Breaks, Gaps, Waves: Pacific Literature and (Re)Making History
Ruptures, lacunes, vagues : la littérature du Pacifique et sa fabrique de l’histoire
p. 139-150
Résumés
Decolonising impulses drove the production of Pacific writing. Asserting local experience against Western representations of Oceania entailed countering not only stereotypes from literature and art, but also undoing the print historical archive. Pacific writers have stressed embodied experience and oral transmission over distanced written record, disruptive narratives over smooth tales of progress, and have mixed evolutionary cycles including mythic roots with linear chronologies. Albert Wendt's writings illustrate these differences in “doing history”.
La production littéraire du Pacifique a été menée sous l’impulsion de la décolonisation. L’affirmation de l’expérience locale face aux représentations occidentales de l’Océanie impliquait non seulement de contrer les stéréotypes littéraires et artistiques, mais aussi d’effacer la production historique imprimée. Les auteurs océaniens ont mis l’accent sur l’expérience vécue et sur la tradition orale à la place des écrits distanciés, sur les récits disruptifs à la place des discours polis sur le progrès, et ont mêlé cycles d’évolution et racines mythiques aux chronologies linéaires. Les écrits d’Albert Wendt illustrent cette fabrique différente de l’histoire.
Entrées d’index
Mots-clés : Océanie, résistance post‑coloniale, présence ancestrale, oralité, mythes, généalogie, autobiographie, temporalité multiple, Albert Wendt
Keywords : Oceania, postcolonial resistance, ancestral presence, orality, myth, genealogy, autobiography, mixed genres, multitemporality, Albert Wendt
Texte intégral
1Keya Ganguly suggests that postcolonial studies have not come up with an original idea of time by which to challenge fundamentally the hegemony of Western epistemologies.1 Ganguly’s critique is perhaps aimed at the Subaltern Studies group, which, in its attention to national histories, illustrates her point about non‑Western and Western epistemologies sharing concepts of time once “the moment” of colonialism occurs.2. It is true that the discourses of nationalist resistance to empire borrow the same developmental narratives deployed against them. But if the “postcolonial” literary work supporting decolonisation has been more concerned with the dynamics of representation and with breaking colonialist canons, it has also recognised that part of its project is the correction of dominant histories and the undoing of hegemonic ideas of history itself.
2Decolonising cultural work attends to local specifics, seeking to validate them as central to their place rather than peripheral to some colonial metropolitan standard. Its creative writers in particular lead us to consider alternative systems of time. African writers such as Wole Soyinka and Ben Okri, for example, treat the boundary between life and death as permeable, such that the before and after of narrative blur, and spirit children go and come in ever‑unresolved cycles. Writers from Ganguly’s own South Asian roots regularly invoke the time of the epics and the gods. Pacific creation narratives (here thinking mainly of Polynesian cultures) also deal with aeons of evolutionary process rather than divine acts of sequential creation. They see the void as something other than a vacant negative of time: as a constitutive component of generation. Some Polynesian languages also mark time in a reverse spatial grammar to Western conceptualising - backing forwards with our eyes on the ancestors. Such cultural constructions implicitly reconfigure how history relates to the present, and how we “do history”.
3Of course, Ganguly is correct about our being implicated in “Western” event‑based sequential history as the result of colonial expansion across the globe. However, the experience of historical process differs from place to place, so that India, for example, conceives of a steady series of incursions over aeons, all gradually incorporated into local life, whereas the Pacific encountered a sudden unexpected intrusion that overturned much of local culture in one generation. Converts to Christianity divide time accordingly into before and after the “coming of the Light”; both they and those more connected to pre‑contact culture, speak of Westerners as “palangi” - disruptive “skybreakers” who come unheralded over the horizon. Pacific literature (as creative expression in writing) is itself the product of this specific history: of European exploration and imperialist expansion dating from the late eighteenth century, followed by the postwar drive globally to decolonise from the 1960s onwards. Without the first impulse, Pacific arts would have remained performative and oral; without the second, much of the thematic inspiration for print creativity would not have eventuated.
4We can chart several main lines of literary concern that have implications for a Pacific sense of the past and of its written representation. Firstly, the interaction of oral and written cultures; secondly, writing to counter the dominant colonial histories; thirdly, asserting a local sense of the co‑presence of contemporary life and ancestral pasts; fourth, a tension between representing history as continuity or rupture, and finally, recognition that all of these relationships are complicated at both poles of their oppositions.
5One of the earliest Papuans to appear in print was Avaisa Pinongo. His 1950s poems were struggles to express his mixed feelings about the sudden shift of his people from “stone age” isolation to “space age” global society. Indeed, his own identity changed as his mission schooling exposed him to Longfellow’s verse and he adopted the nom de plume Allan Natachee. As a writer coming from an oral culture, he became a self‑appointed historian‑ethnographer, recording The Legendary History of the Mekeo (c. 1960). This compendium of rituals and foundation stories rehearses the problems of its working across two discursive spaces.
6The priority given to print text by Western society consigned oral history to pre‑modern “legend”: factually unreliable, shaped by the biases of narrators, and distorted in transmission. Under the regimes of Christian missions in the Pacific, print also took on a sacred aura outside of which other expressions could be regarded as “heathen”. To write was to be both modern and part of history, if not also Christian; to uphold local traditions outside of writing was to sit apart from Western knowledge in a “prehistoric” space. Indigenous cultural activism had the task of reasserting the validity of oral culture, and, given colonial relegation of it to “non-factual” discursive spaces, it often fell to Pacific Island creative writers to lead the movement against dominant colonial print records. To do so, they had, paradoxically, to enter into the print culture of colonial rule, inserting facts of local history into the print record as fictive reinvention.
7Some missionaries and government officials had, in fact, begun collecting village stories, usually as folk tales rather than history, but their converts began to “upgrade the program” of oral culture by transferring its content to modern print “platforms” and transposing it into historical mode. The Cook Islands convert Maretu, for example, wrote up local wars and the dramas of contact history in the 1870s3, while Hawaiian David Malo collected oral history as Mo’olelo Hawai’i4 (1898). When secular higher education was introduced, students in need of English and writing practice were sent out to collect traditional stories. These became the basis for much creative writing, infusing a very contemporary practice with a strong sense of heritage, but also to some extent perpetuating the idea that such material was from the past and had to be reprocessed to be part of modernity. The tussle between narrative conventions and different modes of valuing evidence across oral culture and written history remains one feature of Pacific engagement in historiography. A clear example of this is Vaka (1992), ostensibly a quest novel, but also a compilation of oral stories about the history of a famous legendary ocean‑going canoe.
8Vaka was written by Tom Davis (Pa Tuterangi Ariki) the first Islander to publish a novel (Makutu, 1960). The author trained in medicine and went on to become Prime Minister of the Cook Islands. He published his memoirs as Island Boy.5 In much of Pacific writing claims to authenticity are based on first‑person witness similar to claims made by slave narratives and testimonio. Autobiographical narrative has become a common strategy to pull together literary devices and historical record. The first piece of published writing by a Pacific Islander with claim to literary self‑consciousness is Florence “Johnny” Frisbee’s set of diary entries and travel accounts, Miss Ulysses from Puka Puka (1948), and the first novel published from Papua New Guinea6 relies on oral accounts of colonial contact and “native” involvement in the Second World War gleaned from the author’s father. A series of novels about social change in New Guinea by Paulias Matane were backed up with the author’s own story of rising from village hut through a teaching career to leading roles in the administration of independent Papua New Guinea.7
9The link between history and literature in the Western Pacific has been significant. When the Institute of Papua New Guinea Studies was set up, an early Director was John Kolia. He not only wrote plays for radio and novels, but also established a formal program of fieldwork training and a journal called Oral History. It was on the basis of such compilations of local lore that fresh perspectives on mission activities, “cargo cults”, infamous murders of colonial figures, and so on, came to light and were eventually incorporated into the “proper” histories of the nation. Joseph Veramu, for example, wrote Black Messiah8 (1989) a fictionalised investigation of one of several Fijian cult leaders who otherwise had been dismissed in colonial record as an insignificant anomaly. More recognised because of his militant resistance to white settlement in New Zealand, Te Kooti was nonetheless presented in official accounts as a renegade monster or religious crank. It took a novel like Witi Ihimaera’s The Matriarch 9(1986) to assert the validity of Maori views of the warrior prophet, and to mount a challenge to the supposedly objective secular rationalism underpinning Western historical writing. Ihimaera uses a direct polemical address to readers to show up the partisan investments in recording the past and his “history” includes a Polynesian sense of ancestral presence and spiritual forces that demands some rethinking of the bounds of what counts as history.
10Both Subramani and Albert Wendt, in their pioneering descriptions of Pacific literature, emphasise the function of indigenous writing as being primarily to refute and recast prejudicial Western stereotypes of Islanders. “The Pacific” was what came to the West from Robert Louis Stevenson, Jules Verne, Herman Melville, Paul Gauguin, Somerset Maugham, James Michener and others. They promulgated the Manichaean simplification of Bougainville’s idealised island paradise versus R. M. Ballantine’s picture of heathen savagery. In the manner of Said’s Orientalism, the Western reader “knew” all there was to know about Oceania. But that “history” was written - even in apparently factual accounts - in the form of historical romance. Such a generic formation, with its selective gaps and dramatic highlighting, had to be shown for what it was.
11Constructing a counter‑history from a “minor” or subaltern subject position under late colonialism and early nationalism carried with it an inherent problem (the one voiced by Gayatri Spivak): to be “heard” by the world, the counter‑narrative had to be in a form and from a figure recognisable by the dominant discourse as having some authority. Regional “petits récits” had to look very much like the grand narratives of History to have effect. For a while at least, until a generation of university‑trained historians emerged in the Pacific, the writer using print and world‑recognisable forms such as protest poetry and the novel took on the role of counter‑historian. So Subramani’s short stories of the 1970s offered both a means of telling the mostly invisible history of Indian indentured labour in Fiji and a device in which the suppressed violence and traumatised alienation that was subaltern reality could be communicated. As a literary writer and academic, Subramani could exercise some authority while escaping the bind of having to rely on non‑existent print records. He could also invoke other epistemologies (Hindu myth, existential despair) that might have some influence in the development of postcolonial theoretical formations and decolonising political movements.
12If Western history seeks to find patterns in the past that inform or explain present social phenomena (as in Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire providing lessons for nineteenth‑century British rule, or Walter Scott’s romanticising of the highland warrior as a nostalgic message of inevitable extinction that justified a modern capitalist middle‑class urbanity), it needs to have an underpinning sense of things carrying through from past to present. If the past is different, it must also be somehow “translatable” into present understanding. However, the idea of progress implicit in the conventional Western model of history also relies on moving away from the past, and the idea of an objective assemblage of facts about the past allows us also to see that compilation as effecting closure: the past is past, we can move on.
13Colonial experience in the Pacific was more often than not an abrupt leap from past to present in which the past was cleared away. Missionaries and their converts burnt the old gods. Police gaoled headhunters. Children were removed from villages to be enrolled in schools. Subsistence farmers were suddenly obliged to produce crops for cash return. More dramatically, in the western Pacific, societies using timber and stone were overnight confronted with hordes of warring foreigners using cannon, ships, trucks, planes, radios and tinned food. Under such instant and wholesale change, no pattern from the past was adequate to comprehend the present. History could only be narrativised as a magic spell mysteriously cast by strangers (as it is in The Crocodile). The alternative was to accept the imposed history of those strangers, and if that explained something of their world, it did not match life, past or present, as known by Islanders.
14If the conventionally trained historian had only an absence of acceptable data and a story of chaotic disruption, then there could be little significant history. The emerging Pacific nations, however, relied on some kind of continuity with the (oral pre‑historic) past to supply a sustaining sense of authentic identity and a tale of meaningful transition into modernity. Many Pacific Islanders took the creative path of making the past make sense: retelling it in the light of present need as poems of oppositional protest (as in Albert Leomala’s Vanuatu poems or Haunani‑Kay Trask’s Hawaiian poems). Sometimes these were accompanied by nostalgic visions of prelapsarian village harmony; often the writers, themselves plunged into modernity, produced fictions of culture clash and anomie - as in Russell Soaba’s novel Wanpis (1975), or John Pule’s The Shark that Ate the Sun (1992). Occasionally the writer might construct an idealised heroic self: a new kind of warrior fighting into an unblemished future. Frequently the sense of history carried by these works is of something open‑ended, its characters conflicted and its society unstable. Genres are mixed: myth is also biography is also ethnography is also history. Motion is everywhere, but usually it has no clear beginning and no hint of a definite end. Experimental fiction is one means of expressing this complexity and fluidity. So, for example, to speak about “in house” secrets of elite complicity with colonial power in Tahiti and the overt history of nuclear testing, Chantal Spitz mixes realist protest, love story, oral tales and poetic chants in her novel L’île des rêves écrasés [Island of Shattered Dreams] (1991).10
15This leaves open the possibility of a framing narrative (whether of literature or of society) that recuperates a linear mode of history‑making: the Pacific is still in its infancy; it will mature; it will arrive in the world‑historical present one day. However, postcolonial theorising and much Pacific writing suggests that there will be no recovery of stable beginnings and no prospect of redeeming ends on which to build a tidy historical model. Elizabeth DeLoughrey’s recasting of Edouard Glissant’s “tidalectics” as an oceanic fluid dynamics, or Pheng Cheah’s use of Dipesh Chakravarty’s idea of heterotemporalities seem apposite:
Multitemporality is not the interruption of the homogeneous empty time of capital by another, nonsecular temporality. It is instead the intensification of an already existing heterogeneity by the forces of hybridisation generated by global capital flows. In turn, these multitemporalites challenge capital’s homogenizing tendencies.11
16An idea of history is present in indigenous emphasis on genealogy, but that refutes conventional historical “science” by tracking discernible present lives back to indeterminate mythic origins. Family history extends to include what History cannot accept as historical. Different times and ways of knowing time jostle around each other without easy synthesis.
17Albert Wendt, perhaps the most productive and widely known exponent of Pacific literature, titled his 2012 collection of stories, Ancestry. The stories relate to generations younger than the author who live in New Zealand and elsewhere, for whom ancestry is both a tyranny (in enforcing collective convention on individual freedoms) and a mainstay (providing identity and community in the face of social indifference and hostility). Ancestry in the form of genealogy is the foundation of rank, claim to land, and ontological rootedness, Wendt mentioning in several works how his relatives can track back through the Catholic Archbishop of Samoa to the Goddess‑warrior‑culture heroine Nafanua. His rebel characters, Pepe and Galupo, in Leaves of the Banyan Tree (1979) rely on this kind of ancestry to validate their challenges to authority.
18As with Maori whakapapa, the Samoan gafa carries the weight of history not as abstract dates and periods, but as embodied. It has links to tattooing as a visible manifestation of ancestry marked on the body, but also there is the sense that the chiefs in particular hold in themselves the mana stemming from the chain of events and people preceding them. In “Interrogation”, one of Wendt’s stories, gafa is connected to the Human Genome Project (p. 37‑38), extending oral history into a history of bodily transmissions of DNA. History is not just book learning; it is performed in the present, if only in that our ancestry determines contemporary race politics. In “Ancestry”, conversation between a Pakeha and Maori in a coffee shop is fractured by their different relation to the 1840 Treaty of Waitangi, while the narrator’s grandson negotiates his mix of English and Samoan, anchoring himself in the present in a visit to his great‑grandparents’ graves. In Wendt’s case, of course, history is in his bones as a story of colonial intermarriage - something he addresses in an early poem, “Inside us the dead” (1970). History in this framework is intimate, personal. Wendt connects it with autobiography, which he equates in essays and interviews with fiction - a blurring that looks like a postmodern play of surfaces, but is not necessarily so in its undercurrents.
19Wendt is a poet, fiction writer and playwright, but his first academic qualification was in History (a Master thesis on the Mau rebellion against colonial rule in which his grandfather was involved), and one of his earliest stories, “A Descendant of the Mountain” (1963), was a dramatic personalisation of the impact on Samoa of the 1918 influenza epidemic. His now voluminous oeuvre is a continual investigation of what it means to “do history” in the Pacific. Wendt’s “breakthrough” novel, Leaves of the Banyan Tree, was a saga that reflected in one family the change from chiefly leadership through sharing with the community to chiefly power through capitalist accumulation in a cash economy. Rebellion against the hypocrisy of such control under the guise of Christian piety leads to a more “honest” but ruthless bid for power in a new generation unfettered by either traditional protocols or mission-induced proprieties. This drama is acted out against a backdrop of late colonial rule so that we can see the historically produced social and psychological neuroses of post‑contact Samoa.
20His more recent epic, The Mango’s Kiss (2003) begins with memory. A dying woman recalls the smell and touch of a mango held to her cheek by her father when she was small. History is memory and memory is personal; the narrative continues with her witnessing the efforts of a local healer to deal with her brother’s suffering, having contracted ‘the Disease’ - measles - introduced by white sailors. The chapter ends: “It was 1899.” (p. 19) Here we find two knowledge systems at work: Western historical chronology and Polynesian experiential history. The story utilises a Pacific system of coded exoteric/esoteric reference (used in modern poetry by Tongan writer Konai Helu Thaman) as a means of deflecting conflict and suggesting positive outcomes when they intone “It’s going to be a good mango season” (p. 70, 74), and the phases of growth in the mango trees mark off key events in the village, trees being in full fruit in childhood (p. 461), bare when Peleiupu’s brother is buried (p. 19), and in flower when Peleiupu’s widowed mother is reconciled with her and emerging from her grieving, (p. 357). Mangoes return when Peleiupu brings her brother’s ashes back to the family graveyard, where “She is walking with her ancestors and all her memories to do with them…” (p. 453).
21Wendt plays across this system and the colonial past of Western record, telling the tale of Satoa village and its relationship with the trader Baker, who arrives there in 1827 and “during the sixth year of [his] visits” (p. 20) marries into the community. His trading introduces three new varieties of mango as well as modern technologies, so again the image of plant/flower/fruit conveys historical events to its knowing perceiver. Barker’s “real” history is written down as Wendt’s gleeful parody of colonial romances, and the trader’s son challenges it, asking why one would trust it as a written record more than the stories Barker told about himself during his life in Samoa (p. 463).
22A key moment in the novel (and one that preceded it as a short story) is the chapter “Prospecting”, when the neat binary of Samoan history - “darkness” and “light”, corresponding to the times before and after 1830, when John Williams began the conversion of the islands to Christianity - is broken down. Trader Barker takes Pastor Mautu into the hills to look for gold, but instead they discover an ancient village and skulls. The Pastor experiences his bond to people otherwise prehistoric, pagan, and outside of traditional knowledge, and Barker learns the importance of community, as the two friends lead the villagers to collect and give modern burial to the bones of the ancients. The book as a whole works this project of reconciling traditional culture and post-contact Christianity, thereby altering an historical periodising imposed by Western missions. Samoan history becomes an affective, seamless whole rather than an artificially divided and labelled set of periods.
23The Christian pastor, Mautu, has also been trained in Samoan traditions, and we see him struggle to hold the two sides of his being together. Wendt gives him a set piece in which he finds the concepts to justify his holding to the past:
The concept of a time before the now and a time ahead of the now, of time moving in a one‑dimensional way, was papalagi, he said. For them, time was everywhere, holding the Unity‑that‑is‑All together; to change any part of it altered the whole; everything, including our dead, was in the ever-moving present, existing now.12
24Such a fluid dynamic of time is narrativised in Wendt’s postmodern dystopian thriller, Black Rainbow (1992). This novel has very few links to actual historical events, though it does subscribe at a fundamental level to essential notions of priority and identity (Maori, even if hybridised in descent, are “Tangata Moni” – “true people”, for whom history as a record of ancestry and thus cultural authority, of resistance – “a past of enormous loss and anger” - and thus present survival, is vital [p. 123, 225, 235, 244]). It also starts and circles back to an actual historical monument - Auckland’s stone plinth on top of One Tree Hill (Maungakiekie) commemorating the previous presence and present absence of indigenous settlement. The protagonist’s wife, however, challenges this Western marker of an ended era, ritually attuning herself to the still present spirits of “the original people” (p. 12).
25This conflict between Pacific “felt” history‑as‑presence and Western “known” history‑as‑past is negotiated through a pastiche of intertextual references - to literary history, in fact: of New Zealand writing, of modern world literature, and of popular film (“a centuries‑old genealogy, in literature and film” p. 156). The book works with a postmodern idea that all is story and we live out archetypal roles set up by hegemonic discourses - that we live, in fact, in an ahistorical world of floating memes open to endlessly proliferating interpretations. (“I have no history. She has no herstory. Our children’s history began with us but that’s all - there is no time before that. History is a curse, the Tribunal has ruled. We must be free of it to be.” p. 21) The frame story is a mix of Brave New World, Nineteen Eighty‑Four and Blade Runner (to name a few key elements) in which New Zealand is run by The Tribunal, a totalitarian surveillance machine that keeps social harmony by stripping people of their histories in protracted interrogation sessions (hoarding what they gather in super computers), then places them in reality‑TV adventure quests to keep everyone entertained.
26The book plays with the fact that without memory there could be no narrative. With memory, there is always history, but not necessarily the kind of construction that commonly passes for history. In the course of the novel, our “ordinarised” hero realises the white‑settler nature of the Tribunal, which leads him to rediscover his Polynesian roots. He proceeds to act out a number of stereotypes, aware that he is role‑playing, shape‑shifting to avoid being pinned down, but also holding to the memories he has, even those provided for him by the Tribunal:
They were my wife and children and our love for one another had not been a fabrication, a pre-programmed feature. My memories of them were real, a history that helped give me meaning. A history I now wanted to stop the Tribunal taking away from me.13
27But personal memory, however fabricated, is also underpinned by communal tradition of a numinous kind extending beyond normative notions of history. The protagonist continues: “How the heavens stretched beyond the limits of my breath; how the atua [gods], who’d gathered in that clearing, stretched their aroha [love] to me, helping me remember without fear” (p. 192).
28The protagonist, buffeted by the chaotic episodes of the chase he has been thrown into, starts compiling a chart to make sense of it all:
I followed that routine until Tuesday and established connections I’d not been aware of before, between my characters, until the walls were crisscrossed, bridged, connected with arrows, talk balloons, crossings-out and insertions, analogies, metaphors, similes, speculations, curses of frustration. My story, a collage history, contained in the ever-moving present.14
29This is not a bad description of what the historian does with evidence; it certainly is akin to the ideas of Hayden White and his successors who emphasise narrative construction as part of the historian’s tools of trade. Where it departs from “the new history”, is in emphasising the Derridean play of signifiers and fictive qualities in narrative construction, as well as asserting some role of the non-human in generating and maintaining tradition. Genealogy is the form that holds everything together: every central character recounts his or her own history at some point. Artificial storage on a grand scale of these genealogies, however, fixes the record in a tyrannical manner. History has to be open to change, and it has to admit real-life messiness. It has to recognise the collection of raw data is open to selection, and susceptible to personal and political interests: “Histories can be erased, I remember the Tribunal telling me. Erased and replaced with histories that please us.” (p. 65).
30Black Rainbow dramatises the need to retain essentialist identity politics as a basis for social reforms, to strategically slip from one stereotype to another to escape representational imprisonment, and the simultaneous desirability of deconstructing identity politics altogether so that without its binaries prejudicial differentiations become literally unthinkable. This fundamentally Pacific novel shows how such a multifaceted project might operate in relation to undoing the role a dominant colonial history has played - both in real events and in the textual constructions of them - in shaping the world of Oceania, and in reformulating a Pacific‑centred history.
31Wendt’s concept of everything moving in the ever‑present now is on one reading anti‑historical, but on another, is a dynamic view of the past as co‑existent, not “a foreign country”. History is ongoing story, both personal and collective; it does not bind us because it is part of an ongoing set of interactions, of retellings. At the same time, it does express realities of past conflicts and ongoing inequalities, and energises continued efforts to overcome its limiting legacies. Wendt’s work intersects modernity, sharing elements of “empty homogeneous time” in which we are atomised ingredients blindly tinkering, but also insisting on the emptiness as a creative energy, on communal connections, and on the potential for totalising forms to undo themselves, not in some orderly sequence of synthesis from dialectic, but as seemingly random jumps and hiccups. We may all exist in capitalist clock time born of imperialist thinking and industrial social constructs, but we also dwell simultaneously in the complex meshings and fracturings of mental time, cultural time, national time, geological time. In fact, Wendt’s views seem to accord with Ganguly’s presentation of Benjamin’s redemptive historical materialism, inflected with Camusian existentialism and some postmodern ideas, but framed by a Polynesian conception of time.
Bibliographie
Books
Cheah Pheng, 2016, What is a World? Duke University Press, Durham, NC, 408 p. [9780822360926]
Davis Thomas, 1992, Island Boy, University of the South Pacific, Auckland, 349 p. [978-9820200715]
DeLoughrey Elizabeth, 2007, Routes and Routes: Navigating Caribbean and Pacific Island Literatures. University of Hawai’i Press, Honolulu, 334 p. [978-0824831226]
Eri Vincent, 1970, The Crocodile, Jacaranda Press, Australia, 178 p.
Ihimaera Witi, 1986, The Matriarch, Heinemann, Auckland, 456 p. [0868636835]
Malo David, 1951, Hawaiian Antiquities, The Museum, Honolulu, 278 p. [0910240159]
Maretu, 1983, Cannibals and Converts: Radical Change in the Cook Islands, University of the South Pacific, Suva, Fiji, 223 p.
Matane Paulias, 1972, My Childhood in New Guinea, Oxford University Press, New York, 112 p. [0199170215]
Natachee Allan [Avaisa Pinongo], c.1960, Legendary History of the Mekeo. Port Moresby. Booklet and MS in Percy Cochrane archive, University of Wollongong, District Files 9.10 Mekeo II Allan Natachee.
Said Edward, 1987 [1978], Orientalism, Penguin, Harmondsworth, 432 p. [9780141187426]
Spitz Chantal, 1991, L’île des rêves écrasés, Éditions de la plage, Papeete, 189 p. [2908405245]
Subramani, 1985, South Pacific Literature: From Myth to Fabulation. University of the South Pacific, Suva, 179 p. [9789820200807]
Subramani, 1988, The Fantasy Eaters, Three Continents Press, Washington DC, 142 p. [9780894106316]
Veramu Joseph, 1989, Black Messiah, University of the South Pacific, Fiji, 188 p.
Wendt Albert, 1979, Leaves of the Banyan Tree, Longman Paul, Auckland, 416 p. [0582717701]
Wendt Albert, 1992, Black Rainbow, Penguin, Auckland, 267 p. [0140166939]
Wendt Albert, 2003, The Mango’s Kiss, Vintage, Auckland, 463 p. [1869415809]
Wendt Albert, 2012, Ancestry, Huia Publishers, Wellington, 314 p. [9781775500377]
Papers and Contributions to Books
Ganguly Key 2004, “Temporality and postcolonial critique” in Lazarus Neil (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Postcolonial Literary Studies, Cambridge UP, Cambridge, p. 162‑79, 352 p. [9780521534185]
Wendt Albert, 1963, “A Descendant of the Mountain”, Landfall 66, 17.1 p. 113‑118.
Wendt Albert, 1979, “Inside us the Dead”, Landfall 95, 24.3 p. 219‑26.
Wendt Albert, 1987, “Novelists and Historians and the Art of Remembering” in Hooper A. et al, (eds). Class and Culture in the South Pacific. Institute of Pacific Studies, Suva p. 78‑91.
Wendt Albert, 1990, “Pacific Maps and Fiction(s): a Personal Journey”, Migration and New Zealand Society, Stout Research Centre, Wellington, p. 59‑81.
Notes de bas de page
Auteur
Faculty of Law, Humanities & the Arts, University of Wollongong, Australia
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