Major Languages, Minor Literatures, Multiple Legacies Theo D’haen (University of Leuven – KU Leuven)

Since the rise of the vernacular literatures in Europe there has been a deep divide between writers working in major languages and literatures and their counterparts using so-called minor languages for minor literatures. The former could automatically assume that when they wrote for their home public they would also reach a wider “world” public. They were writing for the world when writing about home, without having to do anything extra. The latter would almost equally automatically resign themselves to writing about home, for an exclusive home public. Still, authors in minor languages/literatures ambitious to enter upon the scene of world literature could use a strategy of drawing on multiple legacies to reach as wide and broad, and as international as possible a public, and thus consciously invite dissemination beyond their original linguistic or cultural habitat, usually through translation into the dominant language or languages of the moment. I will concentrate on two examples, one from the nineteenth century, and the other contemporary.

Pascale Casanova, in her République mondiale des lettres (1999), and leaning heavily on the theories of Pierre Bourdieu, offers a theory of how, with the progressive demise of Latin as the lingua franca for Europe’s literati as of the fourteenth century in Italy, followed by Portugal (Buescu 2012) and Spain (Nebrija ) in the fifteenth century, and decisively France in the sixteenth century, with French at least partially replacing Latin as the language of science and scholarship as of Du Bellay’s Deffence et illustration de la langue françoyse (1549) and consolidated in Descartes’ 1637 Discours de la méthode, there arose in Europe, and subsequently in the world, an increasingly autonomous

supranational literary system centered upon Paris. Ever since the rise of this system, she claims, authors have been acutely aware of their position relative to not only their own particular literature, confined to a specific vernacular and over and above this possibly also by national boundaries not necessarily coinciding with those marked by the use of the vernacular in question, but also to “world literature.” As Casanova herself remarks, though, the position from which authors start out can differ considerably depending upon the relative literary capital carried by their initial environment. To give only one example, from my own country, Belgium, even though the literary capital carried by literature in French, German, or Dutch is already widely uneven, within each of these literatures to be a Belgian writer considerably ups the ante when compared to the “unmarked” position occupied by “real” French, German or Dutch writers. However, and obviously so, the first difference in the amount of literary capital authors start out with has to do with the particular language in which they write. In Casanova’s theory, not surprisingly, French carries the highest amount of literary capital in this respect. Casanova’s largely theoretical-analytical claims are backed up, at least for the nineteenth century, by the factual research of Franco Moretti, who in Atlas of the European Novel: 1800-1900 (1998), traces how novels in the period under investigation were disseminated, translated, and received throughout Europe. He arrives at the conclusion that Paris, and as a close second London, functioned as the undisputed literary centers of Europe. On the basis of his famous, yet much disputed, “distant reading” of the evolution of novelistic fiction around the world, Moretti in subsequent publications has argued the centrality of French and English literature also from a world literary perspective. Casanova’s and Moretti’s theories have been heavily criticized, both as to method and to the claims based thereon. As for myself, without wanting to dispute the factual findings of Moretti, I would still want to qualify his to my mind one-sided

emphasis on France/French and England/English literature by adding Germany/German as a third and important center, or if you want engine, for European and world literature at least throughout the nineteenth century and up to the nineteen-thirties. If not necessarily in actual numbers, then certainly in perception and actual influence German and German literature, as of the time of Herder and Lessing, but even more so as of that of Goethe and Schiller, indisputably occupied a central place on the European literary scene. It did so because of the prestige German authors enjoyed at home and abroad, witness the awe in which Coleridge, Carlyle, and Mme De Staël held their German contemporaries. It also did so because of the natural gift for translation Goethe ascribed to the German language and which he appreciated as a powerful instrument for the mediatory role he saw German literature as bound to play in the Weltliteratur emerging around him. Translations into German did indeed play an important role in the dissemination of works from literatures in lessknown languages in Scandinavia and Central and Eastern Europe, alongside the translations into French which for Casanova are instrumental in this regard.

Georg Brandes, a Dane writing mostly in German in order to reach a wider audience, at the end of the nineteenth century argued that when it came to “the likelihood of acquiring world renown or just a certain measure of acknowledgement,” the French, although their language was only the fifth in the world when measured according to the number of native speakers, were in the best position, and that the English and Germans were “first in the second rank.” And he concluded that “it is only the writers in these three lands who can hope of being read in the original by the most educated in all nations” (Brandes 2013: 25). Earlier in the century, though, the leading role Moretti sees English literature as coming to occupy in European, and by extension world literature, to a considerable extent depended on French and German mediation. In fact, it is translations into both French and German that initially helped spread English

literature abroad. Even in Holland, a nation that historically and economically for the longest time had maintained close relations with Britain, many Dutch readers of English literature throughout (certainly the early part of) the nineteenth century continued to rely heavily on French and German translations, and some of the early Dutch translations of the British Romantics as well as many translations of British and American fiction were based on German or French translations rather than on the English originals. Of course, because of the number of native speakers of their language, the situation for English writers never was as desperate as, in Brandes’s words again, for “those who write in Finnish, Hungarian, Swedish, Danish, Icelandic, Dutch, Greek, and so on,” and who “in the universal struggle for world renown [are] clearly positioned most disadvantageously,” because they lack “their weapon, their language, and for writers that about says it all” (Brandes 2013: 25). Still, comparatively speaking, and from a world literature perspective, writers in English could less readily count on foreign readers being immediately familiar with their language, and with their world, than could French writers. A French writer, while writing about things French, at the same time, and without having to give it any further thought so to speak, was “always already” writing for the world. Even in French, though, writers from outside of France itself cannot assume a similar “universality” unless they are fully adopted in France and then become “French” for all practical purposes – Brandes’s example is the Belgian French-language author and later Nobel Prize Winner Maurice Maeterlinck. A fortiori, then, the same thing goes for non-English English-language writers such as United States authors for most of the nineteenth century. How then does such a writer assume a “world literature” stance?

Brandes in the 1899 article from which I have been quoting all along complained that “when Goethe coined the term world literature, humanism and the spirit of world citizenship were still ideas universally entertained.” Since

then, however, Brandes found that “an ever stronger and more bellicose nationalism ha[d] pushed these ideas backward” and that “the literatures or [his] day bec[a]me ever more national” (Brandes 2013: 27). Mark Twain’s Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1884) seems to perfectly fit Brandes’s diagnosis. Jonathan Arac has called Huckleberry Finn the most “hypercanonized” of “American” texts, because according to the orthodoxies of the study of American literature from its rise in the 1920s, but particularly so since Lionel Trilling’s 1948 essay (Trilling 1970) on the novel, to the rise of multiculturalism in the 1980s, it has been taken as the embodiment of the spirit of the American nation, and its author, in Norman Podhoretz’s words (1959) as quoted by Arac, as “the quintessential American writer,” (Arac 3). Much of the stature of Twain as the founding father of a true American literature – Hemingway in Green Hills of Africa (1935) famously claimed that “all modern American literature comes from one book by Mark Twain called Huckleberry Finn” – rests upon what has been perceived as his until then unparalleled ability to “catch” pure American reality and pure American speech. In these “national” interpretations Twain is seen as writing exclusively, or at least primarily, about America and for Americans. Now it seems to me that such an approach occludes an important dimension of Twain’s novel, namely that which situates it within Casanova’s “world republic of letters.” We can bring out this dimension if we consider that Twain draws upon a number of intertexts from European literature. Elsewhere, and drawing upon earlier work by Montserrat Ginés (2000) and David Quint (2003), I have looked at Huckleberry Finn in relation to one such “intertext,” Cervantes’ Don Quixote, published in two parts in 1605 and 1615 respectively. I here briefly summarize. Twain’s indebtedness to Cervantes has of course been noticed before (Moore 1922, Blair 1960, Nash Smith 1960). However, the actual relationship between The Adventures of Tom Sawyer (1875) and Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and

the Quixote, is far more fundamental and specific than has hitherto been acknowledged, and this has important consequences for my argument. Quint essentially reads Part II of the Quixote in function of Part I , interpreting the sequel as a re-write of its predecessor, and a conscious reflection upon it. The same suggestion has been made with regard to Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer. What has perhaps been less readily noticed is that Twain is deliberately following in the mold cast by Cervantes. For Quint, the changes from Part I to Part II of the Quixote reflect the social and other changes affecting the Spain of Cervantes, and primarily the transition from military to court nobility, and from a feudal order based on honor and prowess to a proto-capitalist or mercantilist order founded on money and favor at court. As Quint himself puts it, “Don Quijote throughout tells and retells a master narrative of early-modern Europe: the movement from feudalism to the new order of capitalism that will become the realistic domain of the modern novel, the genre this book does so much to invent” (Quint x). I would argue that the change from The Adventures of Tom Sawyer to Adventures of Huckleberry Finn reflects a comparable transition in nineteenth-century America. Specifically, I would see in this change a reflection of the transition from a belief in an America of youthful innocence restored after the Civil War, with the issue of slavery supposedly solved, Reconstruction under way, and the achievement of the ideals encoded in the American Constitution apparently within actual reach, to the realization of the closing of these opportunities with the end of Reconstruction, the institution of Jim Crow laws, and the Unites States rapidly turning into a fully capitalist society. But just as Don Quixote needed to destroy what went before in order to allow modernity to come into being, and did so by parodying to death the literary form “organically,” that is to say socially and ideologically linked to the old feudal order, so too Twain, using a comparable strategy, had to do away with the literary forms linked to the pseudo-feudal order of the Old South in order to allow his own realistically inspired fiction to be born. Hence the famous passage

from the end of chapter 46 of Life on the Mississippi where he compares the effects wrought upon the nineteenth-century South by Don Quixote and Ivanhoe, respectively, concluding that “the first swept the world’s admiration for the medieval chivalry-silliness out of existence; and the other restored it … as far as our South is concerned, the good work done by Cervantes is pretty nearly a dead letter, so effectually has Scott’s pernicious work undermined it,” (Twain 502). To revive that dead letter, and to “sink” Sir Walter Scott is precisely what Twain aims to do with Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Mark Twain, then, like all “great” writers, was acutely aware not only of his own position within his own “national” literature, but also of the position of that literature within the context of world literature, and hence his own place within Casanova’s world republic of letters. To write about “home” in a “national” yet at the same time “world” fashion Twain for his own foundational text of his own American literature unhesitatingly drew upon the authority of the foundational text in the genre of the modern novel, knowing full well that this for him also constituted the only possibility for gaining access to world literature as a major writer in his own right, and not as a minor author in a major language not his own. Significantly, the literary ancestor he chose came from outside his own linguistic orbit, but carried the highest literary capital possible, as the Quixote had long been one of the most widely translated texts in the European tradition.

My second example comes from the contemporary Caribbean. After WWII the linguistic hierarchies in European literature changed dramatically. Fritz Strich in 1930, in an article on “world literature and comparative literary history,” argued that each literature that took center-stage in world literature did so when for the particular people from whom it issued had struck its “hour” (Strich 2013: 40). Strich’s colleague Viktor Klemperer, writing around the same time on “world literature and European literature” could still confidently claim that world literature was basically a matter of either a French or a German way of

writing, even if one wrote in a different language altogether. His examples were Unamuno and Pirandello, whom he saw as in the German vein, and Joyce, in the French. T.S. Eliot, in an inaugural address, “What is a Classic?”, he gave to the Virgil Society in London in 1944, could still confidently posit that English literature had not yet produced anyone equal to the illustrious Mantuan. Two years later Erich Auerbach in his famous Mimesis (1953, German original written in Istanbul during WWII, could still deal with European literature as predominantly consisting of the Classical tradition as extended into the Romance literatures, with attention only to Shakespeare and Virginia Woolf from the English-language area. But the same Auerbach in 1952, his famous article on “Philology and Weltliteratur,” where he foresaw, and feared, a time when man would have to accustom himself “to existence in a standardized world, to a single literary culture, only a few literary languages, and perhaps even a single literary language,” wherewith “the notion of Weltliteratur would be at once realized and destroyed” (Auerbach 2013: 66), clearly saw this single literary language as being English, or perhaps even American. After WWII, then, with the US indisputably in the lead in most matters, military, economic, and political, of the so-called free world, the “hour” of English-language literature had struck, eventually leading to the core of “Euro” or “Western-lit” increasingly being centered upon what Jonathan Arac (2002) has called “Angloglobalism” feeding upon the dominant position of English as universal lingua franca, of the American book market, also for textbooks including anthologies, as the prime determinant for worldwide book production, of the popularity of American literary products around the world, and additionally also of that of the postcolonial literatures issuing from the former British Empire.

An author who seems to have perfectly understood from where the world literary wind is blowing at present is Maryse Condé (1937). As a Frenchlanguage author originating from Guadeloupe, she is in a “minority” position

vis-à-vis contemporary French literature somewhat similar to that of Twain with regard to late nineteenth-century English literature. Maryse Condé's La migration des coeurs (1995, translated as Windward Heights in 2003 ), as a rewrite of Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights, at first sight seems to take the typical postcolonial stance of “writing back”, in the terms made famous by Ashcroft, Griffiths and Tiffin in their 1989 landmark The Empire Writes Back, to hegemonic European literature and culture. On closer inspection, though, she is actually “shadowing” Emily Brontë’s masterpiece in a strategic balancing act that allows her to re-position her work, herself as a French-Caribbean writer, and Caribbean literature in general, within the context of an emerging “world literature.” This balancing act also involves enlisting the example of that “Other” cultural translation of a Brontë classic, not of Emily’s this time but of Charlotte’s. Indeed, though her native Guadeloupe is the predominant setting of Condé's La migration des coeurs (1995), a significant part of the novel’s action is laid on Dominica, and more particularly in Roseau, the island's capital and birthplace of Jean Rhys, English but of Dominican descent. This is an indication on Condé’s part that La migration des coeurs is not just, as advertised via the novel's dedication, “une lecture” of Emily Brontë's “chef-d'oeuvre” Wuthering Heights (1965 [1847]), but that her novel should also be “read” through the prism of her British Caribbean counterpart’s re-writing of Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre as Wide Sargasso Sea. However, there is more to Condé’s particular choice of ancestors than “mere literature.” In fact, her choice is motivated by economic and ideological strategy as much as by literary considerations.

In the most general terms we can see Condé as repeating at the end of the twentieth century, and in the Caribbean, a move similar to that Pascale Casanova (1999) sketches as also having been made in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries in French literature. Then, ambitious French authors such as Joachim Du Bellay, François Malherbes, and René Descartes “exiled” themselves from

the then-dominant language of science and authority, i.e. Latin, and went over to the vernacular French in a bid for power, and to gain a wider, more democratic, or more “popular” audience, thereby sealing the linguistic translatio imperii from Latin to French as the new “master language” of Europe. With La migration des coeurs Condé follows suit by exiling herself from her native French culture into Anglophone culture, if not in the use of language then at least in terms of cultural reference, thus affirming yet a further translatio imperii. On a more specific level, Condé’s opting for the particular literary antecedents she does in La migration des coeurs also indicates her positioning herself in a struggle for literary dominance raging in French-Caribbean literature at the end of the 1980s and the beginning of the 1990s, and that pitted Maryse Condé against the writers of so-called “créolité,” that is to say foremost Raphaël Confiant and Patrick Chamoiseau. James Arnold’s (1994) has convincingly argued that Confiant and Chamoiseau, at least with their work up to the publication of their (and Jean Bernabé’s) 1989 Eloge de la créolité, inscribed themselves within a male tradition of FrenchCaribbean writing that aimed to construe, completely in line with Casanova’ theories, a French-Caribbean “national” literature, following the model previously established for Europe’s national literatures. Because of the specific circumstances under which Caribbean societies have come into being, the literature of “créolité” propagated by Confiant and Chamoiseau, according to Arnold, aims to write into existence a nation that is essentially black, male, and proletarian, and that defines itself in opposition to the mother country, France. Inevitably, the literature written in support of such a nationalist ideal, if written in French, is not only “minor” in the common-sense of the word, but also constitutes itself as a “minor literature” in the term as used by Deleuze and Guattari (1986 [1975]). Inevitably, too, such a militant view of FrenchCaribbean literature leaves little room for a writer like Maryse Condé who for

various reasons, having to do with her gender, the themes and subjects of her novels, and the standard (i.e.non-créole) language she uses in her work, does not fit the mould. I have briefly argued elsewhere that already in 1987, with La vie scélérate , Condé overturns the “créoliste” recipes for nation and literature (D’haen 1997). With La migration des coeurs I see her as taking even sharper issue with the particular idea of a French-Caribbean or Antillean nation, and literature, as propagated by the “créolistes.” But in this particular work Condé also pursues a particular politics of novel writing in the French Caribbean. By casting La migration des coeurs as a re-write of Wuthering Heights Condé allies herself with an alternative culture, one with equally strong or even stronger ties to the Caribbean than in the French case. As Emily Apter (2003: 441) puts it, “English allows (Condé) both to bypass the burden of the French literary tradition, weighing down on her own formation as a Francophone writer, and the strictures of nativist dogma adhered to by certain of her créolité cohort.”

Moreover, although undoubtedly most blatant in La migration des coeurs, such reaching out to the literature that as of the middle of the twentieth century has arguably replaced French literature at the heart of Casanova’s world republic of letters, with Condé is not an isolated instance, but rather a recurrent strategy. Indeed, in Moi, Tituba sorcière … Noire de Salem (1986) she clearly treads the ground of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter (1850), and of Ann Petry’s Tituba of Salem Village (1963), while in Traversée de la mangrove (1989) she brushes up against Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Dred (1856) as well as William Faulkner’s As I lay Dying (1930). In La migration des coeurs there are not only the obvious parallels with Wuthering Heights, but also clear echoes of Jane Eyre, and of Jean Rhys’s Wide Sargasso Sea. Condé, in other words, is not just appealing to English literature, but likewise to American literature, and to earlier “Caribbean” writing in English. Derek O’Regan has also incontrovertibly established that Condé’s intertextual preferences are predominantly English-

inclined. Thus, she is no longer profiling herself as uniquely a representative of a minor culture (French-Caribbean) on the edge of a major one (French), but she is making a bid for the stature of at the very least a “New World” author, or, alternatively, a “transnational” and “transatlantic” author. At the same time, she is reconfiguring the map of relations pertaining to French-Caribbean writing, privileging not the Césaire of Cahier d’un retour au pays natal but rather that of Une tempête (1969), and already anticipating upon Glissant’s own “reassessment” of his indebtedness to William Faulkner in Faulkner, Missisippi (1996). In other words, rather than as a peripheral offshoot of French literature, Condé is re-grounding French-Caribbean literature as a Caribbean literature, and as a literature of the “Americas,” plugged in fully as much to Anglophone literature relating to that continent as to its Francophone counterpart. By the same token, French-Caribbean literature becomes a “central” part of a newly constellated American hemispheric literature. As Apter (2003: 441-42) again puts it, “the use of English also draws attention to the prevalence of British narrative models in her fiction. Unlike her forebears, Césaire, Albert Memmi, Octave Mannoni, and Roberto Fernandez Retamar, all of whom fashioned postcolonial Calibans out of Shakespeare's Tempest, Condé's rewriting of Wuthering Heights has as much to do with establishing a new kind of literary inheritance, as it does with political “détournement and appropiationism.” A similar argument holds when we stop to notice that Condé draws upon an exclusively female literary ancestry in La migration des coeurs and thus may be seen to also reposition herself beyond the national, or even the hemispheric, and as truly “global.” Apter (2003, 442) opines that “in opting for an introjective rather than a purely intertextual model of literary transference, Condé's fiction downplays the ethics of reversal in favor of a preoccupation with the transmission of literary voice. This transfer of voice becomes a strategy for inserting oneself into a genealogy of ‘women writers of genius’ that includes

Jane Austen, the Brontës, and Virginia Woolf.” Again, an ancestry that is purely “Anglo.” Condé’s allegiance to Anglo-American models is not a lone case. In fact, it can be seen as exemplifying what has been going on in Caribbean fiction for the last twenty years or so. By the time Condé came to write La migration des coeurs Raphaël Confiant in Bassin des ouragans (1994) and La savane des pétrifications (1995), as analysed by Emily Apter again in The Translation Zone, was also firmly on the road toward “globalization,” albeit in a way different from that of Condé. Instead of exchanging genealogies, he opted for integrating an international vocabulary, in origin primarily US American or metropolitan French, into his writing, thus updating the notion of “créolisation” from that of an attempt to cling to a nativist tradition to that of an active engagement with the modern and international world that the Caribbean, including the French Caribbean, is part of, and effectively claiming for his American hybrid “creole” French a greater, more “global” future power than that still exerted by “fading “hexagonal French. Almost at the same time that Confiant was putting into practice his particular “transnational poetics” of creolisation , Edouard Glissant, in Faulkner, Mississippi (1996), explicitly allied himself to the US author not just because of a specific form of “Caribbean Gothic,” as Apter (2006) claims also for the link between Faulkner and Condé, but more generally and comprehensively in terms of a shared “Caribbean discourse.” Here too, then, Glissant is partially “translating” his own novelistic practice into a wider genealogy initially stemming from Anglophone America.

A number of other Caribbean writers, from Haiti, the Dominican Republic, and elsewhere, while continuing to write about their islands of origin, and to be labeled as Haitian, Dominican, etc. have opted to switch to American English

for their fictions. For reasons of time and space I cannot here go into detail, but suffice it to think of for instance Edwidge Danticat and Julia Alvárez.

By way of summary, then: If at the time of writing his most famous novel, widely regarded as foundational for his national literature, Mark Twain still found it necessary to appeal to a continental European legacy to anchor his work in world literature, we see that with Condé the situation has been completely reversed, and it is the “Anglo-Atlantic” legacy that holds out the possibility of adherence to world literature.

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