Wilson Harris: the Writer as Surveyor
p. 29-44
Résumé
According to legend, Wilson Harris walked into Guyana’s interior as a land surveyor and emerged from the Amazonian basin as a literary mystic. This instant transformation suits much of the myth-making of the west where the preferred mode of change is imbued with magical thinking rather than viewed as social, political and aesthetic. The fact is Wilson Harris practiced his poetry along with his surveying. What changed was the way landscape figured in his work. He moved away from reworking Greek myths to the Pre-Columbian myths of the indigenous peoples of the rain forest.
I discuss the ideas in his fiction as they appear under the pressure of a lens afforded by his encounter with Guyana’s interior and how his ideas intersect with and contradict some other theorists about modernity, such as Edward Said, Paul Gilroy, Ngugi wa Thiong’o and Homi Bhabba. I show how landscape becomes a character in his fiction rather than mere backdrop and how his contemplation of the inhabitants of Guyana’s interior leads into the region’s history and myth. Finally, I say his findings present a critique of contemporary fiction in English and points to an approach to creativity that may finally escape the binaries (black vs. white, top vs. bottom, inside vs. outside) of a realist/narrative approach to the imaginative arts and something truly plural and multivalent.
Texte intégral
1Wilson Harris famously walked into the Guyana hinterland as a surveyor who happened to write and emerged from the jungle as a writer with a surreal perspective of time, space and utterance as a result of his encounter with Guyana’s interior. What kind of a writer was he before he worked as a hydrographic surveyor in Guyana’s interior? How was his writing changed by his experience in Guyana’s rain forest? Did his training as a surveyor make him look at landscape in certain ways that proved helpful to his writing? If so, what were those surveyor’s perspectives and how were they altered when applied to Guyana’s rain forest?
2The mythical aspect to the story about this dramatic transformation of a writer’s consciousness by the landscape adds up to more than a story around a single event. The myth points to the creative process of the writer. We want the myth to be true, a fact not a fiction, since it promises a seismic change, or eureka moment, in an otherwise plodding trajectory of biography surrounding a writer’s inventions. Many clues in Wilson Harris’s poetry point to a myth-making imperative in his work. His diction and syntax loaded with concepts incline away from narrative towards a psycho-drama close to Socratic discourse in its construction of pairs of characters in dialogue. The logic of his sentences rarely invests in a sequence of actions as a method of enquiry into the motives or mentality of a character. Rather, Wilson Harris creates poetry whose time cannot be measured by teaspoons, à la Eliot, but relies on an instantaneous past, present and future construct.
3In his introduction to the 1954 edition of Eternity to Season, A.J. Seymour mentions Wilson Harris’s project in this poetry collection as a coalition of two forces, ‘... the European tradition contains certain archetypes which we must weave into the emerging West Indian tradition’ (Harris 1978: 53). In a poem, titled ‘Prometheus, about a river’, Wilson Harris tries this grafting of a European myth to a West Indian experience:
it flows with the flooding light
or the shadowed noon into a colourless solid
an uninhibited fever
neither hot nor cold nor any condition
save all conditions. (Harris 1978: 39)
4In that same introduction A.J. Seymour worried that ‘the beauty of the imagery is overlaid by the flux of philosophical correlation’. This doubling of the line as an image and an argument includes a third component, namely, the emotional thrust generated by the two things as the reader finds and makes pathways through the text. Given Guyana’s location on the South American mainland the more inclusive term Caribbean seems more apt than West Indian. That fever akin to the Promethean theft of fire hints at a creative fervor. In an odd sensory arithmetic, one thing cancels another. The contradiction of flux and stillness stands side by side. The magic of the mathematics aims at an existential condition. The measurement of time of conventional linear narrative finds itself suspended by Harris’s mode of intuitive logic. Narrative time may be present for the reader seeing the lines of a page in sequence but the state of mind present in the text begins with an emotional dilemma which works against linearity by creating a circular sense of time as its preferred method of inquiry.
5The progress of the reading of a Wilson Harris poem stops linear time for an alternate deepening of meaning invested in myth. Rather than augment or add increments to meaning in the accumulation of lines and stanzas which is conventional poetry’s standard time, in a Wilson Harris poem linear meaning takes second place to a feeling a character or speaker possesses at the outset of the poem as that speaker explores a subject. This is complicated by the inseparable nature between a character in a Wilson Harris poem and the thing talked about, as if the two were one and the reader needs to understand this unity as a first step in grasping the emotional territory of the utterance.
6Land surveying with its theodolites, degrees, angles, and sequences of recorded measurements presents reality as ‘out there’ and susceptible to be captured in some quantitative form or other. The land reclines for the imposition of a narrative of measurement and scale. Understanding relies on a platform of quantity: how deep, how long, and how variegated, as if that land were fixed. The readings of the land made by the instruments of measurement become acts of definition of the land. In order to understand the land’s contours and scale the reader of landscape measures angles and depths from surface to surface and interprets them. But this process of quantification, of fixing the land mass towards a cartography of understanding works in contradictory ways since it mitigates against the flux of landscape, its warp and weft and tumultuous weather, especially in a rain forest setting. Accuracy of measurement does not equal solidity of meaning. Wilson Harris found that the dramatic changes in the eco-system and rock strata were such that he doubted the veracity of his instruments and their ability to define the place and its spaces with any accuracy. There were readings, numbers and angles, but these figures and degrees lacked real meaning when faced with the evidence of his senses.
7His training as a surveyor may have prepared Wilson Harris for this shock realization by not, as it were, preparing him for it. In other words, his surveyor’s methodology seemed so far removed from the imagination of a writer in the rain forest that the shock he experienced while surveying there worked in direct proportion to the great distance between the tools of his trade and the place. The more he measured the farther from logic the results took him. This made him ripe for transformation as an artist. He appeared to be uniquely positioned to witness and be receptive to a drama of his perceptions. The wide variations between his surveyor’s readings brought linear time into question. Also, his senses had to be affected by the climate of the rain forest which behaved with such unpredictable variety over short distances. His body reacted as if disrupted by his location. He questioned his instruments and realigned his loyalty from his trade of measurements to his body’s inherent logic of intuition informed by the senses.
8This affected his sentences, his choice of how to tell a story. He abandoned the neat and linear narrative with its logical sequencing of action as an understudy able to mimic the integrity of thought. With the Guyana rain forest experience as his guide, he replaced linearity of action and thought with an altogether more rhapsodic mode of story-telling informed by imagery orchestrated towards a cartography of individual consciousness and conscience. The story changed from the usual narrative device of who did what to whom and what were the consequences, to an inner quest of thought and feeling influenced by the actions of others but not defined by those actions. The body of the writer immersed in the rain forest landscape became captive to a way of thinking, a shape and a form of sentence-making, informed by that process of immersion and one which sought to make sense of the experience in that unique setting. The new content of his rain forest location generated new forms of his writing. In this sense form truly exhibited content.
9 What is that form? It is organic, more like clay, malleable, and less like the fixed form of bricks. But first, here is a description of his technique as if it were bricks. A sentence presents an image supported by clauses that spiral off the sense suggested by that image. The subject may be involved in an action to do with that image but more often appears to witness something or imagine it or conjure it from a past experience. The image is the occasion for the riff of thinking and feeling which ensues for several sentences before another image arises and on its crest it takes the feeling and thoughts passed along from the previous image and so the sense of the sentences build towards this wisdom gleaned from what is best labeled an intuitive logic because driven by a sense for things rather than things with sense built into them.
10Amerindian myths about the interior helped Harris to interpret what he saw in ways which suited his view of the unconscious as beyond the reach of politics and colonization. The unconscious, with its raw impulses and imagery and seemingly beyond the reach of the usual commodity tendencies and manipulations of the conscious mind, promised the writer a safe interior of the body where the imagination might roam, making the unconscious a harbinger of liberation ideals.
11By coincidence Guyana’s interior behaved like this human subconscious seeming as unpredictable and as promising a place for a writer who wanted to evade the usual binaries of a writer from the colony positioned as automatically antithetical to the colonizer. The interior presented the chance to imagine a place free of the reach of colonialism. This remote location legitimized the perspective of subjects already imbued with a feeling of marginality. The colonized mind magically positioned outside of the forces of colonization therefore felt free to imagine and interpret without feeling inhibited or brainwashed by the system.
12This argument is contradicted by Fanon whose view of this free space is a flat denial that it could ever exist given the all-pervasive nature of the forces of colonization. In other words colonization, according to Fanon, does not have any no-go areas therefore it is able to control the dreams of the colonized just as efficiently as it bullies the body-politic. Ngugi wa Thiong’o accepted this premise of Fanon’s (that the subconscious was held captive and redesigned by the long experience of colonization) when he, Ngugi, called for a ‘decolonization of the mind’, a clear acknowledgement that there were no private spaces beyond the reach of a process which captures the body and captivates the mind. Ngugi made a political choice to write his novels in his native Gikuyu, as in his most recent serialized novel of political malfeasance Wizard of the Crow (2006) before he translated his work into English. At the level of creativity Ngugi visualized a remedy for the colonized mind: sidestep the colonizer’s language, English, and a large component of self-oppression is evaded.
13Edward Said describes a similar process of mental capture in Orientalism (1978), a process whereby a dominant group imposes an identifying narrative on a subject group. According to Said the Orient is offered as a construct by Europeans who export it back to the subjects of the Orient. The subjects project back to Europeans accurate renditions of this European construct about how Orientals think and behave in order to win the confidence and trust of Europeans. At some point along the way both parties forget about the construction of this space and both interact in it with a degree of comfort. If the operation is colonization then its disruption is the birth of the anti-colonial movement which happens when the so-called Orientals try to replace the imported model about them with something more home-grown.
14In arguing for an aspect of the group which is available only to those members who belong to it, I run the risk that I may essentialize the identity of groups of people to an uncomfortable degree— which would be to oppose Homi Bhabba’s theory of hybridized identities in perpetual transformation as extemporized by him in The Location of Culture (1994). In addition, were I to push this idea of self-reliance based on practices and beliefs inherent to the group, I would, unwittingly, appear to argue against the commonalities between all people who share structures of thought and practice as revealed by Levi-Strauss and Jung. In celebrating Wilson Harris’s claim to a unique location and group in charge of the reinvigorated spirit of a spiritually bereft modernity, I imply that as far as outsiders are concerned there is an untouchable and unknowable centre to the tribe and ethnic group. But it is worth remembering that the reaction against indoctrination need not lead to a new doctrine; that the rebellion came out of a repression based on a falsehood in which the people under colonial rule failed to recognize themselves in that description of them furnished by outsiders with a vested interest in their exploitation.
15Wilson Harris’s remedy to this process is two-fold. First, he claims an idealized geographical location, namely, Guyana’s interior, as outside the reach of this all-encompassing process of possession and commodification of a group. Second, he credits indigenous tribes, his ancestors, with a pre-Columbian set of practices ideally suited to over-throwing the excesses of one-sided, because biased, colonialism. Furthermore, he argues that these indigenous tribes, in the Amazonian basin and elsewhere, are uniquely placed to offer solutions to contemporary problems caused in large measure by thoughts and actions out of touch with these age-old tribes and their myths of interpretation and repair. Interestingly, Wilson Harris, to his credit, resists privileging one group over another and sees everyone as located in a bias (insiders and outsiders) which s/he must overcome by ‘consuming’ it. The indigenous cultures, their myths and some of their practices, appear to offer best practice remedies for problems plaguing our times. Wilson Harris wants everyone to tune into these myths and alter how we view our reality.
16His own view altered as a result of his encounter with the landscape and his delving into the myths of indigenous peoples. As a hydrographic surveyor his view changed. His measurements of river depths indicated to him that the rock strata varied so dramatically over short distances that these variations held out the promise of a complex though submerged reality that outclassed his own assumptions about it and about his sense of place. The interior of Guyana, that particular landscape, became instructive.
17The myths vary too. They are not fixed. The two most prominent myths for Wilson Harris are, first, that of the Mayan culture’s Quetzalcoatl and second, the Carib Indians’ bone flute. Quetzal is bird and coatl is snake, sky and earth appear reconciled by their union but in the middle of that act of unification stands the abiding consciousness of humanity. The two creatures might be enemies were it not for the consciousness that insists on their partnership. There is a quality of divinity (if a divinity could contradictorily be argued as founded in myth) about the mind able to entertain contradictory elements and the act of bringing the two together is an attempt to overcome the inevitability of partiality and bias for something informed by at least two points of view (and a third implied in that viewer).
18The second myth, about the Carib bone flute, emerges out of conflict (bias) and moves into a communion with the opportunity for peace. The bone of the enemy is hollowed by the Carib into a flute and tunes played on that flute in order to learn the strategies of the enemy. This war ritual involves consuming a morsel of flesh of the enemy as a similar act of habitation, of becoming the enemy in order to better understand him/her. If a conflict might seek such resolution, by crossing over to the other side, might it not be applicable to an outlook mired in partiality and badly in need of additional viewpoints? This is Wilson Harris’s big claim and one on which he staked his approach to fiction writing, the subject of my next argument.
19At a certain juncture there is a separation between the early vocation and his fictional practice whose values rely more on indigenous myth and the cartography of the interior than on his training as a surveyor. I say separation and not breakage since science continues to help Wilson Harris in his understanding of his art. In his first novel, Palace of the Peacock the boat crew heading upriver appear to perish and in a switch of narration assume a form of life which extends their narrative capability. In this altered state the river, which is horizontal, alters to a vertical waterfall—the same river but plunging free of the strictures of its banks and depths and rising as voluminous mist.
20The waterfall assumes many more banks and yet it is the horizontal river turned vertical and vertiginously quadrupled in scope. The main narrator of the novel ascends this waterfall on a ladder, a rock formation beside the fall perhaps or a ladder revealed by the space occupied by the waterfall. The move up the waterfall changes into a spiritual quest, a defiance of rational time and space, for an account invested in a transformation of thinking. This drama of bodies on the move, in defiance of gravity, invites the reader to see space as textured by thought, so that two banks of a river become four banks when that river plunges over a rock face and tilts in space to become a waterfall. His novel, The Four Banks of the River of Space expands this idea by crediting two banks as physical and the other two as psychical. Each creative act is seen to dip into this thought river of consciousness and emerge from it with emblems of art.
21Wilson Harris’s debt to science affirms his early and formative experience as a surveyor. Quantum mechanics as a theory when applied to the art of Wilson Harris invests in the theory’s description of light as simultaneously a particle and a wave. This double quality of light (not either/or but both one thing and another) fits neatly with Wilson Harris’s conception of Guyana’s rain forest interior. The waterfall behaves like light. Instead of two banks, the falls have at least four. The viewer who climbs the falls on rocks suspended in air intuitively sees the many banks surrounding the falls since the water plunges and it is suspended in space, in perpetual motion and a piece of still life because it is viewed from a partial and human perspective.
22 The waterfall, in freefall, but shaped by striated rock hidden in and behind the body of water and therefore rock strata susceptible to the footsteps of an imaginative ascent, there to be climbed by an open mind, sounds like Wilson Harris’s fictional procedure. As Harris puts it,
When one dreams one dreams alone. When one writes a book one is alone. The characters one re-creates may have died, or may have vanished into some other country, so one invokes them as ‘live absences’, absences susceptible to being painted into life, sculpted into life, absences that may arise in carvings out of the ground, from dust, from the wood of a tree, the rain of a cloud: paintings and sculptures that are so mysteriously potent in one’s book of dreams that they seem to paint one (as one paints them), to sculpt one (as one sculpts them), and in this mutual and phenomenal hollowness of self one and they become fossil stepping-stones into the mystery of inner space. (Harris 1990: 4)
23Individual isolation, the individual’s feeling of aloneness with the body and mind, no matter how generous the degree of empathy and complicity with others, becomes here a condition of the artist. But this alert condition of heightened feeling and awareness for all its pain and isolation predisposes the individual artist to insights about humanity as a whole. The contradiction that individual isolation gives rise to communal insight, that the individual is attuned to forces of community buried all around is remarkable in itself but Harris goes further by ascribing these forces with an agency in terms of their affect on the individual artist. The understanding of the artist is not archival or archaeological, not to do with shelving or unearthing passive discoveries, but is interactive, the discoveries shape the artist as much as the artist articulates and seeks to define the discoveries. The characters are not simply inventions. They may be shapes buried in rocks and dust. They may be currents in air and water. They invite discovery by the ripe and ready artistic imagination.
24 The inner landscape accessed by this artistic imagination (belonging to all art forms, not just writing) appears to be a rich seam of discovery about the outside world. Another apparent contradiction present here posits an inner world, the world of dreams, as a place to understand the world of waking life. The writer present in both worlds (waking and dreaming) imagines a fiction in which the writer is helped by characters in a two-way process of delving into the unconscious. Both the writer and his characters follow intuitive leads in order to enrich the writer’s understanding of the everyday world. The original impulse for this imaginative enquiry arises out of the writer’s feeling of existential isolation from the everyday world. What Wilson Harris refers to as ‘hollowness’ akin to excavation, reads as a double condition, first, of awareness from which the imagination acts, and second, as existential angst out of which the writer is helped by characters in order to progress to creative discoveries about what it means to be a human being imbued with language.
25Toni Morrison touches on this notion of ‘live absences’ in Playing in the Dark (1993), when she describes the ‘absent presence’ of black characters in the fictional worlds of whites. But for Morrison the black absence served to authenticate and give perspective, dimension and believability to white characters. In other words, blacks, in their marginal and one-dimensional sketch and therefore ‘absent presence’ in white fictional worlds, make those whites look good. Morrison’s condition is one of hunger in need of fulfillment on the part of black characters in white fictions. The feeling is that her blacks need to be fleshed out in those fictions cited by her so that blackness counts for more than counterpoints to whiteness. For blacks to add up to more than simply being pressed into the service of highlighting whiteness they need some of the numinousity articulated by Harris. In this sense Morrison’s idea does not go as far as Harris’s claim for a mutual authenticating process between writer and those written but adds to the idea of an absence as having agency rather than being simply deployed in a passive manner.
26 Wilson Harris’s training as a surveyor informs his view of landscape as instructive by adding a scientific basis to his romantic engagement with place. For the Romantics of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries (Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats, Coleridge, et al) a natural scene held splendor and majesty for the individual dwarfed by that scene and present as a sensory witness in it. The instruction came from a surrendering of the senses to the influence and instruction offered by a communion with nature in order to better understand the place of humanity on the planet. Wilson Harris accepts this romantic premise invested in the senses and takes it one step farther with his training as a hydrographic surveyor by adding science to that sense. His understanding of submerged rock strata, his measurements that confounded his sense of place, open pathways of perception invested in an intuitive logic typified by leaps of imagination and bounds made by sensory and imagistic association. The procedure of the imagists (Pound, H. D. Williams, et al.) as described by Helen Carr in The Verse Revolutionaries entrusted the image with a capacity to enshrine endless layers of implication constantly lending itself to renewal by each generation able to bring new eyes to those layers. The accordion-like compression of the image carries with it the potential to expand with meanings. There is a pressure of affect as well in this imagined act of compression. Despite its inventiveness the image remains a fixed entity, focused and clarified in language though open to interpretive actions by active and imaginative readers. For Wilson Harris, the image is not an end in itself or some self-contained object filled with possibilities, but a door and threshold to further actions of invention and imagination and feeling. The image of an accordion compressed with meaning and revealing those meanings as it expands fails to encompass the process described by Wilson Harris of writer and character responsible for each other in a ceaseless dynamic. In addition to the Imagist’s single entity Harris brings a multiple image construct with flux and dynamism written into each image as each relates to the next in perpetuity.
27 Wilson Harris’s scientific surveyor’s eye narrates this coalition of landscape and multiple images. In his novel The Four Banks of the River of Space, Harris provides an extended riff on the idea of the creative impulse as a dreaming soul. Harris’s character, Anselm, engages in Socratic discourse with a skeptic, aptly named, Mr Robot:
‘The soul dreams’, I said at last and struggled in his net, ‘to dance up from the Waterfall. It dreams it may come to stand tiptoe upon the wing of a bird, that it may wear the feathers and the glory of all winged creatures, and gaze through the eyes of the masked being of space...’
‘What does it see?’
‘It sees the geology of the tides.’
‘Is that all?’ said Robot. He smiled with indifference. He was baiting me, pushing me along.
‘It sees the distant Atlantic coast far below us, ’ I sought to explain, ‘where the ocean tides rise and fall. It sees the ease with which the coastal rivers (they look like veins and arteries in the body of distance, earth and space) would run unchecked into the salt sea were it not for every day’s reversal in the pulsation of the tides, the reversed pulse or animate door or fluid wall of the tides that rise where they fell before and ride back up the rivers, push back and conserve the precious fluid of the sky, the drinking fluid, the irrigation fluid.’ (34)
28This privileged bird’s-eye view, which sees the invisible natural currents of the ebb and flow of tides relates to the closed (dreaming) and seeing-eye of the narrator in Harris’s first novel Palace of the Peacock (1960). The continental map shrinks to a view of earth as if from outer space as that imaginative eye soars. Next, that eye zooms in for an up-close-and-personal view that almost touches and feels the pulse of that dream-like tide. Both viewpoints, macro and micro, are aspects of this intuitive imagination at work and both remain inaccessible to the skeptic mind of Robot. The entire conception is within the frame of Harris’s hydrographic surveyor’s experience but taken into the realm of the imagination it becomes a multiplicity of images pulsing in their relationships with meaning beyond the physical confines of what is available to science. The bigger goal, over and above the command of place and its ability to concentrate and reorient the mind, is the interior (and much more troublesome) world of the spirit heralded by that encounter with landscape.
29The experience of time and space in the interior, the access to indigenous Indian myths from the pre-Colombian past as a way to revise the present define Wilson Harris’s approach to writing. In a discussion about literacy, he argues that the problem should not be narrowed to meeting goals of numeracy and literacy but extended to address an illiteracy of the imagination in the culture. He provides an example of a literate imagination at work by citing his writing practice,
As an imaginative writer I work with narrative which I revise by scanning each draft carefully and looking for clues which lodge themselves in the draft, clues that may appear to have been planted by another hand. It is as if when one writes, one puts things into the draft which one was not conscious of placing there, and then when one comes back and scans the draft closely, suddenly one is aware of these clues. They become important and one revises through these, concentrating very closely on the ramifications of that image. The unconscious mind has come up, has addressed the conscious mind, and the ramifications of that dialogue become of immense importance. One pursues that with all the concentration at one’s command, so that as one goes on, one may come upon another clue which may in fact cause one to look back at what one has done previously and to make certain changes. So the whole thing then becomes susceptible to this kind of complex strategy.
(Bundy 1999: 80)
30The open-ended quality to this revisionary tactic remains instructive for the writer who is surprised by what arises out of it. Emblems secreted in the text become refracted back at the writer, as a result of a contemplative return to earlier drafts of the work. These emblems submerged in the text and teased out by revision, emerge from it to lead the writer and the altered text into new territory. The process of learning, of revelation, becomes integral to this process of the writer layering the text as much as the writer is instructed by it. Crucially, the unconscious is revealed in these written and revised drafts. It is interesting to note that narrative is Wilson Harris’s starting position in this process. The unfinished aspect of it, its sense of being always an act of deferral on the part of the writer, seems embedded in the process itself since it is constructed around reading, writing and revision which in themselves constitute actions without end. Wilson Harris’ novel The Infinite Rehearsal (1997) foregrounds this process as an act of permanent revolution in terms of the writer’s ever-transforming consciousness. The idea of dreams as tributaries leading from the unconsciousness which feeds the writer’s insights into things recurs in this novel (as in all of his novels). But the writer in this quest to understand the riches of the unconscious appears to battle egotistic notions of immortality—defined by Wilson Harris in this novel as Faustian in nature—and evaded by vigilant acts of revision which must always defer permanence and fixity.
Are dreams the relic of temptation surviving in the psyche to assume immortality? If so the burden and the ecstasy of dreams had to be revised, raveled, unravelled, penetrated, probed, rehearsed into infinity in order to make a profound distinction between a true resurrection (a true resurrection) and the strings of prodigious dogma in populations. (Harris 1997: 23)
31The dreams are not given by the unconscious as finished emblems of truth but are themselves in need of careful scrutiny and repeated acts of revision in order to avoid dogma. Typically, when Wilson Harris frames a question the answer to it resides in part in the question not simply as a rhetorical device but to urge the reader into the new territory pursued by Wilson Harris. For newness in Harris is not restricted to acts of writing but a property of reading his works with new eyes. In the same way his writer’s art and his surveyor’s craft both surrendered to Guyana’s instructive interior and indigenous inhabitants to emerge altered by the experience and invigorated in terms of his artistic practice, so too he wishes his readers to reconfigure preconceptions about the conscious world. His poetry, novels and essays urge us to read him with new eyes. Readers of his works are renewed by his revised visions and rewarded with a spirituality whose origin is in the unbridled imagination.
Bibliographie
Des DOI sont automatiquement ajoutés aux références bibliographiques par Bilbo, l’outil d’annotation bibliographique d’OpenEdition. Ces références bibliographiques peuvent être téléchargées dans les formats APA, Chicago et MLA.
Format
- APA
- Chicago
- MLA
Works Cited
10.4324/9780203820551 :Bhabha, Homi. The Location of Culture. London; New York: Routledge, 1994.
10.4324/9780203981832 :Bundy, Andrew, ed. Selected Essays of Wilson Harris. London: Routledge, 1999.
Carr, Helen. The Verse Revolutionaries: Ezra Pound, H. D. and The Imagists. London: Jonathan Cape, 2009.
Gilroy, Paul. The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness. London & New York: Verso, 1993.
Harris, Wilson. Palace of the Peacock. London: Faber, 1960.
Harris, Wilson. Eternity to Season. London: New Beacon Books, 1978.
Harris, Wilson. The Four Banks of the River of Space. London: Faber, 1990.
10.2307/2931105 :Harris, Wilson. The Infinite Rehearsal. London: Faber, 1997.
Morrison, Toni. Playing in the Dark. 1993.
Ngugi wa Thiong’o. Wizard of the Crow. New York: Pantheon, 2006.
10.4324/9781003320609 :Said, Edward. Orientalism. London: Vintage, 1978.
Auteur
-
Fred D’Aguiar
Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University
Was born in London and grew up in Guyana. He returned to the UK for his secondary education, trained and worked as a psychiatric nurse and studied at the University of Kent at Canterbury. In addition to writing plays and essays, his twelve books of novels and poetry have been widely translated. He is Gloria D. Smith Professor of English and Africana Studies at Virginia Tech. For more, see freddaguiar.com.
Le texte seul est utilisable sous licence Licence OpenEdition Books. Les autres éléments (illustrations, fichiers annexes importés) sont « Tous droits réservés », sauf mention contraire.
À la rencontre de la différence
Traces diasporiques et espaces de créolisation
Robin Cohen et Olivia Sheringham Elise Trogrlic (trad.)
2020
L’androgyne dans la littérature britannique contemporaine
Métamorphose d’une figure
Justine Gonneaud
2020
Borders and Ecotones in the Indian Ocean
Cultural and Literary Perspectives
Markus Arnold, Corinne Duboin et Judith Misrahi-Barak (dir.)
2020
Diasporas, Cultures of Mobilities, ‘Race’ 1
Diasporas and Cultures of Migrations
Judith Misrahi-Barak et Claudine Raynaud (dir.)
2014
Diasporas, Cultures of Mobilities, ‘Race’ 2
Diaspora, Memory and Intimacy
Sarah Barbour, David Howard, Thomas Lacroix et al. (dir.)
2015
Diasporas, Cultures of Mobilities, ‘Race’ 3
African Americans and the Black Diaspora
Corinne Duboin et Claudine Raynaud (dir.)
2016
Ethics of Alterity, Confrontation and Responsibility in 19th- to 21st-Century British literature
Jean-Michel Ganteau et Christine Reynier (dir.)
2013
