evil, free vs. unfree, east vs. west, private vs. public, and communism vs. capitalism. This simple matter of fact allows for little to no space in between these two opposing ends. This signifies 22 | Both constructs featured vast open lands that were inhabited by people before a new power came to seize that land: in the case of the US, it showed in the abovementioned conquest of the West in the 19th century, and in the case of the Soviet Union, it was the collectivization of agriculture, from which the vast majority of the Soviet population lived, under the rule of Joseph Stalin (cf. Baberowski 2008 for a more detailed account of Stalinism) This was a profound and utterly brutal reconfiguration, a Sovietization of the Russian village. Likewise in a brutal manner, the American frontier regions had been “civilized” a century earlier. While the term “internal colonialism” is debatable, the reconfiguration of vast lands is a crucial cornerstone in both Russian and American history. Even de Tocqueville recognized this as early as 1835, when he compared Russia and the United States under the canopy of a common providential narrative of empire (cf. 1969: 412 f.).

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that any attempt at approximation is very difficult to achieve. If there is hardly any opportunity to approximate, these spatial constructs are de-dynamized, resulting a) in stagnation and b) in an amplification of their self-perception as perceived through the prism of the “Other”. Therefore, the opposing blocs of the Cold War would and could not allow profound criticism of their respective system if they did not wish to appear weak vis-à-vis their staunchest opponent. In the context of post-WW II victory culture and the Cold War era, we find an additional climax of American exceptionalism: “On the one hand, U.S. citizens envisioned the United States as an ideal nation [...] On the other hand, they understood themselves responsible to do the work necessary to achieve that ideal. Exceptionalism also [...] enabl[ed] U.S. citizens to belive that they could achieve their national ideals by enacting the will of the state.” (Pease 2009: 33) This type of behavior and the resurrection of this particular brand of conservative patriotism has since re-appeared whenever America found herself in full-scale, major combat operations aiming at expanding her sphere of influence, both before the collapse of the Soviet Union, and after. It found its continuation in the first years of the Vietnam war, when protest against the Southeast Asian campaign was still met by staunch conservatism and accusations of treason and disloyalty.23 From a socio-political point of view, it was not solely the “ordinary” citizens who took this step. As a matter of fact, part of that victory culture was instilled by government institutions: In 1966 a series of articles in The New York Times exposed a wide range of covert activities undertaken by the American intelligence community, causing a storm of protest and embarrassment in the United States and overseas. These included details of how the American government had reached into cultural affairs at home and in Western Europe with the aim of lending intellectual weight to the West’s actions and way of life. (Shaw 2001: 66)

A good twenty-five years after Vietnam, President Bush proclaimed the “War on Terror”. His administration used al-Qaeda in the same manner as previous governments had used the Soviet Union (or the allies it supported): to push through cutbacks on civil liberties while being cheered on by a substantial portion, if not the majority, of the American population. Engelhardt sees this type of public behavior as a rebirth of victory culture (cf. 2007: 315). More accurately, a part of this victory culture, to resort to a particular type of conservatism nurtured by a feeling of superiority as a continuation of a chosen people in a chosen space (cf. the “God’s own country” idiom), is a trait

23  |  Cf. http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps/vietnam/antiwar.html (January 5, 2012, 3:07 p.m.).

2.) Key Tropes of Space in U.S.-American Cultural Histor y

engrained into American culture, triggered often whenever America faced or faces an opposing force. If American cultural history can indeed be read as one of re-making spaces and places, Engelhardt’s victory culture is one manifestation of such re-made constructs. Particularly in this most recent engagement in Iraq, but also in Afghanistan, the political discourse was merged with cultural concepts from American history revolving around the American space myth: “‘It’s not surprising either that Colin Powell’s former Chief of Staff [...] would accuse the President of ‘cowboyism’; or that various neoconservatives [...] would lovingly quote American military men who still believe themselves out on some western frontier [...]” (Engelhardt 2007: 314). One encounters here a convergence and eventual intersection of space and time, for the frontier and is normative qualities were transferred from the past to the present-day situation, including its dubitable values often based on violence and bloodshed. The spatial category here serves as a continuous reaffirmation of American ideology and thus remains constant, while on the temporal axis, the world had become much more complex than in colonial days or the mid-19th century. This is to say that spatiality served as a structuring element in this conflict, fulfilling central functions of space as a key aspect in structuring the human experience. Invoking the frontier lends such discourses a type of cultural and historical continuity manifest in the reappearance of American expansionism, even if only by means of comparison. In a similar approach, the illustration of enemy soldiers and/or combatants was likened to the image of the “red Indian”: “Neocon journalistic avatar Robert Kaplan, for instance, cited a U.S. officer as saying, ‘The red Indian metaphor is one with which a liberal policy nomenklatura may be uncomfortable, but Army and Marine field officers have embraced it because it captures perfectly the combat challenge of the 21st century.’” (ibid.) Indeed, this serves as a transfer of the 19th century to the 21st, implying that a renaissance of the old romantic, as it were, “cowboys and Indians” antagonism, which has played such a vital yet highly controversial role in the construction of the American West, was or is at hand. Additionally, it adds a racial component to the equation in that the problematic historical relationship to Native Americans is seemingly easily transferred to present-day combat situations. However, this comparison is rather damaging to the image of the US as liberators, considering how the historical role models that said officer hints at dealt with millions of Native Americans. As regards the War on Terror, its spatial facet became manifest first and foremost in the spatialization of terror, namely terror’s concrete location to the country of Afghanistan, and later on, the attempt to portray state-backed terrorism in the country of Iraq under Saddam Hussein. By definition, terrorrism, as opposed to state terrorism, is detached from stringent or clearly structured forms of political organization and is consequentially asymmetrical:

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“As part of this leaderless strategy, local cells, often independent from one another or a central command authority, plan execute terrorist attacks while trying to realize the aims of a major terrorist organization through their individual terrorist actions.“24 (Hoffmann 2007: 79; my translation) This is precisely what al-Qaeda attempted to establish after the semi-centrally-planned attacks of September 11, 2001 (cf. ibid., 77). The U.S. invasion of Afghanistan was a re-localization of terrorism, a spatialization of a political crime whose origins were now nationalized upon the decision to attack Afghanistan, ultimately resulting in a spatial asymmetry between the U.S. and her opponents; while the Soviet Union and her satellite states were clearly palpable enemies moving within certain frameworks in certain spaces, al-Qaeda represented (and still represents) heavy fragmentation and opaqueness both in conjunction with and detachment from the then Taliban-ruled country of Afghanistan. Separations between enemy and friendly subjects on the battlefield became blurred, and it is in this spirit that the abovementioned invocation of the frontier triggered a cultural familiarity with the conquest of the “wilderness” that gave some U.S. military men and women in Afghanistan a familiar example from their own cultural heritage in a land completely unfamiliar to them. It also becomes clear that some (late) 20th-century American policymakers seemed to resort to classic American spatial metaphorics and imagery derived from American exceptionalism. From the 1950s, a Cold War high time, to the 2000s, in a vastly different world without two opposing super powers, the awakenings of this binary, romantic type of conservatism rooted deep in the American past have played a significant role in American cultural history of the political. The (re-)introduction of such traditional concepts generated familiarity, continuity, and on top of that boosted American self-confidence after the Vietnam trauma, continuing into the 21st century, most notably repopularized by George W. Bush shortly after 9/11: “‘And there’s an old poster out West that says, ‘Wanted: Dead or Alive.’”25 Clearly, Bush’s statement refers to the classical image of the virile American West, tamed by civilization, the aforementioned “cowboyism”, and generated by the continuously moving frontier. The frontier, however, was more explicitly adapted 40 years before President Bush re-introduced its literal association into American politics, when President 24 | German: “Im Rahmen dieser ‘führerlosen Strategie’ übernehmen lokale Zellen unabhängig voneinander und von einer zentralen Befehlsgewalt Planung und Ausführung von Terroranschlägen, versuchen aber durch ihre individuellen terroristischen Aktionen die umfassenden Ziele einer terroristischen Organisation [...] zu verwirklichen.” 25 | http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/asia/afghanistan/1340895/BinLaden-is-wanted-dead-or-alive-says-Bush.html (January 5, 2012, 5:54 p.m.).

2.) Key Tropes of Space in U.S.-American Cultural Histor y

John F. Kennedy spoke of the “new frontier” in his 1960 nomination acceptance speech: Some would say that those struggles are all over, that all the horizons have been explored, that all the battles have been won, that there is no longer an American frontier. But I trust that no one in this assemblage would agree with that sentiment; for the problems are not all solved and the battles are not all won; and we stand today on the edge of a New Frontier – the frontier of the 1960’s, the frontier of unknown opportunities and perils, the frontier of unfilled hopes and unfilled threats.[...] The New Frontier is here whether we seek it or not. Beyond that frontier are uncharted areas of science and space, unsolved problems of peace and war, unconquered problems of ignorance and prejudice, unanswered questions of poverty and surplus. 26

Kennedy’s usage of the concept discloses a different reading of the frontier. It can be concluded that the frontier has stood for two basic paradigms in American history: the conquest of the wilderness, and as literally a territory of opportunity so as to find one’s true Americanness, formed by that very space on the brink of civilization, as Turner (1994: 201) explains. Both readings have found their way into American history, and both interpretations were at some point rediscovered by those policymakers trying to connect their political agendas to a quintessentially American cultural construct. President Kennedy above sets the scene for a positive optimism in the challenges of the future, presenting the new frontier as a progressive, socially advanced line benefitting society. President Bush, on the contrary, resorts to the interpretation of violence and the an-eye-for-an-eye mentality. A more recent, interdisciplinary research paradigm looks at the Southwest as an intercultural contact zone of North, Meso- and South American origins in a region known as the Borderlands, or “la frontera”. Commencing with the increasing numbers of Mexican immigrants in the 1960s and 1970s, the paradigm has become much more popular and entered mainstream American studies upon the passing of NAFTA in 1994, which transformed the Americas into a single trade zone. Ever since, a growing portion of American studies no longer exclusively pays attention to the United States, but shifts perspectives towards a more intercultural approach to the conglomerate of spaces known as “America”. The borderlands are very well suited for such an approach, for the tackle many of the problems that the humanities, but simultaneously also economics and social sciences are concerned with: “More than other world boundaries, the Mexican-U.S. border is a subject of a rich academic dialog and 26 | http://www.jfklibrary.org/Research/Ready-Reference/JFK-Speeches/Addressof-Senator-John-F-Kennedy-Accepting-the-Democratic-Par ty-Nomination-for-thePresidency-of-th.aspx (January 6, 2011, 4:32 p.m.).

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an extensive social-science research [...] The early work of anthropologists[...] followed a tradition of involvement by historians and social scientists.” (Alvarez 1995: 452) Alvarez detects “three primary developments [forming] the basis of an anthropology of borderlands” (ibid.), which he names an interest in the actual northbound migration process, secondly the usage of folk elements as keys to comprehension of such vital aspects as “identity, inequality and cultural conflict” (ibid.), and thirdly the philosophical perspective pondering questions of inclusion and exclusion in shifting relational exosystems” (cf. ibid.) As such, the borderlands region is a viable candidate for a spatial understanding of social processes in the Americas. The borderlands are constantly in flux, consequentially exerting a key influence on the geographical, but also on the social landscape of the United States. It is worth exploring all the more on account of the collision occurring in this very area: the confrontation of the third with the first world (cf. ibid., 451) across a single geographical boundary. Such encounters cause frictions, and it is out of these frictions that “Chicano” culture as a fusion of old and new lives behind and beyond the border has grown. The borderlands, a specifically outlined spatial entity, therefore serves as catalyzer of an entire cultural system, and one that is unmatched in recency and actuality when one looks at the current U.S. discussion about immigration laws.27 The dynamism contained in borderlands discourse encompasses the geographical and the social. It contains real and inscribed spaces. In short, the borderlands are a 21st century example of the highly productive nature that space still plays in (U.S.-)American studies. As Gloria Anzaldúa writes in her landmark work Borderlands – La Frontera, the “actual physical borderland that I’m dealing with in this book is the Texas-U.S. Southwest/Mexico border. The psychological borderlands, the sexual borderlands and the spiritual borderlands are not particular to the Southwest. In fact, the Borderlands are physically present [...] where the space between two individuals shrinks with intimacy.” (1999: 19) Spaces, unlike the prejudice haunting them, are mobile, and can be changed by means of cultural inscription. In the same fashion, they can be narrated, and the cultural narrative of the borderlands, as it has emerged in the past 30 years in American studies, is one that is viewed as a dynamic field of inquiry and scholarship. As of now, the story is still in the process of being told, while the space that generates the subject matter is still being renegotiated. Borders, boundaries, spaces, frontiers and regions have had a pivotal impact on an American cultural narrative, from the inception of the Massachusetts Bay Colony to the borderlands located north of the Mexican/U.S. border.

27  |  Recent Alabama (Alabama HB 56, enacted in 2011) and Arizona (Arizona SB 1070, enacted in 2010) legislation comes to mind.

2.) Key Tropes of Space in U.S.-American Cultural Histor y

Some of these political constructs have (repeatedly) boosted the American experiment, such as the city upon a hill in its various incarnations. Some were introduced to justify in retrospect the expansive nature of the United States both before and after the Revolutionary War, such as the frontier. Others dwelt on these concepts, re-invoking them so as to arouse certain spirits, such as President Kennedy. The demarcation of the United States and her allies from other interest groups and their potential allies was expressed in spatial terms: the bloc confrontation. Most recently, processes of transculturation are sparked and fostered by movement and mobility across political boundaries, and, ultimately, borders. Taken as singular events or concepts, this enumeration of historical conditions might have its merits. Read as a narrative, however, they can confirm that some of the most crucial processes in American cultural history were either triggered or expressed by means of space and spatiality.

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3.) Literary Tradition: Space in Earlier Periods of U.S.-American Literature “In the Early Republican Period and into the mid-nineteenth-century, geography becomes a decisive factor in determining the cultural dimensions of the American experience [...]” Robert Tally, “Geocriticism and Classic American Literature”, p. 7

At the beginning of this work, an exceptional proximity between U.S.American cultural characteristics and their literary representations had been hypothesized. Indeed, U.S.-American literature particularly closely reflects the cultural narrative hitherto established. As Roger Betsworth maintained 25 years ago with regard to cultural narratives: Cultural narratives differ from ordinary stories told in a culture. In order to be told, a story must be set within a world. The cultural narrative establishes the world in which an ordinary story makes sense. It informs people’s sense of the story in which they set the story of their own lives. The history, scriptures and literary narratives of a culture, the stories told of and in family and clan, and the stories of popular culture all articulate the world and clarify the world of the cultural narrative in which they are set. Thus a cultural narrative is not directly told. Indeed, the culture itself seems to be telling the cultural narratives. (1990: 15)

Cultural narratives simultaneously feature mimetic as well as poietic aspects of storytelling. In their diegetic function, they create the world in which concrete stories are being placed, and subsequently represent that very world by locating stories within it that have at its nucleus the kind in which society in the form of, in the broadest sense, groups and individuals, deal with that same world and things happening inside its boundaries. In the case of the United States, an

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overarching narrative of canonical U.S.-American writing runs parallel to the cultural narrative established on the above. This also reflects what Ellerbrock proposes when he says that literary authors functions as seismographs recording the currents of their times (cf. 2005: 123). In U.S.-America, the basic line goes from the initial constitution of the nation in colonial America and the Early Republic (Crèvecoeur, Irving) into a phase of consolidation and expansionism, tied to a specific exceptionalist/ nationalist mindset in the 19th century (Cooper) and redefinition (Twain). As the fin de siècle arrived and literary modernism emerged on the horizon, U.S.American literature started to question certain dreams and ideals that had hitherto been taken for granted. One could argue that the deconstruction of the American Dream, particularly obvious in the 1920s and 30s, brought forth as much canonical literature as the construction of America about a century prior (Fitzgerald, Steinbeck). Finally, the second half of the 20th century saw a diversification of U.S.-American literature. Experiments with literary form and the fact that ethnic literatures received more widespread attention added variety to U.S.-American fiction, questioning but also reclaiming the U.S.-America which had been questioned by modernist writers. It also integrated particularly African American authors into the canon, of which Ralph Ellison can be named as an example, both in form and content. It may begin with the struggle for survival in early colonial America as chronicled, for instance, by William Bradford, and the ensuing immigration of what we know as the Pilgrim Fathers trying to erect their “city upon a hill”. Following that, U.S.-American writing concerned itself with what it meant to be American, representing two major strands: one imaginary of “the American” that was radically new, as represented by Crèvecoeurs Letters from an American Farmer1, and one direction that took up traditions from the Old World to “make it new”, to quote Ezra Pound’s famous definition of American Modernism. An example of this can be discerned in Washington Irving’s writings, particularly Rip van Winkle and the Legend of Sleepy Hollow, which blended European traditions with the novelty of life in America, thus equipping the newlyfounded space that was the USA with a sense of a literary past, establishing also a fruitful connection between space and time. As Tally writes, “Irving and Poe, 1  |  Tally writes about the Letters: “In the Early Republican Period and into the mid-nineteenth-century, geography becomes a decisive factor in determining the cultural dimensions of the American experience, as Crévecoeur and others determined that the encounter with the physical geography of North America transformed Europeans (and, in a much different way, Africans) into Americans.” (2008: 7/8) Tally, Robert. “Geocriticism and Classic American Literature.” In: Texas State University, English Faculty Projects. URL: https://digital.library.txstate.edu/bitstream/handle/10877/3923/fulltext.pdf (March 31, 2015, 08:51 a.m.). 1-11.

3.) Literar y Tradition: Space in Earlier Periods of U.S.-American Literature

among others, thwarted such a geography by reinscribing a defiantly unique, sometimes otherworldly, space within limits of the national, as if to show that the spaces of America were not necessarily American.” (2008: 8) Subsequently, the notion of American exceptionalism, expansionism and providence played a pivotal role in 19th-century U.S. writing, be it fictional or non-fictional. Tally further suggests that there is a stringent narrative of space in 19th-century U.S.-American literature concerned with generating a literary representation of U.S.-America’s quest for a national identity in which space has played such an important role. As a result, it does not come as a surprise that this is reflected in (canonical) fiction: [...] the writers of the nineteenth-century United States specifically addressing the spatial or geographic anxieties of the era. Notoriously, a symbolic geography attached to the earliest stages of colonization, for example, with respect to the Puritan’s New Jerusalem or the Edenic-innocence-mixed-with-benighted (hence perhaps diabolical)wilderness of the “New” World – not to mention the complicated political geography involved in squaring the circle of being both British (or French or Dutch or Spanish) and American at the same time. In the Early Republican Period and into the mid-nineteenthcentury, geography becomes a decisive factor in determining the cultural dimensions of the American experience [...] (ibid.)

To begin with, James Fenimore Coopers Leather-Stocking series, even though it took up motives from the American past, was essentially the founding father of the genre that would become the western which, of course, could be molded extremely well into the model of Cooper’s heyday as “the first successful American novelist” (Parker 2003: 460) in the 1820s, when westward expansion was about to be unleashed at full force. The features which Cooper’s tales ingrained into the American conscience, and subsequently instilled into the world’s minds, are highly emblematic of this phase of U.S.-American thought and history, as what “most appeals to modern readers are his profoundly ambivalent dramatizations of such enduring American conflicts as natural right versus legal right, order versus change, primeval wilderness versus civilization. [...] new readers will always encounter the Leather-Stocking Tales with a sense of something long known and loved[...]” (ibid., 461). What is more, “Cooper [...] reinforced the notion and helped to create a properly national space out of the dialectical interplay of the spaces of settlement and wilderness.” (Tally 2008: 8) These dichotomies lie at the nucleus of American expansionism, and they were made famous by a literary writer before being expressly legitimized by accepted intellectuals such as Emerson in the “The Young American” or, to a lesser extent, O’Sullivan in his musings about “Manifest Destiny”, whose hypotheses are so intricately tied to space and spatiality.

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As part of the U.S.-American realist tradition, Mark Twain, particularly in Life on the Mississippi, traces the complexities of post-Civil War U.S.-America measured against its pre-Civil War memories. Ruland and Bradbury (1991) synthesize Twain’s writing: Twain’s relocation signaled the start of his remarkable synthesis of elements of postCivil War American writing as he undertook to link the local-color and Western tradition of his early work with the social, intellectual, commercial and industrial spirit of the decades he himself helped name the Gilded Age. His materials were always to lie in the world of the West and the rural Mississippi Valley of the period before the war [...] The world of the river frontier was the innocent, individual morality; the world of the new industrial and urban frontier was the world of the Genteel tradition. Twain’s eastward voyage in 1866 was a journey into the deepest changes of his own contemporary culture. (196)

Twain’s writings come at a crucial point in U.S.-American history. Where the previously mentioned authors and their writing had been confronted with the novel aspects of representing particularly U.S-American life and its representations, Twain, as part of the realist movement in the second half of the 19th century found himself confronted with the complexities of the beginning modern era. Where dichotomies such as those having been named above used to serve as a crystallization of a specifically U.S.-American set of values, Twain questions these very dichotomies by connecting time to space, past to present and west to east, north to south. In contrast to those who came before him, Twain does not use the distance between the dichotomous poles in order to measure degrees of “Americanization” or a certain pioneer spirit, but on the contrary utilizes the inextricable connection between the two poles so as to measure the distance between idealized past and reality of the present. However, Twain was not a romantic, even though realism and romance in U.S.-American literary history lie close together. Speaking about Life, Gottesmann (2003) contends: “The added material – part history, part memoir, part travelogue – offers, among other things, a scathing critique of the southern romanticism Twain believed made the Civil War inevitable.” (1238) Twain represents a paradigmatic shift in U.S.-American literary history, as he is one of the first, but certainly the most renowned, American writer who breaks away from the construction of a single U.S.-American character. Above, it is argued that space plays a primary role in constructing imaginaries of U.S.America. However, as history progresses, the spatial paradigm, as exemplified here, is simultaneously used to question developments in U.S.-American society through the prism of literature, using these spatial dichotomies to trace his “contemporary culture” (Malcolm and Bradbury 1991: 196) in his literature. This is not to say that Twain deconstructs the idea of America – on

3.) Literar y Tradition: Space in Earlier Periods of U.S.-American Literature

the contrary, he much rather adds a first layer of complexity to the American space myth, namely that of using space to reflect on U.S.-American disparities between regions, classes, politics and cultures. This way, the significance of space is retained, yet it has been modified by Twain so as to be able to face the challenges of his time. Facing the challenges of the time is also what defined a large part of the modern experience. Two of the most famous literary incarnations of American modernism can be discerned in The Great Gatsby and The Grapes of Wrath. Written during the Roaring Twenties and the Great Depression, respectively, the novels can be classified as prime examples of chasing an American Dream that had been put in flux by the modern experience. Both novels make ample use of space and spatiality in order to communicate their narratives of a quest for happiness in the case of Gatsby and the sheer struggle for survival in case of the Joad family. Located on the edge of naturalism and modernist symbolism (cf. Ruland and Bradbury 1991: 248), Gatsby transforms its naturalist materials [...] He [Gatsby] floats, in his ‘ineffable gaudiness’, on the everlasting American dream, while beneath him a confusing, surreal record of economic and social facts unravels. [...] Two worlds of modern writing here intersect: the apocalyptic world of modern sterility and the transcendent world of the symbol [...] The tension lasts into the famous ending where Fitzgerald re-creates the American Dream of a wondrous pastoral America, but also the world of the modern history which has displaced it. (ibid., 248/9)

It is of great interest to note that the principle collisions of the two Americas created by Fitzgerald’s novel are primarily of spatial origin, functioning as catalyzers of the manifold conflicts and frictions in the novel. In Gatsby, the reader encounters principle juxtapositions of spaces inscribed with clearly diverging qualities. One of these principle collisions can be found in the East/ West dichotomy. On various levels, Gatsby resembles this dichotomy. First of all, East and West Egg, where the Buchanans and Gatsby as well as Nick Carraway reside, can be read allegorically as “old money” vs. “new money”, i.e. inherited wealth against the self-made man that had become such during the Gilded Age.2 Both Gatsby and Nick, according to himself, represent the “West“, i.e. the pioneer spirit, supposed moral purity and all the other characteristics that allegedly make Americans American, delimiting themselves from the old world represented by the East. Specifically, Carraway writes that “[...] this has been a story of the West, after all – Tom and Gatsby, Daisy and Jordan and I, were all Westerners, and perhaps we possessed some deficiency which made us 2  |  William Dean Howell’s The Rise of Silas Lapham can serve as a good example of the “western” traits that made the main character a self-made man.

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subtly unadaptable to Eastern life.” (Fitzgerald 2012: 165) The sense of hierarchy here established can also be confirmed when Nick tells the reader he “decided to come back” (cf. ibid., 166) to a morally superior position. This “prodigal son” allegory reinfuses Nick (and the West) with a certain type of moral superiority that welcomes repentance by accepting the prodigal son back into the lap of the “real” America, as Sarah Palin (qtd. in Kempf 2010: 173) might call it. Moreover, as regards modernism’s tendencies to challenge contemporary existence, the depiction of the Valley of Ashes foreshadows the global economic crisis that would profoundly transform America and the world following the 1929 stock market crash. It is not solely the depiction in drastic, dehumanizing imagery (cf. Fitzgerald 2012: 26 ff.) that assigns such importance to the valley, it is also its function as a hub in which the various trajectories taken by the characters intersect and where, most importantly, Myrtle Wilson dies. As such, the Valley of Ashes takes the form of a heterotopia of deviation3 inasmuch as it functions an otherworldly place outside all other places to which various immoral, socially scorned behaviors are outsourced, such as Tom’s affair with Myrtle or Myrtle’s death at the hand of Daisy, or Gatsby’s trips to New York City to meet up with his criminal associate Meyer Wolfshiem. As a result, the Valley of Ashes, particularly with the eyes of Dr. Eckleburg functioning as the novel’s divinity (cf. Ruland and Bradbury 1991: 249) displays a simultaneous space of opportunity and failure, of gain and loss – a heterotopia based on perspective and inscription. As such, it is reflective of the values of the time, which can be described as truly on the edge. As Fitzgerald would write years later in his “Echoes of the Jazz Age”: It ended two years ago, because the utter confidence which was its essential prop received an enormous jolt, and it didn’t take long for the flimsy structure to settle earthward. And after two years the Jazz Age seems as far away as the days before the War. It was borrowed time, anyhow – the whole upper tenth of a nation living with the insouciance of grand ducs and the casualness of chorus girls. But moralizing is easy now and it was pleasant to be in one’s twenties in such a certain and unworried time. (2014: 138/9)

Gatsby, particularly its famous final sentence, leaves the reader aghast with whether it is even possible to realize a dream without getting lost in idealizations subsequently shattered against the harsh reality. The “insouciance of grand 3  |  Foucault argues that there is a certain development transforming heterotopias of crisis into those of deviation (cf. 1986:24/5). While he makes a principle difference between crisis and deviation, I would counter-argue that this type of heterotopia is reserved first and foremost for behavior that is set outside “orderly”, for lack of a better word, bourgeois value systems.

3.) Literar y Tradition: Space in Earlier Periods of U.S.-American Literature

ducs” (ibid.) that Fitzgerald appears to criticize displays the carelessness and the irresponsibility by a generation of U.S.-Americans which were so imbued by the spirit of neverending growth and wealth – another form of expansion, as it were – that their personal ambitions caused the proverbial boat in the final sentence to be “borne back ceaselessly into the past” (cf. Fitzgerald 2012: 170) while disregarding the present. In the end, this resulted in the crash of an entire system, including its symbolisms and values. The Great Depression, the very consequence of the recklessness of the Gilded Age and the Roaring Twenties, also entailed a further segmentation of America as a space, or, perhaps more accurately, a re-inscription of certain spaces such as the South or the Midwest. In all of a sudden, the Midwest, following a disastrous drought in the mid-1930s, became the Dust Bowl. Folk culture, particularly singers such as Woody Guthrie, gave voice to those who were driven out of their homes and away from their farms: It covered up our fences, it covered up our barns, It covered up our tractors in this wild and dusty storm. We loaded our jalopies and piled our families in, We rattled down that highway to never come back again. 4

“Rattling down the highway” is an allusion to the vast numbers of people making the trek to California so as to find work there. In a remodeled manner, these treks functioned as a reenactment of the frontier expeditions a century earlier – they ventured into the unknown, never knowing where they would end up and how they would fend for themselves there. In his famous novel The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck lends a voice to those very people who were forced off their land by the drought and big enterprises making a profit out of their misery. In this manner, Steinbeck re-equips these Midwesterners with traits that put them at the very center of U.S.-American cultural ideology. In other words, where they are marginalized in Steinbeck’s representation and in their real-life incarnations, they are still and nevertheless respatialized so as to be positioned at the center of attention. Just like the Midwest had become the perceived American heartland, the people driven out of their homeland serve as shining examples of American characteristics in Steinbeck’s representation. Morris Dickstein writes that Steinbeck appeals to his readers’ moral sympathy and sense of kinship but also to their Americanism, a narrow but powerful theme in a period when all social protest was labeled Communist and Communists were labeled foreign agitators. [...] In The Grapes 4 | URL: http://www.woodyguthrie.org/Lyrics/Dust_Storm_Disaster.htm (December 13, 2011, 10:55 p.m.).

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The Americanism instilled into the Joad family reveals itself in their struggle for self-sustenance/self-reliance. Even though they do feel betrayed, they take their fates into their own hands by going on the trek out west, demonstrating willingness, a certain pioneer spirit, even if forced, as well as a mentality marked by their readiness. In his novel, Steinbeck reconfigures the U.S.American social topography inasmuch as he provides a literary justification for the legitimacy of the plights of the migrant workers, granting them the same dignity that would normally be granted to successful self-made men. The way Steinbeck depicts them, they could serve as modern-day versions of Crèvecoeur’s American Farmer, only with a different twist. Steinbeck’s characters reveal the same persistence as Crèvecoeur’s narrator, and they share a similar, if not the same attitude, only that their land is not fruitful anymore so that all the Americana values that seem to be construed in Crèvecoeur and later intellectually dignified in Emerson’s “Self-Reliance” become devalued. Steinbeck himself is quoted as saying: “‘Every effort I can bring to bear is and has been at the call of the common working people to the end that they may eat what they raise, use what they produce, and in every way and in completeness share in the works of their hands and their heads.’” (qtd. in DeMott1992: xxiii) In this way, the classic U.S.-American values are given a somewhat leftist twist which ironically subverts and affirms the U.S.-American agenda at the same time, in this case self-sustenance, which Steinbeck modifies into a communitarian rather than an individualist concept. Above, Tally is quoted as saying that Crèvecoeur’s narrator is transformed into an American by the very encounter with the land he inhabits – this is also where the topological connection between Crèvecoeur and Steinbeck can be discerned, as the Joads are shaped by their spatial experience as well, from the expulsion from their dust bowl-stricken farm via the trek west to their final destination in the California orchards and the trajectory that has brought them there. The fact that the Joads are torn apart in more than one sense eventually even though they have played by the book as long as they could is, in essence, the bankruptcy of the American dream as it has come to be known. It is here that Steinbeck’s bitter irony is revealed: the U.S.-American promise cannot be kept and not everyone will have the same chance at realizing the American dream, no matter how self-reliant, competitive and law-abiding a citizen is. In the end, it is these traits that drive Tom Joad into becoming a murderer. In terms of space, the novel’s significance lies primarily in the re-positioning of these migrant farmers from the margin to the center by re-Americanizing

3.) Literar y Tradition: Space in Earlier Periods of U.S.-American Literature

them, laying bare their failure by outlining their very American-ness. The message that this particular, bitterly ironic step sends is a clear criticism at classical U.S.-American cultural ideology, namely that it is fragile and while everyone might turn out on the winning side, not all will. Marginalization, however, was not solely a topic that concerned impoverished white Americans. African Americans, despite their legal emancipation, their gradual (if very slow) integration into (Northern) U.S.-American life and their contributions to World War II, were still very much subjugated and disenfranchised at the beginning of the 1950s. Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man is perhaps the most comprehensive attempt at challenging these notions of supposed inferiority in terms of fiction. In his acceptance speech of the 1953 National Book Award, Ellison said he wanted To see America with an awareness of its rich diversity and its almost magical fluidity and freedom [...] I was forced to conceive of a novel unburdened by the narrow naturalism which has led after so many triumphs to the final and unrelieved despair which marks so much of our current fiction. I was to dream of a prose which was flexible, and swift as American change is swift, confronting the inequalities and brutalities of our society forthrightly, but yet thrusting forth its images of hope, human fraternity, and individual self-realization. 5

This principle opposition between U.S.-American ideals and their realities at the time of the novel’s conception add another layer to spatial discourse in U.S.American literary history. Where the above-mentioned works try to establish a basic image of U.S.-America by conjuring up characteristics affirmative of and running parallel to cultural developments such as the founding of the nation, expansion, coming to terms with the or with the Great Depression, Ellison’s novel works differently in that it does run parallel to the beginning civil rights movement (still in its baby shoes at the time of publication), yet challenges the U.S.-American literary tradition first by making the invisible – the African American novel – highly visible and secondly by simultaneously subverting and supporting central traits of U.S.-American ideology and trying to integrate6 the African American experience into the U.S.-American (literary) narrative.7 5  |  Ellison, Ralph. “Acceptance Speech for the 1953 National Book Award.” URL: http:// www.nationalbook.org/nbaacceptspeech_rellison.html. (April 6, 2015, 08:53 a.m.). 6  |  In a way, one could regard Ellison as predecessor to Toni Morrison, who achieves the same by reversing the ideology behind westward expansion in, for instance, Paradise. This will be dealt with in more detail in a later part of this project. 7 | Ironically, Ellison was very much inspired by the frontier spirit of his native Oklahoma, which “he considered the very essence of American democracy.” (McDowell and Spillers 2004: 1535)

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So as to achieve that, Ellison makes ample use of space and spatiality. As a matter of fact, each different stage in the nameless protagonist’s trajectory is tied to a different space. In terms of spatiality, the level of vertical location is also of great importance. Not only that every “stage in the journey of the invisible man [...] [is] usually marked by a site and a speech [...] [and] sees him trying on a new role, fresh change of clothes and identity.” (Gray 2012: 652) – what is more is that we find in Ellison the classical binary oppositions that had defined a significant share of the U.S.-American experience. The invisible man staggers between “the clearing and the wilderness, a restrictive system and pure chaos” (ibid.), living in a “borderland where he can negotiate his way between the contingencies of history and the compulsions of himself [...]” (ibid.) This borderland is a “fluid, formless territory, a subterranean world that seems to exist outside history where, instead of a repressed, constricted self, he seems to have no self, no coherent identity at all.” (ibid.) Calling this place a heterotopia would be misleading, even though it is technically outside all other spaces. However, heterotopias are based on discourse, which necessarily must be historicizable. What Ellison conceives of in Invisible Man is a no-space, a de facto time-space vacuum that functions as the only site where the protagonist can freely write his book. The fact that this no-space is located underground is symbolic of its paradoxical detachedness and simultaneous connectedness to society that the protagonist is caught in-between. The fact that it is only his underground location, his no-space, allowing him to write and therefore come to terms with himself provides a strong hint at the power of spaces in the genesis of narratives, for it is only this no-space paradox that in the configuration of the protagonist’s world, prompts him tell his story. In (not exclusively) so doing, Ellison “would single-handedly rewrite the American novel as an African American adventure in fiction [...]” (McDowell and Spillers 2004: 1535). Using space and spatiality and confronting them with mainline U.S.American conceptions, Ellison managed to render the invisible visible, giving voice to those marginalized by hegemonic U.S.-American discourse, which was particularly conservative in the 1950s, especially in the context of the Cold War. This, however, is not Ellison’s sole achievement. In the 1950s, U.S.-America was at the beginning of vast social and racial transformation, to which Ellison pays tribute in his novel. In that way, he can be seen as a predecessor to contemporary authors, who again are confronted with transformational processes in U.S.American society that challenge traditional mainline cultural traits. In that manner, while affirming U.S.-American ideals and literally subverting its realities, Ellison paved the way for authors such as Jonathan Franzen, Toni Morrison, Luis Urrea and Sherman Alexie. They all treat different topics, genders, ethnicities, geographical regions and paradigms. What unites them is their common usage of space and spatiality to generate their own narratives

3.) Literar y Tradition: Space in Earlier Periods of U.S.-American Literature

on the one hand and to represent the significance of these two paradigms in U.S.-American literature. There is no doubt that America is a highly complex society. Traditional interpretations such as that of the “melting pot” no longer suffice to identify an American cultural (or literary, for that matter) narrative (cf. Kramer 2005: 174), despite Robert Bellahs groundbreaking study about Civil Religion, which proclaims a transfer of religious concepts to a secular, U.S.-American level. While this has served as a primary means of identification for Americans, notwithstanding race or ethnicity, the resolution of this problem of complexity could lie in the examination of the reconfigurations of spaces and the spatial relationships in which elements of various narratives are placed next to each other, especially in a society famed for its dynamics. From a methodological point of view, this signifies to observe and analyze processes or their representations by means of the passage of time and the reinscriptions of space and spatiality. In such a manner, one can abstain from readings of America feautring only one point of view on the American story. Arguably, the one common factor uniting every social group inhabiting the territory know as the United States is the transformation of the land by means of social and political mobility. It is in this manner that I wish to identify American stories that are dominated, if not characterized, by such spatial discourses.

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4.) Re-Thinking Narrative Theory for Contemporary Literature “‘Spaces can tell stories and unfold histories […]’” bell hooks qtd. in N icole S chröder , Spaces and Places in Motion, p. 13

This chapter makes an attempt at finding a model of narrative in which spatial transformation and arrangement lie at the center. “Spatial” in this sense refers to space, spatiality, narrative agency, perspective as well the overall arrangement of plot and discourse. Just as American history can be rethought along the lines of a history place-making (cf. Orvell and Meikle 2005; Fuchs and Holub 2013), narratives can be rethought along the lines of space and spatiality being the core aspect particularly in contemporary U.S. fiction. This becomes manifest on three major levels: First, the level of content. Each of the novels treated in this work makes ample reference to core U.S.-American cultural discourses based on space. Second, the plots of the novels are communicated by a distinctly spatial manner of narration. The characters are spatialized by means of their constant re-positioning vis-à-vis their sociocultural and geographical surroundings. This is represented in their narrative discourse. Third, the symbolic and political levels not solely relocalize, but also reconfigure the protagonists’ position in society. Thus, the aim is to create a refined look at narrative theory for a representation of space that acknowledges the notion of space not as a contextual given, but as a reciprocal, culturally based construct which influences the behavior of fictional characters in fictional worlds and challenges existing power structures. Consequently, space must be lifted out from its traditionally conceived, purely geographical definition of palpable room in which things move, constituting the basis of what Edward Soja calls the “contextual given” (1993: 76). If one considers Michael Frank’s interpretation of Lotman’s work1 (cf. 2009: 1  |  Perhaps the first scholar to actively engage with space as a significant constituent of literary representation was Mikhail Bakhtin. He viewed space and time as inextricably

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66), this presents artistic, and with it, narrative or literary space, as a cultural construct, serving as the fictionally construed counterpart to spaces examined by e.g. Soja or Massey. The construction of literary space based on what Frank refers to as cultural world view (cf. ibid.) lends space its narrative quality. It is the world view that is historical in nature, thus contributing the temporal axis to a narrative model rendered dynamic. Space must be constructed parallel to the passage of time. In short, time can and does pass without action, yet it is of no avail if not equipped with significance by action. Similarly, no spatial “contextual given” can assume meaning without intervention of whatever sort, which Rick Altman, for instance, views as one of the central traits of all narrative (cf. 2008: 14/5). Any narrative construction of space is dependent also on the temporal structure. If the cultural world view informs the spatial model that a narrator has in mind, space becomes dynamic, and thus constitutive of narrative in the same way as the individual temporal experience. Susan Stanford Friedman concurringly opines that “[s]pace restored to its full partnership with time as generative force for narrative allows for reading strategies focused on the dialogic interplay of space and time as mediating co-constituents of human thought and experience. In this sense, space is not passive, static, or empty; it is not […] the (back)-ground upon which events unfold in time” (2005: 195). The salient part that space plays in the genesis of narratives commences at the linguistic level and from there on works its way up until an arbitrary language item is construed as carrying specific signification in terms of a cultural inscription.2 tied to one another, forming what he coined the Chronotopos, which is defined as the construct where “spatio-temporal traits amalgamate into a sensible and concrete whole.” (2008: 7) Bakhtin’s notion of a space-time connection in literature, however, is essentially based on Einstein’s theory of relativity (cf. ibid.), metaphorically using the Chronotopos as a category distinguishing between form and content. Lotman, on the other hand, “is not satisfied with analyzing spatial models in their structuring literary function but connects the ‘artist’s space’ to the culturally inscribed ‘world view.’” (Frank 2009: 66) 2 | In that sense, van Baak is not very far away from Dennerlein’s aesthetics of reception approach, for just as Dennerlein proposes a book needs a reader in order to attain a certain signification, van Baak presupposes that a cultural framework gives meaning to arbitrary linguistic items. Both of them demand a counterpart bringing to life the text in question. Yet, van Baak is grounded deeply in linguistics and semiotics, whereas Dennerlein includes cognitive psychology, evolution and neurolinguistics in her research (cf. 2009: 9), serving to create her model reader which she uses as a method of tackling literature. Both do not acknowledge, however, that the construction of meaningful linguistic utterances as well as model readers are embedded within a cultural narrative allowing this very construction.

4.) Re-Thinking Narrative Theory for Contemporar y Literature

Even the most recent research, however, disregards this inherent narrativity of space. Indeed, narrativity, narrative and definitions of narrative theory or narratology3 are as varied as the phenomena they attempt to describe. As Gerald Prince contends, [n]arratology should make explicit those definitional boundaries of narrative and it should account for those narrative diversities. As a matter of fact, it partly does. In the area of the narrating, for example, narratologists have described the temporal orders that narrative can follow, the anachronies that it can exhibity, the achronic structures that it can accomodate. Moreover, they have characterized narrative speed and its canonical tempos. They have investigated narrative frequency, examined narrative distance and narrative point of view, [...] and studied he major kinds of narration[...] (2008: 7)

What is still lacking and left unregarded as well by Gerald Prince is a type of narrative sparked first and foremost by their complex socio-spatial structures and the dynamics resulting from them. In order to do so, there must be a definition of space that lends itself for literary scrutiny and differentiated readings of narrative texts.4 I have been arguing in favor of a conception of space that plays an emancipated part in the genesis of stories, and I believe that the previous chapters have outlined the feasibility of a spatially-oriented view of narrative. The narratives chosen for examination contain spatial tropes at their heart, employing these aspects to tell stories of emancipation and diversity. Additionally, any transformation of a surrounding ultimately modifies the very people living in these environments, as Dennerlein implicitly recognizes (cf. 2009: 69). In line with this refined approach towards space and spatiality and their role in narrative theory, I offer the following working definition for a refined, literary narrative approach to space: 3  |  In many scholarly texts, narratology and narrative theory are used interchangeably. However, from a historical point of view, narratology bears too heavy a structuralist connotation so that I resort to employing the term “narrative theory” when speaking of what is commonly referred to as “narratology”. 4 | Dennerlein (2009), as the author of the most recent study on spatial narratology, outlines narrative space as “Raum der erzählten Welt” (67): “Ontologische und modale Merkmale von Räumen im Alltag wie die Vorgängigkeit von der Wahrnehmung, die Diskretheit oder die eindeutige Zuordnung von menschen und Gegenständen zu einem Raum [...] sind vielmehr gemäß den jeweils geltenden Regeln einer erzählten Welt gestaltet und können [...] stark von der Alltagsvorstellung abweichen.” She proceeds to elaborate that “die Fiktionalität von Literatur auch das Erzählen von fiktiven Aufenthaltsorten von Figuren in, an oder bei denen sich [...] keine Menschen aufhalten[...] (ibid.) In that manner, Dennerlein moves outside the boundaries of the spatial turn.

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1) Space is an entanglement of palpable as well as metaphorical and abstract entities whose characteristics are marked in their arrangement, relation to, and perspective on one another. This includes geographical places in their natural form, culturally inscribed spaces such as locales or heterotopias as well as spatialized representations of human cohabitation, such as representations of, in the broadest sense, relationship structures between individuals and social groups, organizations and any form of hierarchy alike. These latter categories generate the social manifestation of space, i.e. spatiality. In Koselleck’s words, time is visualized in spatial units (cf. 2000: 8), and spatial units are formed by those items structuring the world. Space, and spatiality in particular, are embedded in the cultural narrative and memory of a given social group, thereby acting as an a-priori structuring element in the genesis of further traditions and cultural narratives. This does not per sé denote a perpetual inclusion of space in cultural traditions, but as the American examples have demonstrated, certain continuities can potentially be traced by foregrounding space and spatiality. Indeed, space occupies an ever more significant role in recent scholarship and American studies, as Brandt et. al. (2010) argue: The image of Thoreau’s cabin at the unfinished site of Potsdamer Platz reminds us that modern cities represent transcultural spaces in which the confrontations of urbanity, ecology, and the environment emerge most visibly. Tensions between the creative and the destructive of ‘global cities’ [...] reverberate throughout the humanities. In the wake of the recent politicization of the humanities and especially the ‘transnational turn’ within the discipline of American Studies, ‘environment’ and ‘culture’ have increasingly been conceptualized as hybrid identities. If, indeed, the environment can be seen as ‘lived space’ [...], we have to ask further questions regarding the dynamic of cultural interactions in ‘spaces of control’ and ‘spaces of possibility’. (x)

Brandt et al.’s sentences strike a chord, for they reinstate the generative component of space by giving it back its characteristic reciprocity. Asking for ‘spaces of control’ and ‘spaces of opportunity’ creates a dialectic positioning of space at the forefront of cultural discourse, influencing it decisively. It can be argued that human beings constantly move between “control” and “opportunity” in one form or another, and the link that the authors establish with regard to space specifies this mobility, i.e. the constant (re-)negotiation between what activities need to be controlled and what activities need to be possible in order for, in the broadest sense, social dynamics to occur in an, for instance, industrialized society. Vice versa, one may inquire after the exact opposite of control and possibility, and thus correspondingly generate spaces of chaos and spaces of limitations. This second level then marks the other instance with which one is required to

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negotiate his or her relative position to socio-spatial conventions. This distance, the move away from the two dichotomous edges to the discursive center, which bears the potential of making a story, potentially forms a narrative inasmuch as we follow along the lines of the trajectory struck by the protagonist in the story. 2) The second working definition to be carved out must be that of narrative. The term is componentialized into two basic realms: the cultural and the literary, or the historical and the fictional. Cultural narratives have been treated as indispensable for the formation of cultural identity on the above (cf. Betsworth 1990: 15). They function as prisms organizing the past so as to allow for interpretations for the present. As Lawler formulates, the “underlying assumption is that narratives are ‘social products produced by people within the context of specific social, historical and cultural locations.[...] Rather, they are interpretive devices, through which people represent themselves, both to themselves and to others.’” (Lawler qtd. in Mildorf 2010: 234) In a similar manner, Hayden White (2010) states: “This research suggests that far from being a natural medium in which events, whether imaginary or real, can be represented with perfect transparency, narrative is an expression in discourse of a distinct mode of experiencing and thinking about the world, its structures and its processes.” (274) An additional, important factor is to be discovered in the function of space and spatiality in the formation of a cultural memory, which eventually renarrates and passes on these identity-constituting stories to the following generations. As Catherine Bernard writes, using country houses in British literature as example, “the great country houses so central to many a realist plot and to many twentieth-century novels may also be read as emblematic of the mournful mnemonics of culture and fiction. If memory is time transmuted into space, if fiction is central to the making of our cultural habitus, [...] then these focal topoi of English literary history tell us the ghost story of a past that was never quite present to itself.” (2005: 162/3)5 This side of narrative provides for a cultural justification of an examination of literary, i.e. mostly

5  |  Cf. also Göhler, Thomas. Rackrent in the South. Der Niedergang des Herrenhauses im Roman Irlands und der amerikanischen Südstaaten: Parallelen, Einflüsse, Unterschiede. Universität Wuppertal: Dissertation, 2014. Göhler works on culturally interrelated “Big House Novels” famously featured in Irish realist and modernist fiction. His main hypothesis states that this cultural tradition has been adapted first and foremost by the U.S.-American Deep South. One of Göhler’s central subjects of study is William Faulkner, which bears testimony to the significance to the above-mentioned “mnemonics of culture and fiction.” Göhler in that sense extends Bernhardt’s argument inasmuch as cultural memory can also be referred to as time (re)located in space.

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fictional, narratives under the guidance of a spatially-oriented approach.6 In this fashion, it is time that is created by space, not the other way around. All of these spatial concepts and categories merit a consideration as storyproducing entities, and therefore have to be theorized in order to be capable of systematically explore this young and new field in narrative theory. In its traditional incarnation of the theory of literary prose texts, however, narrative theory has long held the stigma of being all too structuralist, and of being detached from the “real world”, so to speak. In the context of the narrative turn in the social sciences (cf. Alber and Fludernik 2010: 8), an adaptation of narrative to the requirements it presupposes in the respective discipline is inevitable. However, exchange works both ways, and the respective disciplines backfire at narrative theory, lending new inspiration and input to a field which was in need of renewal after the classic (post-)structuralists. As Alber and Fludernik write in hindsight to the limits of traditional structuralist narratology, it “did not pay much attention to referential or world-creating dimension of narratives.” (ibid., 11) Marie-Laure Ryan (2003) argues “[t]he association of the concepts of map and narrative presupposes that we expand the widely accepted definition of narrative as the expression of the temporal nature of human experience into a type of meaning that involves the four dimensions of a space-time continuum.” (335) Where Ryan and Dennerlein necessitate an aesthetics of reception approach, my approach is situated in textual representations of cultural traits. Here, the present approach to narrative theory comes into play. The world-creating dimension represents a core constituent of any narrative. No other genre allows for such meticulous (re-)construction of worlds and contexts as narrative. Therefore, be it poietic or mimetic, the one characteristic distinguishing narratives from other literary genres is the world that it creates by means of its representational power. For Paul Ricoeur, the world of text, as he refers to it, results out of a con- or disjunction of narrated time and time of narration, which he regards as that which lends narrative its experientiality (cf. 1988: 128).7 By contrast, experientiality can be understood to be best 6 |  It is interesting to note at this point that Bernhardt spatializes time, i.e. in terms of a cultural narrative, she identifies temporal progression via the detour of cultural memory, nevertheless activating space insofar as only inscriptions on a certain space can actively demonstrate any form of temporal progression. 7  |  While it is not intended to omit time as a narrative-producing factor, my emphasis is on the spatial, for indeed I do believe the instinctive recognition of whatever manifestation of “organization” as which spatiality, as well as the conscientious identification of concrete spaces as geographical locations have primarily been outlined, come more natural to a reader than the rather abstract dichotomy between two approaches to time that Ricoeur presents.

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represented in the structures familiar to the readers, i.e. the reader accesses narratives through the identification of structural -spatial- patterns ranging from social hierarchies to concrete geographical locations. While Ryan has criticized Fludernik’s definition of experientiality as lacking a clear theoretical focus8, this supposed lack in focus can help reshape the concept towards a spatial understanding, as textualist as well as reader-oriented approaches can well work hand in hand. In fact, postclassical narratology need not abandon previous models, but should rethink them. Accordingly, if the cultural world view informs the spatial model that a narrator has in mind, space automatically becomes influential. It maps out the narrative’s spatial constitution and thus lies at the heart of narrative in the same manner as temporal experience does.

4.1) N arr ative , H istory, and the S ignificance of Te x tualit y In order to become narrative, events, be they fictitious or real, have to display a “selection, combination, and arrangement of events attested to by the record.” (Carroll 2001: 247) Carroll’s remarks therefore signify the deliberate reconfiguration of fragments into a coherent, possibly but not necessarily linear, trajectory that very much constitutes a textualization of whatever is occurring. As Döring and Thielmann (2008: 17) assert, Space can be analyzed in cultural studies only when it (or parts of it) has been transformed into text or something similar that is readable [...] Only as part of a semiosphere, i.e. the structured world of signification as opposed to the metrical spaces of physics can

8 | Ryan (2014) criticizes Fludernik’s concept of experientiality, which is described as “‘the quasi-mimetic evocation of real-life experience.’ Almost all of the terms used in this phrase call for clarification and tie in with age-old debates within narratology and literary theory. Firstly, it may be wondered whether ‘the quasi-mimetic evocation of real-life experience’ is a necessary and/or a sufficient condition for narrativity. Secondly, depending on the exact scope of the terms ‘quasi-mimetic’ and ‘real-life experience,’ experientiality seems to occupy different positions vis-à-vis the concept of mimesis. Thirdly, depending on how we construe the term ‘evocation,’ Fludernik’s definition seems to hover between the textualist orientation of structuralist narratology and the readerly orientation of postclassical, and specifically cognitive, approaches [...]”. (The Living Handbook of Narrotology; URL: http://www.lhn.uni-hamburg.de/ article/experientiality; October 19, 2015, 9.08 a.m.).

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In accordance with this, the notion of textuality11 mirrors one of the central characteristics of culturally-construed spatiality. Once it assumes its narrative quality, however, the spatial is historicized, and thus in Carroll’s sense, reformed so as to build a specific trajectory marked by its spatio-temporal arrangement. As is written above, Michel de Certeau believes that every story is a spatial practice, proceeding to pronounce that stories represent trajectories (cf. 1984: 115). In fact, the spatial component of the trajectory plays a major role, as any arrangement inherently involves spatiality. Whenever someone arranges, he thinks in spatial categories when he places parts of the story before or behind others; in other words, one ranks events, with time and space functioning as equally co-constitutive parts of narration: space marks the category of priority, while time signifies the axis of continuity. To be clear, what is meant by the spatial category of priority constitutes less the absolute representation of succession in a finalized textual form such as a novel. On the contrary, particularly in postmodern novels, it is the room created by the events

9 | For a distinction between terminological debates concerning topological, topographical and spatial turns, cf. Günzel, Stephan. “Spatial Turn – Topographical Turn – Topological Turn. Über die Unterschiede zwischen den Raumparadigmen.” In: Döring, Jörg and Thielmann, Tristan (eds.) Spatial Turn. Das Raumparadigma in den Kultur- und Sozialwissenschaften. Bielefeld: transcript, 2008. 219-237. 10 | Original German: “[d]er kulturwissenschaftliche[n] Analyse zugänglich wird der Raum erst dort, wo er oder etwas an ihm sich in Text verwandelt hat (oder in etwas Textanaloges), das lesbar ist wie eine Sprache (auch ein Bild kann in diesem Sinne lesbar sein). Nur als Gegenstand in einer ‘Semiosphäre’ – die sinnstrukturierte Welt der Bedeutungen im Gegensatz etwa zum metrischen Raum der Physik – kann Raum ein Korpus kulturwissenschaftlichen Fragens werden. Damit bleibt in methodologischer Hinsicht der topographical turn dem älteren ‘Kultur-als-Text-Paradigma’ eng verbunden.” 11  |  The notion of textuality is of high significance for the concept of narrative, or even, narratable space. This should be the case rather naturally, yet one of the perils of space is that it is not restricted to the textual, as Joachimsthaler confirms: “Everything that can be said about space, what is perceived as such, what can be done in them, can always be explained as an interpretive element of social or discursive intra-textuality, just as any text comprehension and any statement about space as text can always be localized and explained.” (ibid.) As can be inferred from Joachimsthaler’s observations, there is once again the notion of reciprocity, only that in this context it refers to between the intra- and the extra-textual facets of space that are reflected in the light of each other (cf. 2005: 245).

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narrated that in turn constructs the intratextual representations of space.12 This is to say that space is never solely “space” when it is narrated. Much in the same manner as the temporal experience can be subdivided into differentiations between narrated time and time of narration, space can be subdivided into represented space, i.e. the fictional world created within the text, and the space of representation, i.e. the specific, spatial categories such as structure, priority and position in the story according to which narrative experience is ordered before being eventually narrated. Essentially, this signifies that space is a multi-layered construct that, apart from its relationship to time, maintains a dynamic configuration in itself.13 In this manner, the notion of textuality opens up a view of space that is of a more dynamic nature. In conjunction with human (inter-)action serving as the connecting factor in the above-mentioned trialectic of perceived, conceived and lived space (cf. Shields 2006: 210), space is in itself historicized, and thus assigned a narrative quality resulting from its human construction which occurs on a multiplicity of levels. At first, obviously, there is the concrete construction of a Sojan contextual given – at any point in time when a human being modifies any aspect of the contextual given, he constructs an individualized and idiosyncratic spatial environment for him – or herself. If that modification remains in place, it is very likely to be aestheticized and experienced by other people moving within the boundaries of the same contextual given. As such, it is very probable that people will react to the modified version of the contextual given in a distinct manner. It is at this point that space reveals its dynamic. In influencing or even determining a person’s behavior, space is lifted out of its passive role and is 12 | “As a quasi-extratextual opposite of the ‘text’, space occupies the role of the ‘other’ […] which does not only affect the ‘text’, but which is supposed to be its lost referential point, its context, its signified level at the last instance”, Joachimsthaler elaborates (2005: 245; translation mine). 13  |  This configuration can, in analogous mode to Roman Jakobson’s model of poetic language (cf. 2001: 265), be referred to as containing syntagmatic and paradigmatic axes (cf. Nünning 2009: 39). This rather structuralist/semiotic approach to space provides for the conceptual foundation of spatial construction in narrative. While the syntagms and paradigms in Nünning’s example are grounded in the dimension of the story, they ignore the intra-syntagmatic, reciprocal dynamics of space as mimetic representation and space as an analytical, i.e. ordering, category inherent in narrative texts, whether they are actively dealing with space as plot element or not. This entails two striking consequences: On the one hand, spatiality and its categories can be detected in any type of narrative, yet on the other hand, it is its (mimetic) representation which allows for the study of the culturally encoded construct as which is has been mapped out to be in the literature, as is extensively quoted above.

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rendered productive. Linked to individual people, space assumes a biographical role, and in so doing is historicized. The same is valid for a more macrooriented perspective on historicization: for what is history, if not the intertwined biographies of individuals who, over the course of time, have been crystallized into groups of all sorts from an ancient polis to a (post-)modern union of individual nation states? If we follow Ricoeur and other influential advocators of the idea of history as narrative (cf. Ankersmit 2001, Munslow 1997, Stanford 1998, White 1973), the gap that had seemed to exist between space and time can indeed be bridged by taking existing narrative concepts into account, reconfiguring them with regard to space.

4.2) “The L ong and W inding R oad”: A B asic Ta xonomy of S patially -I nduced N arr atives The purpose of this (sub)chapter is to provide a categorical framework so as to illustrate the manifold forms which space and spatiality can take in the genesis, discourse and mediation of literary narratives. The approach will be neither purely literary nor purely cultural or historical, but will utilize those parts from these fields which best lend themselves to a transmission to the realm of narrative. The first aspect under which literary narratives can be regarded spatially is the geographical level. The geographical narrative comprises texts which, at their core, feature one or more specific location(s) as a center of literary attention. This reflects what Marie-Laure Ryan (2003) presents as “[t]he actual space, or geographical context in which the the text is produced, or to which the text refers. The mapping of this space is a matter of literary historiography.” (336) However, in this approach, this is only part of the equation. Ryan in her elaboration combines intra- and extra-textual levels insofar as she ties the literary representation of geography to literary history. While true that whatever is narratable must be historicizable, the disconnection between narrative representation and academic discipline at this point is insufficient. Instead, it is necessary to free the geographical level from its constraints in terms of being the historical container of narrative action. While historicization must occur, it must be thought from the point of view of space at least partially eliciting the narrative action. In this manner, space’s characteristic reciprocity can be achieved, ultimately resulting in the prominence of space as a vehicle of narrative progression. Indeed, the term progression deserves further clarification, for it subsumes the space-time intersection, which is a key methodological concept underlying all narrative. While progression is inevitably temporal, in visualized form, it represents a spatial category, for progress implies forward movement. From this perspective,

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narratives at the geographical level contain a strong relation of plot, character and actions to concrete places and locales, which can be summarized as spaces which shape the narrative insofar as they structure whatever occurs within their boundaries. These spaces, and their literary representations accordingly, potentially range from the sophisticated to the mundane, from the everyday to the very special, from, for instance, a thriving metropolitan cultural hot spot to an underclass family home in a Midwestern American small town. They might also feature single spots as well as entire regions, from a door step at a private home to an entire industry region. Moreover, contact zones, particularly where there are two or more distinct languages or cultures involved serve as a manifestation of the formative and normative power of geographical spaces. Likewise, a high-end art museum might elicit action in the same fashion as an anonymous shopping mall full of chain stores. What these spaces are united by is their common feature of potentially steering the characters’ thoughts and movements, thereby demonstrating the power of the spatial in that creates historicizable content which potentially triggers a chain of events resulting in a story which we refer to as “narrative”. Dennerlein suggests subsuming such spaces as “Schauplätze”: Based on the [...] hitherto formulated thoughts I suggest to perceive a locale’s expansion as event region. Factuality [...] has a temporal, a modal and medial component. The temporal component can be read as the now-impression [...] The modal component of recency with regard to space becomes manifest in the mode of its existence. [...] An event region becomes a ‘Schauplatz’ by omitting a medial communication. (2009: 130)14

This split-up of the narrative representation of geography is helpful on the one hand, for it differentiates between different aspects of locations, as it allows for a multi-perspectival approach to the field. On the other hand, however, it is situated too much in the space-as-container mode of thought, meaning that we find ourselves in an epistemological gap. Therefore, it is paramount to add to this notion of a literary space the dimension of an inscribed locale, much in conjunction with what Low and Zúñiga have presented as “inscribed spaces” (cf. 2006: 13). Consequently spaces, even the 14  |  Original German: “Ausgehend von den [...] angestellten Überlegungen schlage ich vor, die Ausdehnung eines Schauplatzes als Ereignisregion zu fassen. Tatsächlichkeit hat [...] eine zeitliche, eine modale und eine mediale Komponente. Die zeitliche Komponente kann als Jetzt-Eindruck gefasst werden. [...] Die modale Komponente von Aktualität manifestiert sich beim Raum im Modus seiner Existenz. [...] Zum Schauplatz wird eine Ereignisregion auch dadurch, dass keine mediale Vermittlung vorliegt.’”

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geographical ones, come into being solely by means of social interaction with them. As the word says, wherever there is inter-action, it occurs between two agents at minimum, positioning them at eye-level in their importance for plot and discourse. Both plot and discourse are also crucially dependent on the geographical level. In terms of plot, it retains the key reciprocal component of space. On the plot level, the geographical aspect of narrative has the same potential of producing and structuring the respective elements of the story. This is supplemented by the discourse level, i.e. the question of how these items are produced and structured. This aspect responds to the textual realization of the plot, with the discursive measures serving as the link between a cultural representation of landscape on the one hand and literary representation on the other hand. Geography therefore serves as a primary constituent and elicitor of narratives. It is in the geographical aspect of narrative that cultural trait and literary representations are specifically close to each other, as culture always incorporates the world that creates it, which supports the assumption of spaces as core items of historicizable actions resulting in narratives. The second level to which must be responded is the above-mentioned topological/topographical level, which serves as the metaphorical and/or figurative manifestation of space. With regard to the above chapter on “America” as a cultural narrative of space, the distinction between topography and topology shall be clarified once again. Ryan (cf. 2003: 336) employs the term “topography” for the space signified by the text as well as the spatial form in terms of metaphorical space. This, however, would under terminological consideration be regarded as a topology, as Painter (2008: 69) envisions it. The initially consternating collision of topography – writing space – and topology – thinking space – can be disentangled when one views the two concepts as complementary to each other rather than being mutually exclusive. According to this modification, topography refers to the texture of the narrative. Topology, on the other hand, serves as the term designating arrangement within that texture in reference to the geographical space in which it moves. The question remains: What are topology and topography in literary narratives? Ryan, by way of Joseph Frank refers to topographical narratives representing linking different facets of the respective text that eventually make up the whole (cf. 2003: 336.). Yet, she finds herself on a slightly metatextual level, which in itself deserves recognition on the structural level of the narrative. On the content level, however, topology in narrative expresses the manifold networks and hierarchies between protagonists, plotlines, power relations and representations thereof in relation to the geographical level. Functioning as the literary complement to Löw et al.’s concept of (An)Ordnung, i.e. arrangement of items in relation to one another, we detect in the topographical quality of literary narratives the interface between the spatial turn as part of a larger cultural

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studies15 movement and its literary representation, i.e. the representation of those very structures that help determine human life and therefore assign spatiality its much-hypothesized productive nature. Topography shall then be extended to designate the texture, i.e. the development of the narrative’s topology on the level of progression in specific relation to concrete spaces. At first sight, this appears somewhat circular. Quite on the contrary, however, it is the structural relationship of one entity to another which provides the narrative material in the first place. Following that, this step is reproduced over and over again, in essence setting in motion a narrative as a structured representation of cultural values in the first place. Particularly in the American setting, with the strong ties to the space myth that American culture maintains, one can expect a fair degree of these structural relationships to be at the basis of cultural action and its subsequent literary representation, for, as has been elaborated on the above, the American experiment has been all about changing structures, out of which the American space myth has grown. In terms of literature, the topographical level of narrative lends itself even better for a dynamic perception than time. While time always passes and space in its geographical manifestation always exists, it is the topological and topographical dynamics that are eventually foregrounded and narrated, and it is those dynamics that cause social change and subsequent representation. Ryan in her essay about mapping literary texts notes that with “a standard novel this process of navigation is not problematic.: since narratives are organized linearly, all the reader needs to do is turn the pages to let the story unfold.” (2003: 345) Once more, the content level is disregarded in favor of the extra-textual form of the narrative, i.e. in this case a book. However, the fallacy here lies in the ignorance of the structural dynamics, the topography and topology which provide the actual narrative rather than the flipping of the page. Postmodernism has opened scholars’ eyes that narratives need not be linear, even though they may be presented linearly in a book read from left to right and from the front to back. Postmodernism has also demonstrated how content could be more significant than form, and how things never remain the same because what construes them never does, either. This is the essence of literary spatiality: The ever-occurring change of a structured representation of cultural traits, providing the narrative nucleus for a story. In unison, the geographical and topographical levels do have the potential to create spaces of their own quality, namely the Foucaultian heterotopias, the narrative potential of which shall be treated in the following. As Warning (2009) writes, “[l]iterary heterotopias are born in a convergence of the writing subjects with a real space that it imaginatively and on account of certain traits experiences 15  |  The term itself is, of course, much debated, but for this purpose, I regard “culture” as the formative and normative values that human beings consciously create.

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and grasps as an ‘other space’ [...] The space has to include traits rendering it so unique that they induce a heterotopian interpretation [of said space].” (21/22)16 Warning’s argumentation is based on the intersection of the actual world and literature as its written representation, i.e. he supports a mimetic perspective of literary narratives, with the concrete text, as well as its author, serving as an interface between the two poles. However, he conserves the fictional nature of the literary heterotopia in that he acknowledges the imaginary nature of the concept and in so doing opens up additional opportunities of narrating space and spatiality in literary prose. This is to say that in the collision of authorial notions of “the world” and his subsequent literary representations of it, literally “other spaces” are generated, grounded deeply in cultural tradition. The epistemological step taken by means of this methodological intermingling is a heterotopicalization of any space represented in literary narratives, for it transfers the spatial to the level of hermeneutics, thereby advancing to one of the central paradigms of literary studies. Defined as a general theory of interpretation (cf. Ankersmit 2005: 210), interpreters “take their own world of meaning as their initial model for understanding the past and then observe where even the corrected model fails to do justice to the past. They correct this model accordingly and then observe where even the corrected model fails, and so on ad infinitum.” (ibid.) Indeed, the display of literary heterotopias as results of hermeneutic processes on both, readers’ and authors’, sides is one which makes these “other places” significantly more dynamic, for certain literary heterotopias are grounded in authorial experiences, whereas others come into being by the reader’s interpretation of a space or spatiality. Analogously, we can trace this relationship between cultural and literary space, which is the most basic distinction to be made at this point, to the above-mentioned Cassirerian notion of inside and outside movement in relation to each other, with the inside represented by the literary and the outside by the cultural level. The hermeneutic nature of the literary heterotopia renders it such a powerful tool for the analysis of space and spatiality in narrative. Sparked by these two dynamic concepts, the heterotopian level represents an additional layer to which the hitherto elaborated tools can be applied, resulting in a more complex, but also more fruitful approach to the analysis of literary prose. On a distinctly narrative level, heterotopias construe an additional, metatextual space telling the story of this very interaction between the cultural and the literary, and it is in their relative movement to each other that a highly significant 16 | Original German: “[l]iterarische Heterotopien entstehen in solcher Konvergenz des schreibenden Subjekts mit einem realen Raum, den es aufgrund bestimmter Merkmale imaginativ als einen ‘anderen Raum’ erfahren und festhalten kann[...] Nur muss der Raum Merkmale aufweisen, die ihn so auszeichnen, dass sie das Subjekt zu einer heterotopen Interpretation einladen.”

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element in creation and discourse of the plot can be discerned, once again supporting paramount role of spatial concepts in narratives. As such, apart from displaying fruitful touching points between cultural and literary narratives, literary heterotopias constitute a point of access to the “world of text” (1988: 128), to borrow a Ricoeurian term, as not the conor disjunction of narrated time and time of narration, but as the con- and disjunction, respectively, of narrated space and space of narration. Particularly the parallel usage of narrated space and space of narration requires further clarification. Unlike Dennerlein, who regards narrated space as “Raum der erzählten Welt” (cf. 2009: 119), space is viewed here as the paradigmatic double-shot of geographical and topographical/topological levels of narration, which in combination retain the potential create a literary experience using the assistance of time. The strong degree of self-referentiality included in literary discourse presupposes such a spatial facet, for narratives crucially depend on the fictional world informing them. Space of narration, analogously, then refers to the literary heterotopia as part of the literary genesis of narrated space. On the meta-level, literary heterotopias function as catalyzer, i.e. they create the prerequisites necessary for the formation of narrated space in the first place. The respective con- and disjunction of these two aspects then truly generates the literary world, and it positions space at the forefront of providing narrative material so as to narrate the dynamics of cultural representations by means of using literary texts to us as readers.

4.3) O utsourcing S pace : Towards a S patial P erspective of N arr ative Space incorporates a narrative dimension inasmuch as spatiality is one of the primary regulators of human actions on the one hand while completing the underlying time-space dichotomy that is at the basis of any narrative on the other hand. Analogously, I maintain there exists a distinction between palpable, i.e. geographical as well as metaphorical space. With regard to their narrativity, both subdivisions of space are of crucial importance for a narrative view of space. Proceeding from Martina Löw’s general observation that spatiality is always connected to some type of ordering or structure (2007: 63), that is, an (An)Ordnung, the first narrative trait of space can be discerned already, for a structure presupposes some form of intervention which lays out the structure in the way it is presented to potential recipients. At this point begins the spatial orientation of narrative. Operating from the premise that, in order for narrative to emerge, the genesis of a structure necessitates action (cf. Altman 2008: 14/5) a first systematic influence of space on narrative can be detected. Moreover, inherent in the creation of the structure is the process of its inception as well

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as the discourse leading to it, both of which display categories which have been historicized, and, thus, narrativized already. In essence, this signifies the constructedness of spatiality, which is at the center of what Edward Soja refers to as the spatial turn when he writes about “socially-based spatiality” and the “space of social organization and production” (1993: 76), and whatever is constructed can consequentially be deconstructed. Therefore, space as a narrative category should, in the broadest possible definition, be regarded as the means of organizing the different elements of the story over time in connection to the processes that enable “space” to ensure a particular organization of any item that appears in the course of a story. Every such item17 has a clearly defined position in the story, and as such, its specificity is heavily dependent on its spatial quality in terms of textual position and chronology (“When and where is the item located in story and text, and how did it get there?”) according to the space-time intersection presented above. In addition to this, the content level plays an important role, as it is here that the constructedness of space in its rather narrow definition is presented. It is therefore appropriate to split up the traditional conception of space as a geographical unit into two components, which embody a) the geographical space as generative of narrative, and b) assign space a superordinate cultural function enabling whoever moves within that construct to generate a (historical) narrative of himself in conjunction with that cultural space. When it is maintained that (geographical) space is generative of narrative, it is not necessarily meant that space itself tells the story – while this is possible, the topographical environment of a person informs his or her perception of himself and the world inasmuch as it provides narrative material for any character’s activities. Furthermore, the cultural inscriptions on a certain space equip it with its productive power. This ties in with the aspect of reciprocity brought up in Löw and Soja. Löw, for instance, asserts that spatial forms, be they concrete or rather figurative, can influence (inter-)actions (cf. 2007: 63), thus providing part of the material for establishing a narrative. In terms of its geographical manifestation, space accordingly influences the pre-conditions for social order. On the other hand, the hierarchization of aesthetic perceptions that Löw brings up (ibid.) responds to the political level of thinking in spatial categories, that is, of structuring and ordering relations in a hierarchically organized manner. Once, however, an aesthetic perception is politicized to the degree that social and, thereby, power relations are affected by spatially-influenced modes of thought, one is confronted with a de-facto historicization of said relations, which therefore results in their narrativization. Here, one is confronted with that narrative representation of 17  |  “Item” is used in the broadest possible manner, ranging from the dimension of a single word to an entire chapter in a novel.

4.) Re-Thinking Narrative Theory for Contemporar y Literature

space, which can be achieved by closely observing its textual representation and organization. If to understand a landscape means first and foremost to grasp its cultural representation, as is asserted above, then landscapes, places and spaces are predestined to encompass a textual dimension, allowing us to employ literature as one of space’s primary communicators.

4.4) N arr ative C oncep ts , C ategories and their S patial Q ualities : N arr ative and D iegesis In order to be able to derive the spatial qualities of narrative, narrative as category must be deconstructed into its constituents. A first step is to more closely examine the term “diegesis”. The concept has been positioned against the notion of mimesis, and thus taken the form of being part a binary opposition such as the one between “showing vs. telling” (cf. Fludernik 2008: 169). Diegesis thus characterizes an analytical category of modern narrative theory that characterizes the events described in a narratively constituted spatio-temporal world (cf. Antor 2004: 115).18 Therefore, it is of importance to view the aspect of “telling” as a spationarrative quality. As opposed to showing, which bears its own spatial connotation in form of designating areas, telling comprises the factor of verbalization. This inherent trait is what lends telling its historical quality, which is inseparable from a spatially-oriented discourse of narrative theory. As Ankersmit affirms, narrativism has been the most widely held belief amongst contemporary historians (cf. 2005: 220). As soon as something is verbalized, it enters a physical space, be that private or public, and it is thus subject to historicization, which in turn provides narrative material for a story. Showing, on the other hand, is a direct form of transmission in the form of a dialogue or a similar discursive mode (Fludernik 2008: 179). The crucial difference between showing vs. telling in terms of their diegetic qualities is accordingly to be detected in non-dialogic, or indirect forms of speech employed by whoever tells a story. It goes without saying that many literary narratives employ mixed forms of telling vs. showing and diegesis vs. mimesis, but for the moment, bearing in mind the spatial quality of narrative, the diegetic aspect of the story shall be focused, for it is the narrative agency which constructs narrative space if we view only those parts verbalized by the narrator as truly diegetic. The narrative agency, particularly its focalizer, is not limited to characters. The

18 | According to Gérard Genette, diegesis assumes an even more prominent role in the construction of narrative, asserting that diegesis represents a story’s entire “universe” much rather than just its plot (cf. 1998: 201 ff.).

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eyes that the fictional world is told through can come in form of character, protagonist, observant as well as space and spatiality themselves.

4.4.1) Narrative Perspective and Focalization Two narrative categories that have received major attention are first and foremost defined by their spatial qualities. Perspective and focalization both operate through the “sum of a text’s perspectival relationships”, making up “its ‘perspectival structure’” (Surkamp 2005: 424). In this sense, the perspectival structure of a text is nothing else but a constant re-negotiation of the narrator’s position in relation to the things (aspects, constructs, entities, characters, environments) he witnesses and consequentially verbalizes. In so doing, any narrative agency encompasses a spatial dimension that, in conjunction with time, characterizes the narrative and diegetic situation. However, the spatial dimension is not necessarily, as opposed to time19, a linear construct. On the contrary, the relationship between narrative agency and its environment is constantly in flux, depending heavily on the position of both, the agency and surroundings. It is the constructedness of the spatial nature of perspectival relationships that assigns the larger narrative perspective its quality as a means of positioning things in relation to one another. The notion of positioning is crucial, as it determines the structure of the narrative, which in this sense is perhaps generated by space more so than by its temporal succession. Fludernik (2008) even speaks explicitly of a localization of perspective in relation to the diegetic level on which the story is told: “In Stanzel’s work, the axis of perspective characterizes the opposition of internal vs. external views, corresponding to the localization of perspective on extra- as opposed to intradiegetic levels[...]” (178)20. Here, the relationship between diegesis and perspective is revealed. Just in the same way that intra- and extra-textual facets of narrative are interconnected, the two primary constituents of perspective maintain an interactive mode of discourse designated by its reciprocal construction. This signifies that the spatial nature of perspectivity is marked primarily by and simultaneously resulting out of the dialogic interplay between a narrative agency and the contextual given, which, in the context of a specified temporal arrangement, is transformed into the construction of space. Transforming this concept into 19  |  Of course, temporal relationships can be arranged in different manners, particularly so in postmodern narratives, but there is no doubt that time as such only runs one way. 20  |  Original German: “Bei Stanzel charakterisiert die Achse Perspektive die Opposition Außensicht vs. Innensicht, die einer Lokalisierung der Perspektive auf der extradiegetischen Ebene vs. einer Lokalisierung auf der intradiegetischen Ebene entspricht[…]”

4.) Re-Thinking Narrative Theory for Contemporar y Literature

cultural signification marked by its initial construction by and subsequent influence on the narrative, spatiality can be historicized just as well as any other cultural phenomenon, presenting it as essential component of narrative. Another factor that contributes to this notion is the category of focalization, which corresponds to the narrative agency. Principally, focalization is defined in Nünning and Nünning, based on Genette’s terminology, (2003: 118) as the distinction between who sees vs. who speaks, with “who sees” representing the perspective and “who speaks” referring to the actual narrator. In other words, the terminological differentiation between the “knower of the narrative story” and “the speaker of the narrative words” (Martinez and Scheffel 2000: 63) opens up a discourse whose primary trait is the relation between its subjects.21 As is explained above on the example of perspective, the crucial aspect is to be found in the relationship between the two concepts and the respective scopes they comprise. An internal focalizer corresponds to a personal narrator (ibid., 64). As such, he narrates in conjunction with the character whose eyes he perceives the world around him through, including spatial constructions in which he moves. However, his/her scope is limited. Being tied to the protagonist, the “who sees vs. who speaks” dichotomy is basically non-existent. Scope as a form of spatial representation in its own right thereby decides whether the character perceives the world in rather broad or narrow categories. An external focalizer, on the other hand, is more closely related to the level of representation; in the words of Martinez and Scheffel, the narrator tells us less than the character he talks about knows (cf. ibid.) This disjunction of narrator and character hints at the limits of the narrative scope, and thus, at the limits of spatiality as conceived of by character and narrator alike. The spatial constructions performed by the narrator might accordingly differ from the one implied by the protagonist’s actions. Taking this approach one step further, there are two incongruent spatial models whose greatest common denominator form what the reader experiences as “representation of space”. Zero focalization, as the third type of this perspectival trichotomy, denotes the situation in which the narrator knows more than the protagonist. This case deserves special attention. Zero focalizers have been related to authorial and omniscient narrative agencies (cf. ibid.), thus functioning as an undetectable, elevated, passive and potentially neutral transmitters of what occurs in the plot. 21 | It should be noted that American literary studies is not necessarily confined to using one specific model of literary analysis. Much rather, American studies as a whole is by nature trans- and interdisciplinary, and accordingly re-models different theoretical strands as befits its needs. Genette’s terminology is no exception. It is not used consistently in Anglo-American literary criticism, but is followed here for the implicit spatial features that it comprises.

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Zero focalizers achieve the biggest scope in terms of the narrative construction of space because there is no narrowing agency coming between text and reader. They are mostly extra- as well as heterodiegetic and thus have the greatest degree of critical distance, allowing them depict the story-world in all its complexity. Viewed in this light, a zero focalizer is capable of systematizing the diegetic facet of narrative much rather than an internal or external focalizer. In other words, zero focalization allows the reader to map the mimetically represented world, enabling him/her to recognize the structures of spaces and their influence on the text, and most importantly, in how far it is constructed by the characters in order to determine subsequently how space then develops its characteristic reciprocity. Ryan (2003) writes that the spatial dimension in narrative texts can “take the following forms: […]The space signified by the text. By this, I mean the geographical, or topographic organization of the textual world” (336). Furthermore, she refers to the Joseph Franks “spatial form” “to describe the metaphorical space constituted by the network of internal correspondences that links the themes, images, or sounds of the text.” (ibid.) Ryan presents these two examples as the two most significant constructs of space appearing on the textual level, which shall generate the basis towards a new approach to the representation of space in narrative. In this vein, Nünning (2009) contends: The significance of narration and structuring procedures in a novel is that only the technique of configuration establishes relations between spaces and objects. On the one hand, relations between spatial entities are determined by inter- and extratextual references. On the other hand, all of these elements form a sensible whole so that it is only configuration which forms a coherent model of reality in a novel. (42) 22

The factor of configuration, arrangement and re-(negotiation) of space, spatiality and time determines the dynamics of the different trajectories undertaken by the characters represented in the stories.

22  |  Original German: “Die Bedeutung der Erzähl- und Strukturierungsverfahren eines Romans besteht darin, dass erst durch die Techniken der Konfiguration Beziehungen zwischen Räumen und Objekten hergestellt werden. Zum einen werden durch […] Relationen zwischen den räumlichen Entitäten festgelegt, die durch die außertextuellen und intertextuellen Referenzen bezeichnet werden. Zum anderen werden alle selektierten Elemente zu einem sinnvollen Ganzen zusammengefügt, so dass in einem Roman erst durch die Konfiguration ein kohärentes fiktionales Wirklichkeitsmodell entsteht.”

4.) Re-Thinking Narrative Theory for Contemporar y Literature

4.4.2) Perspective and Focalization as Internal Situational Agencies Deixis is defined as “[a]ny form or expression which, in an utterance, refers to the context of production[…]of that utterance: ‘here’, ‘now’, yesterday’, ‘I’, ‘you’” (Prince 1987: 18). As can be derived from Prince’s definition, deictic elements of narrative can be of spatial, temporal as well as personal origin. Deixis has been outlined as an external context of narration. Perspective and focalization, on the other hand, function as internal counterparts to deixis. While true that the deictic quality of the narrative at hand is created by a narrator just as well, there exists indeed a difference between deixis as a mode of representing environment, and perspective and focalization as internal counterparts. The central difference between these two facets is the angle of vision from which the narrator is observed. In the case of perspective and focalization, the narrative agency him- or herself is at the center of attention. Perspective in its above definition (cf. Surkamp 2005: 424), constitutes a permanently executed re-negotiation of the narrative agency’s position in relation to the events of the story and the world already created. This signifies that perspective as well as focalization possess a solely intratextual quality, whereas deixis, even though it also derives from the narrative agency, encompasses the extratextual quality of mimesis as a way of creating the illusion of reality by means of establishing an environment that works reciprocally with and in between protagonists and narrator alike. The narrator’s perspective can only remain on the intratextual level. For this reason, it is important to note that perspective works as a counterpart to deixis, resulting in a relationship of these two components that continuously move in relation to one another. It is in this relationship that the full spatial dimension of narrative can be revealed. Through the continuous and dynamic interaction of the components, the narrative gains its structural uniqueness, providing an analytical approach that is based on the primary form of its discourse, i.e. the narrative. Space occupies a significant role in this construct. The above-mentioned notions are assisted by focalization, which generates an additional layer of the spatial dimension of narrative. Taking into consideration its definition as devised by the Nünnings (cf. 2003: 118) as well as its initial characterization on part of Gérard Genette (cf. 1998: 134 ff.), namely that focalization can be, but is not confined to, remaining constant, it can be hypothesized that in addition to deixis as external and perspective as internal aspect of narrative, focalization constitutes a representation of the connection that exists between the two concepts. The “who speaks vs. who sees” dichotomy brought up by the Nünnings connects the diegetic qualities of showing vs. telling (cf. Fludernik 2008: 169), and while focalization certainly does not eliminate the conceptual difference, it certainly establishes a link that allows for a mutually beneficial consideration of showing vs. telling.

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4.5) Theorizing L evels and D imensions of N arrative S pace As a next step, a concrete model of narrative space uniting the hitherto elaborated traits and qualities of space and spatiality in narrative theory must be established. From a methodological point of view, it is sensible to subdivide narrative space into four different levels, all of which play a crucial part in the construction of plot and discourse of the literary narrative, and which represent spaces in their own right. These levels and dimensions of narrative space are constitute themselves in focalization, diegesis in its Genettian definition, as well as the Foucaultian concept of heterotopia. Focalization has been conceived of as perhaps the most blatantly spatial narrative tool, for focalization dissolves the nearly absolute unity of protagonist or character and narrative agency, therefore adding an entirely different twist to the perspectival arrangement, in itself a spatial quality of narrative, in effect dynamizing plot and discourse. As a result, it is predestined to account for one of the fundamental elements on which a spatially-oriented perception of narrative can be built. Focalization provides the dynamics and the spatial qualities to serve as an underlying concept tying in with, above all, the spatial notion of arrangement of items in the story. The narrative agency as catalyzer of focalization thereby stands at the methodological crossroads between narrative theory and the Löwian factor of (An)Ordnung which responds to the sociological level of spatiality. This is not to say, however, that traditional notions of narrative theory will be left unregarded, as the second pillar on which my approach is built is situated in the realm of diegesis, connecting the philosophical and, in the broadest sense, sociological theory of space with classical literary theory. Since diegesis represents the spatial facet in the classical showing vs. telling dichotomy, it serves – in close connection to focalization – as the theoretical basis for a renewal and redefinition of partially already existing narrative classifications, and partially for the creation of new categories which will position space and spatiality at the forefront of narrative discourse. Eventually, the concept of a narrative heterotopia and its inherent dynamics will be developed in order to allow for a unifying canopy under which these assertions collide and potentially create spaces which have the ability to set in motion processes of renegotiation and subsequent narration of these processes, providing a viable tool for the analysis of the overlapping of concrete and metaphorical spaces as well as spatiality. In conjunction with the classical items of narrative theory, the model suggested in the following offers an opportunity to focus on space as the central element in producing, structuring and conveying literary narratives.

4.) Re-Thinking Narrative Theory for Contemporar y Literature

4.5.1) Establishing a Framework for a Spatialized Perspective on Narrative Theor y The intra-textual dimension reflects the classical text-based approach to narrative theory, the nucleus without which no literary narrative can be adequately analyzed and without which the central aspect of literary narratives would be ignored, i.e. their presentation as textual pieces of art. Much has been said about the role of the temporal in the construction of narrative, particularly by Paul Ricoeur in Zeit und literarische Erzählung, as well as about the importance of action (cf. Altman 2008: 14/5) standing at the very center of attention when it comes to eliciting narrative material. This chapter’s aim is to fill a gap which neither time nor action as central narrative elicitors have left, and that is basically the question of position, dynamics in the sense of movement, and perspective. The methodological prism through which perceive these spatial elements are perceived is the narrative agency. It is through its eyes that we perceive the three levels of spatial narratives, i.e. the geographical, the topographical as well as the heterotopian level of narration, for it is the narrative agency that creates the diegetic representation of the world that we eventually encounter. Therefore, there should exist a more systematic outline of the narrative agency from a spatial perspective. First, the degree of in- or exclusion must be determined. Corresponding to Génette’s taxonomy (cf. Nünning and Nünning 2004: 122), I argue that a narrative agency is intratopian when he or she is part of the narrated world, regardless of the level on which it is narrated. It is incorporated into plot and action, and as such functions as an active part of the story. In contrast to the other characters, however, the narrative agency, by means of representing the sum of everything that occurs in the novel, arranges the action in such a manner so as to construe a meaningful whole out of many single trajectories in addition to playing a crucial role in the story itself as well. From a spatial point of view, then, intratopian narrators fulfill the function of locating and localizing the relationship between the various agents in the plot, thereby effectively creating the topographical level of narration for the reader. In his or her role as effective maker of the social geography in literary prose, then, the intratopian narrator assumes a crucially significant role in how the story can be read. I am not advocating a deus ex narratione status for this kind of narrator here, but as an involved part of the story, he or she is the only means of access the narrated world, and thus, to all three narrative levels, that one gets. It is our ticket to the show, so to speak, and we are at the intratopian narrator’s mercy as to what (in terms of content, perspective, and setting) we read in a story. This narrator is going to play a crucial role in both Beloved and Jazz so as to position the female protagonists against their (hostile) environment. By contrast, the extratopian narrator works on a different level and can be ascribed to the geographical/topographical rather than topological level of the

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narrative. An extratopian narrator is not part of the narrated world if we choose to equate narrated world and overall plot and structure of the story. On account of his or her external status and the general location above the story level, it presents more of a general perception of the narrated world, perhaps comparable to Stanzel’s authorial narrator in scope and mode (cf. Nünning and Nünning 2004: 111), but equipped with camera-like dynamics that allow him or her to broaden or narrow down the scope with which it narrates the geographical level of the narrative to us. This signifies that the extratopian narrative agency can exert narrative power by means of zooming into or out of specific areas of narration, be it related to characters or to geographical phenomena. The ability to do so is just as important as when it actually executes this ability, consequentially creating a profile of movement specific of that narrative agency. In short, approximation to or distancing from events occurring in story and plot are processes controlled by predominantly extratopian, detached narrative agencies. This narrator appears most prominently in Into the Beautiful North, while the dynamics between these levels of narration are most fruitful in Morrison’s trilogy. While true that intratopian narrators could do so as well, their degree of involvement in the story is too much of a methodological hindrance so as to function as a quasi-cinematographic instance. True objectivity may never be reached, and extratopian narrators are constructors of subjectivity by their sole ability to change their scope, yet, they are meta-narrators, located above the story and potentially more neutral than narrators who are directly intertwined with plot lines and characters. Once again, it is a spatial category whose elevated position creates a narrative of its own, putting emphasis on the key nature of space and spatiality in the construction of (literary) narrative. There is, however, an interface between intra- and extratopian narrators, which can be found in the not entirely clearly separated boundary between the geographical/topographical and topological levels of narrative, which are prone to collision. Once the two spatial paradigms collide, so do the narrative agencies that grow out of them, resulting in the possibility of switching between either paradigm. Potential confusion arising out of an alleged dislocation of the narrative situation can be tackled by disentangling the respective passage, and by close-reading where the geographical, topographical, and topological facets of the narrator reside in the text. A different matter altogether is when a space actually functions as narrative agency. In such cases, we should speak of an autotopian narrator. In these (admittedly somewhat rare) cases, we advance to the literal center of a spatiallyoriented theory of narrative, i.e. when a space actually tells the story, becoming the actual creator of the narrative. Autotopian narrators are simultaneously on and above the level of the story in that they must be on a comparable vertical position to the protagonists so as to be able to recreate their experience in a credible manner. At the same time, their position on the horizontal axis, i.e. the axis must be the one which sticks to the characters, yet offers enough variety

4.) Re-Thinking Narrative Theory for Contemporar y Literature

so as to actually narrate the world, i.e. demonstrating the truly diegetic side of narrative. This narrative agency will become particularly important in Toni Morrison’s Paradise. The field of tension opening up between these aspects, notwithstanding that any change of location presupposes a change of narrative agency, renders the autotopian narrator the methdologically most demanding mediator of narrative content, yet where it does show up, it can be remarkably fruitful, for it not only reveals the narrative-inducing part of space, but from a constructivist point of view turns things around inasmuch as the reader gains an entirely different perspective through the lens of a space, unlike the perception of space on part of characters which so frequently occurs in rather traditional narrative approaches. However, such an approach is rare, and more likely to be embedded in either collisions of intra- and extratopian narrators or when they are interspersed with magical realist styles of narration or similar, very specific narrative techniques. Postmodernism, however, has softened up the boundaries between models of narrative, and so narrative theory has been shifted to a postclassical era (cf. Alber and Fludernik 2010). To postulate that narrative theory has become a grab bag would be unfair, but it can be safely asserted that it has moved further away from traditionally conceived notions of a purely rhetorical narratology. Instead, the interdiscplinary nature of recent academic discussions has swept narrative theory as well, providing constant influx from various sides: [...] although there is no unified methodology in sight for postclassical narratology [...] We do not maintain that there is a unified postclassical model on the horizon[...] but we are arguing that narratologists nowadays see the object of their research as more variegated than was the case twenty years ago; that they resort to very different methods in combination when approaching a problem; and that they will tend to ground their analyses in a rich contextual framework. (Alber and Fludernik 2011: 23)

My contextual framework obviously derives from the spatial turn, attempting to strike a bridge between narratology in the classical sense and the rather postmodern sociological theory of space, thus providing a connection between cultural trait and fictional representation of space. The second part to a spatially-oriented narrative agency responds to that level, i.e. the localization of the narrator in concrete spaces or in inscribed spaces or even heterotopias. The general idea here is to determine the degree of the narrative productivity of space, which is assumed to be higher when the narrative agency mediates story and discourse to us from a position which is in itself of constructed nature. A homotopian narrator, as prominently featured in Urrea’s novel, therefore can be defined as a narrative agency whose spatial situation only has limited influence on his way of storytelling. This is not to say that it is not a spatial nar-

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rator; quite the contrary, as has been shown above, the degree of involvement in the story includes a spatial category, whereas this level, which shall be called the localization of the narrative agency, responds to outside influences on the narrator. The homotopian narrator, however, is one whose narration is relatively little influenced by the geo- and topographical context from which it narrates. It is congruent with the environment, and therefore does not particularly stand out as a stark contrast to the world in which it moves. For instance, a doctor in a hospital functioning as narrative agency would be very congruent with his surrounding because society locates doctors in surroundings where they treat people. On the other hand, a psychiatrist narrating a story as a patient from inside a psychiatric ward would be very much incongruent with the perceptions of doctor and surrounding, therefore functioning as elicitor of further interest, and, perhaps, curious skepticism on part of the reader, i.e. his ties to the culturally inscribed, maybe even heterotopian, space surrounding him are much stronger, accounting for a much greater influence on his storytelling. Such narrators shall be referred to as heterotopian narrative agencies. For reasons of clarification, let it be said that “heterotopian” can, but does not necessarily have to represent a Foucaultian heterotopia in the narrow sense. Much rather, it is in this case to be taken literally, so as to signify that the narrative agency is in “another place”, which can take the shape of a culturally very specifically inscribed space or even a Foucaultian heterotopia. As is shown in the example above, heterotopian narrative agencies are marked primarily by the incongruence of position and surrounding, i.e. two spatial aspects which in conjunction present to the reader the localization of the narrative agency on the level of the story. The wider the gap between position and surrounding becomes, the more narrative potential is provided, in turn making the story more complex and interesting. Once again, this points out the story-inducing qualities of space, for it is in the combination of spatial elements that we conceive of the story. In a way, this can be likened to Ricoeur’s above-mentioned concept of a world of text inasmuch as narrative potential is derived from the con- and disjunction of two elements, only that the elements are spatial rather than temporal in nature. The combinatorial possibilities in terms of heterotopian narrators are manifold. Basically any space retaining specific cultural meaning can be combined with any social position or locale so as to form a highly specified spatial dimension of a narrative agency, singling out each text as uniquely narrated. As a by-product, this approach, by rendering each narrative unique through its spatialized narrative agency, escapes the accusation of being a structuralist pan-narrative attempt to write a grammar of narrative. Much rather, it tries to identify the specifics of narratives by means of working out their spatial configuration using the closest path of access that we as readers receive, i.e. the narrator.

4.) Re-Thinking Narrative Theory for Contemporar y Literature

I have already elaborated on the spatial qualities and traits of focalizers on the above. In this model, focalizers function, in short, as joints, focusing narration and position of the narrator. Taking into consideration their perspectival orientation, focalizers smoothen the narrative and provide the lubricant required to deliver the best possible discourse. They serve as hubs directing the reading process and are therefore highly powerful constructs in the transmission of content and the way in which we regard that content. Focalizers also bear the potential to connect narrative levels insofar as they provide the perspectival aspect which is the most dynamic one in narratives, unless a story maintains multiple narrators who then have the prerogative of creating divergent levels of narration. If that is not the case, however, different focalizers can provide ties between different levels, for they themselves shift their position when moving from internal to external to zero, or vice versa. Consequentially, they are primary contributors to the dynamics of space and as such are crucial when it comes to the analysis of narrative under this paradigm. Should the focalizer in a respective narrative not connect different narrative levels, it still functions as a level in its own right, as there exist speaker and knower of the story (cf. Martinez and Scheffel 2000: 63). The question of overt vs. covert narrators is another field featuring spatial facets. An overt narrator is in the foreground, recognizable, visible and identifiable as such, and therefore at the center of discourse inasmuch as he potentially attracts as much attention as the characters about which he tells the story. This barely camouflaged centrality is the most obvious spatial quality of an overt narrator. A covert narrator, on the other hand, is central in a different manner, as it remains in the background and therefore construes what we believe to be objectivity, fulfilling the role of the allegedly neutral observer. However, the covert narrator is just as significant and central as the overt one, only that his or her importance is concealed in the background so as to lend the story more objectivity. The question arising out of this is basically one of narrative subjectivity vs. objectivity, expressed by means of spatial metaphorics. Again, the various gradations between these dichotomous poles equip this basic distinction with a dynamic twist rather than the identification of the mere fact that the narrative agency is overt or covert. From this point of view, diegesis in its crucial characteristic as being the “telling” part of the above-mentioned dichotomy, is modified to such a degree that it needs to be redefined and, more importantly, re-located so as to enable us to apply the term in its new incarnation as reflecting the syntagmatic 23 connection between the intra- and the extra-textual facets of space. However, in order to be capable of identifying this new form of diegesis, the concept has to be literally outsourced. The location to which this type of a reworked diegesis 23  |  Cf. Nünning’s application of syntagms and paradigms in Nünning 2009: 39.

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is transferred must be one situated close enough to, if not even in the text, yet removed from its surface. The outsourcing of diegesis, therefore, must occur on the metalevel, and diegesis must be re-located to a narrative heterotopia.

4.6) N arr ative H e terotopias Narrative heterotopias constitute the metaphorical and -physical locales at which the respective constructions of time, space, and narrative intersect as a result of the historicization with which they have been confronted in the course of their (de-)construction. As result, one of the central paradigms pivotal to the field is the realm of movement, by which I refer to both the isolated movement of narrative sub- and objects in relation to their geographical environment as well as to the interpersonal movement, i.e. dynamic, occurring in the social spaces. In this vein, Ette (2001) suggests: “We must not stop with the analysis of travelled spaces in a text – whether it is a travelog, a novel, an autobiography or another narrative, but we should ask within which dynamics and movements these places form themselves and which movements is caused by their own formation.” (62)24 Essentially, Ette’s observations put space and place in a constant flux, triggered by the uses imposed on them by society. Spaces which are socially constituted can therefore generate heterotopias, which can be historicized and narrativized. This outsourcing of spatial constructs, as it were, to the realm of narrative allows us to view the social dynamics of space from a historicocultural point of view illuminating the nature of the narrative in a way that enables us to identify stories and the trajectories of which they are composed according to de Certeau (1984: 115). Therefore, part of the temporal dominance that had traditionally prevailed in narrative literature, and later its theory since Lessing’s times (cf. Zoran 1984: 310) can be replaced by shifting the focus to the social constructedness of spaces in their respective historical developments. The significance that these spaces and heterotopias carry far exceed the notion of background, for they can elicit behavior according to the social conventions in which they exist. Foucault generally subdivides heterotopias into two major categories, the first manifesting itself in what he refers to as “crisis heterotopias” (1986: 24), and the second one being the functional dynamics of heterotopias within the societies that create them, bringing up cemetaries as an example (cf. ibid.) He continues to elaborate: “each heterotopia has a precise and 24  |  Original German: “Wir dürfen jedoch nicht bei der Analyse der jeweiligen reiseliterarischen Orte eines Textes – mag es sich dabei um einen Reisebericht, einen Roman, eine Autobiographie oder andere narrative Texte handeln – stehenbleiben, sondern sollten danach fragen, innerhalb welcher Dynamik und Bewegung sich diese Orte ansiedeln und welche Bewegung ihre eigene Modellierung selbst wiederum auslöst.”

4.) Re-Thinking Narrative Theory for Contemporar y Literature

determined function within a society and the same heterotopia can, according to the synchrony of the culture in which it occurs, have one function or another.” (ibid, 25) Even though Foucault utilizes synchrony in a somewhat different context, one is confronted once more with the crucial dichotomy between the synchronic and the diachronic. Heterotopian spaces are the result of discourses occurring simultaneously, which responds very well to the synchronic axis of space, which, however, is inextricably tied to the diachronic axis. This demonstrates that the almost naturalized boundary and the qualitative assessment between and of synchrony and diachrony is just as artificial a construct as the attempt to detach the spatial from the temporal. Strongly tied to these differentiations is the notion of the selectivity of what is eventually narrated. Nünning writes, [A]s regards spatial representation, fictional narratives are marked by a specific structure of selectivity [...] which defines the repertoire of the respective text’s elements. [...] By selective decisions made on part of the author, certain spaces and objects taken from historical reality as well as elements from preceding literary works are represented in the text. The integration of these different referential systems, extraand intertextually allows us to conceptualize the fictional as transgression within this referential frame. (2009: 40) 25

Nünning’s statement can be read as a call for the multiplicity of spaces, which in turn can result in narrative heterotopias. Nünning’s argument portrays selectivity as the central authorial action, eventually entailing as its result the narrative space that is comprised by a very specific combination of intraand extratextual spatial constructs. If these overlap, as Nünning argues they do, literary representations of space, as well as their realization by means of narrative, are by definition of heterotopian nature, because synchrony and diachrony are challenged by the discursiveness inherent to any social construct. As has been maintained throughout this work, social constructs are always dependent on both, synchrony and diachrony, as well as space and time.

25  |  Original German: “[i]m Hinblick auf die Raumdarstellung sind fiktionale Erzähltexte durch eine spezifische Selektionsstruktur […] gekennzeichnet, die das Repertoire der im jeweiligen Text enthaltenen Elemente prägt. […] Durch Selektionsentscheidungen des Autors oder der Autorin werden sowohl bestimmte Räume und Gegenstände, die der historischen Wirklichkeit entnommen sind, als auch Elemente aus früheren literarischen Werken im Text repräsentiert. Die Integration dieser verschiedenen Bezugssysteme, außertextuell und intertextuell, erlaubt es, das Fiktive im Rahmen dieses Referenzmodells als Akt der Grenzüberschreitung zu konzipieren.”

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4.6.1) Locating Narrative in a Heterotopia Foucault hypothesizes: “The heterotopia is capable of juxtaposing in a single real place several spaces, several sites that are in themselves incompatible.” (1986: 25) This seeming contradiction in his argumentation that heterotopias are the result of social constructions based on degree of consensus can be responded to by primarily two categories that regulate these consensuses by which heterotopias are generated. They constitute themselves first and foremost in the above-mentioned quality of selectivity and, secondly, the perspectival aspect under which the narrative heterotopia is “assembled”, and subsequently included in the relationship to other spaces that might exist in the same geographical location. Selectivity, on the one hand, determines the material out of which any space, be it real or metaphorical, heterotopian or actually geographical, must eventually be constructed. Selectivity as such therefore consists of the binary opposition of inclusion vs. exclusion, which influences those discourses determining what is selected. On the other hand, however, it narrows down the position of the binary oppositions involved in the discourse shaping the future heterotopia, for both sides then can argue only from a fixed position, which in itself resembles a spatial category that determines people’s thoughts and actions. As Wolfgang Hallet confirms: “A literary spatial turn is as necessary as it is promising because, as the example in Auster’s novel shows, literature models, fictionally realizes and pinpoints cultural problems attached to space.” (2009: 83)26 Hallet’s observations are accurate inasmuch as they transfer the spatial from geographical form to cultural practice, including the manifold consequences that this step entails. He proceeds to assert that “[t]hrough the modelling of spatial processes, literature renders visible spatial practices, social interactions and movements in space, spatial aesthetics and imaginations, processes of the human conscience as well as epistemological strategies and problems rarely accessible for analysis in classical empirical approaches.” (ibid.)27 Essential to the analysis of this paradigm is the question of narrative scope and perspective. Perspective and focalization have been dealt with in spationarrative terms already in the course of this work, but now that spatial practices have been outsourced, as it were, to the realm of the heterotopia, these two 26 | Original German: “Ein literaturwissenschaftlicher spatial turn ist also schon allein deshalb vonnöten und vielversprechend, weil, wie das Beispiel aus Austers Roman zeigt[…], die Literatur kulturelle Raumproblematiken fiktional inszeniert, zuspitzt und modelliert.” 27  |  Original German: “[d]urch die Modellierung von Raumprozessen macht die Literatur wie unter einem Brennglas Raumpraktiken, soziale Interaktionen und Bewegungen im Raum, Raumwahrnehmungen und –vorstellungen, damit verbundene Bewusstseinsprozesse sowie epistemologische Strategien und Problematiken sichtbar, die in der empirischen Wirklichkeit nur schwer der Analyse zugänglich sind.”

4.) Re-Thinking Narrative Theory for Contemporar y Literature

spatial categories must be applied accordingly. In terms of perspective, it is now no longer a tool of the narrative agency so as to be capable of positioning himor herself in relation to the (mimetically) represented world, but it, through its position in the represented world, is transformed into a player in the constitution or construction of these social spaces and their discourses. Therefore, the spatial practices, the social interactions as well as the dynamic movements and the aestheticizations/imaginations of space that Hallet mentions (cf. ibid.) are crucially dependent on narrative discourse, first and foremost transmitted by the narrative agency. Perspective in its role as the sum of the verbalized positions of the primary narrative agency (cf. Surkamp 2005: 424) in relation to the events it transmits to the readers accordingly assumes a political role, for it functions as the filter through which we as readers establish our own position, that is, perspective, on whatever is occurring in the work at hand. The narrative heterotopias constructed in literature are primarily characterized by three factors. On the first level, we are confronted with the palpable, fictionally represented geographical space that is claimed for their purposes by certain factions of society. The discourse occurring between these variables results in a heterotopia, in the palpable space of which social realities are constructed and performed according to the practices put forward by the respective group or institution in society.28 The third factor becomes manifest in the narrative quality of the heterotopia, for the social realities performed within these very constructs make space as well as the resulting heterotopias a subject to historicization. Eventually, this opens up the narrative dimension of space, which, bearing in mind the complexities and trajectories incorporated in the heterotopias, makes for a complex model of spatial narrative that is just as, if not more, mimetic, than time. Focalization, in accordance with the aspects brought up above, forms the category of the interface between story and reader. When the perspectival relationships form the spatial that can be narrated, the aspect of focalization reflects the window into this narrative that shapes the reader’s view of it rather than the space at which the recipient gazes when he looks through that metaphorical window. As the crucial terminological differentiation between who speaks and who sees (cf. Nünning and Nünning 2003: 118) in any narrative, focalization entails the power of influencing the reader’s hermeneutic approach to the work at hand insofar as that it establishes an extra-textual relationship to the text generated by the text’s internal qualities. This relationship subsequently benefits the reader in establishing his point of view in relative position to the text. In addition, we deal with another type of movement, which at this point occurs between the two constructs. The factor of movement is employed in the sense it is outlined above in Ette’s conception in the internally construed perspectival part of the work. 28  |  For a definition of social groups and institutions, cf. Schäfers 2006: 113.

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Focalization in its function as the interface between reader and text then makes up the second form of a motion-dominated entity. In their dynamic relationship to one another, the textual world created by the sum of the perspectival relationships as well as the focalizer generates the narrative of the mimetic representation of the world. This can be achieved by the different focalizers characterized on the above. Internal focalization negates the who speaks vs. who sees differentiation, thereby eliminating relational movement between the two worlds. On the contrary, they are congruent, and in so being, position narrative and recipient on the same scale, i.e. the reader traces the same actions, movements and whatever else that the narrator does, enabling the reader to become part of the representation. The external focalizer, on the other hand, is another case entirely which I outlined as disjunct from the protagonists appearing in the novel. Applying the external focalizer to the model presented thus, it becomes rather transparent that spatial narration is being performed on the content level of the story (such as divergent spatial categories employed by narrator and focalizer) rather than in the structural relationship between the constructs of perspectivization, focalization and the relational movement resulting out of them. Zero focalization, as the last kind, positions the narrator at the center of attention. By definition, its nearly unlimited knowledge of the world (and, therefore, of spaces) represented in the story generates the most complex relational movement between intranarrative perspectives as well as their extra-textual counterparts, i.e. readers, for the narrative is never static. It switches positions, perspectives and locales at the sole mercy of the narrator, and it is the reader’s assignment to trace these very trajectories, which eventually forms the spatial narrative.

4.6.2) Taking Spaces Abroad: The Narrative Dynamics in Heterotopian Spaces Different spaces are not formed in isolation, and in their direct juxtaposition or fusion in relation to the societies that build them one is able to assess their full potential with regard to their social qualities. Heterotopias as well as their narratives can assist in this process, for they typically refer to socially inscribed spaces (cf. Low and Zúñiga 2006: 13) functioning as containers and mediators of social norms, values and behaviors. Different cultures in the second Sewellian sense (cf. 1999: 39) meet in contact zones, and thus, heterotopias are put up for discussion in that very contact zone. By cultures, I refer to the term in the broadest possible sense as the very specific socialization29 process that 29 | Different socializations accordingly carry with them divergent norms and values on which people can rely. In the confrontation with other people that have been brought up in different circumstances – in this context a different generation or a different “culture”,

4.) Re-Thinking Narrative Theory for Contemporar y Literature

a respective social group has undergone.30 When two groups or its respective representatives meet – in a spatial construct that activates certain behaviors due to conventions and discourses set up by the superordinate cultural system to which they adhere – they are logically required to negotiate their divergent conceptions of their meeting ground, for instance. Essentially, this signifies that the heterotopian construct that each representative has internalized becomes dynamic when it is literally taken for a ride. It is re-localized, and thus has to be re-narrated in contrast and/or in conjunction to the respective other, resulting in basically a mirror narrative that plays a significant part in identity formation (cf. Westphal 2007: 17). As Rappaport confirms, [p]eople who seek either personal or community change often find that it is very difficult to sustain change without the support of a new collectivity that provides a new communal narrative around which they can sustain changes in their own personal story. Associated with such narratives are cognitive, emotional and behavioral consequences that involve social support, role opportunities new identities and possible selves[…]The goals of empowerment are enhanced when people discover, or create and give voice to, a collective narrative that sustains their own personal life story in positive ways. This process is reciprocal, such that many individuals, in turn, create, change and sustain the group narrative. (cf. 1995: 796)

The spatial plays a crucial role in establishing narratives of individuals, groups and even entire societies. In utilizing the narrative as the primary analytical means in order to work out the significance of space in cultural and literary studies, it becomes obvious that people take memories of spaces/places/sites and their cultural inscriptions with them in their specific and individual however vague the term might defined – it is possible to outline these different trajectories for what they constitute, namely representations of the diverse nature of human attitudes, self-constructions and identities. Such trajectories can and do intersect everywhere between each and every social being whose process of socialization differs from that of his counterpart, for it is socialization that shapes our personal narratives, i.e. our biographies, which move in relation to the referential system in which we grow up. The system consists of a multitude of factors that all play a part in socialization, which can be defined as follows: “In the broadest terms, it [socialization] refers to the way in which individuals are assisted in becoming members of one or more social groups.” (Grusec and Hastings 2007: 1) 30  |  I shall mention that I can generalize only to a certain extent, for groups consist of individuals that all undergo a specific socialization process, accordingly also forming their own very personal heterotopias, which certainly add to and influence the group narrative. However, for the sake of feasibility, let us assume that social groups differ in their socialization, and that there are features distinguishing the group constructs from one another.

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trajectories so as to construct their biographies. No matter where people geographically are, they will have to literally map out their position in relation to the sites they are constantly relocalizing. It is the narrative representation, fictional, real, poetic or mimetic, that incorporates spatiality into culture. Included in this function is a multidimensional comprehension of the term “space”: Space can be the geographical room surrounding the protagonists in a “causal sequence” (Cronon 1992: 1349) of events on which they make culturally marked inscriptions by which they are subsequently influenced in their respective behaviors. In a broad sense, this description of this type of space goes in a rather constructivist direction in that I ascribe meaning-constituting characteristics to something that is allocated its significance by human beings in the first place. Without us, no space or place would bear any type of meaning in the way in which we conceive of it. The second dimension, however, becomes manifest in the spatial arrangement that protagonists, spaces literal and figurative, as well as the relationship between spaces and people maintain. Sicks writes: Ever since, literary space is not only the narratively and descriptively represented space of narrated worlds, but also the arrangements in which literary texts stand to each other, overlap and intertwine semantically, (dis-)continually relating to one another. [...] In this manner, there is a possibility to reconceptualize traditional literary theory and to loosen its ties to imaginations of the temporal. (2009: 337) 31

And eventually, a third dimension rests in the dissolved boundary between synchrony and diachrony. In terms of a spatially oriented narrative theory, space and time cannot be regarded as separate entities generating different stories. They work together in the establishing the same story. The historicization of space marks the beginning point from which the narrative embarks, and in connection with time, we find a multidimensional diegetic system that reactivates space so as to re-establish its fundamental role alongside time in the genesis of literary narrative.

31 | Original German:“Als literarischer Raum wird seither nicht mehr ausschließlich der narrative und deskriptiv entfaltete Raum erzählter Welten beschrieben, sondern ebenso das Gefüge, innerhalb dessen sich literarische Texte zueinander verhalten, sich semantisch überlagern und vernetzen, sich kontinuierlich wie diskontinuierlich aufeinander beziehen. […]Im gleichen Zug ergibt sich die Möglichkeit, traditionelle literaturwissenschaftliche Theoriebildung neu zu konzipieren, ihre Bindung an temporale Vorstellung zu lockern[…]”

5.) Jonathan Franzen — The Corrections “And so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” F. S cot t Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby, p. 170

5.1) S t. J ude as P l ace and S pace : A P essimistic R epresentation of the A merican M idwest Enid and Alfred Lambert, an elderly couple from St. Jude, a fictitious midwestern city, with three children – Gary, Chip, and Denise, who have all moved northeast – are attempting (and failing) to find a space for themselves after 50 years of marriage. Now that disease has hit Alfred, who suffers from Parkinson’s and becomes increasingly demented, Enid tries to convene the family for one last Christmas in St. Jude. In the opening passages of the novel, St. Jude is illustrated as a place where “something terrible was about to happen” (Franzen 2007: 3). It is painted in dark, disharmonious images of disorder and decay: The madness of an autumn prairie cold front coming through. You could feel it […]The sun low in the sky, a minor light, a cooling star. Gust after gust of disorder. Trees restless, temperatures falling, the whole northern religion of things coming to an end. No children in the yards here. Shadows lengthened on yellowing zoysia. Red oaks and pin oaks and swamp white oaks rained acorns on house with no mortgage. Storm windows shuddered in the empty bedrooms. (ibid.)

It is striking that this opening paragraph sets the scene for the entire dilemma in which the Lambert’s are trapped, be that in St. Jude or elsewhere. The primary category to be identified here is clearly the one of disorder. It is the disorder which breaks up the well-structured Midwestern life implied through the “whole northern religion of things coming to an end” (ibid.). The reader faces a clear-cut distinction between place and space already at the very beginning of the novel, establishing the spatial nature of the narrative inasmuch as

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already imposes inscriptions, in Low and Zúñigas (cf. 2006: 13) terms, on the geographical mold, i.e. St. Jude in the fall. The constructed and discursive nature of a space can therefore be established even without a character appearing in the story as of yet, only represented by an extratopian narrator whose broad perspective can fathom the bleakness of the situation. A mere allusion suffices so as to historicize that space, and to make it narratable accordingly. As Low and Zúñiga continue, “[r]ather, we acknowledge the role anthropologists play in making written records of these relationships and that, in creating texts, anthropologists not only document the narratives of those with whom they work […] we are interested in how people form meaningful relationships with the locales they occupy, how they attach meaning to space and transform space into place.” (ibid.) The inscriptions that this historicization brings with it are manifold, and it is of great importance to illuminate the creative powers that an inscribed space entails, for it sparks the reciprocity between what has been conceived of as a “Fluchtpunkt” (Hallet and Neumann 2009: 13), and the cultural facet of space elaborated on the above. This signifies essentially that place becomes space through human action within it, which is demonstrated to the reader through the allusion to the ‘northern religion’, which symbolizes a way of life, and alongside that, the notion of an entire society. The convergence of these concepts elicits a certain type of narrative centering on the culturo-spatial realm, which in this case becomes manifest in no other person than the narrator appearing in the story. It functions as demonstration of the narrative-inducing qualities that space encompasses, thereby standing in diametrical opposition to the hitherto prevalent observation that narrative is first and foremost created through the passage of time. I am aware that I am only citing very few lines of a 650-page novel, yet it is highly remarkable that we are introduced to place and space before anything else, allotting a role to space which sets the scene only on the surface level, whereas on a more hermeneutic level, it introduces the reader to the spatial form that plays the pivotal role in the entire novel:. the inscribed space that is St. Jude and, specifically, the Lambert family home. Zooming in from the macro- to the microlevel and therefore altering the angle of vision, representing another key trait of extratopian narrators, the reader is confronted with the Lambert’s family home and the corresponding situation: “Although Enid’s ostensible foe was Alfred, what made her a guerrilla was the house that occupied them both. Its furnishings were of the kind that brooked no clutter. There were chairs and tables[…], obligatory focuses, obligatory Norfolk pines.” (Franzen 2007: 7) The prominent role that space takes is first and foremost symbolized by the narrator’s statement of the house “occupying” the Lamberts – indeed, this exchange of what usually displays subject and object renders the house an agent inspiring a codified behavior on

5.) Jonathan Franzen — The Corrections

part of Enid, namely what she perceives as guerrilla fighting, i.e. undermining her husband’s self-conceived authority. Moreover, the house functions as an embodiment of the Lambert’s emotional situation, as the house is presented as old, out-of-fashion, even as falling apart. As Gary, their eldest, thinks to himself: “We’ve got to sell this fucker now […]” (ibid., 198). Falling apart mirrors the process occurring between Alfred and Enid in the course of the novel. However, this symbolic function of the house does not replace the spatial one – the symbolic function represents a mirror of the Enid’s and Alfred’s marriage, whereas the spatial function plays a role in provoking the state of affairs which it symbolizes, as can be concluded from the fact that it is the house that occupies them, not the other way around. It is critical to point out, however, that this only very brief introduction to Enid and Alfred hints at a profound dysfunctionality between themselves on the one hand, as well as between themselves and their environment on the other hand, emphasizing the role that space takes in generating the narrative. Specifically, it is the locales whose seemingly positive values are turned into their opposites by the narrator. One locale is mirrored by St. Jude as a decaying Midwestern place, the other being represented by the Lamberts’ house, which accompanies its owners in their demise.

5.2) S t. J ude as the O ther : G ary L ambert ’s P ercep tion of his H ome town Gary, the Lambert’s eldest son, and father of three, reminisces about his hometown: What Gary hated most about the Midwest was how unpampered and unprivileged he felt in it. St Jude in its optimistic egalitarianism consistently failed to accord him the respect to which his gifts and attainments entitled him. Oh, the sadness of this place! The earnest St. Judean rubes all around him seemed curious and undepressed[…]But, like Alfred, like Enid, they were all extremely deferential. They didn’t jostle Gary or cut in front of him but waited until he’d drifted to the next exhibit. Then they gathered round and read and learned. God, he hated the Midwest. (Franzen 2007: 203/4)

The crucial point in this quasi-soliloquy is to be located in Gary’s equalization of the Midwest and certain behavioral attitudes he automatically attaches to it, performed by its inhabitants. It is remarkable that the Midwest for Gary reflects, in other words, boredom, provinciality, narrow-mindedness and a philistine self-perception of the people living the space. It is all the more noteworthy on account of Gary’s personal biography, for he, as the eldest son, resembles his patriarchal father Alfred the most, even though he desperately

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attempts to convince his own family of the exact opposite, eventually having become clinically depressed over it (cf. Freitag 2008: 141/2). The intersection of space, as featured by the Midwest, and time, as exemplified by Gary’s personal history provided to the reader generates the narrative of St. Jude as a hub at which the trajectories of the downtrodden, the unreflected, those unaware of themselves meet on a perfect breeding ground for what Gary regards as a pathetic existence: “[People in St. Jude] happily filling their misshapen heads with facts. As if facts were going to save them. Not one woman half as pretty or as well dressed as Caroline. Not one other man with a decent haircut or an abdomen as flat as Gary’s.” (204) It does, however, portray Gary as what would in all likelihood be conceived of as an eastern elitist whose arrogance and animosity towards his hometown stems from the “eastern blight” (281) which his father at a later point in the novel so clearly detests, opening up a regionalist discourse between parents and children, hometown and residency, particularly since all the Lambert children have moved east. Chip lives in New York City, whereas Denise and Gary reside in Philadelphia, downtown and in the northwest of the city, respectively (cf. Freitag 2008: 154). Indeed, as Sibylle Freitag observes, the spatio-cultural disparity between the northeast and the American heartland encompasses a confrontation of spaces that are likely to inform further narratives: As in the case of the time structure, there is a general spatial dimension of The Corrections, and what is more, the respective chapters also have their own interior space system. One big theme in the novel is the juxtaposition of the Midwest[…] and the East Coast[…].While the name ‘St. Jude’ suggests that this city is modeled after a real city, namely St. Louis, its fictional nature, as well as its name […] add a symbolic dimension and the same time an elusive, fantastic quality to the place. Due to its lack of a referent in reality, it is a place that exists only in the minds, in the consciousness of the characters. (ibid.)

St. Jude’s fictional nature entails the advantage of being continually reconstructed in the minds of the characters that inhabit(ed) the place, each one of them constructing divergent spaces out of it. In Gary’s case, St. Jude is the spatial embodiment of a past he would very much prefer to have left behind, particularly so when contrasted with his beautiful wife and his big house: “[…] but on that particular afternoon, as he left his big shist-sheathed house on Seminole Street and crossed his big back yard and climbed the outside stairs of his big garage, the weather in his brain was as warm and bright as the weather in northwest Philadelphia” (Franzen 2007: 159). Comparing the introduction of St. Jude to Gary’s tiny fragment of northwestern Philly, one must recognize the striking difference in quality ascribed to both places. Even though Gary is far from being a happy man, the illustration of his house as well as the mentioning

5.) Jonathan Franzen — The Corrections

of the weather (metaphorical or not) present strikingly divergent conceptions of place (and space) conveyed on part of the narrator. St. Jude and the Lamberts’ house are depicted as dull, grey, dysfunctional and falling apart, whereas Gary’s home is painted in the warm light of an East Coast Indian Summer, to which the narrator alludes by mentioning the month of September. The narrator therefore establishes Gary’s life as the counter-model to what he would label the St. Judean life that he so clearly despises. Needless to say, under the surface, Gary is a depressed man whose anhedonia derives from his desire not end up as the same patriarch that his father used to be (cf. Freitag 2008: 141). This step signifies he defines himself ex negativo, transferring his antipathy against his father to the space(s) having (re-) produced the old man’s patriarchal character. The reader witnesses a clash of spatial systems functioning as both geographically manifest and reciprocally constructed entities moving in relation to each other, symbolized by the fundamentally disturbed relationship of Gary towards his father and his homeplace. Klinkowitz (1992) asserts that ‘[i]n traditional fiction that would seek to represent a subject, verisimilitude is based on time rather than space, because the novelist’s aim in such work is to demonstrate the ‘realistic qualities of life in action, in life as it happens in represented form – which means in sequence, in causality, and therefore in time.” (161) I would beg to differ. Life in its represented form never occurs in a vacuum. Indeed, it always occurs somewhere, and that very somewhere generates narrative in the same clarity as time, although it utilizes different attributes and traits than causality, sequence and time. Space employs hierarchy, social norms and values inscribed to place and region as well as spatial dynamics altering these traits. Klinkowitz is correct inasmuch as that these categories cannot be separated from time, and neither should they. Yet, ignoring the spatial, geographic or inscribed, means to ignore the entire socio-political underpinning of any narrative, for it is the spatial categories establishing these relationships, as has been synthesized above. Freitag (2008) writes, “[a]s shown above, both space and time are linked individually to each character, supporting his or her characterization, often reflecting mainly their subjectivity (and unreliability).” (156) In Gary’s case, this is represented primarily in his detachment from St. Jude, both as the geographical location and as his home. It is rendered transparent that Gary has inseparably linked his depression to the Midwest and St. Jude, as is mentioned in the course of the novel: “But he’d also always loved how tough she was, how unlike a Lambert […] Over the years he’d collected certain remarks of hers into a kind of personal Decalogue […] which he privately referred for strength and sustenance: 1. You’re nothing at all like your father.” (Franzen 2007: 211) The large gap that opens up between himself and his family as a result of his trying to reassure himself converges into a heavy fight with his wife Caroline, who refuses to spend one last Christmas in St. Jude. Gary, on the other hand,

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would like to do his mother the favor “before they die” (ibid., 209). The dilemma is embodied perfectly in the argument between Gary and Caroline: “‘This is a marriage-ender. I can’t believe it.’ ‘Gary, please-’ ‘We’re going to split up over a trip to St. Jude’” (ibid., 214). It is not a trip to the parents or the family – it is a trip to a place whose socially constructed implications have caused the narrative action laid out to us as readers. This confirms the notion that space is capable of generating a narrative alongside time as its rightfully conceived partner.

5.3) O ne L ast C hristmas : S t. J ude ’s S ignificance as C ontact Z one One of the cornerstones of the entire novel and the only narrative thread transcending the plot is represented in Enid Lambert’s wish to convene the entire family one last time for Christmas in St. Jude. This wish on part of Enid lends St. Jude a pivotal significance, for it determines a) whether the family can come together unified one last time, and establishing b) St. Jude as a contact zone for the individual failures of the family members. In addition, St. Jude also causes the worst traumas and failures of the Lamberts, parents and children alike, to resurface: Gary’s above-mentioned fear of adopting his father’s patriarchal oppression, Chip’s failure as an aspiring scholar who left St. Jude on promising terms but who unnecessarily messes everything up, and finally Denise, who is confused about her life in general and her (sexual) identity. St. Jude is accordingly allotted the function of a meeting ground of completely different trajectories – those of Enid and Alfred on the one hand, and those of their children on the other side. The striking difference between parents and children is that Enid’s and Alfred’s trajectories are relatively congruent, even if only more or less by force, whereas their children’s run more or less parallel to each other, rarely intersecting. When they do, however, they seldom encounter peacefully or harmoniously, as is perhaps best demonstrated by Chip’s and Denise’s planned meeting with their parents in Chip’s New York City apartment (cf. ibid., 115 ff.) to which he does not he even appear. The forced convergence of all these different trajectories, then, assigns to St. Jude the role of not only the meeting ground or a contact zone, but as key element required to control the processes between the characters. Essentially, this signifies that St. Jude as the inscribed space that it is displays a fully functional, historicizable micro-institution which exerts a direct influence on each of the Lambert family members. The result of that process, we as readers witness as narrative. As Freitag (cf. 2008: 156) observes, space and place are linked to the individual characters, who eventually construe the place that is St. Jude into their highly individualized system of relationships to both their parents and their (geographical) home. Enid’s affection for St. Jude is of

5.) Jonathan Franzen — The Corrections

particular interest since after all, it does not appear to be very special: “Enid lives at home and hardly ever seems to leave the house. She feels rooted in the Midwest, feels a ‘paroxysmal love of place – of the Midwest in general and suburban St. Jude in particular’ […].” (ibid.) Enid also continually praises local attractions and/or sights such as the Christmasland while trying to pull her grandson Jonah, with whom she is a “lovefest” (204) on her side in terms of who spends Christmas where: Enid served stuffed pork chops and chocolate birthday cake. Jonah was dreamily eating ice cream when she asked him if he might like to come and have Christmas in St. Jude […]’You could have sugar cookies, and eggnog, and help us decorate the tree. [… ] It’ll probably snow, you can go sledding. And, Jonah, there’s a wonderful light show every year at Waindell Park […], they have the whole park lit up.’ (Franzen 2007: 205)

The rather typically grandmotherly behavior on part of Enid, however, does have a manipulative side to it when one realizes that she is essentially bribing her grandson with candy and Christmasland, even though Jonah himself has already declared St. Jude “the nicest place he’s ever been.” (ibid., 204) Gary disagrees – at the same time, he wonders “how his parents stood it.[…] The sky was the same color as the salt-white pavement on which elderly St. Judean drivers obeying barbiturate speed limits were crawling to their destinations […]” (ibid., 201) The picture Gary paints of his hometown is one of monotony, desperation and a complete halt, which thoroughly disgusts him. Chip and Denise, however, do not seem to have such a strong dislike of their hometown, yet, the sense of “home” that St. Jude as well as the Lamberts’ house convey seems to contradict their personalities, as they are continuously on the move: Chip even goes so far as Lithuania, whereas Denise moves between places, relationships and perhaps most importantly, sexual identities (cf. ibid., 480 ff.). All this is to say that all three Lambert children, in one way or another, mirror the exact opposite of their home-loving mother who rarely leaves the house. For Enid’s family Christmas wish to come true, St. Jude would have to be reconfigured for Gary not to feel depressed any longer, and for Chip and Denise to feel like a place at which they like staying for a while. In that sense, the reader can see a prime example of the reciprocity between spaces and the people that inhabit them. Of course, places can exist without human beings, but it is society which transforms places into spaces. Having once been established, they in turn play a significant role in generating the narrative of their subjects. What remains of the place can be considered for re-(negotiation), which is what sparks further discourses, and with that, narratives. Spatial reciprocity results in its very own hermeneutic conception.

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5.4) R e -S patializing S t. J ude : WASP A merica and the N arr ative of F ailure All that has been said about St. Jude as place and space has hitherto referred to its composition vis-à-vis the characters inhabiting or shaping it, or in ex negativo illustrations of provinciality and non-urbanity. What has not been considered at this point is St. Jude, and particularly so its “gerontocratic” suburbs, as a manifestation of White Anglo-Saxon Protestant (WASP) America. Franzen utilizes a warm butter knife in order to dissect the very form of scoiety which he seems to admire. [...] Different from the bankrupt gamblers, Franzen’s protagonists end up rather cozy. What is Franzen telling us about his society, about the America he wishes to analyze thoroughly, yet without incorporating blacks, latinos, unemployed or simply people in general? (Rieckmann 2009: 162/3)1

Rieckmann is correct in asserting that the novel portrays a family, places and spaces which are to be considered rather affluent when compared to, for instance, the ethnic groups he mentions above. Nevertheless, St. Jude is not illustrated as a “successful” place. Its characterization is that of a “gerontocratic suburb” (Franzen 2007: 3), implying a type of monotony and confinement commonly associated with suburbia. As Goudreau points out, “[a]t the cultural level, the suburb is an example of lived morality […] that […] follows the drive for success, survival, happiness and health.” (2006: 25) St. Jude, however, does not even offer that much. Success must be regarded as highly relative, happiness is virtually non-existent and Alfred’s declining health dominates the situation both in St. Jude and elsewhere. What is that to express? In a pessimistic reading, one could read the general demise of St. Jude as a fictional representation of the downfall of WASP America, including the people that helped America become a superpower as part of what is called the “Greatest Generation”.2 On the other hand, St. Jude can be viewed as a postmodernized version of suburbia, where everything that used to be firmly rooted in society is back on the negotiation table. In and of itself, this 1 | Original German: “Mit dem Buttermesser seziert Franzen die Gesellschaft, die er zu bewundern scheint […] Anders als die bankrotten Spekulanten […] landen Franzens Figuren vergleichsweise sanft. Was hat uns Franzen über seine Gesellschaft mitzuteilen, über ein Amerika, das er offensichtlich umfassend analysieren möchte – ohne jedoch Schwarze oder Latinos, ohne Arbeitslose oder überhaupt Menschen in den Blick zu fassen?” 2 | Brokaw, Tom. The Greatest Generation. New York: Random House, 1998. The term refers to the generation of Americans growing up during the world economic crisis and who subsequently fought World War II.

5.) Jonathan Franzen — The Corrections

approach would be rather dull and not very innovative. Franzen’s narrative of failure, however, comes from the core of Americana, and it is the narrative’s responsibility to introduce failures and their corrections to what has served as the epitome of the often-cited American dream as embodiment of the country’s tremendous growth in prosperity in the aftermath of World War II. Specifically, Beauregard (2006) contends, “the United States became the most prosperous of nations, the first suburban society, and a global power. A reinvented America, now anchored in the post-war suburbs, was projected globally. Domestic prosperity and suburbanization figured prominently in the ideological contest known as the Cold War.” (ix/x) The Lamberts find themselves at the very point where there is no ideological contest or other such identity-constituting conflict any longer – instead, the referential frame on which they could count falls apart, socially, as is implied by the erosion of the nuclear family in the novel, as well as spatially, mirrored in the pessimistic representation of St. Jude as place and the decay of the Lamberts’ home. As a result, St. Jude needs to be re-spatialized. While the (fictionally construed) place geographically remains in the same spot, the implications it carries with it as a locale and as a constructed space are of a entirely different origin. The reader senses a ubiquitous notion of transitoriness, decay, and, indeed, migration. “Well, there was still the citizenry of America’s heartland: St. Judean minivan drivers thirty and forty pounds over-weight and sporting pastel sweats, pro-life bumber stickers, Prussian hair. But Gary in recent years had observed […]that population was continuing to flow out of the Midwest and toward the cooler coasts.” (Franzen 2007: 226) Even though Gary selfishly desires for that migration to end – bearing in mind that he himself is one of those “migrants”, as it were – he hates to admit that St. Jude has by now attained the same commodities and amenities as his own home in Philadelphia (cf. ibid.) Once again, the reader bears witness to the crucial intersection of space and time in the course of the narrative, for it is St. Jude, or its hyponymic superstructure, the Midwest, that simultaneously functions as background and dynamizing agency over time. As a result, St. Jude in its composition as a Midwestern suburb becomes re-spatialized, for it is more and more likened to the postmodern spaces of the East Coast, subverting the trajectories of its inhabitants from within. This re-establishes space as one of the primary elicitors of narrative, in this case that of the Lamberts’ decay as a metaphor for a postmodern re-negotiation of traditions as well as their children as symbols of increased socio-spatial mobility. What, then, is St. Jude? The city, or at least the part where Enid and Alfred reside appears to display an anachronism, a socially constructed space on the verge of collapsing on account of factors such as age and migration on part of the younger population. As a place, St. Jude constitutes an example of the American heartland in contrast to the country’s coastal, more urban centers

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such as New York City and Philadelphia. As a space, it plays a decisive role in setting up the dysfunctionality of the Lambert family. Gary seems to have the clearest dislike of the place that socialized him, looking at it with complete despise to malls with their papered roofs, to the arterial that overlooked puddle steel yards and the state mental hospital and transmission towers feeding soaps and game shows to the ether; to the beltways and, beyond them, to a million acres of thawing hinterland here pickups were axle-deep in clay and 22s were fired in the woods and pedal steel guitars were on the radio; to residential blocks with the same pallid glare in every window, besquirreled yellow lawns with a random plastic toy[…], a mailman whistling something Celtic and slamming mailboxes harder than he had to, because the deadness of these streets, at such a nonhour, in such a nonseason, could honestly kill you. (ibid., 201)

It is of interest to point out that Gary assigns the different parts of St. Jude active roles, with the dead streets that “kill you” providing the most obvious example. The action factor, or lack thereof, which Rick Altman (2008: 14/5) features as the primary trait of any narrative, is what eventually ignites another type of narrative, namely the story of Gary’s depression, which he seems to link directly to St. Jude. The passage quoted above represents an analepsis while he is talking to his father on the phone. Immediately as the phone call resumes, Gary asks his father: “‘Are you happy with your life?’ Gary said, waiting for a left-turn arrow. ‘Can you say you’re ever happy?’” (Franzen 2007: 201) The link between the father’s and the son’s unhappiness, or even clinical depression, seems to be the city of St. Jude. In its role as a mediator between and as a contact zone for the intra-familial conflicts occurring in the Lambert family, St. Jude is a highly dynamic agency which elicits a number of different narratives and trajectories whose pathways are determined on the one hand by the respective person’s relationship to the space that is St. Jude, and on the other hand by the social interaction with the other family members who are likewise from St. Jude or stand so diametrically opposed to anything associated with it that it is another source for conflict (cf. Caroline’s nearly pathological hatred for the idea of spending one last Christmas there, 209-211 in particular). In any case, St. Jude spatializes and at the same time synthesizes a significant amount of the characters’ biographies, thereby fulfilling the primary role of generating, eliciting and dominating plot, story and characters. Space, thus, assumes a profoundly important role in the constitution of the overall narrative.

5.) Jonathan Franzen — The Corrections

5.5) S t. J ude ’s I dyll : S pace and S patialit y in A lfred L ambert ’s R ecollection of the A merican M idwest The St. Jude laid out above differs remarkably from Enid’s and Al’s perception of it. The observations about St. Jude hitherto made have been derived from their children’s experiences, which, given their divergent trajectories and their vastly different lifestyles, inscribe different traits to St. Jude than their elderly parents. However, in the most crucial chapter of the novel, Enid and Alfred have embarked on a cruise trip where Alfred, shaken by nightly paranoia, mentally reconstructs St. Jude as the typical, hard-working and morally impeccable Midwestern ideal of America. In essence, this reflects very much the association of small towns with the “real America” (Palin qtd in Kempf 2010: 173). According to Jean Kempf, the “American Small Town is a concept and as such transcends the actuality of place [...]. It constructs a mental, emotional, memorial space, called ‘America’ and forms an American ethos – some would say habitus – which in turn generates an American-ness.” (ibid., 174) Even though suburbia and small towns cannot be equated, there are enough intersections between the two concepts for them to be comparable, and the simultaneity of the small town functioning as anchor and point of orientation is what causes Alfred to reminisce: “‘Take it easy.’ ‘You too, pal. Take it easy.’ The phrase seemed to Alfred an eastern blight, a fitting epitaph for a once-great state, Ohio, that parasitic Teamsters had sucked nearly dry. Nobody in St. Jude would dare tell him to take it easy.” (Franzen 2007: 281) It is of great importance to mention that Alfred is recollecting this scene while on the cruise ship in the present, in the middle of the night. The analepsis he employs therefore opens up the connection between space and time, and Alfred, incapable of understanding the troubled situation in which he finds himself, refers back to St. Jude as a safe haven of morality, decency and honesty, American-ness (Kempf 2010: 174) in contrast to the rest of the country, but particularly so to the eastern US. In accordance with the narrative orientation of space, there exist two forms of the spatial in this example. On the one hand, there is the cruise ship as palpable space, which elicits Alfed’s confusion and disorientation, leading eventually to the crucial analepsis. It is therefore generative of narrative. On the other hand, the function of space as superordinate cultural means of biography construction becomes evident as soon as Alfred singles out himself by utilizing St. Jude synonymously with traits and actions typically associated with the rather conservative U.S.-American heartland. As a result of this, Alfred positions himself above the people who “take it easy”, consequentially establishing a hierarchy in which he is located above those unlike him.

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This implicitly, but essentially deictic organization of Alfred and the easygoing people he despises represents what Löw designates as socially constructed spaces “An(Ordnung)” (cf. 2007: 63). In consequence, the spatial constituent of Alfred’s analepsis maintains a political quality, representing St. Jude as the ‘true’ America that encourages Alfred’s narrative. The two axes of the spatial are thus constituted as follows for this example: the vertical axis as a means of cultural representation is represented by Alfred locating himself above the easygoing people he detests, as it corresponds to the social organization, and accordingly politicization of this deictic representation of biography construction. The horizontal axis represents Alfred’s socio-cultural context. This is to say that Alfred establishes a mirror narrative so as to carve out not only his personal identity, but which he uses as well to establish the spatiality of his life. He is self-reflexive to the extent that positions him on the side of his personal and environmental surroundings, forming what Daniels and Cosgrove (cf. 1988: 1) coin the cultural representation of a landscape, i.e. a space. From a narrative point of view, the intersection of space and time is rendered transparent in this passage. The temporal aspect, i.e. the analepsis, is what provides the narrative action for Alfred to resurrect St. Jude as a multicomponential space allowing him to grasp his environment, himself as well as those who so clearly contrast his world view. Accordingly, St. Jude functions as a geographical place as well as a cultural representation of space over the course of time. Alfred very obviously idealizes the locale, not necessarily the geographical place, and, in so doing, forms a cultural representation of space. The notion of relativity is a significant one to consider at this point. It is maintained above that spaces as well as their representations move in relation to each other, thereby inherently assuming a spatial role in that they occupy different locales when doing so, which, of course, simultaneously influences the perspective that one space (or its representative) has on another or its respective representatives. In Alfred’s case, this observation forms a perspectival relationship with his counterparts, which puts him in the more powerful, ethically more defendable position than the easygoing people about which he complains. He continues: On the high prairie where he’d grown up, a person who took it easy wasn’t much of a man. […]Alfred heard Erie Belt track gangs yukking it up on company time, he saw flashily dressed clerks taking ten-minute breaks for coffee […]’Take it easy’ was the watchword of these superfriendly young men, the token of their overfamiliarity, the false reassurance that enabled them to ignore the filth they worked in. (Franzen 2007: 281/2)

Perspectivization commences in the first sentence, where the narrative agency assigns Alfred literally the high ground, morally as well as spatially when referring to the “high prairie”. The high prairie evokes associations of primal

5.) Jonathan Franzen — The Corrections

origin, the clash of man versus nature and nature’s subsequent conquest on part of man. If Alfred were not a child of the 20th century, one could read his childhood as a frontier experience, a concept central to American culture3, therefore corresponding even more accurately to Alfred’s self-perception as quintessentially American man. However, one is confronted with the spatio-temporal crossroads once again. Alfred’s self-perception is most in line with a concept used predominantly in the past, at least not since President Kennedy’s use of a modified frontier conception in his presidential nomination speech (cf. Kennedy 1960). Yet, Alfred’s “high prairie” heritage conforms profoundly to this past concept, and it is of great importance to mention that he takes pride in doing so. In relation to the young track workers from Erie Belt, Alfred is therefore presented as the midwestern archetype4 of the American as opposed to the “eastern blight” embodied by the – in Alfred’s view – lax work ethics employed by the Erie Belt workers. Consequentially, Alfred takes a cultural concept of the past, projecting it onto a space of the (then) present. Alfred’s employer, on the other hand, the Midland Pacific Railroad, is portrayed in different light: “The Midland Pacific, by contrast, was clean steel and white concrete […] The Midpac was based in St. Jude and served a harderworking, less eastern region of the country. Unlike the Erie belt, it took pride in its commitment to maintaining quality service on its branch lines.” (282) The narrator, who in this passage is extra- as well as heterodiegetic, places Alfred in a position of moral and ethical superiority as opposed to the “eastern” regions of the country. Accordingly, the perspective that the reader gains is one that looks down on specifically the eastern United States. This becomes feasible because the narrative agency employs Alfred as focalizer, therefore intratextually and narratologically representing culturally conceived stereotypes, such as Alfred’s resentments against the eastern US, which he appears to view as elitist and lazy. Both of these observations are genuinely spatial, for both perspective and focalization function as the intratextual agencies that arrange and rearrange the relationship of the characters to their environment and vice versa. Therefore, the narrative in this passage is of spatial origin as well. Positioned against the passage of time, space and spatiality take over, presenting Alfred Lambert’s moral values and judgments as a room in which to stand by his rather conservative convictions.

3 | For an excellent elaboration of significance of the frontier in American culture, cf. Slotkin, Richard. Regeneration Through Violence: The Mythology of the American Frontier, 1600-1860. University of Oklahoma Press, 2000. 4  |  “Archetype” is used in its more general meaning, not in Max Weber’s specifically sociological definition.

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This is supplemented by the moral decay, sensed by Alfred as a ubiquitous threat to the solid value framework which he has established around himself: And in the Olmsted Hotel in Cleveland he surprised a porter and a maid lasciviously osculating in a stairwell. And the tracks he saw when he closed his eyes were a zipper that he endlessly unzipped, and the signals behind him turned from forbidding red to willing green the instant he passed them[…]But in Buffalo the trainmaster had a pinup of Brigitte Bardot on his office door, and in Youngstown Alfred found a filthy magazine […] (ibid.)

It is of interest to take into consideration the juxtaposition of spatiality as a palpable item and morality as its abstract counterpart. It is certainly noteworthy that Alfred compares the very tracks he intends to inspect to a zipper as a symbol of lust and desire. At this point, one can disclose a direct connection between spatiality, reflected by the tracks and the associations with them, and Alfred’s (mental) behavior. The tracks instantaneously cause Alfred to link them to a zipper. The spatial aspect therefore assumes an creative role, which is at the center of its narrative-inducing quality. In addition, Alfred uncovers immorality everywhere, and so has the reader recreate his trajectory taken on the business trip: Cleveland, OH, Buffalo, NY, Ft. Wayne, IA, Erie, PA, and Youngstown, OH make up the station of his inspection trip, and it is striking that all these places, and, by Alfred’s standard, spaces inscribed by immorality and promiscuity, are further to the eastern US than they are to the “high prairie” where Alfred mentions he grew up, implying states such as, for instance, Kansas, Nebraska, and Oklahoma. Although specifically Iowa and Ohio can hardly be counted as part of the core eastern United States, it nevertheless demonstrates Alfred’s dislike of anything to the east of “St. Jude”5, which functions as his idealized version of Midwestern America. It also signifies that Alfred sees “the eastern blight” coming closer to St. Jude, as a kind of encirclement that threatens his Midwestern suburban idyll, both morally and socially. In a sense, Alfred senses a reversal of the frontier, i.e. the very concept which had stood for progress and pioneer spirit now turning against the values it had once generated itself.6 According to Jouni 5 | “St. Jude” is a fictional Midwestern city. However, given biographical readings of the novel, as well as a couple of Franzen’s statements, it is implied that St. Jude might be modeled after St. Louis, MO (cf. Dell 2005: 176), or rather one of its suburbs. 6  |  Dean May (1994) writes that “[s]ince the founding of the Republic[...]it has been common to think of the frontier areas of North America as places where European societies were transformed through the process of settling places where few of their kind had lived[...]His [Turner’s] purpose was to propose that the settling of North America had hitherto led to a uniformity of political and cultural values that had given

5.) Jonathan Franzen — The Corrections

Häkli (2008), one of the potential results of re-bordering spaces can result in processes of identity formation: “Spatial concepts, such as place, region and territory, as well as the images of shared and divided space that these concepts denote, play a central role in identity discourses shaping the geopolitical world.” (478)7 Alfred, while certainly not involved in geopolitics, obviously derives a crucial segment of his personal identity from the trifecta of place, region and territory. In the U.S.-American case, these three spatial segments are strongly tied to politics and ideology, whose spatial characteristics are discussed at length in chapter two. As a result, Alfred, as a result of these spatial characteristics, delimits himself from what he calls the eastern blight while elevating himself onto a pedestal signifying his moral superiority, his (if we follow Turner) true Americanness as opposed to the much more European Northeasterners. At this point, the factor of movement enters the arena, which, given the spatial category that it very clearly embodies, opens up another discourse, namely that of the dynamics that the spaces as such elicit (cf. Ette 2001: 62). Of course, spaces and regions in the United States must be conceived of metaphorically at this point, since they do not move in that sense. Much rather, these spaces represent different cultural traits and attitudes generated reciprocally by the spaces and the people inhabiting them. Alfred thus feels an incongruence between his own culture, or the very specifically inscribed space that he is taking abroad, so to speak, in this example and the other inscribed spaces and their cultural traits that he encounters. In addition, he is fearing the intrusion of said traits into the realm that he controls, which is why he acts the way he does. From a narrative point of view, this reflected particularly in the conversations he leads when at a diner or a restaurant, for instance. “‘More coffee, good-lookin’?’” ‘Ah, yes, please.’ ‘You blushin’, sweetheart, or is that the sun coming up?’ ‘I will take the check now, thank you.’” (Franzen 2007: 284) It is significant to note that as soon as he is approached by the Americans a distinctive stamp [...] His was the testy assertion of a native and dedicated midwesterner that the East doesn’t count for much, and that the true American society was formed and perpetuated by the westering process.” (277) May illustrates Turner as a fervent local patriot. However, the ideological and cultural ramifications of Turner’s frontier thesis sparked a narrative which can, to this day, be found in American regionalism, as well as in principle dichotomies such as “northeastern elitism” vs. “heartland Americana” and similar juxtapositions. As a result, it was not only Frederick Jackson Turner whose “testy assertion” split up America into an implied suspicious “European” east and a supposedly morally impeccable “American” west who adopted this interpretation of this principle spatial opposition. 7  |  Moreover, she continues to elaborate, “political geographical research on nationalism has shown that territory is more important an element in the construction of national identities than theories of nationalism have generally acknowledged.” (ibid.)

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obviously female waitress, he fears immorality or dishonesty and starts blushing. The colloquial language employed by the waitress, however, insinuates nothing more than a conversationally conventional compliment, certainly no sexual arousal. Alfred, however, replies in standard English, even opting for the long form instead of the contraction. In a way, this corresponds to the incongruence that Alfred experiences when on the road – the supposed erosion of his very own compass, as it were, leads him to retreat to what is familiar on all levels, including conversational language, which leaves no doubt to neither waitress nor Alfred that he is not in the least interested in anything more than a brief business relationship, even excluding social conventions that go with it. The reason for doing so is elaborated on the above, as the reader is confronted with two representatives of differently inscribed spaces, being reflected in the content as well as in its narrative discourse, of which the little piece of conversation has been utilized as an example. Alfred, as has become clear, idealizes St. Jude as a safe haven of comfort, family, morals and values. However, at the heart of any idealization lies a dysfunctional or deficient aspect of life that defines the idyllic and they idealized ex negativo. Even as a young nuclear family, the Lamberts already show signs of dysfunctionality. In this sense, the conception of “home” as place and space is differently encoded in Alfred’s perceived reality than in his idealization of it.

5.6) S t. J ude and the B urdens of F amily L ife Coming home from the business trip to Pennsylvania that is featured above, Alfred returns to St. Jude to find his house in turmoil. The safe haven which he had dreamed up while inspecting the Erie Belt railroad tracks is now portrayed as dysfunctional, with the house in disorder, the wife disobeying his commands and the children acting up against him (cf. ibid., 287 ff.). Even at the very beginning of the novel, before the reader becomes aware of the peculiarities of the Lamberts and particularly Alfred. The Lambert family is illustrated as highly problematic in its internal structural constitution, as Kerstin Dell observes: The first chapter, “St. Jude”, introduces the novel’s most important themes and problems: disorder, discontent, disease – and imminent disaster. It illuminates the present condition of the Lambert family and foreshadows the catastrophes to follow. The omniscient narrator evokes the sword of Damocles hovering over the Lamberts. The chapter’s focus is on the discontent of Alfred and Enid, which stands for the situation of the whole family. The impending doom is illustrated by the anxiety that dominates the elderly couple’s life […] (2005: 173).

5.) Jonathan Franzen — The Corrections

While Dell’s quote refers to a passage in the present, the scene about coming home from railroad inspection is still part of the analepsis mentioned under 5.5). However, what becomes transparent to the reader at this point is a continuity that can be viewed from a spatio-temporal perspective. It is striking that even though temporally, decades have passed between the content Alfred’s analepsis on the cruise ship and the present, the dysfunctionality of the Lambert family seems to have remained the same. This emphasizes the spatial as one of the central elements of narrative constitution, for if the passing of time does not alter the relation between Enid and Alfred, one could assume that it is the spatial aspect of their marriage which makes their marriage the misery it is. As can be seen, communication is breaking down between Enid and Alfred at the very moment that Alfred begins a “conversation” after being absent from home for eleven days: Enid parked her iron […] and emerged from the laundry room with butterflies in her stomach – whether from lust or from fear of Al’s rage or from fear that she might become enraged herself she didn’t know. He set her straight in a hurry. ‘What did I ask you to do before I left?’ ‘You’re home early’, she said. ‘The boys are still at the Y.’ ‘What is the one thing I asked you to do while I was gone?’ ‘I’m catching up on laundry. The boys have been sick.’ ‘Do you remember […] that I asked you to take care of the mess at the top of the stairs?’ (Franzen 2007: 287)

This passage serves as a prime manifestation of the communicative breakdown occurring between the partners. Rightfully, one might ask what is so spatial about this observation. I characterized Alfred above, based on his self-description during his analepsis. This is to say that his socialization profoundly mirrors the “frontier”, the Midwestern traits in which he takes pride. Therefore, Alfred serves as a representation of the space in which he was socialized or that socialized him. As is maintained above, spaces and their representations have to be re-negotiated, and also re-localized, constantly. At this point, apparently, there exists a friction, a stress field between Alfred’s spatially oriented socialization, his self-perceived role in the family as well as his relation to his wife. The reader encounters a three-fold model of the time-space intersection at this point. First of all, there is a disjunction between two spatial representations, namely Alfred’s socialization and his – at the time in which the analepsis is situated – current role that contradicts the model of the quintessentially Midwestern, extremely virile “man”. Second, a friction can be sensed in the temporal realm, for Alfred’s analepsis attempts to reconcile two different pasts simultaneously, namely his growing up on the “high prairie” and then his life as a married father of two, and later, three in (sub-)urban “gerontocratic” St. Jude (ibid., 3). Third, there is the frame of the analepsis occurring on the

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ship in the present, which further contributes to a multi-layered model of a narrative featuring all of these overlapping (time-)spaces (or their inscriptions, respectively) which eventually cause Alfred’s utter confusion, a considerable deterioration of his dementia as well as something which could be referred to as a nervous breakdown (cf. ibid., 325ff). However, the scene above in its function as a mirror of the Lambert’s spatial disparity hints at another aspect of spatiality which can be detected in their relationship to each other, which is the trait of hierarchy. Alfred at this point is clearly represented as an hierarchical patriarch seeking control over his wife and children (which can be demonstrated by the dinner scene, cf. 300/301). Going back to Löw’s (2007: 63) observation that spaces always comprise a social order, we find here a clear application of that theory. Granted, Löw’s observation refers to urban spaces, yet why would it have to be confined to the urban? A private space such as a house potentially structures relationships just as well as an urban context, only that the private does not move in socio-economic strata as the ordering factor, but in the realms of gender and age, and, to some extent, who assumes the role of the breadwinner. In so doing, Alfred establishes the same type of relationship to his family as he did to his Erie Belt co-workers before returning home. In effect, the relationship depicted is spatial, for it is deixis that serves as the ordering element in the text. Where it is not explicitly expressed by the linguistic means elaborated on above, it is insinuated by the way that Alfred behaves. Furthermore, in setting up this hierarchical relationship, Alfred intermingles private and public spaces – working as a railroad engineer, overseeing workers while inspecting the tracks is one his responsibilities as their superior, and in taking the responsibilities allotted to him by his companies, he finds himself in a public space. At home, however, Alfred is a father, not a superior. Alfred even explains himself that he feels empty without being literally in charge: “By day, he felt like a man, and he showed this, you might even say flaunted it, by standing no-handedly on high narrow ledges, and working ten and twelve hours without a break, and cataloguing an eastern railroad’s effiminacies. Nighttime was a different matter. By night he lay awake on mattresses that felt made of cardboard and catalogued the faults of humanity.” (283) His failure to distinguish between the private and the public spheres is therefore what causes family life back in St. Jude to be one of many conflicts due to Alfred’s inability to transfer his behavior to the realm of the private. From a narrative point of view, Burn (2008) elaborates: There are many other examples where Franzen uses his narrative to correct the angle of the reader’s line of sight. […] Franzen’s technique, here, is a diluted example of Frank’s spatial form and it works on a basic level to build suspense and reward careful reading. On another level, however, it is significant as one of the ways that Franzen attempts to

5.) Jonathan Franzen — The Corrections marry form and content. Just as the stories are about the characters correcting their views, so the form of the narrative imitates that procedure […] (104).

Form – the deictico-hierarchical organization of the narrative with Alfred positioning himself above all others – and content, whether it displays Alfred in his role as a superior or as a father, therefore go hand in hand. The spatial nature of the narrative thus generates the story, and it is reflected in the content. Both, the private and the public spaces function according to the same narratological mechanisms. For that reason, the core of the Lambert family, i.e. the troubled relationship between Alfred and Enid can be in read spatially in two ways: first of all, there is St. Jude as geographical location, and then there is the “geography”, or topography, as Sigrid Weigel (2002: 154) would call it, of the house as well was as the family moving within it. Alfred’s analepsis on the cruise ship serves as the pivotal connection between the past(s) and the present, demonstrating to us a multi-decade stagnation of family life while revealing that spatial form is highly generative of, and also analogous to, narrative. It is generative because it is Alfred’s spatial experience which shapes his personality, and it is analogous to narrative because Alfred arranges his social life in a spatial manner. Therefore, there is a spatial duality which is reflected in narration as well, namely the elimination of the showing vs. telling (Fludernik 2008: 169) dichotomy, reforming the concept of diegesis in a fundamental way.

5.6.1) Perspective, Focalization and Diegesis in Relation to Alfred’s Self-Perception The above analysis paves the way for a re-configuration of the ties between perspective, focalization and the general concept of diegesis. It has already been mentioned that from a perspectival point of view, Alfred establishes himself as the person whose view we perceive the world from. Therefore, we as readers are at his sole mercy as to what, and, more importantly, how we see something. However, there is a discrepancy to be detected in the deictic elements of the narrative on the one hand, and its perspective and focalization on the other hand. The story is told by an omniscient third person narrator, i.e. the narrator is extra- and heterodiegetic. However, focalization shifts multiple times throughout the narrative depending on the character on which the plot focuses in the respective passage. Accordingly, the part above utilizes Alfred as an external focalizer. This step is crucial to the development of the story, as it connects the extra- as well as the intratextual facets of the narrative. The deictico-hierarchical structure of Alfred’s relationship to his fellow human beings, be they his family or not represents the extratextual facet of the space in which he moves. I shall clarify

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at this point that extratextuality refers to the mimetic representation of the relationship, as, of course, the specific social structure that is shown in the novel is transmitted to us by the narrative agency. Intratextuality, however, is in its purest form achieved by perspective and focalization. Perspective in its function as deixis’ intratextual counterpart therefore establishes a relationship between the two concepts. Both are spatial categories, consequentially moving dynamically in relation to one another. The narrative is thus not represented, but constituted by the reciprocal influence that deixis and perspective take on each other. Deixis, or its social manifestation, hierarchy, informs the perspective, putting the reader in the position from which he then formulates his observations regarding the text. Focalization, however, dissolves the boundary between intra- and extratextuality. Using Alfred as the focalizer in this scene provides the connecting factor between the mimetic representation of hierarchy and its narrative manifestation, which has been outlined above. The boundary is dissolved on account of the structural approximation of mimesis and narrative theory, of which focalization represents the crucial fragment. Employing Alfred as focalizer allows showing and telling to function alongside each other, eventually loosening up the hitherto strictly upheld distinction of diegesis as the counterpart to “showing”. What occurs therefore in the above passage is a re-configuration of the narrative as such in the direction of the spatial. In re-defining the diegetic quality of Alfred’s narrative structuring of his social life, it becomes evident that narratives are fundamentally spatial. They occur in places. They elicit behaviors, and therefore constitute places of biographical, and thus historical, relevance. Human beings inhabit, modify and (re-)structure them, transforming them from places into spaces. Ultimately, the people that move within these spaces structure their relationship to others, akin to improve their own position in them. Alfred’s patriarchal behavior accordingly represents a product created by geographical location and the social interaction (de-)constructing the locales in which he moves, and against which he is required to position himself. Dell observes: The families portrayed in TC, at least in their external formation, remain intact. Franzen’s approach is new in that the novel’s sharp social criticism does not affect the structure of the family as such; rather, it shapes the behavior of the respective characters, and their internal relations with each other. The Lamberts’ most striking reaction to the various culture- as well as family-related problems is to construct a ‘corrected’ version of their daily realities. These ‘corrective constructions’ aggravate the personal relations within the family. (2005: 171)

Just in the way that Dell characterizes Franzen’s approach to the representation of the family as new, I maintain that the narrative as the means of discourse

5.) Jonathan Franzen — The Corrections

by which this new orientation is achieved maintains a specifically spatial quality. However, the diegetic fragments of the story that determine the internal relations of the family are not static. On the contrary, just as the spaces that generate them, they are highly dynamic, constituting different stories depending on the perspective from which they are told.

5.7) A S imultaneous 8 C ollision of S paces : The N arr ative H e terotopia in The C orrections The two passages analyzed up to this point are of special appeal, for they occur simultaneously. In doing so, the temporal aspect of the narrative is marginalized, whereas its spatial component is considerably emphasized. Both Gary’s chapter “The More He Thought About It, The Angrier He Got” as well as Alfred’s and Enid’s experience on the cruise ship take place at roughly the same time. While Gary’s chapter covers about three weeks, from Sept. 12 to Oct. 5 of an unspecified year, the cruise ends after Alfred fall from the ship on Oct. 5, a Tuesday (cf. Burn 2008: 102). It might seem peculiar to emphasize the temporal structure when one builds an argument for space on precisely that, yet the perceived simultaneity of Gary’s and his parents’ trajectories centers around their conception of St. Jude, therefore foregrounding space as the primary factor in the different worldviews of Gary and his parents. As a result, St. Jude is conveyed to the reader as a narrative heterotopia, i.e. one must commence to view St. Jude as the convergence of idealized and actually perceived realities, including their accordingly divergent functionalities for the different characters. I maintain above that narrative heterotopias are constituted as the result of the intersection of space and time by means of historicization. It is what is occurring when one reads the two different representations of St. Jude against each other – while Gary comes rather close to outright detesting the space that determined his youth, Alfred yearns for a place that he dreams up in an attack of nightly paranoia. Of major importance is the factor of movement, because it is the dynamics of the narrative sub- and objects in relation to their environment putting place and space constantly in flux. It has become clear from Gary’s representation that he allots St. Jude one primary function: it mirrors to him all that he never wanted to be for fear of becoming like his father. For Al, on the other hand, St. Jude mythically symbolizes stability – even if that might border on stagnation, it remains at the center of his life, and this circumstance is most 8 | Simultaneity is relative – I employ the term to designate the overlapping plots of Gary and his parents in order to emphasize their differences that indeed occur at roughly the same time during the year.

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clearly emphasized when he comes home from the business trip elaborated on the previous chapter. This can be demonstrated best when having a closer look at the parent-children interaction, particularly that between Gary and Alfred. The passage to be discussed treats of a patent that Alfred registered a couple of years ago, for which he has now received a five-thousand dollar offer by the Axon Corporation. Gary, the banker, tries to convince his father not to accept the offer at once, instead suggesting to try and get more money from Axon. He [Gary] retreated to his study and dialed St. Jude again. […] He was hoping to speak to Enid, but Alfred answered the telephone and said that she was over at the Roots’ house, socializing […] Gary considered calling back later, but he refused to be cowed by his father. ‘Dad’, he said, ‘I’ve done some research on Axon. We’re looking at a company with a lot of money.’ ‘Gary, I said I didn’t want you monkeying with this,’ Alfred replied. ‘It is moot now, anyway.’ ‘What do you mean, ‘moot’?’ ‘I mean moot. It’s taken care of.’ (Franzen 2007: 197)

At this point, the reader can witness a direct confrontation, a clash of personalities even, between Gary and his father, permeating the entire story. In addition, it is crucial to refer back to the basic dichotomy between the synchronic and the diachronic, whose interplay is most significant for the constitution of the narrative heterotopia. It has been argued that heterotopian spaces and their narrative representations encompass a multitude of societal factors and discourse that occur synchronically, but which have built structures, values and systems rooted in diachronic processes. A basic incongruence between the synchronic and the diachronic is what is is occurring between Gary and Alfred during their telephone conversation. While these resemble temporal categories, they do exist in spaces, signifying that Alfred and Gary do not solely represent themselves as individuals, but also as representatives of completely divergent ways of life, which eventually are interconnected with the spaces they inhabit, produce and reproduce. Gary has been interpreted to detest St. Jude for its resemblance to his parents, and particularly so his father, while Alftrd is portrayed as profoundly skeptical of anything that is either unfamiliar to him or counteracts his strict moral value codes and convictions. When these two constructs clash, they result in a heterotopian manner of narrative in the sense of Foucault’s elaboration that every heterotopia encompasses a defined function in society, and the same heterotopia can function in one way or another, depending on the synchrony of its host culture (cf. 1986: 24f.). This conveys the impression of the heterotopia as fundamentally rooted in society, yet simultaneously standing outside of it, which is reflected by both content and discourse of the conversation. The narrative heterotopia therefore constitutes itself primarily in the dysfunctionality of communication between Alfred and Gary. The passage cited on the previous

5.) Jonathan Franzen — The Corrections

page provides an appropriate introduction to that reading: Gary presents whatever research he has conducted, which has Alfred replying directly that he never wanted Gary to do so, thus referring back to his own moral code instead of listening to well-founded advice from outside his own referential system. The incongruency between two codes, deriving from different spatio-cultural experiences, creates the heterotopia, leading eventually to a communication situation that is practically marked by its emptiness, namely that Gary is not even allowed to make an attempt at convincing his father of his approach. For what reason would St. Jude be a heterotopian space? On the one hand, there is Alfred’s above-analyzed idealization of St. Jude as an alleged representation of the Midwest in which he grew up, whereas Gary’s imagination of St. Jude is qualitatively different, as it resembles everything he does not wish to opine, display, feel, say or hear. That is to say that even though he was born and raised in St. Jude, Gary cannot but define St. Jude ex negativo – the place is always where he is not, as it were. I am aware that I am equating Alfred and St. Jude. Then again, so does Gary, as he is portrayed as dialing “St. Jude” (cf. ibid.) again, instead of “dialing his parents” or “dialing home”. Alfred, to Gary, assumes the role of the much-scorned St. Jude, while Gary, to Alfred, resembles the foreign, the “eastern blight” (281) with which or whom he does not intend to do business. The confrontation of these two spatial constructions of St. Jude in conjunction with Alfred’s dislike of the “East” is what eventually results in the narrative heterotopia, i.e. it is the socially constructed, dynamic entity that assumes different significations to different people at different times under different circumstances. St. Jude is outsourced from being a mere place, and it even goes further than solely representing an inscribed space. By the time that two or more realizations of it collide, it is discursivized, therefore generating the heterotopia. In this sense, the notion of selectivity is of major importance. Nünning’s assumption that spaces and objects taken from reality form represent the text inter-, intra as well as extratextually (cf. 2009: 40) comes to full fruition, and the heterotopia is recognized as what it is: a socio-cultural construct resulting out of manifest cultural traits and characteristics moving in relation to one another. The narrative heterotopia that is St. Jude this conversation, as any other one, is the result of a specific combination of intra- and extra-spatial constructs, and as has been argued, they do overlap. The intra-textual facet is mirrored by the plot, whereas the extra-textual frame is provided by the eastwest dichotomy, including all its socio-cultural and economic implications.

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5.7.1) The Configuration of St. Jude: A Narrative Heterotopia as Space of Conflict The passage proceeds with an argument between Gary and Alfred: ’I will tell your mother that you called.’ ‘Do not put those documents in the mail. Do you hear me?’ ‘Gary, I’ve had about enough of this.’ ‘Well, too bad, because I’m just getting started.’ ‘I’ve asked you not to speak of it. If you will not behave like a decent, civilized person, then I have no choice-’ ‘Your decency is bullshit. Your civilization is bullshit. It’s weakness! It’s fear! It’s bullshit!’ ‘I have no wish to discuss this.’ ‘Then forget it.’ ‘I intend to.’ […]’It’s my wish that we can all be civil.’ ‘Nevermind what’s going on underneath. As long as we’re all ‘civil’.’ ‘That is the essence of my philosophy, yes.’ (Franzen 2007: 198)

The observation one can make at this point is interesting for a narrative theory of space, for the language registers that both Alfred and Gary employ are fundamentally different from each other. Alfred utilizes rather elegant expressions, even mostly avoiding contractions or other short forms which are associated with colloquial speech. In addition, in contrast to Gary, this choice renders him calm and decisive, transforming Gary into a yelling figure who is degraded to having use swear words such as “bullshit”, as well as slang forms such as “ain’t”. There are two significant qualities to either of the traits displayed on part of Alfred. First and foremost, by applying Standard English, Alfred places himself in the normative position, i.e. he puts himself in charge of the situation by remaining calm, polite and convinced of himself. The hierarchy he establishes by behaving this way corresponds well to his portrayal as a patriarch and somewhat stubborn old man. This has to remind Gary of his own fears of becoming like him. Defending himself, Gary claims that it is Alfred who is scared, even though he never specifies what it is that Alfred is supposed to be scared of. In truth, however, it is Gary who is afraid of becoming like Alfred, as is clarified numerous times throughout the continuation of the novel (cf. 211), which is presumably why he does not appear to be able to accept his father’s executive decision. This alone maintains a spatial quality because it establishes the same deictico-hierarchical order as in the analepsis on the cruise ship. Moreover, there is now a concrete spatial difference in a direct interpersonal conversation: Alfred is located in St. Jude, connected to what he dreams up as a space inscribed with morality, values and ethics, whereas Gary finds himself in the metropolis that is Philadelphia, i.e. the antithesis of Alfred’s Midwest: The East. As a result of this direct clash, St. Jude assumes its dynamic role as narrative heterotopia, for it is constructed from within by Alfred, as opposed to its genesis from the outside on part of Gary, which is reflected in the representation of the discourse. Accordingly, St. Jude mirrors a different space for either of the two characters,

5.) Jonathan Franzen — The Corrections

with highly divergent inscriptions related to it, which sparks the dynamics of the the relationship between Gary and Alfred in general and their telephone conversation in particular. The narrative heterotopia as it is presented in this specific case therefore displays a space of conflict, which is constructed solely through either manifest interaction or its implication, i.e. indirect clashes such as narrative depictions of the subject matter between different representations of the same geographical location. One such example occurs soon after the telephone conversation, involving only a narrative of Gary’s thoughts: The house was Enid and Alfred’s only large asset, and Gary took a morning to inspect the whole property slowly, inside and out. He found cracks in the grouting, rust lines in the bathroom sinks, and a softness in the master bedroom’s ceiling. He noticed rain stains on the inner wall of the back porch, a beard of dried sud on the chin of the old dishwasher, […] termites in the woodpile, […] finger–wide cracks in the foundation […] and Gary thought: We’ve got to sell this fucker now, we can’t lose another day. (199)

When, in an analepsis set in St. Jude in March of the same year, Gary’s sentiments concerning the house are brought up, all that Enid replies is “‘I love this house.’” (205) What might appear to be a trivial observation at first sight actually summarizes the dilemma of St. Jude as conflict space: Gary feels his parents need to move on. The house is depicted no solely as decaying, but as downright falling apart. In addition to the relation between Enid and Alfred, which has consistently seen troubled times, the house in its state embodies the numerous cracks in the parent-child relationships. In spatial categories, the vertical axis, becoming evident in the parent-child interaction, joins the horizontal axis, symbolizing the troubled relationship between the elderly couple. It is of interest to point out that Gary refers to the house as his parents’ “only large asset” (ibid., 199). In the reading provided, the house would also embody the children as their parents’ asset, which corresponds well to this day and age, where the problem of caring for the elderly becomes more and more and acute. While conceding that this interpretation is more of a sidetrack of my overall reading of the novel, it does contribute to the notion of spatial categories as being generative of narrative, subsequently forming spaces of conflict which can only be called heterotopian in nature. The outsourcing of the narrative to a heterotopian discourse occurring through the collision of different interest spheres is what explains the different functions that St. Jude takes on for the different characters in the story.

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5.7.2) The Gunnar Myrdal as Heterotopian Conflict Space In a similar manner, Alfred’s night on the cruise ship outsources the narrative to a heterotopia, albeit it a different one. The heterotopia is not represented by St. Jude in its palpable, geographical form, but by the cruise ship as a catalyzer of Alfred’s coming to terms with the life he had hitherto led. The opening passage of “At Sea” sets the scene: Two hundred hours, darkness, the Gunnar Myrdal: all around the old man, running water sang mysteriously in metal pipes. […] as if its stability depended on such a glossing over of flotation’s terrors. There was another world below – this was the problem. Another world that had volume but no form. […]By night, though, the mind went forth and dove down through the yielding – the violently lonely – nothingness on which the heavy steel ship traveled […] Dry land lacked this z-axis. (ibid., 277)

These lines hint at the pondering effect that the ship, and the sea condition in particular, elicit in Alfred. One witnesses anthropomorphized water “singing” (ibid.) in metal pipes, and the movement of the ship creates an eerie and mysterious situation which Alfred cannot seem to grasp. Even though his thoughts are not directly represented in this passage, it is clear that the mind that “went forth and dove down” (ibid.) is his. It is of particular interest to point out the “z-axis”, which the dry land as such naturally lacks. It appears as though the z-axis, which opens up an additional spatial dimension, functions as a tool that helps carve out the self in relation to one’s personal biography and spatiocultural background. As such, the tool is tied to the Gunnar Myrdal. Being far removed from home, Alfred can use the distance as well as the additional space, that is, the metaphorically used vertical movement on part of the ship, to reflect on himself and his life. Therefore, Alfred is employed as a heterotopian narrator marked by incongruence of his position (disorientation) and surrounding (the open water) Once again, space and spatiality feature a high degree of narrativity, allowing both characters and readers to incorporate the spatial dimension of the narrative into their reading of the situation. The “world below”, which Alfred identifies by night, is dark and accordingly still needs to be explored, as he sets out to do in his paranoid analepsis. The “world below”, of course, at the same time maintains an allegorical function, as it serves as a spatially-oriented metaphor utilized to illustrate one’s own “tin tobacco box”, as Toni Morrison (2004: 177 ff.) would call it. This relationship between space and personality, identity and self, is another factor in the highly construed nature of space and spatiality in the narrative, for we can hypothesize at this point that at least for Alfred, whatever he has repressed up to this point resurfaces during that night on the ship, assigning to the Gunnar Myrdal a clear-cut functionality – namely

5.) Jonathan Franzen — The Corrections

that of a heterotopia eliciting a very peculiar and unique narrative that can be connected specifically only to this particular situation with this particular person moving in relation to his own specific context. To read the cruise ship as heterotopian space, then, is to read Alfred as simultaneously detached from and connected to St. Jude, physically and mentally. The narrative dynamics included in this approach resemble what I refer to as re-localization and re-narration on the above, as it were. The more the spatial distance grows, the more St. Jude is idealized by Alfred, culminating in his lengthy, almost hagiographic depiction of the place examined in 5.2. Consequentially, Alfred is haunted by an internal conflict, as opposed to the external argument with Gary. On the one hand, this idealized version of St. Jude reassures him that everything is in order. On the other side, however, the conflicts that the very same space sparks lead him to view St. Jude as “the world below”, i.e. a mysterious nether world that has yet to be uncovered even though he had found himself encapsulated in that world for most of his life. This insight is achieved solely from his being literally stuck in the heterotopia represented by the Gunnar Myrdal. Being stuck also signifies being deprived of making elaborate movements such as an escape. There is no other option for Alfred but to face his demons, as it were, and to venture inside himself so as to be capable of identifying himself and his life in his deteriorating health. Mentioning his health status, a word should be said about the narrative’s reliability. As becomes clear in the novel, Alfred is beginning to become demented, and his condition deteriorates considerably on the ship, where, in the course of his nightmare, he is even conversing with a turd. Bizarre passages such as this would rather support an unreliable interpretation of the narrative, yet we must not forget that the narrator is never Alfred. He is solely utilized as focalizer in the scenes that specifically treat him. Therefore, in his conflict with himself, and even in his demented state of mind, Alfred’s analepsis still remains reliable thanks to the narrative agency, whose assignment it is to take care of sorting the images going through Alfred’s head at different times.

5.7.3) Perspective and Focalization in the Narrative Heterotopia The narrative agency has hitherto been somewhat disregarded, yet the covert, unspecified narrator who never identifies him- or herself deserves more attention, for it is him or her who profoundly views our view on the events. Therefore, perspective and focalization necessitate closer observation, particularly so in a dynamically construed spaces such as a heterotopia, where perspectives, views and discourses are constantly in interrelative motion as integral parts of a spatially oriented discourse.

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As is hypothesized in the previous chapter, when space is viewed as one of the primary traits generating narrative, the narrative agency itself assumes the role of the organizer and arranger of what is narrated. In Alfred’s case on the Gunnar Myrdal, its main assignment is to position the narrative subject in relation to the narrative object. The narrator finds Alfred disoriented aboard the ship, and in that state places him in relation to the sea. It is mentioned “another world below” “had volume but no form” (277), conveying the impression of the sea as vast accumulation of space having yet to be explored. In terms of narrative’s perspectival structure, the narrator renders Alfred not only disoriented, but absolutely helpless as soon as he is lifted out of his traditional position, i.e. his blue armchair which he has set up in the basement of his home (cf. 3 ff.). The perspective we as readers conceive of accordingly puts us miles ahead of Alfred, for we are equipped with the necessary hindsight and knowledge so as to grasp the rest of the plot, whereas Alfred, unlike the narrator and ourselves as recipients, is clearly limited in what he strives to know. This advantage, which directly results from the perspectival relationship between narrator and character, is crucial to the constitution of the heterotopia that is the Gunnar Myrdal, because the narrator does not remain in his or her role of an outside observer, but is transformed into a factor in the genesis of this particular space. Moreover, the prominent role of the narrator is amplified by the political role it assumes, providing the filter for the reader to (re-)position himself in relation to the dynamic construct that is a heterotopia. The Gunnar Myrdal is, accordingly, constructed by three major factors: first, by the representation of the actually geographical space, the ship and the sea. Secondly, the specific quality that the ship encompasses for Alfred stands in diametrical opposition to its socially constructed purpose, namely to be a cruise ship on which people amuse themselves on vacation. Both extremes, however, occur in the same place. Third, the narrative quality of the heterotopia manifests itself in the figure of the narrator, functioning indeed as part of the story rather than a mere observer or storyteller, which opens up the narrative dimension of a heterotopian space. Focalization, however, displays what provides the crucial interface between text and reader, forming another spatially-influenced quality that eventually renders narration possible in the first place. If the perspectival arrangement depicted above is crucial in establishing the narrative occurring on the ship in the first place, then focalization functions as the window into that narrative, profoundly shaping the view of the reader in a hermeneutic process, which, according to the definition of the term, circles around the text and the realworld experience of the reader (cf. Antor 2003: 256/7). In the context of Alfred on the ship, then, we find the intra-textual component, represented in the plot conveyed by the perspectival arrangement put forth on part of the narrative

5.) Jonathan Franzen — The Corrections

agency, as well as the extra-textual component, referring to our own experiences, values, norms and ethical positions which have been constructed around us: As things pitched, so they trembled. There was a shivering in the Gunnar Myrdal’s framework, an endless shudder in the floor nd bed and birch-paneled walls. A syncopated tremor so fundamental to the ship, and so similar to Parkinson’s […] He lay approximately awake in Stateroom B11. Awake in a metal box that pitched and trembled, a dar metal box moving somewhere in the night. There was no porthole. A room with a view would have cost hundreds of dollars more, and Enid had reasoned that since a stateroom was mainly used for sleeping, who needed a porthole, at that price? […] She was sleeping now, silently, like a person feigning sleep […] Sometimes at dawn in St. Jude […] the only thing in the house was the eye of Enid. (Franzen 2007: 277/8)

The claustrophobic undertone of this passage thoroughly emphasizes the view of focalization as a window into the plot: the narrator, employing a zero focalizer, is the one who peeks into the Lamberts’ stateroom and lays out to the reader the scene: an old man in a spooky, tight place, caught in disorientation in a heterotopian space that he cannot fully grasp. In relation to the extratextual, i.e. hermeneutic facet that is the reader, Alfred evokes the impression of complete helplessness, and even pity. Given that we are facing zero focalization, we are at the narrator’s sole mercy, particularly so since there is no physical way of looking into the room, because, as is mentioned, it does not have a window. The window is provided in the focalizer, who functions as the interface between intra- and extratextual space. As such, the focalizer sustains a bi-dimensional quality. Not only does it play the pivotal role in construing the spatial relations in the narrative – furthermore, it is crucial in the mimetic representation of the situation and the larger world in general. The dynamics occurring between the internal perspectival relationships and the focalizer, both of which are spatial qualities, result in immediacy and experientiality, the aestheticization of the narrative heterotopia. Consequentially, it is appropriate to speak of the Gunnar Myrdal of a space that reciprocally influences and is influenced by the characters that it contains and constructs. Different trajectories form the spatial narrative, and it is the discrepancies resulting out of that which lie at the heart of The Corrections. It is of interest to note, however, that the identification of one of the fundamental problems in the entire narrative, Enid’s and particularly Alfred’s self-perception in relation to their home space St. Jude, is outsourced to the Gunnar Myrdal. The relocation of the tackling of some of the narrative’s most essential problems to a heterotopia hints at the constructedness of the different trajectories, as each one of the social interactors brings with him or her different experiences, thus carrying with themselves different spaces which are bound to collide at some point. The

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narrative implications for this collision are clear, for it is the re-negotiation of the communication and the relationship between the protagonists, who are not limited to Alfred and Enid, which eventually generates what we identify as the novel. In other words, the narrative continuously moves in frictions generated by the different trajectories taken by its protagonists. As such, the narrative is not static or teleological. As Kerstin Dell (2005) opines, From the elderly Midwestern couple Alfred and Enid to Gary’s family in Philadelphia, from Chip’s late family bliss at the end of the novel to Denise’s involvement with the family of her lovers Brian and Robin, the American white middle class portrayed in TC consists solely of nuclear families. A crucial difference to earlier associations of this traditional twentieth century family form with either a sanctuary and the reassurance of the norm or a prison and painful rebellion against that norm, however, is that Franzen’s fin de millennium families implicate both degeneration as well as regeneration. (179)

In this manner, it becomes evident that the true narrative-constituting entity is reflected in the frictions in which the protagonists move. The spaces occupied, constructed and internalized are never static. On the contrary, they move in relation to one another and continue to be influenced by each other.

5.8) R econfiguring S t. J ude : C oming to Terms with The C orrections Up until this point, the novel more or less celebrates the disintegration of the American nuclear family, even though on the surface level, the Lamberts remain an intact family of mother, father and children. The processes underlying the conflicts that I have elaborated throughout the course of this work, however, work on another one, and it is of crucial significance to point out that St. Jude as the space as which it has been analyzed maintains another side apart from the idealization it embodies for Alfred and the spatialized evil it is in Gary’s eyes. On Christmas Day, Chip, surprisingly returns home after an adventurous trip from Lithuania in order to fulfill his mother’s wish to spend one last Christmas together in St. Jude. As a result, the reader encounters the only passages in which the entire Lambert family – Enid, Alfred, Gary, Chip and Denise – are reunited in the same space, i.e. the crackling and crumbling Lambert family house, which, as I have demonstrated particularly in the cases of Gary and Alfred, has marked off profoundly on the characters’ identities. The “last Christmas” which Enid had worked so hard towards, however, collapses into a disaster of epic proportions. As Kerstin Dell asserts,

5.) Jonathan Franzen — The Corrections The story of the Lamberts can be described as a steady movement towards an all-time low point in their lives. At this nadir, everything the characters had dreamed of, worked for, even gotten a taste of, falls into pieces. The eventual crash towards which the various plot lines lead can be read as the final meeting point between two very different realities that have been determining the lives of each family member: the surface, or ‘enchanted reality’ each of them has constructed; and the subtext, or the way things really are, which all of them try to ignore. Each character reaches his or her low point when the subtext eventually hits and destroys the surface. (2005: 172)

Having forethought this type of clash, Chip enters the house repeating a mantra-like promise to himself: “I’m staying for three days and then I’m going back to New York, I’m finding a job, I’m putting aside five hundred dollar a month, minimum, until I’m out of debt, and I’m working every night on the script.” (Franzen 2007: 620) It becomes rather easily visible Chip feels thoroughly uncomfortable in his old home. In pronouncing this “incantation” (ibid.), even if only to himself, he asserts that he intends his stay to remain strictly temporary, at which point there is another intersection of space and time containing a hint at how profoundly space induces behavior: “Invoking this charm, which was all he had now, the paltry sum of his identity, he stepped through the doorway.” (ibid., 621) The doorway helps create an action, which must be located at the heart of anything that has to be narrated. It is therefore interesting to note that he invokes his famed charm in the very second that he enters the house, which directly proves the essential function of the house as space in relation to the characters that it has assisted in producing. There does indeed exist a direct interconnection between social behavior as well as the expectation of that behavior, a thoroughly inscribed space producing the aforementioned aspect as well as the action that brings Chip’s character to life. In conjunction, these three arguments assign the house (and St. Jude, for that matter) an almost active role in the narrative. In Dell’s terminology, we still find ourselves at the surface level of what she refers to as the “enchanted” reality. As the family takes a seat for breakfast, the climactic scene of the novel occurs as Gary, true to his previous announcement (cf. Franzen 2007: 577), demands “some answers now” (ibid., 625). At this point, the enchanted realities which the Lamberts, not exclusively but particularly, Alfred and Enid have constructed for themselves are falling apart as Gary asks his father to put his right hand on his left shoulder, at which Alfred thoroughly fails (cf. ibid., 626). Parallel to Alfred’s mental decline, the reader can detect a more and more powerful Gary, who, despite having attempted not to become a patriarch like Alfred, assumes the role of a classic leader, a decider, as it were. In this conversation, it is him who takes the active part. It is him who uses the imperative forms, and it is him who eventually reverses the politics of the father-and-son relationship in ascribing to himself the authoritative power of

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telling Alfred what to do and to make a decision directly concerning Alfred with the same’s approval: “‘Dad?’ Gary said. ‘Come on. Right hand, left shoulder.’ ‘Stop it,’ Denise said. ‘Let’s go, Dad. Right hand, left shoulder. Can you do that? You want to show us how you follow simple instructions? Come on! Right hand. Left shoulder.’” (ibid., 626/7) As if that were not enough of a humiliation for Alfred, upon getting up from his chair, he falls down, “dragging his plate and place mat and coffee cup and saucer along with him. The crash might have been the last bar of a symphony. He lay on his side amid the ruins like a wounded gladiator, a fallen horse.” (ibid.) In addition to the aspect of humiliation, this passage incorporates a spatial dimension as well, related not so much to space as much rather spatiality. Again, the deictico-hierarchical relationship already analyzed can be traced in the text, only that it is completely reversed. Alfred is down, while the rest of the family is located literally above him. The spatial quality which this situation maintains is one of striking urgency, for it illustrates the fall of Alfred the Patriarch not just in the literal, but also in the figurative manner. Even though the reader never gets to witness his “rise”, aside from the analepsis on the Gunnar Myrdal pertaining to his self-conception, his fall is definite, and with Alfred’s fall comes the Lambert family’s epiphany that the rule of Alfred is over, so to speak. Illustrating Al as omnipotent dictator would be a criminal oversimplification of a complex novel maintaining highly idiosyncratic socio-cultural as well as intra-familiar dynamics. It is indisputable, however, that through this fall, the Lambert house opens up, particularly transforming Chip from a “feckless sibling”, as Gary calls him (628), to a responsible middle-aged man. Before Chip can rise from the ashes, as it were, St. Jude needs to be re-imagined, reconfigured and reconstructed. The first step of the re-configuration has been performed already with the decisive change in the character constellation. It has been shown that space and spatiality generate the narrative as much as the temporal succession does, which redirects the attention to the reconstruction of St. Jude.

5.8.1) Re-Imagining St. Jude and Reconstructing the Family: On the Dynamization of the Lamberts Alfred’s de-facto disempowerment sparks a dynamization of the Lambert family hitherto unseen in the novel, as the roles have been allotted relatively statically up to this point. With Alfred now being in the position of not making decisions anymore, but of being decided on, particularly Gary and Chip undergo a drastic change. From what the reader gets to know about Gary, even with his assumed father complex, he still is a responsible man who now shakes all responsibility off of himself: “It seemed unbelievable to Chip that Gary could simply walk out of the house with Alfred on the floor and Enid’s Christmas breakfast in ruins,

5.) Jonathan Franzen — The Corrections

but Gary was in his most rational mode, his words had a formal hollowness, his eyes were evasive,[…]because he was afraid. Chip could see it clearly now[…]his brother was afraid.” (ibid., 629) Employing Chip as focalizer, the narrator puts the reader in the position of seeing Gary leave, and simultaneously leaving his responsibility behind, for it was him who so strongly insisted on the family discussion leading up to the present situation: “‘Well, she’d [Enid] better enjoy it in a hurry,’ Gary said, ‘because she owes me a discussion and I’m expecting payment.’” (ibid., 622) In essence, this step on part of Gary signifies a fundamental re-structuring of the Lambert family, with Alfred gone and the eldest son incapable of taking responsibility any longer. Chip’s position therefore reflects the result of a complete crash of the Lambert family, whose ground zero, as it were, occurs when Alfred finally falls to the ground. However, on that ground zero, the opportunity of a new beginning arises, and it is that which takes place in the weeks after Christmas, as Chip, upon request by Denise (cf. ibid., 632), stays a while longer than he had planned, de facto accepting his new role as a responsible child more or less tracing his parents’ footprints as the novel nears its end. Sibylle Freitag maintains that [t]he lives of Gary, Chip and Denise Lambert are to a certain extent ‘applied corrections’ of their parents’ lives. In the process of determining who they are, they have concentrated so much on the question of who they are not (namely their parents) that they still have to come to terms with themselves […] Chip Lambert is the character who has arguably changed the most by the end of the novel […] Back in St. Jude, he changes his clothes again, this he wears his father’s clothes which […] ‘fit him better than he would have guessed’. (2008: 201)

The fundamental transformation that Chip undergoes can be explained by three primary factors: The witnessing of his father’s fall and Gary’s actions before and after it, Denise’s asking for a favor and his moral obligation to fulfill that favor, but, most importantly, the moral obligation towards his father who, even though there have been many conflicts between Chip and Alfred, seems to adhere to Chip exceptionally strongly in the last part of the novel: “‘Well!’ Alfred said, his face blazing with joy as he took Chip’s hand in both of his.” (Franzen 2007: 620) More strongly, it is mentioned that this “recognition might have had the character of mistaken identity if it hadn’t been accompanied by Alfred’s exclamation of Chip’s name. Chip seemed beloved to the old man.” (ibid., 629), whereas Gary used to be Alfred’s favorite son before the Christmas incident. The drastic change in the character configuration accordingly profoundly shakes up the world of the Lamberts, which includes a drastic modification of St. Jude, including the family home as space and place. First traces of said transformation can be identified as soon as Chip comes home: “The mid-western

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street struck the traveler [Chip] as a wonderland of wealth and oak trees and conspicuously useless space. The traveler didn’t see how such a place could exist in a world of Lithuanias and Polands. […] Nowhere in the nation of Lithuania was there a room like the Lambert living room.” (ibid., 620/21) However, at the same time, “[i]t seemed like an exceptionally vivid memory of something beloved and dead.” (ibid., 620) Chip, in other words, delves in nostalgia, recognizing what he sees, or more precisely, the inscriptions he recalls, as a thing of the past. His construct of St. Jude belongs into the realm of memory, and the void existing in the present accordingly needs to be filled, providing action, and thus, narrative material, which, once again, can be derived from space. The new space in the process of being corrected presents itself in profoundly different terms. While Chip tells the story of his Lithuanian adventures, “Denise, normally a paragon of listening, was absorbed in helping Alfred with his food, and Enid had eyes only for her husband’s deficiencies. She flinched or sighed or shook her head at every spilled bite, every non sequitur. Alfred was quite visibly making her life a hell now. I’m the least unhappy person at this table, Chip thought.” (630) Once more, the world is turned upside down – children feeding the parents in a house “whose windows shook in the wind” (634). The image communicated to the reader is one of instability and old age, which allows us to view the house once again as a metaphor for Alfred’s and Enid’s lives. In other words, the only glue, so to speak, still keeping that house together is represented by the children, one of which lays bare the true state of things, and two of which left to re-structure their parents’ as well as their own lives. Both children, and eventually Enid, realize that Alfred cannot live at home anymore without intensive care and assistance, which Enid would not accept even if she could actually afford to do so. Upon a visit to the hospital, Alfred is diagnosed with “parkinsonism, dementia, depression, and neuropathy of the legs and urinary tract” (651), necessitating permanent care in a nursing-home, and thus, the de facto eviction from his home. It is at this point where the erosion of the nuclear family becomes most clearly visible, and it is elicited by means different spatio-cultural experiences clashing on Christmas Day. This is where we find the pivotal difference in the family structure. In spatial terms, Alfred is now away from home, with the distance signifying a loss of control over himself and over his family, leaving Enid in charge. The distance establishes a direct link between a spatial category and the social ramifications that it encompasses, i.e. Alfred’s deprivation of his sense of self not only psycho-neurologically, but also physically in having to leave behind the environment to which he has clung for most of his life. One could also maintain that Alfred is practically de-spatialized whereas Enid and her children re-structure the space that seemed most familiar to Alfred, and that he very much idealized. Eventually, however, “through Alfred’s impending death, the family miraculously finds its way back together. From now on, Enid is free

5.) Jonathan Franzen — The Corrections

from the man who had prevented her life for almost 50 years.” (Rieckmann 2009: 161)

5.9) C orrected S paces : A R ee valuation of S t. J ude As is mentioned above, Alfred now lives in a nursing-home in St. Jude, leaving the “St. Jude” with which Enid and his children had been all too familiar, in a power vacuum, which the family uses to find its way back together. The narrative agency specifies that Enid “saw everything much more clearly now, her children in particular. When Gary returned to St. Jude with Jonah a few months after the catastrophic Christmas, she had nothing but fun with them.” (Franzen 2007: 648) It is perhaps rather shocking to realize that Enid flourishes after Alfred’s departure from the family. Then again, on the other hand, “as son as he was out of the house and she’d caught up on her sleep, she saw it clearly.” (ibid.) From a spatial point of view, St. Jude’s (or the inscribed quality it assumes as the constructed space it represents) flaw is corrected by Alfred’s loss of self as well as by the subsequent distance created on part of the Lambert family, having decided to place Alfred in a nursing home. In the spatial category of the distance established, we find the true correction at the nucleus of the Lambert family. As such, the pivotal correction represents what sparks the further narrative, focusing on Enid, which is temporally set a couple of months after Christmas. Yet the spark that lights the candle, is based on a spatial construct. Alfred’s being away from home has naturally left a gap, which, perhaps most surprisingly in the entire plot, is filled by Chip. We learn that “Chip in particular seemed almost miraculously transformed. After Christmas, he stayed with Enid for six weeks, visiting Alfred every day, before returning to New York. A week later he was back in St. Jude, minus his awful earrings.” (ibid., 650) This continuation of the re-intensified relationship to his parents appears to be the logical consequence derived from the Christmas scenes, where he realizes how much his father clings to him and how similar they are, after all, even though Chip superficially lives an entirely different life than his father did. This, too, is corrected. On the same page, we are informed that Chip moves back to the Midwest because he gets involved with his father’s neurologist, Alison Schulman. For Chip, the failed intellectual and professor, the circle finally comes to a close, and eventually, he becomes the “corrected”, as it were, version of Alfred moving back to the Midwest, which Enid certainly is very fond of (cf. ibid.) In a sense, therefore, Chip’s re-localization can in fact be read as a correction of Alfred’s frailties, essentially representing the underlying, most basic thought of family life, namely that children are supposed to fare better in life than their parents. It seems as though Chip takes that to heart, particularly so since he is starting a family on his own (cf. ibid., 652 ff.).

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In addition, Enid now embodies a different role as opposed to when she had been with Alfred. It appears as though she has become much more liberal, a corrected version of Alfred’s stubbornness and “high prairie” (ibid., 281) type of Midwestern conservatism. In short, Enid finds herself in the process of emancipating herself from Alfred and his world, and through the support of her children, is in contact with the world outside of St. Jude or the Lambert home: “It made a difference, certainly, that all three of her kids were helping out.” (ibid., 650) Moreover, she goes to New York to visit her daughter Denise, and as an emancipated woman explores a space having symbolized the hopes of so many for decades.9 What Alfred had called an “eastern blight” has a lasting effect on Enid, as she carries the liberalism symbolized by the northeast back to St. Jude: Back in St. Jude, Enid was playing bridge at Mary Beth Schumpert’s one afternoon when Bea Meisner began to vent her Christian approval of a famous ‘gay actress’.[…]Enid[…] mildly commented that she didn’t think ‘gays’ could help being ‘gay’.[…]’I don’t believe it’s a choice,’ Enide insisted quietly. ‘Chip said an interesting thing to me once. He said that with so many people hating ‘gays’ and disapproving of them, why would anybody choose to be ‘gay’ if they could help it?’ (ibid., 649)

In a way, this conversation mirrors Enid’s development after Alfred’s departure, as it were, from home. The development itself, however, results from the incogruency of the collision of divergently inscribed spaces, represented through either the spaces themselves, such as the New York vs. St. Jude dichotomy, or representatives of said spaces, such as Chip and Alfred. If Chip and Alfred, for instance, are to be viewed as representatives of certainly connoted and construed spaces, then they simultaneously mirror the evidence personified for the dynamic and indispensable role that space takes in the genesis of the narrative, particularly so when different sites (or their inscriptions) collide, sparking processes of negotiation that can spin a story as well as time.

9  |  New York is read as the space of opportunity with which it has been traditionally connected particularly since the opening of Ellis Island as immigration center. Cf. Also Baur, Joachim.“‘Ellis Island, Inc.: The Making of an American Site of Memory.” In: Grabbe, Hans- Jürgen and Schindler, Sabine. (eds.) The Merits of Memory. Concepts, Contexts, Debates. Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag Winter, 2008. 186.

5.) Jonathan Franzen — The Corrections

5.9.1) A Life Unlived: An Attempt at Making Corrections “The sorry fact seemed to be that life without Alfred in the house was better for everyone but Alfred.” (ibid., 651), the narrator informs the reader, and it is on these last couple of pages that Enid for the first time in the entire story gets what she wants: “She was glad, if nothing else, to have his body back. She’d always loved his size, his shape, his smell, and he was much more available now that he was restrained […] His body was what she’d always wanted.” (ibid.) Paradoxically, now that Alfred has been reduced to a mere shell, the proximity between Enid and him is greater than ever, even though Alfred is mentally entirely removed from the scene, as he does not even recognize his wife when she visits him (cf. ibid., 652). In this particular reading, this signifies that the distance generates a hitherto unknown familiarity between the old couple. This paradox arises from the spatial categories that can be detected in proximity and distance, with the paradox serving as the central means by which the narrative takes its turn not only in terms of content, but also in focalization, as the narrator now employs Enid as focalizer. From a narrative point of view, one could already conceive of this step as a genuine correction of the Lambert family, as the disempowerment of Alfred is logically followed by a different focalizer. Furthermore, Enid certainly represents the character who needs to make the most corrections in her life, and also needs to be corrected the most, as the gradual revision of some of her rather reactionary socio-political views demonstrates (cf. ibid., 648-655). The big correction, so to speak, is a dynamic process occurring in St. Jude in the now renovated family home, which is why it makes sense to employ Enid as the central character. As the narrator formulates, “[t]he correction, when it finally came, was not an overnight bursting of a bubble but a much more gentle letdown, a year-long leakage of value from key financial markets […]” (ibid., 647). The economic metaphors applied in this context at first sight appear to be a little bit out of place, but in choosing them, the narrator connects various sub-plots centering around money and investments, reflecting one of the primary conflict sources between Alfred and Enid among their children.10 The gradual process, the “loss of values”, as it is circumscribed, therefore reflects a self-regulatory effect of the market coming into play once a variant is altered, to remain in that economic terminology. The altered variant is Alfred’s absence, and through that, in conjunction with the re-inscribed space that is St. Jude and the other spatial 10 | Cf., for instance, the quarrels about Alfred’s patent (173 ff.), Enid’s requests to make stock market investments so as to improve their pension funds (81), Alfred’s early retirement out of sheer stubbornness (82) etc, not to mention that Chip is notoriously broke and Gary is an investment banker, whereas Denise seems to have enough money, but does not care about it at all.

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experiences to which Enid is exposed eventually forms the big correction. Of course, the marital stagnation she faced with Alfred contributes significantly to the plot, yet it must be acknowledged that this rather temporal category belongs into the realm of the past as soon as Alfred leaves the house, consequentially serving as an experiential value to Enid, reuniting space and time on the same narrative-generating axis. Specifically, Enid continually corrects the demented Alfred in his room at the nursing home: She’d felt Wrong all her life and now she had a chance to tell him how Wrong he was. Even as she was loosening up and becoming less critical in other areas of life, she remained strictly vigilant at Deepmire Home [...] Altogether he was wrong about so many things that, except for her four days in New York and her two Christmases in Philadelphia and her three weeks of recovery from hip surgery, she never failed to visit him. She had to tell him, while she still had time, how wrong he’d been and how right she’d been […] how wrong to have said no, again and again, instead of yes: she had to tell him all of this, every single day. Even if he wouldn’t listen, she had to tell him. (ibid., 653)

The interconnectedness of space, time and narrative becomes most obvious in this passage, for we are even presented a meta-narrative discourse of the plot. The narrator tells a story, employing Enid as focalizer, who again tells a story to Alfred, and whether he listens or not does not appear all that important. The truly significant factor is that her experience and her surroundings – and I use the term in its broadest possible definition, as a general spatial category – elicit the story she tells. In that sense, space is re-established, and in many parts of the novel, foregrounded as being the primary elicitor of narrative structures, which Susanne Rohr (cf. 2004: 96) culturally contextualizes as the re-establishment of order on the narrative level, whereas everything else falls apart. In that reading, the narrative discourse provides the binding substance between the enchanted realities fabricated by the characters and the represented reality in the novel. The meta-narrative that the narrator has Enid perform, however, hints at another level, as it dynamizes the character that is Enid who now directly confronts her patriarchal but demented husband. The connotations her step carries are two-fold. One could indeed applaud her for finally voicing her opinion. Simultaneously, one could scold her for having waited too long for Alfred to comprehend what she utters. What she performs on him is a correction that cannot be reversed. It is one-dimensional and pseudoteleological, which renders these corrections as well as the meta-narrative in which they are transmitted, spatial. Eventually, Enid’s big correction liberates and emancipates herself, but leaves no effect on Alfred at all: “He’d been living at the Deepmire Home for two years when he stopped accepting food. […] Alfred lasted longer after that than anyone expected. He was a lion to the end[…] The thing he never forgot was

5.) Jonathan Franzen — The Corrections

how to refuse. All of her correction had been for naught. He was as stubborn as the day she’d met him.” (653) So, the story comes to a close. It is interesting to notice that a description of St. Jude closes out the novel, yet in a different way than it had been represented in the very beginning. We are now situated on a “warm spring night” (ibid.), and the impression communicated to the reader at this point is that “nothing could kill her hope now, nothing.” (ibid.) The images stand in fierce opposition to the opening passage, which illuminates St. Jude as just about the dullest and darkest place one could imagine. Accordingly, there is a transformed space which Enid attempts to reconquer and to modify according to her own personal needs and desires. The environmental conditions are given on the night that Alfred dies, and for the very first time, Enid has to worry about nothing and nobody but herself. It is in this spirit that she thinks the ultimate thoughts of the novel: “She was seventyfive and she was going to make some changes in her life.” (ibid.) In the course of this reading of The Corrections, St. Jude has been painted in various colors, one of which is the re-configuration that it undergoes as a construed space on Christmas Eve. It is at this point there where groundwork is laid for the later self-liberation of Enid and the disempowerment of Alfred. This is no attempt at transforming the analysis into a feminist reading. The substance ‘, which is a result of all the processes analyzed and interpreted on the above. Space plays a fundamental role in establishing all these narratives and trajectories, which intersect all at one point and at one time, revealing the ultimate dysfunctionality of the Lambert family, and its subsequent correction. It is only through the interaction and the simultaneous confrontation of these trajectories that the nucleus of the novel can be discerned. Alfred’s death eventually functions as a catalyzer for Enid’s hopeful last utterances, resulting in a bittersweet ending that asks the question whether it is necessary for someone to be solitary in order to be independent. In other words, to create and follow one’s individual trajectory.

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6.) Toni Morrison’s African American History Trilogy “See them big plantations burning/ Hear the cracking of the whips/ Smell that sweet magnolia blooming/ See the ghosts of slavery ships/” B ob D ylan, “Blind Willie McTell”

6.1) S wee t H ome vs . 124 B luestone R oad : S patial C onstructs and I magery in Toni M orrison ’s B eloved Toni Morrison’s African American history trilogy, the three novels Beloved, Jazz, and Paradise, employ space and spatiality as means of (re-)integrating a distinctly African American narrative into U.S.-American culture. While Beloved and Jazz display attempts at coming to terms with the ramifications of the periods of slavery and the Great Migration, Paradise tries to create a distinctly black utopia similar to Winthrop’s “city upon a hill” (cf. 2003: 105 ff.), which reveals the significance of space in African American discourse, albeit under entirely different premises. Whereas the WASP U.S.-American conception of space stands for a comprehension of expansion, subjugation and perceived superiority, Morrison’s use of space reverses these conceptions, using these cultural traits so as to create an emancipatory narrative that subverts the dominant culture by making use of its cultural idiosyncracies. Toni Morrison has been one of the most acclaimed U.S.-American writers of the past century, and in her fiction gives voice to an African American narrative of U.S.-American history which runs parallel to the mainstream cultural narratives that white U.S.-American historiographers have construed thus far. As will be shown, space is one of the cultural narratives that she employs. Particularly her construction of narrativeas-history and vice-versa is a striking facet of her self-claimed trilogy.1 1 | Cf. Mulrine, Anna. “This side of ‘Paradise’: Toni Morrison defends herself from criticism of her new novel Paradise.” URL: http://www.swarthmore.edu/Humanities/ pschmid1/engl52a/engl52a.1999/morrison.html (January 27, 2013, 9.10 a.m.).

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Beloved begins in Cincinnati, Ohio, on 124 Bluestone Road, in the midst of winter in 1873. The novel’s first page assigns a pro-active role to the house, portraying it as a sinister criminal: “124 was spiteful. Full of a baby’s venom. For years each put up with the spite in his own way, but by 1873 Sethe and her daughter Denver were its only victims.” (Morrison 2004: 3) Considering that the house has been Sethe’s and her family’s home ever since she escaped from “Sweet Home”, the other pole in the spatial dichotomy in which Sethe moves, the stark representation contradicts traditional views of a home as a haven of security and familial solidarity. In fact, the house has driven all the other family members away: “Each one fled at once – the moment the house committed what was for him the one insult not to be borne or witnessed a second time[...] [having] crept away from the lively spite the house felt for them.” (ibid.) The personification at this initial stage of the novel fulfills two primary functions: first, it establishes the spatial category of the house as one of the primary themes in Beloved, and secondly, it activates space as the result of a characteristic reciprocity between structures and actions. 124 Bluestone Road is assigned its particular role by being inhabited by Sethe and her personal story or trajectory, but at the very moment when Sethe and her family commence living in the house, it becomes a central element in (re-)producing the individual family members’ experiences. Particularly with regard to these experiences, the house also fulfills a double function inasmuch as it provides the starting point for Sethe’s sons (cf. ibid.) and actively forces them out, while it simultaneously represents an ending point of Sethe’s individual trajectory. This can best be proven by the conversation between Sethe and Paul D, “the last of the Sweet Home men” (ibid., 7) when they reencounter after 18 years: “‘Eighteen years’, she said softly. ‘Eighteen’, he repeated. And I swear I been walking every one of em.’” (ibid., 8) Even though it is Paul D who utters this statement, Sethe’s situation is very similar, for their trajectory begins and ends at largely the same spot at the same time. In conjunction with de Certeau’s belief that trajectories are spaces which are acted out (1984: 97/8), the 18 years of walking can be read as the connecting element between the two dichotomous poles represented by “Sweet Home” and 124 Bluestone Road. Sara Upstone (2009) interprets this distance as a “postcolonial journey”: In Beloved, Morrison moves into the past to directly confront the colonial journey [...] The journeys of Sethe and Paul D. exemplify an America in which colonialism continues through slavery and racism, even while existing within what is, after independence in 1783, a postcolonial nation. [...] The boundaries and laws that restrict movement are the same laws and principles that defined America as newly colonised space [...] (62/3)

This spatial disparity, i.e. the paradox between postcolonial environment and quasi-colonial reality of the past is one of the striking motives in the

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novel, as can be demonstrated by Sethe’s stating that walking “just one step off that ground [of Sweet Home] and they were trespassers among the human race.’” (Morrison qtd. in Upstone 2009: 63) Even though Sethe has seemingly escaped the horrors of slavery, the associations with the site that was Sweet Home have remained with Sethe, moving the memory of that particular locale up to Ohio, with Sethe and Paul D serving as vehicles. It is Sweet Home which has infested 124 Bluestone Road, serving as nucleus of the introduction to the story. The inscription is one that remains with the characters, and one that they carry with them. Here, we encounter a good example of a collision of the spatial inscriptions described previously. The collision of these two disparate poles then sparks the actual narrative in the here and now. In this concrete example, Sethe and Paul D have taken a space of confinement in the South and taken it to a space of alleged freedom in Ohio, and the confrontation of these two spaces is what determines the initial story and its subsequent narration. In addition, the image of the journey reveals an intersection of space and time, since the distance between “Sweet Home” and 124 is a spatial category measured in a temporal unit. Vice versa, one could go with Koselleck (cf. 2000: 8) that the 18 years are a temporal category measured in spatial units, i.e. distance. What manifests itself in this double function of the house is the directionality of space in narrative. The house ties people to itself while torturing them and driving other people out in the same manner. Directionality also corresponds to the deictic function of narrative. Generally, it can be asserted that deictics linguistically create the (fictional) perspectival setting for the story, and as such is created by a narrative agency which has to arrange linguistic items in such a manner that personal, spatial and temporal aspects of the story at hand can move in relation to each other in a manner as unobstructed as possible. This function is in itself a spatial unit, for the arrangement of said items by definition requires a space in what can be called the spatial syntagm. Arrangement in itself requires a space, which, analogously to Edward Soja, might be referred to as the contextual given. This must be filled subsequently by the narrative agency so as to create a relationship of linguistic items which, upon codification, in the literary text form a specific combination that makes up the spaces that characters fill. These latter spaces are the above-mentioned spatial paradigms, the specific locations (or relations between them) in the text at which the characters (inter-)act, in this case visualized by the juxtaposition of “124 Bluestone Road” and Sweet Home”. Nünning (2009) opines: Generally, it is accepted that an unspecified number of links to real entities (i.e. verifiable data, spaces, places and objects) is one of the constitutive traits of the novel. As part of the framework presented and the conception of the fictional as an act

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Essentially, one is confronted with the deictic qualities of narrative as the bridge between the intra- and the extratextual, which Joachimsthaler (cf. 2005: 345) defends. This additional dimension of narrative lends the spatial a mimetic authority linking it specifically to the characters that move within the paradigmatic space constructed by its syntagmatic arrangement. Deixis thus constitutes much more than merely adverbials or pronouns. It provides for the critical connection between showing and telling, creating a type of diegesis not opposed to, but containing mimesis as “the way an organism adapts itself to its environment” (Potolsky 2006: 144).3 The spatial here consists of three axes: first, the vertical axis, which, in the realm of cultural representation, corresponds to the hierarchization and the politicization of social organization, which Doreen Massey refers to as “power geometry” (1992: 80/1). This is achieved by Sethe’s biography, which puts her in a weak position as a fugitive slave. Second, the horizontal aspect must represent the socio-cultural context from which characters (in a literary work) emerge. This is to say that characters are confronted with the “other”, forming the horizontal axis on which they have to find their identity. The “other” in this case is represented by characters as well as by spaces. In terms of characters, Paul D and particularly her dead daughter constantly remind Sethe of her identity. On the other hand, the distance between her two primary spaces is what essentially fills her life after having fled “Sweet Home”. This mirror narrative4 is crucial not solely to personal identity formation, but just as well to the awareness of the spatiality of one’s own existence, resulting in a type of self-reflexivity that positions a protagonist in relation to his personal and environmental surroundings. As a result, Sethe’s personal spatiality puts her in a constant state of non-existence, of not being able to let go of the past while desperately trying to move on to the present. Once again, the crucial intersection of space and time becomes clearly visible, as past and present 2  |  Original German: “Nach allgemeiner Einschätzung zählt es etwa zu den konstitutiven Merkmalen der meisten Romane, dass sie eine unbestimmte Menge von Bezügen auf reale Entitäten – neben verifizierbaren Daten vor allem Räume, Orte und Gegenstände – enthalten. Im Rahmen des dargelegten Referenzmodells und der Konzeption des Fiktiven als Akt der Grenzüberschreitung lässt sich dieses gattungsspezifische Merkmal der Selektionsstruktur des Romans […] beschreiben als die Integration von Elementen der außertextuellen Realität in die Fiktion[…]”. 3  |  Potolsky cites Theodor Adorno’s definition of mimesis in critical theory. 4  |  For a more elaborate treatment of (national) identity formation, cf. Westphal 2007: 17ff.

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are inextricably tied to the spatial constructs described on the above. Third, the combination of these two axes forms the cultural representation of space. Here, the reader is confronted with one of the central paradigms in U.S.American history: the dialectical opposition of two spaces, only that there is no corresponding, romantic opposition between good and evil attached to those spaces. In Beloved, the cultural landscape is made up by the discrepancy between two bleak spaces, Sweet Home containing the horrors of slavery, and 124 Bluestone Road channeling the mental horrors of coming to terms with it. In fact, the house on 124 Bluestone Road is embedded in a setting which only amplifies the stark atmosphere of the house and works in conjunction with the psychological situation at hand: “Winter in Ohio was especially rough if you had an appetite for color. Sky provided the only drama, and counting on a Cincinnati horizon for life’s principal joy was reckless indeed. So Sethe and the girl Denver did what they could, and what the house permitted, for her.” (ibid., 4) The bleak setting illustrated in these introductory lines serves on the one hand as specific locale and background to the story. On the other hand it indirectly informs the characters’ behavior, as becomes clear when looking at the direct and consecutive manner in which the connection between the larger space of a winterly Ohio and the house on 124 Bluestone Road is presented. Indeed, the spiteful nature of the house, and therefore Sethe’s and Denver’s struggles, are a result of the “Cincinnati horizon.” (ibid.) The image of the horizon, in connection to the sky providing “the only drama”, places 124 Bluestone Road in a space which could not be more dreary, particularly if one takes into consideration the “appetite for color” (ibid.), which implies a grey and muddled sky without clear sunlight. However, the sky functions as the superordinate institution which, through its implied storminess, is depicted as the only source of action in an otherwise paralyzed place. This makes for a paradoxically symbiotic relationship between movement and standstill, creating the atmosphere in which 124 can grow to be the criminal house it is described to be. The horizon opens up an additional layer of spatial representation. Whereas the two layers just described can be identified as vertical, the horizon functions as a horizontal category, and reflects an image combining fear of the unknown and hope for what lies behind it at the same time. In this initiatory stage of Beloved, the horizon serves as neither a dividing line nor a concrete frontier, but as a concept not even worth pursuing because doing so would be “reckless” (ibid.) As a consequence, the horizon symbolizes the unreachable. What lies behind it is rendered completely irrelevant, only the fact that its pursuit is pointless remains, reinterpreting a traditionally hopeful or at least anticipatory image to be a symbol of hopelessness, despair and tragedy. More importantly, Morrison uses this traditionally Western symbol in order to incorporate the African American experience of (post)-slavery in mainstream readings of American history, to which dividing lines such as

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horizons or real or imaginary frontiers have contributed so greatly. In fact, the inclusion of African American experience from the inside in “white” tradition (or what is perceived as such) represents one of Toni Morrison’s primary literary strategies: The terms and concepts of history/storytelling, memory, and identity are not fixed terms that can easily be defined [...] What Morrison implies about what ‘history’ can and should [do], whose voices are not being recorded, and how we might rethink our uncritical reading of [...] ‘history’ is vibrant and often more compelling to students that more patently argumentative texts. (Ogburn 2007: 127)

While Ogburn focuses on the use of Beloved for teaching, her critical reading of the novel confirms Morrison’s role in “giv[ing] life to an essential aspect of American reality”5, which is what Morrison does when reinterpreting critical aspects of civilization from an African American point of view, rendering visible the black experience in the mirror of the other and at the same time occupying its rightful place alongside “white” tradition. This step lends the narrative an emancipatory quality because it reclaims a prerogative of interpretation over African American history that is self-determined and free from undue influence. The unreachable horizon not only inverts the traditional message the image normally conveys, but also creates a space in which the African American experience is mirrored on the same bill. By means of this strategy, Morrison manages indeed to foreground African American discourse on the back of a white vehicle. In terms of narrative, this passage reflects the crucial nature of space and spatiality, but what is more important, it reveals how deeply ingrained the two concepts are in contemporary African American writing. From a narrative point of view, this becomes visible in the representation of the house by means of the narrative agency. According to the model promoted in the previous chapter, the narrative agency in these expository lines can be classified as predominantly extratopian. This becomes visible even in the first lines when the narrative agency overtly describes his own detachedness from the level of the story by providing a rather omniscient account of 124: “The women in the house knew it and so did the children. [...] It didn’t have a number then, because Cincinnati didn’t stretch that far.” (Morrison 2004: 3) Providing this information, the narrator provides a geographical, very structured overview of the situation at hand. Moreover, he distances himself from the level of action and so establishes a distance between himself and the characters. This is to say that his narrative authority is formed by the category of position in relation to the level of action. In this way, the story the reader perceives is informed by the 5 | URL: http://www.nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/1993/ (January 31, 2013, 9:18).

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narrator’s position. As a result, it is a spatial category which presents the story in its existing form to the reader. Another factor indicative of an extratopian narrative agency can be discerned in the vertical mobility employed. The lines referenced above represent a concrete level of description. While not yet a detailed account of a person’s innermost thoughts and feelings, it presents the characters in a neutral sense. However, there is a certain dynamic when the narrator transfers the level of narration to the level of concrete geography, depicting the larger geographical setting in which 124 Bluestone Road is situated (cf. ibid., 4). This can be read as the “zooming out” characteristic which has been outlined in the theoretical part. This perspectival dynamic serves two primary purposes: First, it illuminates the geographical prerequisites rendering the narrative action possible in the first place. Second, by providing this dynamic, the narrative agency draws attention to itself, adding another axis to the spatial framework underlying the narrative, contributing to the intertwined role which space and spatiality fulfill in Beloved’s discourse. The intersection of these two aspects is most clearly visible in the following passage: “So Sethe and the girl Denver did what they could, and what the house permitted, for her. Together they waged a perfunctory battle against the outrageous behavior of that place; against turned-over slop jars, smacks on the behind, and gusts of sour air. For they understood the source of the outrage as well as they knew the source of light.” (ibid.) Bearing in mind that this passage is placed right after the one just treated, it can be stated that the narrator at this point is caught zooming back into the more concrete level of character depiction while at the same time maintaining the geographical or atmospherical aspect of his narration. Mentioning the “gusts of sour air” (ibid.), the narrator connects geographical surroundings with character analysis. The image corresponds to both, a space in which this type of air is contained and those who produce the sour air. What is more striking is the personification of the house as a criminal, and, here specifically, a tyrant who has to permit his owners to go about their lives. In conjunction with the extratopian narrative agency, there is a symbiosis of the spatial unit that is the house, the space in which it acts as well as the personal trajectory undertaken by the family which generates a violently dramatic space that counteracts any notion of individual freedom that Sethe and Paul D might have been looking for when they fled Sweet Home. On the contrary, their memory of Sweet Home is so deeply ingrained into their characters that they took it with them to alleged freedom, where it continues to exert its powerfully traumatic influence on them. On a sidenote, Sethe’s mother-in-law, Baby Suggs, opens up a trauma narrative, using the image of the house as an example: “‘What’d be the point?’ asked Baby Suggs. ‘Not a house in the country ain’t packed to its rafters with some dead Negro’s grief. We lucky this ghost is a baby. My husband’s spirit was

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to come back here? or yours [sic!]? Don’t talk to me.” (ibid., 6.) Generalizing Sethe’s trauma, Baby Suggs transfers the story from the personal to the social level. In universalizing the problem of the haunted house, the image of one’s own house as a space of comfort and a safe haven is counteracted on a level which reconfigures a space with a traditionally positive connotation into one connected with horror and despair. This is confirmed by Nancy Jesser, who writes: The demands of self-protection and home make it impossible to rely entirely on ‘open’ spaces, for they carry their own vulnerabilities. The rented house 124 Bluestone plays a crucial role in marking the possibilities and limits of transformation of spaces Morrison’s characters inhibit. [...] The home is a place where horror becomes embodied, and where sustaining human connections can be found. The very walls and doors of the house can stymie interventions by the community, or facilitate them. (1999: 326)

Moreover, Jesser’s elaborations correspond with the prominent role which the house assumes in generating the narrative for the present, as opposed to Sweet Home, which serves the same purpose for the past. In this manner, there are two narratives informed by the specifics of their spatialities, connected by the trajectory that the characters have traced in order to travel from point A to point B. The factor of time is also of crucial importance, for it is through the intersection of space and time that the two parallel narratives can merge into one larger plot. In contrast to 124 Bluestone Road, Sweet Home is depicted as a seductively beautiful space nevertheless resembling hell on earth for those forced to work there: “The plash of water, the sight of her shoes and stockings awry on the path where she had flung them; or Here Boy lapping in the puddle near her feet, and suddenly there was Sweet Home rolling, rolling, rolling out before her eyes, and although there was not a leaf on the farm that did not want to make her scream, it rolled itself out before her in shameless beauty.” (Morrison 2004: 7) The imagery employed here is sinister and poisoned, even though on the surface, it conjures up associations of beauty until we learn what the alleged beauty was used for: “It never looked as terrible as it was and it made her wonder if hell was a pretty place too. Fire and brimstone all right, but hidden in lacy groves. Boys hanging from the most beautiful sycamores in the world.” (ibid.) In a remarkable manner, Morrison’s narrator reconfigures the connotations one associates with a home and a slavery-era plantation, leading the reader to image 124 Bluestone as a haunted shotgun shack and Sweet Home as compromised, but ultimately gorgeous space “back yonder” (ibid.). In so doing, Morrison on the surface evokes a clandestine notion of antebellum romanticism, but the notion she actually communicates is one that could not refute this idea in a stronger manner. The effect attached to this reversal of spatial associations

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is one that puts the Sweet Home at the center of plot and discourse, ironically focusing on the very site which Sethe had to tried to escape from, and for which she even killed her own child (cf. ibid., 187 ff.). From a narrative point of view, there is ongoing mobility in Morrison’s novel which opens up a perspectival dynamic which by itself serves as a spatial category, for perspective is nothing but a permanently executed re-negotiation of the narrative agency’s position in relation to the events of the story and the world already created. In contrast to the extratopian narrator who had portrayed 124 Bluestone Road as a criminal, Morrsion now employs Sethe as an intratopian narrator with an internal focalizer, i.e. the narrator’s position in relation to the plot has been renegotiated to focus on Sethe’s experience. Above, it is argued that intratopian narrators are most important when they represent the topological quality of the story inasmuch as they localize the various agents of the story. This is also what using Sethe as intratopian narrator achieves. In this short passage, she implicitly establishes the topological proximity between Sweet Home and 124 Bluestone Road by using her individual experience as the syntagmatic connection between the two seemingly dichotomous poles, establishing also a direct connection between the past and the present. In terms of the spatial turn and its relation to non-literary phenomena, this has been strongly and convincingly argued for by Soja and his successors. In terms of literary narratives, the topographical structure laid out to us in literary narratives comprises the level of character relationships on a micro-level such as bilateral relationships between individuals, ties on a meso-level such as an individual’s, i.e. a character’s, immediate social context such as family or closer friends, as well as the macro-level, which defines the character’s link or connection to, for instance, a nation state or other large cultural spaces. In conjunction with the geographical level, the socially-based representation of literary narratives is highly dynamic and in constant flux, consequentially providing narrative material by means of eliciting action.6 Therefore, the structural constellation of people vis-à-vis their structural position against their environment dictates the narrative. Granted, Sethe does not explicitly mention her present house, but it resonates clearly in the preceding discussion with Baby Suggs: “‘That’s all you let yourself remember,’ Sethe had told her, but she was down to one herself – one alive, that is – [...]” (ibid., 6). Employing Sethe as an intratopian narrator therefore fulfills two primary functions: She describes the social geography of the story as represented by the two spaces around which her life circles. Secondly, as a 6 | I use Bronfenbrenner’s socio-ecological model of socialization as a starting point for my observations regarding the structural relationship between individual and world, cf. Bronfenbrenner, Urie. The Ecology of Human Development. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1979.

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result of her position, she establishes the topological proximity between these places, setting up the basic conflict with which she will be dealing for the remainder of the narrative. Furthermore, her intratopian position allows space to become more prominent than it already is, for what brings her mind back to Sweet Home is the result of a trauma analepsis caused by spatial categories: “[...] on her carelessness in taking a shortcut across the field just to save half a mile, and not noticing how high the weeds had grown until the itching was all the way to her knees. Then something. The plash of water [...]” (ibid., 7). As such, the topological proximity between 124 Bluestone Road and Sweet Home represents a narrative heterotopia. It is indeed another space, simultaneously harboring horror and happiness, love and hatred, life and death. The narrative aspect of the heterotopia derives from memory, which assumes a crucial role in individual identity formation: We give past occurrences story form when we recall them, constructing a beginning, middle, and end, with actions that are imputed to agents, causally linked, and thematically coherent. In order to come up with such a story we must forget much that does not fit the plot. We also tend to rearrange elements or add new ones for the sake of coherence. Because narrative plays a profound role in shaping our remembrance of past events in our own lives, it fashions who we are. (Andres et. al. 2010: 12)

Sweet Home in its incarnation as a heterotopia is narrativized by Sethe’s memory. As a result, Sweet Home permanently overlaps with the newfound home on 124 Bluestone Road, which contains its very own challenges. The dialectic between the narrative heterotopia and the concrete here and now of Sethe’s present home is what lies at the heart of Beloved. Taking into consideration the abovementioned definition of a narrative heterotopia as the result of a collision of two concrete spaces and their historicization, the subsequent socio-cultural practices executed within this heterotopia as well as the inherently contained history behind the heterotopia, this is what is generated when Sethe brings Sweet Home and 124 together by means of the traumatic analepsis. First of all, there is the mental collision between the two spaces, creating the two spaces which, using Foucaultian terminology, would normally be “incompatible” (1986: 25), yet are united in the single same space at this point. The ongoing tension, from 124 being haunted by Beloved to multiple traumatic flashbacks caused by this step then represents the social practices which occur as a result of these spatial constructs being connected by Sethe. Lastly, the narrative quality originates from the historicization inherent in the collision between these two spaces which equalize past and present, foregrounding the spatial qualities of narrative. This is to say that the importance of space and spatiality in producing the narrative can hardly be overestimated. The narrative heterotopia which the reader can construct out of the juxtaposition and approximation of 124 and Sweet

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Home reveals the true horror behind Beloved’s plot, namely that the inscriptions that shape a character remain with that character, regardless of the passage of 18 years. With regard to narrative representation, it has become clear that that the narrative technique revolves around questions of position, localization and historicization, all of which are crucial factors in the establishment of narrative space. The fact that there is a narrative dynamic in the story creates points of comparison and therefore different perspectives for the reader, to whom the importance of narrative space is clarified by these means.

6.1.1) Speaking the Unspeakable: Sethe’s Deed and Sweet Home’s Role in Establishing Beloved’s Metanarratives Sethe begins her confession to Paul D about the killing of Beloved by evoking connotations of Sweet Home in the reader: “I don’t have to tell you about Sweet Home – what it was – but maybe you don’t know what it was like for to get away from there.” (Morrison 2004: 190) It is striking how Morrison’s narrator uses purely evocative utterances in conveying the horror that is Sweet Home to the reader, particularly so in connection with the narrator’s almost final assertion that “This is not a story to pass on.” (ibid., 324) Revealing the striking proximity between spatiality and diegesis, Morrison’s narrative agency directly connects the brutality committed on Sethe and the other slaves at Sweet Home to the practice of passing on stories so as to generate a cultural tradition, only that this traditional notion of cultural identity formation is once again reversed, and thoroughly informed by the space that is or was Sweet Home. This reconfiguration of storytelling sets the tone for the overall narrative of this fragmented and achronally composed narrative. Considering the fact the Beloved features multiple analepses and narrative dynamics in terms of perspective and focalization, there is no methodological hindrance to let this central analepsis serve as the frame for the entire story. In addition, it emphasizes the intersection of space and time, for the analepses place Sethe back at Sweet Home, which then causes the actual narrative to occur on time’s back: So I tried to recollect what I’d seen back where I was before Sweet Home [...] I still don’t know how they constructed that basket thing, but I didn’t need it anyway, because all my work was in the barn and the house [...] I tied Buglar when we had all that pork to smoke. Fire everywhere and he was getting into everything. I liked to lost him so many times. [...] So when I knew we’d be rendering and smoking and I couldn’t see after him, well, I got a rope and tied it around his ankle. (ibid., 188/9)

The imagery used by the narrator, who in this case employs Sethe as an intratopian agency with an internal focalizer, is one that evokes impressions of hell and damnation; smoke, fire, ropes, the latter in particular in their association

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with slavery and the American South, as well as the constant fear of Buglar’s loss portray Sethe’s life as a battle for life and death in a space whose rendering is one of malicious beauty, yet signifying hell. In addition, this space does not remain static. It moves with her, constantly represented in what Sethe calls her “rememory”. This is what she hints at when she makes the claim that Paul D knows what Sweet Home was like for her, implying that an escape is or was the only resolution to her situation, even though she kills her baby in the process of trying to leave Sweet Home behind. The basic situation portrayed underscores the significance which Sweet Home as a space holds for the characters in the novel; in fact, it is of such great importance that it reconfigures the way in which slavery can be represented in narrative, to which space is the key. Indeed, as Fuston-White (2002) opines, Morrison “creates a new way of knowing and of the telling the story of slavery, a way of telling that empowers the powerless […]”, continuing that “Beloved represents a working out of subjectivity through the representation of history, a history so brutal and dehumanizing that it is unrepresentable […]” (463). With regard to the observations made above, the unrepresentability of slavery needs to be addressed and challenged, which is exactly what happens in Beloved on account of Morrison’s taking the institution of slavery, assigning it a space realized in form of a heterotopia. It simultaneously places it at the center and the margin of the narrative. Its central function lies in the constant presence of the plantation in Sethe’s memory, whereas geographically, Sweet Home is at the margin of the story, being a distant place in the post-civil war South. However, at the time, Sweet Home, and the destructive actions it elicited were strong enough for Sethe to kill her own baby in fear of being returned, claiming that the killing is a genuine act of motherly love (cf. Morrison 2004: 194). Utterly paradoxical and oxymoronic, this basic contrast on which the novel is built represents the central issue of unrepresentability, as no one who has not experienced that form of humiliation can be expected to understand the deed, challenging fictional characters, writer and reader alike. Moreover, it follows Morrison’s identified pattern to take traditional notions of culture, such as motherly love, and to completely reverse them so as to create a parallel narrative of an underrepresented side of American history. This represents the nucleus of Beloved, since it assigns form (that is, a narrative) to a phenomenon that had not been hitherto dealt with and, in so doing, makes an attempt at representing what appears to be too unfathomable to even “rememory”, let alone talk about it, which is what Sethe finally has to learn so as to overcome her trauma and to find a tomorrow, as Paul D suggests at the end of the novel (cf. Morrison 2004: 322).7 7  |  The above two paragraphs have been adopted from Thoene, Marcel. “The Confrontation of History and Narration in Toni Morrison’s Beloved.” Bielefeld University: Term Paper, 2008. Unpublished.

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However, since she has not yet done so, the long arm of Sweet Home extends to her new home on 124 Bluestone Road in Ohio: “I couldn’t let all that go back to where it was, and I couldn’t let her n or any of em live under schoolteacher. That was out.” (ibid., 192) It is at this point that Sethe explicitly confesses her deed to Paul D, and even though it is only very implicitly indicated by the presence of Sethe and Paul D at 124 at the time of the confession, this passage reveals the striking disparity between 124 and Sweet Home inasmuch as they are now united in the same heterotopian space, for which the locale of 124 serves as the vehicle. It is at this moment that the two spaces overlap in the same real place, forming a heterotopia as outlined in the third principle of the traditional Foucaultian definition (cf. 1986: 25). Moreover, disparity and proximity work under the same pretenses in this passage, for according to Foucault’s second heterotopian principle, “each heterotopia has a precise and determined function within a society and the same heterotopia can, according to the synchrony of the culture in which it occurs, have one function or another.” (ibid.) Morrison’s narrative, by way of employing Sethe as intratopian narrator with an internal focalizer, modifies the notion of home in such a manner that Foucault’s second heterotopian function comes to full fruition, because it entails a very specific function to a very specific group of people. It serves as the locale which simultaneously unites the distance and the proximity between two dichotomous poles: Sweet Home as a representation of Sethe’s past and 124 Bluestone as the representation of her haunted present. Both aspects reveal the idiosyncratic approach taken by Morrison, and it is in the factor of simultaneity that the spatiality of this situation is particularly emphasized. In addition, the complexity of the situation at that time is mirrored in the interference of trajectories which Gurr detects at the spatial core of complexity and simultaneity: “[...] physical and experienced space, complex interferences, interdependencies, disparities, or intersections between multiple players, layers, intentions, or force-fields.” (2011: 13) 124 as a locale unites these very notions of the Sweet Home and the haunted 124 of Sethe’s present, therefore providing the breeding ground for the narrative to develop. Accordingly, one of the master narratives communicated to the reader in Beloved is that of a space-fueled coming to terms with an unspeakable past which traumatically reaches into the present and future. Closely connected to that is the second master narrative transported to the reader, i.e. the narrative of Sethe’s identity formation, which is closely tied to the spatial dichotomy between 124 Bluestone and Sweet Home. In fact, the spatial disparity serves as the undercurrent for Sethe’s present crisis. As Powell (2000) writes, Morrison’s characters are spiritually and physically fragmented individuals who are disconnected from themselves, from each other, and from community. Such alienation results in an emptiness which overpowers an individual. [...] The disintegration of self

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This identity discourse is one that is inextricably tied to the idea of space and spatiality, for it is the above-mentioned topological proximity between these two spaces that allow for the attempted redefinition of Sethe’s and the other characters’ selves in the first place. Indeed, Powell interprets Sethe’s attempt at redefining her identity as a journey, which corresponds to the category of the trajectory struck between the two locales, which are geographically far apart, but topologically very close. In the novel, the trajectory is rendered visible by the manifold intersections of space and time, with particularly the analepses serving as the trajectorial footprints allowing us to trace Sethe’s tracks. One can also invert this perception and view narrative as the accumulation of spatial reconfigurations against the background of temporal categories. One of these temporal backgrounds is provided by the analepsis occurring when Sethe eventually confesses her guilt to Paul D, which functions as the primary footprint in Sethe’s story. Morrison writes: “By the time she faced him [schoolteacher], looked him dead in the eye, she had something in her arms that stopped him in his tracks.” (2004: 193) Describing the moment before Sethe kills her baby for fear of its being brought back to Sweet Home by Schoolteacher, this analepsis provides another central background to the entire narrative, based on the spatial category of “Sweet Home” and Sethe’s trying to distance herself mentally and physically from it. The fact that she kills her baby with a handsaw in the process of this thoroughly underscores the degree to which Sethe is traumatized by the space that is Sweet Home. As regards the question of a redefinition of self, we also find Paul D’s perception of Sethe to be a very different one than the one he had while at Sweet Home with her. Back in the present, the narrative agency has him say: “This here Sethe was new. [...] This here Sethe talked about love like any other woman; talked about baby clothes like any other woman, but what she meant could cleave the bones. This here Sethe talked about safety with a handsaw.” (Morrison 2004: 193) Now, in Sethe’s confession of her guilt, we recognize not only hers, but also the guilt of institutionalized slavery and the brutalization of a mother so bizarre in nature that she even killed her child out of love. Yet, there is no exculpation of her deed, as articulated soberly by Sethe’s words, “‘It ain’t my job to know what’s worse. It’s my job to know what is and to keep them away from what I know terrible. I did that.’” (Morrison 2004: 194) It is of great interest to observe the narrative shift when the story moves from the past to the present, for Morrison for this passage utilizes Paul D as focalizer of an extratopian narrator zooming in and finally taking on Paul D’s perspective, whereas the narrator had in effect been Sethe as both intratopian agency and internal focalizer only a few lines before. However, it is through Paul

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D that we learn of Sethe’s deed, and it is through his eyes that we learn about his reaction. This creates a mirror narrative of Sethe in the course of which she attempts to justify her actions, but which ultimately transfers the interpretative authority over her deed to Paul D. It is this narrative mobility which strikes the bridge between past and present, Sweet Home and 124 Bluestone Road, and it also for the first time transports a clear moral aspect to the reader: “What you did was wrong, Sethe.” (ibid., 194) The fact that slavery did lead people to such actions, however, cannot quite be utilized as an excuse, since it would portray Sethe free of guilt, which very clearly she is not, as even Paul D, still employing the “tin tobacco box”8 which does not allow him to empathize or feel, rebukes her for having killed her daughter (cf. ibid.) In a sense, the tin tobacco box is employed as a heterotopian space, for Paul D practically outsources his trauma by repressing it and utilizing this metaphor for his psychological way of dealing with the ramifications of slavery. This marks an interesting point since the reader is no longer presented with an attitude that foregrounds African American victimization. In stark contrast to that, there exist intra-racial tensions which only enhance the representation of guilt created by Sethe’s analepsis and Paul Ds subsequent responses. The dimension of disgust amongst former slaves for each other accordingly adds a layer to the complexity of the novel.9 The conflicts Sethe has to deal with first and foremost with herself culminate in the stream-of-consciousness passage when she tries to justify the killing to Beloved’s ghost. Once again, Sweet Home and 124 Bluestone Road serve as the salient poles which function as the primary elicitors of the narrative: “Denver don’t like for me to talk about it. She hates anything about Sweet Home [...] I would have known who you were right away because the cup after cup of water you drank proved and connected to the fact that you dribbled clear spit on my face the day I got to 124.” (ibid., 239) Sethe’s story can be described as a trajectory with Sweet Home and 124 Bluestone Road functioning as starting and ending points. The constant use of analepses, which are caused by these

8  |  Excursus: A metaphor for Paul D’s hidden memories of all the unspeakably gruesome things he witnessed during slavery. In effect, that signifies that he allows himself to love nothing too hard for fear of being deprived of it again. On page 191, he defines the tin tobacco box ex negativo: “Anything bigger wouldn’t do. A woman, a child, a brother – a big love like that would split you wide open in Alfred, Georgia. He knew exactly what she meant: to get to a place where you could love anything you chose – not to need permission for desire – well now, that was freedom”. 9  |  The first full paragraph on the previous page and this paragraph have been adopted from: Thoene, Marcel. “The Confrontation of History and Narration in Toni Morrison’s Beloved.” Bielefeld University: Term Paper, 2008. Unpublished.

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very poles can accordingly be interpreted as the narrative footprints left in the sand, with the assistance of which we can reconstruct her journey. This present passage then serves as not as the ending point, but as the culmination of this journey. The physical journey might have ended in Ohio, but the mental transition is all but over: while located temporally in the present at 124, she finds herself spatially stuck, and to overcome the one pole, she must kill Beloved to reach the other, only that Sweet Home stays with her all the time. This attempt at justification is therefore an attempt to negate her own biography, which has been so clearly formed by the inscriptions of and events at Sweet Home. It becomes most clearly visible when Sethe explains to herself that “[h]ow if I hadn’t killed her she would have died and that is something I could not bear to happen to her.” (ibid., 237) The logic by which she attempts to exculpate herself is striking, and responds to the paradoxical and oxymoronic notion of the slaying as an act of motherly love (cf. ibid. 194) in her confession. In a similar manner, it establishes a connection between the killing and the challenges of raising a child, so that life and death experience a fundamental juxtaposition: “Because you mine and I have to show you these things, and teach you what a mother should.” (ibid., 237) The moral category opened up by Sethe there equalizes the act of killing and “normal” mother-child-relationships. Positioned on the same level, they serve as the only way for Sethe to come to terms with the death of her child. The narrative discourse supports this interpretation. Morrison again employs Sethe as intratopian narrator with an internal focalizer. Marking the only instance in the novel where Sethe truly speaks to her daughter, it fulfills the function of the maker of the social geography in the character constellation. Given that Beloved is what the narrative basically revolves around in every possible manner and from every possible point of view, this passage assumes a central role in plot and discourse. Granted, Sethe occupies this role whenever Morrison uses her in this manner, but the difference lies in the direct confrontation of Sethe and her imagination of Beloved, which essentially functions as the nucleus of the story, and it is at this point where the dichotomy between Sweet Home and 124, past and present, as well as the intersection of space and time culminates in Sethe’s telling about love as her motif: My love was too thick. What he know about it? Who in the world is he willing to die for? [...] Some other way, he said. There must have been some other way. Let schoolteacher haul us away, I guess, to measure your behind before he tore it up? I have felt what it felt like and nobody walking or stretched out is going to make you feel it too. Not you, not none of mine, and when I tell you you mine, I also mean I’m yours. (ibid., 239)

This also brings back the notion of love and the reversal it undergoes in Toni Morrison’s representation of African American history. As Christian (qtd. in

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Carlacio 2007: 158) says, ‘Morrison has told us many times that love is one of her overriding concerns, and since she immerses herself in the interior landscape of her characters, her work [...] is about love, the basis of human beings’ sense of self and of their relationship with community [...]”. Yet, no one tells Morrison how to write about love and people’s interior landscape, as a result of which she asks the tough question simultaneously undermining and strengthening her characters’ perception of love. In Beloved, she completely reverses the notion of love from the realm of life to that of death as a result of a trajectory whose crucial stations the reader experiences in the course of the novel. At the same time, she establishes the aforementioned parallel narrative counteracting classical or mainstream white perceptions of the concepts which Morrison claims for African Americans, opening up a space in which the African American experience can be dealt with adequately, under pretenses determined by African American discourse. As a result, Morrison’s representation of African American history, and with it, narratives and stories ranging from cultural to high-brow literary narratives, on the metalevel generate a narrative from within rather than from the outside. Space and spatiality are fundamentally significant categories in the establishment of these narratives. Beloved’s origins lie, as Sara Upstone argues, in “Sethe’s celebrated flight [which] is problematised by its colonial implications, the need for a life of movement that is not a choice which is embodied in Paul D.’s commitment to ‘Move. Walk. Run. Hide. Steal and move on.’” (2009: 63) As such, it is only natural that the narrative fueled by the juxtaposition and collision of 124 Bluestone Road and Sweet home continues to be visible even though Sethe has not been at Sweet Home for 18 years. Time may have passed, but the trajectory taken, including the implications contained in that space remain ever present, symbolized by the murdered baby’s ghost haunting the house. As Upstone continues to elaborate, “124 Bluestone Road becomes a metonym for the slave ship of the Middle Passage, guiding its inhabitants mental journey towards the same imprisoned existence with ‘no room for any other thing or body [...]” (ibid.) As a consequence, Upstone establishes a spatial continuity which is largely detached from the aspect of time, and which can be traced back directly to the (traumatizing) role which Sweet Home as a space has taken in shaping Sethe’s personality. What can be demonstrated by this reading of Beloved truly represents the power which spaces can exert over people. It has been argued on behalf of the normative and the formative power of space in eliciting and structuring human interaction, while being structured by human beings at the same time. In a way, Beloved represents a radical narrative of space, because the characteristic reciprocity between structures and actions is marginalized to such a degree that the two spatial poles which essentially function as the dichotomy whose filling makes up the story become god-like superstructures which form Sethe and (disorder) her life, whereby she becomes the mere object to these spaces.

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Therefore, Morrison’s novel provides an idiosnycratically African American construction of history based on the spatial continuum established by the dichotomy between Sweet Home and 124 Bluestone Road. However, the specific African American nature of this (his)story cannot be interpreted in what would be a conservative reversal of the role which African Americans have played in slavery. Beloved is neither an empowerment narrative nor a story about continuous victimization and exculpation. Much rather, it paints a differentiated picture and, most importantly, asks tough questions, leaving perhaps more of them open than makes the reader comfortable. In asking these tough questions Morrison’s narrative opens up a common ground for readers of every color or culture to meet: deep humanity. This represents, from my point of view, the core of Beloved, and functions as the underpinning of the trajectory struck between the two primary spaces in the novel. At the end of the novel, Morrison has her narrative agency, who at this point is an exratopian narrator with an external focalizer, say that “This is not a story to pass on.” (2004: 324) Considering how Morrison uses narrative to paint a unique, and hitherto missing (cf. Rice 1996: 101), perspective on and of American history by means of literature, the story, though inherently brutal and gruesome, is one that exposes the true nature of slavery while not shying away from painting a realistic picture of (post-)slavery life for those (only physically formerly) imprisoned. Created by the principal incongruence of two spaces which still transport a notion of continuity, the reader traces the journey and the trajectory undertaken by Sethe and in this way is offered a unique perspective of the African American experience. By all means, this is a story to pass on.

6.2) The U rban vs . the R ur al : The R ole of the C it y in the C onstruction of A frican A merican B iogr aphies in J azz Similar to Beloved, Jazz operates on the premise of two opposed spaces, namely Harlem of the 1920s and, from protagonist Violet’s point of view, Virginia of the early 20th century. Both spaces function as the poles whose discrepancies create the tension eventually sparking the narrative of the deadly ménage à trois undertaken by Joe, resulting in Dorcas’ death and the disfiguring of her corpse by his wife Violet. The city is introduced to the reader in bright colors, painting the picture of a space of opportunity and hope, and, indeed, as the end of history (Morrison 2001: 7), functioning as a symbol of the troubled past which has finally come to an end and where “everything’s ahead at last” (ibid.):

6.) Toni Morrison’s African American Histor y Trilogy I’m crazy about this City. Daylight slants like a razor cutting the buildings in half. In the top half I see looking faces and it’s not easy to tell which are people, which the work of stonemasons. Below is shadow where any blasé thing takes places: clarinets and lovemaking, fists and the voices of sorrowful women. A city like this one makes me dream tall and feel in on things. Hep. It’s the bright steel rocking above the shade below that does it. When I look over strips of green grass lining the river, at hurch steeples and into the cream-and-copper halls of apartment buildings, I’m strong. Alone, yes, but topnotch and indestructible. (ibid.)

This passage unites various discourses of the urban inasmuch as it portrays the city as a space of hope and personal liberation as well as one of anonymous isolation amidst a seemingly thriving community. In addition, the passage utilizes the city to exemplify a new beginning for those having migrated there in the course of the Great Migration, as a result of which Harlem became the center of African American cultural activities and an African American hub during the 1920s. The special status of the city can already be identified in the continuous capitalization of the word “City” (cf. ibid. 6, 7, 8, 9 etc.), which implies a god-like perception on part of the narrative agency. In a way, Morrison once again creates a parallel narrative of New York City which she integrates into the classical white narrative of New York as “bear[ing] a teleological inscription rendering these spatial constructs the breeding ground for conflicts, crime and death, yet also for hope, atonement, and starting anew.” (Brinkmann and Thoene 2011: 65) This is particularly exemplified in the elaborate description as well as in the multi-layeredness of the city: Daylight functions as an illuminating instrument presenting the cityscape, vivifying the decorations on the tall buildings on the top layer/level of the city so that the narrator cannot be sure whether he is dealing with people or “the work of stonemasons.” (cf. Morrison 2001: 7) On the other hand, the second layer, untouched by daylight, and thus barely visible, symbolizes the typical elements of urban discourse in that it harbors art and culture, but also crime and dissatisfaction, alluded to by the “fists” and the “voices of sorrowful women.” (ibid.) The segmentation of the city along the lines light and shadow, “above” and “below” is what marks the principal trait of the city in the narrator’s imagination: the illuminated part embodies the dreamlike apotheosis of the city whereas the part in the shadow paints a more realistic picture that still contains the aspects of hope and opportunity, only that they are reunited with what can happen when such expectations are not met accordingly. The narrative agency’s perception of him- or herself applies to this interpretation. He appears to be very detached from the story, literally elevated, therefore embodying an extratopian perspective while utilizing an internal focalizer. The discrepancy by the detachedness from the level of the story with

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the insight one gains into the narrator is striking. As a result, he is congruous with the two layers established in the segmentation of the city. On the one hand, the extratopian nature of the narrative agency, according to the theoretical explanations given above, equips him or her with the power of forming the narrative according to the level of his detachedness. This is to say that he is initially very far removed from the story, but does have the opportunity of zooming in or out at will, therefore thoroughly influencing the reader’s scope of the story. With regard to the story, the degree of distance (or proximity, for that matter) forms our perception of plot and discourse. It is here that the power of space in the creation of the narrative becomes obvious because the reader is presented the god-like role of the city by a narrative agency whose authority is created by a spatial category, i.e. distance. This is remarkably counteracted by the internal focalization applied in this passage and serves to balance the distance created by the extratopian mode of narration. Despite the distance, it anthropomorphizes the still undefined narrator, for it reveals his feelings when speaking about the city and so constructs a certain type of subjectivity rendering the story more palpable. In this sense, story and discourse are strikingly similar, for both content and narrative mode are segmented, seemingly working against each other while actually uniting two sides of the same coin, i.e. the beauty of a Harlem morning and the more realistic aspects of the city on the content level as well as the somewhat detached nature of an extratopian narrator using an internal focalizer so as to create a degree of subjectivity, identification and, ultimately, reliability for the reader, who is at the narrator’s sole mercy in this initiatory part of the novel. Morrison’s innovation lies not so much in the portrayal of New York City as a space of black opportunity, but in its function as a microcosmic hub which structures relationships between African Americans whose trajectories intersect in the condensed space that is Harlem. The specificity of the city’s role in Jazz can, as a result, be detected in its ability to connect past and present and, in the protagonists’ case, bridges the distances between the urban and the rural. At the same time, Morrison illustrates Harlem as a somewhat isolated haven for African Americans, in a way establishing a literary heterotopia inasmuch as Harlem is portrayed as a space located amidst the metropolis that is New York City, yet, as an enclave functions as a highly detached space employing its own rules and concepts. The aspect of isolation becomes particularly clear when one encounters the omnipresent racial segregation during the 1920s: “But Violet was nothing but persistent and no wisecrack or ugly stopped her. She haunted PS-89 to talk to teachers who knew the girl. JHS-139 too because the girl went there before trudging way over to Wadleigh, since there were no high schools in her district a colored girls could attend.” (ibid., 6) As a result of this, Harlem, and particularly Lenox Avenue, is portrayed as system in itself, applying its own idiosyncratic norms and values: “The snow

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she ran through was so windswept she left no footprints in it, so for a time nobody knew exactly where on Lenox Avenue she lived.” (ibid., 4) It is of interest to pay special attention to the footprints at this point. Functioning as visual representations of trajectories, they normally draw a line between past and present, space a and b, in that way establishing continuity in both the temporal and the spatial sense. In fact, trajectories are the major methodological tools of biography construction, and therefore, of historicization. The fact that Violet is dehistoricized supports the interpretation of Harlem as the new, the hub which feigns familiarity, but simultaneously responds to the anonymity of the big metropolis that is New York City, where the past can be distorted or even blinded out in order to create a new sense of self. This serves as one of the primary function of the urban, and particularly of New York City (cf. WirthNesher 1996: 8). In her peculiar way, Morrison takes up yet another classical American discourse and modifies it so as to create a space for African American history to establish itself alongside the classical readings. Dorothea Löbbermann (2002) specifies this in writing: Jazz represents the psychology of the modern urban and its effects on migrants. Morrison never invokes Harlem’s name in Jazz, but instead speaks of ‘the City.’ This synechdoche entails multiple functions: Harlem is re-placed geographically, historically and theoretically, [...] contributing to the city’s myth by the non-mentioning of its name. [...] This makes the city much more than merely the place of action of the plot [...] It is likewise a character and complex power that not solely characters, [...] but also narrative agency succumb to. (230/1)10

Löbbermann’s elaborations confirm the observation that Harlem serves simultaneously as a space of inclusion as part of the urban discourse for African Americans and a parallel space that still stands between, say, Manhattan as a representation of White America and spaces such as Harlem, where African Americans preside over the prerogative of interpretation, even though both neighborhoods are part of the same city. The heterotopian impressions communicated by this spatial parallelism provide Harlem with a mythical

10 | Original German: “Jazz inszeniert die Psychologie der modernen Großstadt und ihre Auswirkungen auf die Migranten. [...] Morrison nennt Harlem in Jazz nie beim Namen, sondern spricht von ‘the City.’ Diese Synekdoche hat mehrere Funktionen: Harlem wird sowohl geographisch, historisch und geschichtstheoretisch neu platziert. [...] Dem Mythos des Stadtteils wird gerade durch seine Nichtnennung Rechnung getragen. [...] Damit ist die Stadt weitaus mehr als der Schauplatz des Romans [...] Die Stadt ist gleichsam ein Charakter des Romans und eine komplexe Macht, der sich nicht nur die Charaktere ausgesetzt fühlen, [...] sondern auch die Erzählfigur.”

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function which, as Löbbermann poignantly detects, continues to radiate into its inhabitants’ lives, particularly Violet’s. The somewhat mythical aura surrounding Violet in these early passages of the book supports this notion. At first she appears without a past, accessible only through her husband Joe, who is befriended by the narrator (cf. Morrison 2001: 4). This lays bare the power exerted over the reader by the narrative agency, who alone decides what the reader does and does not get to know about Violet. The overtness of the narrator emphasizes the notion of narrative empowerment, for the self-reflexivity expressed at these early stages of the novel reveals the conscious notion of what (not) to pass on. As a result, the narrator is one who is self-confident to the degree that he even confirms some his weaknesses: “I haven’t got any muscles, so I can’t really be expected to defend myself.” (ibid., 8) However, the city provides the narrative material which, through the prism of the narrator’s eyes, structures and produces plot and discourse: “You have to understand what it’s like, taking on a big city: I’m exposed to all sorts of ignorance and criminality. Still, this is the only life for me. I like the way the City makes people think they can do what they want and get away with it.” (ibid.) Once again, the narrator points to the role of the city in guiding and, perhaps, manipulating its inhabitants. As a personification, it represents one of the most striking undercurrents of the novel. In fact, it runs throughout the expository passages and portrays the City as giver and taker of life, creating the apotheosis of the metropolis, only that we are confronted with a black metropolis using its very own rules of engagement, delimiting itself from its white imaginations and predilections of the same concept. This is supported as the narrator states that the city “is there to back and frame you no matter what you do. And what goes on its blocks and lots and side streets is anything the strong can think of and the weak will admire [...] the way it’s laid out for you, considerate, mindful of where you want to go and what you might need tomorrow.” (ibid., 8/9) These lines are of particular interest, bearing in mind that Violet is about to disfigure Dorcas’ corpse. In this sense, the metropolis acts as a canopy under which certain deeds might still be regarded as despise-worthy, yet the canopy ensures that whatever occurs under it remains under it. This plays into the idea of Harlem as a heterotopia, specifically one of crisis, as the ramifications of the Great Migration of the early 1920s accumulated also in Harlem. In Morrison’s narrative, it has become a place outside all other places. At this point, the reader encounters a close connection between race and space, which becomes particularly manifest using the narrative discourse of the novel as a vehicle. As Heinert (2009) argues, the canon through its conventions has been denying subjectivity to African Americans. When the narrator of Jazz attempts to do this, it utterly fails [...] Jazz changes the way

6.) Toni Morrison’s African American Histor y Trilogy readers think about both the conventions and genre of the novel because it forces them to confront their predilections to trust conventions and the way those conventions control their reading. When Morrison’s narrator deviates from readers’ expectations, the novel’s conventions [...] are exposed. (62)

Heinert reads profound failure into the attempt of constructing African American subjectivity by means of the narrator, yet, the narrator undermines traditionally white conventions of narration by granting this almost divine role to the city, which, through the reciprocal relationship between structures and actions, has become a parallel world in which the city eventually shapes its inhabitants. The narrative does not necessarily follow “conventions”, but indeed construes an African American sense of place and space by means of narration. Heinert’s argument makes sense from a traditional narrative point of view, but the special role occupied by space in the novel is left disregarded by her. The city provides narrative material, action and narrative agency to begin with, therefore circumventing the problem of conventionality. In a similar way to Beloved, the particular qualities and story-shaping elements of (urban) space become visible by the connection to the characters’ past, which in Jazz also includes the principal juxtaposition between the urban and the rural. This collision serves as a catalyzer so as to single out the potential of the city as an imagined space of opportunity and hope for those seeking their luck as part of the Great Migration such as Joe and Violet: “They weren’t even there yet and already the City was speaking to them. They were dancing. And like a million others, chests pounding, tracks controlling their feet, they stared out the windows for first sight of the City that danced with them, proving already how much it loved them [...] they could hardly wait to love it back.” (Morrison 2001: 32) The Great Migration featured a vast transformation of various spaces and created trajectories whose footprints visualize the profound renegotiation of spaces such as Harlem, which eventually became the center of black (high brow) culture and life. Therefore, the symbolism of Joe’s and Violet’s family name (“Trace”) can hardly be a coincidence. In fact, it summarizes the dynamics of migration as a process of movement and connection between two dichotmous poles, which Ottmar Ette places at the heart of spatial dynamics in that he goes beyond the actual place, but pleads for an examination of the dynamics occurring between these two poles (cf. 2001: 623 f.) The second pole, embodying the rural as the chained past for many African Americans, is represented in the form of an implicit analepsis evoking images of slavery and post-slavery sharecropping, transforming even the filthiest place in New York City as a safe haven of freedom and opportunity: “the minute the leather of their soles hit the pavement – there was no turning around. Even if the room they rented was smaller than the heifer’s stall and darker than a morning privy, they stayed to look at their number, [...] hear themselves moving

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down the street among hundreds of others[...]” (Morrison 2001: 32). In this manner, the name “Trace”, in connection to the various trajectories undertaken by African Americans from the reconstruction-era South gains precisely the connotation which assigns meaning to the narrativization of their past. In so doing, space and spatiality are located at the nucleus of post-slavery African American narratives, with Joe and Violet Trace employed as personifications of this journey undertaken by millions. Taken one step further, they function as symbols of African American history which in a meta-context also applies to the conception of Jazz as part of this particular trilogy treating said subject. The incorporation of history is rendered more explicit as the extratopian narrative agency zooms out and contextualizes the migratory movements in concrete historical situations: Part of why they loved it was the specter they left behind. [...] The eyes of thousands, stupefied with disgust at having been imported by Mr. Armour, Mr. Swift, Mr. Montgomery Ward to break strikes then dismissed for having done so. The broken shoes of two thousand Galveston longshoremen that Mr. Mallory would never pay fifty cents an hour like the white ones[...]the quiet children of the ones who had escaped from Springfield Ohio, Springfield Indiana, Greensburg Indiana, Wilmington, Delaware, New Orleans Louisiana [...]. (ibid., 33)

It is of interest to note that Morrison once again reverses traditional “White” discourses by using seemingly stereotypical white names so as to personify the exploitation of African Americans during that era. As a matter of fact, from a temporal point of view, it is set at the same point as the so-called “Jim Crow” laws of racial segregation, which received their name from a stereotypical (and highly racist) description of an African American male.11 From a spatial point of view, “Jim Crow” and “Mr. Mallory”, for instance, run parallel to each other, allowing for an alternate discourse empowering African Americans with the interpretive authority over their own past. This fits the larger context of Morrison’s establishing a space for a African American discourse of history that no longer succumbs to white imaginations of it. From an intratextual point of view, the passage draws up a topography of the Great Migration, mapping the trajectories undertaken by millions to include paths almost the entire southern central parts (and even parts of the north) of the United States (from Galveston, TX and New Orleans, LA, via Delaware to Indiana and from there to New York City). In a striking way, when traced on a map, the different locations include the entire eastern and central parts of the US, demonstrating the vast macrosocial scale on which the Great Migration 11 | Cf. Pilgrim, David. “What Was Jim Crow?” URL: http://www.ferris.edu/news/jimcrow/ what.htm. (March 14, 2013, 9:45 p.m.).

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occurred. As a result, and bearing in mind the crucial role which this process plays in the psyches of millions of people, it deserves its own discourse beyond the reading of the hegemonic culture. Spatial categories, particularly their narrativizations, occupy the central roles in the construction of this discourse. Likewise, the collision of various spaces is of great importance. Spaces are incorporated into people’s personalities by means of socialization12 and therefore continue to exert their influence, even though the person as such has since geographically moved on. Trajectories, and alongside them, narratives, never occur in isolation. Particularly in the (post-)modern age, we continually discover novel stories, pathways and trans- or intercultural encounters challenging scholars to redefine their notion of “culture” and its representations. With regard to narrative theory, this signifies that our notions of narrative linearity and, to some degree, teleology have been jeopardized to the extent that they cannot be extracted necessarily by proven traditions any longer. Lenz holds that [m]etropolitan culture and community have been reconfigured and transformed by the increasing significance of multiculturalism, multi-ethnicity, intercultural relations and transnational migrations that have subverted the modern vision of the dynamic unity of the metropolis. In literary studies, postmodernist, poststructuralist theories have registered and proclaimed the death of the author, the self-deconstruction, the ‘indetermanence’ of meaning[…], the dissolution of the unity, of the boundaries of literary texts, highlighting intertextuality and intermediality. (2003: 11)

Lenz refers to representations of urban spaces and cultures. However, there is no need for imposing a restriction that narrows down these themes solely to metropolitan contexts serving as the spatial construct best-suited to elicit multicultural encounters and narratives. On the contrary, such trajectories can and do intersect everywhere between each and every social being whose process of socialization differs from that of his counterpart, for it is socialization that shapes our personal narratives, i.e. our biographies, which move in relation to the referential system in which we grow up. In terms of narrative technique, the narrative agency is and remains an extratopian one; however, the type of focalizer changes. Having employed an external focalizer in the preceding passages, the narrative agency now utilizes as Joe and Violet as internal focalizers, summarizing them as a single entity. In a sense, this shift in the narrative mode embodies a “zooming in”, an approximation to the level of the characters. This diegetic movement, which 12  |  Socialization can be defined as follows: “In the broadest terms, it [socialization] refers to the way in which individuals are assisted in becoming members of one or more social groups.” (Grusec and Hastings 2007: 1)

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emphasizes details at the cost of overview, creates greater intimacy, progressively introduced after the reader has been familiarized with the general whereabouts of the novel. The city still towers over their heads, acting as a godlike structure capable of sparking profound renewal in human beings: “There, in a city, they are not so much new as themselves: their stronger, riskier selves. And in the beginning when they first arrive, and twenty years later then they and the City have grown up, they love that part of themselves so much they forget what loving other people was like – if they ever knew, that is.” (Morrison 2001: 33) Obviously, strongly tied to the concept of the imagined quasi-apotheosis of the city is the construction of the rural in Morrison’s novel. In a similar style as Beloved, Morrison’s narrator employs an analepsis so as to recreate the South for the reader: NO! that Violet is not somebody walking round town, up and down the streets [...] no that Violet is me! The me that hauled hay in Virginia and handled a four-mule team in the brace. I have stood in cane fields in the middle of the night when the sound of it rustling though hid the slither of the snakes and I stood still waiting for him [Joe] [...] Plenty times, plenty times I have carried the welts given me by a two-tone peckerwood because I was late in the field row the next morning. Plenty times, plenty, I chopped twice the wood that was needed [...] (ibid., 96)

Also similar to Beloved in nature, the narrator employs time to open up a principal dichotomy between two spaces which are simultaneously inextricably tied, but also stand fundamentally opposed to each other. In effect, the way that the narrator, which has shifted to an intratopian narrative agency employing solely Violet as focalizer, conjures up archaisms, utilizing spatial imagery from what seems like medieval times: Violet speaks of “four-mule plows” and being “under the brace” or “hauling hay” (ibid.), evoking the impression of hard physical labor under rather primitive conditions in Virginia. Unfortunately, no temporal specification is given, but since Violet and Joe are depicted as being in their 50s, it must be assumed that they grew up in the Reconstruction-era South. Even then, the illustration of labor is desperate and creates a certain empathy for Violet – not unimportant considering her deed. What is most important is the bleak connection of labor to the space that is Virginia, a traditionally rural state. Morrison is certainly not attempting to open up a mere bipolar distinction of a rural vs. urban discourse, one portraying an idealization and one the horrors of the past (cf. Upstone 2009: 100). Morrison’s point is much bleaker, and it shows in the connection between the two spaces. Much like Beloved, the story lies in the trajectory undertaken between space a and space b, and it is the narrativization of this trajectory which reveals the actual drama of Violet’s life: “‘in severing itself from the past, it [modernity] has at the same time severed itself from the present [De Man 149].” (qtd. in

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Upstone 2009: 100) This is the scheme which is broken up at least in Jazz and Beloved – the past may have happened at another time, but it still remains relevant for the present. This necessitates that all the spaces whose footprints one carries in him or herself overlap in a complex conglomerate of norms, values and beliefs that came into being by the reciprocal relationship between structures and actions. As a result, Violet carries the horrors of Virginia with her to the city, where, in conjunction with the novelty of urban space, her “shield” becomes more vulnerable over time, eventually ending in “increasing mental deterioration and a split identity.” (ibid., 101) As a result, Morrison employs the rural as a vehicle so as to paint the urban as just as perilous as the rural, and vice versa. The safe haven to which Violet and Joe had set out consequentially swallows them up, which works as a reversal of traditionally conceived notions of a metropolis in general and Harlem in particular. With its segmented nature, Harlem stands somewhat isolated from the rest of New York, and so can be ignored by its dynamics and possible opportunities. The initial distinction between the two levels of narration is confirmed by Upstone when she writes that “Morrison’s use of the divided city may also be seen as a metaphor for this tension: between those seeing clearly from above and those confused by the limited horizon of the pedestrian [...].” (ibid., 101) Indeed, from a narrative point of view, she follows the hitherto established pattern of creating a parallel African American path towards a perception of spaces occupied by white people. In Morrison’s narrative, Harlem is differentiated on various levels: there is the horizontal vs. vertical distinction that has already been outlined in the earlier stages of the novel. In its course, the reader is confronted with the intersection of the two levels which equips story and discourse with narrative dynamics becoming manifest in the aforementioned shifts of the narrative agency. These shifts are of fundamental importance and structure/reconfigure the discourse of the plot in such a way that the reader gains a unique perspective on the events at hand. The passages analyzed up to this point can serve as examples of the power of perspective. For instance, the initial passage features the narrative agency as a somewhat god-like narrator hovering above the city. His extratopian nature includes a very broad perspective and does not contain much detail in terms of characters or actions. Yet, we get a good glimpse of the city’s topographical and topological qualities. Basically, it serves as a 101 introduction to Harlem from a uniquely African American perspective, conveyed or communicated by a uniquely African American discourse. This is supported by Jennifer Heinert, who interprets Morrison’s representation of Harlem as a space of violence and also racism, unlike the traditional, hegemonic readings of it as a space of cultural reinvention and example of African American success: “So, the characters flocked to Harlem; [...] The emphasis on language [...] shows the relationship between Harlem and race: the story takes place – literally,

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figuratively, and linguistically – outside the realm of the dominant culture. Nevertheless, Harlem is a place (like few others) where this story can be told.” (2009: 63/4) Practically, the narrative agency appearing in the initial passages of the book serves as an African American prism granting the reader access to an African American space, based on African American dispositions. This represents the vertical level of the narrative. By contrast, the narrative shift occurring when the plot becomes more personal and illuminates particularly Violet’s feelings generates a sense of empathy that conjures up two primary aspects: first, the change from an extratopian narrator with an external towards an intratopian narrator with an internal focalizers creates proximity. In stark contrast to the broad perspective provided in the earlier stages of the novel, this rather narrow focus on Violet allows first and foremost for a detailed exploration of her present and past. Both temporal categories serves as supplements to underscore the topographical similarity of the rural and the urban as experienced individually by Violet. In effect, both spaces are characterized by a struggle for Joe, and it is this struggle serving as the element juxtaposing and connecting both the rural and the urban very clearly (cf. Morrison 2001: 96 and ibid., 199). They render the footprints left by Violet visible, consequentially providing the narrative material which once again proves the centrality of spaces in the creation of literary narratives. On a cultural level, the narrative portrays Harlem as a highly ambiguous construct. This counteracts the attempts to re-thinks Harlem as the type of African American Zion which Morrison’s characters seek to construe in Paradise. On the contrary, Harlem is illustrated as a rather isolated space that is less a space of opportunity, but rather one of stagnation, a black enclave amidst a hegemonically white outside world. In fact, that would delineate Harlem rather clearly from the rest of New York City, turning it into a space outside all other spaces and rendering it a heterotopia which runs parallel to mainstream (white) perceptions of the city as the space which generates wealth, joy and happiness. In Heinert’s words, “[t]his is a significant revision because it changes the way one reads ‘Harlem’ in the novel. [...] Just as African Americans challenge the dominant culture by relocating, so does Jazz’s setting, not only by being located in one of those [suburban] neighborhoods, but also by engaging in the discourse of these migrations.” (2009: 64/5) Heinert’s observations are crucial, yet miss one significant factor: At the moment when Harlem “engages” in the narrative action, it becomes more than a mere setting. In fact, it becomes a narrative factor of its own, and judging by the depictions of “The City” and the inscriptions ascribed to it, it serves as an key factor in shaping story of discourse not solely of migratory processes, but continues to exert its influence even after migration has taken place. This connects the reading of culture as narrative agency (cf. Abádi-Nagy qtd. in Heinert 2009: 65) with the

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two narrative levels detected on the above. If one subsumes the specificity of Harlem under the term culture, “the [racially marked] setting of Harlem [and its particular socio-historical reality] dictates what is possible and impossible in a given plot.” (ibid.) In Jazz’s case, the reader is confronted with the limits of the urban from an African American perspective, influenced by hegemonic discourse. Jazz condenses these notions into a narrative determined by spatial categories, utilizing them so as to reveal layer upon layer the formative powers of urban space in relation to race and migration. It proves to be two-sided that despite all the drama, Joe and Violet get back together and seem to able to fix their relationship. As a matter of fact, this is symbolized by Joe and Violet leading the kind of life they would be expected to lead, which is supplemented by the everyday imagery of city life utilized in the last passage of the novel: Joe picking up the trash, the trips through New York City beyond the boundaries of Harlem, or resting on stoops whenever they feel like it. Particularly the trips beyond the Harlem boundaries are of particular interest: “Once in a while they take the train all the way to 42nd Street to enjoy what Joe calls the stairway of the lions. Or they idle along 72nd Street to watch men dig holes in the ground for a new building. The deep holes scare Violet, but Joe is fascinated.” (Morrison 2001: 223) The image is striking, as it unites a number of discourses brought up in the narrative at the very end of the novel. Eventually, Jazz is as much about an exploration of urban African American identity as it treats love. Furthermore, the crucial role which Harlem as an African American space, or even a heterotopia, plays in the narrative construction of this exploration supports the reading that Joe’s and Violet’s trips to “White Manhattan”, for lack of a better expression, are symbolic of two spaces colliding, resulting in a form of estrangement and alienation from what they see. The deep holes of which Violet is scared are to be read allegorically: they are indicative of threatening to swallow up their subjectivity, which to find they came to “The City” for, and which they had to fight hard for to finally construe. This is also mirrored in the narrative dynamics in this part of the novel. It is striking that the extratopian narrative agency employs a rather broad focus in the first part, and then continues to zoom in until he becomes an intratopian narrator at various stages in the novel. This corresponds well to the exploration and construction of subjectivity and self undertaken while tracing the biographies of Joe and Violet Trace, revealing layer upon layer of their story, which is sparked and told between the two spaces of Virginia and New York City. At the end, as the exploration has been completed and the story is told, the narrative agency reverses his movement and zooms out until he becomes an extratopian narrator again and focuses on his own experience: “I envy them their public love. I myself have only known it in secret, shared it in secret and longed [...] to show it – to be able to say out loud what they have no

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need to say at all.” (ibid., 229) This lends an episodic character to the novel, and indeed, it only represents one of many episodes and facets of the African American experience. Thus far, spatial disparities have been proven to play a significant role in the inward African American perspective as represented by the novels of Toni Morrison. From the (post-)slave narrative of Beloved and the effects of space on the human psyche to the streets of Harlem and its effects on the construction of subjectivity as an enclave, space and spatiality play crucial roles in plot and narrative discourse of these stories. Paradise, the last element of Morrison’s trilogy of an African American history makes an attempt at representing an African American city upon the hill following the Beloved and Jazz as a literary attempt to integrate (as opposed to assimilate) African Americans into American cultural history. Space is the interface rendering this attempt possible.

6.3) Paradise : The R epresentation of an A ttemp t at C re ating A frican A merican S patialit y Paradise, the final chapter in Morrison’s African American History trilogy, depicts the creation of an African American space in form of an exclusively black community in the town of Ruby, Oklahoma. Corresponding to the paradoxcial remoteness which African Americans have experienced in the course of American history while being at the center of society in many respects, the town of Ruby, OK, is illustrated as an isolated enclave in rural Oklahoma in the initiatory passages of the novel: “They are seventeen miles from a town which has ninety miles between it and any other.” (Morrison 1999: 3) The raid on a group of women living in a mansion called “The Convent” stands at the beginning of Paradise, and it denotes the radicality with which the “one allblack town that was worth all the pain” (ibid., 5) is to be kept pure from outside influences. Ruby, in its incarnation as African American, represents an attempt at creating a utopia, as also the novel’s title suggests. Yet, the leading figures, a patriarchically organized group of men, experience a constant threat of Ruby’s being penetrated by outsiders: white people, but also of lighter-skinned African Americans whom they see as a threat to the Ruby’s purity: “Now they saw a new separation: light-skinned against black. Oh, they knew there was a difference in the minds of whites, but it had not struck them before that it was of [...] serious consequence to Negroes themselves.” (ibid., 194) Ruby had been planned as a utopia recreating the town Haven, founded by Ruby’s founders’ ancestors after the abolition of slavery. Obviously, the semantics of Haven imply an idealized space, indeed a paradise, which, as the reader learns, was “rotted” (cf. ibid., 5) by merging with white towns (cf. ibid.) Thus, Ruby represents an attempt to recreate an African American city

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upon a hill based on racial purity,13 in line with the hitherto established trait of Morrison’s trilogy of creating a parallel narrative integrating the African American experience adequately into American cultural history. In both cases, the leading figures of the respective space attempt to generate a model society with model people, only that Winthrop relies on Puritanism as a religious ideology, whereas Morrison (or the Ruby patriarchs) employs a certain gradation of skin color as vehicle of the model society. The aspect of purity is striking at this point, for religious and racial purity are what lies at the heart of both societies. Likewise, the outside threats to both societies are represented in the loss of values, one being grounded in religion, the other in the loss of racial purity. The theme of racial purity is a delicate one – it would be easy to accuse Morrison’s characters of a certain type of racism, both inter- and intraracial, yet the matter is more complex, because the factor of skin color plays into both, notions of utopia as well as American history, which has ignored its African American facet for much too long. As Morrison herself has stated in an interview, “[t]he isolation, the separateness, is always part of any utopia. [...] And it [the novel] was my meditation [...] and interrogation of the whole idea of paradise, the safe place [...] All paradises, all utopias are designed by who is not there, by the people who are not allowed in.” (qtd. in Reames 2001: 21) As a result, Morrison’s insistence on racial purity is a means of emphasizing the utopian quality of Ruby, serving as a counter-narrative to a discourse formed by predominantly white racial purity. In that sense, Morrison follows her established pattern of countering mainstream white American concepts with idiosyncratically designed African American counterparts so as to integrate parallel narratives into American cultural history. As Verena Harz argues, in its master narrative, which is cast in biblical terms and which replicates (white) America’s national myths of exceptionalism, manifest destiny, and the American dream [...], Ruby is narrated as an exceptional community predicated on a ‘deal’ with God [...]; as a racially pure community maintained by an unspoken ‘blood rule’ [...], a racial code based on the exclusion of all those whose skin color is not “8-rock” black [...]; and as a patriarchal community in which the elders ‘protect’ the women, exerting tight control over their sexuality and reproduction in order to preserve racial purity and to maintain the founding families’ blood lines.14

As such, the racial purity proclaimed by Morrison’s characters is not one originating from racism, but by a wish to be recognized as African Americans 13  |  For a more detailed elaboration of this idea, cf. Fraíle-Marcos 2003: 3 ff. 14 | http://copas.uni-regensburg.de/article/viewArticle/135/161 (April 13, 2013, 11.39 a.m.).

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in the same manner in which the Puritans have claimed to be recognized by God. As such, the racial purity under the canopy of which Ruby exists is an attempt by the city’s patriarchs to reclaim their emancipated place alongside the white conceptions of utopian spaces and cities upon hills. This becomes manifest in the aforementioned ideology of Manifest Destiny. In my interpretation, Manifest Destiny was a belated narrativization, an embedment into the hitherto established cultural narrative of American exceptionalism, and therefore a justification of this fundamental transformation of the American landscape, both geographically and socially. The narrativization of expansionism can be read as a spatial tradition. Just as any other narrative, Manifest Destiny was a construct, a structured representation of the past conceived through the eyes of very particular perspectives at very particular times. As has been argued, perspective is inherently spatial, entailing the power to alter structures and actions. Morrison takes exactly this cultural tradition and incorporates it into a distinctly African American interpretation by redefining the perspective on “The West”: She reverses Manifest Destiny as the point of arrival rather than a continuously moving line which people have to cross anew to carve out what Turner would have referenced as Americanization of “European germs” (cf. 1994: 201). The second point brought up is the specific distinction between those embarking to shift the frontier and those living in the already “pacified” areas that would become the USA. This, too, had the possibility of creating new hierarchies on the one hand and erased existing hierarchies on the other hand, not to mention that the distance between these two groups was likely to serve as catalyzer for social dynamics caused by the absence of other people of the same cultural group and the space of the frontier, at which point we can detect the influential nature of space again. Morrison achieves this by establishing intraracial hierarchies of African Americans as well as by the murder of a white girl by black men that is referred to at the very beginning of the novel, signifying a different social structure than in more hegemonic readings of U.S.-American race relations. The combination of changing hierarchies and the creation of distance between the old and the new are what make up the cultural representation of the landscape, socially and geographically, and it is this combination which eventually sets up the narrative, whether it be cultural or historical. In the example given here, the cultural representation of landscape triggered by the horizontal (black-black interactions) and vertical axes (black-white interactions) adopted from the deictic representation of space in language is marked by a sense of transformation and dynamics, even though in the case of the frontier, it was an ex-post justified narrative of violent expansion. However, the fact the mechanisms underlying this narrative are of spatial origin supports the idea that space plays the more significant role, even though narrativization

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by means of the establishment of the Manifest Destiny idea could not have occurred without time. The narrative emerging out of this representation of the cultural landscape is one of overcoming challenges and subduing whatever is in the way. One of the more striking aspects of narrative is, furthermore, their structure in that most narratives feature a beginning, a climax and an end. The narrative of the frontier was actually finished on the day that Frederick Jackson Turner delivered his famous speech. That is why in terms of space and spatiality, Ruby functions as a heterotopia of deviation on the horizontal level as well as a strict hierarchy on its internal, vertical level. To the outside (white) world, Ruby appears as an all-black town, an enclave serving to create a self-determined and self-governed space for African Americans. In isolating itself topologically, topographically and geographically from the rest of society, Ruby maintains a singular quality delineating it from conventions set up by what is around them. This results in the very peculiar code of behavior. At the same time, it functions as a heterotopia of deviation, only that Ruby’s inhabitants invert the concept: In Foucault, deviation denotes going somewhere to practice socially unaccepted behavior. In Morrison, deviation means creating a space where African American culture can be lived in the first place, as it has, throughout the history of the United States, been conceived of as unworthy and, indeed, suspicious and deviant. On the vertical level, the intraracial dynamics establish a very clear-cut hierarchy between the “8-rock blacks” (cf. Morrison 1999: 195/6) and those of lighter skin color: “[...]their daughters would be shunned as brides; their sons chosen last; that colored men would be embarrassed to be seen socially with her sisters. The sign of racial purity they had taken for granted had become a stain.” (ibid., 194) In this spatialized representation of race relations, it becomes strikingly clear that Ruby is nothing like the Garden of Eden which the novel’s title implies. Despite the many religious aspects in the novel, it in fact leads the inclusive facet of religion ad absurdum while foregrounding its exclusive, competitive side, only that the deity in this case is a gradation of skin color determining who is admitted and who is left out. This apotheosis of blackness is perhaps Morrison’s most radical feature, for it takes the means by which whites have suppressed African Americans and challenges that notion by granting political power to African Americans. This power is political inasmuch as it structures social relationships as well as the power relations within that society, and it is out of this political power that the raid on the Convent occurs. For the men storming the mansion (in itself an image of space of power and rule being challenged), it is a matter of self-defense, but for those trapped inside the Convent, it is an act of tyranny and bloodshed, culminating in the initial sentence of the novel: “They shoot the white girl first.” (ibid., 3), reaffirming the strengthened black identity by erasing its counterpart. It is of great interest that Haven, Ruby’s predecessor, is ascribed to have been gone down in a loss of racial identity: “From Haven, a dreamtown in

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Oklahoma territory, to Haven, a ghost town in Oklahoma state. Freedmen who stood tall in 1889 dropped to their knees in 1934 and were stomach-crawling by 1948. That is why they are here in this Convent. To make sure it never happens again.” (ibid., 5) This provides the initial justification for the radical zeal with which Ruby is “defended” by the men. In fact, later on in the novel, another spatial category is introduced which denotes the significance of Ruby for its inhabitants: the “New Zion” (cf. ibid., 105). In that sense, Ruby is analogously seen as the Promised Land to which the African American community depicted in the novel here returns, much like in conceptions of Zionism, Jewish people return to what was their land in the first place.15 As a matter of fact, this is supported by the fact that Ruby is a second attempt at forming an all-black town, having grown out of Haven’s downfall. The spatial implications arising from these basic conceptions are striking in both a political, historical and narrative manner, for they blur the lines between traditional concepts of “culture” and “race”, relocating them to historically and culturally inscribed spaces that overlap and interact with each other in a highly dynamic sense rather than being statically juxtaposed with each other, even though that might be the central interest of Ruby’s patriarchs: “The New Fathers of Ruby, Oklahoma. The chill they first encountered is gone; so is the mist. They are animated – warm with perspiration and the nocturnal odor of righteousness. The view is clear.” (ibid., 18) In summary, Ruby is presented to the reader as an attempt to generate an African American reinterpretation of the white American space myth, which also entails a redefinition of parts of that myth – where the western territories had simultaneously symbolized progress and danger in connection to innovation and virility, Paradise paints Oklahoma as the ending point of a trajectory which began in the Reconstruction-era South. As Morrison writes, “[o]n the journey from Mississippi and two Louisiana parishes to Oklahoma, [the freedmen] were unwelcomed on each grain of soil from Yazoo to Fort Smith. [...] Smart, strong and eager to work their own land, they believed they were more than prepared – they were destined.” (1999: 13/4) It is striking that we find here an African American interpretation of Manifest Destiny, which justifies white expansionism as a God-given prerogative. In its black reading, this type of (Manifest) Destiny no longer serves to underscore superiority, but to convey a sense of home to those who had been disenfranchised, uprooted and exploited for 300 years. The African American reading lends a gentler quality to Manifest Destiny, equipping it with a sense of the legitimate yearning for freedom which had inspired the American revolution in the 18th century, as result of which American expansionism could 15 | http://www.jewishencyclopedia.com/articles/15268-zionism (April 13, 2013, 1.34 p.m.).

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take the violent effects it eventually did. Morrison places this innocent type of expansionism on a different temporal pedestal in still seeing the innocence, but already being aware of the perils of “destiny”, which is eventually represented in the violent raid on the Convent marking the beginning and the somewhat laconic ending of the novel, ending on the announcement that there is a lot of work to be done “down here in paradise.” (ibid., 318) Morrison’s narrator acts as a prophet foreshadowing the effects of isolation and racial purity because he knows that conception of destiny may very well result in violence and death. As an ending point, and bearing in mind the racial purity with which the New Fathers are obsessed, the town is in peril of stepping into the trap of stagnation for fear of being contaminated by “outside” blood. Given that the story, much like the other two novels, makes ample use of analepses so as to create the representation of the historical all-black towns in Oklahoma (cf. Carlacio 2007: 158), the narrative agency provides enough insight in order to represent the desperation and subsequent salvation felt by the New Fathers upon arriving in their version of the Promised Land which they are willing to defend even if it means killing defenseless women in a raid: “God at their side, the men take aim. For Ruby.” (Morrison 1999: 18) As Christopher (2009) confirms, Morrison also forces us to acknowledge, if not understand, that many different narratives, many varied historical trajectories all exist in the single space of Oklahoma. [...] This layering challenges our spatial perception. Returning to Massey, it forces readers to confront the contemporaneity of all historical trajectories in one space and it explodes the spatialized dichotomies of insider/outsider, center/periphery, local/ global, in here/out there, with us/against us. [...] All of this is understandable, of course. The men of Ruby built a town in a “wide-open space,” described as the “place of all places,”“unique and isolated,” “free and protected” [...]. But while this will to protection and isolation was once necessary, the cultural climate had changed by the 1970s. Morrison shows that separating “in here” from “Out There” is no longer viable, as it breeds paranoia, stagnancy, and even violence when the threat of outsiders becomes too great. (91/2)

Christopher here also lays the basic groundwork for Ruby as a narrative heterotopia, for it is in Ruby where the different discourses intersect. Narrative heterotopias, according to the definition given above, unite constructions of time, space and narrative as a result of historicization. In Ruby’s case, the temporal aspect is represented in its reincarnation of Haven, which provides continuity on the temporal axis of the narrative, linked by the recreation of a specifically inscribed space, namely one that serves as refuge for descendants of freedmen. Historicization is provided by the narrative link as represented in the extratopian narrative agency who, employing an external focalizer (at

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least in this passage) presides over anything that occurs in connection to the foundation and history of Ruby, OK. This narrative connection between the two basic paradigms of time and space is what historicizes Ruby, and in so doing renders visible the trajectory undertaken by its inhabitants. The resulting narrative heterotopia subsequently assumes a critical function in the construction of plot, narrative representation, and mutual past, which is perhaps best illustrated in the symbol of the Oven: “[i]t unified the townspeople [...] Before moving West, the war veterans first disassembled the Oven to take along. Intended to be a reminder of the town’s history [...], the Oven ultimately becomes a focal point of discontent and disagreement in Ruby.” (Reames 2001: 26) Given the centrality of the Oven in town, and taking into consideration the discourse it represents, it becomes clear that the Oven is one of the central spatial images in the novel, and the narrative heterotopia it mirrors is one of the cornerstones of the narrative, thus functioning as evidence of the importance of space in the genesis of Morrison’s novel. The image of the Oven is of central significance in the novel, for it symbolizes and synthesizes the spatial connection between Haven and Ruby, present and past of the unique idea of an African American city upon the hill. The only type of continuity between the utopia that Haven is made out to be in the narrative and its reincarnation, Ruby, can be detected in a spatial image. As a matter of fact, the men of Ruby disassemble the Oven at Haven’s old location to the new geographical basis of Ruby where they re-erect it as a memorial to the achievements of “Old Fathers”: “Loving what Haven had been [...] they carried that devotion [...] He touched the stove hood admiring its construction and power. [...] they took it apart, carrying [...] bricks, the hearthstone and its iron plate two-hundred and forty miles west – far far from the Old Creek Nation which once upon a time a witty government called ‘unassigned land.’” (Morrison 1999: 6) Much more than that, the space-time intersection at this point also conjures up the notion of rebuilding, as in copying, the town of Haven whose “idea and its reach” (ibid.) had inspired its inhabitants. This is particularly emphasized when the narrative agency implies they intend to ascribe the same function to the Oven as the “Old Fathers” had: “Round as a head, deep as desire. [...] boiling meal in the open, cutting sod and mesquite for shelter, the Old Fathers did that first. [...] constructing the huge [...] Oven that both nourished them and monumentalized what they had done.” (ibid., 6/7) The imagery of the Oven is striking at this point, for on the one hand, it functioned as a communal center and symbol of life, as well as emerging victoriously out of a struggle in the space that was Haven, whose semantics in itself promise refuge and recreation after enduring hardship. On the other hand, it reflects the starting point for the killing spree on which the New Fathers set out for the Convent, which symbolizes the spatial counterimage to the Oven in terms of space –

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located 17 miles outside of Ruby – and gender, as it is inhabited by women, as opposed to the Fathers. In any case, it is the Oven where “the decision” to raid the Convent is made (ibid., 18). Given its significance in Ruby and its culturo-historical inscription, the Oven is equipped with a certain metaphysical power eventually sparking the actions of the New Fathers on that fateful morning in 1976, which profoundly underlines the significance of this heterotopian space and its symbol in form of the Oven in the genesis of the narrative. The Oven resembles the present embodiment of a past utopia. On account of the incongruence of the two temporal levels united in a single space, there is bound to be a clash in the present socio-cultural inscription of the Oven, whose symbolic power the Fathers view as a threat to the idea of Ruby in the way they envisage it. This is confirmed by Kelly Reames, who writes that “[t]he Oven never provides for Ruby the unifying force it created in Haven. Even on the trip to find a new home, the women resented the space it took and the time the men spent rebuilding it in their new location.” (2001: 26) This is exemplified particularly at the end of the novel, when the town community discusses the killings committed by the men. Here, the image of the Oven, which in the beginning at least retains part of its past communal, unifying function, is reversed in imagery of depravity, sinfulness and disorder: “[...] the citizens of Ruby arrive at the Oven. The rain is slowing. the trash barrel swirls with its debris. [...] Rain cascading off the Oven’s head meets mud speckled with grout flakes washed away from bricks. The Oven shifts, just slightly, on one side. The impacted ground on which it rests is undermined.” (Morrison 1999: 287) It is striking that this passage, in conjunction with the beginning serving as the narrative frame in which the (his)story of Ruby is told by the focalizers of the women of the Convent, is placed near the end of the novel, where the ultimate loss of innocence of Ruby can be constatated. In effect, it functions analogously to the original, and the Promised Land, the New Zion, can no longer even aspire to be the earthly African American paradise, for its premises have been completely overturned by the New Fathers: “‘You massacred those women? For what?’ ‘Now we got white law on us as well as damnation.’” (ibid., 290) In addition, the physical deterioriation of the Oven, and more importantly, its foundations stand as metaphors for the now unstoppable disintegration of the heterotopia that is Ruby in its cultural, racial and physical sense. Above, I argue that the idea of Ruby functions as a narrative heterotopia because it integrates the discourses of time, space and narrative in making the trajectory undertaken by the African American community visible. At this point, the Oven literally breaks away because the very foundation on which it stands no longer withstands the pressure. This is clearly to be read allegorically, for through the murders at the Convent, it is the social foundation which literally breaks away,

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and therefore particularly weakens the community. No longer does it stand as a single community united by a trajectory and common narrative; on the contrary, it is in peril of being disintegrated and segmented, risking the loss of its communal identity. In a very idiosyncratic manner, this represents the true act of emancipation that pervades Paradise, Beloved, and, to a certain extent, also Jazz: Morrison’s literary narratives establish parallel, distinctly African American cultural narratives to the established canonical cultural narratives used in (white) textbooks on American history 16 while, of course, centering on the same historical dates.17 While these narratives run parallel to established interpretations of American history, the ethical groundwork on which these novels are built can be interpreted in a more universal way: in terms of love (cf. Reames 2001: 22). This eventually leads to measuring African American history by equal standards and thus escapes the peril of victimization and subsequent exculpation. Representing African Americans as masters of their own situation and being fallible, misguided, even brutal murderers is the act that elevates them onto an emancipated level alongside the white interpretation of the American cultural narrative. Indeed, this cynical reading is rather painful, and I would assume also that has played a role in the lukewarm reception it was granted, as Widdowson (2001) reports: “Paradise has not been given the hagiographic reception the Pulitzer Prize-winning earlier novel was treated to. [...] Paradise is an extremely polemical book in terms of race, gender and American history.” (313) In Paradise, similar to Beloved and Jazz, this interpretation is sparked by the disparity between two spaces: The Oven at Ruby’s center and the Convention, which serve as dichotomous poles of (relative) center and periphery, inclusion and exclusion, but also of male versus female. The spatial disparity shown here is one that provokes conflict. As is shown on the above, the Oven functions as a kind of identity-shaping element sustaining the ties 16 | cf. Erll’s comment on the connection between cultural and literary narratives: “[f]rom the point of view of cultural studies approaches, the literary text is not to be conceived as outside, above, or below, but rather an integral part of its cultural context. Literary narrative can not only articulate collective experience, values, and concepts of identity, but also restructure the symbolic order of a given cultural formation. [...] Like all properties of the cultural, narrative forms are neither transhistorical nor trans-cultural entities, but mutable forms of human expression.” (2005: 91; emphasis mine) 17  |  For an overview of Paradise’s historical framework locating the various steps on the timeline from the Seven Years War to the end of the Vietnam War, cf. Widdowson, Peter. “The American Dream Refashioned: History, Politics and Gender in Toni Morrison’s Paradise.” In: Journal of American Studies 35 (2001): 316/7.

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to what used to be Haven, whereas the Convent is a “kind of informal refuge for damaged women who have drifted there by a series of fortuities, and who have an intimate, if tense, relationship with the town-dwellers.” (ibid., 314) It is highly salient that the Oven is represented as a relatively static male domain placed at the center of town, whereas the Convent is inhabited by women who invade the town and compromise the men: “These are women, Dovey. Just women. Whores, though, and strange too.” (Morrison 1999: 288) It is in this context that the Oven as a symbol of community and African American identity is transformed into a heterotopia of crisis in the sense that the sacred Oven symbolizing the community’s struggle for identity loses its foundation through the murders, as a result leaving the community devoid of the syntagmatic connection that used to hold it together. In fact, the community is fragmented, if not physically, it certainly is psychologically (cf. the argument following the murders on p. 291). In addition, the established hierarchies of Ruby are being challenged upon receiving knowledge of the murders. This is the first true instance in which the Fathers lose the prerogative of interpretation, and, more importantly the moral high ground on which they had thought themselves to be: “How hard they had worked for this place; how far away they once were from the terribleness they have just witnessed. How could so clean and blessed a mission devour itself and become the world they had escaped?” (ibid., 292) First, it becomes clear that the hierarchy, and therefore, the “(An)Ordnung” (cf. Löw et. al. 2007: 63) is significantly altered on two levels, i.e. the level of society and the level of inscription. On the level of society, the Fathers lose admiration and respect of their community, causing severe frictions within the community: “‘You have already dishonored us. Now you going to destroy us? What’s the manner of evil in you?’” (Morrison 1999: 291) In short, the hegemony of the Fathers is challenged, which, according to Soja (cf. 1996: 87), ultimately results in differentiation and division, countering the idea of Ruby as unified space of like-minded people and assisting in its segmentation and fragmentation. This is strongly tied to the semantics of the novel’s title, which serves as the (ironically-used) nickname given to Ruby by the narrative agency and some of the focalizers. Two of the most poignant instances in which the concept of paradise is invoked are to be found near the middle and at the very end of the novel. In one of the numerous analepses, told by an extratopian narrative agency employing the character Patricia as an internal focalizer, it is that they “they [meaning the women who would later live and die in the Convent] were just women, and what they said was easily ignored by good brave men on their way to Paradise.” (Morrison 1999: 202) It is striking that in whichever way one reads the passage, it is pervaded by idealism, even though there is certainly an ironic tone to it. This is specifically emphasized by the capitalization of Paradise, which connotes the Biblical Paradise, in itself an image of an ideal state, and one

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which stands in stark contradiction to concrete earthly places.18 On the other hand, if read genuinely, this idealism is transported through the approximation to this ideal state in that the good brave men are on their way there, signifying a teleological hope for (racial and social) salvation in an idealized space which, though not reached yet, promises a homogeneity never seen before. By contrast, the very last sentence of the novel lets go of the idea of “Paradise” as an ideal space, portraying it as just as ordinary as any other community, particularly so since the stakes set in the beginning had been so high: “Another ship [has come], perhaps, but different, heading to port, crew and passengers, lost and saved, atremble, for they have been disconsolate for some time. Now they will rest before shouldering the endless work they were created to do down here in Paradise.” (Morrison 1999: 318) This representation invades the dream-like quality that the Fathers had in mind for the town of Ruby, and the realization that the bubble has burst closes the novel, which, once again, equalizes the moral and racial difference that the Fathers wanted to Ruby to make in the beginning. With all the shortcomings culminating in a brutal murder, the societal structure under the premise of which Ruby was founded encounters the very same problems that the rest of American society and, perhaps, culture struggle with. This deeply ironic twist at the end of the novel plays to the conception of utopia as an unttainable aim. Considering the fact that “Paradise” is capitalized in this last sentence as well19 transfers the idea of utopia and an African American exceptionalism to the realm of the spiritual, displaying such imaginations of idealized spaces and idealized communities as personal, but ultimately unrealistic fabulations. The idea of an African American exceptionalism is particularly noteworthy, especially under Donald Pease’s definition of it as a “transgenerational piece of fantasy” (2009: 38), which is precisely what Ruby turns out to be. Striking yet another bridge to a traditionally white concept, Morrison at this point minimizes the difference between African American and Caucasian selfperceptions. The difference in Morrison manifests itself in avoiding the trap of victimization and exculpation. This step reveals the critical part of the concept of exceptionalism, which is why Paradise also functions as an American novel, for it unites both African American and hegemonic perceptions of exceptionalism and its possible ramifications, which in both cases has resulted in violence and 18 | A detailed enumeration of possible interpretations from different disciplinary perspectives is given in: http://www.fb3.uni-siegen.de/anglistik/morrison/Whatis.htm (April 18, 2013, 8:57 a.m.). 19 | Even though Morrison has repeatedly stated that the capitalization of the last “Paradise” is a printing error, the fact the she never insisted on changing it is rather peculiar considering the implications that the capitalization of the last word of her final work on African American history bears. Cf. ibid.

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disenfranchisement of others. This is reflected particularly in the narrative discourse and the multiperspectival arrangement of the narrative agency and the respective focalizers he employs. As has been argued above, diegesis and focalizers represent the most obviously “spatial” qualities of narrative in their reference to movement in the case of diegesis and the rearrangement of perspectival relationships in case of focalization. Paradise demonstrates the remarkably clear role which both of these categories assume in construing the narrative, as a result providing further evidence for the comprehension of Paradise as an, indeed, spatial novel. One such passage can be discerned near the end of the novel, when the dynamics of focalization create the aesthetic and narrative juxtaposition of the murders taking place at the Convent. The male perspective paints the Fathers of Ruby as goal-oriented and determined defenders of their own construction of morality and purity: “Sunlight is yearning for brilliance when the men arrive. The stone-washed blue of the sky is hard to break, but by the time the men park behind shin oak and start for the Convent, the sun has cracked through. Glorious blue. When they reach the Convent, [...] by weaving through tall grass, [...] The claws, perhaps, snatch Steward out of the world.” (Morrison 1999: 285) In effect, this passage conjures up associations of classical stylistic elements utilized in Western movies which, on a narrative level, turns another classical white concept upside down by reinterpreting such classic imagery from an idiosyncratically construed African American point of view. Nevertheless, it is spatial imagery which informs both of these readings. The sun illuminating the sky, the “glorious blue” of the sky (cf. ibid.), the camouflage of the car behind a tree are actions which result in spatial traits on the one hand or spark actions on the other hand. Particularly the glorious blue of the sky is consipicuous, for it connects a spatial category with a moral/ emotional inscription, leading to the creation of a canopy under which the action planned by the Fathers can be carried out in the first place. Once again, this narrative representation assigns an activating role to space and spatiality inasmuch as provides the cultural undercurrent which eventually sparks the Fathers’ deed. This cultural undercurrent manifests itself in the concept of Ruby as the above-mentioned reinterpretation of the American West and an ideal space on the one hand and as an attempt at creating an African American exceptionalism alongside the already established “white” exceptionalism on the other hand. The reinterpretation of “The West” in this sense not only functions on the levels of plot and imagery, but also on the level of narrative discourse. It is at this very point that the connection between cultural and literary narrative comes to full fruition. Both narratives merge in this representation of the West and, as part of classical hermeneutics, are reinterpreted according to the experiences made by those whose eyes we perceive the world through. The

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broad picture that this exposition-like paragraph paints is panoramic, therefore opening up the space that is the Convent for the taking by the Fathers of Ruby. From a narrative point of view, the scene is told by an intratopian narrator who locates and localizes the relationship between the elements of the plot. Employing the Fathers collectively as an external focalizer, the panoramic impression we get of the landscape that has created the spaces of Ruby and the Convent communicates the impression of a new beginning, which the Fathers reinterpret in this violent and radical manner. The intratopicality of the narrative agency is crucial. He is very much on the level of the story and reports to the reader with a matter-of-fact neutrality that heavily contradicts the content of what is narrated as the men enter the Convent: “As he mounts between them, he raises his chin and then his rifle and shoots open a door that has never been locked. [...] Sun follows him in [...] Suddenly a woman with the same white skin appears, and all Steward needs to see her are sensual appraising eyes to the pull the trigger again.” (ibid.) There is a stark contrast between a spatial activity – crossing a border by entering a house – followed by a violent one – shooting “the white girl first” (ibid., 3) and the matter-of-fact, very camera-like portrayal of those actions. This serves as further evidence that it is the men who are employed as focalizers in this passage, which then fits the above-mentioned movements and military-like behavior such as weaving through tall grass or blowing doors open rather well. In another manner, the narrative discourse of the novel’s ending reunites two spaces which, geographically, are located seventeen miles away from each other, i.e. The Oven and The Convent. The topological equality between an idealized space such as Ruby, with the Oven functioning simultaneously as its central reference point and elicitor of cultural memory and the Convent as a heterotopia of crisis created here is one that in the end leads to the destruction of the idealized “paradise” that Ruby was initially designed as. Achieving topological congruence, it is the two spaces whose conceptual incongruence results in the downfall of Ruby, not solely as a space, but also in its manifestation as spatiality, as its social structure begins to crumble as a result of the murders. Therefore, the concept of (An)Ordnung is modified, and it shows in the challenge of the power otherwise exercised by Ruby’s founders. As a result, the political dynamics of spatiality are very much foregrounded by the narrative discourse employed in this passage. Social structures are per sé dynamic, but that entails also the consequence of being challenged and overthrown, which is precisely what happens in Paradise as a result of an attempt at constructing a utopia. As Hope Ferguson poignantly concludes, In the development of American culture, Morrison controversially argues in Playing in the Dark, the idea of ‘race’ has become metaphorical – a way of referring to and disguising

6.) Toni Morrison’s African American Histor y Trilogy forces, events, classes and expressions of social decay and economic division are more threatening to the body politic that biological ‘race’ ever was.’ The developments of Paradise show how disturbingly this perception may be related, not simply to the ‘body politic’ of white-dominated or ‘mainstream’ America, but to the self-proclaimed identity of any group that draws itself into a fortress under the exclusive banner of ‘race’ [...] (2007: 242)

While Hope Ferguson argues from a “racial” or, more generally, identity point of view, her interpretation of Morrison’s writing in Paradise is one that cannot be separated from space and spatiality. She asserts earlier in the chapter on Paradise that “Morrison’s emphasis [...] is on liberating space, on the daily ‘test’ of freedom, on its extendedness (’without borders’) and its [Ruby’s] proud and brave autonomy [...]” (ibid., 200). However, it must also be acknowledged that Morrison’s usage of the American space myths as underlying foundations of this reinterpretation of American history from a quintessentially African American point of view is one that not only lays bare African American constructions of identity, but also reintegrates their very identities into a holistic-U.S.-American narrative that is, to large degree, based on the transformation of space. Unlike Hope Ferguson holds on the above, considering that Morrison has referred to her novel as the last part of an African American history trilogy, race is not merely utilized as a metaphor; in fact, it is tied to concrete people in concrete spaces which, by delimiting themselves from the rest of society, create a very concrete, racially inscribed space and also a very concrete sense of race. It is not “social decay” or “economic division” which alienates the community of Ruby; it is the gradation of skin color and the above-mentioned, exceptionalist fantasy of a racially pure, all-black town. In an idiosyncratic interpretation, Morrison here creates an African American “transgenerational piece of fantasy” (cf. Pease 2009: 9), creating black history and identity while her characters succumb to the same errors in their construction as the white space myth. In line with this argument is also the high degree of the activation of space in the passage analyzed on the above. The narrative agency here is clearly one which is homotopian, i.e. it is located on the same level as the story and can be interpreted as giving shape, meaning, and therefore structuring the plot elements in such a way that it even elicits action. This becomes particularly clear in the choice of spatial elements which the narrator chooses to include in the passage. From the beginning, he utilizes imagery channeling the characters’ movements, and so fundamentally contributes to the representation of the murder. As such, the penetration of the space that is the Convent can only become real because the narrator chooses to narrate that they are “weaving through the tall grass”, that they “flank” the steps and that they themselves are flanked by the steps which they have to climb as they “mount” them, and the “sun follows” them in (Morrison 1999: 285).

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These movements and their narrative representation hint at the proximity of the narrator to the scene, and taking into consideration that the Convent is actually a lonely place in the middle of nowhere, it is clear that as a space, it attracts the murderers, and in addition gives them a safe feeling because it is the only man-made structure nearby. In this manner, even though located at the periphery, it becomes an outsourced center for the men of Ruby, although it is 17 miles away from the town. In terms of narrative and plot content, spatial categories lie at the heart of what happens, and it is here that the homotopian narrative agency contributes most strikingly to the notion of space as an indispensable component in the genesis of this narrative. Moreover, it is congruent with the spatial undercurrent of the novel, which works basically as a transformation and reinterpretation of space against the background of African American history. The female perspective on the penetration of the Convent, if only briefly, is brought about by a change in focalization, as the narrator now employs the women as a collective focalizer: “Three women preparing food in the kitchen hear a shot. A pause. Another shot. Cautiously they look through the swinging door. Backed by light, [...] shadows of armed men loom into the hallway. [...] They hear footsteps pass and enter the kitchen they have just left. No windows in the game room – the women are trapped and they know it.” (ibid., 286) This modification of the focalizer results in a juxtaposition of the spatialities shaping and configuring the action undertaken by the men inasmuch as they are represented by evocative imagery of domesticity, family life and peace, with which the spaces they move in are inscribed. Therefore, the central trope here is the eradication of these inscriptions. By means of penetrating of the heterotopia of deviation as which the Convent functions, these cultural characteristics of the domestic are negated, and the kitchen and the game room become “traps” (cf. ibid.) from which there is no escape. From a narrative point of view, it is rather ironic that the Convent is portrayed as a heterotopia of deviation, for Morrison follows her pattern of renegotiating the meaning of hitherto valid inscriptions of certain spaces. In the Convent, a space where women live in a sort of commune, the spirit of solidarity and friendship is undermined by the fact that it is set in contrast to Ruby and the Oven, again opening up a spatial dichotomy whose elements stand in diametrical opposition to while retaining an inherent connection with each other, much as it is the case in Beloved and Jazz. In Paradise, the dichotomy between Ruby and the Convent is irreconcilable, but not for personal or economic reasons, but as a result of an ideological mindset focusing on biological race as the foundation of utopia. This becomes especially clarified when one componentializes the Convent into its basic narratives, as Hope Ferguson does: “Within the narrative of Paradise, there are two central viewpoints relating to the Convent – one of them from within Ruby, where attitudes to the Convent women are very mixed,

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and the other tracing the individual histories of the people who stay there [...] (2007: 234). Addressed at this point is the matter of perspectivity, as well as the question of the narrator’s position, which coincides also with Cassirer’s approach to space as the result of an inward/outward dialectic in so far as it is this fundamental discrepancy between Ruby and the Oven and the Convent, as a result of which the narrative material is produced in the first place. As a matter of fact, the two narratives are intertwined with each other. The novel begins and ends with the broader, outward perspective of the killings and the penetration of the Convent, and it is in this case that the inward perspective is realized, again, similarly to Jazz and Beloved, that we explore the women of the Convent who are viewed as a threat to the Fathers of Ruby. It is in this embrace of the two narratives that the image of Ruby as p(P)aradise reaches its most cynical interpretation, for it is in the destruction of a functioning commune and the ruthless murder of its participants that a mini-utopia is eradicated, simultaneously revealing the ugly face of Ruby, which was meant well, but as has been the case with many attempted utopias of the past, ends in bloodshed and tyranny. For the inhabitants of Ruby, this is their original sin, but also their depravity, to remain within the Puritan/religious imagery. Resulting from a very specific construction of a space which, in the imagination of its founders, does not allow ambiguity, the notion of a paradise reads like a bitter realization, and it is here where Morrison’s merits for American literature can be located: Asking the tough questions, and giving voice to authentic African Americans, tracing their experiences, but avoiding the trap of victimization. This is the true act of emancipation. Morrison has created a uniquely African American narrative, with space playing a fundamental role in its construction. Read in conjunction with one another, these dialectics and the action that fills the distance between them create a metatextual space20 that shapes its own narrative, and one that operates from a distinctly African American perspective. Oftentimes, texts of either the same or very different genres collide, leaving the reader aghast with how to interpret these literary collisions. Once an intertextual or metafictional aspect is discovered in a literary narrative, it brings with it the opportunity to transfer that collision to a metatextual space, equalizing the differences between the texts and instead lending enough space to extract interpretations capable of withstanding historical and textual divisions. John Frow (1990) postulates that the “concept of intertextuality requires that we understand the concept of text not as a self-contained structure but as differential and historical. Texts are shaped not by an immanent time but by the play of divergent temporalities.” (45) Here, one could hypothesize that 20 | This idea has been adopted from: Thoene, Marcel. “Narrating Matthew Arnold’s ‘Dover Beach’: Metafiction, Intertextuality and the Emergence of Metatextual Space in Ian McEwan’s Saturday.” Bielefeld University: Term Paper, 2009. Unpublished.

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a text results from the play of divergent spatialities. Frow’s argument offers a historicized as well as interwoven comprehension of all literature that not only includes, but also thoroughly underscores the concept of metafiction. While generally all intertextuality does not have to be metafictional, all metafiction is intertextual. If one is to follow Frow’s argument, all intertextuality is inherently shaped by a narrative process on account of precisely the historical component which Frow detects in intertextuality. Space, apart from different conceptions of love, is the interface functioning as the syntagmatic connection which connects the three fragmented stories which in themselves deal with different actions at different times in different places, but the underlying master narrative grows out of a redefinition of the characters’ identities initiated by the spaces they have lived (sic!) and the trajectories they have taken. Above, the claim is made that spaces and their inscriptions can be transported by means of memory and then collide with other inscription in different locales. In all three novels, the central items which shape the characters’ lives are spaces/inscriptins or the disparities between them, and their trajectories are a matter of coming to terms with their heritage on the way to a, in whichever way imagined, better life than in the place where they come from. Whether it be the road from Sweet Home to 124 Bluestone Road, from Virginia to New York City or from various parts of the South to rural Oklahoma, an implicit part of the former spaces travels with the characters. Overlapping spatial inscriptions have to be renegotiated until the initial dialectic between them can be reconciled. In this case, the attempt to bridge that gap is realized by violence which looms in the metatextual space that encompasses all three novels. With these novels, Morrison has provided an idiosyncratic African American interpretation of space and spatiality which runs parallel to the hegemonic white conceptions of these concepts. The productive nature of space can be determined in just the same manner as in WASP examples of space, yet it occurs under completely different pretenses and so narrativizes African American history in a unique way, simultaneously integrating African Americans into the larger context of American history and detaching them from hegemonic culture by providing a radically different interpretation of one of the constituent parts of U.S.-American cultural history. The fact that all three of the novels contain at least some aspects of racial purity, most obviously detectable in Paradise, serves as another hint of a hermetically closed-off narrative, and a perspective which is totally focused on the African American point of view, thoroughly influencing the way in which such narratives are transported to the reader. Yet, the fact that these narratives are so monoperspectival is not for lack of imagination or interest – in fact, it is necessary because only in such a way can the hermeneutic quality which space and spatiality contain for the African American population be distinguished

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from the WASP American space myth. In this case, hermeneutics means the experientiality of space inasmuch as it was spatial categories which had shaped African American identity for the better part of three centuries: being brought to America by ship in shackles, working on plantations, being confined to those heavily inscribed spaces, etc. It is entirely logical and consequential that people who made such experiences with space would interpret it radically different from the above-mentioned white interpretation; the former comes from a position of disenfranchisement, whereas the latter represents cultural hegemony, conquest and expansion. However, the spatial poles from which this magnetic field emanates are spaces emerging from African American contexts so that the reader is not in peril of victimizing the protagonists, or rendering them passive in any way. On the contrary, the way Morrison portrays them in their quests for a place in the world is one for which they are responsible themselves, making use of the abstract and concrete items placed around them, one of which is the American space myth. Saliently, all of the three novels are centered around murders and violent deeds. Since space and spatiality in American culture are often connoted with violence, as has been shown in the above chapter on space in American cultural history, it seems only natural for Morrison to go down this route in terms of an African American interpretation of the space myth, particularly when one recollects the traumatic experiences which so many African Americans had to suffer, especially in the temporal settings of Morrison’s trilogy. In that sense, the only intersection provided for black and white people alike in the novel is a common (his)story of violence, out of which can unfold a new beginning because, as Paradise poignantly concludes, there is a lot of work to be done “down in here in Paradise.” (Morrison 1999: 318)

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7.) Luis Alberto Urrea — Into the Beautiful North “My own view of American studies, fully formed [...], was that mainline America was an ‘artifact’ made foundational text by academics and soldiers, anthropologists and emerging traveling theorists.” J osé S aldívar , Border Matters, p. 160/1

7.1) S patial C ontr asts in U rre a’s I nto the B eautiful N orth : Tres C amarones and I maginaries of “L os Y unaites ” A very short and basic description of the novel could simply read as follows: Nayeli, the story’s protagonist, is a young girl endeavoring “into the beautiful north” with two friends to retrieve the men from their hometown of Tres Camarones, Sinaloa, who had escaped to “Los Yunaites” one after another. Attempting to return the men to defend Tres Camarones against a group of drug dealers, they embark upon a curious (and dangerous) trajectory inspired by a Yul Brynner movie, The Magnificent Seven. However, the story is more complex than that. The title of the novel already includes two spatial segments which will be of importance for the reading of the novel, for it differentiates between geographical space as represented in the “north” and movement, as represented in the preposition “into”, in essence fulfilling the spatial, i.e. deictic function of language. Taken together, the title represents a concrete space and socially constructed spatiality by implying mobility and trajectorial quests, fueled by the characters imagined version of what they call “Los Yunaites”. However, “Los Yunaites” only play a supporting role in this novel, as they is merely a space to be traversed on the way to fulfill a mission. Still, the imagination of “Los Yunaites” takes up the function of a literary heterotopia inasmuch as it unites the Mexican experience with its shared imagination of

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the North, therefore creating a space simultaneously different from and alike the characters’ predispositions about the North. The inscriptions assigned to the US by the inhabitants are dialectically represented – where the younger generation such as Nayeli and her friends have a generally positive view about the North, the older generation seems less optimistic, even cynical about it, as the North has pulled away the town’s male workforce, causing serious demographic problems in Tres Camarones: “”All gone’, Irma said, making a puff with her lips. ‘Blown away. Off to the beautiful north.’ She took a swig of beer. ‘Welcome to the real world, children.’ [...] ‘I have one word for the men’, she said as she stomped away. ‘Traitors!’” (Urrea 2009: 34) Essentially, Into the Beautiful North explores at first contrast, and later on and progressively, the gradual interaction of two historically and culturally overlapping spaces, sparking a dynamic of its very own resulting in the curious, but ultimately peculiarly successful mission which Nayeli and her friend embark upon. As befits the directionality of its title, Into the Beautiful North commences in Tres Camarones, a much troubled town in Sinaloa, Mexico. The novel is composed of two primary units, the first of which is entitled “Sur”, and the second of which is called “Norte” (cf. ibid., 2 and 179). Similarly to Toni Morrison in her African American history trilogy the novel centers around what occurs between these two units. As such, the novel is concerned with movement and mobility first and foremost, yet the poles between which these dynamics occur are of central significance in sparking the movement between them. In the initiatory stages of the novel, Tres Camarones is depicted as a backwards town in a backwards country, overrun by crime and drug runners, abandoned by all those who manage to escape: Nobody in the village liked change. It had taken great civic upheaval to bring electricity to Tres Camarones [...] Still, there were holdouts a good decade after Tres Camarones had begun to glow with yellow light. [...] These blazes, though festive, blocked the scant traffic and the trucks bearing beer and sides of beef, and [the mayor] had to resort to the apocalyptic stratagem of banning street fires entirely. (ibid., 3/4)

The picture Urrea’s narrator paints of Tres Camarones is one that evokes associations of tribal communities who denounce all aspects of modern life, or at least encounter them highly skeptically, for any changes in restructuring the space they inhabit might backfire at the traditionalists, altering their traditionally conceived lifestyles. This becomes particularly clear when religion is included in the mix: “Denounced as Antichrist, he [the mayor] was promptly defeated in the next election. Later, he was reelected; even if his policies had been too modernizing for some, the residents of Tres Camarones realized that new mayor meant change, and change was the last thing they wanted.” (ibid.,

7.) Luis Alber to Urrea — Into the Beautiful North

4) The narrative agency actually depicts Tres Camarones as a space of the past, therefore providing a space-time intersection which unites both geographical space as well as social spatiality. On another level, it is portrayed as a remote, heterotopian place forsaken by all but its inhabitants, past and present united in the same space, foregrounding the importance of space in social arrangements. With regard to the town being left to narcos, the narrative agency chooses these words to situate Tres Camarones into the context of the plot: “Although the Mexican government didn’t seem to know where Tres Camarones was, its citizens knew in their heart that they were Sinaloans.” (ibid., 36) Representing a hint at the geospatial rather than political premises of identity construction on part of Tres Camarones’ inhabitants, this can be taken as an early allusion to denationalization, replacing the nation with region, and politics with geography. This is underscored by the narrative discourse of these early parts of the novel. The narrative agency acts as an extratopian observer operating from a homotopian point of view while employing a zero focalizer. As such, he has the largest possible overview of the situation at hand and functions as a historian of the space that is Tres Camarones, as well as a chronicler of the epic quest on which Nayeli and her friends will embark later in the story. This is to say that the narrator assumes a double function in continuously renegotiating the relationship of the characters between themselves as well as the relationship between the two poles made up by Tres Camarones and “Los Yunaites”. Therefore, the narrator fulfills two roles tied to making up the (social) geography of the novel, which is the key to the actions it represents. One the one hand, the narrator creates Tres Camarones as a god-forsaken, backwards Mexican town for the reader. On the other hand, he lays out to us very specifically the groups of people and their various trajectories which intersect in one way or another. These intersections provide the narrative material, to be read as a narrative of modernization vs. stagnation which has split the town’s population down the middle, and caused those who are able-bodied to migrate north in search of a better life. In a way, from a topical as well as a historical narrative point of view, it is already at this early point that some of the borderlands discourse features are introduced to the reader. Historically and sociopolitically, Mexican migration to “El Norte” was occurring within the same country until the mid-19th century, and it largely happened for similar motives – economic opportunity, hope for a better life etc (cf. Anzaldúa 1999: 32). In a way, the north can be described as Mexico’s “West”, so that there are two frontiers colliding in what we today refer to as the “borderlands”. As such, the borderlands are not an artificial construct made by political leaders, but a naturally grown space fostering hybridity and exchange which has subsequently been politicized and artificially separated by modern politics. With regard to Tres Camarones, it is first and foremost considered to be one thing for its inhabitants: home. The aspect of home as a space of protection, coziness, and identity formation is what unites the people of Tres Camarones

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on a deeper level despite their differences in age and attitude (cf. Urrea 2009: 34, 61 ff.). The notion of home, even though certainly prevalent in many other cultures, permeates Chicano literature in particular, for many stories are related to migration and deal with the discrepancies between home and abroad in a variety of manifestations, from the creation of a diaspora or even a recreation of a mythical homeland called Aztlàn (cf. Délano 2011, Castro 2000: 14) to the abandoning of one’s birthplace out of sheer economic necessity, as the examples of Jesús Martínez and Ricardo Muríllo show (cf. Heyck 1994: 332 ff.). Into the Beautiful North is no principle exception in this regard, and yet different from other Chicano narratives inasmuch as it does not relocate its characters to a barrio, Aztlán or “El Norte” and leaves them there. The notion of home comes full circle in that the characters make an attempt at reconquering their birthplace. On the one hand, this reveals the key role of space and spatiality in the genesis of this particular narrative. Defending their home is the protagonists’ primary motivation for the journey they are about to make. On the other hand, it shows the powerful associations which are engrained into Inter-American mentalities and therefore comparable to the importance of the role of space in classical North American mindsets. According to Anzaldúa, the northern frontier is deeply rooted in Mexican identity: “We have a tradition of migration, a tradition of long walks. Today we are witnessing la migracíon de los pueblos mexicanos [...] This time, the traffic is from south to north. [...] Barefoot and uneducated [...] gather at night by the river where two worlds merge creating what Reagan calls a frontline [...]” (1999: 33). The primary difference between the Western and the Northern frontier is that the former is a category measuring expansion, whereas the latter, if implicitly, reclaims original land. As such, the conceptually different frontiers inherently contain potential for conflict, and it is in this conglomerate of spaces separated by a heavily fortified border that the characters will find themselves. Since they are, indeed, in the borderlands, they are exposed to their own dynamics, perhaps best summarized by Pérez-Torres (qtd. in Bus 2000: 130): “Differential consciousness becomes a form of illegal alienness, one that strategically configures itself in a fluid movement between different clusters of powers [...] The capacity for change, transformation, and movement [...] varies according to kind of power to be negotiated [...] The terrain to be crossed determines the strategies to be adopted.” This is certainly true for Nayeli and her group of homeland defenders as they decide to reconquer their town by repatriating seven men who had left for el norte, amongst them Nayeli’s father. The fact that Nayeli is inspired to do so by a Yul Brynner movie called The Magnificent Seven is of particular interest for a spatial reading of their quest, since it unites the same discourses as Nayeli’s own life and therefore serves as a catalyzer of action. Even more important is the underlying ideology of Western movies which serves to undermine the

7.) Luis Alber to Urrea — Into the Beautiful North

rather static concept of nationhood in that it infuses the frontier experience (or the desire for it) into Nayeli, who subsequently sets out not only to venture into the northern frontier, but also to discover her own personal frontier, which Western movies have been said to deal with allegorically (cf. Newman’s main hypothesis in her 1990 publication).1 In this way, a crucial spatial concept which makes up a large part of the mainstream U.S.-American cultural narrative is expanded by being projected onto a neighboring cultural system which has historically shared many interdependencies with what U.S.-Americans would call “The West” or the former “frontier.” Specifically, Nayeli even calls for a transformation of Tres Camarones from a space functioning as an arbitrary background place for a horde of drug dealers to a space protected by law and order so it becomes the breeding ground for a second Mexican revolution, as she fervently, but naively, exclaims: “‘Boyfriends. Husbands. Babies. Police – law and order. No bandidos. [...] We’re on a mission from God. [...] We can repopulate our town. We can save Mexico. It begins with us! It’s the new revolution! [...] Isn’t it time we got our men back in our own country? [...] To the north!’” (Urrea 2009: 62) This crucial passage in the novel is infused with spatiality on a variety of levels. First, there is the directionality of the journey, including the discourses it subsumes, specifically the trip across the border to the northern frontier. Secondly, it is Nayeli’s declared goal to achieve a new revolution. She aims at creating a new spatiality in Tres Camarones as well as a social structure by changing what Doreen Massey would refer to as the power geometry. Third, her idea includes the idea of transgression, which can be seen as the most significant aspect of the narrative, particularly in terms of Pérez-Torres’ assertion that the terrain to be crossed determines the road to be taken (cf. 2000: 130). In a research context, the aspect of transgression is particularly viable because it is by definition a multiperspectival approach to space. Befitting its description, transgression plays a significant role in Chicano literature: One of the most frequently employed strategies of the ‘have-nots is the tricksterlike reinterpretation and reacquisition of assigned spaces as places of their own by right of struggle and resistance. Another strategy [...] is the radical questioning of boundaries, their transgression and the gradual creation of a patchwork of territories with different value systems on mainstream maps. Ralph Ellison’s evocation of Heraclitus’ axiom ‘Geography is fate’ and his subsequent stress on ‘the role layed bay in geography in shapintg the fate of African Americans’ has been echoed in many publications on the spaces and borders of US ethnic literatures, and of Chicano literature in particular. There is a distinct difference in emphasis between the stasis in the classical statement, 1  |  For an earlier, literary example of this spirit, see Cooper’s Leatherstocking Series, cf. Chapter 3 of this work.

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Nayeli, Yolo and Tacho attempt the same, particularly in terms of the radical questioning of boundaries by trying to penetrate the heavily guarded U.S.Mexican border to essentially snatch seven Mexican men back to their home country. In accordance with Mark Rupert’s above-cited conception, this represents an emancipatory act, specifically in a socio-political sense: “In civil society [...], individuals are liberated from determination of their lives and identities by social position [...] in order to politically emancipate persons from determination by those characteristics[...]“.2 This act can also be expanded to the political sphere, in that the characters refuse to let their existence be determined by “Los Yunaites”, but instead merely use the US and its ideology for their very own purposes. This attempt is about as radical a reinterpretation of boundaries as possible, and while it does not explicitly redistribute parts of the borderlands to Mexico, it serves to reacquire and transform Tres Camarones by means of spatial politics. Ironically, they make use of the – ultimately – expansionist representation of the U.S. as seen in the Western movie, making use of this very U.S.-American ideological undercurrent so as to assist their own home nation. In that sense, the quest to be undertaken by the group of friends also mirrors the tricksterlike reinterpretation of spaces as devised by Bus on the above, only that it does not take place on the territory of the presentday U.S.A., but in the borderlands which unites a number of historically and culturally induced discourses common to what is today the U.S. and Mexico. As a consequence, the borderlands represent a denationalized heterotopia inasmuch as they unite two political constructs in one geographical space whose socio-cultural implications go beyond geography. As becomes clear from the above description of Tres Camarones, which is not even directly located in the borderlands, it seems to be literally a place outside all other places, where the constellation for an undertaking such as Nayeli’s is just right, even though the symbolism of her family name – Cervantes – (Urrea 2009: 45) insinuates the de-facto hopelessness of her cause right away. The allusion to Don Quijote written by, in fact, Cervantes, describes just that: the fight for a lost cause. In terms of denationalization and convergences of two different cultures, the early stages of the novel reveal a few examples of an overlapping of classical American thought and ideas represented by Nayeli and her friends.

2 | http://web.archive.org/web/20090322060613/http://faculty.maxwell.syr.edu/ merupert/political_and_human_emancipation.htm (May 26, 2015, 1.13 p.m.).

7.) Luis Alber to Urrea — Into the Beautiful North

In fact, the idea of travelling to a “new world”, even if for different purposes, has been engrained into Nayeli’s mindset ever since her father left for Kankakee, IL: “On the day he left, there was wailing and breast-beating. He held Nayeli for a moment [...] Don Pepe was a Mexican man: a fatalist [...] He meant that regimes and ancient orders and cultures would all collapse. The world as we know it becomes a new world overnight.” (ibid., 52/3) The collision of attitudes in the borderlands in the figure of Don Pepe, who represents the account of a man shaped by the borderlands, unites in his personality what Nayeli calls “Mexican” fatalism and U.S.-American optimism, mirrored by the implication and metaphor of the new world that is about to arrive. Encountered here is a hybridized narrative not set directly in the borderlands, but inspired by its discourse, which serves as further evidence of the strong interdependence and the frequent interaction between the US and Mexico. Therefore, this is truly an Inter-American narrative, particularly in terms of Bus’ proclaimed dynamism in the construction of new spatialities. As concerns narrative discourse, there is an increasing dynamization, as the narrative agency now employs Nayeli as a focalizer and in doing so opens up a new facet of the narrative discourse. By making the link to the past from a temporal and to Los Yunaites from a spatial point of view, Nayeli establishes her own biographical trialectic which eventually leads her to Kankakee, IL, in search of her father (cf. Urrea 2009: 344). Before the journey commences, however, the narrative discourse opens up a meta-diegetic comprehension of movement, migration and relocation insofar as there is a collision between past and present, here and there, Mexico and the U.S., which creates a narrative borderlands rendering possible Nayeli’s endeavors in the first place. It is the geographical (Tres Camarones), biographical (her father having left for the U.S.) and cultural (the inspiration by The Magnificent Seven, amongst other aspects) proximity to the border that causes “Los Yunaites” to loom over Nayeli’s head constantly, making up essentially the “showing” part of narrative. In terms of the “telling” part of the equation, it is the obvious directionality and determination with which Nayeli, who can certainly be identified as the initiator of the journey, pursues her aim: “‘We have to go get them.’, Nayeli said. ‘We have to go to Los Yunaites and get the seven.’” (ibid., 61) While spatial inscriptions overlap, Mexico and Los Yunaites in the concrete text have been treated somewhat separately. It is now, in the stages before the trip across the border, that they start converging also in narrative discourse. On the one hand, this can be seen in the above-quoted passage which unites the “old” and “new” worlds, as well as the specific trajectory that lies between them in the person of Don Pepe Cervantes. Implied in this rather short passage is the classical narrative of a poor person migrating to the USA in search of a better future. On the other hand, it is the inspiration provided by the most genuinely U.S.-American of cultural products which ultimately

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sparks the desire to do something about the narcos: the Western movie. The narrative borderlands opened to the reader by the convergence of geography, culture and biography in Nayeli’s story are rendered unique by her intention to act as savior, as well as by the design of the journey as a roundtrip. The negation of clichéd, classical narratives of which Don Pepe could serve as an example, including letting his family in the “old” world fall into oblivion (cf. ibid., 351), is made by Nayeli, who wants to come full circle at the end of her trip and transform Tres Camarones into a space of righteousness and justice. As such, it is the emotional connection to the space that is her home which generates the narrative material for the plot. Employing Nayeli as a focalizer tackles the perspectival approach and situates her vis-à-vis her friends and family, but also relates her to Tres Camarones, so that in addition to the zero focalizer, the reader gains a firsthand account of Nayeli’s and, later on, other characters’ motivations. In terms of Nayeli, the perspectival relationship established by this shift of focalization crystallizes her desire to save her hometown. Tres Camarones, including its citizens, is described as very conservative space throughout the early stages of the novel, with Nayeli and Tacho serving as obvious exceptions to the rule. Particularly in terms of gender roles and social mobility, Tres Camarones seems to be literally off the map: “Some of the women, it must be said, had not yet accepted the idea that a woman could be Municipal President.” (cf. ibid., 43) Some of the problems and slogans which can be heard by right-wing groups in the United States with regard to Mexican immigrants are also reflected in Tres Camarones, only that the immigrants come further from the South: “‘Go back to where you came from!’ Irma bellowed. ‘Mexico is for Mexicans.’” (ibid., 41), which is also striking, since it reflects the prosperity gap and the inequality of wealth on a larger and more complex scale than the standard comparison of the US vs. Latin America, providing further narrative material for a truly InterAmerican approach. However, the conservative space as which Tres Camarones is depicted seems to be opened by Nayeli, whose focalization adds another layer to the story so that the relation between the two perspectival aspects connects the conservative political space to Nayeli’s biography and patriotism and so carves out the space that is worth defending from the narcos, even by means of such an undertaking. Specifically, this becomes clear in the above-quoted passage when Nayeli basically calls for a revolution (cf. ibid., 62). It is in this connection between the private and the political aspect of space that its narrative qualities are best represented. In both realms, what matters most is the relationship of the self or one’s own position to an established environment which in turn influences one’s perception of the world around him- or herself. When another layer is added to this relationship in form of a different take on things, it has the potential to spark a dynamic which can ultimately result in the transformation

7.) Luis Alber to Urrea — Into the Beautiful North

of a given space. These are the internal dynamics likely to occur once different perspectives are set in relation to one another. They can be further dynamized as soon as an external space, or imaginations of it, enter the game, giving a specific twist to the narrative material in that it creates expectations which the experiences made by the characters can and must be measured against. Expectations are crucial factors in the making of spatialities. In this case, Nayeli’s venture into unknown territory must be measured against her and friends’ imagination of said unknown territory. Two central terms in which the US is represented by Nayeli and her group are “Los Yunaites” and “Gringolandia” (cf. Urrea 2009: 67). While the former appears to represent a rather neutral term representing the United States of America, the latter implies an aversion against the US and bears a clearly derogatory connotation, particularly when Nayeli reveals her etymology of the term “Gringo” to the reader: “Nayeli suddenly remembered Aunt Irma telling her that’s [the greenish color of dollar bills] where Gringo came from – from the English word for green.” (ibid., 102) However, the actual etymology reveals that Nayeli’s narrative authority is not as flawless as it might be derived from the general narrative discourse, as “gringo” is tied to spatialities and spatial dynamics much rather than to the color of the dollar: “It is also defined as a ‘foreigner’ or ‘stranger.’ [...] English-speaking Americans are called gringos all over Latin America. According to Dr. Américo Paredes, by the 1880s the word gringo was used by south Texas Rio Grande Mexicans in reference to all norteamericanos.” (Castro 2000: 118) It carries a clearly pejorative meaning, at least in its popular usage: “In the U.S. many Chicanos prefer to use the word ‘Anglo’ when referring to a Caucasian, or a white person, because gringo does have a pejorative sound.” (ibid.) In effect, there are two different interpretations, two different spatialities, colliding when juxtaposing the hispanicized but neutral “Los Yunaites” against the ideologically charged “Gringolandia”, particularly since it deliberately refers to the geographical location (“landia”) of the gringos. It consequentially delineates the U.S. from Mexico, although both countries share a common history and culture in the area that we refer to as “borderlands” today. Above, it is said that the borderlands represent a natural space fostering hybridity and cultural exchange – this is reversed here by the clear separation made through Nayeli’s focalization when referring to Aunt Irma’s success in the US. Even though the segmentation and separation are somewhat introduced through the backdoor, the passage communicates a certain notion of sacrifice which amplifies the idea that Aunt Irma did something immoral or irresponsible by going to Gringolandia: “And, like these girls, I did it for you, you doubters! You should be ashamed.” (Urrea 2009: 67) Ironically, this could be read as an attempt at regaining the prerogative of interpretation over the borderlands discourse, because separation was initiated and is continued by the United States in form of the fortification of the border between itself and Mexico,

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artificially producing a physical border between peoples and cultures. At the same time, even if unwillingly, these measures foster illegal border crossings, displaying a de facto denaturalization of Mexican-American cultural exchange. At this point the reader is confronted with a quadrilectic of four different spatialities, which all interact with one another: Tres Camarones as a compromised home space which must be saved from the narcos, “Los Yunaites” as the positively inscribed imagination of the US, “Gringolandia” serving as its negative mirror narrative and finally, the borderlands as a simultaneously artificially constructed, yet naturally grown intercultural/Inter-American contact zone in terms of history and culture, but also economy and crime. It is striking that whenever one comes across this construct, it is always called the “borderlands”, using the plural, which implies the inherently multiperspectival approach towards the encounter of Latin and North American culture on both sides of the border fence. Once again, this unites internal and external levels of discourse, with the quadrilectic establishing the external qualities against which the internal qualities of the characters as well as their interpretations are measured. The novel represents an attempt at a complex account of the borderlands discourse, albeit in heavily condensed version and form. As a starting point, Urrea’s narrative agency has Nayeli and her friend Tacho refer to classic narratives of “Los Yunaites” as the Promised Land: “Nayeli pulled her father’s postcard from her sock [...] A cornfield with an impossibly blue sky, an American sky. She had seen it over and over again in the movie. Only American skies, it seemed, were so stunningly blue. [...] It said: ‘A TYPICAL CORN CROP IN KANKAKEE, ILLINOIS.’” (Urrea 2009: 60) Nayeli’s imagination of the United States is one that insinuates perfection, as is symbolized by the spatial metaphor mirrored in the stunningly blue sky. While she is very much aware of her own construction of “Los Yunaites” by referencing the movies and the picture postcard, she still seems to idealize the apparent perfection even in such a mundane representation. The blue sky reflects her hope that her father, the apparent philosopher (cf. ibid., 52), has made it across the border into the United States in order to find a better life there. For now, Nayeli draws a spirit of departure from his example, even though Don Pepe, as Tres Camarones’ only police officer (cf. ibid.), has broken his oath and left his home for the narcos to take. By that standard, he would classify as one of the “traitors” Aunt Irma despises so heavily for leaving for “the beautiful north”, even though her enunciation is clearly meant ironically. This is expressed in a further segmentation of “Los Yunaites” on part of the characters in that a third layer, this time referring to an idealization, is implied and explicitly scorned. In fact, the men of Tres Camarones who have left for the north are seen as traitors by Aunt Irma because they pursue the classical narrative of leaving one’s home in search of a better life.

7.) Luis Alber to Urrea — Into the Beautiful North

In his song “Across the Border”, Bruce Springsteen (1995) sings: “We’ll leave behind my dear/Pain and sadness we found here/And we’ll drink from the Bravo’s muddy waters/Where the sky grows gray and wide/We’ll meet on the other side/There across the border”. This classic, and very U.S.-Americaninfluenced representation of migration, however, is counteracted by Nayeli, who wants to improve her own home space by seeking help from the men of Tres Camarones so that the motivation for the trajectory that she is about to open up is less about idealized imaginations of Los Yunaites on account of her wish to settle down there, but a bidirectional journey intended to result in the transformation of the very space she already finds herself in: “‘We have a mission’, Nayeli said. ‘We’re only going to bring the men back home.” (Urrea 2009: 61) In a way, the transformational aspect responds to the many problems Mexico faces, and particularly the drug and crime aspects are represented exemplarily in Tres Camarones. The illustration of Urrea’s narrator of the town, however, is a lot less dramatic than what Urrea himself (self-critically) writes as a chronicler of the U.S.-Mexican borderlands: “Others of us had no room or interest in such drama, and came away unscathed – and unmoved. Some of us sank into the mindless joy of fundamentalism, some of us drank, some of us married impoverished Mexicans. Most of us took it personally. Poverty is personal: it smells and it shocks and it invades your space.” (Urrea 1993: 10) However, Urrea does not yet refer to the drug trade, which has eaten up significant parts of Mexico.3 In connection, and with the violence that both poverty and the drug trade entail, it seems only logical that Nayeli seeks to restore law and order in Tres Camarones in order to protect her space, as Urrea puts it above. The penetration of spaces is a crucial factor in this regard, for the narcos who have come to Tres Camarones actually invade that very specifically encoded space. They neither hail from nor belong there, and as such can be regarded as invaders, particularly with the town’s well-documented aversion against change: “The bandidos came to the village at the worst possible time. [...] Tres Camarones was unguarded on that late summer’s day when so many things had already changed. And everything that remained was about to change forever.” (Urrea 2009: 3) This invasion sets in motion Nayeli’s plan to bring home the Magnificent Seven in the first place, and so can be read as the starting point of/ for a spatial chain reaction, as it results in another invasion of another space, only that it occurs under different circumstances. However, the penetration of an alien space by means of crossing a heavily fortified border constitutes a breach of pre-defined boundaries, and as such causes ramifications for both the space invaded as well as for the invaders, who find themselves in an 3  |  For an account of the Mexican drug war, cf. Vulliamy, Ed. Amexica. War Along the Borderline. London: Vintage, 2011.

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illegal status in a country whose official language they do not speak and whose inhabitants encounter immigrants, illegal or not, whether or not they intend to stay, with mixed feelings, to say the least.4 Such examples also serve as evidence of the pivotal function of space in producing narrative (material), for it is spatial categories which eventually strike a path through the characters’ lives, creating interactions and interdependencies, basically “(An)Ordnungen” (Löw et. al. 2007: 75) which would not exist without these penetrated spaces. Particularly when one regards the imagination of “Los Yunaites” with the concrete experience of the foreign in the later course of the novel, it becomes clear that the story revolves around two spaces and what lies in between them not solely geographically, but also mentally, psychologically and culturally. However, the topological proximity between two divergent spaces requires theorization in such a form that, as Gloria Anzaldúa suggests, they “will rewrite history using race, class, gender and ethnicity as categories of analysis, theories that cross borders, that blur boundaries [...] We are articulating new positions in these in-between, Borderland worlds [...] In our literature, social issues [...] are intertwined with the narrative and poetic elements of a text.” (qtd. in Soja 1996: 129) Anzaldúa comes from a different (feminist) research paradigm, but she establishes space, and particularly spatialities, as the central underlying categories under which these discourses can be subsumed. As a result, spatiality serves as a canopy for a number of discourses that can be observed when two items interact. Whether it is concrete aspects such as racial or national relations or even metacategories such as negotiating new positions towards such aspects, the central question remains: “Where are we/Where am I in relation to whom?”. The answer to such inquiries is spatial. Moreover, specifically related to the difference articulated in the borderlands discourse, Soja writes: “Anzaldúa positions herself in The Homeland, Aztlan, El otro Mexico, [...] una herida abierta where the Third World grates against the First and bleeds.” (1996: 128) Soja describes the encounter and the gap between these two “worlds”, as he puts it, and uses these impressions for the creation of border culture as a thirdspace, as a “polysemantic term” (ibid., 132). What follows is a lengthy list compiled by Gómez-Pena (qtd. in ibid.), outlining what in his mind constitutes border culture. In it, we find a myriad of the discourses tackled in Into the Beautiful North, thus rendering the novel a prime representation of the borderlands, especially when taking into consideration Urrea’s heritage as someone born in Tijuana and having lived border culture and experienced the borderlands first hand:

4  |  Cf. the continuous expansion of the border fortifications, Arizona SB 1070 etc.

7.) Luis Alber to Urrea — Into the Beautiful North [it] means boycott, complot, ilegalidad, clandestinidad, transgresíon [...] hybrid art [...] to be fluid in English, Spanish, Spanglish, and Ingenol ... transcultural friendship and collaboration among races, sexes, and generations [...] a new cartography: a brandnew map to host the new project; the democratization of the East; the socialization of the West; the Third-Worldization of the North and the First-Worldization of the South [...] a multiplicity of voices away from the center [...]. (ibid., 132; emphasis mine)

Basically, this enumeration, particularly with its special emphasis to a new cartography, constitutes an overlapping of various spaces out of which eventually grows what we call border culture. Indeed, as a metaobject and from a metaperspective, Urrea’s narrative fits this idea, for we have a MexicanAmerican author dealing with his heritage, journeys from the Third to the First World and back, including the effects they have on the travelers, not to mention the intention to make transgressions so as to transform the space from which their journey had started. In other words, the above-mentioned “new project” is based on a renegotiation of the premises from which the characteristic reciprocity between structures and actions originates. As such, Into the Beautiful North is also a narrative of empowerment, as their desperate situation enables the group of friends to take matters into their own hands. No longer are they the poor Mexicans dependent on the proverbial patriarch from the North. They choose the terms under which they tackle the enemy, adding a political facet to the reading of space. This becomes especially clear when Nayeli’s group sets off and bids farewell to the community, which has gathered to provide them with supplies and good wishes: “There was more to come. The town had taken up a collection, and they handed over their savings to the girls [...] Mothers and strangers gathered in front of the Fallen Hand. [...] Sensei Grey stepped forward and bowed deeply.” (Urrea 2009: 71) The effect achieved by this communal gathering is one of unity, creating a sense of place, home and solidarity among the inhabitants of Tres Camarones, suggesting an outward-directed signal of togetherness, closing off the town community from the world around them. This bears two implications of interest. First of all, this call to arms lifts the people of Tres Camarones out of their lethargy and therefore creates homogeneity where there had previously been outright neglect of the situation. As a consequence, this general support of Nayeli’s plan portrays Tres Camarones as a unified space that, through the identification of its inhabitants with it, is willing to put local differences aside so as to restore a sense of place, belonging and home by bringing the town’s men back and by restoring law and order, as Aunt Irma confirms in a rant: “‘Your dead are buried here. You were each born here, and your umbilical cords are buried in this earth. This town has been here since time began! God himself came from Tres Camarones, and don’t you ever forget it. [...] And I won’t have some rude gangsters, or some exodus of weak-kneed men looking for money, ruin my hometown!’” (ibid., 69)

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Second, Aunt Irma’s rant not only reinstates a sense of belonging, but also directly ties the community to Tres Camarones by references to the umbilical cords being buried there, establishing a threefold connection between the characters as individuals and Tres Camarones: First by illustrating the town as the literally social hometown, which on the second level is extended to the inherent connection between a mother and a child in form of the umbilical cord, which subsequently is tied to the very soil, i.e. to the geographical location of Tres Camarones, establishing a symbiosis of space and person. Indeed, it corresponds well to the assertion that spaces also assume a significant role in terms of heritage and socialization, with particularly the latter implanting the characteristics of a certain space into the characters at hand. In this case, Aunt Irma reminds them that their heritage binds them to Tres Camarones, which is what made them what they are at that point. This is to say that Tres Camarones as a space remains a focal point for Nayeli and her group, and everywhere they travel, there is an inherent overlapping of Tres Camarones and wherever their way leads them. Mobility of spaces as a crucial prerequisite for their narrativization is treated, as it is the narrative dynamics which allow readers to trace the characters’ experiences vis-à-vis the spaces that played such a significant role in their socialization. The resulting interaction between the familiar and the unknown is then what provides the narrative material. As is the case here, before there is actual contact in the borderlands, “Los Yunaites” is a product of the group’s fantasy, with each character bearing a different inscription of the country in mind. For Nayeli, it seems to be the skies above the aforementioned Kankakee, whereas Tacho, owner of the internet café La Mano Caída, a little more stereotypically connects “classical” associations with “Los Yunaites”: “Of course, Tacho had always wanted to go north, but he wasn’t going to admit it. What was there for a man like him in Tres Camarones? [...] And there was no way he was going to let the girlfriends face the dangers [...] of going to el norte without him. [...] And then he’d be there:[...]Hollywood. Los Beberly Hills. Stars and nightclubs and haute couture. [...]” (Urrea 2009: 64/5) It is only logical that focalization shifts to Tacho at this point, which provides yet another point of view, particularly when considering his enfant terrible status in Tres Camarones as a homosexual. Stereotypically, attention shifts towards the realms which one – knowing that Tacho is indeed homosexual – expects, putting the focus on celebrities, amusement and easy living. However, while stereotypical, this attitude arises from the contrast of the perceived image of the US in stark contrast to Tacho’s experiences in Mexico, which he describes as homophobic and backwards, thus matching the above analysis. What Tacho does not realize is the collision of a space he pictures, with a space he has actually lived, which mirrors one of Lefebvre’s categories in the production of space (cf. Shields 2006: 13) As the zero focalizer confirms in the early parts of the novel, “A man like Tacho had to learn to survive in

7.) Luis Alber to Urrea — Into the Beautiful North

Mexico, and he had learned to re-create himself, [...] thus becoming a cherished character. If you wanted to achieve immortality, or at least acceptance, in Tres Camarones, the best thing to do was become an amazing fixture.” (ibid., 19/20) Being forced to be extroverted could then serve as an explanation for Tacho’s longing for extremely constructed spaces such as Hollywood and Beverly Hills, so that he becomes one between many eccentric figures, effectively rendering himself invisible. Thus, Tacho hopes to blend in with the new space which he plans on going to, effectively becoming a Chicano version of the Invisible Man, who also uses the metropolis that is New York City to live by becoming one with the space which he inhabits.5 Bearing all this in mind, the portrayal of the group’s departure as a group of soldiers going off to war is hardly surprising, particularly after Aunt Irma’s battle cry. This is the part of the narrative which perhaps is the most romantic, as there is a clear-cut distinction between the protagonists and those they want to fight against, between good and evil, in archaic terms. This is represented in the narrative: “Tears. Wails of sorrow. The four warriors waved bravely to the crowd. The girls kissed their mothers and grandmothers. Father Francois blessed them again. [...] Aunt Irma honked the horn three times, drove around the plazuela a few times waving out the window, and they were gone.” (ibid., 72) The association which this type of farewell evokes is actually that of a modernized and relocalized, stereotypical Western image: The lone hero riding off into the sunset, bound for glory, is a classic motif in U.S. culture, and the fact that this group of Mexicans adapts this archetypically U.S.-American symbol supports the initial hypothesis that the borderlands are a space of convergence rather than of divergence. They might be separated politically, but the exchange between the two nations is, at least here, overcome by the transnational nature of the borderlands, which are tied together by social and cultural history, radiating all the way until Tres Camarones. Goodman (2010) writes that on the one hand, “[f]ollowing the example set by Américo Paredes, Chicano/a poets and novelists from Río to Urrea, meanwhile, tend to blur the line separating the nations to emphasize the region’s shared social history and to claim the borderlands region as a productive cultural site.” (155) In line with this, “for scholars, the border area offers an ‘alternate space featuring a flexible and mutating set of cultural arrangements because it sets up a position for both living and thinking, one involving a sense of place as well as implicit displacement.’” (ibid.) While true from an academic point of view, as a caveat, one should not disregard the living conditions in the borderlands which are less romantic than suggested, and which, peaking in 1986, caused between three and five million people to cross the border illegally (cf. Heyck 1994: 318).

5  |  Cf. Ellison, Ralph. Invisible Man. New York: Vintage, 1995.

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The characters in Urrea’s novel are different in that they try to take things into their own hands by attempting to save their home. They are less outwardly “transcultural”, but rather implicitly influenced by the close ties between the United States, and particularly its image transported by cultural products, and Mexico, which is shown in their fervent (local) patriotism. This is illuminated in the passage surrounding the movie screening. Aunt Irma demands from her predecessor that she “would like to see the cinema reborn with a film festival of my favorite Mexican superstar [...] This is nonnegotiable. I need the inspiration in these trying times of seeing Mexico’s greatest film star, Yul Brynner.” (Urrea 2009: 48) The projection of one of the most famous U.S.-American actors onto a Mexican framework speaks to the desire of adopting some of the directness, and, perhaps, some of the romanticism transported in The Magnificent Seven to a Mexican context, thus producing a further overlapping of cultures only possible within the borderlands discourse. The fact that Brynner is not Mexican does not matter at this point – it is the perceived topological proximity to Mexico which as a spatial category induces inspiration and the willingness to take matters into their own hands. Even García-García allows himself to be inspired by the movie and is seduced by the virility and power of the characters in their fight against the bad guys: “[he] kept his enthusiasm in check as long as he could, but when Mr. McQueen shot a bunch of bad guys out of windows [...] he could no longer stay silent. !Era más macho, ese pinchi McQueen!. That was what Tres Camarones needed. Real men doing manly things like shooting sons of bitches out of windows!” (ibid., 59) The pattern of taking actions, aspects or expressions primarily associated with U.S.-American culture and their subsequent application to a Mexican context establishes a hybrid space in which all things seem possible, and it is here that Nayeli’s idea to turn the movie into reality is born: “Nayeli sat with her mouth open. [...] Didn’t anybody else feel the electric charge she felt?” (ibid.) From a spatial point of view, there are a number of levels colliding which ultimately create the desire to retrieve the Magnificent Seven for Tres Camarones. First, there is the present state of the town, a desolate space ruled by corruption, escapism and narcos. In contrast to that, there is the Tres Camarones of the past which, according to Aunt Irma, God himself comes from and which in the town’s collective memory serves as a mythical space of home, a micro-Aztlán (cf. ibid., 69). The huge gap between these, according to Lefebvre’s trialectic, perceived and lived interpretations of Tres Camarones is subsequently filled by the imagination of “Los Yunaites”. This conceived space, represented through one of its cultural products is what ultimately sparks the fourth level of the narrative, the journey and the resulting trajectory undertaken by Nayeli and her friends to recreate the perceived past of Tres Camarones. In narrative terms, this constitutes an intersection of space and time, with space providing more analytical opportunities than time. The narrative produc-

7.) Luis Alber to Urrea — Into the Beautiful North

tion of Tres Camarones works on the three levels representing it as an ideal space, as a real space and as a space in contrast to imaginations of Los Yunaites. These narrative realizations are embodied by the shifts in focalization, i.e. Nayeli embodies the real space of the present, whereas Aunt Irma very much employs the nostalgic, idealistic perspective. Tacho, from his own peculiar point of view, takes the outward perspective and makes up much of the image that the US is represented by in the group’s imagination, even though Nayeli has familial ties to the States and accordingly presents a different, less clichéd point of view. These are the three levels of spatial representation which teleologically work in conjunction, i.e. all viewpoints are fit to – and presented as such – to send Nayeli’s group off to Los Yunaites. The temporal axis, on the other hand, is mirrored in the yearning for what is perceived to be an ideal space in the past, i.e. a romanticization of a past space which particularly Aunt Irma wants to see recreated. Central to the connection between these two axes are the factors of movement and mobility alongside borderlands culture, allowing the characters to undertake their quest in the first place. Basically, their quest unites a number of discourses channeling the importance of space in narrative, and the spatial construct that is the borderlands allows for the salience of said discourses, which include the chances and problems of migration, the unnatural line that cuts through naturally grown interdependences as well as the human yearning for a better life which rarely is as salient as when the Third World collides with the First. The subversion of structures established by such artificial segmentations of a culturally grown region, specifically in regions where there is such a huge gap in the distribution of wealth, accordingly creates another discourse in that existing power structures and (An)Ordnung are challenged, even if only to save someone or something on one’s own side of the aisle. Crossing the line and defying the rules of the game with the aim of improving one’s own space is a decision which puts the rules in the hands of Nayeli and her friends, therefore emancipating them from the big brother in the north. They might go there, but only to claim what is theirs, anyway. In that sense, they negate the political difference between two nation states so as to reform a part of the country that shaped their lives. In essence, their aim reflects a denationalized and delimited region, resulting in a true borderlands understanding of migration.

7.2) Tijuana and the B order : A R epresentation of the B orderl ands Upon their triumphal and soldier-like departure from Tres Camarones, Nayeli’s group is Tijuana-bound, encountering the hierarchies of Inter-American discourse before they even reach the border fence. It is of interest to note that

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there seems to be a north-south incline in perceived authority and, polemically, a ranking of peoples going down from north to south (cf. Saldívar 1997: 136), as is evident at the first intra-Mexican control on the way to Tijuana, when the police suspects them to be illegal migrants from further down south: “‘You’re illegal’, the interrogator said. [...] ‘You snuck into Mexico, cabrón!’ [...] The soldier smacked the man in the mouth. [...] The Colombians were dragged and bounced down the aisle and shoved down the steps [...] Nayeli saw the palest ghosts in the night as the Colombians [...] were swallowed whole by dust and darkness.” (Urrea 2009: 79) This passage repeats an earlier part of the novel when Aunt Irma tells a Guatemalan woman off, using the slogan “Mexico is for Mexicans” (ibid., 40), which in turn resembles the infamous “America for Americans”, assigning migration particularly from south to north with a certain racial component that serves to establish a clear-cut hierarchy.6 Due to its geographical proximity to the US, Mexico is a transit country for migrants from all parts of Latin America, which sets in motion a vicious spiral of xenophobia handed down from north to south. This is taken to extremes even from an intra-Mexican perspective. Nayeli’s group does not come directly from the borderlands in the narrow definition of the word, but from Sinaloa, a bit to the south. Even they as Mexicans are suspected of inherent illegality: “The soldier laid his rifle across the seat back in front of Tacho’s face: ‘When you leave Mexico’, he said, ‘don’t come back.’” (ibid., 78) These observations seem to incriminate the initial hypotheses of a transnational, delimited and emancipated construction of the borderlands, for nationality has thus far been of great importance for the characters. However, it is the process of overcoming these hindrances which constitutes the central action of the novel in the groups’ attempt at incorporating U.S.-American cultural concepts into Mexican everyday life by means of traversing nations and transgressing those artificially constructed borders. The two abovementioned frontiers intersect in the borderlands, and it is at that point where the two mythical constructions of “el norte” and “the West” collide, producing a unique atmosphere shaping its characters and therefore fulfilling the key role of spatial constructs and imaginations which eventually are at the heart of the entire narrative. The productive nature of colliding spaces has also been acknowledged by other disciplines, and the notion of delimited borderlands is confirmed even by architects: “The border is like a zone of transition. Since we are in a transition space, we need an architecture of transition. The border should be like an Escher drawing where there are humans on one side and ducks on the other side, and in the middle humans turn into ducks. That’s 6  |  Cf. also the ramblings of the radio show host about what Mexico should “‘do about the Guatemelans. Have you seen the Salvadorans? Por favor! Keep them out!’” (Urrea 2009: 84)

7.) Luis Alber to Urrea — Into the Beautiful North

the border to me, when there’s a mixture of both sides, and it produces a third thing.” (Herzog 1999: 179) Tijuana evidently serves as the concrete manifestation of that transition zone. While still on Mexican soil, it occupies a special place and serves as a meeting space in the borderlands discourse, as Guillermo Barrenechea confirms: “‘A lot of Americans want to discover the real Mexico without going any further than Tijuana’ [...] ‘A lot of Mexican Americans come to Tijuana searching for an identity.’” (qtd. in ibid., 178) In effect, this insinuates not only an intersection of spaces, but a corresponding intersection and creation of identities, therefore singling Tijuana out as a space which produces novel aspects of oneself and about one’s relative position. For Nayeli’s group, Tijuana apparently feels like a new world: “Down, into the hard dirt of Tijuana. Shacks and huts and scattered little cow farms gave way to small colonias and clutches of houses around gas stations and stores, and the roads got bigger and fuller, and there were newer cars [...] Trucks everywhere. They saw canals [...] They saw their first bridges. A prison. They plunged into the maw of the city.” (Urrea 2009: 95) From a narrative point of view, the narrative agency, at this point a homotopian narrator employing Nayeli’s group as a collective character focalizer, the description of the scene opens up another layer of space, for it directly recreates the impression that the group has upon their first steps in Tijuana. It is safe to say that these impressions are largely based on images of concrete spatial aspects, and upon their progression, from the shotgun shacks on the outskirts of town to the metropolitan “maw of the city.” The personification of Tijuana as a predator carries with it two interesting connotations. First of all, it conjures up the notion of Tijuana as a space of equalization. As this metaphor suggests, it equalizes all those who come to Tijuana in search of Mexico, identity, or even just a place to stay on the way to somewhere else. As such, it negates political categories such as nationhood and nationality, in effect paving the way for delimited and denationalized understanding of the borderlands, even though they are marked by a strongly fortified border. This is confirmed just a few pages later, when Nayeli’s group has made it downtown: “They walked with the restless throngs. The tide of American bodies dragged them down Revolución, the central party artery of Tijuana. Techno and Van Halen boomed from shops and bars and eateries.” (Urrea 2009: 99) However, on the downside, it also reduces individuality, whereas Nayeli and her friends are rather unique in their quest for a restoration of their home space of Tres Camarones. Yet, the contrast between rural Tres Camarones and urban Tijuana seems to be so huge that the void between the two spaces is filled by the new impression that the group gains which is fueled by spatial categories informed by movement and mobility, as they are “fascinated by the passing tourists [...] Cholos and surfos cruised by, pick-ups and low-riders”, “flocks of schoolgirls hustl[ing] along” etc. (ibid., 100)

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On the other hand, the anonymity generated by this novel space provides the opportunity to remain invisible, and therefore, to uphold a sense of self and individuality regardless of social conventions or restrictions, and also to maintain what Bus has called the tricksterlike reinterpretation of spaces (cf. 2000: 115), which is ultimately what the group attempts by entering Los Yunaites via Tijuana: reform and restore Tres Camarones. On a sidenote, Tijuana, a quasi-metropolis as it is illustrated, is a lot closer to Tacho’s imagination of Los Yunaites, as he is fascinated by the openness of Tijuana, particularly with regard to his sexual orientation: “Maybe Tijuana was his kind of city. [...] A boy with blue eye makeup called him ‘guapo’. ‘Oh, my God!’, Tacho said.” (ibid., 99) In any case, the reader encounters the – at first glance – paradoxical simultaneity of equalization and individuality, of publicity and anonymity, of convergence and divergence. It is this simultaneity which foregrounds the spatial categories very drastically, and singles out Tijuana as a narrative heterotopia. As has been laid out above, heterotopias, in the broadest sense, embody the metaphorical and -physical locales at which the respective constructions of time, space, and narrative intersect, representing a “a set of relations that delineates sites which are irreducible to one another and absolutely not superimposable on one another.” (Foucault 1986: 23) Therefore, heterotopias just as much as traditionally conceived geographical spaces are designated first and foremost by their social dimension, which, in turn, is marked by its dynamic nature on account of the historical change and the constant re-negotiation that it undergoes. It is through this that a metaphysical locale is constructed by means of the convergence of two opposed spaces sharing a similar cultural history facing each other, separated solely by a fence. This is emphasized by the geographically most extreme points of intersection in terms of the frontier hypothesis: Tijuana represents the northern- as well as the westernmost major crossing point of the U.S.-Mexican border, whereas San Diego on the other hand functions as the southern- and westernmost point of intersection of the two frontiers from a U.S.-American point of view. The implications carried by these geographical givens in relation to the culturo-political circumstances are such that out of the intersection of these two frontiers, the proverbial “third thing”, a third space (sic!), emerges, which then has the potential to create and foster a type of hybridity that is characteristic of the borderlands and its specific discourse. Through the interaction of various discourses, the reader can detect a metadiscourse painting Tijuana as a city waiting to find its true identity: “No one in Tijuana has the confidence yet to say what the city’s identity should be; we’re growing so rapidly we just improvise.” (Ozorno in Herzog 1999: 180) This is to say there exists constant movement to and from Tijuana, from both the external perspective, i.e. the concrete movement of people within the city, and the internal perspective, i.e. on the social scale which puts the city’s social

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structure in constant flux.7 As such, the space simultaneously changes people and is changed by people, allowing a look at its heterotopian makeup. This is further supported by Urrea himself: “And for the most part, Tijuana itself is not welcome in the Motherland. She brings in money and gringos, but nobody would dare claim her. As a Mexican diplomat once confided to me, ‘We both know Tijuana is not Mexico. The border is nowhere. It’s a no-man’s-land.’” (Urrea 1993: 20) While the diplomat’s assessment of the border being nowhere might be a bit too blunt, it is a good statement in order to portray Tijuana as representative of the borderlands, and renders Tijuana a good example of a heterotopia, because it is a concrete space in a concrete place which at the same is located outside all other places, which applies well to Foucault’s initial definition (cf. 1986: 24). The narrative quality of Tijuana as a heterotopia, however, derives from the simultaneous con- and divergences elaborated on the above, from the construction and deconstruction of identity vis-à-vis the conglomerate of overlapping spatialities making up Tijuana. In the representation of Nayeli’s group, we find the biographical access to borderlands culture, and their journey from Tres Camarones to Tijuana and across the border and back provides the methdological tool in terms of a trajectory rendering this narrative visible. Tijuana on another level seems to channel their energy, despite their initial disappointment that the much-praised Chava Chavarín, Aunt Irma’s mythologized ex-lover, cannot be located (cf. Urrea 2009: 106) and despite the “Sodom” aspect of Tijuana at night (cf. ibid., 113), as this is exactly where the two frontiers eventually intersect, which is symbolic of the groups’ entire journey: “‘That [...] is the legendary border fence.’ Everybody stared at it.” (ibid., 114) The border fence is the geographical manifestation of this intersection, serving as the single line where two nations who share a common historical narrative are divided by an artificial line aiming at the isolation of the rich north from the poor south. However, where there are attempts at isolation, there are also attempts and ways to permeate such boundaries, and by trying to traverse the line, borderlands culture is interpreted literally. After all, the plural implies that borderlands include both sides of the fence. Another factor in the peculiarity of this border is the simultaneous proximity and distance between the two spaces, a direct result of the separation: Geographically, one would need to take only a couple of steps to cross the border. Topologically, however, the same geographical territory is split up and put at a great distance from each other, represented in the fence and the border guards patrolling it. This segmentation is a result of arrangement and institutionalization of territory, resulting in different spatialities occupying the same space, serves to underline the conceptual differences between these two seemingly similar 7 | Even though, as Saldívar writes, there seems to be certain caste system (1997: 137).

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terms. The migra, i.e. the border patrol guards serving the INS might do their duty directly at the border, but they are commanded from higher authorities on the state and federal levels, therefore increasing the distance between the political, as opposed to cultural and economic, spaces that are Mexico and the US, particularly so in the borderlands regions such as “‘San Diego and Tijuana.’ [...] ‘El Paso and Juárez, Brownsville and...whatever. And Nuevo Laredo, too.’” (ibid., 116) This status quo is represented in the fictional account of Nayeli’s first (visual) interaction with a border patrol agent: “On the opposite slope of the channel, Nayeli saw a Border Patrol SUV. The agent was standing outside his truck in his green uniform. [...] The Border Patrol agent raised his hand and waved at her [...] But Nayeli couldn’t help it. [...] She pointed at herself and pointed to the USA. He shook his head.” (ibid.) In this non-verbal conversation, we can discern the tragedy of the borderlands people – one might be in contact with the other side, but in case of being on the wrong side of the line, it is very difficult to legally go there, so that further conversations might never happen in the first place. Above, it is spoken about the delimitation and denationalization of the borderlands and their function as a contact zone – the political status quo, however, is the exact opposite. In summary, one could say that the border functions as a membrane, admitting cheaply-produced Mexican products into the United States or even allowing US enterprises to maintain maquiladoras, actually tightening the knot between the two countries, while keeping cheap labor force out of the United States: Los gringos had not stopped at the border. [...] Currently, Mexico and her eighty million citizens are almost completely dependent on the U.S. market. The Mexican government and wealthy growers are in parnership with such American conglomerates as American Motors, IT&T and Du Pont which own factories called maquiladoras. One-fourth of all Mexicans work at maquiladoras. [...] The devaluation of the peso and Mexico’s dependencey on the U.S. have brought on what the Mexicans call la crisis. [...] Half of the Mexican people are unemployed. (Anzaldúa 1999: 32)

Anzaldúa brings up ramifications of American capitalism, itself expanding, yet isolating itself from spaces and people which help that very same growth. The resulting incongruence between two directly adjacent societies, even though they share, in part at least, common traditions is what Anzaldúa fears destroys the Mexican way of life when she speaks of unemployed people becoming cholos, drug addicts, or worse, drug traffickers. (cf. ibid.) The massive problems caused by this particular spatial configuration are visible in Tijuana, especially when gazing across the border, which is represented by the example of Don Porforio, a trash worker in the dompes, and his wife, who help out Nayeli and her group get along in Tijuana.

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In comparison to the above elaborations, they appear to be stereotypical of willing, hard-working people suffering from la crisis: “The worst insult they could think of was: That man doesn’t want to work. Work was everything to them, even though they had no work left to do. [...] Don Porfirio had worked the trash at the Fausto Gonzalez dump [...]” (Urrea 2009: 119). However, these two characters also introduce us to the domestic segmentation of Tijuana, away from Revolución, amusement and boulevards, and towards the outskirts of town where the consequences of la crisis are much more visible, even more so when contrasted with the USA. Urrea writes poignantly in Across the Wire: One of the most beautiful views of San Diego is from the summit of a small hill in Tijuana’s municipal garbage dump. [...] This view-spot is where the city drops of its dead animals. [...] In that stinking blue haze, amid nightmarish sculptures of harred ribs and carbonized tails, the garbage-pickers can watch the buildings of San Diego gleam gold on the blue coastline. The city looks cool in the summer [...] [a]nd in the winter [...] when the cold makes their lips bleed and the rain turns the hill into a great gray pudding of ash and mud [...] San Diego glows like a big electric dream. (1993: 31)

This impression is repeated almost literally by Don Porfirio when he shows Nayeli, Tacho, Yolo and Vampi his home: “Before them, a malodorous volcano of garbage rose [...] It was dark gray, ashen, black [...] The sky above the hill was gray and heavy with clouds. [...] It made Nayeli feel cold. ‘From up there,’ Don Porfirio said, pointing, ‘you can see America.’” (Urrea 2009: 124) These two passages from Urrea’s works are perhaps the most poignant portrayal (and implicit criticism) of the Mexican-American border policies,8 in that they create a cynical spatial paradox. By depicting these people as elevated, they assign them with a certain visual power implying to and generating for them visual proximity on the one hand and the feasibility of making it across the border to the alleged Promised Land on the other hand because they can actually look into the United States and see San Diego as an electric dream. Once again, only from a negative perspective, Urrea underscores space’s dynamic role: The radiating glow of San Diego is exactly the piece of connection rendering the cityscape visible to those atop the dompes, and as such exerts power over the people.9 A third factor is the negation of the actual border by means of this direct visual connection. The way that these people see the U.S. is quasi-utopian. 8  |  For a detailed account of Mexican-American cooperation on migration, see Délano, Alexandra. Mexico and Its Diaspora in the United States. Policies of Emigration Since 1848. Cambridge: CUP, 2011. 9 | Cf. also Seeliger’s categories of “afar” and “up close”. This view of San Diego corresponds to Seeliger’s function of providing the ‘whole’ picture of the opposite space, construing a spatial interaction based on contrast. (2011: 135)

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Furthermore, neither Urrea as a journalist nor his narrative agency mention the border, which is thereby eliminated, even if only for a short period of time, from the protagonists’ minds. In short, the topological distance established by means of politics and economy between two geographical space is shortened drastically and therefore creates the illusion of being within reach, which it is not, at least not for a vast amount of impoverished Mexicans. However, San Diego serves as a focal point, and in the way in which it has been illustrated, as a representation of a better life, naturally causing people to try and make it across the border. This signifies that apart from telling the story of the reconfiguration of Tres Camarones by projecting a classical U.S.-American cultural product with a spatial background onto Tres Camarones, Into the Beautiful North tells, even if implicitly, a story about the personal and economic consequences of spatial transformation. This master narrative is the superordinate layer of the novel’s sub-narratives. The single layers can be identified as follows: Tres Camarones, its history and restoration, the journey and the trajectory created by the trip to the north, as well as the larger narrative of the U.S.-Mexican borderlands from multiple standpoints. These layers work in conjunction, and what they have in common is the spatial basis of each sub-narrative. From top to bottom, the renegotiation of space and spatiality lies at the heart of the novel, providing the narrative nucleus from which the layers spread and become manifest in concrete examples. Nayeli responds to these levels by illustrating her experiences as caused by certain spaces: “It shook her, this place. It was awful. Tragic. Yet...it moved her. The sorrow she felt. It was profound.” (Urrea 2009: 130) She further speaks of “garbage dumps” and “lonesome shacks” which “made her feel something so far inside herself that could not define or place it. (ibid.) Essentially, Urrea’s narrator with Nayeli as a focalizer confirms the productive significance of spaces in the telling of stories, and its predating effects on generating the respective material for a story to be told in conjunction with cultural and biographical narratives. However, this explicitly mentioned prominence of space comes at a pivotal point in the novel, for it occurs shortly before they meet Atómiko, an idiosyncratically described trash picker who is the first outsider not to think of Nayeli’s plan as ridiculous. What is even more important is less his character as such, but how he depicts himself: “There he stood, surveying his realm, the warrior Atómiko. King of the Hill. [...] The master of the dompe, known by all, feared by many.” (ibid., 133) What is to be noticed first is a shift in focalization, as the character focalizer switches from Nayeli to Atómiko, who through the voice of the narrator reveals his self-comprehension to us. It is of importance to identify the distance between Atómiko and Nayeli by looking at the perspectival relationship created by the two divergent focalizers, which is represented in different views on life in the dompes – while Nayeli utilizes imagery evoking shock, horror and disgust (cf. also ibid., 129, 130 f.), Atómiko seems to have

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found his place in the dompes, which the focalizer realizes through the image of what can be described as chivalric. Also implied is a far-reaching gaze which widens his overview over his perceived kingdom, whereas Nayeli’s look in the preceding passage is directed at the ground, narrowing her view of the situation. The contrast between these two focalizers and perspective is very effective as it crystallizes the spatial influence on narrative perspective which eventually informs also our reading of a given story. In this case, the interplay between the focalizers serves to establish the contrast between in- and outsiders of Tijuana, as it were. For Nayeli, the scenery is difficult to bear because she apparently has not seen anything like a dompe in Tres Camarones: “She was so disturbed that it gave her the strangest comfort, as though something she had suspect about life all along was being confirmed, and the sorrow she felt in her bed at night was reflected by this soil.” (ibid., 130/1) This outside perspective on what feels natural to inhabitants of Tijuana, not to mention those literally living in the dompes, defamiliarizes readers with this particular space until we are refamiliarized by the shift in focalization which, despite his social status as a trash picker, empowers Atómiko and instills some sense of pride in him: “He’d declared himself a samurai. And beside him, his long samurai sword. Well, it was a staff. But it was noble and powerful in his hands. They [meaning other trash pickers] had no vision. No pride. [...] For most of them, any pole would do. But no for Atómiko. He was a ronin. [...]” (ibid., 133) The contrast created by Nayeli’s feeling of powerlessness in comparison to Atómiko’s empowered vision of himself is caused by the same spatial arrangement and thus subject to solely the perspective one chooses, causing a productive friction which turns out to be of great use for Nayeli’s group, as they receive assistance from Atómiko in the further course of their journey (cf. ibid., 137). Moreover, the imagery of the samurai utilized in this passage corresponds to what Nayeli, Tacho and Vampi had initially set out do, namely liberate Tres Camarones from the narcos by retrieving fighting men and repatriating them to Mexico. Since Atómiko describes himself as a warrior and his daily survival in the dompes as a fight, it appears only natural to turn him into one of the Magnificent Seven, particularly so after Atómiko saves Nayeli from an attack (cf. ibid., 137). It is characteristic of spaces that they serve as social mediators (cf. Brinkmann and Thoene 2011: 65), encompassing the assumption that space is “inextricably tied to the complexities of human life.” (ibid.), particularly so in big cities. While Tijuana arguably cannot be classified as a metropolis, it is big enough to be a breeding ground for starting anew, and it is what has brought Nayeli and her friends to the city. It is the specificity of the intersection of their trajectories with that of Atómiko represented in the shift of focalization which combines two narratives thus far identified, i.e. the defense of Tres Camarones and the defense of the self in the dompes, which in themselves

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have a demoralizing effect on outsiders. Taken together, however, they make for a powerful combination strong enough to fight “zombies.” (ibid., 137) It is interesting that at this point, Nayeli tries to reach Aunt Irma by phone, thereby establishing a connection between the three landmarks of their journey, i.e. Tres Camarones, Tijuana and Los Yunaites. This reestablishes the original purpose of their journey after the group had become a little side-tracked by the new impressions generated for them by their new environment and their proximity to the border. Shifting back to Nayeli as a character focalizer, the narrator says: “Nayeli could imagine the sound of the phone, echoing in the empty house. She had heard it a hundred times before. She could see the table, the chairs [...] It almost made her swoon.” (ibid., 138) This serves as a reminder of Nayeli’s heritage, connecting her biographical narrative with the spatial aspects of the journey inasmuch as it ties a teleological knot between heritage, memory and space, reinvoking her aim to save Tres Camarones from the bandidos. Likewise, Aunt Irma’s house as a space representing Tres Camarones and a sense of home is activated because its memory has an obvious physical effect on Nayeli, who starts crying when she realizes Aunt Irma is not home, thus missing the connection she sought to establish. However, it is this absence which only emphasizes Nayeli’s wish to return, which is supporting the notion of coming full-circle with her trip. With regard to her initial goal, this delineates traditional border narratives from Nayeli’s story and renders the story truly Inter-American, crystallized through the attempt to delimit physical and cultural barriers by projecting U.S.-American cultural products onto Mexican issues. This is to say that her aim paradoxically seeks to permeate the border by strengthening her Mexican identity which becomes manifest in the attempt to save her home. It is the bidirectionality of the story in connection to the dividing line and individual identity construction of particularly Nayeli and Tacho which sets this narrative apart from other, monodirectional and thus more traditional border narratives. Effectively, transculturation10 is pursued, if subconsciously, by a group of people. It is indicative of the spatial facet of culture that transculturality focuses on the metaphor of the separated spheres which now can no longer be regarded 10  |  Transculturation is a term referring to the “increased mixings and permeations” of different cultures or societies (cf. Pooch 2011: 90). “This approach is highlighted and furthered in the age of globalization. According to Wesch, ‘transculturality describes a new form of culture today that ‘passes through classical cultural boundaries’ [...] The approach of separate, different spheres is no longer valid. Rather, cultures are characterized by mobility and inspired by constant dynamics of change or exchange with complex hybridization proecces taking place [...] Thus, [...] ‘transculturality’ [is introduced] as a concept of culture that transcends the notion of ‘inner homogenization and outer separation’ [...]” (ibid.)

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as isolated from one another, but must be observed under the condition of their overlapping and constant interaction (cf. Pooch 2011: 89/90). This is also in line with the hypothesis of overlapping spatialities which constantly reposition the individual and simultaneously influence both, the micro- and macro-levels of spatial and cultural interaction.11 In that sense, the narrative encompasses both of these facets, for there is particularly in Nayeli an example of transculturation by adopting an American movie for her own purposes and to redefine herself (cf. flap text) on the micro-level. In fact, the redefinition of herself occurs through the journey, which is the concrete action establishing this wondrous narrative of transculturation. On the macro-level, there are the overlapping spatial inscriptions in connection to the restoration of one space inspired by utilizing cultural products and the attitudes represented by it from the other. In line with this, and save for a couple of instances in the later parts of the novel pertaining to Nayeli’s personal search for her father, the United States is not overly idealized either, further delimiting it from monodirectional stories of migration. As Haas and Herrera-Sobek write, U.S.-Mexico borderlands as an area of transnational and intercultural interaction [...] is aware of, yet (at times) also defies, the border and its hegemonic imprint of United States political, economic, and cultural domination. Thus subverting the logic of U.S.American territorial and hegemonic cultural expansion and East-West trajectory of movement of the frontier concept, ‘the borderlands, their rites of passage and tales of transgression, constitute a potent foundational myth of trans­n ational or inter-American identities.’ [...]12

In fact, the borderlands discourse is used as a tool to restore a Mexican small town, which puts Nayeli and her group in a position of power that counteracts the notion of poor Mexicans searching for a better life in the U.S.. As such, it is an act of emancipation and reconfigures the spatial arrangement between Mexico and the U.S.A..

11 | Pooch presents Welsch’s distinction between the micro- and macro-levels of transculturality: “The macro-level of transculturality refers to cultures as societes. [...] Transculturality as identity formation on the micro-level refers to the cultural hybridity of the individual.” (ibid.). 12 | Haas, Astrid, and María Herrera-Sobek. “Introduction.” In: Journal of American Studies 57 (2012). URL: http://www.asjournal.org/archive/57/201.html (July 22, 2013, 9:58 a.m.).

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7.3) A cross the B order : I nto the B eautiful N orth as a N arr ative of E mpowerment Preceding Nayeli and her group’s first (unsuccessful) of two attempts at crossing the border, the respective facilities are laid out the reader by the narrative agency: The United States had foiled the massive incursions of the 1970s and ‘80s with the beefed-up new border fences and stadium lights and plowed-under acres of roadway on the other side, where white Border Patrol trucks cruised like sharks in a lagoon. Dirt streets and alley piled up and down steep ravines. Houses went right up to the line. [...] People played soccer. Young men sat on the slopes and watched the fences, waiting for their moment. They were still going across, in spite of the heightened security [...], and many of them would be caught. They’d be back tomorrow to try it again. (ibid., 149)

This depiction of the border takes up the function of recapitulating the recent history of the border crossings between the US and Mexico which, while in decline since the 1980s, went up to five million Mexicans migrating to the US (cf. Heyck 1994: 319). At the same time, it represents the strict separation of the two nation states which do, however, share a common cultural and historical space. At the same time, it adds a circular component to the border discourse in hinting at the many repeated crossing attempts made by many migrants. Likewise, the proximity of a regular life represented by the men playing soccer on the US side and the house basically at the fence of the Mexican side underline the impression that the border in this cold war-like configuration reflects an unnatural political incision into said shared space. Granted, different nations states delimit themselves from their neighboring countries, but as the example of the EU has shown, existing borders can be opened and foster exchange instead of isolation.13 La frontera, by contrast, appears to have ignored such experiences and, particularly with regard to the simultaneous distance from and proximity to the US/Mexico suggested by the above passage is reminiscent of the Berlin Wall, with the INS trucks patrolling, steep ravines running in front of the fence and empty spaces reminiscent of a no-man’s land placed behind the fence on the American side. Much like the Berlin Wall separated two politically inscribed, but ultimately spatial categories represented in the “East” and the “West”, the border fence makes the same distinction between “El Norte” and “El Sur”. While it would be inappropriate to compare the scales of these two border facilities, 13  |  This, however, is restricted to domestic European borders. Europe’s outer borders are heavily secured and guarded by armed forces and organizations such FRONTEX, which makes European criticism of the US border policies rather hypocritical.

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the fact that they were and are being controlled very strictly and for very similar purposes, they both create an opposition of politically defined spaces leading to the separation which once were united and share(d) a common culture. As such, traversing such borders constitutes a political act, changing the respective arrangements between the countries, which represents an act of empowerment on part of the subjects crossing the border. Particularly with regard to Nayeli’s quest to retrieve the Magnificent Seven from “Los Yunaites”, this notion rings true, for it is not her aim to transgress the border for good, but to exploit it for her own purpose. This is an effective way of empowering herself and in return of disempowering, and also of demystifying, the heavily guarded border. As such, the spatial arrangement between the two countries is challenged in a small, but effective manner: the border is no longer the subject of the journey, but a mere object, something used for her own personal agenda. Shortly before the first attempt, Nayeli and her group contact a coyote, i.e. “a person who smuggles people across the U.S.Mexican border into the United States” (Castro 2000: 70), who confirms this political reading of border crossings: “The [INS] truck moved on kicking up dust that drifted over the fence and settled on their heads. ‘That dust,’ said the coyote, ‘is the United States invading Mexico.’” (Urrea 2009: 151) This marks the first instance in which there is concrete border interaction, going from north to south, but it could easily be read vice versa, as a fastdriving INS truck can also be assumed to pursue someone having traversed the border. In both readings, there is a permeation of the border and a resulting challenge of the spatial order. The fact that the coyote calls this incident an invasion also serves to underscore the inherent perils of trying to cross this border, not to mention the political dominance exerted by the US, which is revealed in the description of dust as an invader, in effect even nationalizing natural phenomena. Describing a military action, an invasion is part of war, and the impression that, regardless of which of the above readings one chooses, the journey from one country to the next is likened to a military operation including the possible loss of life adds to the aggressive U.S. attitude towards her neighbors from the south. Yet, it also serves to emphasize Nayeli’s venture into “Los Yunaites”. In that sense, her reading of an invasion much rather resembles a special forces operation, a covert and subversive attempt at strengthening one’s own position from behind enemy lines, using the enemy’s cultural products to restore a space back home. This also conveys the impression of a certain type of displacement and even asymmetrical warfare, for lack of a better word, which would initially speak against an Inter-American/ transcultural reading. However, the fact that Nayeli neither wants to harm the US nor intends to remain there renders the story Inter-American, for the focus lies on exchange and cultural transfer that undermines traditional ideas of the assumed, monodirectional hierarchy between the United States and Mexico.

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This perception of the border crossing is not shared by the coyote, who lays out the trip across as a military operation: “All right. Straight, arroyo, right for fifty yards, hard left. We’ll be going down a canyon for a mile, and then we’ll get to a bridge. We can rest under that bridge. If the rateros jump us, and they’ve got guns or knives, I ain’t dying for you. No way. I’m gone. Good luck, cabrones.” (Urrea 2009: 153; italics original) Aside from the meticulously planned path the group is going to take, this passage also emphasizes the physical space that is border. Whereas the border has taken on a more or less symbolic and inscribed function, it now proves a physical hindrance to Nayeli’s group, and one that is very dangerous to begin with, particularly with the associations of a no-man’s-land which the coyote also hints at: “Keep close enough to see the person in front, because if you get separated, you stay behind. There’s junkies and monsters and rateros in there that’ll cut off your legs and fuck you as you die.” (ibid., italics original) This frightening illustration of the literal borderlands, i.e. the very space just behind the fence on the American side conjures up the impression of state of complete lawlessness and wilderness, which supports the hypothesis of the northern frontier, even though the premise is different inasmuch as there is nothing to explore and conquer in that sense, but only to traverse. Yet, the invisibility of the surroundings during the crossing at night, apart from all the other dangers, renders the physical border and its crossing as threatening as it is. Inherent to this is the danger of disorientation. As a term describing one’s relative position in a given environment, its loss would correspond to the vanishing of a person in the no-man’s-land, highlighting the powerful role which also the physical border(lands) assume(s) in the construction of a trajectory that transcends political boundaries. More important is that no-man’s-land also kills lost people, swallowing their stories and literally incorporating them into the borderlands. One could argue that it is also such cases which equip the borderlands with their power, as it is not only the area separating two countries, but also possibly life and death. Particularly in recent years, migrant deaths at the border have doubled according to the US Government Accountability Office.14 As a result, the borderlands have become additionally inscribed with the biographies of several hundred deaths per year, surrounding them with a simultaneous aura of chance and finality hard to find elsewhere in the world. The borderlands display a radical teleology producing three basic narratives: stories of success, of failure, and of death. Once one lets him- or herself in on the trip across the border, the trajectory is predisposed and can only take three basic forms, two of which are negative for the individual. 14 | US Government Accountability Office. “Illegal Immigration. Border-Crossing Deaths Have Doubled Since 1995; Border Patrol’s Efforts To Prevent Deaths Have Not Been Fully Evaluated.” (2006) URL: http://www.gao.gov/new.items/d06770.pdf (July 24, 2013, 11.34 a.m.).

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The chance to make it across successfully is very limited to begin with, which speaks for the power that the north as an inscribed political space exerts over those seeking to escape their life in the south. The border accordingly acts as a channeling agency for individuals willing to confront it. However, the portrayal of the coyote is the only actual reference to the physical event of crossing the border provided for the reader.15 As such, its narrative discourse and perspective obviously differ from the rest of the novel. Focalization shifts to the character level on part of the coyote, and features short, poignant and authoritative syntax which emphasizes the dangerous situation by giving clear instructions and constructing threats following non-compliance with these instructions, such as the one graphically quoted on the above (cf. ibid., 152-154). The bulk of the novel does feature mostly narrative parts articulated by the homotopian narrator utilizing a zero focalizer, interspersed with dialogical parts and narrative sections including a shift in focalization according to the corresponding character. Taking into consideration this general narrative layout of the novel, the passage narrated by the coyote displays the literary and narrative border between the two spaces which Nayeli and her group intend to reconcile by venturing into Los Yunaites. This corresponds to what Marie Laure-Ryan (2003) has called the “geographical or topographical organization of the textual world”, i.e. the “space signified by the text.” (336) It resembles the dividing line between planning and concrete action, between theory and practice as well as between dreaming up a plan to save Tres Camarones and the full scale of this plan. The fact that their crossing is successful only at the second attempt does not matter much at this point. This is the very juncture that provides the transition from “El Sur” to “El Norte”. Correspondingly, the entire novel is subdivided into two major parts named like that, and it is quite telling that this lead-over into the “northern” part (starting on page 179) of the novel appears near the end of the “southern” part, with only the unsuccessful attempt at crossing separating north and south. The second, successful attempt is more creative, organized by a drug trafficker named Wino, who literally undermines the border by having dug a tunnel to “move product, not bodies.” (Urrea 2009: 196) From a spatial point of view, this is interesting inasmuch as it adds a vertical level to the intersection of the two frontiers around Tijuana. This clandestine, subterranean level circumvents the ideological clash of the two frontiers above ground. In subverting the border facilities, they also negate the initial separation of a space 15  |  Of course, their actual attempt is described as well, as is their peculiar interaction with the migra, but the coyote’s narrative about crossing is one that most drastically features the dangers of crossing, whereas the depiction of the actual crossing is less satisfying.

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because the border is simply disregarded in this approach. Taken one step further, one could read the distinction between vertical and horizontal layers and points of intersection as expressions of superficial difference vs. deeplyrooted connection between the countries, even though it has been usurped by drug traffickers. However, since the border can only prevent transgressions on the ground level, its scope remains on the surface, with its guards only seeing what can be seen on it. That tunnel, however, reestablishes the assumed delimitation of the borderlands, even though cynically, it is now reduced to the drug trade, which has been ravaging the entire area, and particularly Tijuana, for years at this point.16 However, the tunnel is utilized by Wino to traffick people, namely Nayeli’s group into the United States, and so provides the chokepoint through which they can enter the US to fulfill their mission. Still, different from those entering the US above-ground, it is not a one-way mission. The notion of coming full circle will be of great importance for Nayeli, but for now, they have made it into Los Yunaites and appear to be a little starstruck, as it were: “Giddy with the good old USA, everybody laughed. The air smelled great, smelled of saltwater and jacaranda trees.” (Urrea 2009: 201) This is also particularly emphasized by rather mundane activities which come as a surprise to the group: “[Atómiko] could not believe he could wash his hands in steaming-hot water.” (ibid., 202) This example of defamiliarization reverses the previous example of the dompe, and carves out, even if mundane, vast differences between the US and Tijuana, juxtaposing the huge differences between the First and the Third World, even though they are topologically only a few miles apart. In that sense, the borderlands are as much a space of separation as they are of transculturation, and both aspects play a pivotal role in the further construction of the plot, as Nayeli attempts to overcome separation while making an attempt at transculturation.

7.4) B ringing it all B ack H ome : The R epresentation of Tres C amarones V is - à -V is “L os Y unaites ” and N ayeli ’s S e arch for her F ather The narrative picks up speed when Nayeli and the group contact Chava Chavarín for help, Aunt Irma’s long-lost lover who had departed for Los Yunaites in 1963, and has not been back since. However, it is his character who acts as the personified connection between Tres Camarones and Los Yunaites while on a theoretical level, he is at the crossroads of the intersection of space 16 | Cf. A map of drug-related murders compiled by Dorothy Kronick from Stanford University: http://stanford.edu/~dkronick/mexico_crime/ (July 24 2012, 11.58 a.m.).

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and time. In an analepsis, the narrator, using Irma as a focalizer, reconstructs a romantic image of Tres Camarones by reliving her relationship with young Chava: “He was exquisite [...] He smoked cigarettes in holders that jutted from his mouth like an old-time Yanqui president’s – he had FDR in mind. [...] He lit the ladies’ smokes with a gold Zippo that appearted with a Fred Astaire flick of the hand that revealed a faux Cartier watch [...] everybody in town called him ‘That Chava.’” (ibid., 240) It is of interest to note that the narrative agency, through Aunt Irma’s focalization, invokes associations of Americana, such as the FDR connection or the Fred Astaire look, thus already serving as an implicit connective between Tres Camarones and Los Yunaites. From a theoretical point, this marks the connection between space and time, as the temporal category of the analepsis ties the past with the present, whereas Chava serves as the personified dialectic between “El Sur” and “El Norte. This is rendered visible when juxtaposing Aunt Irma’s recollection of Chava’s letters to her with his own recollection of Tres Camarones. The narrator continues: “He sent word that he’d found work. He’d found a cheap house and a good-paying job [...] His letters and telegrams to Irma were full of innocence and joy – amazing tales of bright American days and clean American beaches. Shining American bowling alleys [...]” (ibid., 242) These images conjure up the traditional notion of the US as a land of opportunity and hope, particularly when he mentions the cheap house and the well-paid job. However, as it seems, Chava seems to overplay his longing for home by the focus on economics and materialism, as his heart clearly still clings to Tres Camarones: He realized there was no one in Los Yunaites who could transport him so easily to Tres Camarones, the Camarones that throbbed his mind every night, the old world that would not let him sleep, that would not allow him to read a book or watch a movie [...] Those alleys hung with red blossons and wooden gates! Those alleys that ran with floods every June [...] In Camarones, he had been a fire on two legs, he had been a human waltz and a walking tango, he had brought music and cologne into the plazuela on each humid mysterious love-scented Saturday night. (ibid., 260/1)

The juxtaposition of these two elements yields some interesting observations. First of all, from the narrative angle of vision, there is another shift in focalization. This time Chava, and obviously, his own recollections of Tres Camarones and his feelings about it collide with Aunt Irma’s perception of his letter. As we do not know the content of his letters, it might very well be that he paints the U.S. in colors too bright, but the perspectival difference on the home space that is Tres Camarones is striking here, particularly when held against the mirror of the U.S. which, despite its many advantages such as those mentioned above, still does not feel like a true home to him.

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Secondly, when Chava thinks back to Tres Camarones, he changes his perspective on himself, describing himself as a Tony Manero-like star, a big fish in a small pond, whereas the implication of a loss of self is clearly communicated in his romantic flashback to his home. This is to emphasize the prominent role of space in the production of narrative, which corresponds well to Chavarin’s willingness to return to Camarones, even if only after having been assured a warm welcome back home (cf. ibid., 247). Despite their non-linear nature, what shines through from Chava’s descriptions as well as his own memories, it is Tres Camarones that still feels like home and still exerts enough power over him to persuade him to go back, even after forty years. In close connection to this is the aforementioned overlapping. It becomes clear that Chava has taken the Tres Camarones of the past abroad and constructed an individual image of the place as he knew and which he especially with regard to himself seems to idealize. However, this is not the Camarones of the present, at which point there is a collision between two facets of Tres Camarones represented by Nayeli, embodying the present-day, drug-ridden space and Chava, who recalls the idyllic image of Tres Camarones of the past. In contrast to the US and its positive, but dull portrayal on part of Chava, Tres Camarones appears as a mythical home space that deserves being saved, and so reverses the premise under which comparisons between Mexico and the US are typically drawn. This goes hand in hand with the above-made observations of empowerment. In effect, the underdog seizes control of the prerogative of interpretation, primarily influenced by spatial categories. En route to find the Magnificent Seven, Chava suggests seeking help from Angel, a “migrant harvester” (ibid., 263) working in a migrant camp called “Camp Guadalupe”. As they approach the camp, they are reminded of the fate many Mexicans share upon entering the United States permanently: “Dark, thin men stood staring at them. The ground was muddy, darker than the men. Improvised tents were gathered in a rough U-shape. Splintery poles propped up sheets of plastic. [...] They had managed to hammer a little wooden shrine. [...]In it, covered by a shingle roof, standing on a small shelf, was a statue of the Blessed Mother (ibid., 269/70) The illustration of the camp radiates despair, poverty and disease and so functions as enclave in the “richest country in the world. [...] in the richest state of that rich country.” (ibid., 269) While it would be preposterous to use the camp as a metaphor for Mexico or even for Mexican immigrants, legal and illegal alike, the economic difference between the two nations is crystallized very clearly in this passage, particularly with the emphasis on the United States’ wealth. While poverty and precarious labor conditions are by no means limited to Mexican immigrants17 it does, however, 17  |  For a haunting piece of jounalism on the demise of the American middle class, cf. Maharidge, Dale, and Michael S. Williamson. Someplace Like America. Tales from the New Great Depression. Berkeley: California UP, 2011.

7.) Luis Alber to Urrea — Into the Beautiful North

respond to classical imaginations of the disparity of wealth between “El Sur” and “El Norte” and establishes a socio-economic contrast that one the one hand demotes the image of the richest country in the world and, more importantly, serves as a catalyzer for Nayeli’s quest. At the camp and in the misery it displays, Nayeli finds some confirmation in her quest to restore her hometown, particularly since it is likened to the Tijuana dompe where they had ended up prior to crossing the border (cf. ibid.): “‘How does it look to you, Señorita??’ ‘Hard.’ [...] ‘If you were born to be a ten-penny nail [...] ‘you cannot curse the hammer. The paisanos all nodded.’” (ibid., 271) What is reflected here is the helplessness and self-humiliation of a group of people trying to find some dignity in where they have ended up, which is not so much different from places such as the Tijuana dompe. For Nayeli, this represents an implicit call to action, especially when considering the beautiful surroundings of the camp (cf. ibid., 266). At the same time and on a less personal scale, it also makes clear the power relations, at least economically, between the US and Mexico. This is reflected in the representation of the interaction between the group and white overseers, who accuse Mexicans of “‘turn[ing] our country into the third world.” (ibid., 272) The transformational aspect of this utterance is interesting, as Nayeli’s group has no intentions whatsoever to remain in, not to mention transform, the United States or even a little part of it. On the contrary, they intend to use it so as to defend their own hometown. Bearing this in mind, the subservience of the paisanos, discerned on part of Atómiko, serves to implicitly strengthen the idea of a restored Tres Camarones so that no Mexican has to behave the way they do. In another interpretation, the town could allegorically be read as symbolizing Mexico, especially since it is narcos who have seized the town. With the ongoing drug war in Mexico, entire regions have been seized and fought over by drug cartels, so for patriotic Mexicans, it would be natural to reclaim their land, even if in as desperately daring attempts as Nayeli and her group try to accompolish. In the confrontation that ensues between Nayeli’s group and the white overseers, the group wins thanks to the help of Atómiko the samurai, who defeats Jimbo and his gang almost by himself with one notable exception: Nayeli tackles the “last one standing” (ibid., 276) but does not actually have to fight him, and scares him off: “She was breathing heavily, covered in sweat. It dripped off her hair. But she was smiling. That was what scared the boy the worst: the crazy beaner chick was smiling. [...] ‘Hello baby,’ she said. The boy plunged through the bamboo stand and ran all the way up and out of the canyon.” (ibid., 276/7) What occurs here reflects not a transformation of power, but a reversal, as a group of Mexican illegals scares off a number of U.S.-Americans. Again, the notion of emancipation and empowerment can be detected in these lines, as the prerogative of interpretation is seized by

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the subjects of the story, not the objects. In direct reply to the accusation of turning the US into a third-world country, this leaves the interpretation that it is they themselves who determine the terms of their stay in the US, and no one else, let alone a group of gringos in the worst sense of the word. However, the determination of their own conditions also signifies to subvert the work of the Border Patrol in a double sense: on the one hand, by having penetrated the border, they have demonstrated the ability to overcome this obstacle despite the technological aids at the INS’ disposal. However, making it back to Mexico out of their own free will to rid their country or hometown of narcos is all the more daring, as it renders the superpower USA completely passive and being exploited for someone else’s purposes. This demystification of U.S.-American power empowers Nayeli’s group. It is made clear relatively early upon the group’s arrival in Los Yunaites that their trajectories will split (cf. ibid., 204) because of different ambitions, with Nayeli having her father in mind from even the most rudimentary stages of the planning of the journey (cf. ibid., 52). Lending a biographical facet to the narrative, this intention of Nayeli connects Tres Camarones and Los Yunaites in a manner that transcends boundaries and borderlands, for the inherent connection already exists, regardless of politically or culturally constructed boundaries. In conjunction with Aunt Irma’s arrival, Nayeli refocuses and employs Kankakee, IL, where her father lives, as a teleological space onto which she projects not only the reunion of her family, but also hopes fulfill her initial mission in retrieving her father, a former police officer, as one of the Siete Magnificos: “KANKAKEE, she told herself. What else remained but KANKAKEE?” (cf. ibid., 281), continuing later on that “Ma Johnston’s minivan offered more than enough room for just the two of them, but Nayeli had plans to fill the extra space. She would, she still believed, not only find her father in KANKAKEE, but convince him to return [...]” (ibid., 293). The direct juxtaposition of two focalizers at this point yields interesting observations, as Nayeli’s character focalizer implies a desperate determination to go to Kankakee, as it more or less remains her only option with Aunt Irma having taken over the business of recruiting the Magnificent Seven. As has been said before, this leads to a tunnel-like focus on Kankakee and her father which, if one takes a look at the sheer scale of the undertaking, seems to resemble a projection of subconscious desires such as a longing for home and family much rather than a well thought-out plan of defending a village from drug dealers. This does not go by the neutral zero focalizer unnoticed, to which the narrative agency has shifted once again, and puts things in a little more perspective by adding that Nayeli “still believed” in fulfilling her plan. The perspectival difference creates two different points of view on Nayeli’s trip in this second part of the novel, and one that alludes to the somewhat tragic outcome of her journey to Kankakee (cf. ibid., 351), particularly if one takes

7.) Luis Alber to Urrea — Into the Beautiful North

into consideration her last name, Cervantes, and the implications of fighting for lost causes that is inextricably tied to that very name by the connection to Don Quijote. Nayeli does not know that her father has found a new family, but she never even thinks of the possibility that her father is not waiting for her to take him back to Tres Camarones. Read in that way, the doubtful focalizer undermines Nayeli’s reliability as a storyteller. Depending on one’s point of view, one could read this as a sense of determination and of unwillingness to accept new realities, but it seems to be particularly the latter aspect which keeps Nayeli going. A conversation with Aunt Irma goes as follows: “‘My father is good.’ ‘Your father is a dog like all the other dogs.’ ‘I will prove you wrong.’” (ibid., 286) An interesting side-effect of this scene, which is somewhat symbolic of the entire narrative, is that through her unwillingness to accept these realities, Nayeli negates the political implications that not only her wish to go to Kankakee, but her entire trip carry with it. Throughout the novel, she never mentions the border herself – whenever there is talk of the border or the borderlands, Nayeli is rendered passive and does not accept (or realize) the fact of a political boundary between the countries. (cf. ibid., 304) While she clearly speaks of “Los Yunaites”, she does not seem to grasp that the US is a much different political construct. On the one hand, this sort of naivité empowers and emancipates her, but on the other hand, ignorance of the border also insinuates non-acceptance of separation, creating an Inter-American narrative. This refers to back to the aforementioned notion of empowerment and of merely using the U.S. for her own purposes. Since Urrea’s narrative agency makes ample use of narrative dynamics particularly in terms of shifting focalizers, the different layers of the story are created by the respective focalizers, Tacho, Aunt Irma, Chava, Atómiko, the Coyote, and so on and so forth, who all present different facets and perspectives on the borderlands. Nayeli is the only one whose vision not only transcends but outright negates the border, therefore rendering her a literally Inter-American character, whereas the other focalizers are more clearly aware of the borderlands and their existing, concrete separations, as Tacho clarifies: “‘It’s the USA, morra.’ [...] ‘They can do whatever they want.’” (ibid., 311) Nayeli’s and Tacho’s trajectory to Kankakee goes from San Diego via Las Vegas, Denver, from there through the Great Plains, Topeka, Saint Louis, and finally, to Kankakee. In terms of a political reading going in the direction of a negation of boundaries, Nayeli and her friends not only permeate the border – they penetrate the United States deeply, driving cross-country from the very southwesternmost corner of the country to the central northern/ Midwestern United States. At a stop in Salina, UT, they come across in a Mexican restaurant: “They were so nostalgic and homesick that the thought of of chorizo or chilaquiles or tacos made them swoon. [...] “‘We’re home!’

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Nayeli said to Tacho.” (ibid., 301) In fact, this seizure of the restaurant on part of Nayeli transports her image or memories of Tres Camarones to Utah and therefore creates an overlapping of the two spaces, which leads to the blurring of the two different countries when they start speaking Spanish immediately upon entering the restaurant, which emphasizes the crucial function of space, particularly in terms of identity construction. However, this results in an intra-group fragmentation, as the Mexican-American owning the restaurant rebukes the two travellers for being illegal immigrants and throws them out of the restaurant (cf. ibid., 304). This represents a new experience for Nayeli and Tacho, and adds a layer of complexity to the borderlands discourse which they had obviously not considered before. The simultaneity of topological proximity and geographical distance once again results in their being re-placed or relocated in terms of their perspective on the United States. They are clearly shown that they are unwanted as illegal immigrants. In a way, this corresponds to a more or less classical borderlands discourse of not finding a home, as Saldívar writes: [...] Martínez [...] from the start scrambles the geopolitical map of the U.S.-Mexico border: [...] His quest moves across an inter-American space where things are not easily in place – North and South – where the traveler can go across the border line and safely return home. Identity, both cultural and geopolitical [...] is never a homecoming [...], never a moment of arrival, but seemingly a dizzying departure. [...] Such a deconstruction of ‘home’ allows [...] to undo traditional home/abroad oppositions so common in travel writing. [...] (1997: 141)

However, Tacho and Nayeli never arrive, geographically and metaphorically, and the passage in the restaurant represents a scene in which they are made aware of this very aspect as they are about to depart – by force – again. On the one hand, these observations undermine Nayeli’s initial plan and also her plan to find her father, as the desired ending point of the journey would not be an arrival in either way, but only another juncture and point of departure. On the other hand, it underscores the Inter-American aspect of the trip and the trajectories it takes, for indeed, Nayeli makes an attempt at “defining herself without borders”, as the flap text describes the novel. In addition to the spatial and cultural implications of this journey, it is this identity-related aspect that ascribes meaning to Nayeli’s plan, and it is one fueled by the one space in which they can arrive and which they feel they have to save, but from which they have departed symbolically by abandoning their mission: Tres Camarones. Upon arriving in the almost mythologized Kankakee, Tacho and Nayeli are surprised by the prominence of the Spanish language and Mexican culture in town: “‘And they sell fruits and vegetables. In Spanish! Kankakee has

7.) Luis Alber to Urrea — Into the Beautiful North

Mexicans! You see?’” (Urrea 2009: 335) Generally, their first impressions of Kankakee seem to conjure up notions of home in both the positive and the negative sense, as becomes clear from the juxtaposition of “a nice downtown. Red brick and a steely bright building. [...] Farther out, they saw an upended bathtub half-buried in a yard and spray-painted silver. A statue of Jesus stood inside it, blessing the dog poo in the yard. ‘Tijuana, USA,’ Tacho said.” (ibid., 335/6) The contrast established here between the neat and nice downtown and the rather peculiar image of the Jesus statue blessing the dog feces very much resembles their initial image of Tijuana (cf. ibid. 94/5) and so connects the two seemingly very different places on the basis of internal spatial contrasts related to different segments of the respective city. Tacho’s explicit blending of a Mexican city with a U.S.-American context is especially striking at this point, particularly if one takes into consideration the trajectory lying between Tijuana and Kankakee. In one way, this projection serves the Inter-American theme of the novel, for there is a bilateral aspect of transculturation, with US culture influencing Mexicans and vice versa, but on the other hand, it also communicates a notion of stagnation and immobility, for if indeed they are in Tijuana, USA, why should they have traversed half the country, including a dangerous trip across the border, only to arrive from where they departed in the first place? The answer is provided in the teleology of the trip and its link to identity formation and strengthening her own personality, as Aunt Irma confirms to Nayeli on the phone: “‘You came here on a mission. [...] you are the future. You had to be tested. And you passed.’” (ibid., 342) At this point, it is Aunt Irma who reinstates the original mission into Nayeli’s conscience – while Don Pepe had been a police officer in Mexico, this aspect seems to have taken the downside on Nayeli’s quest for her father, which is now, even if from the outside, reunited with the initial mission of bringing a defense force back to Tres Camarones. The teleological implications transported through this narrative of personal strength and empowerment correspond to the initially hypothesized subversion of the traditionally maintained hierarchy between Mexico and the U.S. The aspects of strength and empowerment allowing Nayeli to determine her life for herself is a key factor of emancipation, of which this narrative tells, using narrative space to reshape even if only a small part of U.S.-Mexican power relations. In fact, Nayeli gains personal strength by making use of the US. From a narrative point of view, the convergence of these teleologies is one of the central narrative aspects informed by different trajectories which eventually intersect again, leading to a reconfiguration of spatialities achieved on part of the characters, which in turn shape the characters, crystallizing the characteristic reciprocal relationship between structures and actions. The fact that Nayeli finds her dad with another woman and apparently a new family does not change this (cf. ibid., 351) – in fact, it represents one more

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aspect of coming full circle, as Don Pepe had, like all the other Tres Camarones men, left the town for El Norte for good, which is now confirmed by Nayeli herself. However, the premises under which the men have left Tres Camarones have changed, and the town, represented by Nayeli, now reaches out to them to get them back. Shortly before Nayeli’s encounter with her father, Aunt Irma re-promotes her to the head of the enterprise, ordering her to organize the twenty-seven recruits’ return to Mexico (cf. ibid., 340/1), which reinstills the sense of having a mission into Nayeli, relighting the spark which had initially infused the seemingly crazy idea into her. On the way back to Tres Camarones, they encounter Arnie Davis, an INS agent who had busted them on their first attempt at crossing the border – this, too, becomes an example of coming full circle under different premises, for the power structures are reversed, and the reason why is the spatial undertaking which Nayeli had set out for: “‘You told me a crazy story, I remember. You were going to smuggle wets back into Mex. Isn’t that right?’ [...] ‘Twenty-seven men waiting for me in San Diego. We go back to Sinaloa.’ [...] ‘I like you kids,’ he said, ‘I really do.’” (cf. ibid., 357/8), driving them back to the border himself (cf. ibid.) As is claimed above, a considerable part of the novel deals with coming full circle – with one’s home, identity, personality, even with one’s quests. The common denominator uniting these aspects is that the auguries have changed in that there is a shift of power from the perceived Goliath U.S. toward the perceived David as represented by Mexico. Eventually, the group of young Mexicans reads the Americas, or specifically, the relationship between the US and Mexico in its own way. The group creates its own hermeneutic circle represented by the different focalizers that allows the read to gain unique glimpse at America, Inter-America and the US from el otro lado, claiming the prerogative of interpretation for themselves and thus gaining a political authority which mainstream discourse does not typically ascribe to illegal migrants. Again, the key to this understanding lies in the initial and ultimate aim of the group: to reconquer Tres Camarones from the narcos and to transform its present incarnation into the idealized space that resides in the inhabitants’ collective memory. In the end, the battle for Tres Camarones is still to be fought, but the fact remains: “‘Nayeli and Tacho’, [Pepino] warned, ‘brought an army.’” (ibid., 366) Urrea’s Into the Beautiful North displays certainly one of the most original Inter-American novels of the recent past, especially when considering that it is written by a Mexican-born American who chooses to send his characters on a long, dangerous and adventurous trip basically just to come back with a few more people to save a small town in Sinaloa, Mexico. It is this reversal of traditional migratory routes in connection to the ever-present categories of movement, journeys and passing through, transforming and being transformed by spaces that renders the novel unique in its approach to identity

7.) Luis Alber to Urrea — Into the Beautiful North

construction, as it inextricably ties identity to space and spatiality not in the traditional sense of being the background, merely the place where one hails from, but as a dynamic generator assisting the characters in finding out their position in society.

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8.) Sherman Alexie — Reservation Blues “Sweetheart, I know we have to travel to the reservation/ For the wake and wake and wake and wake/ And sweetheart, all these wakes for the dead/ Are putting the living to sleep/“ S herman A lexie, Reservation Blues, p. 276

8.1) C oming F ull C ircle : S herman A le xie ’s R eservation B lues and the S patialit y of Tr agedy and F ailure Sherman Alexie has been one of the most prominent figures in Native American literature of the recent past, serving as an integrative figure to a part of U.S.-American literature which has only fairly recently begun to be given its well-deserved appreciation.1 One of the characteristic traits of Alexie’s writing is the consistency with which he attempts to depict contemporary Spokane life, achieving this through the prism of space, for it is a spatial construct that lies at the heart of most of his literary writings: The Spokane Indian Reservation. Daniel Grassian likens Alexie to William Faulkner inasmuch as he creates a microcosmic space through which he derives seminal observations about life not solely of Native Americans, but of larger issues at hand: Much of Alexie’s fiction and poetry takes place on the Spokane Indian Reservation where he was born and raised, and he uses recurring characters like the isolated storyteller, Thomas-Builds-the-Fire, and the violent, troubled bully, Victor. In that sense, he is like William Faulkner, focusing upon a small geographical locale to explore larger issues. At the same time, Alexie is more of an autobiographical writer than Faulkner is, for unlike

1  |  Since this chapter deals with Sherman Alexie’s writing, a more generic approach to Native American literature will only be implicitly featured when appropriate. However, for observations on universal characteristics of Native American Literature, cf. Roemer 2005: 11 ff.

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Toward Diversity and Emancipation the invented Yoknapatawha County, Alexie’s Spokane reservation is an actual place where he finds a virtually inexhaustible wellspring for his writing. (Grassian 2005: 6)

This opens up two basic paradigms of interpretation. On the one hand, it equips readers with the methodological authority to view the reservation not merely as a place, but as a space associated with all the implications elaborated on in the previous chapters of this work. Alexie himself acknowledges a similar proactive role of the space that is the reservation in the genesis of his narratives: “‘Every theme, every story, every tragedy that exists in literature takes place in my little community. Hamlet takes place on my reservation daily. King Lear takes place on my reservation daily. It’s a powerful place. I’m never going to run out of stories.” (qtd in Grassian 2005: 6; emphasis mine) On the other hand, it responds to the historically forced creation of Indian reservations, which, one could argue, has rendered the reservations as such powerful places as a result of outside pressure from the white majority. Accordingly, Native American experiences have been compressed and confined into pre-defined areas within which they subsequently had to make do with what they were granted by the white majority, leading the traditional ties that many Native Americans have to space and place ad absurdum, hence the regularly featured “attitudes about a shared history – attitudes reflecting complex mixtures of post-apocalyptic worldviews, an awareness of the miracle of survival, and a hope that goes beyond survival and endurance to sense of tribal and pan-tribal sovereignty and identity.” (Roemer 2005: 11) Indeed, crucial processes of Native American identity formation have been attributed to land and space, as Eric Cheyfitz (qtd. in Luco 2011) contends: “The central theme of identity [...] needs to be understood in relation to the agenda of sovereignty/land which is the strong theme of Native American writing from the beginning to the present moment.” (2) This is confirmed by Katja Sarkowsky, who allots a pan-tribal function to space, serving as a canopy under which the diverse Native American ethnic groups are united: “Three elements at least have shaped the analysis of space in Native literature, as illustrated above: the primacy of place, the importance of the land of community, and the focus on space rather than on time in the understanding of the cosmos.” (2006: 37) Indeed, some voices make an explicit distinction between the relation of space and time to “western” and “Native American” societies: “Historian Vine Deloria suggests that ‘space’ is the major component shaping ‘indigenous thought’, while ‘time’ dominates ‘western’ thought.’” (ibid.) This somewhat romantic and certainly radically reduced role of the two paradigms carve out the centrality of the spatial also in Native American culture. Considering the close ties that Native Americans seem to have to their soil, the space of the reservation entails particularly sorrowful connotations.

8.) Sherman Alexie — Reser vation Blues

Spatially and politically, reservations are enclaves, clearly defined politicized/hierarchized spaces within a larger space, politically simultaneously part of yet detached from that larger environment, but always at its mercy, since the reservations were founded and are maintained by the white majority (cf. Connette 2010: 6 ff.). According to Klaus Frantz, reservations were founded either on the grounds of executive orders issued by the president, donation by the US government or by Acts of Congress, particularly in the second half of the 19th century when the old, contract-based negotiations about reservations were abolished, with the US government seizing the prerogative of land allotment (cf. 1993: 55). In effect, the construction of most reservations carries at its nucleus a fundamental disenfranchisement and marginalization of Native Americans. As Lösch (2003) confirms, “the history of Indian/white-relations in what is now US territory can be described as a series of dispossessions, displacements, and relocations; it is characterized by forced assimilation, decimation, and sometimes attempted extermination of the Native population.” (63/4) Not only has this native population been deprived of huge parts of their original land, the sealed-off space that was supposed to become their home was assigned to them by the very authorities having literally dislocated them before. In relation to the aforementioned close relationship of Native Americans to place and space, a constitutive connection of the respective group to the space they inhabit is missing. Indeed, they are completely dependent on the internally hegemonic power represented by the United States government. It is particularly noteworthy that Indian reservations are – at least de iure – politically autonomous, yet “[i] nternalized oppression is a distinct trauma that affects Indian culture; it is caused by a Western culture that marginalizes indigenous groups, justifies negative stereotypes, and trivializes pain experienced in cultural relations, so that the colonizing group maintains its dominant status over the Indian inhabitants of the reservation.” (ibid.) This dilutes autonomy, pushing it into the realm of the fictional, as it is in fact the hegemonic power that has the last word. The simultaneous existence of two categories – the in- and the outside – brings to the foreground the conflict potential at the heart of the concept of a reservation. It would be a stretch to attribute the manifold problems related to the Native American population to this spatial configuration, but indeed, there is a particularly high correlation between Native Americans living on reservations and problems such as poverty, alcoholism and entailing ramifications: “per capita income and family income are only 58% and 69%, respectively, of the corresponding data gained from white people [...]” (ibid., 118).2 While having improved dramatically, the living conditions of many reservation Natives is still precarious, even more so at the 2 | Original German: “[Das] Pro-Kopf- sowie das Familieneinkommen beträgt nur ca. 58% bzw. 69% von den entsprechenden Werten der Weißen[...]”.

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time Sherman Alexie started working on Reservation Blues (cf. ibid., 125), which was published in 1995. Assuming that such problems result from spatial disparity and a lack of identification is speculative, but what does transcend these observations is a sense of simultaneous detachedness from and attraction to the very land whose significance occupies such an influential role in Native American identity construction. Readers are confronted with two poles, the void between which provides the narrative material for and of the story, trying to find a way of reconciling the simultaneous existence of sorrow and joy (cf. Luco 2011: 9), embodied by the reservation and the blues as a means to find dignity in that particular life. As a result, reservations are breeding grounds for identity conflicts. As opposed to their assumed purpose of providing a protective and autonomous space for near-extinct ethnic groups, arguably supposed to foster identity, cultural autonomy, and emancipation in the sense of a self-determined life unhindered by social or political power relations exerting an influence, reservations are stuck between two worlds, in effect negating processes of identity formation, instead placing the inhabitants between two different worlds. Since reservations are not isolated from the rest of the United States, people on the reservations are very much aware of and integrated into the world around them. Those people living on a reservation, perhaps more explicitly than in any other ethnic group in the US, deal with two overlapping spaces with completely different inscriptions, causing the frictions between Native American and outside interpretations. These frictions have resulted in a number of problems particularly among Native Americans on reservations, which have continued to deepen the gaps between Native American and mainstream culture, such as economic hardship, familial disintegration and, looming over the heads of disproportionally many Native Americans, excessive drinking as a vicious circle of cause and effect of these destabilizing factors (cf. Beauvais 2002: 255 f.). These contradictions and conflicts converge on the Spokane Indian Reservation. It functions as a hub, as well as a starting, ending and once again starting point for the trajectories of the novel’s main characters. As a result, it represents a de facto stasis whose inscriptions remain with the characters forever, but with a twist, in that it inspires them to lead emancipated lives. Even though they turn their back on it and no matter how far their journeys have taken them before, the characters take their reservation with them (cf. Alexie 1995: 256). In contrast to the previous chapters, which primarily highlight a generally positive reading of the power of space and spatiality, the reservation takes the dark side. Alexie is right when he says his reservation is a “powerful place” (qtd. in Grassian 2005: 6), yet it is a different type of powerful, namely one that radiates failure and misery for the characters it creates. It embodies the starting and ending point of a circle that consists of failure, and it is the very site of the reservation creating that circle – a circle that travels with the

8.) Sherman Alexie — Reser vation Blues

character to every place they go, increasing its diameter until in the end, they are penetrating the circle and try to break free so as to break the reservation’s rule over them. This is also resembled in the novel’s title, which, similar to Urrea’s Into the Beautiful North, consists of two spatial categories at its nucleus. The first one, reservation, is the obvious choice, outlining the reservation as a space of devastation and failure, having come into existence as a result of marginalization, disenfranchisment and dispossession. The blues is the more interesting part, as blues music has traditionally functioned as a way of creating coping strategies for African Americans, who share a similar history of violence made up as well by particularly disenfranchisement and dispossession. In Ralph Ellison’s words, “‘as one of the techniques through which Negroes have survived and kept their courage during the long period when many whites assumed [...] they were afraid.’” (qtd. in Grassian 2005: 84) Grassian transfers this hypothesis to Alexie’s writing in confirming that Alexie “sees the blues as offering empowerment and transformation. It is an expansive music that [...] honors freedom and encourages the mind to think beyond the borders of the reservation.” (ibid.)3 Serving as an interface between Native and African American cultural intersections, it provides the ground for Robert Johnson’s appearance at the crossroads at the very beginning of the novel. While I do not wish to relativize or reduce neither the Native nor the African American experience of subjugation, the fact that a blues legend and a ne’er-do-well Native American collide on the territory of an Indian reservation calls for a common denominator, which in fact is the mutually shared history of violence. The difference lies in the direction of their dislocation: While Native Americans were expelled from their native lands, African Americans were brought there from the outside. In Reservation Blues, Alexie has a group of Indians turn the tides, as they invade white spaces to (re-)conquer them. In line with the definition of emancipation, the groups of Native Americans setting out to take their land back does so in order to reseize the prerogative of interpretation over their lives. This is also what represents the areas of friction laid out to the reader in Reservation Blues: the constant tension of hopelessness and stasis as portrayed by the reservation vis-à-vis the transformative aspect of blues music that generates mobility, expansion, experience, and ultimately, hope for the characters who 3  |  Murray (qtd. in James 2000: 87) detects two primary functions of the blues, one being a statement of rejection of the status quo, the second being a “disposition to encounter obstacle after obstacle as matter of course, which is exactly what heroism is based on.” In that sense, it provides a concrete counterpart to the conditions of the reservation, singling the characters out as heroes struggling against the conditions that made them.

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have to renegotiate their identities against their heritage and their aims. Between these two poles, the experience of Thomas, Victor, Junior, Checkers and Chess is narrated and their identities redefined according to spatial categories. They are marked first and foremost by travel and the experience of different spaces in contrast to their home space, i.e. the reservation. At the end stands a way of coming full circle, only in an emancipated way that leaves behind the stasis of the reservation, focusing on the mobility of the blues. In that way, Reservation Blues represents an ex-negative narrative of empowerment inasmuch as it displays the bleak conditions on the reservation as so grave that the characters have no choice but to try and break its chains. The reservation is equipped with the power to spark narrative action, yet it does so in relative passivity, simply by existing in the woeful state that it does.

8.2) N arr ating E ncl aves : The R eservation as S pace of I sol ation and D espair The novel begins with a depiction of the Spokane Indian Reservation as a space sealed off from the rest of society and indeed, from the rest of the geographical state of Washington, within which the reservation is located. It is portrayed as being visible in the first and in the second place open to those only who deliberately seek entry into its realms. Specifically, Alexie’s narrator writes: “In the one hundred and eleven years since the creation of the Spokane Indian Reservation in 1881, not one person, Indian or otherwise, had ever arrived there by accident. Wellpinit, the only town on the reservation, did not exist on most maps [...]” (Alexie 1995: 3). It is of interest to note that the reservation, judging by the narrator’s illustration, appears to be the ending point of a teleological quest, since the specificity of the reservation’s whereabouts appear to be at the end of a very clearly defined line visible only to those who seek it. The intersection of space and time, as represented by the year of foundation and the actual inception of the space that is the reservation laid open to the reader in these opening sentences also underscores the idea that the reservation displays a deeply static enclave where the absence of interaction with the outside world prevents societal and personal development within the reservation. While the narrator explicitly mentions “one hundred and eleven years” (ibid.) having passed since the reservation’s creation, he does not mention anything about development on the reservation itself, except the fact that it seems to be largely detached from the outside world. Grassian (2005) confirms this in saying that in “the first part of the novel, Alexie provides a familiar, despondent portrait of the Spokane Indian Reservation. The monotonous, virtually selfenclosed hermetic environment has become, in a way, a casualty of its own homogeneity.” (79)

8.) Sherman Alexie — Reser vation Blues

Theoretically, the reader is confronted with the passage of time in the light of a static space. However, a static space should not be equated with an ineffective one. Lacking dynamic in terms of general development can encompass its own consequences, such as resulting in an almost hermetically sealed-off space creating its own institutions, rules and peculiarities, coming to full fruition vis-à-vis experiences of the “outside” when that sealed-off space is actually penetrated. In such a case, the frictions featured by the overlapping of two divergent spatial inscriptions constitutes narrative action. The degree of isolation is underscored by the absence of the reservation’s biggest town, Wellpinit, on most maps, which should be read allegorically. To be discussed at this point is a meta-geographical way of portraying isolation, for the ignorance of Wellpinit on maps consequentially denies not only the existence of a geographical place, but also of an inscribed space. Here Wellpinit, symbolic of the Spokane tribe, is stripped of the possibility of reciprocal interaction. This results in the reservation as a de-facto non-entity to the outside world. It functions as a literary heterotopia inasmuch as the narrator consciously presents the reservation as an “other” space; the basic prerequisite of a literary heterotopia (cf. Warning 2009: 21/22). This also bears interesting consequences for narrative discourse, because it basically prescribes an extraas well as heterotopian mode of narration, for only the emotional distance to the space at hand allows for an adequate representation of the “otherness” of this very space. At the same time, particularly extratopian narrators are capable of zooming into and out of a story, therefore changing the scope of narration inasmuch as they choose the reader’s field of vision. This is what happens in the opening passages of Reservation Blues, as the narrative agency goes from the – in the context of this story – biggest possible intersection of space and time to a concrete scene occurring on the reservation grounds within one sentence. The peculiarity of this dramatic change of scope on part of the narrative agency lies not so much in its radical focus on the crossroads at which Robert Johnson appears out of the blue (which in itself would be strange enough), but it reveals the power and the political aspect of the narrative agency, at whose mercy the reader finds himself. The narrator determines what the reader sees in a split-second, going from the general location (in geographical and social terms) of the reservation to its concrete penetration from the outside, no less by a long-deceased blues musician. The spatiality of this narrative leaves the reader aghast and sparks further interest in the story on the one hand, but on the other hand, it demonstrates the abovementioned “otherness” of this space in which a non-locale serves as a meeting and starting point for the peculiar interaction between an impoverished Native American and a dead blues legend on a quest to retrieve his soul from the devil. It is not surprising that their first encounter takes place at the crossroads, possibly the only one in Wellpinit, judging by the description of the town and

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the teleological overtones mentioned on the above. Apart from the obvious allusion to the myth of Johnson having sold his soul to the devil to become a master blues guitarist, the determinism of their meeting at a crossroads bears interesting spatial connotations. A crossroads symbolizes two roads intersecting in a certain point. Moreover, this does not occur in a vacuum, but is defined in its directionality by the space that surrounds it. Given that in this case, the crossroads is on an Indian reservation described in the bleak and isolated manner that it is, it functions as a meeting point for two representatives of marginalized groups in a space that seems specifically designed for them, simultaneously underscoring the playful and somewhat sarcastic intermingling of Native and African American culture which Alexie has been said to tamper with (cf. Grassian 2005: 84). Given this rather pessimistic prerequisite, the two roads whose intersection renders the meeting possible in the first place offer two choices for Thomas as well as Robert: To either keep going and ignore each other, or to confront the respective other in the context of the reservation and thereby create a new experience for both characters alike. The novelty of this experience is underlined by the fact that Thomas is the only one who stops at the sign of Johnson’s waving, who is constantly ignored by all the other people passing the crossroads: “The black man waved at every Indian that drove by, but nobody had the courage to stop.” (Alexie 1995: 3) Of course, this directly resembles Johnson’s song “Cross Road Blues” in which he sings that “Standin’ at the crossroad/I tried to flag a ride/Didn’t nobody seem to know me, everybody pass me by/Standin’ at the crossroad, risin’ sun goin’ down/I believe to my soul now, po’ Bob is sinkin’ down”.4 Judging by the subtext transported by this imagery, one would expect Thomas to pass him by as well. At this point, and on account of his stopping by, Thomas counteracts the notion transported by this allusion to Johnson’s song and deliberately seeks contact with the stranger, which can be attributed to the peculiarity of a black man standing at a crossroads in the middle of Indian reservation, as well as to the character of Thomas-Builds-the-Fire, who is depicted as Wellpinit’s storyteller (cf. Alexie 1995: 5). Accordingly, this chance meeting provides narrative material that the rest of the story builds on, with the two poles of the Indian reservation as a symbol of stasis and despair and the blues as a dynamic way of coping with life under difficult circumstances being opened up right at the very beginning of the narrative. The crossroads opens up this dialectic, and it comes into being primarily through the space of the Spokane Indian Reservation, serving as a key aspect in the genesis of the narrative. This is further emphasized when the narrative agency focuses on the exceptionality 4 | Johnson, Robert. “Cross Road Blues”. URL: http://xroads.virginia.edu/~music/ blues/crb.html. (November 24, 2013, 10.34 p.m.).

8.) Sherman Alexie — Reser vation Blues

of the event: “The whole event required the construction of another historical monument.” (ibid.), alluding to the proximity of history, space and narrative. The bleakness of the reservation sparks the motivation of taking it as a starting point of another life for both, Johnson and Thomas. For Johnson, it seems as though he might have arrived at the end of his journey, simultaneously passing on the torch to Thomas. “This is a beautiful place,” Johnson says as they drive across the reservation (ibid., 7). To Johnson, the stasis and constant sameness of the reservation as symbolized by the magical realist figure of Big Mom, could well display the end of an endless life of playing the blues, of being mobile, of which he is tired. In a somewhat perverted fashion, then, a space founded on marginalization and racial separation becomes a beacon of hope for an African American blues man: Johnson considered his options. Old and tired, he had walked from crossroads to crossroads in search of the woman in his dreams. This woman might save him. A big woman, she arrived in shadows, riding a horse. She rode into his dreams as a shadow on a shadowy horse, with songs he loved but could not sing because the Gentleman might hear. The Gentleman held the majority of stock in Robert Johnson’s soul and had chased Robert Johnson for decades. (ibid., 6)

In this case, the isolation and detachedness of the Indian reservation is the only hope for Robert Johnson to escape the Gentleman, as Johnson obviously regards it as so far removed that even the Gentleman (a.k.a. the devil) would not come and find him here, particularly since his savior is described as living on that very reservation to Johnson by Thomas: “‘I know somebody who might be able to help you [...] Big Mom. She lives on top of Wellpinit Mountain.’” (ibid., 7) Not only does this add a vertical layer to the hitherto rather horizontally determined dimensionality of the story, it also confirms to Johnson that he is in the right place to rest his “old, tired” bones and liberate himself from the grip of the Gentleman, hence his above-mentioned being so impressed by what is actually a rather poor and unimpressive place. This is where Thomas comes into play, who holds the opposite opinion about the place: Thomas thought about all the dreams that were murdered here, and the bones buried quickly just inches below the surface, all waiting to break through the foundations of those government houses built by the Department of Housing and Urband Development. Thomas still lived in the government HUD house where he had grown up. It was huge by reservation standards [...] However, the house had never really been finished because the Bureau of Indian Affairs cut off the building money halfway through construction. [...] (Alexie 1995: 7).

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The picture Thomas paints of the reservation is one that meets the reader’s initial expectation of the reservation as a space of poverty and despair. Simultaneously, it seems only natural for such a space to function as breeding ground for a changing of the guards between a tired bluesman and a disoriented “misfit storyteller” (ibid., 6) such as Thomas. Where Johnson hopes to have found a place to stay, Thomas uses the reservation as a place to set out, rendered possible by Johnson’s guitar as a symbol of the mobility and liberating power of the blues: “Then Thomas saw the guitar [...] lying on the floor of the van. Thomas picked it up, strummed the strings, felt a small pain in the palm of his hands, and heard the first sad note of the reservation blues.” (ibid., 9) Leaving the guitar at the foot of the mountain is highly symbolic of the hypothesis of a changing of the guards, for Johnson departs from the scene to seek guidance with Big Mom (another intermingling of an African American stereotype in a Native American context) up on the hill, whereas Thomas remains below and is offered a chance, even though a tainted one, given the “Gentleman’s” involvement in the guitar’s christening. The reservation blues that rings from the guitar is one that unites the two spaces, the dialectic between which had been opened up by the reservation and the blues, for it sings of the simultaneity of hope and despair in the same space: “I ain’t got nothing, I heard no good news/I fill my pockets with those reservation blues/ [...] And if you ain’t got choices/What else do you choose?” (ibid., 2) The song unites the bleakness of the reservation and the poisoned hope that it can only get better from here on out, portraying the recognition of the reservation as the space that it is, as a first act of emancipation, playing into the notion of heroism that Murray (qtd. in James 2000: 87/8) detects in the blues as a means of coping with hard times. As such, the line about the lyric persona in the song filling his pockets with the reservation blues symbolizes what little dignity is left in a person having been socio-spatially marginalized. In addition, this describes a spatial paradox: the reservation is located amid the United States, yet culturally placed at its margins. As such, it functions much like a membrane, admitting outsiders, yet barely providing the chance for “insiders” to make it out of the reservation. As such, it is an extremely conservative space which preserves the racial profile of Native Americans, promoting a model of racial oppression grounded in history and continued by way of exploitation in one form or another (cf. Liu 2010: 22). This in itself equips the concept of a reservation with narrativity, for reservations automatically induce an inside-outside dichotomy highly prone to produce the frictions that can subsequently be narrated, producing dichotomous stories informed by the space from which the narrative fabric emerges. What might sound circular at first glance signifies the basic reciprocity between spaces and people, structures and actions. The ramifications of this insideoutside dichotomy come to full fruition only in the later part of the novel

8.) Sherman Alexie — Reser vation Blues

when the group goes to Spokane and Seattle, WA, and New York, when they are portrayed as though being from another planet (cf. Alexie 1995: 134), yet the hermetic aspect of the reservation is insinuated in the very first parts of the novel and so implies the stark differences between what happens in- and outside the reservation. Also represented particularly in the peculiarity of the characters shaped by the reservation, such as Big Mom, is the immortal matriarch residing atop Wellpinit mountain, who seems to be detached from time and space, given that she must be more than 100 years old and lives in isolation from the rest of the reservation: “One hundred and thirty-four years before Robert Johnson walked onto the Spokane Reservation, the Indian horses screamed. At first, Big Mom thought the horses were singing a familiar song. [...] The song sounded so pained and tortured that Big Mom could never have imagined it before the white man came, and never understood it later [...]” (ibid., 9). While Big Mom at present is looming over the reservation as a connection to the past, she specifically recalls the invasion of the US military and the penetration of native Spokane land, having resulted in the presentday reservation and the accompanying character of Big Mom, symbolizing a pre-white-invasion Spokane life in which even teaching horses to sing seems possible. As such, the reservation also tells a story of restriction and cultural destruction. This becomes especially evident in Big Mom’s dream about the initial arrival of the white soldiers on Spokane land. In addition, having been founded in 1881, the reservation would probably have been one of the reservations allotted to the Spokane Indians at the mercy of the US government rather than being won in negotiations.5 The implications that this – admitted – assumption has for the identity formation of those inhabiting the reservation can be inferred only indirectly from Big Mom: As she stepped out of her front door, Big Mom heard the first gun shot, which reverberated in her DNA. [...] Big Mom ran to the rise above the clearing where the horses gathered. There, she saw the future and the past, the white soldiers in blue uniforms with black rifles and pistols. She saw the Indian horses shot and fallen like tattered sheets. Big Mom stood on the rise and watched the horses fall, until only one remained.” (ibid., 10)

5  |  Indeed, the reservation was founded by President Hayes on an executive order in 1881. However, the former Spokane lands became much less, with also a fragmentation into more reservations (Flathead and Coeur d’Alene) included in the President’s order. Cf. http://www.spokanetribe.com/reservation (November 2, 2013, 10.54 a.m.).

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Big Mom is encountered as a personification of a collective Spokane memory.6 Her analepsis comprises the central elements of dispossession, dislocation and marginalization, with the white soldiers penetrating the very land sacred to the Spokane Indians, killing their horses. Read allegorically, the intrusion of the federal troops has deprived the Spokane Indians of their ability to construe their own identity. If the central role of the land in identity construction is taken seriously, its invasion has severe and potentially traumatic ramifications for Spokane identity. Notwithstanding the penetration, Big Mom as focalizer adds a racial component to the penetration of “her” land, explicitly responding to the whiteness of the soldiers and the paleness of their horses, implying that the “Indian” (ibid.) horses are darker and clearly distinguishable from the invaders’ horses, therefore being exposed to be killed by the white soldiers. One can interpret the horses as a metaphor for Native Americans, as they were commonly distinguished less by culture or behavior, but by race, as the term “redskin”, which was commonly used until the recent past, proves. From a spatial point of view, this passage also opens up a vertical layer of the narrative in addition to the horizontal, map-representable intrusion of Indian lands on part of the US Army. It is the relief-like portrayal of the terrain which lends the narrative its radiation of death and despair, thereby equipping it with its experientiality. Moreover, the intersection of space and time as represented in Big Mom’s analepsis and the above-mentioned raid highlight two theoretical aspects of this work: the deictic quality of language as a means of spatializing relationships between a subject and its world and the corresponding narrative characteristics of perspectivity and focalization. Deixis is represented particularly in the directionality laid open in the passage. When visualizing this passage, one would see the horses gathered on height, with the soldiers storming up and shooting. This is implied through the basic contrast between the white soldiers and the horses. Communicating an impression of “us – up here” vs. “them – down there”, the disenfranchisement of Native Americans is also represented in the language which, ironically, is the very language of the conquerors.7 This ties in closely with perspective and focalization. As the US troops ambush the hill, readers witness the narrative dynamics of focalization first hand, as each step towards the clearing simultaneously reduces distance to the horses and creates proximity to the top of the clearing. As an isolated step, this 6  |  Memory plays a crucial role in structuring, narrativizing existence and forming collective as well as group identity, as Andres et. al. write: “Because narrative plays a profound role in shaping our remembrance of past events in our own lives, it fashions who we are.” (2012: 10) 7  |  As a matter of fact, Alexie is well-known for his peculiar use of irony with regard to Native American culture and history (cf. Moore 2005: 298 ff.).

8.) Sherman Alexie — Reser vation Blues

may sound trivial. In the context of westward expansion and with a reading of the horses as symbolic of Native Americans, it signifies a power shift, as the prerogative of interpretation, embodied by the hilltop (and as a consequence providing a broader perspective due to its position overlooking the land) is shifted towards the US troops. This is what happened on a broader scale and resulted in the near-extermination of the Native American population, as Lösch (2003: 64) confirms. It is also a tremendous reconfiguration of spatialities inasmuch as there occurs an exchange between the positions of two opposing poles in this case. Such reconfigurations are characteristic trademarks of narrative space. Also very much ironically, this redefinition of the power structure – a re-hierarchization of the relationship between Native Americans and Whites – represents a reversal of the social order, reflecting rearrangement in favor of the new rulers of the land. While Big Mom remains the internal focalizer on the intratextual level, the extratextual level incorporates a paradigmatic shift in the way that the story of Spokane can be told: It is now under white dominance, and Alexie’s narrator makes sure the reader gets to know how this when he has Big Mom bury the horses’ bones (cf. Alexie 1995: 10). However, it is the interplay between the intra- and extratextual levels (cf. Joachimsthaler 2005: 345) observed on the above which in the end creates a significant part of the world of text, as those two levels function as spatial counterparts to the Ricoeurian distinction between the time of narration and narrated time. Furthermore supported by the foundation of the reservation as the space as which it has been described thus far, it pushes the Spokanes to the margin even though they had been, at least in their corner of the world, been at its very center. The deictic function of language also provides the bridge between these two levels. In itself, the use of the English language is striking. After all, it is the language of the conquerors, therefore containing an inherent perspectivity presupposed by the politically powerful position of the dominant language.8 In essence, the role of language here could also be described by Heidegger’s spatiality of existence (cf. 2006: 144) insofar as it describes the location of the self in relation to the outside world. Applied to Native American literary discourse, Heidegger’s spatiality of existence consists of the clear-cut location in geographical and social terms established by the Spokane Indians represented as collective memory in form of Big Mom, whereas the relation to the outside world is symbolized by the English language and its usage to describe the inside world. This aspect is pivotal because it connects political and physical 8  |  The phenomenon of linguistic relativity outlines the inherent connection between linguistic system (i.e. language) and mode of thought. Cf. Swoyer, Chris. “The Linguistic Relativity Hypothesis.” In: The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. URL: http://plato. stanford.edu/entries/relativism/supplement2.html (January 5, 2014, 9.38 a.m.).

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subjugation with a type of cultural colonialism which can be attributed to the reconfiguration of spatialities, not to mention the foundation of the reservation as the most transparent evidence of discrimination and oppression. In a way similar to Morrison’s Paradise, the reservation then functions as a racially inscribed space, again with the primary difference that Ruby was specifically created to be a black utopia, whereas the reservation came into being as a consequence of mass disenfranchisement and, more importantly, was created by white authorities. This could explain the stasis that the reservation appears to embody, for the very existence of tribe and people in this isolated space is merely tolerated by the hegemonic power that has the reservation zeroed in not only spatially, but also in every other respect, exerting tremendous pressure on that small space. It is through this prism that the tragic-comic nature of the characters is channeled, which once again underlines the close reciprocity between (metaphorical) structures and actions. This is confirmed later, after Thomas and his band Coyote Springs return to the Spokane reservation after playing a concert on a neighboring reservation, only to find Thomas’ stepfather drunk in the middle of the road (cf. Alexie 1995: 94), causing an analepsis about their own father in one of the two additions to the band, Chess and Checkers Warm Water, which provokes one of the rare outings of the reservations as a pro-active space: ’Where’s your father now?’ Thomas asked. ‘He’s gone.’ The word gone echoed all over the reservation. The reservation was gone itself, just a shell of its former self, just a fragment of the whole. But the reservation still possessed power and rage, magic and loss, joy and jealousy. The reservation tugged at the lives of its Indians, stole from them in the middle of the night,watched impassively as the horses and the salmon disappeared. But the reservation forgave, too. (ibid., 96/7)

The passage reveals the dooming nature of the reservation at the same time as it underscores the transitoriness of its existence. Where it had retained at least a laconic part in the Spokane Indian’s construction, it has transformed itself into what Alexie’s narrator calls an empty shell. In other words, the reservation is a de-facto vacuum, a cultural black hole equipped with so much gravity that it sucks in those who live within its realms. Metaphorically, this is already alluded to in an earlier passage when the lake on the reservation grounds is described as a bottomless pit of damnation (cf. ibid., p. 27). As such, the reservation is displayed as feeding in and of itself. In contrast to a physical black hole, however, it does not swallow up anything outside of its actual limitations. This foregrounds the isolated nature of the reservation, and it renders the inward-directed power of the reservation even more fearsome. In fact, the reader witnesses the negative apotheosis of the

8.) Sherman Alexie — Reser vation Blues

reservation, because, as is it is insinuated above, the reservation giveth and the reservation taketh. Cynically, this power attributed to Indian land is rendered possible by its very conquest on part of White settlers in the first place, adding another dimension to the reservation as a place of stasis and despair. Not only has the concept of the reservation removed the Indians from large parts of their original land, it has also laid the seed for the erosion of internal social structures and thus dysfunctional spatialities, not to mention the outbound relationship to hegemonic America, which Alexie’s narrative agency represents through a number of Indian stereotypes such as random outbreaks of violence caused by excessive drinking: “Thomas shook his father a little and said his name a few times. He had lost count of the number of times he’s saved his father, how many times he’d driven to some reservation tavern to pick up his dad, passed out in a back booth. Once a month, he bailed his father out of jail for drunk and disorderly behavior.” (ibid., 94) This indirect display of and tampering with outside perceptions of Native Americans coincides with Alexie’s noted feature of irony, but also opens up an inside-outside dialectic which delineates the reservation (or life on it) from the life outside, thereby carving out an additional layer of (An)Ordnung that physically separates the Spokane Indians as Native Americans from the very land they had inhabited long before. Simultaneously, the only way in which the outside culture seems to enter the reservation is through the medium of television, which functions as a mirror to Thomas-Builds-the-Fire, confronting him with his and the Spokane’s economic fate: “He turned on his little black-and-white television to watch white people live. White people owned everything: food, houses, clothes, children.” (ibid., 70)9 This only broadens the dialectic between the inside and the outside, with the sole infusion from the outside represented as unattainable because whatever is shown on TV remains, due to the catastrophic economic conditions on the reservations, virtual. This paves the way for a Lefebvrian trialectic into which the reservation can be subdivided. The spatial practice of the reservation manifests itself in its constant reproduction of poverty and despair, thus displaying a circular re-inception of the space resulting from the Natives’ relation to their native land. A space of representation is conceived by the spatial relationships which serve to make up the social topography of 9 | In addition, as Nancy Grimm (2009) writes, TV in Reservation Blues serves as a mediator of cultural stereotypes about Native Americans: “Das Fernsehen mit seinen vielfach reproduzierten Indianerstereotypen stellt sich für Junior nicht nur als Maßstab eigener Verhaltensweisen dar, sondern verursacht Angstträume, welche ihn in Form des Wildwestfilms nachts plagen. [...] Nicht zuletzt erweist sich das Medium Fernsehen als Quelle vieler Vorurteilsstrukturen, die sich tausendfach multiplizieren und über die visuelle Wahrnehmung umso mehr verhärten.” (318/9).

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the novel. The space of representation, as the final part of Lefebvre’s trialectic, refers to the symbolic level and in case of the Spokane Reservation, is made up particularly by the Spokanes’ matriarch, Big Mom, who embodies the tribe’s collective memory through her (actual or imagined) presence on Wellpinit mountain. This space of representation is marked first and foremost by its elevated position, implying a broader scope and perspective which includes past and present conceptions of the Spokane reservation. It allows the Spokane Indians to connect past and present of their experience so as to redefine the cultural inscriptions of the reservation which had initially been taken from them by the white conquerors, serving as representatives of the “other” American space myth, namely the implied concepts of Manifest Destiny and the Turnerian frontier hypothesis (published only 10 years after the Spokane Indian reservation was founded). Within this space of representation, there is a collision of two differently conceived spatial concepts, i.e. the “white” myth of expansionism and attitudes connected to the frontier experiences confront Native American traditions of harmonious cohabitation with flora and fauna, as they, referring to white Americans, “tend [...] not to believe in the intrinsic sacred qualities of the environment, whereas traditional Indians, having a different conception of the environment and having lived on the land considerably longer, have direct religious and personal ties to the environment.” (Grassian 2005: 135) The collision of these two divergent spaces can be interpreted as a – from a narrative point of view – productive friction, as it provides the underlying basis and thus the narrative actions so central to the general narrativization of space on the one hand and the representation of its social power on the other hand. The confrontation or overlapping of spatial imaginations is strongly tied to concepts of “culture” or, in the very broadest sense, socialization if one is to regard that as the process of becoming a member of one’s society.10 Once there are different 10 | Each social entity, from a nuclear family to a macro-construct such as an entire society, employs different methods of forming new members, dependent on their surroundings. Particularly in the post-modern age, where we continually speak of the hybridization of culture, they still occur in spatio-political constructs reflecting the reciprocal interactions discussed at length in previous chapters What I am attempting to carve out is that we are dealing with different spaces that collide with each other whenever we observe an interpersonal encounter. While trans-/interculturality certainly reflects the most palpable example of such a collision, there exist also, for instance, inter-generational encounters from the same “cultural” system that might elicit a genuine confrontation of different biographies which, in turn, are so thoroughly influenced by the spatial part of socialization and identity formation. This mirrors nothing else than the overlapping of spatial constructs which results in the constant (re-)negotiation of the communication between protagonists, thus eliciting a type of meta-diegesis. How-

8.) Sherman Alexie — Reser vation Blues

conceptions of that united in a single geographical area that geographical area becomes itself more dynamic and becomes a meta-diegetic contact zone in which hitherto accepted truths and traditions are discursivized. Such collisions can eventually cause an outsourcing of space to another narrative level, which then encompasses enough power so as to make even the impossible possible, as can be seen by the magical realist example of Big Mom.11 In essence, through the collision of these two imaginations of space, a literary/narrative heterotopia is created on reservation soil, uniting two different discourses only to generate a third one. The above-mentioned aspect of historicization so central to the creation of narrative heterotopias is actually inherent in these two concepts of space, whereas historicizable space exists in Native American mythology in form of the centrality of space in the way they look at life – in cyclical and, thus spatial ways (cf. Grassian 2005: 13). This remodels the reservation as a narrative heterotopia. There is the Spokane land, claimed by different groups and their perceptions of land and space, the different perceptions of which generate more and alternate narrative material simultaneously emerging from the same geographical place. Secondly, the overlapping conceptions of space are what constitute Alexie’s narrator’s and his focalizers’ perceptions in the first place, therefore constructing the sociospatial reality elaborated on the above in the first place. Thirdly, the narrative heterotopia resulting from this sparks the plot as a whole and also informs Alexie’s narrative agency, who acts as a joint between the various discourses

ever, the meta-diegesis is entirely of representational origin – it reflects the different elements of culture and identity outlined above by means of its narrative realization. 11 | Magical realism should not be exclusively conceived of as the incorporation of magical, impossible-seeming elements into other, mimetically presented narratives. Scholarship on and of magical realism has outlined the concept much rather as, for instance, “at the crux of an hybrid aesthetic that dismantles the polarities ‘colonizer/colonized’ and ‘metropolitan/indigenous artist.’ [...] (Benito et. al. 2009: 42). Furthermore, they hypothesize that magical realism represents “a cross-cultural and hybrid aesthetic theory that is also applicable to fiction in the United States [referring to its origin in Latin and South America]. Within a loose postcolonial theoretical frame, magical realism is addressed here as a hybrid form that that offers another stage of the representation of the imaginary in its dialectics with the real. Magical realism moves away from the ‘world-reflecting’ vision of mimesis to offer another variant: the ‘world-creating’ vision.” (ibid., 43) Operating from this premise, the magical-realist elements in Reservation Blues are not a peculiar way of historicizing the Spokane reservation, but actually a means to incorporate several discourses into one space, which then becomes indeed a world created rather than reflected.

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united in the Spokane reservation if we are to assume that Alexie speaks from an autobiographically inspired point of view.12 In terms of personal ties to the environment, particularly the taking of land from one ethnic group, allocating it to another, is a concept which was virtually unknown until the first contact with white settlers or conquerors: “‘The idea that land could be exclusively possessed, expropriated, or alienated was foreign to native North America.’” (Fogelson in Grassian 2005: 13): Moreover, Grassian writes, “it has been argued that Native Americans typically have a more cyclical view of time and life [...] Also, a crucial hallmark of Native culture is thought to be the ‘relationship of human beings to all other forms of existences in a vast web of cosmic interrelations [...]” (2005: 13). The web of cosmic interrelations serves as evidence of the centrality of space and spatiality in Native American thought, as it is what resides at the core of spatiality even in Western scholarship. The myriad of options and consequences of actions in a complexly interwoven web creates the possibility of an interpretation of the reservation as a result of the collision of two conflicting conceptions about space, creating a narrative heterotopia which enables the narrative to traverse time, space and ethnicity so as to create the plot, but even more importantly, the reservation which enables the entire constellation in the first place. While white settlers long before Turner’s revolutionary, but ultimately positivist, frontier hypothesis regarded expansion (i.e. spatial progress by means of movement) as the natural course of development, Native American cultures seemed to regard themselves less as settlers, but as part of the land they inhabited if one argues in accordance with the above assumption that many Native American cultures position themselves at the periphery or bottom of these cosmic interrelations (cf. ibid.) The collision of two so fundamentally opposed conceptions of space has then been condensed into rather small geographical areas which make painfully clear that the prerogative of interpretation of the land and prerogative of interpretation over the Natives’ self-perception has shifted towards the hegemonic power, having resulted in frictions both within and outside of the reservation. As such, whenever consciously encountering the reservation, the reader observes a convergence of two spatial concepts diametrically opposed to each other. As a result the reservation fosters a type of attitude supporting an exclusively Indian procreation to maintain part of at least their biological identity, as their cultural identity has been diluted for the reasons mentioned above. Once again, parallels can be drawn to Toni Morrison, who presents Ruby, OK, as a racially pure, all-black town. However, Morrison’s characters do so in an attempt at delimiting themselves from their former oppressors, whereas Alexie’s characters as represented by Chess argue 12 | Alexie was born and raised on the Spokane Indian reservation and continually speaks of the place as “my reservation.” (cf. Grassian 2005: 1)

8.) Sherman Alexie — Reser vation Blues

for such measures out of sheer necessity for the survival of their tribe and, by extension, their heritage: ‘I don’t know. I guess it’s about preservation, enit? Ain’t very many Indian men to go around. Even fewer good ones.’ [...] ‘And you know’, Checkers said, ‘as traditional as it sounds, I think Indian men need Indian women. I think only Indian women can take care of Indian men. Jeez, we give birth to Indian men. [...] Then they run off with white women. I’m sick of it.’ (Alexie 1995: 81)

In that sense, maintaining this notion of racial purity would be an act of resistance against the whites, with the Native Americans defending their biological traits as an Alamo position in the struggle for retaining what little is left of their identity. This attitude poses a challenge, even if indirect, to the hegemonic culture, as Checkers is willing to accept the marginalization of Native Americans if that means to preserve their way of life. As has been repeatedly stated, Alexie’s characters develop – or have developed – a peculiar sense of irony to deal with the situation, and in so doing, they dismantle the stereotypes attached to them by making them their own when they actually form the band based on Robert Johnson’s guitar: “‘We need a name for this band,’ Thomas asked after another well-attended rehearsal. ‘How about Bloodthirsty Savages?’ Victor asked. ‘I was thinking about Coyote Springs,’ Thomas said. [...]” (ibid., 44) Both names cover a lot of stereotypical territory. While the image of the bloodthirsty savage obviously refers to European perceptions and prejudices about “Indians” from the early modern age, “Coyote Springs” relates to an image in/of Native American culture itself, as the coyote is a Native American symbol signifying trickster-like qualities which, even though at first rejected as “too damn Indian” (ibid., 44) is accepted as the band name at last.13 Alexie uses topological imagery not only to depict relations between characters and spaces, but also to illustrate his much-cited irony with regard to stereotypicality: “The Indian world is tiny, every other Indian dancing just a powwow away. Every Indian is a potential lover, friend, or relative dancing over the horizon [...] Indians need each other that much [...]” (ibid., 151). Alexie plays with the communal or communitistic image of American Indians at this point, which reflects an ironic jab at the (white) reader’s assumed interpretation of the Indian as “Indian” rather than as individuals. From a spatial point of view, 13 | Grimm (2009: 320) interprets the usage of the coyote image as a criticism: “Hier kritisiert Alexie die leichtsinnige Abwandlung von indigenen Kulturtraditionen.” However, given their circumstances laid out above, I would regard the band name as an ironic, stiff upper lip way of accepting their cultural identity and making the best of it, which as a criticism of their continued subjugation works decidedly better than a neutral or conciliatory, possibly PC, term.

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“Coyote Springs” with all the irony it encompasses, and with the improbability of success, could not be further away from stereotypes of Native Americans. On the contrary, it is they themselves who reverse the (implied) subjugation on part of the whites by making part of their culture their own by way of the blues, which as a predominantly African American cultural characteristic had been hijacked by the white majority and finally served as the musical foundation of rock ‘n’ roll. This presents Coyote Springs as a self-conscious and -confident act of emancipation against stereotypicality, which becomes possible through the spatial categories elaborated on thus far. Essentially, an all Indian Catholic (sic!) rock band is an invasion, a penetration of a white cultural space, and it also becomes manifest geographically in the group’s travelling across the United States.

8.3) “C oyote S prings ”: The J ourne y as a R epresentation of O verl apping S paces Having become minor celebrities on the neighboring Spokane and Flathead reservation thanks to Robert Johnson’s guitar, Coyote Springs leave the world of the reservation to partake in a Battle of the Bands in Seattle, WA. The associations the initial description of their encounter with urbanity evokes are those of discoverers exploring a space or place for the very first time. In a way, the portrayal of their experience in the city matches their “home space”, for lack of a better expression, rather well. Sites, spaces and particularly their inscriptions can be relocated, as the very traits they represent influence their inhabitants to such a degree that their influence, which has contributed to socializing the characters, remains with them, resulting in a productive incongruence of spaces, the frictions between which deliver new material to be narrated. In case of Coyote Springs, they embody the space that is the reservation vis-à-vis the modern world as represented by the city of Seattle. If one takes into consideration the above analysis of the Spokane reservation, a defamiliarization with the outside world cannot be surprising, given the (at least culturally) hermetically sealed-off nature of the reservation. As a result, they are unfamiliar with even the most basic customs such as having to pay for their motel room for themselves when they first arrive in Seattle (cf. ibid., 135). Here occurs a relativization of their position to the outside world. On the reservation, Coyote Springs had been celebrities and they were impossible to be overlooked, with even the reservation newspaper singing their praises (cf. ibid., 83). Now, their uniqueness becomes diluted by the cityscape that is Seattle. While they still maintain a certain degree of prominence even with the organizer of the Battle of the Bands (cf. ibid., 135), they are one group amongst many. The relative position of Coyote Springs to their environment therefore

8.) Sherman Alexie — Reser vation Blues

renders them much smaller, weakening the position they had gained in the isolation of the reservation. This observation serves two primary purposes, which are a) to underscore the isolation of the reservation by means of contrast with the outside, and b) to set the bar for Coyote Springs’ exploration of the world outside this reservation. This journey conjures up notions of a venture into the unknown, much as the white settlers had done 150 years earlier. As such, their journey reflects an attempt at reconquering ground from people whom they regard as different from them – an ironic reversal of history. Another aspect supporting this interpretation is the fundamental disorientation they experience: “Coyote Springs woke, cramped and smelly, in a strange parking lot in downtown Seattle. [...] Everybody climbed back into the van. With Thomas as driver and Chess as navigator, Coyote Springs soon found the market. [...] Not everybody was white. [...] They watched, dumbfounded, as two men held hands [...]” (ibid., 149) The aspect of disorientation is not one of finding a certain location, but rather of the unfamiliarity of the urban context, including behaviors which obviously had been unknown to them on the reservation, such as homosexual relationships. These frictions between the values with which the two spaces are inscribed lie at the heart of Coyote Springs’ journey, and becoming more familiar with them as time progresses further diminishes their uniqueness, which can be interpreted as another peculiarly Alexiean jab at irony: Coyote Springs had set out to (re)conquer the world, but vanishes in the city where they are no longer special and in addition, they will take their impressions back to their home space, weakening their Native American identity and thus, even if unwillingly, acting against the idea of purity discussed above. Moreover, they are confronted with urban characteristics of spatiality, which manifests itself particularly in the chance meeting of a Spokane Indian who coincidentally knew Thomas’ grandfather. Such contingent events stand in stark contrast to the reservation where, as it appears, no contingency ever occurs. The contrast between these two spaces, the reservation symbolizing stasis and the urban context progression, or at least movement, is what fuels Coyote Springs’ experience and with it, Alexie’s narrative agency, who at this part of the novel is an extra- as well as heterotopian narrator employing Coyote Springs as a collective internal focalizer. This somewhat peculiar narrative discourse unites two primary functions ascribed to space in narrative: first of all, on the metalevel, the location of the narrator in relation to the action he narrates informs the very discourse rather than the temporal succession in which he does so. Secondly, on the textual and cultural level, it responds to the topological aspect of narrative which has the power to overcome or create distances between select items. This makes the topological qualities of a text a structuring and structural element of narrative. Viewed in combination, the relative position of meta-level and topology creates the contingent encounter between Victor and his grandfather’s friend:

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Toward Diversity and Emancipation The rest of Coyote Springs listened as Victor and Eddie traded stories, but nobody was all that surprised. The Indian world is tiny, every other Indian dancing just a powwow away. Every Indian is a potential lover, friend, or relative dancing over the horizon, only a little beyond sight. Indians need each other that much; they need to be that close, tying themselves to each other, and closing their eyes against the storms. (Alexie 1995: 150/1)

On the one hand and when taken up genuinely, this passage topologically relates all Native Americans to one another, generating a very small world, no matter how big the geographical distances might be in the first place. Paradoxically, this results in a simultaneity of Indians being close to and far away from one another. This restructuring of the social order is what a creates a spatially expressable proximity between all Native Americans, referring back to certain pan-tribal aspects such as the commonly observed close relationship to nature, landscape and environment. Analogously, this topology sets up the social counterpart to geographical space. On the other hand, and being aware of Alexie’s ample use of irony, it is a criticism of precisely this topology and the pan-tribal communitism emerging out of it. Looking at the exaggerated tone in the above excerpt, the irony can hardly be concealed, yet, it does hint at the awareness of the outside perception of Indians with which Alexie first and foremost criticizes his readers and in addition to that implicitly emancipates Native Americans from such stereotypical treatment. This passage also sets up a specific delineation between Native Americans and particularly white Americans, as it conjures up a sense of togetherness defined ex-negative. While the prejudice of a common Native American identity is (rightfully) criticized by Alexie’s narrator, the inside-outside dichotomy born out of this excerpt generates a sense of self that is primarily defined by not being white. It is also another spatial category providing a framework for the narration of Coyote Springs’ trajectory, as their journey is an attempt at either coming to terms with or overcoming in general their superimposed social position “granted” to them by the white majority. As such, the fact that they describe themselves as a rock ‘n’ roll band only adds to this process of emancipation, as they are trying to beat the whites with their own weapons. Containing a reversal of power structures, it is rendered spatial and political at the same time. The modification includes a spatial quality inasmuch as the hierarchy, which had until now dominated the discourse between Native and white Americans, is challenged by these means. Taking a mode of cultural expression associated predominantly with the white majority and using it to “‘to take over the whole goddamn city” (ibid., 134) is a highly subversive act. It is not a rebellion from outside – it is cultural upheaval from within. From this results the political quality of their quest. The convergence of space, power and ideology comes into play, albeit under different circumstances: it is no longer the Emersonian “Young American” who is supposed to lead,

8.) Sherman Alexie — Reser vation Blues

but the “Young Native American” must lead himself into a brighter future. Citing Emerson as an example might appear peculiar at first sight, and while Native Americans and whites have lived separated from each other, this specific segregation is a direct result of ideological prose such as Manifest Destiny and Emerson’s “Young American”. The subversiveness and therefore emancipatory aspect hidden in this approach is stunning. Similar to Into the Beautiful North and Paradise, there is a minority group taking classical WASP American concepts, making them their own – merely using them for their own purposes – so as to achieve a degree of self-determination hitherto unseen by any of their ancestors. In essence, they counteract what Thomas calls the “Ten Commandments as Given by the United States of America to the Spokane Indians” (ibid., 154/5). The ten commandments represent the experience made by the Spokanes while being surrounded and, if not de iure, de facto dominated by white majority culture, for it includes aspects such as the artificially construed and maintained dependence of many Indians on state welfare programs (cf. §4), the taking of Indian land and culture (§5) as well as a call for the acceptance of the status quo (§8) [cf. ibid.]. These principles are presented as commandments and so – once more, ironically – used to regulate the coexistence of the Spokanes and “the white man” (ibid.) Given that the actual ten commandments were supposedly handed down to Moses by God himself to regulate the coexistence between all people, it is interesting here that the American commandments, as it were, explicitly segregate the “white man” and the Spokanes. Read allegorically as a summary of Thomas’ experience growing up in and around Wellpinit, it becomes transparent that at least Thomas seems to have lost his identity as a Native American, being infused with regarding himself as a second-rate human being as a result of a process of internal colonization. Therefore, it is not surprising that once given the opportunity, he and his companions make an attempt at altering this situation. It can also not be coincidental that the commandments are posted before Coyote Springs takes the stage, ultimately winning the battle of the bands (cf. ibid., 165). This entire journey actually represents an overlapping of values condensed by the spatial, for the reservation and the experience of it travels with the group, revealing its peculiarity in the characters it has shaped whenever they come into contact with other spaces. Defamiliarization takes place whenever the group tries to accomplish even the simplest things of everyday-life, such as booking a hotel room: “‘And how will you be paying for those rooms?’ ‘With money’, Victor said. ‘What did you think? Seashells?’ ‘He means cash or credit,’ Chess said.’” (ibid., 135) Underscoring the discrepancy between Native American life and the insinuated public perception thereof, such passages reveal the degree to which Native Americans have been dehumanized and regarded as savages. However, winning that battle of the bands in a reverse sense reconquers some ground

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from the white majority in that they have won the competition on enemy territory, as it were, using enemy means: rock ‘n’ roll. Yet, this methodology entails a negative side inasmuch as it results in an intermingling of Native American and white culture regarded as counterproductive by some of the reservation’s inhabitants upon their return: “Only a few people showed any support. Fights broke out between the supporters and enemies of Coyote Springs [...] The Tribal Council even held an emergency meeting to discuss the situation. ‘I move we excommunicate them from the Tribe,’ Dave WalksAlong said. ‘They are creating an aura of violence [...]’” (ibid., 186). This statement by the tribe’s chairman indicates a reciprocal effect between the band’s sudden success as a result of adopting and modifying white cultural concepts and the tribe’s proclaimed ethnic purity, which extends even to Chess and Checkers, who are supposed to be expelled from the reservation for not being ethnic Spokanes. The consequences which this step – even though neither Coyote Springs nor Chess and Checkers are not excommunicated by a narrow margin14 (cf. ibid.) – entails lead to a variety of interpretations as to the conception of space laid open to the reader by Alexie’s narrator. Yet, this distinctiveness allows the Spokanes to carve out their own, idiosyncratically designed identity which they, as it seems, connect to a high degree of isolation as well as to a certain degree of ethnic “purity“. On the downside, these characteristics, in addition to the outside factors caused by white hegemony, have resulted in this type of hopeless stagnation. In this sense, the blues, and Coyote Springs as its primary representatives, are used as a metaphor for innovation, implicitly portraying Coyote Springs as medium of novelty and change: “Then the music stopped. The reservation exhaled. Those blues created memories for the Spokanes, but they they refused to claim them. Those blues lit up a new road, but the Spokanes pulled out their old maps.” (ibid., 174) In effect, these lines describe the stubbornness of tribal politics, communicating the impression of – at least the local political elite – the Spokanes being content with the status quo. This is furthermore represented by David WalksAlong’s letter preceding the vote about Coyote Springs’ excommunication in which he utters concern about the representativeness of Coyote Springs:

14  |  The attempt fails, however, because the notorious drunk Lester FallsApart “staggered into the meeting, cast his vote to keep Chess and Checkers and passed out.” (Alexie 1995: 187) Again, the passage reveals Alexie’s irony when describing the Spokane Indians’ struggle for autonomy and self-determination. The rather pathetic picture he paints of such political acts, however, reflects criticism of this rather anachronistic mode of thought.

8.) Sherman Alexie — Reser vation Blues As you all know, [...] our local rock band [...] has just returned from Seattle with two white women. [...] I’m beginning to seriously wonder about Coyote Springs’s ability to represent the Spokane Tribe. [...] We have to remember that Coyote Springs travel to a lot of places as a representative of the Spokane Tribe. Do we really want other people to think we are like this band? Do we really want people to think that the Spokanes are a crazy storyteller, a couple of irresponsible drunks, a pair of Flathead Indians and two white women? (ibid., 175/6)

This dichotomy between the individualism, the aspect of novelty represented by Coyote Springs and the traditionalism of a homogeneous group of people not solely accepting, but being proud of their heritage and wanting to maintain this very heritage embodies the basic friction at the heart of the novel. Once the enclave-like status of the reservation has changed into a more dynamic interaction with the outside, with Coyote Springs displaying the vehicle rendering this possible, it cannot be stopped anymore. This aspect entails two primary consequences for Coyote Springs and the reservation. For Coyote Springs, the space becomes much too narrow and stands in their way of finding themselves. For the reservation, Coyote Springs’s departure first for New York to record and eventually relocating to Spokane, WA, connotes a tremendous loss of power and exclusivity, for they set the example that maintaining the status quo might not be in the tribe’s best interest, undermining the power of the Tribal Council as well as that of the community. This is confirmed by a conversation between Chess and Thomas upon the return from their first successful venture into the white man’s world, finding themselves inbetween two spaces and being forced to take a stand: “We have to come back as heroes. They won’t let us back on this reservation if we ain’t heroes [...] We already left once, and all the Spokanes hate us for it.” (ibid., 214) In that manner, this passage marks the crossroads at which Coyote Springs find themselves and at which they have to decide what trajectory to create, as they have gone down a one-way street to be at the very point that they are. In another sense, the band provides a chance to dispose of their hitherto experienced invisibility and a type of underground existence comparable to Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man who, like Thomas, is amidst society but hardly ever noticed as an individual: “‘Listen, Chess’, Thomas said, ‘I’ve spent my whole life being ignored. I’m used to it.’” (ibid., 212) Once again, a convergence between African American and Native American experiences can be detected inasmuch as both ethnicities have been marginalized and worse for most of their coexistence with white Americans. Therefore, the narrative gains continuity inasmuch as the convergence between the two groups is apparent throughout the novel with the magicalrealist element of Robert Johnson appearing regularly. The concept of the blues serves as interface between his experience and Coyote Springs.

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Interpreting Coyote Springs as an embryonic form of an activist group would be overinterpretation, yet, their embrace of a widely accepted and appreciated form of musical expression such as the blues undermines the ignorance shown towards the Native Americans, serving as a backdoor entry into the conscience of a wider audience. While the openly visible channels of raising awareness are blocked, the blues creates a tunnel running underneath those channels until it resurfaces and can then present Coyote Springs as an, indeed, Indian rock band. This is a highly political action, as the subversiveness of the blues undermines the power structures having led to the ignorance of which Thomas speaks on the above. As a result, the concept of the blues serves as a means of empowerment and emancipation (cf. Grassian 2005: 84). As a medium, it allows those practicing it to challenge the way they are treated by those they are trying to subvert by means of a form of expression which has already been accepted by the majority of people. In terms of spatiality, the additional layer is one that no longer describes solely the horizontal aspect of going back and forth between the reservation and other spaces, but the vertical aspect of challenging hitherto assumed structures and relations, which lies at the core of spatiality. For that reason, Coyote Springs are intent on rendering themselves visible. The recording session in New York City on which they are about to embark adds another, metropolitan layer to the interaction of spaces, but it also closes the door for Coyote Springs’ more than physical return to their home. As a result, from the point at which they board their flight to New York City, the narrative becomes monodirectional in its deictic quality, i.e. the narrative can logically continue only in a way that leads away from, and not back to, the reservation. This is clearly shown by the reluctance of Victor to board the plane to New York vis-à-vis the narrated passage that follows it: “‘Wait a second,’ Victor said. [...] ‘I ain’t flying in that fucking thing.’” (Alexie 1995: 217) While Victor is not a reliable focalizer for his constantly being drunk, he appears to be sensing the finality of their decision to go to New York, as he now explicitly asks for the eagle feather earlier offered to him by Thomas, which he had furiously rejected before as “Indian bullshit” (cf. ibid., 218). However, with the plane distancing itself from the reservation, Victor establishes a connection between space and identity, as the feather, albeit cliché, connects the reservation to the individual. When read against the narrative agency’s take on their departure, their leaving assumes another quality. The narrator reads, Meanwhile, the reservation remained behind. It never longed for any Indian who left, for all those whose bodies were dragged quickly and quietly into the twentieth century while their souls were left behind somewhere in the nineteenth. But the reservation was there, had always been there, would always be there, waiting for Coyote Springs’s return from New York City.” (ibid., 220)

8.) Sherman Alexie — Reser vation Blues

While the reservation might wait for them, Coyote Springs themselves have closed the door. The reservation connotes stasis, stagnation, and submission whereas the band has moved on to a status of dynamics, movement and subversion of that very concept. Still, the reservation remains with them as their space of socialization, entailing compelling consequences for their interaction with the world of the metropolitan. Upon their arrival in New York City, Coyote Springs immediately enter the recording studio in possession of, ironically, Cavalry Records. This in itself creates a hierarchical relationship between the band and the proverbial “white man”, particularly since the company executives are named Phil Sheridan and George Wright, after two Civil War generals of which at least Sheridan is known to have been fiercely anti-Indian.15 Parallel to real-world events, the record company comes to represent greed and financial interests rather than artistry and cultural expression, as Sheridan and Wright explicitly concede: “‘Indians are big these days.’ [...] ‘Shit, as if being good meant anything in this business. They don’t need to be good. They just need to make money. I don’t give a fuck if they’re artists.’” (ibid., 223) The contempt not solely for Indians, but for artistry in general in favor of making money. This is clearly visible in this passage which lays bare another factor in the relationship between the “white man” and Indians, between mainstream and margin of society: the factor of exploitation which is not restricted to the land, but also to its people. The fact that the record company’s CEO is named Armstrong when General George Custer’s middle name happened to be “Armstrong” can hardly be coincidental, and neither can the character of George Wright, since General George Wright commanded troops in the area around Spokane, WA, where he had a number of Indians hanged in 1858, which ended the Indian wars in the northwestern United States.16 The triumvirate of these three characters once again establishes a link to the past, marked by white westward expansion and internal colonialism, creating an arch from the days of the frontier to the late 20th-century, symbolizing that not much has really changed – only the methods have changed to a different, perhaps more sinister way than open confrontation, as the paradigm has now shifted towards diluting what little cultural autonomy is left for Native Americans, for which Coyote Springs are ultimately fighting. In spatial terms, we encounter the overlapping of Manifest Destiny with Indian communitism on the breeding ground that is New York City. It is rather likely that this 15 | Cf. http://www.pbs.org/weta/thewest/people/s_z/sheridan.htm (January 18, 2014, 3.06 p.m.). 16 | A depiction of the events, including a photograph of the memorial stone, can be found at http://www.discovery-school.org/colwright.html (January 18, 2014, 3:24 p.m.).

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fundamental incongruence of spatialities results in the disastrous recording session upon which Coyote Springs are sent home. Once more, their trust in “the white man” has been breached, and it is how Coyote Springs regain their invisibility which they had – ironic as it is – tried to dispose of with the help of Sheridan, Wright and Armstrong before. Yet, the failed recording session seems to reignite their fire, realizing that they have to present themselves as who they are, rather than fitting into the mold of a record company’s expectations. Employing guitarist Victor, who had botched the recording session, as a focalizer, the narrative agency raves: Victor roared against his whole life. If he could have been hooked up to a power line, he would have lit up Times Square. He had enough anger inside to guide every salmon over Grand Coulee Dam. [...] He wanted to scalp stockbrokers and kidnap supermodels. He wanted to shoot flaming arrows into the Museum of Modern Art. He wanted to lay siege to Radio City Music Hall. Victor wanted to win. (ibid., 230)

Victor’s temper tantrum encompasses a political quality inasmuch as it reverses the power relations set up at the beginning of the novel. First of all, there is a group of Native Americans trying to conquer mainstream America by means of rock ‘n’ roll and/or the blues. Displaying a stark contrast to the initiatory stages of the novel where there had been an invasion of Indian land including a destruction/dishonoring of Native American symbols, Victor dreams of reversing this act by demolishing symbols of White America such as Times Square, scalping stockbrokers or shooting flaming arrows into the Museum of Modern Art. Not only are these violent fantasies an explicit challenge of majority culture symbols – in fact, by resorting to Native American stereotypes, he fantasizes about overcoming these symbols through usage of the white image of Native Americans, as a result utilizing their own preconceptions against Native Americans against them. Taken verbatimly, his rave would create a powerful, emancipatory expression of despair at having been neglected by the record company. With Alexie’s sense of irony, there is a darker quality to it inasmuch as the use of stereotypes on both sides implies a degree on desperation in Victor veiled by the – superficially funny – ideas that his mind produces. It illustrates the clash between two cultures which, at least in Victor’s mind, cannot be resolved peacefully. Because this approach avoids classical victimization, it puts responsibility on the individual, which in turn empowers the characters represented, for it is not “the white man” who can be blamed for their failure in the recording studio, but the band itself. This backdoor emancipation reveals Alexie’s approach to composing literature: “‘I’ve come to the realization [...] that many people have been reading literary fiction for the same reason they use mainstream fiction: for entertainment and a form of escape. I don’t want to write books that provide

8.) Sherman Alexie — Reser vation Blues

people with that. I want books that challenge, anger, and possibly offend.’” (Alexie qtd. in Grassian 2005: 14) This approach is on display here. Alexie presents Coyote Springs in the worst possible light upon having built them up a in a curious, yet fascinating manner which creates a high degree of empathy in the reader. The inquiries arising out of this sudden change – how can Coyote Springs fail that badly and how are they going to come to terms with it? – serve as a lead-over into what lies at the heart of the novel, which is the band’s voyage to attain individualism rather than being perceived exclusively by their ethnicity. In that sense, New York City fulfills its function as a space of opportunity and hope for everyone, regardless of one’s heritage or past (cf. Baur 2008: 186). In the case of Coyote Springs, the metropolis lays bare both the frictions within the band and its collective response to outside perceptions of themselves. However, trusting the white man in form of a record company, and one that is represented by modern-day incarnations of two generals with a particularly ugly history of violence against Native Americans proves to be false. The passage that follows relativizes the categories of both time and space, as the two executives now impersonate their historical counterparts, leading to a direct connection to the past on the one hand, while a recollection of the violent history is relocated to New York City, thousands of miles away from “the West” (cf. ibid., 236 ff.). This leaves room for two basic interpretations, the first one manifesting itself in New York City’s metropolitan function. In this reading, New York would render possible this confrontation and the above-mentioned act of emancipation in the first place.17 This apotheosis of the metropolis positions it at the nucleus of the novel inasmuch as the primary space of the novel can no longer be the reservation. Instead, it is replaced by Manhattan, which subsequently serves as a magnet for identity construction on part of Coyote Springs. It is not until this point that they realize what they, at least Thomas, Chess, and Checkers, do not aspire to do: going back to the reservation. The crystallization and polarization of spaces as visible in the basic dichotomy between city and reservation form a spatial disparity at the center of the plot, making a story about a trajectory really one of redefining a sense of place and space. On the other hand, and more traditionally, the convergence of time and space communicates an impression of reaffirming their Native American identities against the background of a common enemy, i.e. the “white man” as represented by Sheridan and Wright. For that purpose, it is necessary to confront the enemy on his own turf, in the lion’s den. Even though New York 17  |  Cf. Lenz’s writings about “the dissolution of the unity, of the boundaries of literary texts, highlighting intertextuality and intermediality [...]” (2003: 11) in a metropolitan context, specifically in the postmodern metrpolis.

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City with its reputation as an integrated and international city could potentially be regarded as diluted, it is still a thriving metropolis, i.e. a spatial concept that works against the Native American conception of human beings’ relation to nature and the communitism resulting from this special relationship between the landscape and its people. As such, it is not surprising that in Checker’s nightmare, in which Sheridan appears as the Civil War-era General, scolds her for not wanting to live on the reservation, inculpating her for himself being forced to kill Native Americans: “‘You had a choice [...] We gave you every chance. All you had to do was move to the reservation. [...] This is just like you Indians [...] You could never stay where we put you. You never listened to orders. Always fighting. You never quit fighting.” (ibid., 236/7; italics original) Colliding at this point are two diametrically opposed perspectives on space and place, as Native Americans tend to have a rather close relationship to landscape, with the concept of land “belonging” to someone having been completely alien to them before the white settlers “taught” them otherwise. The very concept of the reservation is the exact opposite of a natural landscape. It is by definition an artificial construct allotted to a minority group diminished by the very people who seek to incarcerate them into this artificial space. In this manner, Sheridan and Checkers are synecdochal figures inasmuch as they represent westward expansion on the one hand and Indian resistance to it on the other hand. Even though Sheridan intimidates Checkers, she stands up to him: “‘You ain’t much at all. You’re just another white guy telling lies. I don’t believe in you. All you want to do is fight and fuck. You never tell a story that’s true. I don’t believe in you.’” (ibid., 241; original in italics) This simple act of resistance catalyzes a challenge of the existing power structure, consequentially entailing a political quality. The spatiality of their relationship is challenged on both, the historical level as well as in the present situation, considering that Sheridan at least feigned to believe in Coyote Springs, even if only to make profit off of them. The fact that the stakes have turned puts Checkers in a position of power over Sheridan, and through this emancipatory act her nightmare ends, as Sheridan’s power over has been ended by those oppressed by it. Interestingly enough, following this episode, company executive Wright stops by the hotel after the incident and (surprisingly) relieves himself of the misgivings he has had about the white treatment of Native Americans: “Wright looked at Coyote Springs. He saw their Indian faces. He saw the faces of millions of Indians, beaten, scarred by smallpox and frostbite, split open by bayonets and bullets. He looked at his own white hands and saw the blood stains there.” (ibid., 244) Given the history of General Wright with particular regard to the Spokane Indians, the inclusion of his misgivings is significant. When read against the Coyote Springs song “Small World”, his words take on new meaning, once more establishing a connection between past and present. The

8.) Sherman Alexie — Reser vation Blues

song describes the desolate social condition of the Spokane Indian reservation, with death playing a prominent role in the lyrics: “Off the road, on the rez, where survivors are forced to gather/All his bones, all his blood, while the dead watch the world shatter” (ibid., 245). In effect, juxtaposed with Wright’s statement, one can detect a continuation of white brutalization through the ether of time, with Wright’s apology valid for past and present alike, even though he himself does not seem to realize it. Eventually, their decision to leave New York without a successful recording contract, but with a new sense of self, and go back to the reservation underscores their personal growth, and it appears that having been away from the reservation for once opens up new possibilities: to live, to breath, and of opportunity. However, Thomas concedes, “but [he] still knew that every part of him was Spokane Indian.” (ibid., 256) In this way, Thomas, shaped profoundly by the Spokane reservation, takes this space with him and thus has the transformative power to integrate this very space with the new ones he will encounter in different geographical locales, bearing the potential to spark a new narrative – the essence of spatial dynamics.

8.4) N arr ativizing the R eservation B lues : The C ultur al E mancipation of Thomas and C hess With a certain degree of pathos, one could hold that Coyote Springs break the chains of the reservation, and thus the chains of a highly prescriptive lifestyle. No longer are they slaves of their ethnicity, but they can begin to see themselves as human beings rather than as Indians or Spokanes. The blues portrays a way of coming to terms with this, and it is under this canopy that Johnson’s narrative can be united with the Spokane Indian version of the blues. The dream of and quest for individual freedom is therefore stronger than their ethnic identity or a type of communitism that ignores the individual in lieu of the collective. Space and spatiality work in alliance so as to create a deeply humanist narrative about finding one’s place in the world against the backdrop of history, subjugation and prejudice, with the concept of the reservation at its core, crystallized by the majority culture cities of Seattle and particularly New York City. The “rez” functions as a symbol of and metaphor for stagnation and acceptance of the status quo, whereas the blues and the journey undertaken by Coyote Springs as a result of playing it represent(s) renewal, progression and a (re-)location of the self vis-à-vis one’s spatio-temporal surroundings. There are spatial factors dictating spatialized stories, resulting in spatial categories according to which the protagonists in the novel orientate themselves in the world. The decision to settle down in Spokane, WA, on part of Thomas and Chess supports the idea of emancipating themselves from the reservation as well as

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white subjugation. In one way, they have become estranged from the Spokane reservation with even their lives threatened (cf. ibid., 257), which forces them to relocate. The politics of exclusion employed by those remaining within the reservation’s boundaries further carves out the dichotomy which their journey has created. With their horizons significantly broadened, Thomas and Chess cannot return to the confinement of the reservation, whose desperate state outlined in the beginning does not change in the brief period of Coyote Springs’ absence. Overlapping with the new perspectives gained on that trip, the concept of a place assigned to a group of people by the very authorities which had stolen their land prior to that seems obsolete for Chess certainly and less so for Thomas, who feels a strong connection to his tribe. Yet, he takes on the role of the explorer in deciding to accompany her to Spokane. Once again, the reader encounters a shift in hierarchical structures. Chess says: “‘Maybe we should go west. All the white people did and look what they got.’” ‘What’s west of here?’ Everything’s west of here, Thomas. Everything.’” (ibid., 258) This utterance puts them into the position of the explorers and settlers who had pushed the frontier further and further to the west in the preceding century. Tracing their footsteps by means of relocating themselves to the far east of the US, as implied above, grants them a position of power. They make the classical frontier of white American mythology their own by putting themselves into the roles of those pushing it further west. Geographically, of course, given the location of Washington State, this is rather pointless, but in a figurative understanding, the frontier does not represent a physical boundary, but a personal challenge to overcome burdens. As such, what is left of Coyote Springs experiences a high degree of empowerment and activation through the prism of space. Given that according to Chess, “everything” is west of them, the reader gains them impression that the world outside of the reservation is theirs to explore and take. Reflecting the period of westward expansionism, it would certainly be inappropriate to rewrite their emancipation into a Native American version of Manifest Destiny. However, the appropriation of and the prerogative of interpretation over their own frontier relieves them of as their status as victims and turns them from objects to subjects of the narrative, i.e. they are transformed from passive to active elements by means of space. Moreover, the topological aspects at play in this passage are a useful tool to underscore these impressions. As Thomas, employed as internal focalizer by Alexie’s narrative agency, measures the distance between his pre- and postCoyote Springs life, he uses spatiality to clarify the differences: “Spokane, a mostly white city, sat on the banks of the Spokane River. Spokane the city was named after the tribe that had been forcibly removed from the river. Spokane was only sixty miles from the reservation, but Thomas figured it was no closer than the moon.” (ibid.) Unlike the aforementioned instance in which topology has been employed as an analytical category, this passage does not refer to

8.) Sherman Alexie — Reser vation Blues

the alleged smallness of the (Indian) world, but responds the incredible and multi-layered distance between two (geographically) close spaces which even share the same name. The topological distance becomes visible in terms of location – rural vs. urban. It is presented in the basic economic inequality tied to the categories of being in- or outside the reservation. It becomes transparent in the political imbalance of alleged autonomy of the reservation which has only been granted by the authority which robbed the Spokanes of their cultural autonomy in the first place. It is clarified through the distance created by the very name of the city of Spokane, serving constantly as a reminder of white cultural hegemony As a Marxist social geographer, Soja cites Antonio Gramsci’s definition of cultural hegemony, which he composes of two constituents, i.e. the social and the political. Specifically, Gramsci hypothesizes that the “‘spontaneous consent given by the great masses of the population to the general direction [is] imposed on social life by the dominant fundamental group; this consent is ‘historically caused by the prestige which the dominant group enjoys [...]” (1994: 217). The second pillar, according to Gramsci, rests on macropolitics: “The apparatus of state coercive power which ‘legally’ enforces discipline on those groups who do not ‘consent’ either actively or passively.” (ibid.) Where Gramsci counter-argues a cultural dynamism inherent to society, Soja comes out outspokenly in its favor (cf. 1996: 87). Thomas, Chess and Checkers have through their journey equipped themselves with the means to tackle this hegemony and begin to make the white man’s world their own by re-invading the place and succeeding in it. While Thomas is afraid he might lose his cultural identity in this process of breaking through his isolation as result of distance to the reservation, he now seems to have shrugged his concerns off, as he becomes willing to go “anywhere else” (ibid., 260), which represents his choice to challenge the hegemonic conception of the reservation. Ironically, space and spatiality are used in conjunction by the very people who have traditionally inscribed much more significance to these categories than mainstream (read: White) Americans.18 This constellation is now being challenged by means of Coyote Springs “invading”, as it were, white America, where they eventually plan on settling down. In that regard, the story can be read as an inverted version of westward expansionism, which had driven so many Native Americans out of their home territories: Coyote Springs explores the white world before leaving the old world of the reservation, where pain and misery await them. Instead, they make an attempt at finding a new world outside to achieve happiness 18  |  I have argued extensively about American exceptionalism being inspired by spatial constructs – however, unlike the Native American relationship to land and landscape, the ties of American cultural history to space and spatiality have been more implicit, saliently prevalent, yet – apart from Turner’s frontier hypothesis – surprisingly subconscious.

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there. If this phrasing sounds a bit naive and/or idealistic, it is to clarify the degree to which this emancipatory act actually goes, for Coyote Springs take the traditional foundation myth of what is today the United States and adapt it according to their own needs. This in itself is a political adaptation of the group which had to make use of Robert Johnson’s guitar so as to discover a pathway for themselves in the first place. The use of Robert Johnson as a figure of identification also strikes a parallel between the story of the Spokanes and the Mexicans trying to save their hometown in Urrea’s novel. Both make use of cultural products, as it were, representing different imaginaries of U.S.-America. Where the western movie displays the classical interpretation of the west, including ideologemes such as the frontier or Manifest Destiny which the young Mexicans reinterpret so as to fit their agenda, Coyote Springs use a cultural trait ascribed to African Americans in the hope of becoming more recognized within mainstream society. The Blues, as referenced above, assumes the role of the mediator and medium of dealing with the situation at hand. Each chapter of the novel is preceded by the lyrics to what can be assumed is a Coyote Springs song, presented to us by a hetero- and extratopian narrative agency employing a zero focalizer. Given that these lyrics are never part of the story, they can be interpreted as the plot’s metatopics. In short, the songs express the band’s feelings. Through the songs, we get a much better perspective of the band’s internal struggles in relation to the journey they describe openly. When narrativized, the lyrics tell a story about being isolated and stuck on the reservation (“Reservation Blues”, p.1) to experiencing (broken) promise and love (“Treaties”, p.31; “Indian Boy Love Song”, p.53) before moving to intra-reservation struggles (“Father and Farther”, p.93), which tackles the issue of finding a new sense of self through the prism of space. The next song, “Big Mom” (p. 197), resorts to the god-like and mystical, grandmotherly figure atop Wellpinit mountain, functioning as a symbol of identity confirmation as well as consulting agency, particularly since the song is presented prior to the band leaving for New York City. This is followed by “Urban Indian Blues” (p. 221), which advances to the centerpiece of the entire novel, i.e. the Native American protagonist as a an agent of passivity and his expressed desire to change that. In collaboration with the metropolitan function of New York and the already established representation of the band’s trip there, this song is the musical counterpart to the “Reservation Blues”, opening up the same dichotomy as the concrete spaces about which these songs are being sung. When juxtaposing these two songs, it becomes evident that the central underlying theme of the novel is reflected clearly in their lyrics, as the lyric persona feels confined, yet out of place in both songs: “I ain’t got nothing, I heard no good news; I fill my pockets with those reservation blues/Those old, those old rez blues, those old reservation blues/And if you ain’t got choices/

8.) Sherman Alexie — Reser vation Blues

what else do you choose?” (ibid., 1). These lyrics evoke a desperate picture of the reservation, and upon reading such verses, it is not surprising the character wants to leave. The “Urban Indian Blues” strikes a similar note, although from the completely opposite point of view: “And the neighbors are lonely/And the neighbors are ghostly/And I watch my television/And I dream of the reservation.” (ibid., 221) Particularly in terms of TV, Nancy Grimm’s observations about the use of television in the novel (cf. 2009: 318/9) can be inverted so as to function as an escapist symbol easily in peril of painting the actual situation on the reservation in all-too bright colors. As becomes clear from the song lyrics, the yearning for the reservation originates from the distance to it, whereas it causes the speaker’s blues in the first song. This is a stunning friction which can be dissolved only by means of projecting the content onto each other. Both songs exactly represent the spatial dialectic, with the ideal feature of one space being projected onto the other which is bound to result in disappointment and further search. This productive dialectic sparked by the band’s sense of space and place in conjunction with Alexie’s unidentifiable general narrator is what fabricates the narrative material of the novel. The ultimate song of the novel is called “Wake”, in which appears a Springsteenesque sense of hope in the light of despair, defying who or what they are, paying attention only to where they go: “Yeah, I think it’s time for us to find a way/To wake alive.” (Alexie 1995: 276) As such, Robert Johnson’s mission as a bluesman, to teach Coyote Springs how to make themselves seen and heard so as to cope with themselves and the world around them, has been fulfilled. It is therefore not much of a suprise that he is announced to be leaving rather soon by Big Mom (cf. ibid., 299). Where Johnson, displayed through his guitar, had served as somewhat of a mentor/inspiration particularly to Thomas, the trajectory Coyote Springs have created seems to have emancipated them even from that, implying Coyote Springs as an indeed all-out Indian rock band. While they do make use of blues elements, they respond to the communitistic aspect of the blues and therefore, in a blend of African and Native American culture, form their own version of the blues19, generating empowerment and transformative opportunities for the 19 | Douglas Ford in an essay on Alexie’s use of blues and rock ‘n’ roll writes: “The desire to meet a collective need helps steer Alexie’s version of the blues, a version that both inscribes and extends beyond traditional definitions. For Alexie, the blues spill over all boundaries, effectively blurring distinctions between the personal and the collective, even Native American and African American categories. In fact, Alexie comes to see the blues as encompassing a range of expressive possibilities that look further than any single, rigidly-defined cultural sphere or label. By focusing on the scene of play and interchange between such spheres, Alexie conceptualizes the blues in a way that encourages us to reconsider Houston Baker’s seminal study of the blues in literature. [...] Baker writes, the blues ‘constitute an amalgam that seems always to have been

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band, which perhaps is the best evidence of the power of space and spatiality, as they are the very factors rendering the intersection of Thomas’ and Robert Johnson’s trajectories possible in the first place. Later on, they function as the central prisms through which Coyote Springs’s journey and their relocalization both in terms of geographical location as well as personal redefinition should be read. Grassian writes, [w]hile Johnson stays on the reservation, Chess, Thomas, and Checkers move from the reservation to a predominantly white city: Spokane. heir trip to the city is an uncertain one, but it does suggest that Alexie believes that some Indians ought to [...] find success in the mainstream, white world rather than stay on the often stifling reservation. [...] The horses can be seen as a symbolic representation of Indian culture, which the three need to keep with them in order to keep themselves culturally and spiritually intact in the city. [...] Alexie implies that they will be able to resurrect their musical career in Spokane, but this time [...], purely on the strength of their individuality and with help from their indigenous culture. (2005: 103)

Ultimately, the novel asks the question of whether it is possible to be part of a minority and retain one’s cultural identity without being isolated from the rest of the world and whether this isolation leads to the creation of a vacuum in which this cultural identity can be lived by its members itself, but not experienced by others. With regard to the trajectories which mark the connecting lines between spaces, it seems impossible to connect two spaces and not have them influence each other by means of the people moving back and forth between them. In Coyote Springs’ case, the journey upon which they have just embarked crystallizes matters of identity formation and helps them find themselves, even though in the end, they come full circle, briefly returning to the reservation without having become a huge success, but with a very clear idea about themselves. This results in a mirror narrative in which the mirror shows a defining picture of themselves, leading them to leave the reservation in motion in America always becoming, shaping, transforming, displacing the peculiar experiences of Africans in the New World’ (5). Alexie moves further down this path, refiguring the blues into a network that draws upon even more disparate sources, including a Native American oral tradition that, in turn, embodies a Native American history.” (2002: 199/200). The connection between the blues and history is an important one to make, yet Ford omits the aspect of space, informing the formation of an Indian band in the first place, particularly considering that it is the spatial configuration of the Reservation in conjunction with Robert Johnson’s appearance at the crossroads rendering the transformation of the African American into the Native American Blues possible in the first place, which this chapter basically argues for.

8.) Sherman Alexie — Reser vation Blues

for good: “In the blue van, Thomas, Chess and Checkers sang together. They were alive; they’d keep living. They sang together with the shadow horses: we are alive, we’ll keep living. Songs were waiting for them up there in the dark. [...]” (ibid., 306). The image of the horses is of particular interest here, as it connects the passage to the initial conquest of Spokane by the US military in the beginning. Now, they are going the other way: they take their best attempt at reconquering their land. As such, this step reflects a challenge to the common hierarchical structure in the novel. Insofar, the trajectory struck by Coyote Springs has led them to challenge this constant and possibly fossilized comprehension of their existence, reversing the (An)Ordnung of things insofar as the prerogative of interpretation is in their hand. The empowerment and active nature of Coyote Springs serves as an emancipatory act, the ability to which they have acquired through their journey, which reveals the power of space in the creation of selfhood and the challenge of political givens. After all, emancipation represents nothing less than a political act. It challenges the status quo which had been established by the artificial isolation of one group of people using space (as represented by the establishment of the reservations according to the various categories referenced above) and spatiality (the subjugation and thus the placement of American Indians on the lowest part of the socio-political ladder). Furthermore, the allusion to the “new songs waiting for them” (ibid.) serve as evidence for a continued narrative which can be inferred from their relocation, particularly considering the accompaniment of the band’s collective and its individuals’ personal development through song thus far. However, the songs waiting for them will be their own, without Robert Johnson’s or anybody else’s mentorship, grown out of their own experience whose beginnings the reader has traced in this novel. This makes the end of the novel actually a new beginning, and the hypothesized notion of eventually coming full circle is fulfilled, even though that no longer occurs on the reservation. That circle is closed, and a new one opened up in which the characters choose diameter and scope. This act of emancipation/empowerment by means of spatiality can be likened to what happens in Into the Beautiful North, as both protagonist groups make use of American cultural spatial constructs to empower themselves and make use of them, only to construe their own, autonomous interpretation of these space myths which subsequently undermines the authority of the “white” American conceptions of space and spatiality, as the hegemonic power’s own culture is now utilized against them. This is not to say that Coyote Springs intend to topple existing power structures. On the contrary, they make use of the discursive means to create these very structures in order to undermine them, challenging hegemonic culture in their own, specific way which allows

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them to find a rightful place as an emancipated and culturally autonomous part in and of society. While this might entail the loss of part of their indigenous culture, particularly Chess and Checkers seem to be aware of and very keen on keeping their cultural identity intact, even biologically. In addition, Coyote Springs had lived on their respective reservations all their lives. If spaces do have the influence on identity, narrative and culture which have been ascribed to them throughout this work, the reservation remains with them, serving as a constant reminder of why they had left in the first place: to be themselves. In addition, it serves as means of comparison, as it is sure to overlap with wherever else they travel, producing new narratives automatically. Their trajectory is a testimony to the power of space when it comes to producing narrative.

9.) Conclusion “You know the flag flying over the courthouse/ Means certain things are set in stone/ Who we are, what we’ll do and what we won’t/” B ruce S pringsteen, “Long Walk Home”

“What do we read in space?” So begins Döring’s and Thielmann’s (2009: 7; translation mine) essay about the spatial turn in cultural and literary studies. Most certainly, it can be concluded that the realm of the spatial needs to be (re-) instated alongside time in the genesis of narrative and narrativity, particularly so in the context of contemporary U.S.-American fiction. The basic aim – highlighting the prominent and indispensable roles of space and spatiality in U.S. American cultural and literary discourse – can be subdivided into three sub-objectives, which have been a) to establish a cultural narrative of U.S.American history justifying b) an examination of contemporary U.S.-American fiction using this narrative as cultural disposition of fictional representation utilizing c) a theoretical approach to the readings of these representations that is based on a spatialized comprehension of narrative so as to identify and theorize the narrativity of space. The theoretical readings included in chapter one pave the way for a refined look at space in that there are two basic premises on which the rest of the project builds. For once, this is the clear-cut reciprocity between structures and actions, which must serve as the foundation of spatial hermeneutics. This, in addition to the notion of Foucaultian heterotopias, opens up the spatial as a productive interpretative paradigm that displays the opposite of stasis or immobility. In connection to recent developments in American studies, space has proven to be a highly viable research paradigm in both, national and transnational American studies. To demonstrate the significance of space and spatiality in a specifically American discourse, chapter two outlines the crucial role these two aspects assume in the creation of a truly U.S.-American history. Here, we encounter not solely a good example of the intersection of space and time, but

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also a conception of space as a continuously present and structuring element in American history and culture. As the chapter has shown, landmark constituents in American cultural and political history can be interpreted according to the spatial paradigm, which is located at the center of American history. As a matter of fact, the making of what we know as “U.S.”-America” or the “United States” today cannot be thought without space and spatiality, which lie at the core of such central interpretative categories as American exceptionalism in its various (and rightfully critically viewed) manifestations, expansionism, isolationism, ideological confrontations and, as most recent discourses, transculturation and delineation in the context of intercultural contact zones. While much more work is necessary to actually write a reworking of U.S.-American literature and culture along the lines of space, the perspective certainly exists and serves as link between the sociological/philosophical/human-geographical conceptions of space and their narrative comprehension. Viewing history as narration and narration as history, a cultural narrative centering on U.S.-American constructions and transformations of space(s) works as the basis for a theoretical approach to narrative space in U.S.American literature, which not solely in the realm of the contemporary features a spatial tradition. Since before the early days of the Republic, writings from what became the United States have had spatial categories at their nucleus that did not function as background, but as propelling forces in and of plot and discourse. The development of space as an underlying current or motif in U.S.American narrative follows the periodization of U.S.-American history and literature. This proves the fruitful proximity between literature and culture, as Herbert Grabes (2010) also acknowledges: To attribute a cultural function to literature means to regard it as instrumental, and like other instruments it can be used in opposite ways – here to tighten, there to loosen the grip of the dominant culture [...] With literature, it is difficult to calculate the effect; and this is why literature – also the literature of the past – will remain suspect to all planners and controllers. Precisely for this reason, for its capacity to transgress the limits of culture by opening up a space for the free play of the imaginary, it is not only of special interest for cultural history, but also of the utmost importance for the present. (30)

Literary and cultural narratives might at times con- and diverge, yet, they are always closely related to one another, exerting a reciprocal influence on each other. This can also be seen as a parallel to spatiality, which centers around dualisms between structures and actions. In the U.S.-American case, literature had functioned as a means to establish fictional representations of the nation that were destined to reflect and support the hegemonic culture brought in by the European settlers. In recent years, however, this attitude seems to have undergone a paradigmatic shift. Where U.S.-American literature used to be

9.) Conclusion

for the most part affirmative of hegemonic culture, endorsing and promoting it also and particularly through the prism of space, the tides have now turned, or at least they have been challenged. As the analysis of the novels has shown, contemporary U.S.-American fiction makes ample use of the duality of space and spatiality to simultaneously affirm and subvert U.S.-American cultural ideology. Mark Rupert interprets emancipation as containing social (read: upward) mobility as well as the “from rags to riches”1 attitude that lies at the heart of U.S.-America as a concept even though he actually provides a Marxist reading of emancipation. Even though this simultaneous affirmation and subversion of core elements of U.S.-American cultural ideology may sound paradoxical at first, it reflects a necessary and consequential reading of “America” and very much clings to the highest ideals that the nation embodies, but not always meets. What has changed, however, is the no longer hegemonic perspective. Different ethnicities offer different readings of “America”. Space and spatiality are being very prominently utilized to assist the reader in refocusing on these new readings in various ways in the novels here examined. Plot, but narrative discourse in particular function as media of these emancipated interpretations of U.S.-America, based on these reworkings of the American space myth. As the analysis of The Corrections has demonstrated, the spatial is thoroughly generative of narrative, and in so doing establishes not solely an interwoven network of places, but simultaneously a conglomerate of inscribed spaces, including heterotopias, internal situational relationships comprising political dimensions as well as an entire plot that centers around a certain site. In The Corrections, time’s and space’s roles are reserved. It is time occupying the background against which things unfold in space, to reverse Stanford Friedman’s statement about space in narrative. The Corrections primarily treats of where somebody is located in relation to whom in order to inquire about the dynamics sparking and resulting from these intersections of divergent trajectories. As such, the novel is one that represents the significance of the spatial in literary and narrative theory. Stylistically, Franzen’s innovation lies in the flawless connection between foregrounding space as an elicitor of narrative and the narrative manifestation thereof. The narrative means by which the reader is drawn into the story are manifold: perspective and focalization and their relation to one another emphasize the spatial aspect that narrative categories incorporate. The deictic component of language so as to establish the political (in-)congruencies between the characters is treated, as is Foucault’s concept of the heterotopia so as to demonstrate the productive nature that spaces play in constructing actions and, subsequently, plots and stories that can 1 | http://web.archive.org/web/20090322060613/http://faculty.maxwell.syr.edu/ merupert/political_and_human_emancipation.htm (May 26, 2015, 1.13 p.m.).

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lead to profound re-negotiations of oneself and one’s perception of the world around him- or herself, which is particularly true for the case of Alfred on the cruise ship. It is relatively safe to say that Alfred would have behaved differently in another location. The isolation of the ship causes the nightmare that Alfred lives through. What embodies a dream ship for others represents the exact opposite to Alfred. It is literally a place outside all other places, to paraphrase Foucault. Eventually, The Corrections tells the story of the reconfiguration of symbolic American spaces, as is exemplified by the treatment of fictional St. Jude and Enid’s epiphany at the very end of the novel. All these aspects mentioned go to show that space assumes the crucial and dynamic role in knitting the narrative threads from the appropriate perspectives and points of view so as to create the novel. When one mentions “the novel” as a literary form, it also simultaneously implies a generic aspect such as the 19th century American novel, the modernist American novel, the Great American novel or the contemporary American novel. In addition, it evokes associations related to periodization, such as realist or modernist US literature. In Franzen’s case, The Corrections is part of the emerging post-postmodernist, or even neo-realist (cf. Rohr’s 2004 article) field in American literature, which puts a (tentative) end to the unlimited experimentation with style, form and content which had determined the postmodern experience, yet still providing innovation by shedding new light from different perspectives on phenomena already known. This initiates an alternate hermeneutic circle that is not particularly related to the reading of a specific novel, but to the phenomenon it recreates and represents. In Franzen’s case, it is the prism of space which re-introduces this long-overlooked category to the very core of Americana as represented by the Lambert family – and redefines it. No longer is space meant to signify expansion, subjugation and oppression – on the contrary, it provides the means for the characters, particularly Enid, to live a self-determined life. In so doing, space and spatiality undergo a paradigmatic shift because their narrative direction is altered. Where they had symbolized virility, progress and pioneership, they now undermine these categories so as to result in Enid’s emancipation. In fact, they recognize the centrality of space in contemporary U.S.-American discourse, containing a twist: They challenge hitherto held conceptions of it by making use of the liberty to lead a self-determined life; it is space that liberates those confined in it, as opposed to confining those in the trajectory of the (symbolic) frontier. By contrast, Morrison’s African American history trilogy on the whole reflects a reinterpretation and an idiosyncratic re-narration of the American space myth. This is rendered possible through the intertextual reading having been applied in this instance, and it is through this method that certain categories have emerged which are featured in all three novels, and whose reading creates

9.) Conclusion

a metatextual space in which Morrison’s construction of African American history is rendered more transparent. Through the parallel reading of spatial disparities displayed in the distance between Sweet Home and 124 Bluestone Road, rural Virginia and Harlem at its peak as a center of African American migration and subsequent creativity as well as the disparity between Ruby and the Oven as its central symbol of community and struggle and the Convent as space inscribed with deviation and (perceived) immorality against the background of intra-racial struggles, Morrison’s novels display trajectories whose footsteps, if we are to follow de Certeau’s image, become visible by the action caused by those poles making up the respective novel’s topology and topography. In this case, the metonymic space that grows out of the collision of these three novels results in a reversal of the hitherto established American space myth in that it adapts and then reinterprets classical WASP concepts such as the West, the city upon a hill, utopias, metropoleis etc. which are literally turned around so as to gain a distinctly African American quality, whose rather tragic narrative runs parallel to the triumphant victory culture connotation which the WASP American space myth has been implying ever since its inception. This reversal contains a political quality, for it challenges these traditional interpretations of history, simultaneously emancipating the African American facet of the American space narrative, which appears as important for at least Morrison’s interpretation as for WASP culture. The fact that Morrison’s trilogy claims the prerogative of interpretation over a quintessentially white and virile concept represents a belated act of emancipation in that Morrison portrays her characters as steadfast and frail, strong and weak, both inside the community and on the outside looking in, with the spaces between which they move working as poles in a kind of magnetic field that if not controls, at least exerts a strong influence on their movements and trajectories. The emancipatory part consists of the African American adaptation and reinterpretation of these concepts, their simultaneous subversion and affirmation/recognition. The conditions in which this parallel African American narrative of space develops are the key to understanding these three novels by Toni Morrison. Space, apart from different conceptions of love, is the interface functioning as the syntagmatic link which connects the three fragmented stories which in themselves deal with different actions at different times in different places, but the underlying master narrative grows out of a redefinition of the characters’ identities prominently initiated by the spaces they have lived (sic!) and the trajectories they have taken. With these novels, Morrison has provided an idiosyncratic African American interpretation of space and spatiality which runs parallel to the hegemonic white conceptions of these ideas. The productive nature of space can be determined in just the same manner as in WASP examples of space, yet it occurs under completely different pretenses

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and so narrativizes African American history in a unique way, simultaneously integrating African Americans into the larger context of U.S.-American history and detaching them from hegemonic culture by providing a radically different interpretation of one of the constituent parts of U.S.-American cultural history. Above, Ralph Ellison is called a pioneer in having given African Americans a literary voice on a vast and massive scale. Morrison, in providing this narrative, not only gives voice to, but integrates African Americans into the space myth, effectively breaching the invisibility lamented by Ellison and his narrator. In Urrea’s Into the Beautiful North, Tres Camarones, Tijuana, the dompe, the border itself as well as the endless trip to the Midwestern United States all shape particularly Nayeli’s view of herself, and it seems that space plays a traditional role in Chicano/a literature, as Torres (2000) writes: Bruce-Novoa introduces into Chicano/a literary criticism the concept of space, and with that move, advances this young discipline past its nationalistic phase […] [His] classical thesis, that Chicano/a literature is a response to the chaos of modern life, turns space into a master trope and seeks theoretical coherence […] Bruce-Novoa responds to his critics [who claim that through the focus on formalism, the approach a transcendentalist alternative reality] [by] substitut[ing] for the phrase ‘intercultural nothingness of that space’ […] the phrase ‘[…] the intercultural possibilities of that space […]’ (149)

Indeed, it is also the truly Inter-American, and no longer Mexican-American narrative which marks the novel. It represents ‘Inter-America’ on a number of levels, from its Inter-American author to the various perspectives on the borderlands discourse that we get from both sides of the aisle. Primarily realized by means of focalization, it traces the dynamics of the border in relation to the people that live it every day. It responds to transculturation and literally Trans-Americanity inasmuch as Mexicans attempt to adopt U.S.American concepts and cultural products and vice versa, but most importantly, it delineates boundaries and creates a spatiality characterized by mutuality rather than difference. As such, the border is ignored and rendered ultimately irrelevant, though physically present. Additionally, it portrays Mexicans differently than more classical stories of (illegal) immigration: No longer are they the poor peasants coming north hoping desperately to pick oranges in California’s orchards – in fact, they are empowered by their own patriotism and do not even care much about “Los Yunaites”. Go in, snatch the Siete Magnificos, and get back out. In that sense, they are merely exploiting the United States and its culture very selectively to rebuild their home. In fact, they are getting help to help themselves, emancipating themselves also politically from “El Norte”. Much like

9.) Conclusion

Toni Morrison’s trilogy, the narrative serves an integrative function inasmuch as it incorporates the borderlands discourse into a larger narrative, creating a truly Inter-American novel. In contrast to traditional Chicano/a literature, it transcends the archetypical dialectical approach – the “dialectics of difference” (Saldívar in Torres 2000: 150) are blurred, if not dissolved. This is achieved by the reconfiguration of spaces and spatialities in Into the Beautiful North, and this transformational and generative aspect is what equips the novel with its narrative power. Nayeli refuses to let her fate be determined by the outside force that is U.S.-America – on the contrary, she reverses this influence and makes the outside force her own by using it, therefore fulfilling one of the key aspects of emancipation by redefining and renegotiating key spatial concepts until the reciprocity between structures and actions works in Nayeli’s favor. Ultimately, Alexie’s Reservation Blues completes the picture by renegotiating the protagonists’ identities as a result of their simultaneous proximity to/ identification with the reservation as a space of failure and their emancipation from it by help of the blues. The principal implications that the reservation (indicating stasis and subjugation/submission) as well as the blues (embodying mobility and empowerment) bear allow the protagonists to redefine themselves vis-à-vis the conventional and stereotypical expectations that two levels of society – their own socio-cultural context as displayed through the Spokane community on the reservation as well as the outside perception of the contemporary Native American experience – project onto them. As is the case with the other novels discussed as part of this project, Reservation Blues employs spatial categories subsequently represented in its narrative discourse so as to create an impression of contemporary Native Americans that lifts them out of the role as the subdued and subjugated objects of internal colonization, which is represented by the inscribed space in form of the reservation. Instead, they shake off their teleological fate shared by many of their fellow Spokanes by empowering themselves through music, by indeed (re-)conquering their land through their journey. In fact, regaining the prerogative of interpretation over their own lives is strongly tied to spatialities. Given the aforementioned, pan-tribal close connections of Native Americans to their native soil, Coyote Springs’ journey assumes a double function. While it reintegrates Native Americans into the land by lifting them out of the hermetically sealed-off reservation, it also rejects hegemonic readings of Native American culture. Both aspects work against existing power structures and hierarchies, retaining a political function that fulfills the role of empowerment and resistance against outside molds influencing the protagonists’ ways of life. In itself, this would be nothing special, and one could argue that standing up for the autonomous creation of

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one’s individual trajectory through life is one of the core principles of U.S.American cultural ideology. However, the fact that this ideological centerpiece has been denied to a significant amount of Native Americans is deeply ironic. This irony is challenged by Alexie and his narrative agency, who employs the same degree of irony to debunk the myth of Native Americans as romanticized projections of hegemonic constructions of power and rule. The fact that the novel uses African American music to achieve this supports this notion, as the blues provides the syntagmatic device which strikes a bridge between African and Native Americans. The blues is the means by which hegemonically created spaces such as the reservation(s) is/are challenged, just as it displayed a way for African Americans to cope with the horrid living conditions and brutalizations on the hegemonically created space that was the slavery-era Deep South. Bearing in mind that the high times of both slavery and westward expansion, of which the creation of the reservations was a logical consequence, occurred at roughly the same time, there is a common temporal denominator between Native and African Americans. This shared fate is now reactivated in the empowerment and emancipation of Coyote Springs. Ironically, it springs from the very space that was to disempower Native Americans: the reservation. The observations made in the course of the analyses offer four different directions of emancipation applying to Rupert’s definition given at the beginning. The Corrections provides a gender-based emancipation process, Morrison an ethnic one, Urrea a(n) (inter-)cultural process of emancipation whereas Alexie provides a Native American perspective on constructions of space measured against the Euro-centric comprehensions of the term. While Alexie does include these, it is the distance between highly divergent spatial constructions that provides the tension in the novel, negotiating the band’s and, most importantly, Thomas’ emancipation from the box that mainstream culture seeks to mold them into. In the introductory chapter, Benedict Anderson is quoted as having established an interconnected relationship between the novel and the nation by way of the imagined community. Now, if fiction and reality do seep into each other, what are the implications for U.S.-American cultural and literary life at the present point? The fact that all of these novels and authors are, if not both, either very popular or regarded as part of high-brow U.S.-American literature, allows for three major conclusions to be drawn. First, the imagined community that is the USA has been in a process of change. In recent decades, the demographic structure of the US has changed strongly while people from every conceivable ethnic group claim their right to be recognized and emancipated from white mainstream culture, which in a few decades to come, might not be the

9.) Conclusion

hegemonic culture any longer.2 This also signifies that the readership changes, and with a different readership comes a different reciprocity between fiction and reality that novels subsequently utilize to create an imagined community. In consequence, novels such as the ones treated here function as catalyzer and mediator of social progress. Second, while these representations of – in the broadest sense – cultural autonomy feature a high degree of idiosyncratic interpretations, what unites these novels is their relation to the U.S.-American space myth. This is based on a cultural narrative that has at its nucleus an understanding of space that is – ironically – not much different from, for instance, Native American ideas of space, namely that space giveth, and space taketh. It is in the simultaneity of acknowledgement and rejection/reinterpretation of the classical space myth that both contemporary and traditional aspects of U.S.-American literature are revealed, i.e. that the country is, was, and will be a multicultural endeavor which, after rather rigorous monodirectional nationalism, seems at present to find itself in a conflictive post-national(ist) phase. In that way, these emancipatory narratives render each character in each novel stronger at the end, achieving this through a spatially-based narrative of reconfiguration and empowerment. As different as these narratives are in their scope, perspective, historical period or ethnic group they pay attention to, what renders the novels so specifically American is that they spring from spatial categories. This makes space a quintessentially U.S.-American cultural force. Third, space as a narrative/discursive force is an underlying principle of these novels. While it might suffice to analyze their content in terms of space, it has proved fruitful to look at their narrative discourse. These novels are created by narrative rearrangement, reciprocity of structures and actions, (re-) negotiations of positions, relationships, hierarchies, the passing of waypoints or the creation of trajectories. As such, one could say they are almost dictated by space, sometimes more, sometimes less self-referentially so. Based on a connection between cultural and literary narration, this theoretical approach to a spatially-oriented narrative theory as part of the heuristic process reflected in theorizing literature discloses a number of spatial facets contained in narrative theory. Connecting intra-, extra- as well as metatextual levels, the approach reinterprets various approaches to narrative from a spatial point of view, providing intersections between the theories created as part of the spatial 2 | Cf. the results and future projections of the recent 2014 census: https://www. census.gov/content/dam/Census/librar y/publications/2015/demo/p25-1143.pdf (April 8, 2015. 2.03 p.m.). While the census predicts white people will remain the majority, the number is shown to decrease, with Hispanic and African American parts on the rise. The implications of this have already been noticed, and they will continue to be, culturally, socially and politically.

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turn in sociology and human geography, and literary studies. Out of this has grown an approach that has lent itself particularly well to these new readings of contemporary U.S.-American prose, but which should be broad enough to be able to be applied to U.S.-American narratives from earlier periods. Hopefully, it might also prove useful for neighboring philologies. Eventually, a number of questions arise out of this work. First, what kind of (imagined) community will be narrated with regard to the U.S.-American recent past, present and future? What are the underlying discourses resulting in those narratives? Are there counter-movements, and what ramifications does this entail for U.S.-American cultural ideology?3 Is it going to be subverted further, or are its (spatial) underpinnings strong enough to withstand more radical re-interpretations? If so, is the close connection between literary and cultural history proclaimed by Grabes and so many others quoted in this work going to persist? What does this mean for the US as an (imagined) community? Do emancipation and cultural autonomy result in a newly fortified nation, reinforcing its common values, or will they cause fragmentation, even the fall of an empire? No one can look into the future, but if Morrison’s view of the contemporary literary author as chronicler is any indication (qtd. in Saldívar 2012: xxxii), contemporary novels will accompany the process of finding answers to these questions.

3  |  Shortly before this chapter was finished in May 2015, the strongest race riots since the Rodney King upheaval in Los Angeles broke out in Baltimore, MD, following the violent death of Freddie Gray, a 25-year old African American killed in police custody. Ever since the August 2014 shooting of Michael Brown in Missouri, reported incidents of police violence against African Americans have shaken up not only the African American community, but significant parts of the entire nation. These undocumented, non-official movements are increasing at present, and it is highly likely that they will exert a profound influence on U.S.-American cultural and political discourse.

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