Du Bois, Double-Consciousness, and a Lingering Problem

W. E. B. Du Bois gave eloquent expression to a personal and socio-cultural tension at the beginning of the twentieth century that is simultaneously a reality that many of us have felt at one time or another, or perhaps even constantly.  When Du Bois described the central problem of the new century for black Americans as being that of the color-line, he also articulated the challenge of negotiating different worlds, allegiances, and identities as that of double-consciousness:

It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one's self through the eyes of others, of measuring one's soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity. One ever feels his twoness,--an American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder. (The Souls of Black Folk, p. 5)

Du Bois has in mind a particular historical struggle.  For Du Bois, this double-consciousness was the distinct self-perception, or group perception, of being on the one hand black and on the other hand Americans.  If we can frame the tension that he identifies more generally, we might describe it as the unsettling difficulty of standing at the same time in more than one tradition.

Dante and Virgil: Learning from Others

To what degree can, or should, we learn from others different from ourselves? Particularly, how much can, or should, we learn about the path that we believe we must take from those who have chosen a different path?  This is a question as much about social relations and integrated thinking as it is about personal identity and self-discovery.

In Dante’s Inferno, Canto 1, Dante affirms that Virgil is his guide and teacher:

'You are my teacher and my author. 

You are the one from whom alone I took 

the noble style that has brought me honor. 

     (Inferno, 1.85-87; all references to Hollander trans.)

Here Dante refers to his prior poetic writings.  The implication is that Dante will also inform the current poetic enterprise with its subject matter. This is somewhat curious because also in the first canto we read that Virgil will not be Dante’s guide in the last stage of his journey upward to “His city” (l. 126).  The reason Virgil gives is that he is not worthy to guide Dante through paradiso to God, and the reason for his unworthiness is that Virgil himself strayed from the righteous path that Dante seeks to find:

'Should you desire to ascend to these, 

 you'll find a soul more fit to lead than I: 

 I'll leave you in her care when I depart. 

 'For the Emperor who has His seat on high 

 wills not, because I was a rebel to His law, 

 that I should make my way into His city. 

(Inferno, 1.121-126)

Despite Virgil’s spiritual state as a reprobate, as a rebel, as someone in other words who did not bend his will to God and who did not follow his righteous path, Virgil himself asserts that he is, however, fit to instruct and lead Dante through hell:

'Therefore, for your sake, I think it wise 

you follow me: I will be your guide 

(Inferno, 1.112-13)

Yes, we learn later in the Inferno that God had commissioned Virgil for this task.  In Inferno canto 2, we learn that this commission came through three heavenly ladies, but the point is that Virgil bears God’s authority when interacting with inhabitants of hell at various stages. 

My own reflections about my current identity development and self-discovery prompted these thoughts as I recently read Dante’s Inferno:  Virgil the pagan poet is authoritatively permitted, commissioned, to instruct Dante in his pursuit of light and righteousness.  Virgil may have been opposite to God but yet still may be a reliable guide -- in fact, a heaven-sent guide.  The pagan poet acts as pedagogue to the spiritual pilgrim. 

So again, the particular related struggle or question:  What and how can I learn about the path I must take from those who have chosen a different path?

This question strikes me as one of universal concern.  It assumes that we are all wrestling with the question of self, of our own respective identities, while at the same time locating ourselves in connection with (and distinction from) others, even others not of our “circle.”  Or we are negotiating ever expanding circles.  What is the proper relationship?  How close is too close?  Will I be influenced overly by their decisions rather than finding the proper balance between their ideas and my own?

Dante and Virgil, rendered by Botticelli

In my own life, I am currently near that midpoint, just as Dante was, the nel mezzo.  I am trying to ask from familiar and unfamiliar points of view big questions about God (nature, revealed truth), about God’s relations to humans (of what sort is it?), about human nature and the relation of the mind to both the brain (is there really anything that is a “mind”? Is it somehow distinct from the physical brain and chemical reactions?), and about the nature of morality in general and its relationship to God in particular (what is the precise connection? Is there a necessary foundation?).

In asking these and other questions, I find that I must necessarily do at least two things. (1) I must reevaluate what I believe by taking stock first of what I actually think (perhaps with greater precision than I hitherto have or have in some while, a valuable enterprise itself).  And (2) I must weigh that review against the ideas of others who have followed paths that I have not before trodden. Is it better? If not, why is it worse? What to pursue, what to avoid?  What to retain, what to reject?

Of late in my own life have been wondering how modern neuroscientific conceptions of the brain bear on questions of human sinfulness, ethical behavior and responsibility, and the need for salvation at all. Physiologically, what goes into cognition and moral judgment?  What implications might there be, if any, on various religious belief if philosophical and psychological theories about the modular mind and the lack of anything like a singular “self” prove to be true?  What of the question of chemical explanations for innate ideas of transcendence and the divine?

The upshot, and the connection between Dante’s poem and my own external context (and perhaps one of universal concern) is the extent to which I can learn from guides or teachers not within my circle and yet continue to follow the righteous, God-approved path.  Dante altered his path, and in so doing also altered his conception of himself -- at least expanding it.  For Dante in the dark wood of the mid point of his life, it was not a matter of interacting with things like ancient Chinese thought or neuroscience.  But on his path he was surprised to find Virgil as his guide through the Inferno, a guide limited to a portion of the journey, but reliable nevertheless and divinely commissioned however different from Dante he may have been.  But Dante the poet was also relieved and encouraged to find his guide to be Virgil, the Roman poet par excellence.  And it may be that certain connections are more important than differences to initiate our exploration of both.

How may I learn from Virgil without befalling his fate?  That is perhaps one of Dante’s questions, and it is, metaphorically, mine and, in one way or another, also all of ours.

DFW and the Fundamental Attribution Error

A couple of weeks ago I decided to revisit David Foster Wallace's famous Kenyon College commencement address from May 21, 2005.  It was subsequently revised and published as "This Is Water."  (The audio and various text editions, including a transcription of the original speech and one cleaned up, are easily available on the web.)  Among many things that struck me upon both rereading and listening to the address, one thing jumped out in particular.  And I think it is one key reason that DFW's address went viral back then and is still discussed now.

"As It Used To Be": Children's Relationships in Vesaas

In Tarjei Vesaas’s The Ice Palace, the narrated interaction between eleven-year-olds Siss and Unn reveals the complex depths of the relationships that adolescents create. Through this innocent complexity, the Norwegian Vesaas illuminates an important dimension of what Arnold Weinstein calls the fiction of relationship.  Vesaas does so, both in his fictional story about the friendship of two young girls and in the relationship that they actively construct.

Most basically, the connection between Siss and Unn reminds readers that children’s relationships are far from simple or rudimentary merely because the participants are not adults.  Children, too, both long for relational intimacy and fashion their individual and social identity through their personal connections. It may be tempting for adults to look condescendingly on these early forays into friendship.  Vesaas challenges us not to do so.

The Fiction of Sexual Violence, pt. 3: Coetzee

In the previous two installments of this series on the fiction of sexual violence, I reflected, first, on the disabling dehumanization that is pictured in Toni Morrison's Beloved.  Next, I traced how sexual aggression creates dysfunctional and disfigured relationships in William Faulkner's Light in August.  In this post, I want to make some initial soundings into one instance of potential sexual assault in J. M. Coetzee's Disgrace.

This novel is the most complex of the three in its representations of sexual violence, and this is the reason I say "initial soundings."  I cannot here say everything I would like to say -- and that the novel invites, and deserves, to be said.

And I say "potential sexual assault," because the brilliance of Coetzee's narrative is the way in which he adroitly, and realistically, captures the ambiguities that attend instances of alleged date rape on college campuses.  Of course, David Lurie is Melanie Isaacs' professor, which adds moral entanglements to this coupling.

By focusing on a scene early in the story, I suggest that Coetzee narrates a fiction of sexual violence:  one the one hand, a story about a questionable rape; on the other hand, the alleged assault also creates deathly distance between the characters.  The relationship between Lurie and Melanie is not a given; it is made.  It is, in this sense, a fiction.  Of what the relationship is made is precisely the question that carries through a major strain of the story's conflict.

The Fiction of Sexual Violence, pt. 2: Faulkner

In the first part of this series on the fiction of sexual violence, I briefly explained the twin aspects of "fiction" according to which I will explore this theme.  I began with Toni Morrison's Beloved and a reading of the effects of Ella's experience as a sex slave (quite literally as a slave in the Antebellum South).  And I suggested that we see in her trauma how sexual violence both disables a person's capacity for love (both loving and being loved) and dehumanizes the person in the process.  In Faulkner’s Light in August, the sexual violence between Joe Christmas and Joanna Burden is different.

The Fiction of Sexual Violence, pt. 1: Morrison

This summer I (re)read a number of novels.  And I had some separate conversations about the nature and forms of sexual violence, particularly its less perspicuous manifestations in common settings.  I would like to draft some soundings -- initial probings, investigations, short essays -- on the connections between these two matters. And I hope to do so by drawing upon three novels in particular:  Toni Morrison's Beloved, William Faulkner's Light in August, and J. M. Coetzee's Disgrace.

In a series of posts, then, I plan to explore the fiction of sexual violence.  I consciously borrow the phrase from Arnold Weinstein's critical study The Fiction of Relationship.  For him, there are "two fundamental notions" that the wording of his title expresses:  "(1) the narrative literature of relationship, and (2) the view that relationship may be a fiction, something made rather than given, built out of belief, not fact" (Weinstein, 3).  What interests me here is the intersection between stories about relationships, the ways in which those relationships are constructed, and the effects of varieties of unwanted sexual aggression.

Each post may stand on its own, but I anticipate that the each piece will contribute to a larger mosaic that both deepens and broadens our (or at least my) understanding of what is or is perceived as sexual violence, its effect on individuals discretely and collectively, and what all of this suggests about the narratives in which they occur and about the relational fictions of which they are constitutive.  I begin with Morrison's Beloved. 

Butler and Rousseau on Identity

Discussions, often controversial ones, about same-sex marriage are largely, among other things, about one's gender identity.  And discussions about gender identity can vacillate from the deterministic pole ("I was born this way") to the performative pole ("I construct my own 'gender,' which might differ from my 'sex'").  A recent speech by Lori Watson, Director of the Women's and Gender Studies Program at the University of San Diego, illustrates especially the performative emphasis.  The speech was given in support of the Catholic university's Pride organization student group, which was organizing its 2nd Annual Drag Show.  In thinking about contemporary issues involving gender identity, I returned to the influential theorist Judith Butler.  Her 1990 book Gender Trouble is a seminal study of performativity that is influential in gender/queer circles such as Professor Watson's.

As I began Butler's 2004 book Undoing Gender, in which she clarifies her position on this passive/performative spectrum, I began to wonder about the pedigree of her central theoretical claims.  To what extent does her balancing act now between biological determinism and social construction resemble concerns about identity that also flowered in another era like the Enlightenment?

Although Judith Butler herself would likely not draw connections between her critique of gender and Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s critique of the Enlightenment, some noteworthy echoes (and perhaps unacknowledged debts) exist. In particular, her insistence in Undoing Gender that gender “is a practice of improvisation within a scene of constraint” (p. 1) reflects, despite some important differences, a comparable tension that in his discourses Rousseau argued attended human self-invention in Enlightenment society: enslaving liberation, or alternatively liberated confinement. This similarity between Butler and Rousseau appears in several respects: recognition, the paradox of agency, and (in)authenticity.