Occidentalism: A Short History of Anti-Westernism by Ian Buruma and Avishai Margalit (2004)

The dehumanising picture of the West painted by its enemies is what we have called Occidentalism. It is our intention in this book to examine this cluster of prejudices and trace their historical roots.
(Occidentalism: A Short History of Anti-Westernism, page 6)

Some features of Occidentalism

Many groups have queued up to hate ‘the West’ over the past 200 years, for many reasons, claiming that:

  • the West is a purveyor of ‘poisonous materialism’
  • Westernism is a disease of the spirit
  • the Western mind splits human knowledge into soulless specialisms
  • Westernism promotes alienated individualism over communal belonging
  • Western science destroys religious belief and faith
  • Western media are decadent and pornographic
  • Western culture is shallow and materialist so destroys spiritual values
  • Western society is capitalist, greedy, exploitative
  • Westernism is a ‘machine civilisation’ (compared to hand-made rural arts and crafts)
  • resentment / hatred of Western imperialism
  • of Western colonialism
  • of Western (particularly American) global power and selfish foreign policy
  • Western civilisation is associated with huge, degraded, corrupt cities (compared with organic rural life)
  • the West represents ‘rootless cosmopolitanism’ and multiculturalism (compared with homogeneous native traditions)

These are the accusations and stereotypes which the authors set out to analyse and investigate, going much further afield than the contemporary Middle East, and much further back in time than the past few troubled decades, to do so.

The authors

Ian Buruma (born 1951, aged 72) is a Dutch writer and editor who lives and works in the US. Much of his writing has focused on the culture of Asia, particularly that of China and 20th-century Japan.

Avishai Margalit (born 1939, aged 83) is an Israeli professor emeritus in philosophy at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. From 2006 to 2011 he was George F. Kennan Professor at the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton.

Both were contributors to The New York Review of Books during the 1990s and in fact this book grew out of an article published in that magazine in 2002, less than 12 months after the 9/11 attacks on New York shook the world of international affairs.

The background: Edward Said’s Orientalism

Buruma and Margalit don’t mention Edward Said in the text but they explicitly state that their concept of ‘Occidentalism’ is conceived as a mirror image of the notion of Orientalism which Said was instrumental in defining and popularising.

The view of the West in Occidentalism is like the worst aspects of its counterpart, Orientalism, which strips its human targets of their humanity. Some Orientalist prejudices made non-Western people seem less than fully adult human beings; they ha the minds of children and could thus be treated as ‘lesser breeds’. Occidentalism is at least as reductive; its bigotry simply turns the Orientalist view upside down. [It reduces] an entire society or civilisation to a mass of soulless, decadent, money-grabbing, rootless, faithless, unfeeling parasites… (p.11)

Prior to Said’s book, Orientalism had been the value-neutral name given to a perfectly respectable academic discipline, the study of the languages, peoples and societies of ‘the East’ (loosely defined as lands from the Middle East to Japan) until Said published his landmark study, Orientalism in 1978.

Orientalism was a long, thorough, polemical attack on the entire discipline, claiming that from its earliest beginnings it 1) drew up a clear unbridgeable distinction between ‘The East’ and ‘The West’, 2) invented stereotypes of ‘the Oriental’, ‘the Arab’, ‘the Muslim’ and 3) attributed to them and their world a shopping list of negative qualities, the stereotypical ‘Oriental’ being lazy, irrational, dominated by a simple-minded religion, corrupt, sensual, and so on.

Orientalism was intended to be a comprehensive demolition of an entire academic field which Said proved by showing that the same mental structures underpinned, and the same demeaning stereotypes and clichés appeared in, almost all Orientalist writing, from the late eighteenth century right up to the present day.

This would all have been fairly academic, in the narrow sense – academics squabbling over the epistemological foundations of a particular academic field – but for the real bite of the book which is its highly political approach.

This has two elements. Firstly Said claims that the entire field of research into the languages, culture, religions, society and so on of ‘the Orient’ enabled and justified imperial control of the region. Knowledge is power, and the ever-more comprehensive and intrusive studies done of the countless peoples, religions and cultures of this vast area enabled Western imperial control over them. Orientalist academic studies served colonial power.

The Palestinian issue

This by itself would have been a fairly controversial conclusion, but there’s a second, really inflammatory element to Said’s critique. This is his attempt to show the discredited assumptions and degrading attitudes of Orientalism played, and continue to play, an important role in determining attitudes across western culture and politics to the Problem of Palestine.

This, as every educated person knows, is one of the most contentious issues in international affairs. In 1917 the British Home Secretary, Arthur Balfour, declared that Britain would support the Jews of Europe in their wish to create a homeland in the Biblical Lands of Palestine. Between the wars increasing numbers of Jewish immigrants fled Europe and settled in Palestine, buying land from its Arab owners. Tensions between incomers and natives erupted into regular bouts of violence which the British authorities, given a ‘mandate’ to run the area after the First World War, struggled to contain. After the Second World War, an exhausted, impoverished Britain tried to hold the ring between increasingly violent Jewish and Arab nationalist political parties and militias, until, in 1948, they effectively gave up and withdrew.

The well-organised and well-armed Jewish settlers promptly declared the existence of the independent state of Israel and the neighbouring Arab countries promptly attacked it, seeking to strangle it at birth. The Israeli army successfully defended its country and amid, much bloodshed, hundreds of thousands of Palestinians fled, or were expelled, into neighbouring countries, especially Jordan.

In 1967 a joint force of Arab countries led by Egypt was mobilising for another attack when Israel launched a lightning pre-emptive strike, crushing the Egyptian army and forcing the Arabs to sign an armistice after just six days. As a result Israel seized the Jordanian-annexed West Bank (including East Jerusalem), and Egypt’s Sinai Peninsula as well as the Egyptian-occupied Gaza Strip.

As many as 325,000 Palestinians and 100,000 Syrians fled or were expelled from the West Bank and the Golan Heights, respectively, creating a humanitarian crisis.

In 1973 the Arabs launched a surprise attack on October 6, the Jewish holy day of Yom Kippur. Once again Israel faced numerically overwhelming forces but fought them off in what was effectively the Third Arab-Israeli War. In the aftermath of the war the Israelis realised that they couldn’t rely on fighting off Arab armies indefinitely, and so they began to put out feelers for some kind of peace treaty, which was to lead to the 1978 Camp David Accords under which Israel return the entire Sinai Peninsula to Egypt.

Orientalist attitudes to the Palestinian problem

The point of this long digression is that Said was a Palestinian. Both his parents were of Palestinian heritage, he was born in Palestine and raised in Egypt, attending English-language schools in Jerusalem and then Alexandria. Said’s father had served with US Army during the Great War and so earned US citizenship so, when he was expelled from his Egyptian private school for being a troublemaker he was sent to a private boarding school in Massachusetts, USA. Thus began his career as an academic in America (in New York).

But as he progressed through the academic hierarchy, as well as his purely academic publications about comparative literature, Said became known for his ‘outspoken’ opinions about the Palestinian issue, namely speaking up for the plight of the hundreds of thousands of Palestinian refugees, calling for the government of Israel to moderate its policies in the occupied territories and so on.

This, as you might have expected in polarised politicised America, drew down on his head the wrath of numerous journalists, commentators, Jewish groups and so on, many of which didn’t refrain from employing exactly the kinds of denigratory stereotypes he had listed in Orientalism against Said himself and the Palestinians he spoke up for.

In the Introduction to Orientalism Said explains that the motivation to write the book was partly driven by his own personal experience of Orientalist tropes. In New York academia he found himself extremely isolated as almost the only Palestinian and Arab working in an academic and publishing environment dominated by white liberals or Jews sympathetic to Israel and its policies.

So his own personal experience of having anti-Arab, anti-Palestinian and anti-Muslim slurs directed at himself, his writings and his opinions was a big motivation behind the years of research and labour of love which Orientalism amounts to.

This explains why the huge book, with its mountains of evidence, all work one way, criticising ‘the West’, Western attitudes, Western academia, Western imperialism, Western racism and so on.

In the Introduction Said explicitly says that he is not interested in exploring ‘the Arab Mind’ or ‘the Islamic World’ and so on. That would have doubled or quadrupled the length of the book, plus which he wasn’t professionally qualified to take on such huge subjects. His interest is solely in a deep investigation of how Western attitudes against ‘the Orient’ were created and proliferated throughout Orientalist studies, fiction and so on.

9/11

A lot happened in the real world between Orientalism‘s publication in 1978 and the publication of Occidentalism in 2002, but in the world of academia, magazines and publishing Said’s critique of Western attitudes had become very widespread among bien-pensant liberals. In the academy and liberal journals Said’s view that ‘the West’ continually sees the Middle East, the Arab world and Islam through simplistic, racist ‘Orientalist’ stereotypes, had become very widely accepted.

The 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Centre in New York, the Pentagon and (possibly) the White House (the fourth plane that came down in Washington) galvanised and transformed the culture, shocking and terrifying people around the Western world. It led numerous commentators and analysts to claim that we had entered a new era of war between ‘the West’ and ‘Islam’ or ‘Islamic terrorism’ or ‘Islamofascism’ etc, an inflammatory rhetoric which translated into actual war when, within a month of the 9/11 attacks, in October 2001, US forces invaded Afghanistan to overthrow the Taliban regime there.

Occidentalism

This is where Buruma and Margalit come in. They readily concede that 9/11, like the First Gulf War before it, led to an explosion throughout the media of just the kind of Orientalist racist stereotypes which Said had dedicated his life to uncovering and critiquing. But they point out that there was a gap in the whole discussion. If ‘the West’ could be accused of deploying Orientalist stereotypes against ‘the East’, ‘the Arab world’ etc, what about the stereotypes of the West which could be found in the media and political and terrorist discourse of the East? Didn’t Arab and Palestinian and Muslim leaders regularly rail against ‘the West’, didn’t an endless stream of news footage show enraged mobs burning the American flag and shouting ‘Down with America’, and wasn’t this anti-western rhetoric routinely associated with a predictable shopping list of negative stereotypes? Short answer, yes.

So what are these anti-Western tropes and where did they come from?

The West and ‘the Modern’

Right at the start Buruma and Margalit made a fundamental conceptual decision which underpins everything that follows: this is to identify anti-Western discourse with anti-Modernism. They argue that when nationalist commentators and activists in the rest of the world attack ‘the West’, they almost always conflate ‘the West’ with every aspect of the modern world which they dislike, despise or fear, everything from industrialisation, secularism, capitalism, rationalism through to cultural products such as pop music and pornography.

What many of the anti-Western nationalist movements of the past 100 or 150 years, whether in India or China or Japan, in the Middle East or across Africa, have in common is that they want to turn the clock back. They dream of an era which preceded the arrival of the West with its monstrous attributes of godless science, nation states, brutal capitalism, cultural hegemony and so on, they dream of an era when their countries were untainted by western influence, untainted by godless capitalism, when everyone lived in small rural communities and shared the same simple faith and devoutness.

At the roots of much anti-Western feeling is a deeper resentment at all these aspects of the modern world and a passionate desire to turn the clock back to simpler, more spiritual times. This leads them to a counter-intuitive conclusion:

Anti-westernism is a western product

The first people to loathe and hate modernism i.e the rise of a secular, godless, liberal, pluralistic society based on industrial capitalism, with the uprooting or rural populations and their herding into monster cities which became sinks of immorality and degeneracy etc, were westerners themselves.

It is one of our contentions that Occidentalism, like capitalism, Marxism, and many other modern isms, was born in Europe before it was transferred to other parts of the world. (p.6, emphasis added)

The main opponents to the birth and spread of industrial capitalist society were inhabitants of that society itself. Marx is the obvious epitome of this trend, but there had been plenty of opponents to the rise of godless rationalism and capitalist industrialisation for generations before him, and loads of theoreticians who tried to cling onto older ideas of pre-industrial societies bound together by a common religion

To put it simply, Western society has, for well over 200 years, contained a large number of intellectuals who fear, hate and loath their own western society, and who have developed an extensive set of concepts and vocabulary to express that hatred in.

Communist anti-westernism

The Bolshevik revolution of 1917 appeared, at a stroke, to validate the enormous, world-reaching rhetoric of Marxist analysis, to prove the inevitable collapse of capitalism and of communist revolution, and the Soviet regime spent the next 70 years energetically spreading its anti-western ideas and rhetoric around the world.

Fascist anti-westernism

But the Bolsheviks triggered an equal and opposite reaction in the extreme nationalist movements which developed into totalitarian fascism in Italy, then Germany and the other European governments who fell prey to authoritarian or fascist regimes between the wars.

And the fascist, anti-modern rhetoric developed by these regimes and their numerous intellectual defenders and propagandists, continued long after the Second World War, helping to justify and underpin semi-fascist military regimes in, for example, Franco’s Spain, Salazar’s Portugal, the Greece of the generals, or right-wing regimes in South America such as Pinochet’s Chile (1973 to 1990) or the military government in Argentina (1976 to 1993).

So this is the most fundamental thing about the book – Buruma and Margalit’s decision to expand its frame of reference faaaar beyond a consideration of anti-western rhetoric in the Middle East, in the Arab world or as expressed by Islamic terrorists like Osama bin Laden, and to turn it into an investigation of anti-Western thought in its widest possible definition.

Scope

In their introduction, on page 11, Buruma and Margalit briefly consider taking a chronological approach to the subject, tracing the origins of anti-western feeling all the way back to the Counter-Reformation, through the Counter-Enlightenment, before exploring the roots of the various types of socialist, communist and fascist opposition to the modern world.

Mercifully, maybe, instead of the kind of exhaustive multi-volume study this would have turned into, they decide to take a thematic approach. They will look at certain key images or symbols of the decadent, greedy, rootless etc West, and sketch out their origins in (mostly) Western discourse. This helps explain why the book is a light and frolicsome 149 pages long, although some of the explication is so dense and compressed that it sometimes feels like longer…

Contents

Accordingly, the text is divided into six chapters. The headings are neat and logical but I found the text they contain often very digressive, in the sense that it hops between quite disparate topics, times and places and then, just as unpredictably, returns to what they were originally discussing. On the upside this means the text is often as interesting for the sidelights or incidental observations it throws out as for the central points.

1. War Against The West

Introduction, as summarised above.

2. The Occidental City

Contrary to received opinion, people who hold strong Occidentalist views tend to be educated, or at least educated enough to be familiar enough with the values of the West to hate them. Taking the view that ‘Western values’ are undermining this or that set of traditional native values requires you to have a pretty good theoretical understanding both of what your native values are, what Western values are, and how the latter is ‘poisoning’ the former.

Far from being a dogma favoured by downtrodden peasants, Occidentalism more often reflects the fears and prejudices of urban intellectuals, who feel displaced in the world of mass commerce. (p.30, emphasis added)

Re. the 9/11 attacks on hi-tech buildings, Osama bin Laden trained as a civil engineer. the ringleader of the hijackers, Mohamed Atta, studied architecture at Cairo University and went on to do a Masters in urban planning at the Hamburg University of Technology. He hated modern architecture. He thought the concrete high-rise buildings built in Cairo and across the region in the 1960s and 1970s ruined the beauty of old neighbourhoods and robbed their people of privacy and dignity.

The tower of Babel

Tall buildings have been a focus of anxieties and symbols of ill omen from at least as long ago as the Bible. The Old Testament or Jewish Bible has barely got going before, in chapter 11, we are told about Nimrod who built the Tower of Babel with a view to making a name for themselves. God and, it appears, his angels, feared what they might do next, so afflicted the workers on it with different languages so they couldn’t understand each other, and then dispersed them across the face of the earth.

I visited New York in the 1980s and went to the top of the South Tower of the World Trade Centre which had an observation deck on the 107th floor and an outdoor viewing platform. It was 1,377 feet above street level. You could feel the building moving under your feet since it was designed to have a certain amount of ‘give’. I have acute vertigo and was terrified.

Cities as sinks of iniquity

Throughout recorded history, cities in every culture have been associated with corruption, greed, exploitation of the poor by the rich, decadence and immorality.

It is a universal story, this clash between old and new, authentic culture and metropolitan chicanery and artifice, country and city. (p.27)

Western sources

Regarding the authors’ focus on western texts, they live down to my expectations. In just the first part of this chapter they quote the Bible, Juvenal, the Goncourt brothers, William Blake (Dark Satanic mills), T.S. Eliot (The Rock), Richard Wagner (despised the frivolity of Paris), Voltaire (admired the liberty of eighteenth century London), Theodor Fontane (disliked London’s materialism), Friedrich Engels (horrified by the poverty of Manchester) and not a single Arab or Muslim voice.

It feels like a fairly obvious sixth form selection of obvious cultural figures (Blake, Eliot, Wagner). I’d so much have preferred an explanation of Islamic traditions about ‘the city’.

Antisemitism

They then move onto antisemitism, long associated with cities, cosmopolitan i.e. non-native culture, money-lending and capitalism etc, citing (again) Eliot, Pierre-Joseph Proudhon, Marx. The Nazis incorporated late-nineteenth century tropes of seeking to escape the city for a healthier life in the country into their fascist propaganda about racial purity, despising a checklist of big capitalism, cosmopolitan crowds, decadence (nightclubs and jazz), corruption of good Aryan women into prostitution and, of course, managed to blame all of this on ‘the Jews’.

A lot of these concerns and the language they were expressed in were picked up by other nativist nationalists, in Japan (about which Buruma knows a lot and which developed its own form of fascism during the 1930s) and in the Arab Middle East, developing its anti-colonial, anti-western rhetoric (many nationalist Arab leaders allied with Nazi Germany on the twin bases that a) my enemy (Britain)’s enemy is my friend and b) shared antisemitism).

Sayyid Qutb

They make a brief mention of Sayyid Qutb (1906 to 1966), widely considered the father of modern Islamic fundamentalism, to address not his writings, but his miserable alienation when he moved to New York to study in the 1940s and was repelled by absolutely everything about American life, its soulless materialism, its obsession with capitalist consumerism, its degraded immorality. Maybe they felt obligated to wedge him in somewhere, but Qutb’s importance to the development of Islamism or Islamic fundamentalism or Islamic terrorism isn’t developed at all. A paragraph on him before swooping back to Europe and…

The French Revolution

Surprisingly, maybe, they then move to the French Revolution. The French Revolution crystallised Enlightenment trends against medieval monarchs and aristocrats, the rule of the Church, traditions of all sorts, which needed to be torn up and thrown away, replaced by the cult of Reason, modern laws for modern enlightened citizens.

Antisemitism was implicit in Christianity from the beginning, with the Jews being blamed for insisting on the crucifixion of Jesus by the earliest Church Fathers. Buruma and Margalit attribute the birth of modern antisemitism to the French Revolution. Traditional upholders of the monarchy, the aristocracy and the Catholic Church were easily persuaded that the whole thing was a Jewish conspiracy, and so was born a whole modern antisemitic way of thinking about the world, which was to flourish and become steadily more toxic in the heart of Europe as the nineteenth century progressed.

The German Volk

Soon after the revolution, France invaded Germany, or the German states. Ideological opposition to the teachings of the French Revolution became mixed up with patriotic fervour. This all happened to the first generation of German Romantics. France came to represent the modern, godless, cosmopolitan city, riddled with over-clever philosophers and money-grubbing Jews, which was trying to conquer and obliterate the values of the Volkisch, spiritual German town, the German landscape of sturdy peasants, wise artisans and soulful poets. The authors cite the German folklorist Gottfried von Herder (1744 to 1803) as an example of this view.

Japan and China struggle to adopt Western culture

But western ideas of democracy, industrialism, capitalism and so forth were undeniably effective. They provided the underpinnings for the astonishing spread of Western imperialism. The question for rulers in countries from Morocco to Japan was which ideas from the West it would be profitable to accept, and which they needed to reject in order to maintain their culture and traditions, protect their nations from ‘spiritual pollution’ i.e. Western liberal ideas. Tricky.

Japan and China in different ways tried to adopt Western techniques without changing the core of their culture. Japan was much more successful, maybe because its centralised administration was stronger: it imported Western industrialisation while managing to keep a strong sense of national culture. By contrast the Chinese political system had become corrupt and inefficient so it failed to import Western industrialisation but instead found itself infected with all kinds of Western ideas about republics and democracy and the individual etc, ideas which led to the overthrow of the monarchy in 1911.

The appeal of Marxism to anti-colonial nationalists

For the central 70 years of the twentieth century many developing countries thought that Marxism offered a way forward. It was modern, industrial, scientific but rejected the soulless materialism, corruption and imperialist mindset of the Western capitalist societies. hence its attraction for many developing countries, especially in the decades after independence in the 1940s and 50s.

Unfortunately it was the dream which failed. The failure of the secular socialist nationalism promoted by the likes of President Nasser of Egypt, Gaddafi in Libya, Saddam in Iraq, Assad in Syria led to a wave of disillusion across the Arab world and opened the cultural space for Islamists who promoted a radical solution, a return to a world before any kind of modernity existed, back to the pure, unsullied, pious and unified world of the early Caliphate.

Mao and the war against the city

The authors devote 4 or 5 pages to Chairman Mao, ruler of China from 1949 to 1976. They see Mao as the biggest exponent in all world history of the war of the country against the city. The corrupt westernised city was epitomised for Chinese communists like Mao by Shanghai, administered by westerners and packed with a cosmopolitanism, capitalism and corruption. Mao thought such places needed to be purged in the name of a peasant communism.

Mao’s promotion of peasant values promised an escape route from Western capitalism, from urban alienation, decadence and corruption, and a return to integrated rural communities, where life and work would have proper, deep human meaning and purpose.

And so during the 1950s he unleashed the Great Leap Forward which involved rounding up and shooting hundreds of thousands of members of the urban bourgeoisie, those who survived being sent to huge rural labour camps. It was, he boomed, in countless speeches, a good thing ‘to exterminate the bourgeoisie and capitalism in China’ (p.42).

The Khmer Rouge 1975 to 1979

This is the mindset which went on to guide the horrific Khmer Rouge regime in Cambodia, 1975 to 1979. Most of Pol Pot’s soldiers were illiterate peasants, often only boys. When they took the capital, Phnom Penh, they were staggered by the wealth, the size, the swarming multinational population, the coffee shops and fleshpots. All these were ruthlessly emptied and its inhabitants either shot on the spot, or dragged off to be tortured, or marched off to labour camps in the countryside. Only by exterminating the urban bourgeoisie could the country be restored to purity and truth and correct living. It was a kind of logical end point of centuries of anti-city rhetoric.

The Taliban 1996

Same with the Taliban, illiterate peasants in flipflops armed with weapons seized from the fleeing Soviets or donated by America. After a ruinous civil war they took the capital of Afghanistan, Kabul, in 1996. First they butchered the leader of the pro-Soviet regime, Mohammad Najibullah, then they banned everything to do with modern life, which they associated with the hated West, in a bid to return society to the ‘purity’ of the earliest days of the Muslim Caliphate.

All music was banned, along with television, soccer, and most forms of socialising. Women had to cover themselves from head to foot and were not allowed out without a chaperone. Kabul was ruled by a six-man shura not one of them from Kabul, not one of them had ever lived in a city.

The Khmer Rouge and the Taliban represented the triumph of ‘authentic’ rural values over the corrupt, decadent modern city.

Germania

The authors then take a characteristic leap in subject, concluding with a page describing a different way of triumphing over the chaotic modern western city: this was to demolish it and build a totalitarian alternative.

Hitler hated Berlin and planned to rebuild it as a totalitarian capital, its alleys and slums replaced by broad boulevards designed for marching armies, its swarming cosmopolitan crowds replaced by the unified adoring Aryan crowd. All the messy attributes of the decadent West – civil liberties, free market economies, democracy, individualism – would be replaced by one Folk, one Reich, one Führer and one Capital City.

The Hitler regime was overthrown before building got very far but other countries have made the experiment. The authors cite Pyongyang, capital of North Korea, as what Germania might have looked like, a neoclassical testament to untrammeled, totalitarian power.

Lastly, they reference the steel and glass cities of coastal China which have mushroomed in the last twenty years, which represent a kind of defiant triumph over the less impressive, shop-soiled cities of the West. We can do it bigger, better and shinier than you, say high rises such as the Burj Khalifa in the United Arab Emirates, Merdeka 118 in Kuala Lumpur, the Shanghai Tower in Shanghai, the Abraj Al-Bait Clock Tower in Mecca, the Ping An International Finance Centre in Seoul and so on.

These are not so much anti-Western, as supra-western, denying old ideas of Western supremacy by outdoing it.

3. Heroes and Merchants

Werner Sombart

This focuses on the roots of Germany’s sustained sense of being different from ‘the West’, which German intellectuals defined as soulless mercantile Britain and godless revolutionary France.

The authors zero in on a book written in 1915 by a German sociologist named Werner Sombart and titled Händler und Helden or Merchants and Heroes. In the book Sombart contrasted the commercial civilisation of Britain and the liberty, equality, fraternity culture of France with the heroic culture of Germany. The Western bourgeois is satisfied with ‘comfort’ (in German Komfortismus) and the soporific sports of the British. By contrast the German welcomes death as the ultimate sacrifice he can make for the Volk.

Similar ideas were shared by the historian Oswald Spengler and the warrior-author Ernst Jünger. Happy happy Germany to have such ideologues of the glory of war. The fundamental trahison des clercs (‘treason of the intellectuals’) is to promote exciting ideas about glory and sacrifice which lead hundreds of thousands of young men to their death. ‘The young must shed their blood,’ write Thomas Abbt (p.58). Other young men, obviously. You need to stay safe in your study in order to produce such intellectual masterworks.

The authors make a direct link between the widespread contempt for bourgeois Komfortismus described by numerous right-wing German intellectuals, and the attitude of the jihadi fighter interviewed early in the 2001 Afghan who said that the Islamists would triumph because ‘You [the West] love life, but we love death’.

Personally, taking a materialist Darwinian evolutionary view of Homo sapiens, it seems unlikely that impatience to make live heroic lives and die in a noble cause, particularly among zealous young men ‘ardent for some desperate glory’, will ever die out. It has been so ubiquitous throughout all human history, in all cultures, that it appears to be hard-wired into the species. I’ve recently read a suite of books about the problems of African society and prominent among them is what to do about disaffected, unemployed youths, hanging round, looking for a cause to redeem their alienated lives…

Military death cults in Japan

The authors go on to trace how German hyper-nationalism and Occidentalism went on to become surprisingly influential in intellectual circles in the Middle East and Japan. The same valuing of a heroic ideal of nationhood which led Hitler to sacrifice an entire generation of German youth, was the one that made the Japanese fight to the death, island by island and send waves of kamikaze pilots in 1944.

Buruma has a counter-intuitive interpretation of Japanese suicide warriors. The phenomenon was considered at the time as being somehow specifically Japanese, but Buruma says the surviving farewell letters of many of the kamikaze pilots (and drivers of the less well-known suicide torpedoes) indicate that most were highly educated students studying the humanities at leading universities, and that a surprising number of them were well read in German literature and philosophy. They dressed up their feelings in tropes about the Samurai and cherry blossom but their fundamental ideas about the diseased decadence of the West and the need for heroic sacrifice are actually Western ideas.

Buruma gives a potted summary of the way Japanese politicians and intellectuals in the mid-nineteenth century cobbled together a patchwork copy of Western intellectual, economic, political, military and religious life, not least in the cobbling together of a state religion, Shinto, which they thought would echo the Christianity which seemed to be such a central part of European life. Ditto the transition of the emperor from a remote and powerless figure in Kyoto, who was moved to Tokyo to become a combination of kaiser, generalissimo, Shinto pope, and highest living deity. People talk (dismissively) about the British inventing many of their ‘traditions’ in the nineteenth century (Christmas trees, the kilt) but the Japanese did the same with knobs on.

Regarding the development of a cult of heroic sacrifice Buruma says an important source was the Imperial Rescript to Soldiers and Sailors of 1882 which the armed forces learned by heart and included a passage commanding the ultimate sacrifice for the emperor.

A practical consequence of this Occidentalism were that, when Western forces surrendered, as at Singapore in 1942, the Japanese viewed surrendering forces as dishonourable cowards who preferred to save their skins rather than fight on to the death i.e. the exact opposite of Japanese martial values.

As a result the Japanese regarded the surrendering British forces as less than human and treated them accordingly, working them to death in brutal labour camps. My best friend at school’s dad was in the army in Burma at the end of the war. He saw the state of soldiers repatriated from the Japanese camps. As a result he refused to have anything Japanese in the house.

The Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh

The authors then move on to India for a quick description of the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) which means the ‘National Volunteer Organisation’. Founded in 1925 this was a far-right, Hindu nationalist paramilitary organisation which aimed to instil ‘Hindu discipline’ in order to unite the Hindu community and establish a Hindu Rashtra (Hindu nation). Like the Nazis they aimed to create a new society based on racial purity, military discipline and sacrifice.

Osama bin Laden

Then, in this whistlestop tour, we are on to your friend and mine, the demon figure of the first decade of the 21st century, Osama bin Laden. The authors give quotes from an interview bin Laden gave after the 1996 al-Khobar Tower attack in Saudi Arabia. They say the language bin Laded uses of self-sacrifice, of suicide attacks, is emphatically not part of the Islamic mainstream tradition. In mainstream Islam dying in battle against the infidel is what creates justified martyrs; blowing yourself up along with unarmed civilians is something quite different, feared and despised by many Muslims as much as by Westerners.

They slightly contradict themselves by then describing the death cult of the Assassins, created in the 13th century for reasons which are still debated, and the pattern they set for being prepared to die for Islam in taking out an infidel opponent.

Anyway, whatever the precise roots there’s no denying that throughout the nineteenth century Muslim leaders called for jihad against western colonists and their godless capitalism, against their Jewish agents, and against native leaders who had been corrupted by their infidel ways.

Assassination

When I read this I immediately thought of President Anwar Sadat of Egypt. He was assassinated in 1981 by members of Egyptian Islamic Jihad for signing a peace treaty with Israel and instigating a crackdown on Islamic extremists, and so was painted as ‘a traitor to Islam’.

Sadat’s fate raises a general principle of Occidentalism which is that often opponents of the West aren’t actually opposed to the distant West, which they had never visited and of which they knew relatively little, so much as against the westernisers in their own society, political or social leaders who they blame for importing Western secular values. So they kill them.

Historically, the main embodiment of Muslim resistance to westernisation was the Muslim Brotherhood, founded in 1928 with the following manifesto:

‘God is our objective; the Qu’uran is our constitution; the Prophet is our leader; Struggle is our way; and death for the sake of God is our highest aspiration.’

Then, in another leap, the authors tell us that Japanese kamikaze tactics were adopted by the Hezbollah in the Lebanon with the 1983 Beirut barracks bombings which killed 241 US and 58 French military personnel.

Buruma and Margalit wrote this book before the US invaded Iraq in March 2003, an occupation which triggered an epidemic of suicide bombings by Sunni and Shias against the occupying forces.

Weimar

They conclude with a simple but crucial message. The Weimar Republic didn’t die because it was liquidated by Nazis, big business and the Army. It died because too few people were prepared to defend it. See the books on the subject by Peter Gay and Walter Laqueur. Passionate young men from the Right and the Left conspired to attack and undermine it at every opportunity. Nobody stood up for the boring, unromantic business of liberal democratic political life.

4. Mind of the West

Russian anti-westernism

Occidentalists accuse the West of being effective, technologically adroit, economically triumphant, and yet lacking the soul, depth, spirit and godliness which the critics, of course, pride themselves on having. I particularly despise the long tradition in Russian culture of belittling the frivolity and superficiality of France or Britain compared to the Great Russian Soul and its vast capacity for Noble Suffering. Tolstoy. Dostoyevsky. Occidentalists.

Dostoyevsky despised the West because it sought happiness and comfort whereas it should have been seeking salvation. And the route to salvation is via suffering. Only suffering brings wisdom. The West is afraid of suffering. The West can never be wise. Only a people devoted to suffering can be genuinely holy. The Russian soul welcomes and endures great suffering. Thus it is superior to everyone else’s.

Dostoyevsky and the propagandists for Russian suffering prepared the way (or just accurately reported the mindset) of the great Soviet barbarism of the twentieth century, the horrific civil war, the mass famines of Stalin, the huge gulags, total repression of civil society, the incredible death toll of the Great Patriotic War caused by Stalin’s ineptitude (and having massacred all his leading army officers) and Russian military readiness to sacrifice soldiers by the hecatomb in ways the Western Allies couldn’t believe. Still. Spiritual superiority, that’s what counts.

The line continues all the way through to Vladimir Putin. Putin sits in the main line of Russian cultural thought in despising, like Tolstoy, like Dostoyevsky, the decadence of Western liberalism, whose rapid end he has confidently predicted in numerous speeches.

Meanwhile, while he wastes his nation’s resources on a stupid nationalist war, the population of Mother Russia is going into decline as people flee Putin’s dictatorship or just die of ill health due to its wretched health problems.

Russia has the world’s 11th-largest economy but ranks 96th in life expectancy. Life expectancy for Russian men is 67, lower than in North Korea, Syria or Bangladesh. Still. Spiritual superiority, that’s what counts, eh.

The authors spend a long section describing ‘the love affair of Russians with their own soul’ and the achievement of nativist thinkers, loosely termed ‘Slavophiles’.

Anti-westernism’s German roots

In fact, counter-intuitively, Buruma and Margalit attribute Slavophilia, like so much anti-westernism, to German roots, specifically German Romanticism. Humiliated by Napoleon’s victories over them, conscious of their political backwardness (fragmented into scores of little princedom and dukedoms) German intellectuals, in a massive case of sour grapes, said worldly success didn’t matter, what mattered was what was in your soul. They compensated for their economic, social, political backwardness by asserting the supremacy of their spiritual life.

A spectrum

It occurs to me that there was a spectrum in the moving west to east across Europe in the nineteenth century. At the western extreme was Britain, economic powerhouse of the world but almost bereft of genuine art, philosophy or religion (sure it had the oppressive Church of England but this had little or no spiritualist tradition). Then came France, nearly as economically diverse as Britain, a good deal more artistic and philosophical. Then Germany, economically and politically backward but packed with ‘deep’ philosophers and its great musical tradition. Poland, which is never taken account of by anybody in these kinds of surveys. And finally Russia, the most economically and socially backward of European nations and, accordingly, possessed of a self-congratulatory sense of its immense spiritual superiority over everyone else.

In the authors’ view, to be blunt, it’s all the Germans’ fault. Extremely resentful of the military, economic and artistic success of Napoleon’s France, German Romantics compensated for national humiliation by working out the theory of the superior spiritual value of Das Volk and the nobility of dying for it.

Isaiah Berlin on German Romanticism

No less an authority than Isaiah Berlin thought this was the case and, moreover, thought the model the Germans worked out became a template which could be exported to all peoples who feel mocked and humiliated. The template was copied by the Russians during the nineteenth century and, as we’ve seen, adopted by Arab and Indian nationalists between the wars.

Buruma and Margalit summarise Berlin’s model. The German Romantic movement was the Counter-Enlightenment. It valued intuition and spirit over reason and calculation. It preferred heroes to shopkeepers. It looked back to a lost era of national and religious unity and looked forward to its glorious restoration.

On this view Nazism, Japanese fascism and Islamic fundamentalism are all the heirs to the original German Romantic anti-Westernism.

Russian Orthodox Christianity

The authors tell me things about Russian Christianity I didn’t know. They describe the messianic conviction that Moscow is a second Rome and only home to true Christianity. They explain that Russian Orthodox Christianity is far less interested in theology than Greek or Roman Christianity and far more concerned with custom and practice. Icons are more important than intellectual debate.

Intellectualism is suspect. And any kind of change is not needed. The thousand year old tradition of the Russian church suffices. Innovation tends to come from outside, representing threat and betrayal.

The authors give a potted history of Russia, with Peter the Great and Catherine the Great realising they had to import Western technology and ideas. Throughout the nineteenth century Russian intellectuals split into westernising and slavophile parties. They give potted biographies of individual westernisers. And they explain that for these men, the West meant Germany and its succession of Romantic philosophers.

As with Orientalism, all these Russian thinkers worked out their theories and defined themselves against the Other, the Other being a highly simplistic, stereotyped view of The West, a West which was materialistic, godless, mechanical, superficial, divided, corrupt and decadent, which lacked the soulfulness and the unity of people and purpose which characterised Mother Russia.

The triumph of will over reason

One major aspect of Occidentalism is the valorising of will over reason. Timid reason calculates the best course of action, tots up the pros and cons, a shopkeeper mentality. All this contrasts with the will which acts instinctively, in large glorious romantic causes. Following the footsteps of Friedrich Nietzsche, Hitler and the Nazis famously praised the Triumph of the Will over pettifogging rationalism. And so did nineteenth century Russians.

Konstantin Leontiev

The Russian Nietzsche was Konstantin Leontiev (1831 to 1891). He wrote a big book, Russia and Europe, which made a big splash. He was one of hundreds of late-nineteenth century philosophers and commentators who worked up an ‘organic’ theory of history i.e. that societies are like organisms which have a birth, a youth, a maturity and then a decay.

Surprise, surprise, Leontiev thought that the West with its decadent liberal democracy was in the last stages of decay. Exactly what Vladimir Putin thinks today, 150 years later. Continuities like this demonstrate that this is not a rational belief based on evidence, it is a prejudice, an unchanging tenet of anti-western bigotry, of Occidentalism.

The authors end the chapter with a brief history of the word nihilism which came to prominence, in Russia, in Ivan Turgenev’s novel Fathers and Sons. The chapter ends with more evidence of Dostoyevsky’s fanatical hatred of the West and fear that it’s godless, scientistic values were undermining the noble soul of Mother Russia.

5. The Wrath of God [Muslim fundamentalism]

 Buruma and Margalit draw a distinction between religious Occidentalism and secular Occidentalism. 

They say that Islamism is the form Occidentalism is taking in our time. What is new or unique is Islamism’s view that the West is guilty of barbarous idolatry and proceed to explain what this means, starting with a definition of idolatry.

They give a pocket history of the concept of idolatry which stems from the Jewish Bible. Here God is depicted as a jealous husband who is hurt when his Chosen People whore after strange gods. But obviously it has a deeper charge than that. God is also king of the universe, master of creation, source of existence. Denying God is the worst kind of blasphemy imaginable. In the Old Testament numerous kings and rulers are depicted as behaving as if they were as powerful as, or more powerful than, their creator, and demanding the veneration which is due to God.

So idolatry is giving to men the devotions and worship which are due to god. They discuss the meaning of Arab terms such as tajhiljahiliyya and jahili. jahiliyyahas been used to describe the religious ignorance which prevailed in Arabia before the advent of the Prophet Mohammed but also, more metaphorically, as the notion of barbarism, in the same way the ancient Greeks used it to refer to everyone who wasn’t Greek. At school I was told it was a joke term for people whose unGreek languages made them sound like they were saying ba-ba-ba-ba.

To summarise, the use of the term jahiliyya in Islamist discourse can be interpreted as referring to a new barbarism (godless idolatry) which originates from the West and is infecting the Muslim world.

The authors have a digression into the history of Manicheism, first as an actual belief system propounded by the Iranian prophet Mani (216 to 277 AD) then as the strand in most religions which posits an absolute divide between God and Evil. Then they show how ‘evil’ in most religious traditions is associated with the body, with its weakness, tendency to degrade and die, its distracting appetites, worst of which is, as we all know, sex. The body is contrasted with the soul which is taken to be immortal and the part of a human body which can approach or commune with god.

Ali Shari’ati

They discuss Ali Shari’ati (1933 to 1977), an Iranian Shia Muslim revolutionary and opponent of the westernising regime of the Shah. Shari’ati thought the best way for developing countries to fight back against the infection of godless western materialism was by rallying around their religious beliefs and traditions, in his case, Islam. He explicitly linked the influence of the West as encouraging Muslims to idolatry i.e. diverting worship away from God and towards the godless things of man i.e. money, consumer goods.

The industrial revolution made the West rich but it led to what sociologist Max Weber called ‘the disenchantment of the world’. It lost its magic and spirits. It lost God. And so all its goods and products are tainted by this tendency to disenchant and divert men’s worship from God to things. Idolatry.

Sayyid Qutb

The authors tell us about Islamic radical thinkers who fought back against the forces of secularism, for example Muhamed Taleqani in Iran, before returning to Sayyid Qutb, first mentioned in chapter 2.

For Qutb the whole world, from decadent Cairo to New York, was in a state of jahiliyya. He saw the West as a gigantic brothel, steeped in animal lust, greed and selfishness. Human thought, in the West, was ‘given the status of God.’ Material greed, immoral behaviour, inequality and political oppression would end only once the world was ruled by God and by His laws alone. The opportunity to die in a holy war would allow men to overcome selfish ambitions and corrupt oppressors (p.117)

One of the appeals of Islam is its egalitarianism: all men really are equal in the eyes of God in a way they rarely have been in the Christian West, and the Islamic dream is of a society where all men worship God, all laws derive from God, all behaviour is godly, and so it is literally impossible for large disparities in wealth or for corrupt immoral rulers ever to arise.

Qutb is given more space this time around, with a thumbnail biography describing the two years he spent in America to improve his English and which turned him into a West-hating Occidentalist. He also became a ferocious antisemite, literally believing in the famous forgery, The Elders of Zion and the ‘worldwide Jewish conspiracy’ and associating the global nature of finance capital with ‘Jewish bankers’ and so on. Schoolboy antisemitism.

To look at it another way, Qutb thought he was developing an approach which saved the noble and godly in human nature. The West wasn’t just godless, it actively worshipped the things of the body, the West is a cult of physical appetites, valuing food, drink, sex, holidays, fast cars, thus degrading human nature, instead of uplifting it through things of the soul by focusing solely on God. jahiliyya is the culture of animals or, worse, of humans who have thrown away their human attributes in a mad rush to become animals.

So, if Westerners have deliberately denied their humanity and turned themselves into animals, then they can be treated like animals, as worse than sub-humans. It’s this development of a train of thought which led him to consider all Westerners as sub-human which makes Qutb, as Buruma and Margalit out it, ‘the high priest of Occidentalism’ (p.121).

More, the world is in a state of war, between those who seek the righteousness of Islam and the rest. Even Islamic countries have been tainted to some extent by Western or secular innovations, and so jihad must be fought to overthrow idolatrous leaders. This is, obviously enough, an incitement to permanent warfare. You can see why it would appeal to zealous young men disgusted by the West, such as Mohamed Atta and so it explains the never-ending supply of young men prepared to take up arms to defend and assert radical Islam. But it just as easily explains why those societies, Islamic societies, will never be at peace with themselves. Libya, Egypt, Yemen, Syria, Iraq. Permanent war.

Abu-l-A’la Maudadi

Then we are introduced to Abu-l-A’la Maudadi (1903 to 1979) Islamic scholar, Islamist ideologue, Muslim philosopher, jurist, historian, journalist and activist, who is described (on his Wikipedia page) by Wilfred Cantwell Smith as ‘the most systematic thinker of modern Islam’.

The thing about all these Islamic thinkers is it’s hard to remember them because they all appear to have had the same pretty simple idea: Islam needed to reject the corruption of the West, purged of Western corruption, in order to become pure. Then everyone will live happy godly lives.

In practice Maudadi opposed Indian nationalism because it was Hindu, and democracy because it would impose majority Hindu values on Muslims. He said in a speech that anyone who voted would be a traitor to the Prophet and to God. He wanted to revive the early Caliphate (what Islamic fundamentalist doesn’t?).

Maudadid founded the Jamaat I-Islami Party which went on to be influential in the politics of the new country formed at the Partition of India, of Pakistan.

Tawhid and Muhammed Iqbal

Tawhid is the doctrine of the Unity of God. One of its proponents was Muhammed Iqbal (1877 to 1938) writer, philosopher and politician, considered by many to be ‘the spiritual father of Pakistan’. In his view human society should practice unity, harmony and justice in order to reflect the Unity of God. Against this settled social background each individual should be able to develop their individuality or khudi.

So, Buruma and Margalit ask, what was it that made Qutb an Occidentalist and Iqbal not? Partly it was personal psychology; Qutb was overwhelmed and disgusted by everything he experienced in America, whereas Iqbal enjoyed his British education and took a degree at Cambridge.

But basically Iqbal was tolerant. He thought there were many ways to God; the best way is Islam but there might be others for men of good faith. Qutb, by contrast took a fiercely Manichean view: there was the world of Islam and then everything else, which was full of sub-human barbarians. Qutb wrote:

Any society that is not Muslim is jahiliyya

And true believers need to take up jihad to enforce the rule of God in their nations. Permanent war.

Protestantism and liberalism

The authors then shift their ground to explain that the Reformation i.e. rebellion against the grip of the Roman Catholic Church, began the long process whereby religion and the personal sphere were separated out, in the Protestant countries of the West. The separation of church and state. The right to freedom of conscience, of belief, of religion.

And this is anathema to Islamists who insist there is not, there cannot be, a divide between religion and private belief or morality. Everyone must believe and worship the same, follow the same morality. This is why some critics of political Islam liken it to fascism. More accurately it might be likened to totalitarianism. Mussolini said: ‘Everything in the State, nothing outside the State, nothing against the State.’ Swap ‘Islam’ for state. Note the Morality Police in Saudi Arabia and Iran.

Women in Islam

Buruma and Margalit finally get around to the hugely contentious subject of women in Islam. They claim that many Muslims yearn for a return to traditional and community values. Islamic fundamentalism draws its support from a nostalgia for a return to proper Muslim values, which are associated with tradition beliefs and customs.

One of the central areas is the role and behaviour of women because in a patriarchal culture like Islam, the behaviour of women directly reflects on the honour of their menfolk, in a way most of us in the West just don’t understand.

Countless visitors to Muslim countries in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries observed the strict segregation of the sexes, the way women were completely invisible in many rural communities, or else were covered from head to foot in towns.

They zero in on the issue of the veil. The veil for women appears to have existed way before Islam there are depictions of it in pictures from the first century. Maybe Muslims copied it from the Byzantine Empire. It came to signify that the owner did not do manual labour i.e. became a status symbol.

During the independence struggle in Algeria many women took the veil as a proud assertion of their Islamic heritage and defiance of the French colonialists. But 50 years later, in the era of the Taliban, women are to be covered in what are effect shapeless sacks, completely denying their physicality, the assumption being that the merest glimpse of female flesh will cause an outbreak of ungodly fleshly thinking among surrounding men. In this respect ‘the veil’ is a symbol of a Manichean tension between the Spirit and the Body.

Wisely the authors don’t propose to delve deeper into the symbolism, meaning and all the debates raging around ‘the veil’, as fully explicating the history and then trying to find quotes in the Koran or the hadith to back up all the different opinions would keep us here till Doomsday.

Their book is not about Islamic beliefs and customs, it has the narrower focus of being about Muslim opinions about the West, in this case, Eastern views about Western women.

Islamic fundamentalists (and, the authors emphasise, Orthodox Jews) regard women’s dress and behaviour in the West as little better than prostitutes’. Here we’re back to Sayid Qutb’s opinion that Western immorality isn’t just bad, but degrades human beings to a level lower than animals. Animals don’t know any better, but humans do, and to reject what they know (of God’s demands for respect and morality) means they forfeit their humanity.

Also, in a patriarchal society, a woman is the ‘protected jewel’ in the crown of a man’s honour. Which means that how a man protects and defends his woman is a large part of his honour or identity. And here’s the point: Western men who relate to Western women as if they were just other citizens without any of the respect due to them in a Muslim country, show that they lack even the most basic sense of honour.

Wahhabism and Saudi Arabia

Three packed little pages which describe the alliance in the eighteenth century of fiercely puritanical preacher Muhammad Ibn Abd al-Wahhab and warlord Muhammad Ibn Saud. The warlord adopted the puritanical beliefs of the preacher and together they conquered the Holy Places. Then a lot of history as first the Ottomans and then the British took control of the Saudi peninsula, but by shrewd manoeuvring the family of the Sauds took control of the new kingdom and imposed an extremely fierce version of Islam on their population.

Then came the discovery of oil and these phenomenally strict Puritans found themselves among the richest people in the world. The result, say Buruma and Margalit, is an uneasy form of ‘officially sanctioned hypocrisy’, where the Saudi authorities impose a strict morality in public but live like Roman emperors in the privacy of their own palaces, or in their mansions in London and New York.

Saudi ‘hypocrisy’ would be of limited interest or importance if it weren’t for the fact that in the last decades of the twentieth century the Saudis began to export their form of intolerant Islam. As of 2004 the authors thought that:

Saudi Arabia is now the prime source of fundamentalist, puritanical ideology affecting Muslims everywhere, from North Africa to Indonesia. Oil money is used to promote religious radicalism around the world… (p.136)

That was 20 years ago, the trend has only increased since then, with Saudi involved not only in the Arab Spring uprisings and aftermaths, funding groups in Tunisia, Libya and Egypt, but also bankrolling sides in the ruinous civil wars in Syria and Yemen; and that’s before accounting for their promotion of their particularly virulent purist form of Islam in Muslim countries across North Africa and central Asia and into the Far East, in countries like Indonesia and Malaysia. And part of the package is a virulently anti-Western Occidentalist message.

6. Seeds of Revolution

A 12-page chapter on how the main venom of Occidentalism falls, even more than on distant America, on Israel. Eccentrically, they tackle this vast bottomless subject via a little known, unimportant novel published by the Theodor Herzl (1860 to 1904), the Austro-Hungarian Jewish journalist who was the father of modern political Zionism.

The Encyclopedia Britannica defines Zionism as a Jewish nationalist movement, originating in central and eastern Europe, that had for its goal the creation of a Jewish national state in Palestine, the ancient homeland of the Jews.

The novel was titled Altneuland which was translated into English as ‘The Old New Land’ when it was published in 1902. It’s apparently a huge text but the core of it is a vision of what Palestine will look like twenty years hence i.e. in 1922, after Palestine has been successfully occupied by Jews. The place has become a technological and economic miracle, the previously barren desert blooming, the previously rundown ports now full of cranes and ships, the rundown towns transformed into European-style cities with wide boulevards and cafes. Religion there is some, but hollowed out to become little more than the civic holidays of a mostly secular European culture.

Visitors to this brave new Jewish world marvel at the gleaming cities and high technology but find time to ask the one Arab in the book what he thinks, and he is overjoyed. Palestinian land-owners sold to the Jews for good prices, Palestinians are employed in all the new works, even the poor are lifted up by the rising standard of living. It’s win-win-win.

Of course it didn’t turn out that way and the modern state of Israel has become the number one hate figure for Arab politicians and Islamists throughout the region, a running sore in the Middle East which will, probably, never go away.

Anyway, the authors don’t really scratch the surface of the issue before proceeding to their rather rushed conclusion: this is that most of the nationalist responses to western imperialism borrowed western ideas to fight it with, whether they be the liberty-equality-fraternity of the French Revolution, the scientific positivism of Comte, the communism of Karl Marx, the anti-Enlightenment tropes of the German Romantics.

They move from Margalit’s home territory (Jerusalem/Israel) back to Buruma’s, Japan. He explains how the samurai leaders of Japan who realised in the 1860s that they needed to carry out a wholesale modernisation of their nation did so by importing selected Western ideas but also sparked a nativist nationalist backlash. But even this, although dressed in Japanese costume, borrowed ideas on how to run society from European fascists and the Nazis in particular.

They conclude that no Occidentalist can be free of ideas from the Occident. The modernisation of Japan gave rise to an anti-modern backlash which borrowed ideas and technology of the modern world in their effort to reject it. Same, they suggest, with Islamic fundamentalists. They loathe and fear western materialism, but communicate using laptops and mobile phones.

On almost the last page the authors start discussing the Ba’ath Party, which gained power in post-independence Syria and Iraq, and how it was forged in the 1930s from a combination of nostalgia for a holistic Arab community and ideas taken from European fascism. One of its theoreticians, Sati’ Husri, was a keen student of German Romantic theorists like Fichte and Herder who rejected the French Enlightenment by promoting the notion of the organic, völkisch nation united by blood and soil. This was translated by Husri into the Arab word asabiyya or (Arab) blood solidarity

The end of the book feels rushed and hurried. Only here do they make the big point that Arab ‘nationalist’ leaders have killed far more of their fellow Arabs than all the colonialists and Zionists put together, witness Saddam Hussein and Hafez al-Assad, who everyone thought was a cruel mass murderer until the Syrian civil war broke out in 2011 and we all discovered that his son, Bashar al-Assad, is even viler. Over half a million Arabs have died in the Syrian civil war.

What not to think

 Buruma and Margalit conclude with some very rushed thoughts. For a start they predict that the war against terror will mostly be fought within Arab states, against extremists. 

Secondly, they say the conflict is against a worldwide, loosely affiliated underground movement. (Presumably they mean al-Qaeda, though they don’t say so.)

As to the first prediction, now, in 2023, 20 years after the book was written, we know that America went ahead with its idiotically badly conceived invasion of Iraq, which on the face of it was an invasion by a foreign power, but that this triggered the collapse of Iraq into prolonged civil war and ethnic cleansing. The ‘within states’ thesis was more dramatically proven by the Arab Spring which led to the disintegration of the states of Libya and Syria, turmoil in Egypt, and a cruel civil war in Yemen. Presumably al-Qaeda and all its affiliates wanted to create pure Islamic states or restore the Caliphate, but they’ve turned out to be part of a process which has destabilised and wrecked much of the Arab world. My view is that it’s their culture, they’re their countries, we’ve interfered enough in that part of the world (and too many other parts of the world, too). Let them sort it out.

Buruma and Margalit say we shouldn’t be paralysed by ‘colonial guilt’ but I think we’re way beyond that now. Every time we intervene we make things worse. We turned Iraq into an abattoir. The Yanks spent a trillion dollars in Afghanistan over 20 years and look at it now: still the poorest country in the world and back to being ruled by the Taliban.

The West intervened in Libya to prevent Gaddafi massacring protesters in Benghazi but didn’t follow it through by leading and uniting the opposition which, instead, collapsed into regional factions, so that twelve years later, Libya has no one central government.

Total intervention, as in Iraq or Afghanistan, failed.

Partial intervention, as in Libya, failed.

I suggest the only viable policy is complete non-intervention as the West, in effect, is doing in Syria.

If Arabs and Muslims want to spend decades massacring each other, it’s not so much that we don’t want to intervene, or don’t have a moral duty or whatever to intervene; it’s more that we’ve tried intervening, in different countries in different ways, and almost always we make it worse. Non-intervention seems to me the only responsible policy.

This book was written when the Western world was reeling from the 9/11 attacks which everybody felt turned the world on its axis and introduced a whole new era. There was felt to be an urgent need for commentary and analysis, not least explanations of what Islamic fundamentalism was and why the terrorists hated us so much. This book was an interesting attempt to fill that gap.

By the end, although it contains lots of references to specific writers and theories, it feels somehow rushed and superficial. Buruma and Margalit’s thesis, which they repeat half a dozen times, is that German Romantic writers of the early nineteenth century developed a worldview opposing the rational scientific values of the French Enlightenment and Revolution, and this template for opposing all the forces of ‘modernity’ was then taken up by intellectuals in other countries which resented the way the godless materialism of Britain and France seemed to be destroying traditional values, in countries as far afield as Russia, China, Japan and India, and, in the twentieth century got mixed into the anger, resentment and humiliation of a number of Arab and Muslim theorists and theologians.

Their basic idea is that opposition to the West, and the negative stereotypes which its enemies use to characterise it which the authors call Occidentalism, began in the West and always carries the spoor of its Western origins.

However, it’s a long time since 9/11. Now, in 2023, it feels like a lot of the excitement, paranoia and hyperbole of that era has drained away. The Arab Spring, then the Arab Winter, then the collapse of Libya, Syria and Yemen, changed the landscape. Up till then Arab nationalists and radical Islamists believed that all they had to do was overthrow the ageing dictators who in one way or another had imposed Western ideas (nationalism, socialism, science) onto their peoples, and the purified, communal, traditional Islam of the good old days would rush back in to restore the Caliphate. Instead , when the dictators were overthrown, first in Iraq, then Tunisia, Libya, Egypt, with the vain attempt to do so in Syria, the result wasn’t the Unity of Islam but chaos and massacre.

Al Qaeda affiliates across North Africa continue to terrorise their countrymen but they will never be able to seize power; all they do is create the chaotic conditions in which warlords and mercenaries like the Wagner group thrive (in places like Chad, Mali or the Central African Republic or the wretched failed state of Somalia), while political and military leaders with no principles overthrow each other in naked bids for power, as in the utterly pointless Sudanese Civil War.

Piled onto all this is the relentless degradation of the environment of the Arab world, which is only going to get hotter and hotter, with evermore water shortages and the loss of evermore agricultural and even pasturing land. A lot of the Arab world is going to become a hellish place to live.

So the situation is massively more screwed up than when Buruma and Margalit wrote this book and their scholarly shuffling through tomes by Herder and Fichte, Schelling and Nietzsche, Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy, feels like bookish trip down memory lane. Then again maybe they were right to stick to the library; their treatment of the role of Israel in all this, approached through Theodor Herzl’s novel and a half page description of modern Jerusalem, feels entirely inadequate.

Either way, ahead lies total chaos in which the Occidentalism they describe and define will seem increasingly irrelevant to an Arab world collapsing into endless civil war and social collapse. The West wasn’t behind the Arab Springs, that was what so excited the protesters, they were entirely homemade, of domestic Arab and Muslim origin. But so was the chaos and collapse they brought in their wake, of entirely Arab and Muslim origin. It’s their countries, their people, their problems. We’ve intervened too many times. We shouldn’t get involved.


Credit

Occidentalism: A Short History of Anti-Westernism by Ian Buruma and Avishai Margalit was published in 2004 by Atlantic Books. References are to the 2005 Atlantic Books paperback edition.

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Orientalism by Edward Said (1978) part 2

Orientalism is the generic term that I have been employing to describe the Western approach to the Orient; Orientalism is the discipline by which the Orient was (and is) approached systematically, as a topic of learning, discovery and practice.
(Orientalism, page 73)

Said’s fundamental premise is that knowledge is power – and so the entire discipline of Orientalism, along with all related types of scholarship such as the sociology and anthropology of the East, the study of Oriental languages, culture, religions, history, customs, economies, geography, ethnic groups and so on, all of them contribute to a vast interlocking system of self-reinforcing ideas about the ineradicable difference between the West and the East, and the ineradicable inferiority of the latter:

The essence of Orientalism is the ineradicable distinction between Western superiority and Oriental inferiority (p.42)

Ideas which, obviously enough, were designed to bolster, justify and explain the inevitability of imperial rule. It all circles back to the fundamental premise that Knowledge is power:

To have knowledge of a thing is to dominate it, to have authority over it. (p.32)

Knowledge of subject races or Orientals is what makes their management easy and profitable; knowledge gives power, more power requires more knowledge, and so on in an increasingly profitable dialectic of information and control. (p.36)

Straightaway you can see how Said’s thesis is premised on a basically Marxist interpretation of the compromised, parti pris nature of bourgeois culture. The naive bourgeois thinks that their culture and their scholarship is objective and truthful, beacons of rationality and self-evident truths. Whereas Marxists from the 1850s onwards developed the idea that bourgeois culture was no such thing, but in every aspect a justification for the political control of their class.

Antonio Gramsci in the 1930s extended the idea that the bourgeoisie held power by extending their values through every aspect of capitalist culture to achieve what he termed hegemony.

Michel Foucault, in a series of studies in the 1960s and 70s, gave really practical examples of how this power or hegemony extended into the furthest recesses of hospitals, lunatic asylums, prisons and other state institutions.

And Said took these ideas, very current and fashionable in the mid-1970s when he was writing, and applied them to the subject closest to his heart, to imperial rule in the Middle East or Arab world.

But the idea that so-called scholarship and academic knowledge is never pure but always tainted by the power structures of the society it is generated by, is a straight Marxist idea.

Chapter 1. The Scope of Orientalism

[Chapter 1] draws a large circle around all the dimensions of the subject, both in terms of historical time and experiences and in terms of philosophical and political themes.

1. Knowing the Oriental

In western discourse the Oriental is an object to be studied, recorded, measured and ruled. He is always in a subordinate position vis-avis the Westerner. All this scholarship doesn’t depict the Oriental as they actually are: it creates an avatar of the Oriental as inferior in every way to the Westerner, and places this image within numerous ‘frameworks of power’. So study of the Orient produces a kind of ‘intellectual power’ (p.41).

Given its enormous impact and reputation it’s a surprise to discover that Orientalism is poorly conceived and poorly written. Said really struggles to develop an argument or present evidence. Instead he asserts the same core idea over and over again. In this section he opens with a speech by Arthur Balfour to the House of Commons in 1910, then goes onto some passages from the writings of Lord Cromer, consul-general in Egypt from 1883 to 1907.

Despite his repeated lists of big categories and ideas Said is decidedly poor at placing either speech in its historical context or at performing even basic practical criticism on them. He says both demonstrate the assumption of Western superiority over the East, but I thought that was the thing he was going to analyse, and whose history and development he was going to explain. Instead he just redescribes it in much the same terms he used in the Introduction. Repetition is going to be a central tactic of the book.

It’s surprising and disappointing that, having not got very far with what ought on the face of it to be two exemplars of the heyday of Orientalising imperialism he then, abruptly, jumps to an essay by Henry Kissinger (!?), ‘Domestic Structure and Foreign Policy’, published in 1966. Said says that when Kissinger, in this essay, discusses foreign policy he divides the nations of the world into the developed world and the developing world and then claims this is the same kind of binary opposition which he, Said, sees as the basis of Orientalism (West superior, East inferior). Kissinger adds the idea that the West is superior because it went through the Newtonian scientific revolution whereas the rest of the world is inferior (less developed politically and economically) because it didn’t. I see what he’s doing but it feels like a thin and predictable interpretation.

Moreover, at this early stage, it confirms the suspicion you have from the Introduction that, in one sense, Said’s deep aim in researching and writing the book is simply to attack American foreign policy, in particular US policy regarding Israel and Palestine. He doesn’t artfully combine his personal situation and history in a subtle way with objective history and scholarship, rather the reverse; his supposed scholarship keeps collapsing to reveal the pretty straightforward political agenda lurking underneath.

Lastly he comes to another contemporary essay, ‘The Arab World’ by one Harold W. Glidden published in the American Journal of Psychiatry in 1972. By now we recognise that the title alone would be enough to get Said’s goat and, sure enough, he extracts from the article a whole load of clichés about ‘the Arab world’ (based on its patriarchy, its ‘shame culture’, the way it’s structured through patron-client relationships,  the importance given to personal honour and revenge) which, predictably enough, set Said’s teeth on edge.

We’re only at part one of the first chapter and the book is in danger of turning into little more than ‘grumpy middle aged Palestinian reads the news and is outraged by anti-Arab stereotypes’.

2. Imaginative Geography and its Representations: Orientalising the Oriental [in fact this section is about historic Western attitudes to Islam]

The academic discipline of Orientalism dates its origin to the decision of the Church Council of Vienne in 1312 to establish a series of university chairs in Arabic, Greek, Hebrew and Syriac (p.50). Until the 18th century Orientalism meant chiefly study of the Biblical languages. Then in the later 18th century the field exploded and by the mid-19th century was vast.

Modern Orientalism can be said to have started with Napoleon’s expedition to Egypt, 1798 to 1801. He took scores of scholars who explored, excavated, measured, sketched and recorded every scrap of ancient Egyptian relics they could find. The result was the vast Description de l’Égypte (‘that great collective appropriation of one country by another’, p.84), the work of 160 scholars and scientists, requiring some 2,000 artists and technicians including 400 engravers. Published in 37 volumes from 1809 to 1829, at the time of its publication it was the largest known published work in the world.

In a way the sudden fashion for all things Oriental was a transposition further East of the great awakening of interest in ancient Greece and Rome which we call the Renaissance (p.51). In 1820 Victor Huge wrote: ‘In the time of Louis XIV one was a Hellenist; now one is an Orientalist.’ There was an explosion of Asiatic and Oriental and Eastern Societies devoted to studying ‘the Orient’.

But whereas the Renaissance was based on plastic relics i.e. buildings and statues, Orientalism, indicating its origins in Bible scholarship, was overwhelmingly textual. It concerned languages and belief systems. Orientalists went to the area looking to bolster and confirm what they had in ancient texts from the region.

Said’s structuring of the material is poor. In one paragraph he says there was an Oriental school of writers i.e. Western writers who were captured by its mystique, from Goethe to Flaubert. This is an interesting idea to explore, but in the very next paragraph he is discussing whether it’s valuable for university departments which study this region to retain the name ‘Oriental’. These feel like completely different topics, each would merit a page or two of thorough investigation. Instead he plonks them haphazardly side by side and doesn’t explore either of them properly. Frustrating.

He cites the anthropologist Claude Lévi-Strauss on the fundamental human tendency to give ‘poetic’ or emotional meaning to our immediate surroundings and the people who inhabit them, and define them by contrast with the land beyond our ‘borders’ and the strange people who live there. Good. But in my opinion this has always seemed a weak point in Said’s argument, because he admits that ‘othering’ ‘the Other’, far from being some wicked Western vice, is in fact a universal trait and all peoples and cultures do it.

He says he wants to investigate the geographical basis of Orientalism but, characteristically, kicks this off by summarising two classic Greek plays, The Persians by Aeschylus and The Bacchae by Euripides. It’s sort of relevant as the first one is one of the earliest Greek dramas to survive and depicts ‘the East’ as a military threat in the form of the Persian Empire. The second is one of the final ancient Greek plays which has come down to us and is also about ‘the East’ which it associates with frenzied religious cults – but discussing history via literature (and therefore ignoring the evidence of archaeology and history) is always a shaky procedure.

Next thing we know Said is talking about the rise of Islam. His account is inferior to every other account I’ve ever read, lacking detail, interest or insight. Compare it, for example, with the final illuminating chapter of Peter Brown’s wonderful book, ‘The World of Late Antiquity’ (1971).

Said is blinkered by his need to twist every aspect of history to suit his thesis, to make out the West to always be blinkered, limiting, constraining, ignorant, creating the East in its own negative image. Hence he underplays the completely real threat which militant Islam actually posed to Christendom for nearly a thousand years. He refers to the West’s ‘anxiety’ as if it is an over-nervous neurotic, whereas Islamic armies captured and colonised half of Christendom, seizing all of North Africa, Spain and the entire Middle East from what had been Christian rule, then capturing the great Christian city of Constantinople and then pressing on through the Balkans into central Europe until Ottoman conquest was only finally halted just outside Vienna. See the quote from Edward Gibbon, below. Of course the West was terrified of these unstoppably conquering armies. Of course we were scared shitless of these plundering hordes. He himself admits this in a sentence thrown away while he’s discussing something else:

During its political and military heyday from the eighth to the sixteenth century, Islam dominated both East and West. (p.205)

Only someone with a poor grasp of deep history can dismiss eight centuries of Islam’s military, cultural and economic domination as if it’s nothing, a speck, a detail which we can quickly hurry past in order to get to the juicy part, the West’s wicked wicked domination of the Muslim world for, what, all of 300 years.

Having broached the topic of Islam, Said goes on to describe the way medieval authors vilified Mohammed as a kind of failed impersonator of Christ. He emphasises the West’s ‘ignorance’ and ‘narcissism’. On the next page he is claiming that this kind of ignorance created the Orient as a kind of theatre attached to Europe on whose stage were presented a whole series of Oriental types and stereotypes, from Cleopatra onwards. His text moves fast and deals with a confusing variety of topics, all of them very superficially. The only constant is his relentless criticism of every aspect of ‘the West’.

He introduces us to the Bibliothegue oriental of Barthelemy d’Herbelot (1697), which was to remain the standard reference work on the subject for over a hundred years, before going on to explain how this kind of encyclopedic work narrows and constrains its subject matter until readers could only approach this knowledge of the Orient via ‘the learned grids and codes’ provided by the Orientalist.

Said makes this sound like some awful conspiracy, as if the worst thing anybody could ever do would be to write a book on a factual subject, because that would involve imposing ‘grids and codes’ on it and so preventing any reader ever struggling through to a ‘true’ understanding of it.

In fact Said frequently uses these scare tactics, as if he’s letting you in on the shocking truth! The text as a whole has the obsessively repetitive feel of a conspiracy theorist letting you in on a secret which is even worse than the fake moon landings, who killed JFK and what really happened at Roswell, yes, this previously covered-up, hush-hush secret is that…a lot of Western literature and culture stereotypes the so-called ‘Orient’ and ‘the Arab world’ and ‘Islam’.

Next Said has a couple of pages revealing that Dante, in his great masterpiece The Divine Comedy, put Mohamed right in the lowermost pit of hell, next to Satan, for the sin of being a sensualist and religious impostor. He takes this as an epitome of the West’s fundamental Islamophobia.

Said broadens his critique out to describe how conquering Islam came to be seen in Christendom as the vital ‘Other’ against which European Christendom defined itself. Far from being some kind of revelation, this just strikes me as being obvious, really bleeding obvious, particularly to anyone who’s ever read any medieval history. Of course European Christendom defined the Islamic Arab world as ‘the Other’ because it was the Other. India let alone China were just rumours. Nobody had ever been to sub-Saharan Africa. Nobody knew North or South America or Australia existed. To anyone living in medieval Europe, in a society drenched at every single level at every single moment in Christian belief and practice, all there was was Christendom and facing it the enemy at the gates who threatened to overthrow and destroy everything they knew and cared for. Of course the Orient was depicted as alien, because it was alien. Of course it was depicted as threatening, because it had overrun and conquered half of Christendom. Even Said at one point admits this:

From the end of the seventh century until the battle of Lepanto in 1571, Islam in either its Arab, Ottoman or North African and Spanish form dominated or effectively threatened European Christianity. (p.74)

Said goes on to quote Edward Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire without, apparently, realising the full implications of what he’s citing:

In the ten years of the administration of Omar, the Saracens reduced to his obedience thirty-six thousand cities or castles, destroyed four thousand churches or temples of the unbelievers, and edified fourteen hundred mosques for the exercise of the religion of Mahomet. One hundred years after his flight from Mecca, the arms and the reign of his successors extended from India to the Atlantic Ocean.

‘Destroyed four thousand churches.’ How do you think that struck a society completely dominated by Christian belief? With horror and terror.

3. Projects [turns into a list of French Orientalists]

Starts with more stuff about the rivalry between Christianity and Islam. Yawn. By page 75 I was remembering my impression on first reading this book 40 years ago, that Said just doesn’t have the intellectual chops to manage such a huge subject, with all its vast conceptual ramifications, that he is trying to address. He’s bitten off far more than he can chew and the symptoms of this are his repetitiveness, his superficial analyses, his raising complex issue only to move swiftly on. And his superficial and often wrong versions of history.

The Ottoman Empire had long since settled into a (for Europe) comfortable senescence, to be inscribed in the nineteenth century as the ‘Eastern Question’. (p.76)

1) The Ottoman Empire did not settle into a ‘comfortable senescence’ in the later 18th and 19th centuries. There was a good deal of upheaval and violence in the palace of the Sultan, not to mention endless uprisings and rebellions by national groups around the empire.

2) Said’s tone is unpleasantly patronising, condescending to the both the contemporary politicians who had to deal with and the modern historians who write about the Eastern Question. The use of the modish, pretentious, would-be Parisian intellectual verb ‘inscribed’ tries to hide the fact that Said doesn’t know what he’s talking about. The ‘Eastern Question’ is the term given to the series of geopolitical tensions and international crises brought about by the obvious decline and fall of the Ottoman Empire, crises which included, for example, the Crimean War and a stream of military and diplomatic crises in the Balkans in the 1870s and 1880s which threatened to drag all Europe into war. See my review of Andrew Roberts’s life of Lord SalisburyThat book was extremely well researched, intelligently analytical and beautifully written. Next to Roberts, Said looks like a blustering frog puffing up his throat to try and persuade everyone how important he is.

The next orientalist book of note after Barthelemy d’Herbelot‘s Bibliothegue oriental, was Simon Ockley‘s History of the Saracens (1708). Ockley shocked contemporaries by recording how much of the ancient world only survived because the Muslims saved it.

Next major Orientalist was Abraham Hyacinthe Anquetil-Duperron (1731 to 1805), the first professional French Indologist, whose work on Avestan texts prompted him, unlike previous scholars, to actually go to India. (The Avesta is the primary collection of religious texts of Zoroastrianism, composed in the Avestan language.) Anquetil’s publications (including a translation of the Upanishads), opened up huge new vistas of Indian literature to European readers.

Next major Orientalist was Sir William Jones (1746 to 1794), British philologist, orientalist and scholar of ancient India. It was Jones who first suggested the relationship between European and Indo-Aryan languages which is now widely accepted. Said doesn’t like him. Jones was a polymath who embarked on a deep immersion in the languages and texts of India. He founded the Asiatic Society of Bengal in 1784. According to some he was ‘the undisputed founder of Orientalism’ (p.78).

As Said went on about Jones, and the other Brits who gathered round him, studying and translating Sanskrit texts (e.g. Charles Wilkins, first translator of the Bhagavad-Gita, in 1785), I suddenly realised we had made a huge leap away from Islam, Mohammed and the Arab world to India, a completely different civilisation.

That is the primary problem with Said’s use of the word and concept ‘Oriental’, that it can refer to the Near East, Middle East, Far East, India, China, Japan you name it – and Said doesn’t help. He offers no conceptual or lexical clarification, no way of making the term more geographically or conceptually precise. In fact you realise that it suits his political agenda to keep it as open and slippery as possible. This allows him to jump from one criticism to another of ‘the West’ and its awful Oriental scholars all the more easily, to shift his ground, to continually move the goalposts.

His narrative moves on to Napoleon’s invasion of Egypt which, you will remember, was described just 40 pages ago. He repeats some of the key facts from the earlier passage, but adds new details. This, you feel, is how Said’s mind works, going round in circles, covering the same ground albeit with new wrinkles, making the same points again and again – Western Orientalism was (and is) an artificial construct, a self-referential system, built on self-serving stereotypes of Oriental backwardness, laziness, corruption and sensuality, which paved the way for and justified Western (French and British) imperialism.

The most interesting new bit is a (typically brief) account of Constantin François de Chassebœuf, comte de Volney (1757 to 1820) who wrote an extremely practical record, Voyage en Egypte et en Syrie (1787), which detailed the obstacles an invader would face in conquering Egypt, and was consulted and used by Napoleon. Many of Napoleon’s Orientalist scholars had trained under de Sacy and Said tells us his pupils dominated the field of Orientalism for the next 75 years.

de Sacy was the first Frenchman to attempt to read the Rosetta stone (discovered by some of Napoleon’s soldiers in 1799) and he was a teacher of Jean-François Champollion who went on to play a key role in deciphering it and Egyptian hieroglyphics.

The introduction to the vast Description of Egypt was written by Jean-Baptiste Joseph Fourier (1768 to 1830) known to history as a mathematician but who accompanied Napoleon’s expedition as scientific adviser. Fourier was appointed secretary of the Institut d’Égypte and contributed papers to the Egyptian Institute (also called the Cairo Institute) which Napoleon founded with the aim of weakening British influence in the East.

Said, characteristically, sees these institutes devoted to study of the Orient (and the others founded around Europe at the same time) as ‘agencies of domination and dissemination’ (alliteration is an important element of critical theory; sounds impressive) (p.87).

Said gives a handy half-page list (God, he loves lists) of the aims of Napoleon’s project, as summarised by Fourier himself, which amounts to a shopping list of Orientalism, namely:

  • to restore Egypt from its present fallen state to its former glory
  • to instruct the Orient in the ways of the modern West
  • to promote ‘knowledge’ of the East
  • to define ‘the East’ in such a way as to make it seem a natural appendage or annex of the West
  • to situate European scholars as on control of Oriental history, texts, geography
  • to establish new disciplines with which to control even more ‘knowledge’ about the Orient
  • to convert every observation into a ‘law’ about the eternal unchanging essence of ‘the Orient’
  • to bring ‘the obscurity’ of the Orient into the light and clarity of Western science

Above all, to convert the 3D ‘reality’ of the multivariant Orient into texts, the fundamental sources of power and control in Western ideology, sources written by Westerners, edited by Westerners, updated by Westerners, for the minds and imaginations of Western politicians and public. Fourier goes on to confirm all Said’s ideas when he writes that Egypt will provide ‘a theatre’ for Napoleon’s ‘gloire’ (p.86).

The Orient as stage for Western glory. Out of this matrix of dominating discourses come classics of Orientalising literature such as:

  • François-René de Chateaubriand’s Itinéraire de Paris à Jérusalem (1811)
  • Alphonse de Lamartine’s Voyage en Orient (1835)
  • E.W. Lane’s Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyptians (1836)
  • Richard Burton’s Personal Narrative of a Pilgrimage to El-Medinah and Meccah (1856)
  • Gustave Flaubert’s Salammbô (1862)

In the world of scholarship the next milestone was Ernest Renan’s Histoire générale et système comparé des langues sémitiques (1855).

Said’s text progresses not logically and chronologically, but crabwise, digressively, one thing leading to another. It’s fairly well known that the Suez Canal was conceived, designed and supervised by Ferdinand de Lesseps. Less well known that his father Mathieu de Lesseps went to Egypt as part of Napoleon’s huge expedition and stayed on after the Napoleonic forces withdrew in 1801.

It’s a mental tic of Said’s that he often writes a sentence or paragraph or topic about a subject, then shoehorns in a sentence in parentheses because it’s in his notes and it’s relevant but he can’t think of a way of including it in a logical exposition. An example is the way he ends his discussion of the Suez Canal’s symbolic significance (uniting East and West, ‘opening’ Egypt to the modern world etc) with a really throwaway reference to the Suez Crisis of 1956. He should either have given the Suez Crisis a paragraph of its own, where its significance could have been properly developed, or not mentioned it all. A brief throwaway reference is the worst of all worlds, but very typical of his scatter-gun, repetitive and badly structured approach.

For Said the Suez Canal finally dispelled the notion of the Orient as somehow remote and barely reachable. The Suez Canal dragged ‘the Orient’ into the fast-growing global imagination, made it imaginatively reachable (he doesn’t mention the establishment of the first Cook’s tours to Egypt at around the time of the canal’s opening, the 1860s). At the same time made it more of an annex and dependency.

4. Crisis

He repeats one his basic ideas which is that Orientalism amounted to the transformation of messy reality into tidied-up texts.

It seems a common human failing to prefer the schematic authority of a text to the disorientations of direct encounters with the human. (p.93)

He calls this the textual attitude. Travel books are an epitome of this attitude, assuring readers of a kind of Platonic ideal of a place which all-too-often fails to live up to the book’s idealised portrait.

Suddenly he’s giving a page-long quote from Egyptian social scientist Anwar Abdel Malek (1924 to 2012), from his 1963 essay ‘Orientalism in crisis’.

This is a not particularly relevant preliminary to ‘a history of Orientalism’. Said says all the pioneering Orientalists were philologists. Almost all the great discoveries in philology of the nineteenth century were based on study of texts brought back from the Orient. The central idea was that European languages were descended from two great families of Oriental languages, Indo-European and Semitic. Said gives a political interpretation of this, saying it proves 1) the linguistic importance of the Orient (its languages and scripts) to the achievements of Western research/knowledge, and 2) the Western tendency to divide and categorise Oriental materials to suit its own interests.

Orientalism is inextricably bound up with the study of language and texts; and therefore had a huge tendency to look far back into the past, to a golden age when Orientals lived the idealised lives depicted in the Upanishads or the Koran. In other words, a field of study entirely based on romantic images of an ideal past was always going to regard the messy realities of modern life in India or the Middle East as ‘degraded’ and fallen. Orientalists travelled to the East with their heads full of Romantic ideals and were horrified by the poverty and backwardness of what they saw, leading to a universal agreement that inhabitants of the modern Orient were degraded, debased and vulgarised – ‘an upsetting demystification of images culled from texts’ (p.101).

He’s barely told us he’s going to do a history of Orientalism before he tells us he’s not, and instead going to rattle off lists of eminent Orientalists ‘to mention a few famous names almost at random’ (p.99). Scholars, philosophers, imaginative writers, novelists, poets, travel writers, and explorers and archaeologists, they all contributed to the vast hegemony of Orientalism.

Suddenly it’s 1955, the year of the Bandung Conference, by which date all the nations of the former Orient were independent, presenting Orientalists with conceptual problems. This undermined (destroyed) one whole trope about Oriental peoples, of them being passive and fatalistic.

(This itself is obviously a gross simplification since movements for independence began to stir as early as the 1880s [the Indian National Congress was founded in 1885)], were loud and powerful enough to worry Kipling in the 1890s, and gained new momentum after the Great War. I.e. it’s plain wrong to say the trope of passive Orientals was overthrown by 1955, the contrary evidence was highly visible 50 years earlier.)

Suddenly Said is quoting from the first of a series of lectures given by the ‘great’ Oriental scholar H.A.R. Gibb in 1945, ‘Modern Trends in Islam’, a passage which beautifully illustrates the kind of tropes Said is on about, in that Gibb pontificates about ‘the Arab mind’ being utterly different from the Western mind, specifically in its inability to generalise from individual instances out to general laws and so their inability to have the rationalist thought and utilitarian practices which characterise the West.

This slips somehow into critiquing modern-day Orientalists such as Bernard Lewis (1916 to 2018) who set themselves up as experts on ‘Islam’, ‘the Arab mind’ and so on but just repeat the same old slanders about the Orient’s ineradicable backwardness but also – and suddenly the political Said steps forward into the limelight – uses all these tropes and prejudices to defend Israeli policy in Palestine.

And this turns quickly into polemic as he accuses Orientalists of ignoring ‘the revolutionary turmoil’ gripping the Islamic Orient, the ‘anticolonialism’ sweeping the Orient, as the world faces various disasters (nuclear, environmental) Said accuses politicians of ‘exploiting popular caricatures’ of the Orient.

These contemporary Orientalist attitudes flood the press and the popular mind. (p.108)

And his anger at white people:

A white middle-class Westerner believes it is his human prerogative not only to manage the nonwhite world but also to own it. (p,108)

Who’s making sweeping generalisations now? Who’s invoking racial stereotypes now?

You can’t help thinking that the tiger of passionate political polemic is constantly straining at the leash just below the surface of Said’s text, ready at any moment to break free and unleash a torrent of righteous indignation, genuine anger not only at Western Orientalists but the greedy white societies which host them. Pages 105 to 110 display his real anger at the way academic, cultural and political Orientalists deploy a whole armoury of demeaning tropes and stereotypes to maintain the lie of the Oriental as a passive, backward degenerate, even up to the time of writing (1976 to 1977).

It might also explain why the book is so poor as scholarly exposition, why he promises some kind of history of Orientalism on page 96 but a few pages later apologises for giving us only a very superficial sketch, skipping over names and dates, citing essays and speeches almost at random. It’s because what is really motivating him is to get to the Polemical Outburst.

(I got to the end of this section without really understanding why it was titled ‘crisis’.)

Chapter 2. Orientalist Structures and Restructures

[Chapter 2] attempts to trace the development of modern Orientalism by a broadly chronological description, and also by the description of a set of devices common to the work of important poets, artists and scholars.

In this chapter my concern is to show how in the nineteenth century a modern professional terminology and practice were created whose existence dominated discourse about the Orient, whether by Orientalists or non-Orientalists. (p.156)

1. Redrawn Frontiers, Redefined Issues, Secularised Religion

Like the literary critic he started out as, Said opens with a 2-page summary of the plot of Flaubert’s last novel, Bouvard and Pecuchet, two clerks who come into an inheritance, resign, buy a house in the country and proceed to systematically study every subject then known to modern man, with a view to mastering all the arts and crafts. Inevitably, the turn out to bodge every single one. Said’s quoting the novel because in Flaubert’s notes for the ending (he died before completing it) the pair talk about the future and hope for a great regeneration of the West by the East.

Said takes this as his theme and shows how it derived from the Enlightenment achievement of rejecting Christianity but incorporating many of its mental structures, such as a millennial transformation of society, and how, in a central thread of the Romantic tradition, this transformation and redemption was expected to come from the East, or from the reintegration of Eastern and Western thought.

Modern Orientalism derives from secularising elements in eighteenth century European culture (p.120)

This triggers a rash of name-dropping – Schlegel, Novalis, Wordsworth, Chateaubriand, Comte, Schopenhauer.

Said is, of course, sharply critical of this whole way of thinking, saying it’s yet another example of Western intellectuals thinking they own the world and that ‘Asia’ or ‘the Orient’ will be happy to play this redemptive role for the benefit of the West.

During the eighteenth century the way for modern Orientalist structures was laid down in four major developments:

  1. Expansion The East was opened up far beyond the Islamic lands, by a range of explorers he lists
  2. Historical confrontation History benefited from an anthropology which conceived of cultures as self-contained systems and began to think more sympathetically about them e.g. George Sales’s translation of the Koran which also translated Muslim commentators
  3. Sympathy Leading to ‘sympathetic identification’ by which some writers, artists, and Mozart (his opera, ‘The Abduction from the Seraglio’) imaginatively identified with the East, he briefly sketches the rise of the Gothic and exotic in writers like Beckford, Byron, Thomas Moore et al
  4. Classification The Western impulse to categorise everything into types, Linnaeus, Buffon, Kant, Diderot, Johnson, Montesqieu, Blumenbach, Soemmerring, Vico, Rousseau, it’s difficult to make out the scanty ideas through the blizzard of impressive names

In this chapter:

My thesis is that the essential aspects of modern Orientalist theory and praxis (from which present-day Orientalism derives) can be understood, not as a sudden access of objective knowledge about the Orient, but as a set of structures inherited from the past, secularised, redisposed, and reformed by such disciplines as philology, which in turn were naturalised, modernised and laicised substitutes for (or versions of) Christian supernaturalism. (p.122)

2. Silvestre de Sacy and Ernest Renan: Rational Anthropology and Philological Laboratory

An extended discussion of the lives and works of these two founding Orientalists or, as he puts it, Orientalism’s:

inaugural heroes, builders of the field, creators of a tradition, progenitors of the orientalist brotherhood (p.122)

In Said’s usual manner this starts out reasonably clearly but soon gets bogged down in his characteristically elliptical, digressive, list-heavy and oddly expressed style. It is a struggle to read. Sacy was interested in fragments of texts and knowledge (a mindset very typical of the Romantic generation).

Renan is tougher-minded. Said’s passage on Renan brings out the importance of philology, considered as a leading discipline. He brings in Nietzsche, who was also a philologist, to describe how the discipline means bringing to light the meanings latent in words and language. Renan wrote in 1848: ‘the founders of the modern mind are philologists.’ The ‘new’ philology of the start of the nineteenth century was to score major successes:

  • the creation of comparative grammar
  • the reclassification of languages into families
  • the final rejection of the divine origins of language

Prior to this scholars thought that God gave Adam the first language in the Garden of Eden. The systematic discoveries of philologists in Semitic then Sanskrit languages, along with the texts newly discovered and translated from India, was to make the story of one divine origin for language untenable, and also to call into question the previously accepted timelines of the Book of Genesis.

Thus it was his philological studies which led Renan to lose his Christian faith and then to go on to write the secular Life of Jesus, published in 1863, the first account to portray Jesus as a purely human figure, which had a dramatic impact on intellectual life all across Europe.

In my opinion, Said misses a big point here, a massive point, which is that European Christendom (and latterly American Christian churches) have a weird, strange, distorted interest in the Middle East because that is where their religion comes from.

Islam has a kind of geographical integrity, because the key locations of the religion are in the ongoing heartlands of Islamic territory i.e. Saudi Arabia and to a lesser extent Jerusalem. By contrast the faith and ideology on which ‘the West’ based itself until very recently, along with all its holy texts, derive from a geographical location outside itself, completely detached from itself by the Muslim conquests of the 7th and 8th centuries.

This accident of history and geography explains why ‘the West’ has had such an intrusive, interfering interest in the Middle East, from the Crusades to Russia claiming control of the Holy Places which triggered the Crimean War, the mandates over Palestine and Syria between the wars – and always will have, for the region is the ground zero of its religious and ideological underpinnings.

The Orientalists Said describes were so obsessed with the Middle East because they sought, through their philological enquiries, to get closer to the heart of and seek out deeper secrets, of their faith and religion. Hence the recovery of all the texts they could get their hands on, the immense effort put into the archaeology of the region, setting up umpteen Institutes and learned societies.

Said mentions the minuscule number of ‘Orientals’ who came to Europe during the nineteenth century compared to the tidal wave of Europeans who went to the Orient and this is a major reason. Not many Arabs or Indians are interested in visiting, for example, Stonehenge, which has a purely tourist interest for them. But potentially every Christian had a profound vested interest in the stream of archaeological and philological discoveries which poured out the Middle East and Egypt throughout the nineteenth and on into the early twentieth century (for example, the discovery of the tomb of Tutankhamen) because each new discovery shed light on their faith, and the sum total of the discoveries tended to undermine Christian faith altogether, as it did in the high profile case of Renan.

Said brings out how Renan came to prefer the Sanskrit family of languages origin of the idea of an Indo-European language i.e. ancestors of European languages, over the Semitic family, which is the parent of Hebrew and Arabic. His dislike of the latter hardened into an antisemitic attitude which he expressed with growing virulence and became part of the anti-Arab, anti-Islamic discourse of Orientalism.

Said very briefly refers to the post-Prussian haste among the imperial powers to draw up maps, to mark boundaries of power and control over the colonial possessions. Hence (he doesn’t say this) the notorious Berlin Conference of 1885, called to allow all the European powers to peacefully agree who controlled which parts of Africa, through to the post-Great War division of the Middle East between Britain and France and the equally notorious maps of new states drawn up by Mark Sykes and Georges Picot.

The aim of all this map making activity was never the interest of the native inhabitants, but solely the need to avert conflict arising between the powers, above all between France and Britain.

3. Oriental Residence and Scholarship: The Requirements of Lexicography and Imagination

The profession of Orientalist is based on multiple inequalities, of wealth and power and intellectual control (of the West over the East).

This section carries on from the previous section, dwelling on Renan’s contempt for Semitic languages and peoples and asserting that philology, by reducing a language to its roots, has a similar reductive effect on views about its speakers and peoples. He comments on the tendency of Orientalists of the Romantic generation to project grand romantic feelings onto the Orient, then experience an adverse reaction when they learned more about the reality of the actual contemporary Orient, accusing it of being ‘backward’ and ‘barbaric’.

So many Orientalists ended up hating their subject, not just Renan but William Muir, Reinhart Dozy, Alfred Lyall, Caussin de Perceval. Each of these pieced together and constructed versions of ‘the Orient’ from fragments, creating imaginary models for other Orientalists to debate.

Popular stereotypes about the Orient were perpetrated by mainstream authors such as Thomas Carlyle and Lord Macaulay. Orientalist tropes were used by eminent men in unrelated fields as diverse as Cardinal Newman or French naturalist and zoologist Georges Cuvier.

Marx and abstraction

Even Karl Marx, usually friend of the poor and downtrodden, gives in to Orientalist tropes in his 1850s writings about India, where he says that although British rule is harsh and stupid, it may be historically necessary to waken India from its backward, barbaric stupor.

Said quotes a bit of Marx on India where the latter himself quotes Goethe, and this, for Said, shows the origins of Marx’s Orientalism in classic Romantic worldview, wherein peoples and races need redemption from suffering through pain.

The idea of regenerating a fundamentally lifeless Asia is a piece of pure Romantic Orientalism. (p.154)

Said says these are all examples of Western knowledge’s tendency to group everything into high-level categories and groups and ignore the multiplicity, diversity and specificity of individual lives on the ground. He makes the fairly crude accusation that:

Orientalists are neither interested in nor capable of discussing individuals. (p.154)

 I have a big problem with this whole angle of Said’s attack, because the tendency to categorise and group entities under abstract terms is, of course, fundamental to the management of all knowledge and of all modern societies. The field of medicine I work in is only possible by virtue of general categories, starting with the notion of ‘patients’ or ‘cases’. Take epidemiology, ‘the study of the determinants, occurrence, and distribution of health and disease in a defined population’, which played a central role in the management of COVID-19 around the world – this is only possible by converting individual cases into numbers and groups and categories.

Accusing just the one academic discipline of Orientalism of doing this – turning the specificity of individual people into abstract categories and numbers – seems to me 1) factually incorrect; almost all academic or professional specialisms do just this; and 2) this approach is the basis of our entire civilisation, the entirety of Western science, medicine, public health provision and so on rests on this approach.

I take the point that, in his opinion, the conversion of teeming cities full of all kinds of races, religious groups, ethnicities, sexualities and so on into one big dumb category, the Orient, is a kind of abuse of the procedure, and was designed to justify imperial conquest and rule. Yes yes. But to attack the intellectual approach of gathering large numbers of people together under particular headings or categories as somehow inherently wicked and abusive seems to me plain wrong.

Anyway Said spends a page guessing that what happened is Marx’s initial sympathy for suffering individuals in the East met, in his mind, the censorship and ‘the lexicographical police action of Orientalist science’, of the accumulated playbook of orientalist metaphors prevalent in his Romantic sources, and shut down his human sympathies in favour of Orientalist stereotypes.

What Said’s devoting a couple of pages to Marx really indicates is how important Marx still was to his audience in the academy back in 1978, that he has to perform such mental gymnastics to reconcile what he wrote about India with what he takes for granted was ‘Marx’s humanity, his sympathy for the misery of people’ (p.154).

As so often Said is blinkered or partial because the whole point of Marx is that he was a kind of acme of converting individual people into vast historical abstractions; his whole deal was about mentally converting the teeming masses of capitalist countries into vast abstracts named the proletariat and the bourgeoisie. In doing so he notoriously dismissed vast numbers of people who would be trodden on and be victims of the historical process, namely the industrial bourgeoisie which would have to be eliminated in a violent revolution. And all of this needed to be carried out in the cause of the biggest Romantic redemptive project every conceived i.e. the creation of the utopian classless society.

But Said ignores the fact that Marx’s central procedure was to apply huge dehumanising categories to all Western societies, and instead somehow wants imply that he only did it to India; that this was somehow unique to his thought, a uniquely dehumanising and uniquely Orientalising manoeuvre to make, whereas, as I’ve just shown, the very same procedure was of course fundamental to Marx’s entire approach.

Travelling to the Orient

Moving on, Said says you can draw a distinction between Orientalists who stayed in Europe and worked from texts, and those who actually went to the Orient, some of them settling and living there. Here they had the exciting experience of living like kings, the life of the privileged imperial conqueror, waited on hand and foot, free to travel anywhere.

Goes on to say that an interesting process can be observed, which is they start off writing about specific experiences but sooner or later come up against Orientalist tropes, rather like the buffers in a railway station. Some Western writing became official while other texts remained personal, such as tourist and travel writing (Flaubert, Kinglake, Mark Twain). He attempts a little categorisation of motives for travelling to the Orient at this period (mid-nineteenth century):

  1. The writer aiming to gather information for scientific purposes
  2. The writer intending to gain evidence but happy to mix this with personal observation and style – e.g. Richard Burton’s Personal Narrative of a Pilgrimage to Al-Madinah and Mecca (1857)
  3. The writer who travels to fulfil a personal (often literary) project – e.g. Gérard de Nerval’s Voyage en Orient (1851)

He calls the intentions of the different writers, their ‘author-function’ (p.159). I looked this up and a) it’s a term coined by Foucault who, as we’ve seen, Said is very indebted to throughout; and b) Foucault uses the term author-function as: ‘a concept that replaces the idea of the author as a person, and instead refers to the ‘discourse’ that surrounds an author or body of work’ (Open University)

He cashes this out with an extended discussion of the career of Orientalist Edward Lane (1801 to 1876), showing how the quirky personal asides he included in his monumental 1836 work, ‘Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyptians’, were expunged in his subsequent works – an entirely functional Arabic-English Lexicon and an ‘uninspired’ translation of the Arabian Nights (p.164).

4. Pilgrims and Pilgrimages, British and French

Pursuing the same line, Said categorises the many writers who went on journeys to the Orient as ‘pilgrims’.

(In my opinion the chapter title and concept just highlight the huge holes in his account, which include a proper discussion of actual Christian pilgrimage, a proper consideration of medieval literature, which would include a proper account of the Crusades and, indeed the vast and generally unread libraries of devotional Christian literature. Seen in this wider perspective, Said’s account pretty much solely focuses on the nineteenth century, taking its start from writers he would have taught in his comparative literature course, such as Victor Hugo, Gérard de Nerval, Flaubert and going a bit beyond them into the actual literature of Orientalists such as Sacy, Renan, Burton, Lane and so on. But of the vast hinterland of medieval and Christian accounts of the Orient, almost nothing [excepting the passage about Dante]. Not his specialism, not his area.)

He compares and contrasts British and French visitors to the region and makes the simple point that the British had strong or defining presence on the ground and the French didn’t: the British beat the French to seize India during the eighteenth century and slowly ramped up their presence in the Middle East till they established an unofficial protectorate over Egypt in 1882.

The Mediterranean echoed with the sounds of French defeats, from the Crusades to Napoleon. What was to become known as ‘la mission civilisatrice’ began in the nineteenth century as a political second-best to Britain’s presence. (p.169)

The (partly) explains why (some) British writing feels practical and administrative while some much French writing is more imaginative, projective, wistful, dwelling in ruins and lost hopes etc.

He spends some time summarising François-René, vicomte de Chateaubriand’s ‘Itinerary from Paris to Jerusalem of 1811’. Said shows how, besides Chateaubriand’s obsessive narcissism the book reeks of Orientalist tropes, despising Islam, regarding the Arab as degraded, saying the whole region needs to be redeemed by the West. Said talks about his ‘Christian vindictiveness’ (p.174).

He moves on to discuss Alphonse de Lamartine’s ‘Voyage en Orient’ of a generation later, 1835. He, too, ends up disliking the reality of the terrain and people (thinking it was painted better by Poussin, p.178) and saying it is ripe for conquest and development by the West.

Then on to Nerval (visited 1842-3) and Flaubert (1849-50). Nerval writes of an eerily empty Orient, disappointing the Romantic fantasies he had learned from (earlier Orientalist) books. He copies large blocs from Edward Lane’s account and passes them off as his own.

Flaubert, much the greater writer, vividly describes what he sees before him in notes and his wonderful letters. The Orient was to bulk large in two of his six novels, Salammbô (1862) and The Temptation of Saint Anthony (1874). Said takes an excerpt from Flaubert’s notes on visiting a hospital to highlight the way morality and revulsion are completely excise; all that matters is the correct rendering of exact detail (p.186).

The most famous episode in Flaubert’s journey to the Orient was the time he spent with Kuchuk Hanem, an Egyptian sex worker. This is a peg for Said to talk a little about the sexual stereotypes of the East and to make the fairly obvious point that not only for nineteenth century writers but for many readers ‘the Orient’ became associated with sensuality, guilt free and available sex, much more available than back in Victorian strictly regimented Europe.

But the main impact this had on me was to realise how little he talks about sex, desire, gender, feminism, themes which massively saturate modern academic studies. In fact he raises the issue, why the Orient then (and now) suggests ‘not only fecundity but sexual promise (and threat), untiring sensuality, unlimited desire, deep generative energies’, before going on to say (in his typically not quite correct English) ‘it is not the province of my analysis here.’ A little later (p.208) he refers to the use of Orientalist stereotypes of ‘exotic’ sex in semi-pornographic novels but, by and large, it’s not his thing, his aim, his subject.

Then he returns to his main theme, ‘the sense of layer upon layer of interests, official learning, institutional pressure, that covered the Orient as a subject matter and as a territory during the second half of the nineteenth century’ (p.192).

British visitors and writers had a harder more realistic sense of what pilgrimages to the Orient entailed. The French didn’t own any territory and so were, in a sense, more imaginatively free. The British were always anchored in the reality by the vast responsibility of India, later on of Egypt, both of which meant that tough questions about administration and Realpolitik lurked behind even the most carefree travelogue. In a word, they are less imaginative. He has harsh words for Alexander Kinglake (1809 to 1891, Eton and Cambridge), English travel writer and historian, whose ‘Eothen’ or Traces of travel brought home from the East’ (1844) was wildly popular. Kinglake didn’t let his ignorance of any Oriental language and poor grasp of its culture stop him from making sweeping xenophobic, antisemitic and racist generalisations about the culture, mentality and society of ‘the Orient’.

This contrasts with the splendid achievements of Richard Burton, always an imperialist at heart, but a rebel against the establishment who took great delight in pointing out to the Orientalists that he knew more languages, had travelled more, seen more and understood more of the Arab mind than they ever would. Of all the writers of the classic Orientalist period Burton is the one who knew most about the actual specificities of Arab and Muslim life which Said values. He is maybe the last compromised of all these writers. And yet throughout his work is the assumption that the Orient is there to be taken, to be ruled by the West, by Britain, leading Said to another restatement of his core theme, that in Burton’s writings:

Orientalism, which is the system of European or Western knowledge about the Orient, thus becomes synonymous with European domination of the Orient… (p.199)

Chapter 3. Orientalism Now

Begins where its predecessor left off at around 1870. This is the period of greatest colonial expansion into the Orient…the very last section characterises the shift from British and French to American hegemony. I attempt to sketch the present intellectual and social realities of Orientalism in the United States.

1. Latent and Manifest Orientalism

The phrase is obviously derived from Freud’s notion, first expressed in The Interpretation of Dreams, that dreams have both a manifest or obvious content, and then a latent or secret meaning (also latent in the sense that it required work by patient and therapist to bring it out). Said applies Freud’s metaphor to his topic of study.

The idea is simple: the details or surface or manifest Orientalism have changed and varied over the past 250 years but the latent or bedrock attitudes behind it remain as fixed as ever, namely that the Orient is backward, poor, lazy, undisciplined and passive, in need of endless help (p.206).

Actually his argument is not helped by the way that he continually shuffles the attributes he claims that Orientalism attributes to the Orient. In the space of a few pages he says there are the Orient’s:

  • sensuality, tendency to despotism, aberrant mentality, habits of inaccuracy, backwardness (p.205)
  • eccentricity, backwardness, silent indifference, female penetrability, supine malleability (p.206)
  • backward, degenerate, uncivilised, retarded (p.207)

I take the point that each list shuffles from a pack of negative stereotypes, but, like his repeated attempts to give a precise definition of Orientalism, none of which really nail it, there’s a constant sense of blurriness and slippage.

Helplessness

I read his criticism of this idea of Oriental ‘helplessness’ on a day (23 September 2023) when, on the radio, I heard that Morocco needs Western help because of the massive earthquake which just struck it, that Libya needs Western help because of the unprecedented floods which have devastated it, that Lebanon still needs help rebuilding itself three years on from the devastating explosion of 4 August 2020, and saw a charity appeal to help the victims of the civil war in Yemen.

It’s all very well to read Said’s repeated claim that seeing the Orient as helplessly needing Western intervention is an Orientalist trope, a demeaning stereotype entirely created by the institutions he describes, and yet…it also appears to be a real-world fact.

SOAS

Anyway, Said continues to describe (yet again) the process whereby a set of intellectual interests and disciplines based in study of the Biblical languages slowly transformed into a series of postulates which justified and enabled the colonial occupation of ‘the Orient’. He quotes Lord Cromer’s paternalistic speeches, specifically the one calling for the establishment of an institute to study the region, which was a trigger point for the establishment of the University of London’s School of Oriental and African Studies.

The importance of geography

If the section about Renan dwelled on the importance of the discipline of philology, this section dwells on the academic discipline of geography for the colonial enterprise. As Said puts it in his foggy, unclear prose:

Geography was essentially the material underpinning for knowledge about the Orient. All the latent and unchanging characteristics of the Orient stood upon, were rooted in, its geography. (p.216)

France bounced back from its humiliating defeat in the Franco-Prussian War (1870 to 71) with a renewed determination to expand its empire and this led, among other things, to ‘a tremendous efflorescence of geographical societies’ (p.217). There was even a thing called the geographical movement.

Scientific geography gave rise to commercial geography and an explosion of utopian schemes to interfere and alter geography. The opening of the Suez Canal had changed the world of commerce and profoundly affected geopolitics. Dreamers dreamed of similar huge projects, including flooding the Sahara to make the desert bloom, and tying together France’s scattered African colonies by ambitious railway networks.

Some French commentators blamed their defeat by Prussia on lack of imperial ambition; falling behind British imperial aggrandisement was blamed for France’s economic woes. The solution to every problem was to more aggressively conquer and control. This lay behind France’s drive to conquer the territories of what became French Indochina (Laos, Cambodia, Vietnam), clinched in a series of battles in 1885.

But the French throughout the period continually lamented coming second best to the British who had secured all the plum territories (India, Egypt). French envy and resentment knew no bounds. Said ties this to the way the British produced remarkable characters who flourished in the Oriental purview, such as Gertrude Bell and TE Lawrence.

2. Style, Expertise, Vision: Orientalism’s Wordliness

Starts with a discussion of the concept of The White Man, the controller at the centre of Orientalism who defined unwhites, blacks, coloureds and Orientals as ‘others’, lacking the attributes of whiteness, who therefore had to be schooled and trained up to ‘our’ standard. To demonstrate he gives (more) quotes from Gertrude Bell and T.E. Lawrence.

In the late nineteenth century bastardised theories of evolution, the survival of the fittest and race theories lent malevolent force to pre-existing Orientalist discourse.

Said introduces us to William Robertson Smith (1846 to 1894) a Scottish orientalist, Old Testament scholar and minister of the Free Church of Scotland, best known for his book ‘Religion of the Semites’ which became a foundational text in the comparative study of religion.

Said moves on to his most extended consideration of T.E. Lawrence who he sees following a recognisable career arc, from Romantic adventurer, to imperial agent (in the Arab Uprising), to disillusioned failure. He quotes passages from the Seven Pillars of Wisdom to show how Lawrence not only identified himself totally with the Arab Uprising but, more typically, identified the Arab Uprising with himself, another white man assuming the natives couldn’t have done it on their own.

I like his idea (maybe pretty obvious) that the mid and late nineteenth century figure of the adventurer-eccentric was replaced around the time of the Great War by the Orientalist-imperial agent, citing Lawrence, Gertrude Bell, St John Philby (a small checklist which he refers to countless times). This marked a shift from an academic to an instrumentalist mode.

Between the wars

Between the wars imperial rule throughout the Orient became problematic for the simple reason that the natives formed more and more strident nationalist movements, flanked by increasing acts of violence, while a growing minority in Western countries began to question or turn against colonialism and in favour of home independence.

Said quotes French Orientalists (Sylvain Lévi) who (like all academics) insist the answer is more study, more research, better understanding etc. He quotes the poet Paul Valéry whose contribution amounts (with comic French intellectualism) to analysing the problem away (p.250). And goes on to cite Valentine Chirol, Elie Faure, Fernand Baldensperger, all of whom reiterated the now crystallised Orientalist lines: ‘they’ are unlike us, lack the ability for rational knowledge, are economically and culturally backward, Islam is an imprisoning limiting religion, all the usual slurs.

At the end of this section he gives yet another summary of what he’s trying to do, to investigate:

the metamorphosis of a relatively innocuous philological subspeciality into a capacity for managing political movements, administering colonies, and making apocalyptic statements about the White Man’s difficult civilising mission (p.254)

3. Modern Anglo-French Orientalism in Fullest Flower

During the 1930s and 40s Orientalism had hardened into an extensive field of knowledge in which, like a spider’s web, reference to the most trivial fact tended to jangle the entire system and immediately invoke a whole gang of presuppositions, biases and bigotries.

There’s a long passage on the development, between the wars, of ‘types’ in the social sciences, which I think he contrasts with the cosmopolitan pluralism of the philological (in the wide sense) approach taken by one of his heroes, Auerbach. Narrowing versus widening.

So this section invokes the profound collapse of European economy and political consensus and in an obscure, round the back kind of way, describes how this impacted on national Orientalisms. For example, Snouck Hutgonje, Dutch scholar of Oriental cultures and languages and advisor on native affairs to the colonial government of the Dutch East Indies.

Then 20 pages contrasting the work of the most eminent Orientalists of their generations in France and Britain, Louis Massignon (1883 to 1962), French Catholic scholar of Islam and a pioneer of Catholic-Muslim mutual understanding, and Sir Hamilton Gibb (1895 to 1971), Scottish historian and Orientalist.

Massignon is depicted as an outsider of great genius and insight who devoted a lot of time to the biography of a Muslim Sufi saint, al-Hallaj. Gibb was the opposite, an insider, an institution man.

Inevitably Said depicts both of them, in subtle and sometimes impenetrable style, while citing Foucault and Barthes, as nonetheless continuers and purveyors of fundamental Orientalist stereotypes. His detailed look at the careers, professional subjects and styles of these two giants takes us from after the Great War up to the early 1960s.

4. The Latest Phase

To date the book has amounted to a brief consideration of the origin of Orientalist tropes and prejudices among the ancient Greeks, a brief sketch of the Middle Ages in the form of Dante, skipping past the Renaissance altogether and then settling down to a detailed examination of Orientalism from the late eighteenth and through the long nineteenth century.

In this last section he finally brings all his findings on home to the colossus which dominated the post-war settlement, culturally, economically and militarily, the US of A. It is completely unlike the rest of the book in that it is clear, accessible, magazine style rage against the unchecked proliferation of anti-Arab and Islamophobic caricatures across American culture.

The traditional Orientalism he has chronicled was broken up in 1960s America into a proliferation of academic subspecies. The European focus on philology, itself deriving from study of the Biblical languages, disappeared and was replaced by an American focus on the social sciences. American academics didn’t study the languages of the Middle East, they studied their ‘societies’ and on this basis set themselves up as experts and advisers.

Part of this was the abandonment of the study of literature. The long philological and literary approach he’s been praising and enjoying came to a grinding halt. In American hands it was all about preparing oil executives for their stints in the Arab world and advising the State Department.

He categorises ways in which ‘the Arab’ or ‘the Arab Muslim’ appear in ‘modern’ (i.e. 1960s and 70s) culture:

  1. Popular images and social science representations
  2. Cultural relations policy
  3. Merely Islam
  4. Orientals Orientals Orientals

Said becomes more and more angry, outraged at the barrage of anti-Arab and Islamophobic imagery to be found all across American culture. Images of humiliatingly defeated Arabs after the 1967 war. Images of hook-nosed Arab sheikhs at petrol pumps after the 1973 war and the oil price hike. These latter have all the Nazi antisemitic stereotypes born again.

He is appalled at the new tone of American Orientalism. He mounts a sustained attack on the 1970 Cambridge History of Islam, spotting stereotypes everywhere and accusing it of being bereft of ‘ideas and methodological intelligence’ (p.302).

He quotes from magazine articles, from Commentary magazine, from scholarly papers, interviews in which academics, politicians, commentators, repeat ad nauseam the same anti-Arab tropes he has enumerated throughout the book, the backwardness of Arabs, the stupidity of Arabs, the bombastic nature of Arabic which prevents Arabs from having rational thought, and so on.

He attacks 3 or 4 essays before alighting on a 1972 volume called ‘Revolution in the Middle East and other case studies’. He attacks the introductory essay by the volume’s editor P.J. Vatikiotis, before making a sustained attack on the essay by notable modern Orientalist, Bernard Lewis, giving numerous quotations in a vitriolic attack on what he takes to be Lewis at the same time setting himself up as an oracle on all things Arab while at the same time comprehensively despising and belittling his subject matter. Sounds weird, sounds counter-intuitive, unless you’ve read Said’s book in which he identifies it as a recurring characteristic of all Orientalists.

It’s in the Lewis passage that Said finally opens up about the Zionist movement and the foundation of the state of Israel, pointing out that Lewis nowhere (apparently) mentions Zionism or the Jewish appropriation of Palestinian land and, at last you feel, the cat is out of the bag. it feels as if the previous 300 pages have been a long, slow, laboursome foreplay leading up to this, the money shot.

What particularly gets his is Lewis’s pride in being an objective historian when Said claims to have shown he is in fact a ludicrously biased, anti-Arab, anti-Islamic bigot.

This is the culmination of Orientalism as a dogma that not only degrades its subject matter but also blinds its practitioners. (p.319)

The final pages describe the way Orientalism has infected the Orient in the sense that students and lecturers from the region come to the United States to train, are inculcated with Orientalism biases against their own people and culture and return to propagate these biases. There were, at the time of writing, hardly any institutes of higher education devoted to studying the Orient in the Orient. Academically, it is backward.

Worse, America has made the entire Middle East, economically, into a client region. America consumes a select number of products from it (mostly oil) but in return exports a huge number of goods, from blue jeans to Coca Cola. And TV and Hollywood movies, which often feature Arabs as the bad guys.

The modern Orient, in short, participates in its own Orientalising. (p.325)

Finally he hopes that his work has made a small contribution to encouraging scholars to critically scrutinise the premises of their disciplines, to be attentive to the realities on the ground and try to avoid the artificial and cramping conventions which constrict so many fields of study in the humanities. And, writing at a time of increasing nationalism in the developing world, he hopes it will help those peoples and movements get free of the mind-forg’d manacles (a quote from William Blake) which their oppressors created to judge, demean and control them.

Critique

Mind opening

Books like this are mostly for students because, if you hadn’t yet come across the notion that academic disciplines are not the clean objective collections of facts you were led to believe at school, then Said’s full frontal demolition of an entire area of academic study, and his association of it with one of modern woke ideology’s great bogeymen, Western imperialism, is liable to have a dynamite impact, opening your mind to whole new ways of thinking about scholarship, the academy, the humanities, history, geography, languages, religion, all of it.

And, given the extent to which Said ties his history of nineteenth century Orientalism directly to the perennial hot button issue of the Arab-Israeli conflict, the impressionable student is likely to have not only their intellectual interests, but their sense of justice fired up. When I used to visit my son at Bristol University I was struck by the number of posters around the town burning with indignation for the cause of oppressed Palestine.

But, unfortunately, it’s nearly 40 years since I read Orientalism, so none of this is new to me although rereading it made me realise I’d forgotten almost all the detail.

Repetitive

And forgotten how bad it is. It really doesn’t read very well. Reread in the cold light of day it feels extremely repetitive and confused. Too often Said asserts his case rather than proving it, in particular repeating the fundamental ideas like the created nature of Orientalist discourse, the premise of an unchangingly inferior Orient and so on, scores and scores of times till I felt like screaming.

Weak definitions

A surprisingly central problem is his failure to really define what his central term i.e. the Orient, actually means. When I began to explain the book to a friend she expected it to be about the Far East, China and Japan, which are the places she associates with the word ‘Orient’. She was very surprised when I told her it focuses almost entirely on the Middle East and Egypt, with some digressions about India. China and Japan are mentioned once or twice in passing, but not part of his hard core message. Here’s one of his not particularly useful definitions of the great subject, Orientalism:

What I shall be calling Orientalism, a way of coming to terms with the Orient that is based on the Orient’s special place in European Western experience. (p.1)

Or:

Orientalism is the habit for dealing with questions, objects, qualities, and regions deemed Oriental. (p.72)

You can see the air of tautology hanging over a sentence like this, as there are so many of his other formulations.

The Orient that appears in Orientalism is a system of representations framed by a whole set of forces that brought the Orient into Western learning, Western consciousness and, later, Western empire. (p.203)

Or this one, that Orientalism:

is an attempt to describe a whole region of the world as an accompaniment to that region’s colonial conquest. (p.343)

It’s peculiar that every time he mentions the concept, he feels the need to redefine it, and every time it comes out slightly different. This adds to the general difficulty of reading the book.

Relation to the contemporary world

The second point is one I made in part 1, which is that so much has happened in the world since it was published – chiefly the collapse of communism, the end of the Cold War, the rise of Islamic terrorism, the Western invasions of Middle Eastern countries, the Arab Spring and its failures – that, to anyone keeping up with events, the book doesn’t feel like a guide to the modern world but a dated dead end.

No doubt Western academics, commentators, ‘experts’ and journalists continue to use Orientalising stereotypes, and for much the same motives Said describes, to define, control and contain the complex realities of this troubled part of the world, to assert Western superiority over ‘barbaric’ Arabs. But this is, in the end, a very easy concept to understand and what would be useful would be a guide to the contemporary forms of Orientalising stereotyping which we in the West, no doubt, still labour under.

Ending the binary

Quite a few times Said says he laments the simplistic binary opposition between East and West which he says is at the heart of Orientalism. Does he? No. In my opinion he reinforces the binary on every page of the book, in fact he deepens and entrenches it by repeating its binary terms – the Orient and the West – on every page.

By not including a single Oriental, Arab or Muslim voice, while featuring scores and scores of European writers, I thought the book has the effect of making ‘the Orient’ even more invisible, disappearing it, while filling the mind to overflowing with Western European ideas. He angrily rejects those ideas. but those are the ideas I’ve just spent a week reading a 350-page book about, and so those are the ideas I remember.

Epistemology

Said’s thesis is based on the idea that knowledge is power, and that the way ‘knowledge’ about ‘the Orient’ was created and curated was always biased, bigoted, negative, critical and disempowering. Fine. But what this boils down to is an argument about epistemology, which is defined as ‘the theory of knowledge, especially with regard to its methods, validity, and scope, and the distinction between justified belief and opinion.’ This is the heart of his book and his thesis. It is an argument about the production of knowledge. And yet Said nowhere explains his own theory of epistemology. Just as he is slippery about what ‘the orient’ actually means, and gives ten or so differing definitions of ‘Orientalism’, in the same way he never gives an adequate definition of the central concept he’s arguing about.

In my opinion it’s this lack of really deep, thought-through clarity and consistency about his key concepts which explains why, instead, he lumps lots of disparate topics together, rarely explores them in any depth, and continually resorts to asserting his thesis instead of proving it.

Fake urgency

Said writes that, when Orientalists codified their knowledge into encyclopedias under alphabetical entries, they modelled and shaped knowledge, created constraints so that readers could only approach this knowledge of the Orient via ‘the learned grids and codes’ provided by the Orientalist, and this is made to sound like some wicked conspiracy. And yet the same is true of any other subject whatsoever. Take woodwork. You want to learn a bit about woodwork so you Google or buy a book on the subject, written by experts.

But in Said’s eyes, this knowledge about woodwork has been modelled and shaped knowledge by so-called ‘woodwork experts’ who have created constraints so that readers can only approach this knowledge of woodwork via ‘the learned grids and codes’ provided by the woodwork expert! Scary, eh? Or utterly banal.

Reading these kinds of scare tactics on every single page gets boring. Again and again and again he makes the same simple point which is a critique of the way knowledge is produced and curated by academics with, he claims, an anti-Eastern, anti-Arab, anti-Muslim prejudice – all so that he can lead the reader, in the Introduction and then in the third section, right back to the modern world and to the iniquity of US policy in the Middle East.

It’s this, Said’s obsession with the Arab-Israeli policy, which really gives the book its energy. The rise of ‘Orientalism’ as an academic discipline would be of solely academic interest, a very niche concern, if it weren’t for the fact that the same kind of anti-Eastern, anti-Arab and anti-Muslim tropes are at work, in the world, today, guiding American’s slavishly pro-Israeli and ruinously anti-Arab policy.

Last word

When we were students a friend of mine, who went on to become a professor of poetry, described it as ‘a bad book in a good cause’.

Practical criticism

See if you can identify the kind of essentialising Orientalist stereotypes about the Middle East, Arabs and Islam which Said describes, in Western (British) coverage of the recent Hamas attack on Israel (I’m just giving the BBC as a starting point):


Credit

Orientalism by Edward Said was first published by Routledge and Kegan Paul in 1978. References are to the 2003 Penguin paperback edition (with new Afterword and Preface).

Related reviews

Orientalism by Edward Said (1978) part 1

(I believe you pronounce his surname Si-, to rhyme with sky, and -eed; Edward Si-eed.)

Orientalism created a big splash when it was published way back in 1978, nearly 50 years ago. It opened doorways into radical new ways of thinking about imperialist history and culture. It has gone on to be translated into more than 40 languages and had an immense influence right across the humanities. It’s a classic of cultural criticism.

An example of its ongoing impact is the way the very first wall label which introduced the 2019 exhibition at the British Museum about the interplay between the Muslim world and Europe – Inspired by the East – quotes page one of Orientalism and then liberally applies Said’s perspectives throughout the rest of the show. It may nowadays be impossible to discuss the cultural and ideological aspects of Western imperialism, specifically as it affected the Middle East and India, without taking into account his perspective and sooner or later mentioning his name.

There are probably four ways of considering the book:

  1. The thesis.
  2. What the text actually says, its discussion of individual Orientalists (I try to give a summary in part 2 of this review).
  3. Its implications and influence.
  4. The practical political conclusions Said draws from his thesis.

Said’s thesis

Said’s thesis is relatively simple in outline and consists of a set of interlocking contentions:

The ‘West’ has always defined itself against the ‘East’. In earlier centuries, Europeans defined Christianity and Christendom partly by contrasting it with Islam and the Muslim world. In the imperial nineteenth century Europeans thought and conceived of themselves as energetic, dynamic, inventive and ‘advanced’ partly by comparing themselves with an ‘Orient’ which was slothful, decadent and ‘backward’.

But this entire notion of ‘the Orient’ is a creation, a fiction, a fantasy, created over centuries by Western scholars and writers and artists. It is a self-contained, self-referential image which is the product of Western fantasies and needs and bears little or no relationship to the confusing and complex reality of peoples and races and religions which actually inhabit the very varied territories which Europeans all-too-easily dismissed as ‘the Orient’.

These fantasies and fictions and fabrications about ‘the Orient’ were created by a sequence of Orientalist scholars, starting in the later 18th and continuing throughout the 19th centuries. Orientalism as a discipline began back in the 18th century with the first studies of Arabic, the Semitic languages and Sanskrit.

The bulk of Said’s text comprises portraits of, and analyses of the work of, the leading Orientalist scholars who, from the late eighteenth century onwards, founded and then developed what turned into an eventually enormous body of work, given the disciplinary name of Orientalism. This far-flung discipline, whose attitudes leeched into arts, sciences, anthropology, economics and so on, set out to categorise, inventorise, define, label, analyse and intellectually control every aspect of life and culture in ‘the Orient’.

This body of ‘knowledge’ ramified out through Western societies: it was packaged and distributed via newspapers, magazine articles, the new technology of photography, and informing, and in turned informed by, creative writing – novels and stories and poems about the ‘exotic East’ – and the arts – painting, sculpture and so on – to produce an immense, self-reinforcing, self-justifying network of verbal, textual, intellectual, ideological and artistic, popular, journalistic and political stereotypes and clichés about ‘the mysterious East’, and its supposedly sullen, childlike, passive, sensual and barbarous peoples.

Eventually this huge network of images and texts became received opinion, idées recues, hardened into ‘common sense’ about the Ottoman Empire, the Middle East and the Islamic world. And all of it – Said’s main and central point – was completely and utterly misleading.

Why did it thrive? How was it used? Said contends that this eventually huge set of preconceptions, this extensive set of prejudices, supported by leading scholars in the field, backed up by the narratives of various explorers and adventurers, given visual power in thousands of lush, late-Victorian paintings of the sensual, slothful, backward ‘Orient’, all this provided the discourse – the network of texts and images and ideas and phrases – which European rulers (of France and Britain in particular) invoked to justify invading, conquering, oppressing and exploiting those countries and peoples.

Orientalism justified empire. Orientalism provided the ideological, cultural, scientific and academic discourse which justified western colonialism.

When imperialist politicians, adventurers, soldiers or businessmen wrote or spoke to justify the imperial conquest and exploitation of the Middle East they quoted extensively from this storehouse of supposedly ‘objective’ academic studies, from supposedly ‘eye-witness’ accounts, from the widely diffused visual and verbal stereotypes and clichés of European artists, from what had become the received wisdom about ‘the Orient’ which ‘every schoolboy knows’ – in order to justify their imperial conquests and ongoing domination. But which were, in fact, the profoundly misleading creations of Orientalist scholars, ethnographers, writers, artists and so on.

The logical consequence of this sequence of arguments or worldview is that all Western narratives and images of the so-called ‘Orient’ produced during the 18th, 19th and indeed the first half of the twentieth centuries, are deeply compromised – because they all, wittingly or unwittingly, to a greater or lesser degree, helped to justify and rationalise the grotesque racism and unfair domination and economic exploitation of an entire region and all its peoples.

Orientalism is not only a positive doctrine about the Orient that exists at any one time in the West; it is also an influential academic tradition…as well as an area of concern defined by travellers, commercial interests, governments, military expeditions, readers of novels and accounts of exotic adventure, natural historians, and pilgrims to whom the Orient is a specific kind of knowledge about specific places, peoples and civilisations. (p.203)

Compromised learning

Said’s basic premise is that all knowledge, including academic knowledge, is not pure, objective truth, but highly constrained and shaped by the society, and people, which produced it.

My principle operating assumptions were – and continue to be –that fields of learning, as much as the works of even the most eccentric artist, are constrained and acted upon by society, by cultural traditions, by worldly circumstance, and by stabilising influences like schools, libraries, and governments; moreover, the both learned and imaginative writing are never free, but are limited in their imagery, assumptions, and intentions; and finally, that the advances made by a science like ‘Orientalism’ in its academic form are less objectively true than we like to think. (p.202)

Foucault

Said is a chronic name-dropper. He namechecks what has become the standard sophomore checklist of French and Continental literary and political theorists so very fashionable when the book was written. Thus he refers to Walter Benjamin, Antonio Gramsci and Louis Althusser. It’s notable that these are all Marxist theoreticians and critics, because, at bottom, his project is not only to inject contemporary politics back into academic discourse, but specifically left-wing, anti-imperialist politics. But the figure Said refers to most often (fourteen times by my count) is the French historian and critical theorist, Michel Foucault.

This is because Said’s thesis piggybacks on Foucault’s notion of discourse. Foucault was a French historian who studied the institutions of prisons and madhouses (among other subjects) with a view to showing how the entire discourse around such institutions was designed to encapsulate and promote state power and control over citizens, and in that very Parisian perspective, over citizens’ bodies. So you could argue that Said is copying Foucault’s approach, lock, stock and two smoking barrels, and applying it to his own area of interest (hobby horse) the colonial Middle East.

Contents

Rather than give my own impressionistic view of a book, I generally find it more useful for readers to see the actual contents page. Then we can all see what we’re talking about. Here’s the table of contents. (I give a detailed summary of the actual contents of the book in part 2 of this review; and a summary of the long Preface and Afterword in a third review):

Chapter 1. The Scope of Orientalism

‘Draws a large circle around all the dimensions of the subject, both in terms of historical time and experiences and in terms of philosophical and political themes.’

1. Knowing the Oriental

2. Imaginative Geography and its Representations: Orientalising the Oriental

3. Projects

4. Crisis

Chapter 2. Orientalist Structures and Restructures

‘Attempts to trace the development of modern Orientalism by a broadly chronological description, and also by the description of a set of devices common to the work of important poets, artists and scholars.’

1. Redrawn frontiers, Redefined Issues, Secularised Religion

2. Silvestre de Sacy and Ernest Renan: Rational Anthropology and Philological Laboratory

3. Oriental Residence and Scholarship: The Requirements of Lexicography and Imagination

4. Pilgrims and Pilgrimages, British and French

Chapter 3. Orientalism Now

‘Begins where its predecessor left off at around 1870. This is the period of greatest colonial expansion into the Orient…the very last section characterises the shift from British and French to American hegemony. I attempt to sketch the present intellectual and social realities of Orientalism in the United States.’

1. Latent and Manifest Orientalism

2. Style, Expertise, Vision: Orientalism’s Wordliness

3. Modern Anglo-French Orientalism in Fullest Flower

4. The Latest Phase

Said’s personal position

Limiting his scope to the Middle East

On page 17 of the introduction Said says that, in order to avoid writing a book about ‘the Orient’ in its widest definition, he’s going to limit himself to writing about Islam and the Middle East. Sounds like a reasonable plan, the kind of defining of the boundaries of an intellectual project which you’d expect in any objective academic study. But the last pages of the Introduction give a whole new spin to this decision. On page 11 he writes that:

No production of knowledge in the human sciences can ever ignore or disclaim its author’s own circumstances.

He says this in order to broach his own relationship with the entire subject, then goes on to indulge in more pages of autobiography than you’d expect in a scholarly work. He tells us that the subject is in fact very, very close to his heart.

My own experience of these matters are in part what made me write this book. The life of an Arab Palestinian in the West [he’s obviously referring to himself], particularly in America, is disheartening. There exists here an almost unanimous consensus that politically he [Said] does not exist, and when it is allowed that he does, it is either as a nuisance or as an Oriental. The web of racism, cultural stereotypes, political imperialism, dehumanising ideology holding in the Arab or the Muslim is very strong indeed, and it is this web which every Palestinian has come to feel is his uniquely punishing destiny. It has made matters worse for him [i.e. Said] to remark that no person academically involved with the Near East – no Orientalist, that is – has ever in the United States culturally and politically identified himself wholeheartedly with the Arabs… (p.27)

So the book really is by way of being a very personal (and I use the word with knowing irony) crusade, coming out of his own personal experiences of discrimination and erasure, or, as he puts it in the 1994 Afterword to the book, from:

an extremely concrete history of personal loss and national disintegration. (p.338)

And written in the passionate hope that, by revealing the power structures behind the academic discipline of Orientalism in all its manifold forms, he can overthrow the false dichotomy between Orient and Occident, between East and West.

It’s a judgement call whether you find this frankness about his personal investment in the project admirably honest and an example of fessing up to the kind of personal position behind the text which his project sets out to expose in so many Orientalist scholars – or whether you think it reveals a highly partisan, parti pris perspective which invalidates his approach.

Said’s involvement in the Palestine-Israel problem overshadows the work

Said goes on to tie his detailed cultural analysis to a highly controversial contemporary political issue, namely the ever-fraught Israel-Palestine situation, as screwed up back in 1978 as it remains today. Crucially, his Introduction describes how this plays out in America culture, in academia and the media in the present day:

the struggle between the Arabs and Israeli Zionism, and its effects upon American Jews as well as upon liberal culture and the population at large (p.26)

In other words, Said explicitly ties his analysis of historical Orientalism to the bang up-to-date (albeit nearly 50 years old) political and cultural view of the Arab-Israeli conflict held inside American academia and the media and political establishments. This is obviously a perilous approach because the liveness of the current political debate around Israel-Palestine continually threatens to overshadow his academic, scholarly findings or ideas.

And Said was in fact far from being a distant academic viewer of the conflict. Said’s Wikipedia page tells us that from 1977 until 1991 he was a member of the Palestinian National Council (PNC) and deeply involved in negotiations to try and find a two-state solution to the Palestinian Problem.

1) It’s ironic that his book accuses all Orientalist scholars of being parti pris and biased, even if they don’t know it, while he himself is phenomenally biased and parti pris. But that’s a small point, and one he was perfectly aware of. He is perfectly clear about not really believing in the possibility of disinterested academic research:

I find the idea of strict scholarly work as disinterested and abstract hard to understand. (p.96)

2) More importantly, his political involvement threatens to a) distract from and b) overshadow Said’s entire project. In practice it meant he was forever getting dragged into stupid media squabbles, like the one featured on his Wikipedia page about him throwing a stone in Lebanon which managed to get blown up into press headlines about ‘The Professor of Terror’.

This is an American problem and links into the issues of the power of the Jewish lobby in Washington which is itself (as I understand it) linked to the even larger power of the fundamentalist Christian lobby in Washington, which (as I understand it) strongly supports the state of Israel for theological and eschatological reasons.

All I’m saying is that Said positions himself as someone who is bravely and pluckily bringing ‘politics’ into academia, revealing the power structures and political motivations behind an entire academic discipline, ‘Orientalism’, and good for him. But it’s a double-edged and very sharp sword. He who lives by politics dies by politics. Discussing radical political theory is relatively ‘safe’, as so many Marxist academics prove; but if you bring clarion calls about one of the most contentious issues in international affairs right into the heart of your academic work, and you shouldn’t be surprised if your political opponents will throw any mud to blacken your name.

Ironies

It’s a central irony of Said’s work that although he went to great lengths to expose the Islamophobia at the heart of the Orientalist project, he himself, despite being of Palestinian heritage, was not a Muslim, but had been raised a Christian.

In other words, all his writings about how Orientalists write about Islam without being inside it, without understanding it, without giving voices to Islam itself – the very same accusations could be brought against him.

From start to finish his book lambasts Westerners for speaking over the Orient, for never giving it a voice so it is a delicious irony that:

  1. There are no Muslim voices in his book – as far as I can tell he doesn’t quote one Arab or Muslim scholar anywhere, so he’s largely replicating a practice he is fiercely critical of.
  2. Said himself is not a Muslim – he lambasts various Western simplifications and demonisations of Islam with a strong sense of ownership and partisanship – but he himself comes from a completely different tradition.

I’m not saying either of these aspects negate his argument: but the whole thrust of the book is to teach us to pay more attention to the political aims and ideologies underlying apparently ‘objective’ academic texts, to question every author’s motives, to question the power structures they are part of and which permit their teaching, their research, their publishing. So these thoughts arise naturally from Said’s own promptings.

Problems and counter-arguments

Despite its astonishing success and the widespread adoption of its perspective throughout the humanities, Orientalism has many problems and issues.

Defining the ‘Orient’ and ‘Orientalism’

For a start, Said’s use of the word ‘Orient’ is extremely slippery. Sometimes he is referring just to the Middle East, sometimes he includes all of Muslim North Africa, sometimes he is referring to the entire Islamic world (which stretches to Indonesia in the Far East), sometimes he throws in India, the jewel in the crown of the British Empire, whichever suits him at the time.

In an ironic way Said’s definition(s) of Orientalism are as slippery and detached from reality as he says Orientalists’ discourse about ‘the Orient’ were.

One upshot of this is that you get right to the end of the book without ever reading a simple, definitive, usable definition of the central word. Here’s what the Etymological Dictionary has to say about ‘Orient’:

Late 14th century: ‘the direction east; the part of the horizon where the sun first appears,’ also (now with capital O-) ‘the eastern regions of the world, eastern countries’ (originally vaguely meaning the region east and south of Europe, what is now called the Middle East but also sometimes Egypt and India), from Old French orient ‘east’ (11th century), from Latin orientem (nominative oriens) ‘the rising sun, the east, part of the sky where the sun rises,’ originally ‘rising’ (adj.), present participle of oriri ‘to rise’.

Same applies to his slipperiness in defining what ‘Orientalism’ means. He gives at least ten distinct definitions (on pages 41, 73, 95, 120, 177, 202, 206, 300 and more) but it’s possible to arrive at the end of the book without have a really crystal clear definition of his ostensibly central concept.

Said is not a historian

This really matters because he is dealing with history, the history of European empires and of the texts which, he claims, though written by supposed ‘scholars’, in practice served to underpin and justify imperial rule. But thousands of historians of empire have passed this way before him and his text , whenever it strays into pure history, feels like history being done by an amateur.

It feels particularly true when he again and again suggests that what underpinned the British and French Empire’s control of their colonial subjects was the academic knowledge grouped under the heading Orientalism – and takes no account of some pretty obvious other factors such as economic, technological or military superiority.

In a sense he can’t afford to for at least two reasons: 1) because if he did get into, say, the economic basis of empire, his account would end up sounding like conventional history, and second-rate economic history at that; 2) literature and scholarly texts are his stomping ground a) because he’s just more familiar with them b) because his central premise is that knowledge is power; conceding that there are other types of power immediately undermine the narrow if intense scope of his book.

Histories of empires

In the introduction Said says that the chief imperial powers in the Middle East and India were a) Britain and France through to the mid-twentieth century, and b) America since.

This feels a bit gappy. John Darwin’s brilliant comparative study of the Eurasian empires, After Tamerlane, teaches us that ’empire’ has been the form of most governments of most civilisations for most of history. Imperialism is the ‘natural’ form of rule. It’s ‘democracy’ which is historically new, problematic and deeply unstable.

Were the British and French empires somehow unique?

No, in two ways. Taking a deep historical view, Darwin shows just how many empires have ruled over the Middle East over the past two and a half thousand years, namely: the Assyrian Empire, the Babylonian Empire, the Parthian Empire, the Persian Empire, the Moghul Empire, the Athenian Empire, the Roman Empire, the Byzantine Empire, the Seljuk Empire, various Muslim caliphates who concentrated on conquering territory the Umayyad Caliphate, the Abbasid Caliphate, and the Ottoman Empire (or Caliphate). So the British Empire’s relatively brief period of control was neither the sole nor the most important influence.

The role of the Ottoman Empire in falling to pieces during the nineteenth century, leading to mismanagement, repression and the rise of nationalist movements across its territories is never given enough credit in these kinds of books. It’s always the French and British’s faults, never the Turks’.

Second, focusing on Britain and France may be justified by the eventual size of their territorial holdings, but downplays the rivalry with and interference of other European imperial powers. For example, Sean McMeekin’s brilliant book ‘The Berlin-Baghdad Express: The Ottoman Empire and Germany’s Bid for World Power, 1898 to 1918‘ shows how the newly united German Reich (or empire) elbowed its way into the Middle East, with its own Orientalising scholars and preconceptions.

And Said completely ignores the Russian Empire. For me this is the most interesting empire of the 19th century because I know nothing about it except that it expanded its control relentlessly across central Asia, as far as the Pacific where it eventually got into a war with Japan (1905). But long before that Russia had ambitions to expand down through the Balkans and retake Constantinople from the Turks, re-establishing it as a new Christian city, the Second Rome. This is one of the most mind-boggling aspects of Orlando Figes’s outstanding book about The Crimean War (1853 to 1856).

Blaming Britain and France just feels like blaming ‘the usual suspects’. Very limited.

Putting politics back into scholarship

He says on numerous occasions that 19th century Orientalist scholars claimed that their work was objective and scholarly and completely unconnected with the way their countries exercised imperial dominion over the countries whose cultures they studied – and that this was of course bullshit. The Orientalist scholars were only able to carry out their studies because they could travel freely across those countries as if they were the members of the imperial ruling caste. Therefore his project is very simple: it is to put the politics back into supposedly neutral, ‘detached’ scholarly analysis.

This struck me as being very Marxist. It was Marx who suggested that cultures reflect the interests of the ruling class, aristocratic art in the 17th and 18th centuries, bourgeois art and literature with the rise of the industrial bourgeoisie in the 19th century – and made the point which underpins Said’s whole position, that supposedly ‘neutral’ bourgeois scholarship always always always justifies and underpins the rule of the bourgeoisie, there’s nothing ‘neutral’ about it.

Christendom versus Islam

Said claims that Western civilisation, that Christendom, largely defined itself by contrast with the Muslim world for 1,000 years from the rise of Islam to the decline of the Ottoman Empire, as if this is a subversive insight. But to anyone who knows European history it’s obvious. Expansionist militarist Islam had already seized half the territory of the former Roman Empire and threatened to invade up through the Balkans and, potentially, exterminate Christendom. You would notice something like that. I’d have thought it was schoolboy-level obvious.

General thoughts

The Other

At regular intervals Said invokes the notion of ‘the Other’ which is always presented in critical books like this as if it was a big bad bogeyman, but I always find the idea a) childish b) too simplistic. If you read Chaucer you’ll see that his notion of ‘the Good’ is defined in hundreds of ways, most of which have nothing to do with Islam. OK when he refers to the Crusades (the Knight’s Tale) he does mention Islam. But there’s lots of other things going on in European texts, lots of ways of creating value and identity, which Said just ignores in order to ram home his point.

It’s an irony that Said says the use of the simple binary of East and West is too simplistic but then uses an even more simplistic term, ‘the Other’, replacing one simplistic binary with another which just sounds more cool.

What if the East really is a threat to the West?

Fear of the Other is always treated in modern humanities, in countless books, plays, documentaries, in artworks and exhibition texts, as if it is always a bad thing, irrational, can only possibly be prompted by racism or sexism or xenophobia or some undefined ‘anxiety’.

But what if things really do get worse the further East you go? What if the governments of Eastern Europe, such as Poland or Hungary, really are worryingly authoritarian and repressive? What if the largest country in the world, which dominates ‘the East’, Russia, has clearly stated that Western liberal democracy is finished, carries out cyber-warfare against infrastructure targets in the West, and has invaded and committed atrocities in a West-friendly neighbour? What if ‘the East’ is a source of real active threat?

As to the Middle East, what if it is subject to one or other type of civil war, insurgency, and horrifying acts of Islamic terrorism, widespread atrocities committed in the name of Allah, and the region’s chronic political instability?

And further East, what if the most populous nation on earth, China, is also known to be carrying out cyber attacks against Western targets, operates spy networks in the West, and is raising tensions in the Pacific with talk of an armed invasion of Taiwan which could escalate into a wider war?

Isn’t it a simple recognition of the facts on the ground to be pretty alarmed if not actually scared of many of these developments? I don’t think being worried about Russian aggression makes me racist. I don’t think being appalled by barbaric acts in the Middle East (ISIS beheading hostages, Assad barrel-bombing his own populations) means I’m falling prey to Orientalist stereotypes.

I don’t think I’m ‘Othering’ anybody, not least because there are lots of players in these situations, lots of nations, lots of governments, lots of militias and ethnic and religious groups, so many that simply summarising them as ‘the Other’ is worse than useless. Each conflict needs to be examined carefully and forensically, doing which generally shows you the extreme complexity of their social, political, economic, religious and ethnic origins.

Just repeating the mantras ‘Oriental stereotyping’ and ‘fear of the Other’ strikes me as worse than useless.

Britain and the East

Said goes on at very great length indeed about the British Empire and its patronising stereotyped attitudes to ‘the East’, ‘the Orient’ and so on.

But, because he’s not a historian, he fails to set this entire worldview within the larger perspectives of European and British history. Attacks and threats have always come from the East.

The ancient Greeks and Romans feared the East because that’s where the large conquering empires came from: the Persian Empire which repeatedly tried to crush the Greek city states and the Parthian Empire’s threat to the Romans went on for centuries. When Rome was overthrown it was by nomadic warrior bands from ‘the East’.

As to Islam, all of Europe was threatened by its dynamic expansion from the 7th century onwards, which conquered Christian Byzantium and pushed steadily north-west as far as modern Austria, while in the south Muslim armies swept away Christian Roman rule across the whole of North Africa, stormed up through Spain and conquered the southern half of France. They were only prevented from conquering all of France – which might have signalled the decisive overthrow of Christian culture in Europe – had they not been halted and defeated at the Battle of Tours in 732.

As to Britain, we were, of course, invaded again and again for over a thousand years. Britain was invaded and conquered by the Romans, invaded and conquered by the Anglo-Saxons, invaded and conquered by the Vikings, then invaded and conquered by the Normans.

Attacks on Europe always come from the East and attacks on Britain always come from the East. Napoleon threatened to invade in the early 1800s and in the later part of the nineteenth century many Britons lived in paranoid fear of another French invasion. Hitler threatened to invade and obliterate British culture in the name of a horrifying fascism.

So the fundamental basis of these views isn’t some kind of persistent racism, isn’t fancy ideas about ‘the Other’ or ‘imperial anxiety’, it’s a basic fact of geography. Look at a map. Where else are attacks on Europe, and especially Britain, going to come from? The Atlantic? No, from the East.

Throughout European history the East has been synonymous with ‘threat’ because that’s where the threat has actually come from, again and again and again. For me, these are the kinds of fundamental geographical and historical facts which Said simply ignores, in order to sustain his thesis.

And what if the Orient actually was alien, weak, corrupt and lazy?

Said repeats over and over again that Western, Orientalising views of the Middle East or Islam loaded it with negative qualities – laziness, inefficiency, corruption, violence, sensuality – in order to help us define and promote our own wonderful values, of hard work, efficiency, honesty in public life, good citizenship, Protestant self restraint and so on.

You can see what he’s on about and I accept a lot of what he says about Western stereotyping, but still… what if the West was, well, right. This is where a bit of history would come in handy because even modern, woke, post-Said accounts of, say, the declining Ottoman Empire do, in fact, depict it as corrupt, racked with palace intrigue, home to astonishing brutality from the highest level (where rival brothers to the ruling Sultan were liable to be garrotted or beheaded) to public policy.

I’ve just been reading, in Andrew Roberts’s biography of Lord Salisbury, about the Bulgarian Atrocities of 1876 when an uprising of Bulgarian nationalists prompted the Ottoman Sultan to send in irregular militias who proceeded to rape, torture and murder every Bulgarian they came across, with complete impunity. Up to 30,000 civilians were slaughtered, prompting the British government to abandon its former stalwart support for the Ottomans. My point is this wasn’t invented by Orientalists to justify their racist stereotypes about the violent barbaric East; nobody denies that it happened, it was widely publicised at the time, and it moulded a lot of people’s opinions about Ottoman rule based on facts.

Anybody who tried to do business or diplomacy with the Ottoman Empire quickly came to learn how corrupt and venal it was. So what happens to Said’s thesis that all these views were foundationless stereotypes, artificial creations of the racist Western imagination – if historical accounts show that inhabitants of the Orient, which he defines at the Middle East, really were lazy, inefficient, corrupt, violent.

For example, in his book about the railway line which the Kaiser wanted to build to Baghdad, Sean McMeekin describes the comic meeting between German engineers and Turkish labourers. No ‘Orientalism’ was required for the contrast between Teutonic discipline and efficiency and the corrupt, lazy ineffectiveness of the Turks to be clear to all involved.

Said’s style

Said is long-winded and baggy. He never uses one word or concept where fifteen can be crammed in. Moreover, he is clearly aspiring to write in the high-falutin’ style of the Parisian intellectuals of the day, Roland Barthes or Michel Foucault, who used recherché terms and tried to crystallise new ideas by emphasising particular terms, words used in new, lateral ways, teasing out new insights. At least he hopes so. Here’s a slice of Said, made up of just two sentences.

Orientalism is not a mere political subject matter or field that is passively reflected by culture, scholarship, or institutions; nor is it a large and diffuse collection of texts about the Orient; nor is it representative and expressive of some nefarious ‘Western’ imperialist plot to hold down the ‘Oriental’ world. It is, rather, a distribution of geopolitical awareness into aesthetic, scholarly, economic, sociological, historical, and philological texts; it is an elaboration not only of a basic geographical distinction (the world is made up of two unequal halves, Orient and Occident) but also of a whole series of ‘interests’ which, by such means as scholarly discovery, philological reconstruction, psychological analysis, landscape and sociological description, it not only creates but also maintains; it is, rather than expresses, a certain will or intention to understand, in some cases to control, manipulate, even to incorporate, what is a manifestly different (or alternative and novel) world; it is, above all, a discourse that is by no means in direct, corresponding relationship with political power in the raw, but rather is produced and exists in an uneven exchange with various kinds of power, shaped to a degree by the exchange with power political (as with a colonial or imperial establishment), power intellectual (as with reigning sciences like comparative linguistics or anatomy, or any of the modern policy sciences), power cultural (as with orthodoxies and canons of taste, texts, values), power moral (as with ideas about what ‘we’ do and what ‘they’ cannot do or understand as ‘we’ do). (p.12)

That second sentence is quite exhaustingly long, isn’t it? In my experience, you often get to the end of Said’s huge unravelling sentences with the impression that you’ve just read something very clever and very important, but you can’t quite remember what it was.

A key element of his style, or his way of thinking, is the deployment of lists. He loves long, long lists of all the specialisms and areas which he claims his ideas are impacting or pulling in or subjecting to fierce analysis (power political, power intellectual, power cultural, power moral and so on).

On the one hand, he is trying to convey through monster lists like this, a sense of the hegemony of Orientalist tropes i.e. the way they – in his opinion – infuse the entire world of intellectual discourse, at every level, and across every specialism. This aim requires roping in every academic discipline he can think of.

On the other hand, his continual complexifying of the subject through list-heavy, extended sentences, through the name-dropping of portentous critical theorists, threatens to drown his relatively straightforward ideas in concrete.

Said describes the process of close textual analysis very persuasively but, ironically, doesn’t actually practice it very much – he is much happier to proceed by means of lists of Great Writers and Orientalist Scholars, than he is to stop and analyse any one of their works.

He explains that it would be ‘foolish to attempt an encyclopedic narrative history of Orientalism’ but this is deeply disappointing. That might have been really solid and enduring project. Instead we are given a surprisingly random, digressive and rambling account.

His actual selection of example, of texts which he studies in a bit of detail, is disappointingly thin. This explains why you can grind your way through to the end of this densely written 350-page book and not actually have a much clearer sense of the history and development of the academic field of Orientalism.

And lastly, he just often sounds unbearably pompous:

And yet, one must repeatedly ask oneself whether what matters in Orientalism is the general group of ideas overriding the mass of material? (p.8)

One uses the phrase ‘self conscious’ with some emphasis here because… (p.159)

And his frequent straining for Parisian-style intellectual rarefication sometimes makes him sound grand and empty.

I mean to say that in discussions of the Orient, the Orient is all absence, whereas one feels the Orientalist and what he says as presence; yet we must not forget that the Orientalist’s presence is enabled by the Orient’s effective absence. (p.208)

No, no we must never forget that. Forgetting that would be dreadful.

Lastly, he cites quotations, sometimes quite long quotations, in French without bothering to translate them. This is impolite to readers. On a smaller scale he drops into his prose Latin or French tags with the lofty air of an acolyte of Erich Auerbach’s grand traditions of humanist criticism who expects everyone else to be fluent in French and German, Latin and Greek.

Nevertheless, [in French Orientalist Louis Massigon’s view] the Oriental, en soi, was incapable of appreciating or understanding himself. (p.271)

It would be more polite, and effective, to take the trouble to find adequate English equivalents.

Immigration

When the book was published, in 1978, there weren’t many immigrants of any colour in Britain and Said could confidently talk about scholars and an academic world, as well as the nation at large, which was largely white. In other words ‘Orientals’ were still rare and relatively unknown.

In the 45 years since the book was published, mass immigration has changed the nature of all Western countries which now include not only large communities of black and Asian people, but eminent black and Asian cultural, political and economic figures. As I write we have a Prime Minister, Home Secretary and mayor of London who are all of Asian heritage.

I dare say fans of Said and students of post-colonial studies would point out the endurance of ‘latent’ Orientalism i.e. the continuation of prejudice and bigotry against the Arab and Muslim and Indian worlds, especially since the efflorescence of vulgar imperialist nostalgia around the Brexit debate.

Nevertheless, I imagine the unprecedented numbers of what used to be called ‘Orientals’ who now routinely take part in Western political and cultural discourse, who write novels and plays, direct films, comment in newspapers and magazines, host TV shows and, of course, teach courses of postcolonial and subaltern studies, would require Orientalism to be comprehensively rethought and brought up to date.

The modern Middle East

At the end of the day, Orientalism is a largely ‘academic’ book in two senses:

1. On reading lists for students

Said primarily set out to change attitudes within universities and the humanities. In this he was dramatically successful, and it is impossible to read about the European empires and, especially, to read about 19th century imperial art, without his name being invoked to indicate the modern woke worldview, the view that almost all European arts and crafts which referenced ‘the Orient’ are morally, politically and culturally compromised or, as he bluntly puts it on page 204, racist, imperialist and ethnocentric.

Said provides some of the concepts and keywords which allow modern students of the humanities to work up a real loathing of Western civilisation. Good. The Russians want to abolish it, too.

Irrelevant for everyone else

But it’s also ‘academic’ in the negative sense of ‘not of practical relevance; of only theoretical interest’. What percentage of the public know or care about the opinions of nineteenth century Orientalist scholars? For all practical purposes, nobody. Who gets their ideas about the modern Middle East from the poetry of Gérard de Nerval, the letters of French novelist Gustave Flaubert or umpteen Orientalising Victorian paintings? Nobody.

I suggest that most people’s opinions about the Middle East derive not from poetry or paintings but from the news, and if they’ve been watching or reading the news for the last 20 years, this will have involved an enormous number of stories about 9/11, Islamic terrorism, Islamic terror attacks in London and Manchester and other European cities, about the 2001 US overthrow of the Taliban in Afghanistan, the 2003 coalition invasion of Iraq, the long troubled military struggles in both countries, the 2011 Arab Spring followed swiftly by civil war in Libya, the terrible civil war in Syria, the military coup in Egypt, the ongoing civil war in Yemen, and just recently the humiliating and disastrous US withdrawal from Kabul (2021).

Remember the heyday of Islamic State, the videos they shot of them beheading Western hostages with blunt knives? Footage of them pushing suspected gays off rooftops? Blowing up priceless ancient monuments?

Alongside, of course, the perma-crisis in Israel with its never-ending Palestinian intifadas and ‘rockets from the Gaza Strip’ and retaliatory raids by the Israeli Defence Force and the murder of Israeli settlers and the massacres of Palestinians, and so on and so on.

And you shouldn’t underestimate the number of Westerners who personally know people who fought in one or other of those wars; for example, 150,610 UK personnel served in Afghanistan and some 141,000 in Iraq. All those soldiers had family, who heard about their experiences and shared their (sometimes appalling) injuries and traumas. First hand testimony trumping Victorian paintings.

And quite a few Westerners have been affected by one or other of the many Islamic terrorist attacks on Western cities, starting with the 2,996 killed in the 9/11 attacks and all their extended families, the 130 people killed in the 2015 Bataclan attack in Paris, the families of the 22 people killed and 1,017 injured in the 2017 Manchester Arena bombing; or attacks on tourists in Muslim countries such as the 202 killed and 209 injured in the 2002 Bali bombings, numerous Islamist attacks in Egypt, Tunisia and other tourist favourites.

Compared to the images and news footage and reports and first hand experience of these kinds of events, I’m just suggesting that Said’s warning about the frightful stereotyping of the Orient carried out by nineteenth century and early twentieth century writers, artists and scholars is a nice piece of academic analysis but of questionable relevance to the views about Arabs, Muslims and the Middle East currently held by more or less everyone living in the contemporary world.

Said addresses this point by saying that there is a direct link between older imperial views and current views, that his entire project was not only to show the origins and development of Orientalist views but how they continue up to the present day to inform contemporary news and TV and magazine and political discourse about Islam and the Middle East.

But proving that would require a completely different kind of book, something from the field of media studies which examined how the tropes and stereotypes Said complains are utterly without foundation in the real world, have gained renewed life from actual events which people not only consume via TV and newspapers, but via social media, massacres filmed live, as they happen.

In the 1995 Afterword and 2003 Preface which he added to the book (and I review separately) he does indeed try to do this, but he died (in 2003) well before the advent of social media and cheap phones transformed the entire concepts of media, news and information out of recognition.

In almost all ways, this book feels as if it comes from a bookish, scholarly, library-based world which has been swept away by the digital age.

An interview with Edward Said (1998)

This interview was produced in 1998, so before 9/11, the Afghan War, the Iraq War, al-Qaeda, ISIS, the Arab Spring etc. If Said thought Western attitudes to Middle Eastern countries were bad then, what must he have made of the hugely negative shift in impressions caused by 9/11 and the subsequent wars (he passed away in September 2003, living just long enough to see the American invasion of Iraq, commenced in March 2003, start to unravel)? You could almost say that the interview hails from a more innocent age.

Practical criticism

See if you can identify the kind of essentialising Orientalist stereotypes about the Middle East, Arabs and Islam which Said describes in the coverage of the recent Hamas attack on Israel (I’m just giving the BBC as a starting point):


Credit

Orientalism by Edward Said was first published by Routledge and Kegan Paul in 1978. References are to the 2003 Penguin paperback edition (with new Afterword and Preface).

Related reviews

Kim and Orientalism

Edward Said’s 1978 book ‘Orientalism’ mounted a sustained attack on the way eighteenth and nineteenth century Western scholars paved the way for the imperial conquest of the Middle East and India by creating and then maintaining a false concept of ‘the Orient’ and then attributing to its inhabits, so-called ‘Orientals’, a range of negative qualities such as laziness, incompetence, corruption, sensuality, luxury, squalor and so on. They did this in order to bolster and reinforce Western imperialists’ notions of themselves as, by contrast, hard working, chaste administrators of fair play and justice etc.

Said’s huge study aimed to show how all-pervasive these stereotypes and received ideas about ‘the Orient’ had become by the start of the twentieth century, and had endured, in one form or another, right up to the time of writing. His critique was a powerful insight and continues to be influential to this day.

Said’s sophisticated critical perspective moves his reader well beyond a straightforward enjoyment of Kipling’s 1901 novel, Kim, as ‘simply’ a realistic portrait of the India that Kipling grew up in, knew and loved so well, and digs deeper, to critique it as a complex web of ‘Orientalist’ stereotypes designed to bolster and justify British rule.

I’ve just been rereading both Kim and Orientalism and so am well aware of the debate, but I’d like to see it from a slightly different perspective. I’d make four points about the use of ‘stereotypes’ in language and literature.

(Before we begin, the dictionary definition of a stereotype is: ‘a widely held but fixed and oversimplified image or idea of a particular type of person or thing.’)

1. All language is stereotyped

I suggest that language is always based on stereotypes. Language is general, it is based on very general categories. When I say ‘go’ or ‘red’ or ‘tree’ these are alarmingly imprecise terms. We each have a stereotyped (‘widely held and simplified’) impression of what ‘go’ or ‘red’ or ‘tree’ mean. Specific enough to make communication possible, but vague enough to contain a wide variety of personal connotations, memories and meanings. Language is always, in this sense, a compromise with reality.

When anyone speaks or writes or reads, they bring to their language a wealth of experiences which include not only what they have personally seen and experienced, but what they’ve read, and for the last few generations, what they’ve seen on TV and in the movies and, nowadays, all over the internet and social media.

In other words, if you were test of how accurate most people’s ideas are about any subject you care to choose, when tested against ‘reality’, I bet you’d find that all of us are adrift, askew, influenced by family, friends, early experiences, what we’ve read or watched etc, so as to harbour personal opinions which are, more often than not, generalised and inaccurate.

To recap: in order for language to work, it requires a high level of generalisation, which comes close to the notion of stereotype, of a simplification of the multifarious, continually changing reality which our senses present to us.

2. All fictions are stereotyped

Building on the notion that stereotypes are required for language to even function, I’d then suggest that stereotypes (‘widely held and simplified’ opinions about people or things) are necessary for all fictions to work. In a sense most fictional characters are types. Especially in genre fiction, in the adventure stories of the 1890s I’ve been writing about, it’s widely accepted that the characters are often cardboard thin; the interest isn’t in their interior life but in what happens to them; in external events and adventures.

The most basic form of fictional stereotyping is dividing characters into good guys and bad guys. Throughout written literature good guys and bad guys proliferate, starting with the heroes celebrated by Homer and the pious kings and prophets celebrated by the writers of the Bible, at about the same time (let’s say 500 BC).

For most of its history literature has been tied up with a strong sense of morality, meaning readers or viewers of plays are supposed to assess and judge the characters depicted. Often narrators or characters explicitly ask us to do just that.

What we consider ‘literature’ can be defined as works that give a bit more complex depictions of human psychology, which show people as neither black or white but complex characters, often caught in difficult situations. That’s why we all look back to the Greek tragedies as the beginning of this kind of ‘serious’ literature, because even 2,400 years ago writers and audiences were stimulated by the depiction of complex moral dilemmas. But most classical and pretty much all Christian literature, from the Dark Ages to the 18th century, embodied and promoted relatively straightforward, schematic concepts of morality which relied – I’m arguing – on essentially stereotypical characters.

In Chaucer holiness and virtue, piety and devoutness are praised, as in his beautiful if conventional dream visions. Chaucer’s works become more ‘literary’ when they dramatise conflicting moral schemas, such as setting the Wife of Bath’s attractive vigour and sassiness against traditional Christian notions of chastity and restraint.

Similarly, Shakespeare is universally considered great literature, partly because of his extraordinary use of language, but centrally because of the unparalleled psychological complexity of the characters he creates. There’s a pretty simple scale from cardboard characters = pulp at one end, through to complex characters = literature, at the other.

In the mid-nineteenth century, some writers started to try and wriggle loose from the constraints of the oppressive moralising of Victorian society. Grown-ups like Flaubert and Maupassant in France or the rather more childish Oscar Wilde in Britain, were among the many writers claiming that good literature has nothing to do with ‘morality’, and should be judged purely on style and technical achievement. But they were struggling against their own instincts. Flaubert’s masterpiece, Madame Bovary, is a highly moralistic story of a woman who brings about her own ruin, and Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray is a fairy tale with a childlike moral (an innocent young man, led astray, ultimately gets his come-uppance).

Although by 1900, when Kim was written, there was already an enormous, an incomprehensibly huge variety of fictions, ranging from pulp Westerns, horror, fantasy and sensation stories, countless types of plays, operettas and music hall skits, all the way through to the subtlety and sophistication of a Henry James novel – but deep down, almost all these fictions operated within this framework of moral meaning.

It’s very hard to escape the prison-house of morality. It’s almost impossible for us to stop judging on a strongly moral basis, the characters and storylines in all the cultural products we’re faced with, whether plays and TV shows, films and books.

Back to Said’s book and I would suggest that his entire critique of ‘Orientalism’ is itself based on an pretty traditional moral claim, that the Orientalists were (and are) being unfair in negatively stereotyping ‘Orientals’ in order to justify conquering and ruling them and that, in order to be more fair, in order to create a fairer, more just world, we need to overturn these prejudices and biases. Despite Said’s awesome display of erudition and sustained attempts to write like a Parisian intellectual it is, in the end, an almost playground level of moral thinking.

3. Adventure fiction depends on stereotypes

Thirdly, Kim is an adventure story for boys. To treat it as an academic study of Indian society and find fault with it, to accuse it of promoting racist stereotypes, is surely as inappropriate as accusing Star Wars of promoting scientific errors or pointing out that the Sherlock Holmes stories rely on pretty improbable coincidences.

They are adventure stories, they are entertainments, and these genres, by definition, simplify things – they rely on simple plots, simple motivations, simple psychology and simple characters.

I agree with Said’s broad point, that Kim could be seen as just one cog in a vast interlocking cultural machine, a huge, patronising and basically racist worldview which defined ‘Orientals’ without any agreement or participation by them, which wrote their scripts for them, invented their characters for them, gave them opinions and actions and generally portrayed them in ways which, either blatantly or subtly, helped to underpin Western hegemony over ‘the Orient’. I agree with his basic point.

I’m just adding my own perspective on Said’s massive critique, which is to that it’s difficult to say anything about anything which doesn’t, at some level, rely on the generalising (what I’ve called ‘stereotyping’) qualities 1) of language itself, 2) of almost any fiction, and 3) of adventure fiction in particular.

The boy hero (Kim), the remote but authoritative father figure (Creighton), the tough assistant (Ali), the bookish colleague (Babu), the man who’s good with gadgets (Lurgan), just writing the list makes me realise how these stereotypical roles anticipate James Bond (boy hero), his father figure (M), his tough assistant (Felix Leiter), the gadget guy (Q) and so on. Lots of difference in surface detail, same underlying archetypes.

4. Kim is surprisingly unstereotypical

Mentioning the three types of simplification or stereotypicality generally found in this kind of adventure yarn helps to highlight a surprising result, which is the extent to which Kim is very much not a work of stereotypes and clichés. On the contrary, Kim tends towards the ‘literature’ end of the spectrum (as I’ve sketchily defined it above) precisely because it is unexpectedly complex, full of variegated detail, full of contradictions which surprise the reader.

Indian profusion i.e. not a simple binary

The whole purpose of Kim the novel is that it revels in the sheer profusion of Indian life, in its countless ethnic groups and religions and languages. It is littered with characters from different provinces and racial groups and religions, careers and professions.

The book contains a profusion of places – Kim is constantly on the move himself, so we directly get to see Lahore, Lucknow, Benares and Simla, Bombay, Karachi and Umballa, with smaller towns in between – but other characters refer to incidents elsewhere such as picking up the secret message left at Chotra or incidents right up on the North-West frontier, so that it (deliberately) gives the reader a sense of geographic breadth and variety.

And the text itself is absolutely packed with what feels like as many Indian phrases Kipling could cram into it, from multiple Indian languages, sometimes embedded in the narrative passages but absolutely infesting the dialogue and direct speech, almost every speech by any character including at least one native term.

My point being that Said’s repeated accusation against the Orientalist mindset is that it erected an entirely factitious binary opposition between ‘East’ and ‘West’ and ignored the complexity of actual peoples on the ground. On that axis, Kim is anti-Orientalist in the way that that hoary old binary is swamped and erased by the overwhelming complexity and confusion of races, religions, languages and characters which flood the text. At some points some characters do voice sentiments about how the white man will never understand ‘the Oriental’ etc but the characters who say that are implied to be in error, lesser characters, obtuse white characters, who are outside the marvellous world Kim inhabits.

Anti-white passages

Kipling very obviously plays with stereotypes, sometimes giving us what we expect, sometimes playing against expectation. Thus if he was directly and simply the imperial propagandist that critics make him out to be, then all the British characters would be good and a representative of Britain’s state religion, the Church of England, would be expected to be a shining beacon of morality. Instead Kipling goes out of his way to portray the Anglican chaplain as both physically and morally thin and pinched, unimaginative and bigoted.

Elsewhere British officials are routinely criticised by Indian characters for being ignorant, bad administrators, quick to show off their knowledge of horses (when they don’t know what they’re talking about), or easily hoodwinked (like the officer in charge of police searching the train for agent E23 in chapter 12) precisely because they rely on racial stereotypes, predictable narrow expectations, and so can be played.

Babu Hurree Chunder Mookerjee unexpectedly complex

Admittedly, the head of ‘the Department’, Colonel Creighton, is depicted as a ramrod-backed beacon of intelligence and discretion. It’s not difficult to see that he is a kind of moral foundation to the narrative whose efficiency and integrity justifies British imperial rule as just and wise and fair – but that’s precisely why he’s kept in the background, playing a surprisingly peripheral role.

More typical of a Kipling character playing against type is the Babu Hurree Chunder Mookerjee. Babu is a form of address for a Brahmin but by 1900 it had become a term of abuse by the English, suggesting an Indian who’s had some Western education, and aspires to Western cultural values, but falls hopelessly and embarrassingly short.

And indeed, to begin with, this is how Mookerjee is presented, with Kipling playing his half-educated speech, his references to European thinkers he only part understands and so on, for laughs. And, in our body-image-conscious times it may be worth pointing out the Babu is presented as fat with big fat wobbly legs, a back like jelly, and that this also is, initially, part of the barrage of mockery he’s subjected to. But, as the story progresses, Kim, and the reader, slowly come to respect his abilities more and more, until he plays a hero’s part in accompanying the Russian and French spies through the mountains to Simla, despite them abusing and beating him, putting up with all that and the threat of worse, to ensure that they are chaperoned into the heart of the Raj’s security setup where they can be safely monitored. Kim explicitly says that, completely contrary to the stereotypical figure of the fat cowardly Bengali Babu, Mookerjee is fat, and continues to make comically half-educated remarks, but is in fact deeply brave and, what matters most to Kipling, dutiful.

Indian piety easily trumps Western religion

To go back to the chaplain, it’s not just Bennett who is held up to scrutiny and found wanting, it is his entire religion, the religion of Westerners, Christianity itself, which is fairly regularly mentioned and 100% of the time seen as inferior to Indian religions.

Take the fight with the foreign spies in the mountains, where the Russian’s supposed Christianity is shown to be a poor, thin, hypocritical thing which allows a bully to beat up an old man, compared to a) the superstitious but infinitely more ‘moral’ response of the mountain coolies or shikarri for whom hitting a holy man is inconceivable blasphemy, and b) the genuine depth of the lama’s Buddhist faith. The way the lama has a moment of weakness before insisting on ordering the coolies not to go back down and take revenge on the two foreigners (i.e. shoot them) has genuine psychological veracity and shows a moral depth and principle absent in almost all the white characters.

In praise of Buddhism

And, to stay on religion, there is, of course, the end of the novel which, in a startling move, appears to authenticate and validate Buddhist belief. Kipling in all seriousness describes the lama’s moment of nirvana when he feels his soul leaving his body, leaving the constraints of time and place, and touching the Great Soul of the Universe. Christianity is nowhere to be seen. The lama’s religious epiphany is profoundly moving and believable.

A review of these four or five elements explains why I don’t see how a fiction which mocks the British authorities, mocks British religion and throws itself wholeheartedly behind the wisdom and restraint and morality and religious superiority of India’s native peoples, can, on the face of it, be described as simply upholding British hegemony. It may well, eventually, deep down, be premised on British rule in India, but in a rather more subtle and interesting way, by means of its fundamental assumptions.

The cure

The cure for generalisations from all sides i.e. stereotyping, whether racial, sexist and so on, is to be as specific as you can be, about individuals, about situations, and about texts.

That’s why I pay such close attention to the exact wording of texts and quote so extensively from works I’m reviewing. The more precise you are to the actual words of the text, the more enjoyable, strange, often unexpected and pleasurable the experience. The further you move away from the text, the more likely you are to start generalising, the more likely you are to give in to moralising generalisations. In Wilde’s day the authorities criticised his books for being ‘decadent’ and ‘corrupting’ (which, in fact, in one sense, they were). In 2023 woke academics criticise books for being ‘sexist’ and ‘racist’ (which, in fact, they often are). Different terminology, but the same impulse to judge.

Doesn’t mean that all of these books, old and new, beneath whatever elements we disapprove of, don’t also contain interesting and enjoyable uses of language and the entire point of literature, in my view, is to entertain the widest possible range of human thoughts, feelings, characters, situations, thoughts and so on. It’s about being open. Which is why I’m against people who say ban this or rewrite that. Whether authoritarian regimes or revisionist academics or anxious publishers, they are against openness. They are on the side of closing down.

At the highest level of generalisation, when you are furthest removed from the strangeness and unpredictability of the text, you get lazy journalists or literary critics simply dismissing Kipling as ‘racist’ or ‘orientalist’, without knowing or caring for the complex interplay of linguistic elements in his actual texts. But it’s precisely the interplay and unexpectednesses which those kind of people ignore in order to make their political points, which make literature worthwhile.

In fictions, characters stereotype each other

The modern author has to be careful not to offend against modern concerns about gender or racial stereotyping. But their characters can. Fictional characters are allowed to think and talk like actual people actually do. And so part of the enjoyable complexity of Kim is that much of the ‘stereotyping’ where it goes on, isn’t done by the author but by the characters, and on the whole by the Indians themselves. They come from a huge and diverse country where, as in many nineteenth century countries, people were far more attached to their family, their clan, their religion and their region than they were to any notion of the ‘nation state’. And so part of the fun of the story is listening to characters taking each other down and knowingly, comically, satirically making generalisations about this or that regional or religious or business or gender type.

I think it’s still alright for us in England, in 2023, to take the mickey out of Scotsmen for liking a wee dram, or Yorkshiremen for being boomingly convinced of their county’s superiority, or Welshmen for being peevish, or bankers for being braying Hoorays, Germans for being Teutonically efficient, the French for shrugging their shoulders and saying ‘Bouf!’, and so on. Same here, a hundred years ago, in India, where certain ethnic or regional groups were associated with certain characteristics, and part of the enjoyment of the book is reading about their views about each other, done with a pleasurable absence of modern self consciousness, done, on the whole, for comedic ends.

I’ve no idea whether any of it is ‘true’, I’ve only a shaky grasp who any of these people are or what part of India they come from, but the use of stereotypes by the characters themselves, between themselves, is one more way the text works to make the reader feel part of that world. Bergson famously said there’s something robotic about comedy, about the predictability of character types and behaviour, and so the deployment of so many types, is not a negative thing: it’s comic and welcoming.

Pathans

‘Trust a snake before an harlot, and an harlot before a Pathan.’

Mahbub Ali is a Pathan and depicted as being quick to anger but quick also to forgive. His Pathan-ness is frequently referred to as making him a certain type.

Jats

He picked up his lathi – a five-foot male-bamboo ringed with bands of polished iron – and flourished it in the air. ‘The Jats are called quarrelsome, but that is not true. Except when we are crossed, we are like our own buffaloes.’

Sikhs

One advantage of the Secret Service is that it has no worrying audit. That Service is ludicrously starved, of course, but the funds are administered by a few men who do not call for vouchers or present itemised accounts. Mahbub’s eyes lighted with almost a Sikh’s love of money. (p.148)

Just a few examples of the many generalisations the author, or his characters, make about the many, many races which lived in Victorian India.

The Irish

And don’t forget that the single ‘race’ which Kipling makes most generalisations about isn’t Indian at all, but much closer to home, the Irish, or ‘the Rishti’, as Kim puts it.

It is a central fact of the entire narrative that Kim is not of English descent, but of the much more interesting and colourful Irish descent. ‘Colourful’ because there was a widespread view at the time (and still is to this day, among many Irish people I know or see in the media) that the Irish are more passionate, uninhibited, more in touch with their feelings (as we’ve said since the 1960s) than the uptight, emotionally constipated English, all vicars and maiden aunts.

This binary comes over very starkly in the contrast between the quick-to-judgement, unsympathetic English chaplain, Bennett, and the much more sympathetic and kindly Irish Catholic priest, Father Victor, a difference Bennett himself is uneasily aware of:

It was noticeable that whenever the Church of England dealt with a human problem she was very likely to call in the Church of Rome. Bennett’s official abhorrence of ‘the Scarlet Woman’ [derogatory Protestant term for the Catholic Church] and all her ways was only equalled by his private respect for Father Victor.

The word ‘Irish’ occurs nine times in the text:

Kim followed [the lama] like a shadow. What he had overheard excited him wildly. This man was entirely new to all his experience, and he meant to investigate further, precisely as he would have investigated a new building or a strange festival in Lahore city. The lama was his trove, and he purposed to take possession. Kim’s mother had been Irish, too.

Which means he was Irish on his father and mother’s side as well, the implication being that he is curious, excitable, imaginative, and prepared to cross boundaries and break rules as a purely English boy probably wouldn’t. Of his secret meeting with Creighton:

Kim flipped the wad of folded paper into the air, and it fell in the path beside the man [Creighton], who put his foot on it as a gardener came round the corner. When the servant passed he picked it up, dropped a rupee – Kim could hear the clink – and strode into the house, never turning round. Swiftly Kim took up the money; but for all his training, he was Irish enough by birth to reckon silver the least part of any game. What he desired was the visible effect of action.

He is up for what Irish people still, I believe, call the craic, the fun, the action, the excitement. Viewed from one perspective, Kim can be seen as a kind of embodiment of the craic, always up for naughtiness, scampishness, kicking against restraints and sensibleness but, in his own way, deeply reliable and dutiful. Oh and hot-headed, as in the climactic scene where the Russian spy hits Kim’s beloved lama.

Before Kim could ward him off, the Russian struck the old man full on the face. Next instant he was rolling over and over downhill with Kim at his throat. The blow had waked every unknown Irish devil in the boy’s blood, and the sudden fall of his enemy did the rest.

As it happens the last mention of ‘Irish’ in the text, presumably deliberately, collates both the Irish and the Oriental in Kim’s make-up. After the fight they all hide in the forest.

They [the coolies] arranged and re-arranged their artless little plans for another hour, while Kim shivered with cold and pride. The humour of the situation tickled the Irish and the Oriental in his soul.

Asiatic, Oriental and the East

Lastly, a detailed look at the most ‘stereotyping’ or words, the key words Said highlights in his study. I collected mentions of these key words – ‘Asiatic’ occurs 15 times, ‘Oriental’ 15 times, ‘the East’ 9 times – to see what Kipling’s use of them shows, if anything.

Asiatic

Asiatics do not wink when they have outmanoeuvred an enemy, but as Mahbub Ali cleared his throat, tightened his belt, and staggered forth under the early morning stars, he came very near to it.

Kim dived into the happy Asiatic disorder which, if you only allow time, will bring you everything that a simple man needs.

He threw the blanket off his face, and raised himself suddenly with the terrible, bubbling, meaningless yell of the Asiatic roused by nightmare. ‘Urr-urr-urr-urr! Ya-la-la-la-la! Narain! The churel! The churel!’

A very few white people, but many Asiatics, can throw themselves into a mazement as it were by repeating their own names over and over again to themselves, letting the mind go free upon speculation as to what is called personal identity.

E23, with relaxed mouth, gave himself up to the opium that is meat, tobacco, and medicine to the spent Asiatic.

The Englishman is not, as a rule, familiar with the Asiatic

Kissing is practically unknown among Asiatics, which may have been the reason that she leaned back with wide-open eyes and a face of panic.

She brewed drinks, in some mysterious Asiatic equivalent to the still-room—drenches that smelt pestilently and tasted worse.

I’m not really qualified to say whether any of these passages are ‘racist’ or not. Some of them seem pretty factual: when I went down into the streets of Bombay I was overwhelmed by what seemed to me to be wild disorder; as to the meditation, my impression is that this is something Indians, Tibetans et al brought up in the tradition do better than Westerners who learn it late. It seems pretty reasonable to suggest that Englishmen are not, on the whole, familiar with Asians (though these days, I appreciate, many millions of Englishmen are Asians.)

What immediately struck me about them is how much Kipling wants to be regarded as an expert. They seem less about asserting the West’s ‘hegemony’ over Indian subjects, than asserting Kipling’s hegemony over this subject matter. It sounds more to me like an expert flourishing his credentials and bolstering his brand. To go a bit further in this direction, it’s almost like his flaunting of his expertise amounts to a sales pitch.

Oriental

Those Kings’ Prime Ministers were seriously annoyed and took steps, after the Oriental fashion. They suspected, among many others, the bullying, red-bearded horse-dealer whose caravans ploughed through their fastnesses belly-deep in snow. At least, his caravan that season had been ambushed and shot at twice on the way down.

That would have been a fatal blot on Kim’s character if Mahbub had not known that to others, for his own ends or Mahbub’s business, Kim could lie like an Oriental.

Now and again a night train roared along the metals within twenty feet of him; but he had all the Oriental’s indifference to mere noise, and it did not even weave a dream through his slumber.

The gentlemen were delighted. One was visibly French, the other Russian, but they spoke English not much inferior to the Babu’s. They begged his kind offices. Their native servants had gone sick at Leh. They had hurried on because they were anxious to bring the spoils of the chase to Simla ere the skins grew moth-eaten. They bore a general letter of introduction (the Babu salaamed to it orientally) to all Government officials.

These are a bit more pejorative, aren’t they? Kipling generalises that ‘Orientals’:

  • take revenge in a violent and underhand manner
  • are proficient liars

No fewer than four of them focus on ‘the Oriental’s’ poor sense of time or lack of sense of urgency, the frantic time obsession which hag-rides so many Westerners to this day:

Dynamite was milky and innocuous beside that report of C25; and even an Oriental, with an Oriental’s views of the value of time, could see that the sooner it was in the proper hands the better.

He [the lama] stood in a gigantic stone hall [of Lahore railway station] paved, it seemed, with the sheeted dead third-class passengers who had taken their tickets overnight and were sleeping in the waiting-rooms. All hours of the twenty-four are alike to Orientals, and their passenger traffic is regulated accordingly.

[When Kim tries to run away from the college] Trousers and jacket crippled body and mind alike so he abandoned the project and fell back, Oriental-fashion, on time and chance.

Swiftly – as Orientals understand speed – with long explanations, with abuse and windy talk, carelessly, amid a hundred checks for little things forgotten, the untidy camp broke up and led the half-dozen stiff and fretful horses along the Kalka road in the fresh of the rain-swept dawn.

On the other hand it’s important that this sentiment:

‘My experience is that one can never fathom the Oriental mind. Now, Kimball, I wish you to tell this man what I say word for word.’

Is put into the mouth of the Anglican vicar, Bennett, who is portrayed as narrow-minded and bigoted. Similarly, another generalisation about ‘Orientals’ is put into the mouth of the Russian spy, talking about Mookerjee’s half-educated character:

‘He represents in petto India in transition – the monstrous hybridism of East and West,’ the Russian replied. ‘It is we who can deal with Orientals.’

This is the wrong kind of generalising; or generalising by someone who has not acquired the experience and authority for such a statement. Which is made evident when the Russian makes the scandalous blasphemy of grabbing for the lama’s diagram and then punching him in the face when he resists, resulting in Kim jumping on him, rolling him downhill, smashing his head against a rock and kicking him in the nuts. Plus the spies’ loss of their entire eight months’ worth of reconnaissance work. Quite clearly, the narrative is telling us, only some people are allowed to make these kinds of sweeping generalisations. People in the know. Throughout his life Kipling bridled at the kind of people who made sweeping generalisations about British India or imperialism without ever having stepped outside Britain. Nothing spurred him to anger quicker than ignorant generalisations.

Finally this, the last instance of the word in the book is, surely, admiring.

He [Mukkerjee] stowed the entire trove [the spies’ paperwork] about his body, as only Orientals can.

How cool is that, the ability to stash stuff in the capacious folds of your Indian outfit. How much more interesting than a jacket with pockets.

The East

The most frequent use of ‘the East’ comes attached to the idea, already mentioned, that life is slower, people less time-harried, in the East than the alienated West. Two instances here combine with the three cited above, to make it Kipling’s most frequent generalisation (out of these three keywords, anyway):

Ticket-collecting is a slow business in the East, where people secrete their tickets in all sorts of curious places.

The Oswal, at peace with mankind, carried the message into the darkness behind him, and the easy, uncounted Eastern minutes slid by; for the lama was asleep in his cell, and no priest would wake him.

As to Kipling’s attribution of distinctive behaviours to the East, I’ve no idea whether this is true:

The old man was off his pony in an instant, and they embraced as do father and son in the East.

The old lady had retreated behind her curtains, but mixed most freely in the talk, her servants arguing with and contradicting her as servants do throughout the East.

I personally have come across a love of bartering in India and Pakistan which you don’t find at all in England

‘I sell and – I buy.’ Mahbub took a four-anna piece out of his belt and held it up. ‘Eight!’ said Kim, mechanically following the huckster instinct of the East.

And it seems reasonable to describe the many scents and perfumes found in shops and temples:

Kim was conscious that beyond the circle of light the room was full of things that smelt like all the temples of all the East. A whiff of musk, a puff of sandal-wood, and a breath of sickly jessamine-oil caught his opened nostrils.

Last word. Kim and the lama arrive at a new village, where:

There they told their tale – a new one each evening so far as Kim was concerned – and there were they made welcome, either by priest or headman, after the custom of the kindly East.

Some readers could take this as patronising and racist. But I read it as admiring and complimentary. It is redolent of kindness and the spirit of love – love of people and wonders and life and adventures –which, in my opinion, above everything else, suffuses this marvellous, life-affirming novel.


Credit

Kim was serialised in Cassell’s Magazine from January to November 1901, and first published in book form by Macmillan & Co. Ltd in October 1901. All references are to the 2002 Norton Critical Edition edited by Zohreh T. Sullivan.

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Kim by Rudyard Kipling (1901) part 1

He borrowed right- and left-handedly from all the customs of the country he knew and loved.
(Kim, Chapter 4)

Proper name: Kimball O’Hara

Nickname on the streets of Lahore: Little Friend of All The World

Kipling was dazzlingly prolific in prose and poetry but he only wrote three novels: ‘The Light That Failed’ (1891), ‘Captains Courageous’ (1897) and ‘Kim’ (1901). The first two are dubious works, problematic for a variety of reasons. By contrast ‘Kim’ is generally thought to be his masterpiece, the one significant, long-form work of prose which merits comparison with other novelists of his day, Hardy, Conrad, Wells, Foster, Bennett.

The basic idea is simple. From the start of his career Kipling enjoyed depicting working class characters, underdogs and low caste people, particularly soldiers in the British Empire’s imperial armies. These could be specific characters such as the soldiers three who appear in a dozen or more tales – Learoyd, Mulvaney and Ortheris – or the rough Portuguese seamen who crew the fishing schooner in Captains Courageous. Or when he captured the tone and voice of working class squaddies in the two sets of Barrack Room Ballads.

Kim pushes this tendency to a kind of extreme by focusing on a central character who is the orphan son of pretty much the poorest, lowest class in British India, his father (Kimball O’Hara) a former colour sergeant and later an employee of an Indian railway company, and Annie Shott (p.75), his mother, poor Irish, a former nanny in a colonel’s household.

When they both die young, Kim is orphaned, becoming ‘a poor white of the poorest’. But Kim wriggles free of caring relatives and interfering missionaries, of ‘societies and chaplains’, to become a street urchin, living on his wits, carrying out favours for countless merchants and shopkeepers, becoming so deeply tanned that strangers mistake him for a native Indian. His nickname among ordinary natives, shopkeepers, the local policemen and all who know him is ‘Little Friend of All The World’. He is ‘thoughtful, wise, and courteous; but something of a small imp’ (Chapter 4).

The whole novel is, then, a street-level depiction of Kipling’s beloved India of the 1890s. It starts in the Indian city of Lahore (now part of Pakistan), which is where Kipling himself was born and raised. Kipling’s father, John Lockwood Kipling, was the curator of the Lahore Museum. In numerous letters and journal entries, Kipling describes roaming the streets of the teeming, mysterious, often stinking muddy city from an early age, driven by incurable curiosity to seek out new experiences, sights, sounds and smells – as is his boy hero:

[Kim] meant to investigate further, precisely as he would have investigated a new building or a strange festival in Lahore city. (p.14)

A boy who can dodge over the roofs of Lahore city on a moonlight night, using every little patch and corner of darkness to discomfit his pursuer, is not likely to be checked by a line of well-trained soldiers. (p.73)

This is one reason for Kim’s lasting appeal. It is a vividly sensory description of life in 1890s India.

A second reason is Kipling’s extraordinary ability to depict the complex, multicultural strands of Indian life which, then as now, contained people of many faiths (Hindu, Muslim, Buddhist, Sikh, Jain) speaking many languages (Hindi, Hindustani, Urdu, Punjabi, Tibetan, Persian and so on). Kipling’s text revels in religious, historical and linguistic complexity.

A third reason is the story’s appeal to children of all ages who want to roam free, who want to escape the trammels of parents, guardians, social services, school or (for adults) jobs, careers, family responsibilities, and roam wild and free through a never-ending phantasmagoria of exotic sights, sounds and adventures. It is an epitome of escapist fantasy.

Clipped language

A fourth and major element of the book is its style. I tried to analyse this in my essay on Kipling’s style. I tried to bring out the way Kipling doesn’t write like most other writers but has a very distinctive and idiosyncratic approach to the language. Above all it is very compressed and very allusive.

Compressed

By compressed I mean that he doesn’t spell things out in an ordinary accessible way. In his autobiography Kipling describes writing out a story in full, then going back later and deleting half the words. Then going back, again, and cutting even more words. At its worst this means that reading a Kipling text feels more like doing a cryptic crossword than reading clear, coherent prose.

Allusive

By allusive I mean his clipped prose continually alludes to or refers to specialist knowledge as if his readers should already know it, knowledge about native customs, beliefs, regional traditions, religious practices, types of clothing and so on, very often described in native Indian terminology which he explains once then expects you to remember for the rest of the book.

Mosaic style

I suppose there’s a third element which derives from the allusiveness, which is that Kipling lards his texts with quotations. But these emphatically aren’t the placid, civilised tags from French or Latin which other well-behaved late-Victorian writers use. Instead he creates a crazy mosaic text made up of Biblical quotes, schoolboy or military or technical slang, but above all, lots and lots and lots of native Indian words.

Understatement

Finally, there is his trademark understatement, which is another kind of allusiveness. Sometimes Kipling describes events or actions in such a radically understated way that you struggle to understand what he’s intending to say. All these elements sometimes make his prose quite a challenge to read.

Opening paragraph

Take the opening paragraph from Kim:

He sat, in defiance of municipal orders, astride the gun Zam Zammah on her brick platform opposite the old Ajaib-Gher – the Wonder House, as the natives call the Lahore Museum. Who hold Zam-Zammah, that ‘fire-breathing dragon’, hold the Punjab, for the great green-bronze piece is always first of the conqueror’s loot.

A lot is going on here. Let’s try to analyse out the different types of verbal activity. First there are the names in a foreign language. Zam Zammah is mentioned in the first sentence with typical allusiveness, almost as if we’re expected to know what it means. Fortunately, Kipling translates it for us in the second sentence as meaning ‘fire-breathing dragon’ but, with typical understatement, he doesn’t really make it clear that he’s referring to a large, old-fashioned cannon. Similarly, he refers to the museum first off by its native name, ‘Ajaib-Gher’, which, admittedly, he then explains means the Wonder House, itself a local name for the Lahore Museum.

But the use of these non-English terms first, as the standard phrase, with the English translation coming second, immediately throws us into a foreign context, a foreignness which is then confirmed by mention of Lahore Museum, Kipling assuming his readers will know where Lahore is (north-west British India, now inside modern Pakistan).

There’s a similar expectation in the second sentence, that his readers will know where the Punjab is, but the real point of this sentence is to repeat the proverb about the Punjab. This is classic Kipling in five ways.

1. Mosaic text It is, in the broadest sense, one of the quotes or references I mentioned above, which make up so much of his text.

2. Cultural feel It ties into what I mentioned about the book’s skill at depicting the traditions, languages and mindsets of the many different cultures which inhabit his teeming multicultural India.

3. History Alongside the synchronic view of multiple cultures in the present, these two sentences also indicate a diachronic view of history. Kim’s world is the result of history, and not in a vague sense, but in a blunt Realpolitick kind of way: ‘The conqueror’s loot’ gives not only historical context but indicates the narrator’s cynical realistic attitude. The world Kim inhabits is one where winner takes all, as is made plain in the very next sentence:

There was some justification for Kim—he had kicked Lala Dinanath’s boy off the trunnions—since the English held the Punjab and Kim was English.

The imperialist suprematism of this is obvious. But just as typical is Kipling’s aggressively knowing reference to ‘trunnions’. Do you know what trunnions are without looking it up? (‘A pin or pivot on which something can be rotated or tilted. especially : either of two opposite gudgeons on which a cannon is swivelled’ – Mirriam-Webster dictionary)

4. Rebel Kim isn’t named in this opening paragraph, but his attitude is: ‘ in defiance of municipal orders’. He’s a rebel, a defier or ignorer of the law. (A notion not very subtle reinforced by the way his now-dead father is said to have served with ‘the Mavericks’, nickname for a regiment in the British Army which is entirely fictitious. A ‘maverick’ is ‘an unorthodox or independent-minded person.’)

5. Clipped prose Above all it demonstrates what I mean by compression, by Kipling’s inveterate habit of cutting, and then cutting again, his prose until it starts to read almost like a foreign language. ‘Who hold Zam-Zammah…hold the Punjab’ is clearly not standard English prose. There are two ways of fixing it: you could write :

‘Whoever holds Zam-Zammah…holds the Punjab’

Or, a bit more archaically:

They who hold Zam-Zammah…hold the Punjab’

Both would be acceptable grammatically correct English – but Kipling rejects both and has invented a new kind of prose. By deleting either ‘-ever’ (version 1) or ‘They’ (version 2) he makes the sentence significantly harder to parse (meaning ‘to resolve a sentence into its component parts and understand their syntactic roles’), harder to process.

This defining aspect of Kipling’s style makes many of his stories hard to read but here, in Kim, his allusive, clipped style meets an appropriate subject matter and the two weld. His dense, clipped, allusive, jargon-ridden, foreign word-strewn style finds a fitting match in a protagonist who is a young street urchin at home in half a dozen different cultures and languages, always in a hurry, always leaping onto the next thing, with a restless juvenile energy.

The never-still, restless bounding of the protagonist from one excitement to the next, like a hyper-active toddler, is perfectly dressed in Kipling’s restless, jumpy, allusive, densely compressed style.

It occurs to me that Kipling’s style has attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD). This made it profoundly unsuitable for the telling of long sustained narratives with an interest in subtle psychological changes, such as we find in the novels of Thomas Hardy, Henry James, or Joseph Conrad. It explains why he wrote so many jumpy, nervy short stories and so few novels. But in this one, ADHD style met ADHD hero.

At one point, as Kim comes to recognise Colonel Creighton’s qualities, he thinks:

Here was a man after his own heart – a tortuous and indirect person playing a hidden game.

And the reader wonders whether this is a self-portrait of Kipling himself, his rather tortuous approach to English prose, his crabwise manner of conceiving and conveying his plots.

Archaic speech

Another element which adds to the sense of a foreign place and time, exotic setting and so on, is Kipling’s decision to render speech, often translated from one of the many Indian languages, in the style of the King James Bible. So, in the opening chapter, here is the Tibetan lama talking to the curator of the Lahore Museum:

‘We are both bound, thou and I, my brother. But I’ – [the lama] rose with a sweep of the soft thick drapery – ‘I go to cut myself free. Come also!’
‘I am bound,’ said the Curator. ‘But whither goest thou?’

It ought to feel arch and contrived, and maybe to some modern readers it does. But 1) Kipling uses it so consistently throughout the book that you soon get used to it and 2) if you buy into it, it is quite an effective way of conveying that they are talking a foreign language.

Indian speech

More obvious than the quirks of Kipling’s narrative voice is the fact that the overwhelming majority of the text is direct speech, and that is it packed to overflowing with native Indian words; rarely entire phrases, just individual words, which Kipling often includes a translation for within brackets. But lots and lots and lots of them.

‘And he is a stranger and a būt-parast (idolater),’ said Abdullah.

‘There was with me when I left the hills a chela (disciple) who begged for me as the Rule demands.’

‘Thy man is rather yagi (bad-tempered) than yogi (a holy man).’

Pardesi (a foreigner),’ Kim explained.

At first Kim had been minded to give the alarm – the long-drawn cho-or—choor! (thief! thief!) that sets the serai ablaze of nights.

‘My sister’s brother’s son is naik (corporal) in that regiment,’ said the Sikh craftsman quietly.

‘Three kos (six miles) to the westward runs the great road to Calcutta.’

And so on, many hundreds of times. The reader isn’t going to learn Hindi or Pashtun or Urdu from the book. On the other hand, you do begin to pick up a feel for the kinds of sounds these words make, a feel for the sound world of Indian languages.

The plot, chapters 1 to 9

Kim is the poor street urchin orphan of a Irish sergeant and a poor serving woman. With them dead, he makes a living as a scamp and jack of all trades on the teeming streets of Lahore.

The story opens with Kim playing with two other boys on a disused cannon outside the Lahore Museum when a strange figure walks into view. He turns out to be a lama, a holy man from Tibet who is searching for the River of Life aka the River of the Arrow (p.11), where, he has been promised, he will be able to free himself from the Wheel of Things.

The lama is shown round the museum by its curator (modelled on Kipling’s own father who was the first curator of the Lahore museum) who very kindly gives him his own good quality spectacles to replace the lama’s which are worn and scratched. (At the very end of the book the lama remembers the curator’s courtesy and kindness. I am touched by Kipling’s filial affection, p.225.)

The lama emerges into the heat and falls asleep in the shade of the big cannon. When he awakes, the boy Kim appears to him to be a vision, a presentiment, one sent to guide him. In a slight daze, the lama adopts Kim as his chela or disciple, telling him they must find the river in which he will be cleansed. For his part, Kim has a dim memory of his drunken father telling him his life will change when he meets a red bull on a green background. So he decides to fall in with the lama’s delusion, and act as his chela.

Out of general conversation emerges the idea that the river might by the mighty Ganges far away to the East. So step one is to catch a train East, to the town of Umballa. Near the train station is the Kashmir Serai. Here are shop and stables of the Pashtun horse trader Mahbub Ali, one of the many businessmen Kim survives by doing favours for. Kim takes the lama to go and see him, mainly because he wants to chivvy dinner out of him, and in this succeeds, Ali’s Balti servants feeding lama and boy. But learning of his journey, Ali gives Kim a message to deliver to a British officer in Umballa, a certain Colonel Creighton. Ali says it is about a white stallion he’s sold the officer and gives him a folded up piece of paper.

Kim knows there’s more to this than meets the eye but doesn’t know the full story. Because the narrator tells us that Ali is a British spy, codename C25 1B and the piece of greasy folded paper he gives Kim is a report from another operative, R17, and that it:

most scandalously betrayed the five confederated Kings, the sympathetic Northern Power, a Hindu banker in Peshawur, a firm of gun-makers in Belgium, and an important, semi-independent Mohammedan ruler to the south.

I.e. five independent Indian princes in the north of the country are friendly to the Russian Empire (the ‘sympathetic Northern Power’) and are in league with the others mentioned for some nefarious purpose, never clearly defined.

This is what moviemakers would later call the McGuffin, defined as ‘an object, event, or character in a film or story that serves to set and keep the plot in motion despite usually lacking intrinsic importance.’ Thus Kim has, without knowing it, been recruited into the so-called ‘Great Game’, the name given to the cold war which developed between the British Empire and the Russian Empire as the latter expanded its territory through Central Asia and tried to extend its influence into Persia and Afghanistan (and first mentioned in chapter 7, p.110).

I dealt with this in my review of Andrew Roberts’s biography of Lord Salisbury. From Salisbury’s view, as Prime Minister back in London, the British authorities in India were in a permanent state of hysterical over-reaction about Russia. It was paranoia about Russian interference in Afghanistan which had led to the Second Afghan War of 1878 to 1880, a wholly unnecessary and futile conflict. Salisbury was exasperated by Indian Viceroys who kept sending panic-stricken messages about the threat from Russia and demanding London to be more pro-active. Salisbury, wisely, thought Russian imperial expansion was more interested in annexing the central Asian republics than starting a war with Britain.

So the most important fact about the Great Game is that, despite the sweaty paranoia of Brits on the ground in India, a conflict between Russia and Britain over India never broke out. A huge amount of influence buying and espionage went on by both sides with, in the end, very little result.

Kipling was, of course, on the side of the Indian authorities and so the entire novel is set within the worldview of threatening Russian influence. In this respect it’s like a Cold War thriller or like Indiana Jones and the ever-present threat of the Nazis. A thriller needs baddies, ideally a network of baddies, Reds under the beds, Islamic terrorists everywhere etc, in order to create that enjoyably spooky sense of threat.

There’s a bit more spy stuff in that Ali knows he is being watched and all his messages are being opened and read. For him it is a stroke of luck that this street urchin who he uses to run errands has now decided on some cock and bull mission to help some lama head East, it suits him down to the ground to give him the secret message to deliver to Colonel Creighton in Umballa. And so, in a nice little scene, Ali, having divested himself of the folded up letter, goes along to one of his favourite prostitutes, ‘the Flower of Delight’, in a bordello, where he allows himself to be completely stoned on opium, knowing that the prostitute is a spy, knowing she is in league with foreign agents, knowing that, once he has passed out, these mystery men – ‘a smooth-faced Kashmiri pundit’ and ‘a sleek young gentleman from Delhi’ – will appear and thoroughly search his clothes and belongings, which is what they do. Not only that but they lift his keys and go to his stall/shop and search that very thoroughly – but are puzzled and frustrated to find nothing. Kim is pretending to be asleep, alongside the lama and the Balti servants, but sees all this taking place, and realises Ali is involved in something and that the message and piece of paper he’s to deliver to Creighton in Umballa are probably much more important than an innocuous message about a horse Ali has sold. (Later, in chapter 8 he tells Ali about this episode and how it was his first inkling that more was going on, pages 113 to 115.)

Next morning Kim helps the lama navigate a modern train station and get on a steam train and off they set, amid much local colour and much conversation on the train from the other travellers. One of the women takes to the lama and offers to put them up in the courtyard of the house in Umballa she’s heading to.

So they alight at Umballa and this woman very kindly sees them settled in her courtyard. But Kim explains he has to do an errand and makes his way to the luxury compound of this Creighton, clearly a man of influence. He comes out onto the veranda for a smoke, clearly a big social do is planned for that evening. His wife calls through the French windows so we learn his name is William Creighton.

a) Kim hiding in the shrubbery whispers that he’s there and he’s got a message from Ali. He throws the piece of folded paper onto the veranda where Creighton steps on it just as a servant enters. b) Kim then witnesses a carriage pulling up and another white man talking to Creighton, from the tone of his conversation his deputy. Then, apparently, the Commander in Chief of the Indian Army arrives and Kim watches them in conference, discussing this report, how it confirms their suspicions about the Russians etc. Kim doesn’t understand all the references but the reader realises they’re preparing for war, mention of two regiments being prepared, 8,000 men.

Characteristically, Creighton is made to say it isn’t a war, it’s a punishment (p.35). This is characteristically self serving, as if the British Empire alone has the right to adjudicate any other country’s behaviour and to allot punishment like a schoolmaster. It is also characteristically mendacious because, if this refers to the Second Afghan War of 1878 to 1880, then the Lord Salisbury book makes it clear that London regarded the whole thing as the fault of the aggressive policy of the British authorities on the ground, of the Viceroy overstepping his authority.

Thirdly, it is also very characteristic of Kipling’s sadistic streak which makes many of his stories unpleasant to read. This is a good example. There is a strong element of gloating in the narrator (Kipling)’s voice, as he looks forward to giving ‘the sympathetic Northern Power’ a damn good thrashing.

Kim returns to the compound of the friendly wife who gave shelter to the lama, and the next couple of chapters describe their onwards travels and the wide variety of Indian types they meet as they journey through India’s huge hot flatlands, then arrive at the legendary Grand Trunk Road.

‘Look! Brahmins and chumars, bankers and tinkers, barbers and bunnias, pilgrims and potters – all the world going and coming. It is to me as a river from which I am withdrawn like a log after a flood.’ And truly the Grand Trunk Road is a wonderful spectacle. It runs straight, bearing without crowding India’s traffic for fifteen hundred miles—such a river of life as nowhere else exists in the world. (p.51 cf p.56)

Lovely descriptions including their overnight stay at a parao or resting place where all types of Indians stop, make camp, light little fires. Here the lama is requested by a grand lady riding in a covered bullock wagon. She asks if the lama will bless her and accompany her on her mission to visit her son. the lama, in his simple way, agrees.

The next plot development is a few days later they are sheltering in a grove when they see advancing towards them a few men who peg out the flat land, followed by a horde who turn out to be a regiment of the British army. And their regimental flag is the image of a red bull on a green background. Kim is transfixed. It’s his father’s prophecy come true!

Once the compound is staked out and hundreds of tents erected, Kim sneaks past the guard and closer to spy what’s going on. But he is caught, after a scuffle, by the Anglican chaplain, Bennett (p.73). Having secured his prisoner, Bennett calls for the Catholic chaplain, Father Victor. In their different ways they interrogate Kim (Father Victor is by far the more sympathetic and forgiving). During the scuffle the necklace Kim has worn all his life with a little pouch of documents comes free and when the two priests examine them they are flabbergasted to discover that Kim is the orphan son of a former sergeant in their very regiment! (p.74) Well, what a coincidence – or kismet, as the Roman Catholic chaplain insists.

There’s a very long scene where the two priests detach Kim from the case of his lama, both of them very upset, until the lama concludes he was a fool to let himself become attached to things of this world, stands and disappears into the night.

Kim is given to the care of the drummer boys with a sergeant to guard and ensure he doesn’t try to escape. When Kim asks where the regiment is headed they say back to barracks but he contradicts them, telling them they will soon be heading off to ‘thee war’ as he pronounces it. Everyone laughs. But the next day the regiment does receive orders to move to the front (presumably up to the North-West Frontier with Afghanistan) and Bennett and Victor, in particular, are flabbergasted.

So they march back to the regimental barracks at Umballa. Here most of the fighting men entrain for the frontier and disappear, leaving the barracks half empty and echoing. Kim hates it. He hates the scratchy uniform they force him to wear, hates the ‘education’, the ‘discipline’ which consists of beatings, hates being humiliated by the teachers, and hates the other drummer boys he’s in class with. They are ignorant and vulgar, their stupidity indicated by the casual racism with which they insult the locals, in a way which is a kind of blasphemy to native-born Kim.

He manages to get a local letter writer to write a letter to Mahbub Ali and a few days later is strolling at the edge of the barracks when he is scooped up by a dark clothed native on a horse and whisked away. This is Ali. But in another far-fetched coincidence, when Ali has come to a halt and is discussing with Kim what to do with him, an English horseman rides alongside and who should it be, but Creighton!

He and Ali maintain a facade that he is simply a customer for Ali’s horses but Kim knows better, if not what’s really going on. Creighton accompanies Ali as he rides Kim back to the barracks. As they arrive at the main office, Father Victor comes out and recognised Creighton as Head of the British Ethnological Survey (p.94).

Creighton sits on the veranda and rather patronisingly listens to Father Victor spell out everything he knows about the boy, while watching Ali and Kim yarning under a nearby tree. The more Creighton hears, the more special he realises Kim is, and the more he begins to realise how he can be useful in his (Creighton’s) schemes. So he ‘charitably’ volunteers to the Father to personally supervise the passage of young Kim to St Xavier’s College in Lucknow (which Kim and Ali mock by mispronouncing ‘Nucklao’). The deal is done, the Colonel tells Kim to stay put and wait just three days, then he’ll come for him.

(Later on we discover that, surprisingly, the lama will pay the fees for the top notch private college, 300 rupees a year. This is because, again surprisingly, he is revealed to be the abbot of his lamasery back in Tibet (in Such-zen), and so has access to funds. It’s just that he chooses not to spend them on himself. But ‘Education is greatest blessing if of best sorts’, as he later writes in a letter to Kim.)

The way Ali and the Colonel speak loudly in the code of buying and selling horses, but really referring to information or about how to handle Kim, is amusing in its rather naive spyishness.

Three days later they travel south by train to Lucknow, the Colonel in First Class, Kim ill at ease in second. He preferred the sociability of third class when he travelled with the lama. He notices how white people have a special kind of detachment and loneliness.

Creighton gives him a cab to take to the Xavier College, but while cruising round this big city, Kim is astonished to see his lama sitting on a kerb. They are joyfully reunited. But Kim sticks to his promise and eventually arrives at the College.

Here, for the first time, the narrative ceases to be a moment-by-moment description and goes up a level to describe the passage of an entire term. Kim thrives. He is quick and canny. He learns to read and write in the company of three hundred other precocious youths. Kipling gives an extraordinarily knowledgeable overview of their classes and backgrounds:

They were sons of subordinate officials in the Railway, Telegraph, and Canal Services; of warrant-officers, sometimes retired and sometimes acting as commanders-in-chief to a feudatory Rajah’s army; of captains of the Indian Marine Government pensioners, planters, Presidency shopkeepers, and missionaries. A few were cadets of the old Eurasian houses that have taken strong root in Dhurrumtollah—Pereiras, De Souzas, and D’Silvas. Their parents could well have educated them in England, but they loved the school that had served their own youth, and generation followed sallow-hued generation at St Xavier’s. Their homes ranged from Howrah of the railway people to abandoned cantonments like Monghyr and Chunar; lost tea-gardens Shillong-way; villages where their fathers were large landholders in Oudh or the Deccan; Mission-stations a week from the nearest railway line; seaports a thousand miles south, facing the brazen Indian surf; and cinchona-plantations south of all. The mere story of their adventures, which to them were no adventures, on their road to and from school would have crisped a Western boy’s hair. They were used to jogging off alone through a hundred miles of jungle, where there was always the delightful chance of being delayed by tigers; but they would no more have bathed in the English Channel in an English August than their brothers across the world would have lain still while a leopard snuffed at their palanquin. There were boys of fifteen who had spent a day and a half on an islet in the middle of a flooded river, taking charge, as by right, of a camp of frantic pilgrims returning from a shrine. There were seniors who had requisitioned a chance-met Rajah’s elephant, in the name of St Francis Xavier, when the Rains once blotted out the cart-track that led to their father’s estate, and had all but lost the huge beast in a quicksand. There was a boy who, he said, and none doubted, had helped his father to beat off with rifles from the veranda a rush of Akas in the days when those head-hunters were bold against lonely plantations.

This is also by way of being in praise of the native-born, boys of white ancestry who are, nonetheless, born and bred in India and so a) lacking the nervous racism and racial supremacy of whites born and imported from England; and b) understanding the country, have a natural gift of command.

When the holidays come Kim goes walkabout, goes travelling round India, using the railway pass Creighton had given him. Creighton meets with Ali and bemoans this but Ali contradicts, saying it is good for one training to be a spy to keep up his talent for blending in; he’ll come back. Sure enough, a month later, Ali actually bumps into Kim on the Kalki road, they talk, Kim assures him he’s going back to Xavier’s for the new term.

There are a lot of chance, coincidental meetings in this narrative.

Ali invites him to join his team, giving him a thumb-stamped piece of paper which makes his servants accept him, where they’re gathered round the horse boxes to sleep for the night. The incident where Kim overhears the two agents who searched opium-zonked Ali back in chapter 3, now conspiring to assassinate him. Kim slips away and intercepts Ali as he’s riding back to his camp. Ali then cannily persuades the British station authorities that thieves are lying in wait in the sidings, so a British officer and policeman go in search and find them leading to a fight with guns and knives. Meanwhile Kim is back in his sleeping blanket, well pleased with his service to Ali. ‘Thy fate and mine seem as on one string’.

Ali takes Kim with him by train and road up to Simla, the Raj’s summer resort in the mountains. Here he is interviewed by Lurgan. Lurgan turns out to be an eccentric whose profession is jeweller – specifically, repairing worn out old gems and pearls – but he also keeps an old curiosity shop full of masks and bric-a-brac. He tests Kim’s nerve on the first night by revealing all the devil masks by lamplight then making him go sleep among them. Lurgan’s boy assistant of jealous of the new arrival and he and Kim fight, while Lurgan watches on, amused.

Kim stays with Lurgan for ten days, watching the variety of his customers, and playing games of memory in the evenings. We and Kim realise that it’s all part of his training to become a field agent.

At the end of the day, Kim and the Hindu boy…were expected to give a detailed account of all that they had seen and heard – their view of each man’s character, as shown in his face, talk, and manner, and their notions of his real errand.

They spend much time using make-up to adopt various disguises and Lurgan gives long lectures about the specific attributes of different tribes and castes and religious or ethnic groups.

The Hindu child played this game clumsily. That little mind, keen as an icicle where tally of jewels was concerned, could not temper itself to enter another’s soul; but a demon in Kim woke up and sang with joy as he put on the changing dresses, and changed speech and gesture therewith. (p.135)

‘Therewith’? Typical of Kipling’s crabbed, archaic prose style. Anyway, Kim comes to realise that Lurgan, too, is part of the network of operatives, part of the ‘Great Game’. When it’s time for Kim to finally go back to school, Lurgan tells him he’s welcome to return at the next holidays.

One of the visitors to the shop had been a Babu (a term of address for an educated man which, in English hands, became a sort of insult), a morbidly obese man who, Lurgan tells Kim, is one of the top 10 secret operatives in the country. His name is Hurree Chunder Mookerjee and (the narrator tells us) his agent number is R.17. If you’ve got a good memory (or can check an online text) you find that this is the same R.17 who produced the report that Mahbub Ali passed onto Kim to pass onto Creighton i.e. he really is a key operative.

Lurgan tells him there is a price on the Babu’s head as there is on the head of Mahbub Ali. Kim is boyishly excited, looking forward to the day when there is a price on his head!

This fat man is one of the members of the convoy which sets off four days later from Simla, heading back down into the plains. Before they split up Hurree gives Kim a betel box as reward for his achievements so far.

The narrative again moves up a level in order to skate through Kim’s school career. He is proficient in maths and practical knowledge, learns to play cricket, wins prizes. He is 14 years and ten months old, then fifteen years and eight months i.e. we are zipping forwards. Altogether Kim is 3 years at St Xavier’s College (p.139).

Remember the Tibetan lama? During this whole period he is offered hospitality at the Temple of Tirtankars in Benares, going on pilgrimages and travels, but always returning there, from where he and Kim exchange letters. (In fact we are told that the Curator of the Wonder House i.e. Lahore Museum, currently possesses a written account of all his journeyings.)

In holiday times he goes many journeys with Ali, who gets him to start doing small espionage tasks. Then he stays with Lurgan where he learns to recite the Koran, various spells and cures etc. Spycraft. The Colonel tests his ability with surveillance equipment and skill at making maps.

The past

There’s a very important paragraph on page 144. This says that a particular report Kim wrote (a survey of a town he visited with Ali):

was on hand a few years ago…but by now the pencil characters must be almost illegible.

This is important because it’s the first indication that all this happened some time ago, long enough ago for the pencil characters to have faded and become illegible. There’s been a few hints earlier but this really rams home the sense that all this happened in the historic past. Until this moment the reader had the sense it was happening right now, in the present.

Continued in Part Two.

Scenes and descriptions

Odd and clotted though Kipling’s prose often is, he strews the book with beautiful word paintings.

The teeming city

The hot and crowded bazaars blazed with light as they made their way through the press of all the races in Upper India, and the lama mooned through it like a man in a dream. It was his first experience of a large manufacturing city, and the crowded tram-car with its continually squealing brakes frightened him. Half pushed, half towed, he arrived at the high gate of the Kashmir Serai: that huge open square over against the railway station, surrounded with arched cloisters, where the camel and horse caravans put up on their return from Central Asia. Here were all manner of Northern folk, tending tethered ponies and kneeling camels; loading and unloading bales and bundles; drawing water for the evening meal at the creaking well-windlasses; piling grass before the shrieking, wild-eyed stallions; cuffing the surly caravan dogs; paying off camel-drivers; taking on new grooms; swearing, shouting, arguing, and chaffering in the packed square.

Lahore train station

The sleepers sprang to life, and the station filled with clamour and shoutings, cries of water and sweetmeat vendors, shouts of native policemen, and shrill yells of women gathering up their baskets, their families, and their husbands.

Portraits

The horse-trader, his deep, embroidered Bokhariot belt unloosed, was lying on a pair of silk carpet saddle-bags, pulling lazily at an immense silver hookah.

A black-bearded man, with a green shade over his eyes, sat at a table, and, one by one, with short, white hands, picked up globules of light from a tray before him, threaded them on a glancing silken string, and hummed to himself the while.

The room, with its dirty cushions and half-smoked hookahs, smelt abominably of stale tobacco. In one corner lay a huge and shapeless woman clad in greenish gauzes, and decked, brow, nose, ear, neck, wrist, arm, waist, and ankle with heavy native jewellery. When she turned it was like the clashing of copper pots. A lean cat in the balcony outside the window mewed hungrily.

India

All India is full of holy men stammering gospels in strange tongues; shaken and consumed in the fires of their own zeal; dreamers, babblers, and visionaries: as it has been from the beginning and will continue to the end.

The countryside

They followed the rutted and worn country road that wound across the flat between the great dark-green mango-groves, the line of the snowcapped Himalayas faint to the eastward. All India was at work in the fields, to the creaking of well-wheels, the shouting of ploughmen behind their cattle, and the clamour of the crows.

In the shade

The lama squatted under the shade of a mango, whose shadow played checkerwise over his face; the soldier sat stiffly on the pony; and Kim, making sure that there were no snakes, lay down in the crotch of the twisted roots. There was a drowsy buzz of small life in hot sunshine, a cooing of doves, and a sleepy drone of well-wheels across the fields.

Dusk in the countryside

By this time the sun was driving broad golden spokes through the lower branches of the mango-trees; the parakeets and doves were coming home in their hundreds; the chattering, grey-backed Seven Sisters, talking over the day’s adventures, walked back and forth in twos and threes almost under the feet of the travellers; and shufflings and scufflings in the branches showed that the bats were ready to go out on the night-picket. Swiftly the light gathered itself together, painted for an instant the faces and the cartwheels and the bullocks’ horns as red as blood. Then the night fell, changing the touch of the air, drawing a low, even haze, like a gossamer veil of blue, across the face of the country, and bringing out, keen and distinct, the smell of wood-smoke and cattle and the good scent of wheaten cakes cooked on ashes.

Simla by night

Together they set off through the mysterious dusk, full of the noises of a city below the hillside, and the breath of a cool wind in deodar-crowned Jakko, shouldering the stars. The house-lights, scattered on every level, made, as it were, a double firmament. Some were fixed, others belonged to the rickshaws of the careless, open-spoken English folk, going out to dinner.

Dawn

The diamond-bright dawn woke men and crows and bullocks together. Kim sat up and yawned, shook himself, and thrilled with delight. This was seeing the world in real truth; this was life as he would have it—bustling and shouting, the buckling of belts, and beating of bullocks and creaking of wheels, lighting of fires and cooking of food, and new sights at every turn of the approving eye. The morning mist swept off in a whorl of silver, the parrots shot away to some distant river in shrieking green hosts: all the well-wheels within ear-shot went to work. India was awake, and Kim was in the middle of it, more awake and more excited than anyone…

Educated to command the empire

One must never forget that one is a Sahib, and that some day, when examinations are passed, one will command natives. (p.107)

Background characters

I like counting and the book’s availability online makes it easy to make a list of secondary or background characters, who pop up as context and colour:

  • Lala Dinanath’s boy
  • half-caste woman who looks after Kim
  • little Chota Lal
  • Abdullah the sweetmeat-seller’s son
  • Mahbub Ali, the horse-trader
  • his Baltis (servants from Baltistan)
  • the Flower of Delight, a prostitute
  • a smooth-faced Kashmiri pundit, a spy
  • a sleek young gentleman from Delhi, another spy
  • a sleepy railway clerk
  • a burly Sikh artisan
  • the blueturbaned, well-to-do cultivator – a Hindu Jat from the rich Jullundur district
  • his shrill wife
  • a fat Hindu money-lender
  • an Amritzar courtesan laden with head drapery
  • a young Dogra soldier ‘of the Ludhiana Sikhs’, going south on leave
  • a market-gardener, Arain by caste, growing vegetables and flowers for Umballa city
  • the village headman, white-bearded and affable elder, used to entertaining strangers
  • the ‘old withered’ retired soldier who stayed true during the Mutiny, ‘Rissaldar Sahib’
  • the village priest
  • a Punjabi constable on the Great Trunk Road
  • ‘thin-legged, grey-bearded Ooryas from down country’
  • ‘duffle-clad, felt-hatted hillmen of the North’
  • the virtuous and high-born widow of Kulu or Saharunpore, travelling in the ruth or bullock cart attended by servants
  • a dark, sallowish District Superintendent of Police, faultlessly uniformed (who jokes with the rich widow)
  • the Reverend Arthur Bennett, Church of England chaplain of the Mavericks
  • Father Victor, Catholic chaplain of the Mavericks
  • at the barracks, the drummer-boy who had been hanging round him all the forenoon—a fat and freckled person of about fourteen

How Kim plays people

  • Kim changed his tone promptly to match that altered voice.
  • Kim knew what the faquirs of the Taksali Gate were like when they talked among themselves, and copied the very inflection of their lewd disciples.
  • ‘Nay, what is it?’ Kim said, dropping into his most caressing and confidential tone—the one, he well knew, that few could resist.
  • ‘True. That is true.’ Kim used the thoughtful, conciliatory tone of those who wish to draw confidences.
  • ‘It is permitted,’ said Kim, and threw back the very tone.
  • ‘God knows!’ said Kim cheerily. The tone might almost have deceived Mahbub Ali, but it failed entirely with the healer of sick pearls.

Kim’s character

  • ‘No white man knows the land and the customs of the land as thou knowest.’ (The lama to Kim, p.79)
  • ‘He was born in the land. He has friends. He goes where he chooses. He is a chabuk sawai (a sharp chap). It needs only to change his clothing, and in a twinkling he would be a low-caste Hindu boy.’ (p.93)
  • ‘Thou wast born to be a breaker of hearts!’ [a houri painting Kim with walnut juice so he appears native]
  • often in the past few months had caught himself thinking of the queer, silent, self-possessed boy. His evasion, of course, was the height of insolence, but it argued some resource and nerve. [Creighton thinking about Kim, p.109]
  • ‘Colonel Sahib, only once in a thousand years is a horse born so well fitted for the game as this our colt. And we need men.’ (Mahbub Ali to Colonel Creighton describing Kim’s aptitude, p.142)

On the nature of a spy

In Simla the pearl jeweller Lurgan explains to Kim that:

‘From time to time, God causes men to be born – and thou art one of them – who have a lust to go abroad at the risk of their lives and discover news – today it may be of far-off things, tomorrow of some hidden mountain, and the next day of some near-by men who have done a foolishness against the State. These souls are very few; and of these few, not more than ten are of the best.’ (p.136)

Eighteen proverbs

The Norton edition includes a letter from Kipling to his favourite cousin, Margaret Burne-Jones, dated Lahore 28 November 1885, in which he answers her questions about life in India and, in doing so, summarises his own attitudes. He says the Indians are:

Touchy as children; obstinate as men; patient as the High Gods themselves; vicious as Devils but always loveable if you know how to take ’em. And so far as I know, the proper way to handle ’em is not by looking on ’em as ‘an excitable mass of barbarism’ (I speak for the Punjab only) or the ‘down trodden millions of Ind groaning under the heel of an alien and unsympathetic despotism,’ but as men with a language of their own which it is your business to understand; and proverbs which it is your business to quote (this is a land of proverbs) and byewords and allusions which it is your business to master; and feelings which it is your business to enter into and sympathise with. (Norton edition, page 269)

Well that explains his liberal use of proverbs throughout the text. They are just one of Kipling’s many strategies to create a sense of authenticity, a sense that we are inside Indian culture, listening to Indian people speaking in their own languages, using their own references, phrases, ideas and…proverbs.

  1. ‘Who hold Zam-Zammah, hold the Punjab’
  2. ‘Those who beg in silence starve in silence’
  3. ‘Let thy hair grow long and talk Punjabi’ (a Northern proverb)
  4. ‘Two arrows in the quiver are better than one; and three are better still’
  5. ‘For the sick cow a crow; for the sick man a Brahmin’
  6. ‘The husbands of the talkative have a great reward hereafter’
  7. ‘Never make friends with the Devil, a Monkey, or a Boy. No man knows what they will do next.’
  8. ‘Never speak to a white man till he is fed’
  9. ‘Trust a Brahmin before a snake, and a snake before an harlot, and an harlot before a Pathan’
  10. ‘I will change my faith and my bedding, but thou must pay for it’
  11. ‘Who looks for a rat in a frog pond’ (p.117)
  12. ‘When one can get blind-sides of a woman, a stallion, or a devil, why go round to invite a kick?’ (Ali, p.152)
  13. ‘Where there is no eye there is no caste,’ the Kamboh (p.165)
  14. ‘One priest always goes about to make another priest,’ the Kamboh (p.167)
  15. ‘Who goes to the hills goes to his mother.’ (p.192)
  16. ‘There are more ways of getting to a sweetheart than butting down a wall.’ (Hurree Babu, p.201)
  17. ‘So I should lose Delhi for the sake of a fish’
  18. ‘God made the Hare and the Bengali. What shame?’

Whiteness

The word ‘Sahib’ occurs 336 times, ‘white’ 121 times, ‘English’ 115 times.

The novel is very far from promoting white triumphalism. For sure, Colonel Creighton is depicted as a moral and administrative anchor, representing all that is stern and dutiful and wise in the Raj, but all the other white people come in for quite a lot of scrutiny or criticism.

Two types of whiteness are dramatised in the two chaplains, Bennett and Father Victor. Bennett, the only representative in the novel of the state religion, the Church of England, comes in for sustained criticism. He is thin, bony, aggressive, rude, completely unsympathetic to Kim, refuses to believe anything he says, would have offended the lama by giving him money to go away, until the Irishman Father Victor, far more sympathetically portrayed, intervenes to stop him. Kim and the lama remain the centre of the narrative and the reader’s sympathies. When Kim tells the lama that Bennett and Victor want to make him a Sahib like them, the lama strongly disapproves:

‘That is not well. These men follow desire and come to emptiness. Thou must not be of their sort.’

Later the lama described his loyalty to his monastery and his devotions and rather waspishly declares:

‘The Sahibs have not all this world’s wisdom.’

Kipling has the high-born widow, the woman from Kulu who adopts the lama, deliver trenchant criticism of different types of British administrator. After encountering an older, relaxed English official, she remarks:

‘These be the sort’ – she took a fine judicial tone, and stuffed her mouth with pan – ‘These be the sort to oversee justice. They know the land and the customs of the land. The others, all new from Europe, suckled by white women and learning our tongues from books, are worse than the pestilence. They do harm to Kings.’

Sahibs are often portrayed as stupid, racist, ignorant casually insulting. At St Xavier’s College Kim is warned not to treat the natives as lazy and stupid, the implication being that all too many of the colonial English do just that, damaging the reputation of the regime (p.121).

What makes the arrogant rudeness of so many of the whites harder for the natives to take, is that they are often so stupid themselves.

No man could be a fool who knew the language so intimately, who moved so gently and silently, and whose eyes were so different from the dull fat eyes of other Sahibs.

Mahbub Ali is a horse trader and has observed that, although most white men know next to nothing about horses, that doesn’t stop them from making all kinds of ignorant and sometimes insulting remarks:

That was the reason that Sahib after Sahib, rolling along in a stage-carriage, would stop and open talk. Some would even descend from their vehicles and feel the horses’ legs; asking inane questions, or, through sheer ignorance of the vernacular, grossly insulting the imperturbable trader.

Later, during Kim’s school years at the college, Ali remarks:

‘Son, I am wearied of that madrissah, where they take the best years of a man to teach him what he can only learn upon the Road. The folly of the Sahibs has neither top nor bottom.’ (p.145)

Ali is a reputable character, who grows in sympathy and status throughout the novel, so this is a credible view.

In other words, the creation of Kim as a character, and his easy way of mingling with numerous native Indian types – travellers, widows, soldiers, families, Muslims, Sikhs, Hindus, traders, spies – enables Kipling to depict the entire range of white British presence in India from the outside, from the native point of view – and find it very wanting indeed. I wonder whether, when he started writing the book, Kipling realised just how much the creation of the boy outsider would enable him to mount quite such a sustained critique of Englishness, whiteness and Sahibdom.

White boys

White boys abound in the book but not at all as heroes, almost entirely as bad comparators with plucky Kim. The worst are the ‘drummer boys’ of Kim’s father’s regiment, depicted as fat, stupid, monosyllabic, lonely, bullying. They will never have Kim’s immersive knowledge of Indian cultures and street life. Again and again Kipling depicts them as ignorant, given to casual insults and racist abuse of the natives, while they themselves wouldn’t survive five minutes if thrown out into the real India. Compare and contrast with out plucky hero.

Now a bed among brickbats and ballast-refuse on a damp night, between overcrowded horses and unwashed Baltis, would not appeal to many white boys; but Kim was utterly happy. Change of scene, service, and surroundings were the breath of his little nostrils.

It’s true that in some of his summaries of Kim’s peers at Xavier’s, Kipling is sympathetic to the specific professions and jobs of their fathers. They are seen as doing good and worthy, unglamorous but necessary jobs for the regime. Nonetheless, they are all utterly eclipsed by the glamorous protagonist.

Stalky and Co.

I suppose it’s obvious, but these middle passages describing Kim’s schoolboy years at St Xavier’s College also bear direct comparison with the schoolboy stories collected in Stalky and Co which Kipling published a few years previously. There are reminiscences of the same snideness, the same facetious depiction of schoolmaster, the same sense of unpleasant schoolboy rivalries.

Talking of echoes, Kim also recalls one his two other novels, Captains Courageous from 1897, which is also about a schoolboy, in fact another fifteen-year-old – in this case Harvey Cheyne Jr, the spoiled son of a railroad tycoon.

Most of Kipling’s stories are about adults, obviously. But it tells you something about his not-quite-serious engagement with the world that four of Kipling’s five sustained narratives (the novels The Light That Failed, Captains Courageous and Kim, and the sequences of linked stories, The Jungle Book and Stalky and Co) are about boys.

The movie

Here’s the trailer for the 1950 movie version of the novel, starring the 14-year-old Dean Stockwell and Errol Flynn as Red Beard, Kim’s protector and British spy in the Great Game, a figure largely invented to make the film more dramatic.


Credit

Kim was serialised in Cassell’s Magazine from January to November 1901, and first published in book form by Macmillan & Co. Ltd in October 1901. All references are to the 2002 Norton Critical Edition edited by Zohreh T. Sullivan.

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The Journey To The East by Hermann Hesse (1932)

A slender novella, 88 pages in the Picador paperback version, The Journey To The East is a first-person narrative told by a former member of the secretive ‘League’ of poets, writers and seekers who, in their different ways, all undertook journeys to the East in ‘the troubled, confused, yet so fruitful period following the Great War’ (p.5).

What sets it apart, at least to begin with, is that it is nothing like a sensible factual account of a straightforward ‘journey’ such as you might read by traditional travel writers like Robert Byron or Peter Fleming.

Instead it is more like a fairy story, in which the ‘travellers’ encounter legendary figures and mythical beasts, pass through fictional lands from fables and fairy tales, and travel not only in space, but in time – back into the past, penetrating ‘into the heroic and the magical’ (p.7).

One day, when I was still quite a new member, someone suddenly mentioned that the giant Agramant was a guest in our leaders’ tent, and was trying to persuade them to make their way across Africa in order to liberate some League members from Moorish captivity. Another time we saw the Goblin, the pitch-maker, the comforter, and we presumed that we should make our way towards the Blue Pot.

The giant Agramant, the Goblin. It is fairy land.

Despite these imaginative frills, though, the League feels like a Christian monastic order – casual phrases continually remind the reader that Hesse had an intensely pious Christian upbringing, against which he rebelled but whose stern moral seriousness he kept for the rest of his life.

Thus newcomers to the League are ‘novitiates’, must take an ‘oath’ to renounce the world and its temptations, must wear a ring proclaiming their membership of the order. The journey is referred to as a ‘pilgrimage’ and the travellers as ‘pilgrims’. The leader of the narrator’s group talks freely about ‘grace’ and ‘repentance’, both utterly Christian concepts.

But at the same time it is a phantasmagoria of all the cultural greats through the ages:

Our League was in no way an off-shoot of the post-war years, but that it had extended throughout the whole of world history, sometimes, to be sure, under the surface, but in an unbroken line, that even certain phases of the World War were nothing else but stages in the history of our League; further, that Zoroaster, Lao Tse, Plato, Xenophon, Pythagoras, Albertus Magnus, Don Quixote, Tristram Shandy, Novalis and Baudelaire were co-founders and brothers of our League.

This is a kind of greatest hits of world culture. And the way the ‘pilgrims’ travel is both a physical path or itinerary, very much in the style of medieval pilgrims –

And as we moved on, so had once pilgrims, emperors and crusaders moved on to liberate the Saviour’s grave, or to study Arabian magic; Spanish knights had traveled this way, as well as German scholars, Irish monks and French poets.

But also an imaginative one, as they travel through realms of magic and myth, experiencing not only all times, but the real and the imaginary on the same terms.

The core of the experience, the thing which, looking back, the narrator realises brought him the greatest happiness, was:

The freedom to experience everything imaginable simultaneously, to exchange outward and inward easily, to move Time and Space about like scenes in a theatre.

When you reflect on this, it sounds increasingly like the adventures of someone in their library – with the leisure time to roam freely over time and space, and between factual and imaginative literature.

The plot

The first-person narrator is ‘a violinist and story-teller’ who joined the League with the aim of travelling to the East to meet the princess Fatima and, if possible, to win her love (we learn that all League members have quirky or idiosyncratic goals, one wants to see the coffin of Mohammed, another to learn the Tao).

But the oddest thing about the story is that… they don’t travel to the East. About a third of the way through the text, the narrator tells us that at an early point of the journey, while they were still in Europe, at a place called Morbio Inferiore, a municipality in Switzerland, one of his team’s most loyal servants, Leo, goes missing, so the entire squad sets out to find him, searching up hill and dale.

Not only do they never find him, but his group begins to squabble amongst itself, loses focus. Somehow the journey was abandoned and he never made it to the East. Now, we learn, the narrator is struggling to set it all down in a written account, in a bid to revive the heady joy of those young days.

Now the narrative cuts to ‘the present’, some ten years after the journey. The narrator tells us it is a long time since he was active in the League, he doesn’t know whether it exists any more, he’s not sure it ever existed and these things ever happened to him.

And now the narrator tells us that the episode of missing Leo has given him writer’s block, he doesn’t know how to tell the episode correctly, and can’t manage to get the story past it.

And in an abrupt and surprising switch, the narrative stops being about any journey to the East whatsoever.

Now, surprisingly, the scene cuts back to the narrator’s home town and becomes spectacularly more realistic and mundane. To address his problem of writer’s block, the narrator goes to meet a friend of his who’s a newspaper editor, named Lukas, and who wrote a successful book of war memoirs.

Discussion of the war memoirs gives rise to a consideration of how difficult it is to describe any human experience, at how you need to create eras or characters or plots to even begin to get it down.

Even further than this, how some experiences are so intense or evanescent, that you can’t even be sure you had them. In which case, how do you describe them? Lukas replies that he wrote his book about the war because he simply had to, whether it was any good or not was secondary, the writing itself was vital therapy, which helped him control ‘the nothingness, chaos and suicide’ which would otherwise have overwhelmed him (p.46)

So. This is less a book about a journey anywhere, and a lot more a book about the difficulty of writing a book. Ah.

When the narrator tells Lukas how, in writing his account of the journey to the East, he’s got blocked on this episode of the missing servant, Leo, Lukas promptly looks Leo up in the telephone directory and finds there is a Andreas Leo living at 69a Seilergraben. Maybe it’s the same guy, he says – as if we’re in a 1930s detective novel and not the imaginative phantasmagoria we started out in. ‘Go and see him,’ the editor suggests.

So the narrator does, and finds 69a Seilergraben to be an apartment in an anonymous building in a quiet street. The narrator knocks on the door, questions the neighbours, hangs around, and goes back on successive days. Finally he sees this Leo exit his apartment block and walk quietly to the park where he sits on a bench and eats dried fruit from a tin.

This is not at all the mystical imaginative phantasmagoria I was promised on the back of the book, is it? This is staggeringly mundane.

The narrator approaches Leo, and tries to remind him of their time back in the League and on the great journey East which, the text confirms, happened some 10 years earlier. But Leo is calmly dismissive and walks off, leaving the narrator standing alone in the park as dusk falls, in the rain.

Now he is rejected like this, we learn the narrator is prone to depression, in fact to despair and thoughts of suicide.

I had experienced similar hours in the past. During such periods of despair it seemed to me as if I, a lost pilgrim, had reached the extreme edge of the world, and there was nothing left for me to do but to satisfy my last desire: to let myself fall from the edge of the world into the void — to death. In the course of time this despair returned many times; the compelling suicidal impulse…

In other words, he shows the same bouncing from one to extreme to the other that characterised the Steppenwolf and his moods of suicidal despair. And very like the author himself, a glance at whose biography reveals attempts at suicide, prolonged psychotherapy, and a spell in a mental sanatorium.

The narrator gets home and sits down, still damp from the rain and writes a long letter to Leo, then falls asleep. When he wakes up Leo, is sitting in his living room. Leo reveals he is still a member of the League and says he will take the narrator to see the current President. Leo leads him through the streets of the quiet town by a circuitous route, stopping at various inconsequential locations including a church, to an anonymous building, which is large and labyrinthine on the inside (reminding me of the labyrinthine buildings Franz Kafka’s protagonists stumble through).

The narrator is led into an enormous room full of shelves lined with books which turn out to be the archive the League. Leo suddenly starts singing and, as in movie special effects, the archive recedes into the distance and in the foreground appears a large judgement chamber.

A jury assembles and a ‘Speaker’, who acts like a judge. It has turned into a sort of court-room, which makes the comparison with Kafka feel overwhelming – a confused little man dragged to judgement before a huge, imposing court which he doesn’t understand. The essence of the Kafkaesque.

For the first time the narrator is named as ‘H.H.’. H.H.? So a barely veiled reference to the author himself which, yet again, could barely be more like the Kafka who named his two most famous protagonists K. and Joseph K. with his own initial.

The ‘Speaker’ refers to H.H. as ‘the self-accused’ and asks him:

‘Is your name H.H.? Did you join in the march through Upper Swabia, and in the festival at Bremgarten? Did you desert your colours shortly after Morbio Inferiore? Did you confess that you wanted to write a story of the Journey to the East? Did you consider yourself hampered by your vow of silence about the League’s secrets?’
I answered question after question with ‘Yes’…

So I was expecting H.H. to get hammered, but, surprisingly, he is now given permission to go right ahead and write a full account of the League and all its laws.

He is handed a copy of the manuscript of the Journey he had been working on and which had got bogged down at that moment when Leo left the group. But now, when he rereads it, he feels it is bodged, clumsy, inaccurate and – further – as he tries to amend it, he watches the letters change shape, become patterns and pictures, illegible, the entire manuscript changes form in front of his eyes.

Rather improbably, the Speaker gives him free run of the immense archive to research his book, which leads to a passage where H.H. rummages through the archives to find records about his friends and then himself, but finds the records written in strange languages and arcane scripts. Slowly he realises there isn’t enough time in the world to go through this immense and probably infinite library.

From all sides the unending spaciousness of the archive chamber confronted me eerily. A new thought, a new pain shot threw me like a flash of lightning. I, in my simplicity, wanted to write the story of the League, I, who could not decipher or understand one-thousandth part of those millions of scripts, books, pictures and references in the archives! Humbled, unspeakably foolish, unspeakably ridiculous, not understanding myself, feeling extremely small, I saw myself standing in the midst of this thing with which I had been allowed to play a little in order to make me realize what the League was and what I was myself.

the court magically re-assembles, with the Speaker presiding. Now we learn that this little episode was a further step in H.H.’s trial, to show him how vain and presumptuous his aim of writing a history of the league was. The Speaker asks if he is ready for the verdict on him, and whether he wants it delivered by the Speaker or the President himself.

In a surreal development, the grand figure who emerges from the bloom of the archive hall turns out to be none other than… Leo! The Leo he had followed into the party, who is himself the Leo who was his group’s servant on the Journey and now he comes to think about it, was the same President who initiated him into the League and gave him his ring.

H.H. is covered in shame and confusion. To think that he could write a history of the League. To think that he had imagined the League had ended or had never existed. Now Leo recounts H.H.s sins against the League. Forgetting about its existence. Losing his League ring. Even their long walk through the town had been a test because H.H. should have gone into the church and worshipped, as is fitting, instead of standing outside locked in his impatient egotism. It is his egotism which made him deny the League and sink into a world plagued with depression and despair.

Again, as in so many of Hesse’s books, which you imagine will be about Eastern philosophy, the most eloquent passages are about misery and despair. Leo tells the jury how H.H.s loss of faith in the League led him down into the pit, and delivers some puzzling lines:

‘The defendant did not know until this hour, or could not really believe, that his apostasy and aberration were a test. For a long time he did not give in. He endured it for many years, knowing nothing about the League, remaining alone, and seeing everything in which he believed in ruins. Finally, he could no longer hide and contain himself. His suffering became too great, and you know that as soon as suffering becomes acute enough, one goes forward. Brother H. was led to despair in his test, and despair is the result of each earnest attempt to understand and vindicate human life. Despair is the result of each earnest attempt to go through life with virtue, justice and understanding and to fulfill their requirements. Children live on one side of despair, the awakened on the other side. Defendant H. is no longer a child and is not yet fully awakened. He is still in the midst of despair.’

So: Despair is what you enter when you are no longer a child, when you become a questing adult, and before you are initiated or awakened.

Now President Leo initiates H.H. for a second time, giving him a replacement ring and welcoming him back into the ranks of the League.

This really is nothing at all about any literal Journey To The East, is it? It is about adventures of the spirit, or maybe psychological experiences, in a quiet Swiss town.

Now the President leads H.H. to the final test. He is shown the League archives about himself. Specifically, he is shown several other accounts written by members of his group or party on his Journey of ten years ago. Here he is horrified to read that it is he, H.H. that the other members of the group blamed for Leo’s disappearance, for accusing Leo of having taken key documents with him, it was he, H.H. who was blamed by the rest of the group for spreading dissension.

He learns something about trying to write ‘the truth’ (something which is, to be blunt, fairly obvious), which is that everyone has a different account of what happened, and no ‘truth’ can ever be arrived at.

If the memory of this historian was so very confused and inaccurate, although he apparently made the report in all good faith and with the conviction of its complete veracity – what was the value of my own notes? If ten other accounts by other authors were found about Morbio, Leo and myself, they would presumably all contradict and censure each other.

No, our historical efforts were of no use; there was no point in continuing with them and reading them; one could quietly let them be covered with dust in this section of the archives. ..

How awry, altered and distorted everything and everyone was in these mirrors, how mockingly and unattainably did the face of truth hide itself behind all these reports, counter-reports and legends! What was still truth? What was still credible ?

The final few pages end on an enigmatic moment and symbol. Tucked away in the shelf where his records are stored, he finds a grotesque little statuette, like a pagan idol. Only slowly does he realise it is two-sided, shows two human figures joined at the back. And then slowly makes out that one is a depiction of himself, with blurred features, weak and dying. And as he lights another candle he sees something stirring in the heart of the glass statuette, and realises that some kind of life force is moving from his half of the statuette over into Leo’s

And in the last few sentences of the book he remembers a conversation he had with the servant Leo on the Journey, ten years earlier, amid a wonderful festival early in the journey, where Leo had explained that a pet or writer drains himself in order to give eternal life to his work, just as a mother suckles a baby and gives the babe life, at her own expense. So the poet.

And on this slightly ominous, pregnant image the book ends. The narrator feels very sleepy. He turns to find somewhere to sleep. Maybe enacting exactly the gesture whereby the poet, writer or maker, gives all their spirit and life force to their creation and then expires.

Thoughts

Well, it turns out not to be a literal Journey To The East in the slightest. Anyone expecting a straightforward narrative of a pilgrimage to India will be disappointed and puzzled.

However, anyone familiar with Hesse will be less surprised by its combination of the strangely mundane and the wildly phantasmagorical. This is the same combination as in Steppenwolf, which evolved from being a dull account of a middle-aged boarder in a provincial boarding house into the giddy surrealism of the Magic Theatre.

And Steppenwolf also covered a similar range of emotional or psychological states – to be more precise, it displayed a similar, almost schizophrenic, tendency to jump between extremes of Despair and the giddy heights of ecstatic imaginative delirium.

I had this impression of Hesse as being a lofty propounder of high-minded Eastern philosophy. I wasn’t prepared to encounter so many characters who were so full of despair, self-loathing and so many discussions of suicide.

And I’m still reeling from the way the book is not about a Journey To The East at all; it’s much more about the psychological adventures or journey of a middle-aged man living in a Swiss town. All the key events happen in the narrator’s mind. It is a psychological odyssey.

Building a universe

It’s a small detail, but it’s interesting that Hesse includes among fellow members of the League, not only some of his real-life friends, but characters from his other books.

Thus the character ‘Goldmund’, one of the two leads in Narziss and Goldmund, crops up in his initial memories of the Journey, as does the painter Klingsor, who is the fictional lead of Hesse’s earlier novel Klingsor’s Last Summer.

And when I started reading Hesse’s final novel, The Glass Bead Game, early in the introduction the narrator mentions the League of Journeyers To The East as forerunners of the game. Hesse was quite obviously creating a kind of larger imaginative canon, an imaginarium, in which characters not only from history, not only actual writers and composers, along with mythical and legendary figures, but figures from his own earlier fictions, could meet and mingle on equal terms.


Images of war in The Journey To The East

I am always interested in the social history revealed by older texts. It is striking that Hesse doesn’t just launch straight into his fairy-tale journey, but feels the need to define the times, the era, the period against which his pilgrim is reacting, and that he defines these times by repeated references to the social, economic, cultural and spiritual chaos following Germany’s defeat in the Great War.

Ours have been remarkable times, this period since the World War, troubled and confused, yet, despite this, fertile…

It was shortly after the World War, and the beliefs of the conquered nations were in an extraordinary state of unreality. There was a readiness to believe in things beyond reality…

Have we not just had the experience that a long, horrible, monstrous war has been forgotten, gainsaid, distorted and dismissed by all nations? And now that they have had a short respite, are not the same nations trying to recall by means of exciting war novels what they themselves caused and endured a few years ago?…

At the time that I had the good fortune to join the League – that is, immediately after the end of the World War – our country was full of saviors, prophets, and disciples, of presentiments about the end of the world, or hopes for the dawn of a Third Reich. Shattered by the war, in despair as a result of deprivation and hunger, greatly disillusioned by the seeming futility of all the sacrifices in blood and goods, our people at that time were lured by many phantoms, but there were also many real spiritual advances. There were Bacchanalian dance societies and Anabaptist groups, there was one thing after another that seemed to point to what was wonderful and beyond the veil. There was also at that time a widespread leaning towards Indian, ancient Persian and other Eastern mysteries and religions…

His name is Lukas. He had taken part in the World War and had published a book about it which had a large circulation…

And indeed, from a structural point of view, this editor, Lukas, is included mainly for the discussion he promotes about the struggle he had to write his memoirs of the war, and his eventual conclusion that it was better to write something rather than nothing – even if untrue or less than perfect – if only because the act of writing was so therapeutic and saved him from terrible feelings of despair and suicide.

I’m doing no more than suggest that Hesse, who is generally thought of as a kind of high-minded explorer of timeless values was, in fact, very much a man of his times, and that his thinking was marked and shaped by the great cataclysm which he and his nation lived through just as much as all the other authors of the Weimar period.

Credit

Die Morgenlandfahrt by Hermann Hesse was published in German in 1932. The English translation by Hilda Rosner was published by Peter Owen Ltd in 1956. All references are to the 1995 Picador paperback edition.


Related links

20th century German literature

The Weimar Republic

German history

The Book of Laughter and Forgetting by Milan Kundera (1978)

We are all prisoners of a rigid conception of what is important and what is not. We anxiously follow what we suppose to be important, while what we suppose to be unimportant wages guerrilla warfare behind our backs, transforming the world without our knowledge and eventually mounting a surprise attack on us.
(The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, page 197)

The Book of Laughter and Forgetting is divided into seven parts, each of which is a self-contained story although, as the recurring titles suggest, with recurring themes:

Part One – Lost Letters
Part Two – Mother
Part Three – The Angels
Part Four – Lost Letters
Part Five – Litost
Part Six – The Angels
Part Seven – The Border

Short sections

And each story is itself broken up into numerous, very short, numbered sections, often as short as a page long. For example, the first story, Love Letters, is 22 pages long and is divided into 19 sections.

The reading experience is dominated by this fragmentation of the narrative into short sections. Kundera uses the ‘short section technique’ for a number of purposes.

One is to continually change perspective on events, shedding ironic light on his characters’ mixed motives and misunderstandings. The most obvious way is to describe a piece of dialogue or event, and then devote separate sections to the speakers’ often wildly differing interpretations of what they just said or meant.

It also allows him to switch from close-up description of actions carried out by the protagonists, to higher-level reflections, about human nature, the character of irony or comedy, generalisations about men women and love, or about fate and destiny – and especially about Czech history, and of course, focusing on the most traumatic event of his lifetime, the communist coup of 1948 and its consequences.

The ‘short section technique’ allows Kundera to set off a train of events and then to step right outside them and present them from the perspectives of the different characters, revealing – more often than not – that they completely misinterpret each other’s motives. This has been the bedrock of his authorial approach since his first novel, The Joke – the basic premise that people really, really don’t understand each other, and that pretty much all our intentions and aims and plans turn out to be wildly miscalculated, and consistently backfire.

I read all Kundera’s books back in the 1980s when he first became very fashionable, and I had remembered Laughter and Forgetting for being lighter and funnier than its predecessors – but this, I think, was a misleading memory. Although the text is much more broken up and ‘bitty’, more interrupted by digressions and ideas – the actual content is just as grim as its predecessors. The opening story, in particular, leaves a sour taste in the mouth.

1. Lost Letters

It is 1971 and Mirek is a dissident who played a prominent role in the 1968 Prague Spring, then, after the Russian tanks and half a million Warsaw Pact soldiers invaded Czechoslovakia, was thrown out of his job and became an unperson. Since then he’s religiously kept all his diaries and journals and the records of meetings of him and dissident friends, despite them all advising him to burn or destroy them. But:

It is 1971, and Mirek says that the struggle of man against power is the struggle of memory against forgetting. (p.3)

When we read that grand opening sentence back in the early 1980s (the book was published in English in 1980) we all thought it said something profound and beautiful about human nature and politics and society, and the need to resist the ever-growing forces of oblivion (as well as being a good example of Kundera’s straight-out, intellectual, almost academic style. No long paragraphs setting the scene or describing dawn over Prague or an unmarked car drawing up outside a house, none of the normal conventions of fiction. Instead Kundera goes directly to the beliefs and ideas of his main characters.) Anyway, rereading the story today, I realise this simple interpretation doesn’t stand up to scrutiny.

The main event in the story is Mirek driving out to the village to meet up with an old flame of his, his first love in fact, Zdena. Why? Because she has a big cache of all the letters he wrote to her and he wants to secure, protect and guard his archive. Also, there is a deeper psychological reason. He wanted:

to find the secret of his youth, his beginnings, his point of departure. (p.18)

The body of the short story concerns Mirek’s thoughts and reflections about Zdena, for example the fact that, back when they were going out, she was plain and ugly, his friends, and even she herself, were surprised that he was going out with her. Nobody knew that he was timid and shy and a virgin.

As he drives, Mirek realises that his car is being followed, by a car driven by a couple of security goons who make no attempt to hide. When Mirek stops at a friend’s mechanic shop to get the car tuned up, the goons stop too, and watch him, with a smirk.

So that when he finally arrives at Zdena’s house, and is reluctantly invited in, and makes his pitch to ask for his letters back, and she surprises him by saying a categorical NO… Mirek is convinced it’s because she is in league with the security men, and is keeping the letters to hand them over to the authorities, preparatory to his arrest and trial etc. She always was a communist die-hard, a party fanatic, even when they were going out together, as he now remembers bitterly.

But the narrator has told us otherwise. He has explained that Zdena was not a party fanatic but simply clove to the party after Mirek dumped her. After he dumped her, she needed to have something she could trust and base her life on, and this became an absolute faith in the Party. It was Mirek who made her what she is.

And, we learn, she is not at all in league with the security men, who she doesn’t even know about. She is simply scared – scared witless, scared of how it’s all got too big and scary, how they’re arresting people, how he might be bringing trouble into her life. She is simply too paralysed by fear to hand the letters over.

Demoralised, Mirek gets back into his car, the security men get back into theirs, and they tail him back to Prague, despite a small interlude when he throws them off in a village and sits parked by the railway station, dazed, pondering his past and future.

The narrator now picks up the theme about memory and forgetting which was announced at the beginning, reflecting that Mirek’s true motive in seeking the letters wasn’t because he never loved Zdena, or regretted loving Zdena. It’s because he loved Zdena so much and is now embarrassed about being associated with such a plain, if not ugly woman, that he wants to erase her from his past. Which leads us up to the author’s message, a characteristically jaundiced view:

By erasing her from his mind [by finally repossessing the letters] he erased his love for her… Mirek is as much a rewriter of history as the Communist Party, all political parties, all nations, all men. People are always shouting that they want a better future. It’s not true. The future is an apathetic void of no interest to anyone. the past is full of life, eager to irritate us, provoke and insult us, tempt us to destroy or repaint it. The only reason people want to be masters of the future is to change the past. They are fighting for access to the laboratories where photographs are retouched and biographies and histories rewritten. (p.22, italics added)

So 1. that grand opening statement turns out to be a lie. Mirek is lying to himself. His grand claim to want to preserve the past from forgetting is completely contradicted by this analysis of his motives. According to his creator, Mirek is every bit as mendacious and controlling as his enemy, the Communist Party.

And 2. when Mirek arrives home he discovers the police are already there, have ransacked his apartment, and read through all the diaries and journals in which he recorded meetings with other dissidents, their criticism of the Party, their analysis of its tyranny after the crushing of the Prague Spring. In other words, they have seized all the documents in which he foolishly implicated and betrayed his closest friends. The last sentences of the ‘story’ are bleak and unforgiving.

After a year of investigatory custody he was put on trial. Mirek was sentenced to six years, his son to two years, and ten or so of their friends to terms of one to six years. (p. 24)

So let us return to that ringing opening line – ‘the struggle of man against power is the struggle of memory against forgetting’: it now appears to be contradicted in at least two ways.

  1. Although it’s Mirek’s own line, we have seen that, when push comes to shove, he doesn’t believe it; his quest to reclaim Zdena’s letters is, according to his creator, a quest to erase and rewrite the past as completely as the Communists want to.
  2. Worse, it turns out to be a ludicrously selfish and self-serving position and one which ended up condemning his best friends – and his own son – to years and years in prison.

Could it be that the opposite is true? That maybe the past ought to be forgotten? Certainly I think so. I completely disagree with the old cliché “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” It’s the other way round. Those who obsessively remember the past, are doomed to walk within the confines and categories it imposes on us. In Northern Ireland throughout my life and in Yugoslavia during the 1990s, there were groups of people who clung on to the past, cherished and nurtured their grievances, thirsted for revenge, determined to re-enact the past (the freedom struggle of the Irish people, the freedom struggle of the Serbian people) but this time to win. it seemed back then that it is precisely those who remember the past, who are doomed to repeat it.

Maybe the content of the story proves the complete opposite of that ringing opening declaration.

2. Mother

Marketa and Karel are married. At first they lived with his parents, but Marketa and his mother had daily run-ins, which became so intense that they eventually moved to the other end of the country to be as far as possible away. Then Karel’s father died and Mother was left alone, and Marketa, as she got older, softened. It is Easter and Marketa invites Mother to come and stay for a week, Saturday to Saturday, because they’ve something planned for Sunday.

This is an orgy, well a ménage à trois. Marketa knows Karel has a high sex drive. Early on in their marriage it became clear that he would be the unfaithful one and Marketa would suffer, although she would enjoy the perks of an unassailable moral superiority.

Then one day, in a sauna at a spa (the Czechs and their spas!), Eva walks in, naked, beautiful and confident, and starts chatting to Marketa. Soon they are good friends and it makes Marketa feel in control when she introduces Eva to Karel and they become lovers.

The irony is, we learn a few pages later, that Eva and Karel had been lovers for years before this. Their first meeting and love-making is very erotically described. It had been Eva who suggested that she approach Marketa. And so the three of them have settled into having periodic three-way sex. Sunday evening has been set aside for one such session.

But Mother mischievously declares she will only leave on Monday and both Karel and Marketa fail to argue her out of her decision.

On the fateful Sunday evening, the girls have slipped off to the bedroom to change into their sexy outfits (a negligee so short it reveals her pubes, for Eva, a pearl necklace and garter belt for Marketa) and are about to return to the living room, where they’ve been chatting and drinking for Karel, for the erotic entertainment to begin… when Mother comes in!

Now, the saving grace is that Mother has gotten pretty short-sighted and so doesn’t even realise the girls are wearing next to nothing (Marketa scampers out to throw on a raincoat). In fact Karel maliciously welcomes her untimely visit because he’d been getting irritated with the girls. And the story is unusually sympathetic to Mother – unusual in the sense that almost all Kundera’s narratives focus on horny men. She has stumbled back into the living room because she is troubled by the memory of reciting a poem which she had described earlier, over dinner, to Marketa and Karel. She had told them it was a poem about the Austro-Hungarian Empire which she recited at the end of the war. But Karel points out that she left school well before then. Alone in her bedroom, it dawns on her that he is right, and that it was a Christmas poem, not a patriotic one, and that she had recited it years earlier. And now she blunders back into the living room – just as the orgy is about to begin – to set them all right. And, in this odd, ludicrous setup, proceeds to recite the poem again, reviving the distant memory of her girlhood.

And then she goes one further by pointing out that Eva reminds her of Nora, a friend of hers when she was a young woman. And all of a sudden Karel has a flashback, remembers being four years old, in some spa town, and being left in a room, and a little while later the tall, statuesque naked body of Nora entered the room and took a nightgown off a hook. The memory of being four, of being small, and looking up at this huge naked Amazon, has stayed with him ever since.

Having said her piece and fussed around a bit more, Mother goes quietly back to her room. Immediately, Karel arranges Eva as he remembers Nora standing in that distant boyhood memory, and kneels down so that she is towering over him. Fired with lust, Karel proceeds to make love to both women furiously.

But, as with all Kundera, there are other perspectives. While he is tupping them, Marketa is miles away, trying to reduce Karel’s fornicating body to a headless machine. And afterwards, as the girls are lying on the couch, Eva quietly invites Marketa to come away with her and have a threesome with her husband. And Marketa quietly accepts.

Karel may be lost in his childhood reveries, but this doesn’t stop the other characters – his wife and mistress – carrying on living their own lives, pursuing their own goals and agendas.

3. The Angels

The angels are those who believe the world is full of order and rationality. They are humourless imposers of order and pattern and meaning. They are terrifying because they want to abolish all the muddy, confused, speckled, mongrel mixedness of the actual world and real people. Kundera identifies them with the Communist Party, Soviet tyranny, feminists, modern literature teachers, and with hypocrites like the French surrealist poet Paul Éluard, who wrote inspirational poems about Freedom while at the same time supporting the Czech regime which sent poets to their deaths.

To begin this assault Kundera creates a pair of earnest and utterly humourless American feminist literature students who don’t understand that a play by Ionesco is meant to be absurd and funny. And when they do grasp this basic fact, he satirises the funny little choked breathy noise they make. He is referring to their laughter.

The students have a narrow, dogmatic literature teacher, Miss Raphael, who is lonely. She is looking for a circle of like-minded believers to dance with. She has tried the Communist Party, the Trotsykists, the anti-abortionists, the pro-abortionists (this pairing is included to show that she has absolutely no moral underpinnings or beliefs, but is just looking for a gang she can join).

Then Kundera describes the way the idealistic young people, students and writers and artists, danced in the street after the communists came to power in Czechoslovakia in 1948, danced and laughed, even as innocent politicians and poets and artists were being executed in prisons just a few miles away.

Thus they danced in circles, the high-minded angels, laughing their laughter of joy because the world is so ordered and rational and just. And – in a touch of magical realism – their dancing bodies slowly lifted off the ground till they were dancing in the air.

Similarly, when the two humourless feminist students give their humourless interpretation of Ionesco to their class, their humourless teachers joins hands with them and they, too, rise up into the sky.

But not everyone can join a circle. Circles, in fact, can’t be broken. Unlike ranks. Anyone can slip into the ranks of an army, they are designed to allow any number of new members to fit right in. But getting into a circle is hard, if not impossible, without momentarily breaking it. Circles are exclusive.

Kundera very forcefully emphasises how he doesn’t belong to the flying circles of dancing angels, sublimely convinced of their own rectitude. He was once a Communist, he once danced in those circles, but he was unwise and tactless and expelled from the party, and forbidden to work. He was kicked out of the circle and he has been falling ever since (for nearly 30 years, by the time this book was published) falling falling falling like a meteorite broken loose from a planet (p.66).

Then he gives us an extended example of how his misplaced humour prevented him from ever dancing with the angels.

Forbidden to write for any official outlet, friends got Kundera a job writing an astrology column in a popular magazine for young socialists. It was harmless work, and not particularly well paid. But after a few years, the intelligent young woman editor – known only as R. – who had given him the job was called in for questioning by the security police. Does she realise she is ridiculing socialist youth? Does she realise she is mocking the people? Does she realise she has been associating with notorious enemy of the people Kundera?

She is promptly sacked from her job and when she turns to others in the media, they all cold shoulder her as well. Her career is through. Her life is over. She meets Kundera in a borrowed apartment and she is so terrified by what is happening to her, that she has to keep going to the toilet, her bowels are that upset.

And as he listens to her repeated flushing of the toilet, Kundera realises he has become a curse to those he knows and loves. He really cannot go on living in his homeland, bringing bad luck down on everyone he knows. He will have to go into exile. He will have to carry on falling, falling, falling away from the circles of the angels, the laughing angels, laughing because they know the Truth about a world which is orderly and rational and for the best, rejoicing in how:

rationally organised, well conceived, beautiful, good and sensible everything on earth was. (p.62)

4. Lost Letters

The title makes you think it might return to the character Mirek, who we met in the first story. Not at all.

It concerns Tamina. She is a Czech exile, working in a café in an unnamed Western town. She and her husband fled Czechoslovakia illegally, pretending to go on holiday. Thus she never brought all her belongings. Her husband got ill once they were abroad, sickened and died. Hollow and sad, she works at the café, listening to every customer who wants to bend her ear.

One day one of the customers, a tiresome wannabe writer named Bibi, mentions that she and her husband are thinking of going on holiday to Prague. Suddenly Tamina wakes from her sleep. Back in Prague, in a drawer in a desk in her mother’s flat, is a bundle of all the diaries she kept during her eleven-year marriage to her husband.

Suddenly Tamina is fired up and wants them back. She has been living like a ghost. The prospect of repossessing them promises to fill in her life, colour it in, give it detail and background and depth. The rest of the story details her struggles, first of all to get her mother-in-law to unlock the desk and get out the notebooks (every phone call to Prague costs her an arm and a leg), then to persuade her father to take it from the provincial town where they live to Prague where he can hand it over to Bibi.

Just about everything which could go wrong does go wrong, but the ‘story’ is really a peg for Kundera to hang miscellaneous thoughts on. One of these is an extended disquisition about graphomania, namely that back at the beginning writing promoted mutual understanding. But in our current state of graphomania, the opposite is true:

everyone surrounds himself with his own writings as with a wall of mirrors cutting off all voices from without. (p.92)

and again, a bit later:

The proliferation of mass graphomania among politicians, cab drivers, women on the delivery table, mistresses, murderers, criminals, prostitutes, police chiefs, doctors and patients proves to me that every individual without exception bears a potential writer within himself and that all mankind has every right to rush out and into the streets with a cry of ‘We are all writers!’

And then:

Once the writer in every individual comes to life (and that time is not far off), we are in for an age of universal deafness and misunderstanding. (p.106)

This was written over forty years ago. How prophetic of the age of Facebook and twitter.

Another theme of the story is how fatuously stupid Westerners are. Several scenes and characters exist solely to satirise the West.

For example, Bibi dreams of being a writer but comes over as a narcissistic fool. They do contrive a meeting with a real published author, Banaka, who comes over as a pompous bore. One day he turns up in her café drunk and on the verge of tears because he was the victim of a poor review in a newspaper. Pathetic.

In another scene, a professor of philosophy holds forth about the nature of the novel. On a separate occasion, Tamina is with Bibi, her husband and a Japanese woman, watching TV on which two authors get irate. One of them is insisting that the fact that he spent his entire childhood in the village of Rourou is important, very important, vitally important if you are to understand his work. A new character, Joujou, tells everyone in the room, straight-faced and humourlessly, that she rarely used to have orgasms, but now she has them regularly. Bored, Bibi remarks offhand that what they really need round here is a revolution to shake things up.

Since all Kundera’s work up to this point describes what a revolution really looks like in practice i.e. the repression, the arrests, the executions, and the systematic humiliation of the entire population, it is difficult to think of anything she could say which would be a more damning indictment of her empty-headed idiocy.

After struggling to get through to her bloody family in Czechoslovakia, Tamina finally gets through to her brother and persuades him to travel to the provincial town and gather her diaries and notebooks from her mother-in-law. He reports that he’s done so, but found the drawer unlocked and the notebooks ransacked. Her mother-in-law has been through them, maybe read everything. Suddenly they don’t feel so precious…

Bibi abruptly announces she is not now going to Prague so Tamina shifts her attentions to Hugo, a young man with bad breath who regularly visits the café and is in love with her. Torpidly, she lets herself be taken out for a date, then back to his place, and stripped naked and penetrated, all without any excitement or interest, solely because Hugo says he will go to Prague and get her things. But he is irritated at her complete passivity. In subsequent meetings she just sits there dumbly while he craps on about his big plans to write a book, yes a book! a book all about power and politics. And then he tells her he has published an article about the Prague Spring which means he will not be allowed to travel to Czechoslovakia. He is sure she understands, he had to, he owed it to the world to share his article.

And suddenly she is so revolted by him, and the memory of him penetrating her, that she runs into the toilets and copiously strenuously throws up. And her vomiting seems, to this reader, to also be a reaction to the self-deception, narcissism and superficiality of the spoilt West.

There was only one thing she wanted, to preserve the memory of her husband and their time together untainted. And just about everyone she knows has conspired to foil that endeavour and desecrate his memory.

She went on serving coffee and never made another call to Czechoslovakia. (p.115)

What this story has in common with the first Lost Letters is how bleak it is.

Part Five – Litost

Kristyna is in her thirties. She lives in a small town with her husband, a butcher, and their little boy. She is having an affair with a mechanic who she allows to penetrate her in the locked security of the garage tyre bay. Then she meets the student, home from university for the vacation, and is seduced by his ways with big words and poetic quotations. He is desperate to make love but she wants him to remain on the level of poetry and ideas. Saying yes would drag him (and her) down into the world of the mechanic. So she meets with him in out-of-the-way places and lets him kiss and touch her but always refuses to go all the way. Finally the holidays end and they make a last-minute pact: she will come up to Prague and stay the night in his accommodation. They both know what this means.

Litost is a Czech word which combines grief, sympathy, remorse and an indefinable longing (p.121). It is ‘a state of torment caused by a sudden insight into one’s own miserable self’ (p.122). Kundera gives us some stories from the student’s past to flesh it out.

The night Kristyna is coming to stay, the student’s professor, who Kundera wittily names Voltaire, tells him the greatest poet in the land is having a get-together that night and he’s invited. The student is thrown into a quandary: sex or literature? He is young. He chooses sex.

When Kristyna arrives in Prague she is horrified at the seedy little restaurant he’s arranged to meet her in, the kind of place the butcher takes her to. It’s dirty and full of drunks and they give her a table by the toilets. By the time the student arrives, she’s ready to give him a piece of her mind. But he also is chagrined: she is wearing the most embarrassingly provincial clothes imaginable, including heavy strings of pearls and black pumps.

He tries to mollify her and they go out into the streets. She had dreamed of nightclubs and theatres and glamour – but he is only a poor student, after all. He takes her to his garret; it is small and shabby. Suddenly he has a brainwave. He tells her about the evening of poets, and says he’ll go (he can’t take her, it’s men only) but he’ll take a book and get it autographed by the greatest poet.

She willingly agrees, chooses a book off the poet’s shelf and settles down while he hurries off.

Kundera, with the airy candour which has become second nature, tells us that he’s writing all this in 1977. He eventually couldn’t put up with life in communist Czechoslovakia and drove west, as far west as he could till he stopped in the Breton town of Rennes. Now he is setting this passage fifteen years earlier, in the happier days of 1962. He paints a charming eccentric portrait of an evening’s drinking and squabbling among a variety of poets he humorously names after famous poets in the Western tradition, namely Goethe, Verlaine, Petrarch, Yesenin, Lermontov, and the cynic and anti-poet Boccaccio.

This extended depiction of a bunch of boisterous drunken poets is mildly entertaining but I was struck by the echoes of his novel, Life is Elsewhere, about a lyric poet, in which we met Lermontov quite a few times. And by the way Lermontov, in this book, dismisses all the rest of the poets as ‘Mama’s boys’ (p.141) – exactly the accusation Kundera threw at lyric poets as a class in the earlier novel.

Eventually the party breaks up and all the poets group together to help carry Goethe downstairs because he is very old and can’t walk without crutches. Then Lermontov gets in the taxi and volunteers to take him home and handle Mrs Goethe, who is a dragon and always cross when her husband stays out late.

The student walks with Petrarch who tells him lots of things about love, for example love and laughter are opposites. Then rushes back to his garret where Kristyna is awaiting him. He presents her with the book of poetry which he got Goethe to sign and indeed write a long personal message for her, and she is genuinely thrilled. He tears off his clothes and jumps into bed with her and she kisses him back but then, when he tries to part her thighs, refuses. And refuses and refuses and refuses. All night long, For hours. He is fired up and hard as rock. But she still wants to preserve the student on a different plane from the rest of her life. (Also, the delivery of her son was so difficult the doctors told her she must never again get pregnant or it would endanger her life.)

Eventually the student rolls off her body and onto his back and, for some obscure reason, Kristyna reaches out and grasps his rigid member, but doesn’t move it or do anything to relieve the pressure. Just holds it. Like a mother, like a sister, passionlessly.

Litost!

Part Six – The Angels

This begins as a literary-political essay about Prague which Kundera calls a city of forgetting. In the works of Kafka, Prague is a city which has forgotten its own identity, full of unnamed streets and houses, and even the characters have forgotten their own names – Josef K. of The Trial declines to become just K. in The Castle.

Kundera then moves on to discuss T.G. Masaryk, seventh president of Czechoslovakia, who was installed by the Russians in the aftermath of the crushing of the Prague Spring, and who is known as ‘the president of forgetting’ (p.158). Among other things he sacked some 150 Czech historians, as part of a repressive policy of obliterating the past and writing a new official version.

Tamina reappears, she of Part Four. She is sad because she has forgotten so many details about her husband, not least after making love to the despicable, smelly Hugo. Her plight reminds Kundera of his father, whose dementia meant he slowly lost the power of speech until finally all he could say was one phrase: ‘That’s strange!’

Kundera’s father was a musicologist and had been working on a study of Beethoven’s variations. With the airy confidence with which he slips so much factual content into all his books, Kundera proceeds to stop the narrative while he writes a page or two about the profundity of the variation form, ‘the form of maximum concentration.’ Indeed:

This entire book is a novel in the form of variations. The individual parts follow each other like individual stretches of a journey toward a theme, a thought, a single situation, a sense of which fades into the distance. (p.165)

And the figure of Tamina is at its heart, the faithful lover who struggles to remember her beloved.

The rest of the story is odd, and reminds us that, although we remember the sex, and the politics and the philosophy, dreams and fantasy are also a recurring theme in Kundera’s work.

A nice-looking man named Raphael comes into the café, knows Tamina’s name, and asks her to leave with him. They go outside and get into his sports car, and drive off, drive into the country, the green landscape turning sandy, then ochre. It reminds Tamina of the landscape her husband was forced to work in, when he was kicked out of white collar jobs and ended up working a digger on building sites.

He parks by a river and points down towards where a boy is holding the painter of a boat. As in a dream she gets into the boat and he starts to row, but she takes over, rows and rows, they arrive at a strange strand, are greeted by children, she disembarks and is shown the way to a dormitory where she’ll be sleeping, the children tell her that only children live on the island (she walks along the shore and ends up back where she started), and are divided into ‘squirrels’ and ‘tigers’, they are fascinated by her mature breasts and black pubic hair, and she finds herself at night being touched and stroked so she achieves a strange kind of climax, until one day one little urchin twists her nipple hard and she throws them all off, she tries to join in their games, like hopscotch, but gets things wrong, they chase her, catch her in badminton nets, a little like other outsiders in science fiction scenarios, finally she runs down to the seashore and swims, while they yell at her from the shore, she’s a strong swimmer and swims all night imagining she must reach the other side, but when dawn breaks she realises she’s only a few hundred yards from the island and is overcome with fatigue.

Some of the children come out in the rowing boat to watch her curiously, they make no offer to help her, and watch, while she goes under, once, twice, and then drowns.

Part Seven – The Border

This appears to be a whole-hearted satire of life in the West. Jan is from the East and observes the people round him like a zoologist. Jeanne likes to sit cross legged like the Buddha while she traces the outline of the coffee table before her, drawing attention to herself and her asinine comments. Jan drops in on the Clevis family. They are card-carrying liberal progressives, who subscribe to all the best liberal opinions and when he drops in they’ve just finished watching a TV programme on which representatives of all the schools of thought debated one of the big issues of the day, which is whether women should go topless. Jan listens to their fourteen-year-old daughter shout that she’s not going to be anybody’s Sex Object, while her mother cheers her on. The narrator reflects that millions of women across the west have burned their bra and now go about their days work wobbling as Nature intended.

They remind me of the right-on, vegetarian, socialist feminist family, the Webers, in the Posy Simmonds cartoon strip. And any number of other right-on families who were mocked and satirised in the 1970s.

The Clevises point out that poor Jeanne has gone through tragic times because her son ran away for a few days. Jan reflects on what the term tragic means in his country and how trivial it is in this country.

Jan is seeing a girl from a sports rental company. She is an orgasm fanatic. She is determined to have as many as possible, and gives him a running commentary when they’re making love, telling him just what to do when, and where to put his hands and whether to speed up or slow down. She’s like the cox of a rowing eight.

There’s a lot more discussion of sex. Jan speculates there are three kinds of erotic history: all the women you’ve had; all the women you could have had but let slip; and then all the women you could never have had. He is alarmed that more and more women seem to be slipping into this category. Is it because they have ‘begun to organise and reform their perennial fate?’ (I take it he’s referring to feminism).

There’s a passage about the male gaze (presumably Kundera was introduced to all these ideas, along with humourless feminist students, only once he’d arrived in France, in 1975), which he takes for granted as already being a well-known concept. This was forty years ago. Less well known, he asserts, is the fact that the object can look back. The object can cease to be an object, open its eyes, and unsettle and unnerve the gazer, and his protagonist goes on to discuss about various examples of women who bite back, with his girlfriend Edwige, the feminist.

For example, their friend Barbara is known for giving orgies (who are these people? how did he get to know so many women obsessed with sex? how come I never met or heard of anyone like this when I was a young man?) One day she invites their friend Ervin who arrived to find two pretty women and Barbara. Barbara got out an egg timer then the three women stripped naked. Then she told Ervin to strip naked which he quickly did. Then she set the egg timer and said he had precisely one minute to get a hard on or they’d throw him out. And all three women stared at his crotch laughing. Then they threw him out.

Then Jan and Edwige discuss rape. Jan sees rape as integral to eroticism, whereas castration is its negation. Edwige says if rape is integral to eroticism, then we need to develop a new form of eroticism. He defends women who say the word ‘no’ when they don’t mean it. She gets angry and says ‘no means no’. He trots through a repertoire of sexual scenes – the woman acting coy, having to be brought round, concealing her charms, the man having to talk her round, persuade her to reveal herself, and so on. He calls them time-honoured images. She says they certainly are time-honoured – and idiotic! Time to change them all!

And so it goes on, the never-ending ping-ping game between men and women.

Meanwhile, the notion of the border is applied to several situations. A friend is dying of cancer. Jan reflects how very close death is all the time to each of us. The border is an inch away. Ten years ago he used to be visited by a woman for sex. They both stood and stripped in the same hurried way each time. One time she caught his eye and smiled a sad sympathetic smile. Jan was inches away from bursting out laughing, which would have ended their sexual affair. The ‘border’ was there filling the room. But he stifled his laughter, stayed this side of the border. Another time he chatted up a young woman on a train but it just wouldn’t click, despite taking her to the dining car, then out into the corridor and lifting her head into the light as he had done a thousand times before. There was a border of seduction, but he just couldn’t cross it.

There’s also a border when it comes to repetition. Every time something is repeated it loses part of its vital force. Every action therefore has a border, this side of which it retains meaning, that side of which it has become meaningless automatism.

Similarly, many of Jan’s fellow exiles initially felt great attachment to their old country and fiercely vowed to fight for its freedom. But that passion faded, and now many are scared to admit they have passed beyond a psychological border where they realise there is no cause and no fight. And no purpose.

Their friend Passer dies of cancer. At his funeral the hat is blown off the head of Papa Clevis and in successive gusts blown to the feet of the solemn funeral orator. Everyone strains to contain their laughter. Then it blows into the grave itself. When the orator bends to throw the first earth into the grave he is stunned. The watchers strain every sinew not to burst out laughing.

Jan attends one of Barbara’s legendary orgies and is appalled to discover what a bully she is, pushing and arranging and goading and forcing everyone to have a good time. Jan buddies up with a bald man who quips ‘Major Barbara’ and comments that she’s like a coach training her team for the Olympics. Barbara spots them chatting and separates them, taking the bald guy off to a corner where she starts masturbating him, while Jan finds himself being handled by the clumsy provincial stripper who had started proceedings. He finds himself looking over at the bald man, and coming up with more jokes and references and ludicrous metaphors, and suddenly both he and baldie burst out laughing. Barbara is furious. She expels Jan from the party.

Sex is a serious business. It cannot stand being mocked. Now, as Jan moves into his forties (Kundera was nearly 50 when this book was published) he finds himself more and more aware of all these borders: death just inches away; absurdity underlying all our behaviour; sex just a facial flicker away from guffaws.

In the last sequence in the book, just before he goes abroad for good (to America, I think), Jan takes his feminist girlfriend to an island which is a nudist colony. In their rented cottage they strip off, then walk down to the beach to join grandparents, parents, teenagers and toddlers, all stark naked.

Here his misunderstandings with Edwige – and the entire novel’s theme of misunderstandings – reaches a kind of climax. She is obsessed with ‘the Western Judaeo-Christian’ tradition of shame of the body. But Jan is thinking about something quite different. More and more he has been dreaming of a state of bodily arousal which is pleasure but innocent of climax; a pre-sexual state, which he associates with the Greek myth of Daphnis and Chloe.

They sit on the beach in the sun, watching all the naked people around them, and Jan murmurs ‘Daphnis’. Edwige hears this and pounces on it, convinced he shares her feelings about a feminist escape from the Judeao-Christian sexist tradition. He nods agreement although he is sick to death of her trite, stupid obvious ideas, the way she feeds everything into the same half dozen, half-baked ‘issues’. Instead he is consumed with a sense of the sheer absurdity of human existence, and this conviction – so similar to the recurring obsession of his author and creation – is cemented in the vivid image which ends the book.

A group of Edwige’s nudist friends has just come up and been introduced to Jan, and Edwige has mentioned Jan’s throwaway idea that they should name the anonymous little island Daphne.

Everyone was delighted with the idea, and a man with extraordinary paunch began developing the idea that Western civilisation was on its way out and we should soon be freed once and for all from the bonds of Judeo-Christian thought – statements Jan had heard ten, twenty, thirty, a hundred, five hundred, a thousand times before – and for the time being those few feet of beach felt like a university auditorium. On and on the man talked. The others listened with interest, their naked genitals staring dully, sadly, listlessly at the yellow sand. (p.228)


Thoughts

Are these stories continually interrupted by multiple digressions into interesting topics? Or essays on interesting topics into which ‘characters’ and their slender narratives are occasionally inserted?

Of the five books by Milan Kundera which I’ve read so far, this one has by far the most ‘interruptions’ and digressions; it feels the most finely balanced between narrative and editorial, between story and lecture.

For example, the story titled Litost, with its rhetorical questions and technical explanations (of foreign words and their etymologies) keeps reverting to the nature of an academic essay, a quality demonstrated by one of the last sections which is titled Further Notes for a Theory of Litost. 

Or take the section about the two types of laughing, the demonic which celebrates chaos, and the angelic which celebrates order, which underpins the sections about Angels i.e. that their laughter is repressive.

Or Kundera’s touching memoir of his senile father, and the way he (Kundera) came to understand his father’s scholarly fascination with the variation form.

In fact Part Six has an extended passage remembering much more about his father the musicologist: how he explained to the young Milan the structure and purpose of the key system, before Kundera himself goes on to give his account of the collapse of that system, as overthrown by Schoenberg, the reluctant revolutionary, who ushered in the twelve-tone system, which was to dominate international classical music after the Second World War.

There’s a lot lot more topics like this: on the nature of absurdity and human intention; on the nature of love; on the nature of political and cultural forgetting.

A cultural conservative?

Although he is a striking radical in the technique he brings to the novel, in chopping it up into these bite-sized sections, and inserting all kinds of authorial asides, and with the brisk no-nonsense way he gets straight to the gist of a character’s thoughts… in other ways, when you look at what his discussion values, Kundera can come over as a surprisingly cultural conservative.

In this book he thinks ‘beauty’ is a thing of the past which has been buried under a deluge of pop music and public announcements. He thinks Schoenberg murdered music and, as with the three-hundred page diatribe against lyric poetry which is his second novel, Life Is Elsewhere, he did it with the best of intentions. His innovation represented the death of classical music, but he made it with excitement and daring, and his post-war devotees were zealots and extremists of the kind Kundera deplores.

Bleakly, he says that everyone who spouts the big word Progress, imagines it means progress towards a bright new future. They don’t realise that what they are moving towards is death (p.179).

He hates pop music. There are a couple of pages comparing the Czech pop singer Karel Gott with the president of forgetting, T.G. Masaryk, in the sense that both want to bury the past. Pop music is ‘music without memory’, music deprived of the legacy of Bach to Beethoven, music reduced to the stumps of its basic elements, mindlessly repeated over a nightmareishly amplified totalitarian beat.

Towards the end of the book he rubbishes the entire notion of ‘progress’.

Jan had never shared Passer’s enthusiasm for observing how things change, though he did appreciate his desire for change, considering it the oldest desire in man, mankind’s most conservative conservatism. (p.215)

Pessimistic stuff, isn’t it?

Lost in the West

In this the book represents Kundera’s uneasy transition to the ‘free’ society of the West. In a sense, it was easy to write in the East because art, poetry and literature were taken seriously, especially by the regime, which paid artists and writers the great tribute of locking them up and, in the Soviet Union, of murdering them.

In the communist East there was not only a shortage of food and consumer goods (cars, fridges), which meant you made do with a much more threadbare lifestyle – but a shortage of types of lifestyle. At its simplest, you were either for the regime or against it, and everyone trod a very careful path so as not to put a foot wrong and be dragged off to prison.

This was Kundera’s first book published since he defected to the West (in 1975) and although his technical achievement (the chopping up of narratives into micro-sections and their interleaving with meditations on all kinds of subjects) has reached giddy heights, it seems to me that he is struggling with the sheer profusion of narratives available in the West.

Put simply, there’s so much crap. Radios are on everywhere blaring out idiot pop music, muzak in lifts and supermarkets, so much cheap food the inhabitants make themselves sick and fat, shiny adverts bombard you from radio, TV, cinema and huge hoardings.

And people fuss and fret about such trivia – epitomised by the monstrous superficiality of the would-be novelist Bibi in Part Two, or the ludicrous self-centred ‘tragedy’ of Jeanne in Part Seven, or the stupid television debates about whether women should or should not go bare breasted on beaches. Is this it? Is this what thousands of years of human civilisation dwindle down to? An endless froth of trivia?

Maybe this is what he means when he says that the entire book is about Tamina, protagonist of the fourth and sixth stories, which is at first a puzzling statement, since a number of the other characters (Mirek and Karel spring to mind) are well defined and memorable. But:

It is a novel about Tamina, and whenever Tamina is absent, it is a novel for Tamina. She is its main character and main audience, and all the other stories are variations on her story and come together in her life as in a mirror. (p.165)

And who is Tamina? She is an exile in the West. She loves her country and feels she left her soul there. But all her attempts to reclaim it are foiled. She is appalled by the superficiality (Bibi) and selfishness (Hugo) and pretentiousness (the writers bickering on TV) of ‘cultural’ life in the West. And what happens to her in the end? She drowns.


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Milan Kundera’s books

1967 The Joke
1969 Life Is Elsewhere
1969 Laughable Loves (short stories)

1972 The Farewell Party
1978 The Book of Laughter and Forgetting

1984 The Unbearable Lightness of Being
1986 The Art of the Novel (essays)

1990 Immortality
1995 Slowness
1998 Identity

2000 Ignorance
2014 The Festival of Insignificance