Category Archives: Empire

20th century Literature, Book review, Booker Prizewinner, Empire, J G Farrell, The Siege of Krishnapur

The Siege of Krishnapur, by J G Farrell, 1973

I found myself becoming increasingly troubled by J G Farrell’s Booker prize winning ‘The Siege of Krishnapur’. It is not a bad novel, but it has some serious flaws. It is based on the Indian Mutiny of 1857/8. In India this conflict is known as the Indian rebellion, but Siegeyou would not know that from reading this novel. The narrative perspective is entirely from the point of view of the ‘plucky’ British settlers. The Indian people who appear in the novel are either cannon fodder, mown down in their thousands by the plucky British defenders, or ridiculous caricatures, such as the entirely dumb ‘Prime Minister’. Even the Sikhs who loyally refuse to join the rebellion are given non-speaking parts and diminutive nicknames.

I wonder – did it ever occur to Farrell that the Indian people might have had a different perspective on events from the British characters, and that giving a voice to one of them might have been an interesting counterpoint to the stubbornly imperialist perspective otherwise offered? I am sure that anyone wanting to defend the novel will say that Farrell is comically pointing out the absurdities of Empire. Quite why this was necessary in the 1970’s is a moot point, but the fact that the British behaved ridiccarry onulously in the Raj, keeping up the croquet on the lawn, tea parties, and cucumber sandwiches while the natives rebelled isn’t particularly original funny – Carry on Up the Khyber made the same point far more succinctly five years earlier.

Let’s call this what it is – racism.  A novel set in the time of the British Empire in which all the non-British characters are marginalised and ridiculed wouldn’t find a publisher these days, would it? The novel made me wonder whether you can actually write a novel in which all of the predominant characters share a colonialist mindset, and use these attitudes and situations to challenge and undermine that perspective? In other words, how do you write a novel about racism without being racist? That’s a very broad question, but I would expect to see racist attitudes challenged robustly – which doesn’t really happen here – and some progression in the characters’ attitudes on the issues, which again is missing. In the novel’s final chapter set several years after the siege, there is no indication that the protagonists have come to realise they bore some responsibility for the uprising and the deaths that followed.

I am sure Farrell tried to make the novel a serious discussion about Empire. Many of the British characters are sympathetic and well-meaning, but misguided. There are some heavy-handed points made about the Great Exhibition of 1851, a few years before the novel’s setting. The senior British official organising the defence of the besieged community is known as ‘The Collector’, and while this title refers to the collection of taxes, it also refers to his hobby of collecting small technical devices from the Exhibition. These all eventually end up forming part of the barricades or are broken down to be remade into ammunition – so much for the value of civilisation in such a backward country.

There were a number of other features of the novel that caused me concern. The women characters are mainly there for decorative purposes, to provide wives and babies. There is a regular and rather uncomfortable series of references to the women’s sexual attractiveness, their smell, and even the effect the siege has on the plumpness of their bodies. In one bizarre scene a woman strips naked to escape a plague of insects that has descended on her, covering her head to toe, and two of the officers scrape the insects off her body using the hard-back covers torn from a Bible. They are bemused by her pubic hair, not knowing whether to scrape that off as well! This scene was I am sure intended to be funny, but my sense of humour failed me. Not only was it distasteful, but the clubbingly heavy-handed point being made – she is a “fallen” woman being redeemed of her sexual misconduct by the literal application of the Bible – made me groan.

And….the plot is slight – the siege becomes a game of survival, but there is never any doubt that it will eventually be relieved. Several characters are set up with potentially interesting story lines, which are not followed up. A lengthy debate about the causes of cholera is obviously well-researched, but utterly pointless given we now know who was right and who was wrong. But despite all these reservations, I didn’t hate this novel. It was well constructed and skips along with just enough pace to sustain the otherwise static narrative.

I know I am in a small minority in this one – novel’s don’t win the Booker without any merit, let alone be shortlisted for the Booker of Bookers.  So the question is, what am I missing?

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20th century Literature, Book review, Bronte, Empire, Jane Eyre, Jean Rhys, Slavery, Wide Sargasso Sea

Wide Sargasso Sea, by Jean Rhys, 1966

“There is always another side, always.”

As you may know, Jean Rhys’s ‘Wide Sargasso Sea’ tells the story from ‘Jane Eyre’ of Mr Rochester’s first wife, the ‘mad woman in the attic’, Bertha Mason.wide-sargasso-sea

The idea of giving a voice to a relatively minor character from a classic work of literature may not have been invented by Jean Rhys, but I can’t think of an earlier example.*

The thematic heart of this short novel is an attempt to understand Bertha’s descent into madness. Is Rochester’s description of her condition correct, or is she the victim of a loveless marriage and the brutal property and marriage laws of the time, which allowed a husband to treat an inconvenient wife as mere property? rhys reminds us that in this world wives have fewer rights than the recently emancipated slaves.

‘Wide Sargasso Sea’ opens with Bertha, known at this point as Antoinette, as a child, living on an estate in Jamaica. Slavery has recently been abolished, and the comfortable world order in which white plantation owners ruled unchallenged is under threat. Antoinette is mixed race, although her precise racial lineage is unclear – all we are told is that her mother is a ‘Creole’. In ‘Jane Eyre’ an association is clearly drawn between this racial background and the madness that runs in the family. Rochester in particular associates “madness” with Bertha’s racially “impure” lineage. He claims

“Bertha Mason is mad [because] she came of a mad family;–idiots and maniacs through three generations! Her mother, the Creole, was both a mad woman and a drunkard!” (Jane Eyre, ch 26).

Rochester on the other hand is never vulnerable to this affliction, because he comes from undiluted racial stock:

“Her family wished to secure me because I was of good race” (JE ch 27).

‘Sargasso Sea’ never directly challenges this racist association, although it does contextualise it. Antoinette’s madness is given a much clearer explanation. It seems to derive from a combination of factors. A series of traumatic events in her childhood, not least the burning down of her family home, sets her illness in motion. (This scene of course echoes the end of Thornfield Hall.) The idea that her mother’s madness has played a part in Bertha’s condition is preserved in Rhys’s version of events – Rochester’s explanation that Bertha/Antoinette is mad because she came from a mad family is at least not wholly invented. Finally, Rochester’s cold and harsh treatment of Bertha plays a part in confirming and exacerbating her illness.

In renaming Antoinette, calling her Bertha for no apparent reason except that he seems to like the name, Rochester is treating her like a slave. The plantation’s slaves lost their African names and had easy to remember Christian names imposed upon them. This enslavement is perpetuated throughout the marriage – Bertha loses all her property rights and is eventually imprisoned and kept confined in a foreign land far from home.

In the second section of the novel, Rochester’s narrative voice intervenes. We have already heard his self-justifying version of events in the original novel, but by and large this account shows him to have been mainly honest in his portrayal of his engagement and marriage. Rhys may not have wanted to diverge too much from the original version, but at times I found this voice to be inauthentic. Rochester is admittedly an alien in this land, bewildered by the strange environment, language, and culture. But when he described the honeymoon period of his marriage, it sounds more like locker room boasting than the regretful reminiscences of a man who has lost his wife to illness:

“I watched her die many times. In my way, not in hers. In sunlight, in shadow, by moonlight, by candlelight. In the long afternoons when the house was empty. Only the sun was there to keep us company. We shut him out. And why not? Very soon she was as eager for what’s called loving as I was – more lost and drowned afterwards.”

I know I have only scratched the surface of this complex and compelling novel, and it probably merits a second, closer read. But I am glad that in giving a voice to the ‘mad woman in the attic’, Rhys gave the first Mrs Rochester a dignity and a depth of character that she is deprived of in ‘Jane Eyre’. In the original novel she is little more than a plot device, an inconvenience whose death is ultimately a cause for celebration. I can’t help thinking of other victims in literature who are denied a voice by their authors, and cry out for the right to be heard.

*Tom Stoppard’s ‘Rosencrantz and Guildernstern are Dead’, first produced in the same year that ‘Wide Sargasso Sea’ was published, takes a similar idea as its inspiration, but then goes in a very different, less naturalistic, direction.

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20th century Literature, Book review, Empire, Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad

Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad, 1902

Read in a 1980’s Penguin edition with an introduction by Paul O’Prey

When I read a book that intend to blog about, I usually try to keep a pencil to hand to underline passages that I think might be of interest, relevant to the review, or otherwise worth making a note of. With Heart of Darkness I found myself underlining sections every other page – this is such a dense, intense novel, that wherever you look there is something that needs to be looked at more closely.
Like a number of classic novels (I am thinking of Frankenstein, or Wuthering Heights) Heart of Darkness has a framing device which at first seems irrelevant, a delay before the true narrative begins. But the opening of HoD sets the scene for the whole novel, and provides a striking contrast between the setting – the Thames – and the other river that dominates Marlow’s take, the Congo. The anonymous narrator imagines the Thames 1900 years earlier, when Romans did to Europe what Europe then did to Africa. So this, in an interesting contrast to Scoop, is a novel about imperialism. Arguably it is the novel about imperialism. Conrad, having seen some of the nature of African development at first hand, has no illusions about what it constitutes:
“It was just robbery with violence, aggravated murder on a great scale, and men going at it blind – as is very proper for those who tackle a darkness. The conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away from those who have a different complexion or a slightly flatter nose than ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it too much. What redeems it is the idea only. An idea at the back of it; not a sentimental pretence but an idea; and an unselfish belief in the idea – something you can set up, and bow down before, and offer a sacrifice to…” (31-32)

Throughout the novel Conrad plays with the theme of light and darkness: 
“It (Africa) had ceased to be a blank space of delightful mystery – a white patch for a boy to dream gloriously over. It had become a place of darkness.” (33) This is an interesting inversion of the common notion of the time that exploration of Africa by Europeans was bringing light to the Dark Continent; instead Marlow argues that in exploring Africa Europeans were darkening it.

The plot is extremely well known, so I will keep this brief. Marlow, an old sailor, tells some colleagues a tale of his last trip to Africa, captaining a steamer up the Congo to escort some traders collecting a shipment of ivory. He hears tales of one of the upriver agents, Kurtz, and at the end of his journey meets him. He falls under Kurtz’s spell, although why it is hard to understand.  He speaks frequently of Kurtz’s extraordinary eloquence, but very little of this is directly reported. Kurtz’s charismatic personality is also emphasised by Marlow, and by Kurtz’s fiance who is introduced in the closing episode, but the reader is given nothing to make their own judgment upon. Kurtz appears to have “gone native” – but the extent of this is very hard to judge given Marlow’s highly fragmented narrative, a fragmentation that continues throughout the novel, so much so that by the closing chapters the time scheme lurches dramatically, and incidents that would normally have been focused upon, such as Kurtz’s death, are mentioned only in passing.

Is this novel racist? I asked the same question at the end of my review of Scoop, and dodged answering. The n-word is used throughout the novel, and African people are treated as little more than animals. Marlow appears to endorse Kurtz’s recommendation “Exterminate all the brutes” – but elsewhere the portrayal of the cost of imperialism is damning:

Black shapes crouched, lay, sat between the trees leaning against the trunks, clinging to the earth, half coming out of, half effaced within the dim light, in all the attitudes of pain, abandonment and despair. …This was the place where some of the helpers had withdrawn to die. They were dying slowly – it was very clear. They were not enemies, they were not criminals, they were nothing earthly now, – nothing but black shadows of disease and starvation, lying confused in the greenish gloom. Brought from all the recesses of the coast in all the legality of time contracts, lost in uncongenial surroundings, fed  on unfamiliar food, they sickened, became inefficient, and were then allowed to crawl away and rest. These moribund shapes were free as air – and nearly as thin. (44)

The references to legality and freedom point out the contrast between the state of these workers, worked to breaking point and beyond and then abandoned, and their forebears, who would have been enslaved. There is little difference between the free men broken and left to die, and their predecessors. Wage slavery is still slavery.

I think if you can work your way past the use of the n-word, which Conrad uses without spite or malice, in as far as one can, then this is not otherwise a racist novel, but more a novel of racist times, which are shown unblinkingly as such.

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100 Best Novels Guardian list, 20th century Literature, Book review, Classics, Empire, Kim, Rudyard Kipling

Kim, by Rudyard Kipling, 1901

Many of the classic novels I have been reading in recent weeks have been reasonably familiar to me. often this is through film or television adaptations, or from having read versions or parts of the novel decades ago. ‘Kim’ is an exception to that general rule – although I had heard of the novel, I had no prior knowledge of the plot or characters. I am sure it has been adapted as a film at some point, but not I suspect with any great success.

Kipling is notorious as a jingoistic supporter of Empire, and as this novel is set in 19th Century India, one would have expected the white men to be the heroes, and the Indian characters to be (negative) stereotypes or caricatures. In the event, nothing could be further from the truth. The novel follows the adventures of a young orphan – Kim – who is born of Irish parents, but who grows up assimilated into Indian culture, and who identifies as an Indian (when he first wears white men’s trousers, for example, he finds them uncomfortable and can’t understand why anyone would wear them). He is a classic street rat, surviving on his wits. He meets a Tibetan monk on a pilgrimage, and quickly strikes up a friendship which is the heart of the novel. They journey around India in a fairly leisurely fashion. India is shown in all its magnificent complexity, which many different races, religions and castes. The occupying English forces are also not portrayed simplistically as either all good or bad – they include a range of well developed characters, some of whom are benevolent, others less so. But there is not a hint of jingoism anywhere in the novel. Kipling quite obviously had a deep affinity with India, and while his portrait of the country is not rose-tinted, at the same time he demonstrates an understanding of the peoples, traditions and cultures that you would never have anticipated from someone with his reputation as a defender of Empire. Occupation is not a benevolent force for good in India – neither is it the opposite – it simply is part of the experience of the citizens of the country.

In the course of his journeys, Kim’s parenthood is revealed, and he is given an ‘English’ education. Because of his knowledge of India and its culture, as well as a natural quick wit, he is prepared for a career as a spy, a player in the ‘Great Game’. We are introduced to some of the other spies, all native Indians risking their lives to ensure intelligence is fed to the occupying English. Towards the end of the novel, as Kim’s spiritual journey reaches its anti-climax, this espionage sub-plot also comes to a slightly comic conclusion, as two foreign spies (French and Russian, in an unlikely alliance) are humiliated because of their lack of respect for and knowledge of Indian culture.

Given the period in which it was written, this is a surprisingly enlightened novel. But was it any good? Perhaps there is a reason why the novel is not in the first tier of classics, not part of the cultural zeitgeist. Because the answer is not really. It was a struggle to complete. Much of the action is conveyed through dialogue, and Kipling uses innumerable terms deriving from the Raj which are sometimes translated, but often not (in the particular edition at least (Wordsworth Classics) – I can imagine that there are other versions with more comprehensive footnotes that would have clarified some of these terms). So it was at points not easy to follow the plot. Kim is an endearing character, and his supporting cast are reasonably well developed, but overall I never fully engaged with the novel, and would probably not have finished it were it not for a streak of stubbornness. I can see why, when choosing a Kipling novel to adapt, Disney chose ‘The Jungle Book’, not ‘Kim’!

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100 Best Novels Guardian list, 20th century Literature, A Passage to India, Book review, E.M.Forster, Empire

A Passage to India – E M Forster – 1924

The narrative point of view in A Passage to India is elusive. At points, particularly when describing (supposedly) neutral scenes such as landscape, Forster uses a traditional, omniscient narrative voice. The landscape (or similar) is not however simply described – the description includes subtle (and sometimes not so subtle – see below) judgments and observations. We are being shown India through the eyes of a distinct person or character, albeit one that doesn’t appear in the novel. Would it be safe to assume this point of view is as close to Forster’s as makes no difference?
I’m not sure, because when portraying conversations and interactions between characters, the narrative voice changes. The narrator tells the reader what the characters are thinking and feeling – sometimes even identifying feelings that the character is only dimly aware they are experiencing, such as when the romantic feelings of Ronny and Adela are re-kindled in their ride home and subsequently accident. But again this is not the whole story – the narrator may see all, but reveals the story’s events only as and when they are observed or participated in by the characters. There is no breaking of the fourth wall, no jumping forward in time, and scenes from the past are strictly confined to memories, such as Dr Aziz’s memories of his wife. We observed the complex interactions between the characters with an informed understanding of their nuances, but the narrator is a guide rather than a translator – we are helped to understand what the characters are thinking and feeling, but don’t simply step inside their heads.
The narrator’s partial omniscience takes a further knock during and after the “incident” in the caves. The scene is initially shown from Dr Aziz’s point of view, and then recounted to Fielding. Fielding notes that this initial recount is already beginning to get slightly confused. The puzzling departure by Adela is unexplained – the point of view is limited. This scene is immediately preceded, and foreshadowed, by a scene narrated from Mrs Moore (Adela’s prospective mother in law, and de facto guardian). When the narrative finally portrays the scene from Adela’s perspective, her recollection is clouded and incomplete. In fact the narrative is completely confused through this part of the novel – it is never explained what the charge/allegation against Dr Aziz’s is. The one thing Adela is consistent about is “the man had never actually touched her” (208), but the English community reacts as if she has been ravaged, and indeed the doctor tells them that her life is at risk.
Why does this matter? I think it is always important to ask questions about the point of view. Who is telling me this? Are they telling me the whole truth? Is there something that is being kept from me? Are my thoughts and feelings being manipulated, and if so how.
I am sure Forster intended this story as a positive commentary on the Raj, and specifically the late colonial period when India was ruled, ineffectively, by the British. Forster portrays the effect that colonial power has on well meaning British people who come to India with the best of intentions – to be compassionate, to help the local population, to foster (near-pun intended) good relations between Hindu and Muslim, and so on. These intentions are eroded by the force of circumstances, until they become hard-faced colonial administrators, making decisions based upon what is best for Great Britain, not India, and living largely segregated lives apart from the local population. As the Collector says: “I have had 25 years in this country … and during those 25 years I have never known anything but disaster result when English people and |Indians attempt to be intimate socially.” (161). Newcomers quickly come to understand (or are taught) that mixing with the locals is harmful to both parties. His target is the Raj (and by extension, the Empire) not the people who kept it running.
You could see this all as liberal far-sightedness, Forster predicting the end of the Empire and the resulting inevitable partition between the majority Hindus and the minority Muslims, and commenting on the corrosive effect of Empire on the people administering it. Orwell’s “Shooting an Elephant” makes similar points. But I am not sure this is the whole story. “A Passage to India” doesn’t simply portray the effects of colonialism. There is a portrait of India and Indians themselves which at points is unsympathetic. Indians are shown to be pompous, unreliable, volatile, and dishonest, not just as individual character traits but consistently. When the narrator claims “Suspicion in the Oriental is a sort of malignant tumour, a mental malady, that makes him self-conscious and unfriendly suddenly; he trusts and mistrusts at the same time, in a way the Westerner cannot comprehend. It is his demon, as the Westerner’s is hypocrisy” (272) it is unclear whether this is the narrator voicing a judgment of one of the characters, or Forster’s personal judgment. This racism is more subtle than that of many of Forster’s characters, but forms a backdrop to the novel. I wanted to illustrate this by looking in more detail at the book’s opening paragraphs, which unusually I am going to repeat here in full to avoid you having to go and look it up.  
“Except for the Marabar caves – and they are 20 miles off – the city of Chandrapore presents nothing extraordinary. Edged rather than washed by the river Ganges, it trails for a couple of miles along the bank, scarcely distinguishable from the rubbish it deposits so freely. There are no bathing steps on the river front as the Ganges happens not to be holy here; indeed there is no river front, and bazaars shut out the wide and shifting panorama of the stream. The streets are mean, the temples ineffective, and though a few fine houses exist they are hidden away in gardens or down alleys whose filth deters all but the invited guest. Chandrapore was never large or beautiful but 200 years ago it lay on the road between Upper India, then imperial, and the sea, and the fine houses date from that period. The zest for decoration stopped in the 18th century, nor was it ever democratic. There is no painting and scarcely any carving in the bazaars. The very wood seems made of mud, the inhabitants of mud moving. So abased, so monotonous, is everything that meets the eye, that when the Ganges comes down it might be expected to wash the excrescence back into the soil. Houses do fall, people are drowned and left rotting, but the general outline of the town persists, swelling here, shrinking there, like some low but indestructible form of life.
This analysis will follow in my next post, found here. 
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