F I C T I O N S OF T H E S E L F : S T U D I E S " I N F E M A L E M O D E R N I S M 

J E A N R H Y S , G E R T R U D E S T E I N AND D J U N A B A R N E S 

b y 

R O B Y N G R O V E S 

B . A . , A d e l a i d e , 1 9 7 5 
M . A . , T h e U n i v e r s i t y o f B r i t i s h C o l u m b i a , 1 9 8 0 

A T H E S I S S U B M I T T E D I N P A R T I A L F U L F I L L M E N T OF 

T H E R E Q U I R E M E N T S F O R T H E D E G R E E OF 

DOCTOR OF P H I L O S O P H Y 

i n 

T H E F A C U L T Y OF G R A D U A T E S T U D I E S 

( P r o g r a m i n C o m p a r a t i v e L i t e r a t u r e ) 

We a c c e p t t h i s t h e s i s a s c o n f o r m i n g 

t o t h e r e q u i r e d s t a n d a r d 

T H E U N I V E R S I T Y OF B R I T I S H C O L U M B I A 

F e b r u a r y 1 9 8 7 

( c ^ R o b y n G r o v e s , 1 9 8 7 



In presenting t h i s thesis in p a r t i a l f u l f i l l m e n t of the 

requirements for an advanced degree at the University of 

B r i t i s h Columbia, I agree that the Library s h a l l make i t 

f r e e l y available for reference and study. I further agree 

that permission for extensive copying of t h i s thesis for 

scholarly purposes may be granted by the Head of my 

Department of by his representatives. I t i s understood 

that copying or publication of t h i s thesis for f i n a n c i a l 

gain s h a l l not be allowed without my written permission. 

Program i r i ^ ^ ^ - ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ A V t ! X^/y^e 
~7 

The University of B r i t i s h Columbia 

2075 Wesbrook Place 
Vancouver, Canada 
V6T 1W5 

Date 



Abstract 

This thesis considers elements of autobiography and 

autobiographical f i c t i o n in the writings of three female 

Modernists: Jean Rhys, Gertrude Stein and Djuna Barnes. 

In chapter 1, after drawing d i s t i n c t i o n s between male and 

female autobiographical writing, I discuss key male 

autobiographical f i c t i o n s of the Modernist period by D.H. 

Lawrence, Marcel Proust and James Joyce, and t h e i r debt to 

the nineteenth century l i t e r a r y forms of the Bildungsroman 

and the Kunstlerroman. I r e l a t e these texts to key European 

writers, Andre Gide and Colette, and to works by women based 

on two separate female Modernist aesthetics: f i r s t , the 

school of " l y r i c a l transcendence"—Dorothy Richardson, 

Katherine Mansfield and V i r g i n i a W o o l f — i n whose works the 

s e l f as l i t e r a r y subject dissolves into a renunciatory 

"female impressionism;" the second group—Rhys, Stein and 

Barnes--who as late-modernists, o f f e r r a d i c a l l y " o b j e c t i f i e d " 

s e l f - p o r t r a i t s i n f i c t i o n which act as c r i t i q u e s and 

revisions of both male and female Modernist f i c t i o n of 

e a r l i e r decades. 

In chapter 2, I discuss Jean Rhys' o b j e c t i f i c a t i o n of 

female self-consciousness through her analysis of a l i e n a t i o n 

i n two d i f f e r e n t settings: the Caribbean and the c i t i e s of 

Europe. As an outsider in both situations, Rhys presents an 

unorthodox counter-vision. In her f i c t i o n s of the 1930's, 

she deliberately revises e a r l i e r Modernist representations, 



i i i 

b y b o t h m a l e a n d f e m a l e w r i t e r s , o f f e m a l e s e l f - c o n s c i o u s n e s s . 

I n t h e p r o c e s s , s h e o f f e r s a s i m u l t a n e o u s c r i t i q u e o f b o t h 

s o c i a l a n d l i t e r a r y c o n v e n t i o n s . 

I n c h a p t e r 3 , I c o n s i d e r G e r t r u d e S t e i n ' s c a r e e r - l o n g 

e x p e r i m e n t s w i t h t h e r e n d e r i n g o f c o n s c i o u s n e s s i n a v a r i e t y 

o f l i t e r a r y f o r m s , n o t i n g h e r g r o w i n g c o n c e r n t h r o u g h o u t t h e 

1 9 2 0 ' s a n d 1 9 3 0 ' s w i t h t h e r o l e o f a u t o b i o g r a p h y i n w r i t i n g . 

I n a c l o s e r e a d i n g o f T h e A u t o b i o g r a p h y o f A l i c e B . T o k l a s , 

I e x a m i n e S t e i n ' s p a r o d y a n d " d e c o n s t r u c t i o n " o f t h e 

a u t o b i o g r a p h i c a l f o r m a n d t h e M o d e r n i s t c o n c e p t i o n o f t h e 

s e l f b a s e d o n m e m o r y , a s s o c i a t i o n a n d d e s i r e . H e r w i t t y 

a t t a c k o n t h e c o n v e n t i o n s o f n a r r a t i v e p r o d u c e s a n e w k i n d 

o f f i c t i o n a l s e l f - p o r t r a i t u r e , d r a w i n g h e a v i l y o n t h e v i s u a l 

a r t s t o c r e a t e n e w p r o s e f o r m s a s w e l l a s t o d i s m a n t l e o l d 

o n e s . 

C h a p t e r 4 f o c u s s e s o n D j u n a B a r n e s ' m e t a p h o r i c a l :.. 

r e p r e s e n t a t i o n s o f t h e s e l f i n p r o s e f i c t i o n , w h i c h 

r e - i n t e r p r e t t h e M o d e r n i s t n o t i o n o f t h e s e l f , b y m e a n s o f 

a n a n d r o g y n o u s f i c t i o n a l p o e t i c s . I n h e r A m e r i c a n a n d 

E u r o p e a n f i c t i o n s s h e e x t e n d s t h e n o t i o n o f t h e w o r k o f 

a r t a s a f o r m a l , s e l f - r e f e r e n t i a l a n d s e l f - c o n t a i n e d " w o r l d " 

b y s u b v e r t i n g i t w i t h t h e u s e o f a l a t e - m o d e r n , " h i g h c a m p " 

i m a g e r y t o c r e a t e n e w t y p e s o f n a r r a t i v e s t r u c t u r e . 

T h e s e w o m e n ' s m a j o r w o r k s , a p p e a r i n g i n t h e 1 9 3 0 ' s , mark 

a s e c o n d w a v e o f M o d e r n i s m , w h i c h r e v i s e s a n d i n c e r t a i n 

w a y s s u b v e r t s t h e f i r s t . H e n c e , t h e s e a r e s t u d i e s i n " l a t e 

M o d e r n i s m " a n d i n my c o n c l u s i o n I w i l l c o n s i d e r t h e 



i v 

distinguishing features of t h i s t r a n s i t i o n a l period, the 

1930's, and the questions i t provokes about the idea of 

periodization i n general. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 

Page 

Chapter One: Autobiography: Self Creation 1 

F i c t i o n a l Autobiography 6 

The Novel as P o r t r a i t of the Male A r t i s t 7 

The A r t i s t as Woman 13 

Female Autobiography 2 2 

Female Autobiographical F i c t i o n 2 5 

The Female A e s t h e t i c i s t s 29 

Chapter Two: P o r t r a i t of the A r t i s t in Exile 41 

The Caribbean 44 

Expatriation 49 

Autobiographical F i c t i o n 50 

Character 50 

Vignette 53 

Voyage in the Dark 56 

Wide Sargasso Sea 64 

Europe 74 

Good Morning, Midnight 84 

Chapter Three: Self P o r t r a i t and Cubist A r t i f i c e .. 101 

Exile or Expatriate 101 

Autobiography: Cubist Self Creation 112 
Conclusion 145 

Endnote 150 



v i 

Chapter Four: Djuna Barnes: The Patterned Self .... 154 

Origins 154 

Expatriation 159 

Nightwood 16 8 

The Divided Self 171 

The Designing Self: The Self as Design 185 

Conclusion 210 

Footnotes 230 

Bibliography 254 



1 

Chapter One 

This thesis deals generally with women's autobiographical 

f i c t i o n i n the Modernist period and s p e c i f i c a l l y with the 

autobiographical novels of three female expatriates l i v i n g 

in Paris in the 1920's and 1930's. I w i l l treat Modernism 

as the d i s t i n c t s t y l i s t i c phase in l i t e r a t u r e , art and music 

which dominated England, Europe and America between 1914 and 

1939. Modernism i s a collective} name for a number of 

movements—Impressionism and i t s aftermath, Expressionism, 

Cubism, Futurism, Symbolism and Imagism, Vorticism, Dadaism 

and Surrealism—whose common aim was to subvert the 

Romanticism and Realism of the nineteenth century and to 

propel the twentieth century into the abstract."*" 

Autobiography: Self creation 

I wish to begin my study with the autobiographical 

impulse i t s e l f , and changing interpretations of i t . Three 

major areas for t h e o r e t i c a l consideration emerge. F i r s t , 

what i s the r e l a t i o n s h i p of autobiography to f i c t i o n ? Is 

i t possible to formulate strategies for turning autobiography 

into f i c t i o n ? Secondly, can we d i s t i n g u i s h s p e c i f i c a l l y 

female strategies for t h i s process? How i s writing sexually 

d i f f e r e n t i a t e d ? F i n a l l y , what distinguishes Modernist 

s e l f - p o r t r a i t u r e i n f i c t i o n ? Did styles and methods of 

l i t e r a r y self-representation a l t e r with the waves of Modernism? 

Forms of autobiography have altered throughout history 

in accordance with changing concepts of the s e l f It i s 



the self-conscious l i t e r a r y form, o f f e r i n g insight into the 

modes of consciousness of other men as well as oneself. 

Despite a certain w i l f u l b l u r r i n g of the d i v i s i o n s between 

l i t e r a r y forms.in the twentieth century, i t remains true 

that autobiographies are texts i n which authors make 

themselves the subjects of t h e i r own works. Since the 

mid-eighteenth century, when David Hume looked "into himself 

and discovered "only perceptions, no discernible separate 

s e l f , " and "Identity, capable of unifying disparate 

perceptions..."merely a q u a l i t y which we a t t r i b u t e to them," 

attempts at self-representation in the arts have undergone 
2 

r a d i c a l s h i f t s . 

Contemporary c r i t i c a l theory o f f e r s one possibly 

unifying perspective on these s h i f t s i n i t s claim that 

both the psychological s e l f and the l i t e r a r y subject which 

embodies i t are human constructions: they are f i c t i v e . 

In the nineteenth century, Nietzsche, echoing Hume's 

conclusion and extending i t in his provocative c r i t i q u e of 

the s e l f as subject in The W i l l to Power, said: "the 

'subject' i s not something g i v e n . . . i t i s something added 
3 

and invented and projected behind what there i s . " 

Nietzsche's b e l i e f that the psychological s e l f i s not a 

given that exists before we invent or project i t forms the 

basis for contemporary c r i t i c a l views of autobiographical, 

and other, writing. The Western t r a d i t i o n of the " s e l f , " 
4 

deconstructionists conclude, i s a constructed t r a d i t i o n . 

I t i s not self-generating or s e l f - s u s t a i n i n g . It i s 



3 

constructed from pre-existing and continuously changing sets 

of ideas and assumptions which saturate the language we must 
5 

use to "think ourselves into being." These c r i t i c s , 

Nietzsche included, do not wish to undermine the notion of 

an individuated s e l f ; they simply remind us that "the central 

fact about s u b j e c t i v i t y i s that i t s previous formulations 

have the status of a f i c t i o n , " in the history of an i n d i v i d u a l 

l i f e . 

The idea that a writer can create a s e l f as he creates 

a text--out of a l l previous systems of creation, most 

e s p e c i a l l y language--is brought up to date by Paul de Man in 

r e l a t i o n to autobiographical l i t e r a t u r e : 
We assume that l i f e produces the autobiography as 
an act produces consequences, but can we not 
suggest with equal j u s t i c e , that the 
autobiographical project may i t s e l f produce and 
determine the l i f e and that whatever the writer 
does i s in fact governed by the technical demands 
of s e l f - p o r t r a i t u r e and thus determined, in a l l 
i t s respects, by the resources of the medium.7 

The writer creates his image or idea of himself, and the 

imaginary construction of his l i f e based on i t , in and 

through his text. I do not mean to d i s c r e d i t the factual 

component in autobiographical writing; to underestimate 

the power of " l i v e d experience" in a writer's work can 

i n h i b i t an informed reading of the text. Before one i s 

able to consider those q u a l i t i e s which have been, as 

Nietzsche put i t , "added and invented and projected," one 

must be well aware of "what there i s " in the foreground 

to begin with; and i t i s with the l i v e s of the women whose 



4 

autobiographical f i c t i o n I explore, that I w i l l always begin. 

A f i c t i o n a l autobiography i s a narrative in which the 

subject, that i s the author and his l i f e , i s given the status 

of f i c t i o n , and acts as a s t a r t i n g point for narrative. 

Examples are D.H. Lawrence's Sons and Lovers and James Joyce's 
g 

P o r t r a i t of the A r t i s t as a Young Man. In such works, the 

a r t i s t i c representation of "facts," the process of selecting, 

ordering and transmuting i f not t r a n s l a t i n g them, has 

necessarily altered them in r a d i c a l , imaginative ways. 

F i l t e r e d through the writer's memory and an awareness of the 

autobiographical t r a d i t i o n in l i t e r a t u r e , they have ceased 

to be only the facts of a l i f e . As Northrop Frye has put 

i t , "Autobiography transforms empirical facts into a r t i f a c t s : 
9 

i t i s definable as a form of prose f i c t i o n . " On the other 

hand, as John Sturrock points out, "the untruths i t t e l l s may 

be as r i c h , or r i c h e r in s i g n i f i c a n c e , than the truths."^^ 

One way of looking at autobiographical writing, then, 

sees a " f i c t i v e " s e l f producing an imaginatively constructed 

l i f e ; l o g i c a l l y such works must draw on the conventions of 

both autobiography and f i c t i o n . Nevertheless, in the 

Modernist period metaphor reigned over metonymy. Modernist 

f i c t i o n , with i t s clear ancestry in Symbolist poetry, i s 

always e s s e n t i a l l y metaphorical writing, however r i c h l y a 

Proust or Lawrence w i l l use metonymic d e t a i l . Both writers 

c l e a r l y valued "authenticity" of d e t a i l , but not an 

authenticity based s o l e l y on resemblance. David Lodge has 

said that "the central assertion of the modern novel [is 



5 

that] nothing i s simply one thing....an assertion for which 

metaphor i s the natural means of expression."1"'- Even the 

s e l f - p o r t r a i t of the a r t i s t cannot be seen simply as "one 

thing," one s e l f . To describe various kinds of s e l f - p o r t r a i t s 

by a r t i s t s i n f i c t i o n , I w i l l use James Olney's term 

"metaphors of the s e l f , " to describe what he has c a l l e d 

" s i g n i f i c a n t complexes c h a r a c t e r i s t i c both of a l i f e and a 
12 

work." I believe that i t i s possible to i d e n t i f y and 

evaluate imaginative configurations which l i n k the i . 

biographical and the textual s e l f . If language represents 

being in autobiographical f i c t i o n , as i t must, the s e l f 

expresses and represents i t s e l f further by "the metaphors 

i t creates and projects, and we know i t by these metaphors 

....[The a r t i s t ] in....perceiving formal patterns.... 

transforms a myriad passing sensations into the single 
13 

apprehensible and meaningful a r t i f a c t . " The f i n a l pattern 

to emerge i n the case of autobiographical novels, i s 

narrative pattern, based on metaphor, rather than chronological 

and metonymic pattern as i t would appear i n s t r i c t 

autobiography. 

The s e l f i s revealed in the pattern of metaphor, and 

in the objects perceived and seized upon to make up the 

metaphors. "We become, in our creative act, a l l the 
objects we behold, and more importantly, the order of these 

14 
objects." (emphasis added). Therefore i t i s t h e i r 

narrative or textual arrangements with which I s h a l l be 

concerned, rather than with the changing epistemology of 



6 

of the subject. This thesis w i l l focus on the idea of a 

depersonalized o b j e c t i f i e d sense of i d e n t i t y as the key to 

"metaphors of the s e l f . " I w i l l examine the metaphorical 

s e l f - p o r t r a i t s in narrative by a number of male and more 

e s p e c i a l l y female writers i n the period between 1914 and 

1939. 

F i c t i o n a l Autobiography 

I have said that a l l autobiographical writing i s , to 

some degree, f i c t i v e or imaginative. Self-representation 

i s already a form of s e l f - f i c t i o n a l i z a t i o n . But when a 

writer s i t s down s p e c i f i c a l l y to write f i c t i o n , and at the 

same time to use his l i f e as the basis for the metaphors he 

creates, then new strategies for transforming fact into 

f i c t i o n must be devised. One assumes that t h i s impulse 

to combine the two originates with a desire to understand 

one's l i f e as a story, to explore the kinds of explanations 

provided by the imaginative process of s t o r y - t e l l i n g and to 

order events in a way that only art allows. This implies 

an ambiguous reading of the work, one which draws on both 

genres—the novel and autobiography. Philippe Lejeune would 

see i n t e r e s t i n g tensions created in the writer's "contract 

de lecture" with the reader s p e c i f i c a l l y for the 

autobiographical novel; between the "pacte autobiographique" 
15 

on the one hand and the novelist i c pact'on the other. 

Lejeune distinguishes between "pure f i c t i o n s , " that i s 

autobiographical novels based on a n o v e l i s t i c pact and 

" f i c t i v e f i c t i o n s " in which there there i s a f i c t i o n a l 



7 

attempt to introduce another perspective on one's own 
16 

autobiography by creating a character in a novel." 

The Novel as P o r t r a i t of the Male A r t i s t 

"As we, or mother Dana, weave and unweave our 
bodies," Stephen said, "from day to day, t h e i r 
molecules shuttled to and f r o , so does the a r t i s t 
weave and unweave his image....In the intense 
instant of imagination... that which I was i s that 
which I am and that which in p o s s i b i l i t y I may 
come to be. So in the future, the s i s t e r of the 
past, I may see myself as I s i t here now but by 
the r e f l e c t i o n from that which then I s h a l l be." 

In the f i r s t twenty-five years of t h i s century, c e r t a i n 

autobiographical f i c t i o n s by men, narratives generated i n 

discernible ways by the a r t i s t s ' l i v e s , became v i r t u a l 

paradigms of modern f i c t i o n . I think here of Joyce's 

P o r t r a i t of the A r t i s t as a Young Man and Ulysses, of 

Lawrence's Sons and Lovers and Women in Love and Proust's 
^ 18 
A l a Recherche de temps perdu. So paradigmatic have they 

become, that we often overlook the fact that they are 

personal s t o r i e s . These writers sought to o b j e c t i f y 

a e s t h e t i c a l l y , through images, f i c t i o n a l c o r r e l a t i v e s and 

narrative structures, t h e i r r e a l experience of the world 

and s p e c i f i c a l l y , i n a number of them, t h e i r development 

as a r t i s t s . Their experiments with f i c t i o n a l strategies 

for the narration of l i v e d experience took place against a 

background of philosophical unrest. The sense of s e l f i n 

history and in time was being r a d i c a l l y revised. This was 
r e f l e c t e d in the writings of T.E. Hulme, William James and 

19 Henri Bergson. Out of these works emerged a b e l i e f that 



8 

d i s c o n t i n u i t y w a s t h e o n l y c o n s t a n t i n s c i e n c e , h i s t o r y a n d 

a r t . T h e s e l f h a d b e c o m e a s h i f t i n g c o n c e p t , q u i t e a l o n g 

w a y f r o m t h e d o m i n a t i n g n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y i d e a o f s e l f a n d 

w o r l d a s r e a l i s t i c a l l y p r e s e n t a b l e i n f i c t i o n . R e l a t i v i s m 

a n d a r t i f i c e b e c o m e t h e n e w r u l e s , a n d t h e s e l f c o u l d b e 

e x p l o r e d i n r a d i c a l n e w w a y s i n f i c t i o n . I n a n i r o n i c , 

m u l t i p l e - p e r s p e c t i v e s e l f - p o r t r a i t , f o r e x a m p l e , t h e 

a u t o b i o g r a p h i c a l n o v e l i s t i s f r e e t o w o r k w i t h q u i t e p e r s o n a l 

s e t s o f t e x t u a l c o n v e n t i o n s w i t h w h i c h t o o b j e c t i f y 

a e s t h e t i c a l l y h i s s e n s e o f s e l f , h i s c o n s c i o u s n e s s a n d h i s 

w o r l d , t o c r e a t e a " f i g u r a t i v e " v e r s i o n o f h i m s e l f , t h e " s u m 

20 

o f n a r r a t o r , p r o t a g o n i s t a n d o t h e r f i c t i o n a l a r t i f a c t s . " 

I n i m p o r t a n t r e s p e c t s , t h e n , t h e n a r r a t i v e i s d e - c e n t r e d . 

T h e f i g u r a t i v e s e l f we s e e i n t h e n a r r a t i v e c a n n o t a l w a y s 

b e t a k e n a s t h e " t r u e " i d e n t i t y o f t h e a u t h o r . " A v e r b a l 

a r t i f a c t i s a n d i s n o t c o m m e n s u r a t e w i t h i t s a u t h o r ; a s a 

s y n b o l i t i s b o t h a d y n a m i c e q u i v a l e n t o f t h e s e l f a n d a 

s h a b b y s u b s t i t u t e f o r t h e r i c h n e s s o f t h e e x p e r i e n c i n g 

2 1 

l i f e . " T h i s " f i g u r a t i v e " v e r s i o n o f t h e s e l f i s M o d e r n i s m ' s 

d i s r u p t i v e a n s w e r t o w h a t o n e c r i t i c d e s c r i b e d a s n i n e t e e n t h 

c e n t u r y r e a l i s m ' s " e m p l o y m e n t o f t h e s e l f a s t h e p r i n c i p l e 
22 

o f i n t e l l i g i b i l i t y " i n t h e t e x t . 

P a r a d o x i c a l l y , i n a n u m b e r o f M o d e r n i s m ' s k e y 

a u t o b i o g r a p h i c a l n a r r a t i v e s w r i t t e n b y m e n , t h e " f i g u r a t i v e " 

s e l f i s b a s e d o n t w o n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y l i t e r a r y f o r m s . 

O n e i s t h e B i l d u n g s r o m a n , t h e s t o r y o f t h e p r o t a g o n i s t ' s 

e d u c a t i o n i n l i f e , a s e x e m p l i f i e d b y F l a u b e r t ' s a n d B a l z a c ' s 



9 

young men from the provincies t r a v e l l i n g to the centres of 

culture. The other i s the Kunstlerroman, the p o r t r a i t of the 

a r t i s t novel, i n which the true s e l f of the protagonist 

emerges from the education process as an a r t i s t . The quest 

for selfhood i s dominant i n both forms. Frequently that 

s e l f i s in c o n f l i c t with society, church or current morality. 

An opposition between art and l i f e i s implied. 

Lawrence, Proust and Joyce are primarily concerned, in 

Sons and Lovers, A l a Recherche du temps perdu and P o r t r a i t 

of the A r t i s t as a' Young Man, with t e l l i n g us the story of 

how they became a r t i s t s . In these texts, the psychological 

s e l f becomes not only the l i t e r a r y subject, but the subject 

as a r t i s t and creator of such transformations, those Yeats 
2 3 

would c a l l , " A r t i f i c e r s of the Great Moments." Notions 

of the s e l f may be s h i f t i n g , and c e r t a i n l y those altered 

notions are absorbed into these self-consciously aesthetic 

texts. But, curiously, these writers premise t h e i r 

self-representations on the fixed concept of the unchanging 

power and supremacy of the a r t i s t figure to command whatever 

material his period y i e l d s . 

Certainly, i n Sons and Lovers, D.H. Lawrence i s very 

concerned with the representativeness of his l i f e . "It's 

the tragedy of thousands of young men i n England," he wrote 
24 

to Edward Garnett. In the novel, he s i m p l i f i e s the facts 

of h i s own l i f e . He reduces his actual family, invents 

some situations and leaves out others, including, curiously, 

many of his most avid i n t e l l e c t u a l concerns in youth. He . 



10 

writes of his protagonist, Paul Morel, in the t h i r d person, 

to single out, with attempted o b j e c t i v i t y , the s i g n i f i c a n t , 

the representative events of his l i f e in s o c i a l and ideologica 

terms. But the point of his autobiographical format i s to 
25 

"uncover his uniqueness." Of course that uniqueness i s 

representative i n a way, too, of a l l emerging a r t i s t s in 

a l i e n a t i n g s o c i a l climates. Paul Morel's unique "emotional 

nexus" i s , as Roy Pascal notes, his alone, and the novel's 

f i n a l scene makes clear that we are being shown a "process 

of s e l f - c r e a t i o n in which the i n d i v i d u a l emerges quite 
2 6 

d i s t i n c t from the forces which go into his making." 

Proust's A l a Recherche du temps perdu i s also a 

s e l f - c r e a t i v e work, one which the a r t i s t regards as redemptive 

i t has subsumed him, t r a n s l a t i n g the t r a n s i t o r y d e t a i l s of 

his l i f e into an "eternal" work of a r t . Proust's whole 

career was an attempt to f i n d a style and a structure 

adequate to the treatment of his own growth and development 

as a writer, from his early piece, Jean Santeuil (1895) to 
27 

his death in 1922. 
Alors, moins eclatante san doute que c e l l e qui 
m'avait f a i t apercevoir que l'oeuvre d'art e t a i t 
le seul moyen de retrouver le Temps perdu, une 
nouvelle lumiere se f i t en moi. Et je compris 
que tous ces materiaux de l'oeuvre l i t t e r a i r e , 
c ' e t a i t ma vie passee; je compris q u ' i l s etaient 
venus a moi, dans les p l a i s i r s f r i v o l e s , dans 
l a paresse, dans l a tendresse, dans le douleur, 
emmagasines par moi, sans que je de^inasse plus 
leur destination, leur survivance meme, que l a 
graine mettant en reserve tous les aliments qui 
nourriront l a plante. Comme l a graine, je pourrais 
mourir quand l a plante se s e r a i t developpee, et 
je me trouvais avoir vecu pour e l l e sans le savoir 



sans que ma vie me parut devoir entrer jamais 
en contact avec ces l i v r e s que j'aurais voulu 
e c r i r e et pour lesquels, quand je me mettais 
autrefois a ma table, je ne trouvais pas de 
sujet. A i n s i toute ma vie jusqu'a ce jour 
aurait pu et n 'aurait pas pu etre resumee 
sous ce t i t r e : Une vocation.27 

Marcel i s free to die once his text has been completed. He 

i s i n a sense, then, born into the text. 

Proust's Marcel i s a f i c t i o n a l version of himself. 

Joyce, i n Stephen Hero, began with quite a detailed and 

l i t e r a l p o r t r a i t of : himself in an almost nineteenth century 
2 8 

r e a l i s t i c s t y l e . In subsequent drafts he became, l i k e 

Proust, more and more concerned with f i c t i o n a l i z i n g these 

d e t a i l s into consciously aesthetic designs. This process 

of moving away from the l i t e r a l p a r a l l e l s on a thematic 

l e v e l , Stephen's own breaking away from the past in order 

to free himself to be an a r t i s t . The ultimate emergence of 

his e s s e n t i a l s e l f as an a r t i s t depends on the very creative 
29 

process that w i l l "forge" i t . This "forging" involves 

the creation of a new and f i c t i o n a l i z e d s e l f as an a r t i s t . 

Joyce c l e a r l y believed that by writing about his growth as 

an a r t i s t , he would become one. 

In order to focus on the idea that the freer Stephen 

i s of his past, the freer he i s to express himself as an 

a r t i s t , Joyce structures Stephen's l i b e r a t i o n around his 
30 

s h i f t i n g r e l a t i o n s h i p with language. He flees the 

language of moribund Anglo-Irish culture and the dogma of 

the Romanc Catholic church ^ the language of authority, in 

favour of the rhetoric of a r t , where words are free to take 



on new meanings which only he as an a r t i s t can impose: 

I w i l l not serve that in which I no longer 
believe whether i t c a l l i t s e l f my home, my 
fatherland or my church: and I w i l l try to 
express myself i n some mode of l i f e or art 
as f r e e l y as I can and as wholly as I can, 
using for my defence and the only arms I allow 
myself to use — s i l e n c e , e x i l e and cunning.31 

Just as Marcel i s ready to die as his text i s about to be 

born, P o r t r a i t of the A r t i s t concludes as Stephen Dedalus ' 

career i s about to begin. 

In depicting Stephen, Joyce draws not only his own 

character and experience, s e l e c t i v e l y and economically 

arranged, but also on other a r t i s t heroes both in l i f e and 

a r t . In doing so he constructs an archetypal image of the 

a r t i s t figure -- the symbolic Daedalus — and in the 

process " c a r e f u l l y removed any t r a i t s of his own character 
32 

which c o n f l i c t e d with the stereotype." This i n t e r - t e x t u a l i t y 

reminds us that these three male writers, in t h e i r 

self-representations as a r t i s t s , continue to base t h e i r 

p o r t r a i t s on e s s e n t i a l l y Romantic notions of the a r t i s t , as 

either the soaring metaphysical creator, transcending l i f e 

i n a r t , or the s e l f - a n n i h i l a t i n g a r t i s t who "extinguishes" 

himself into his text. Either way, the t r a d i t i o n a l rhetoric 

of the a r t i s t and his vocation i s preserved. 

A writer who did a l l that he could to disrupt that 

t r a d i t i o n a l , rhetoric in his f i c t i o n a l s e l f - p o r t r a i t u r e was 

Andre Gide. In t h i s respect, I suggest, Gide acts as a 

l i n k i n g figure between the modern and the post-modern in 
33 autobiographical f i c t i o n . The three women writers at the 



13 

heart of t h i s t h e s i s , Rhys, Stein and Barnes are also l i n k i n g 

figures and t r a n s i t i o n a l writers in a similar sense. Gide 

was the most self-conscious of writers, acutely aware of 

writing against the r e a l i s t i c t r a d i t i o n . In his n o v e l i s t i c 

writings he was always care f u l to make the reader aware that 

he was presenting the f i c t i o n a l world not as r e a l i t y but as 

an authorial construct, a f i c t i o n of the s e l f . He was 

acutely aware of the problems of autobiography and the novel. 

Gide was writing his "confessions" (Si le Grain ne meurt...) 

at the same time that he was embroiled in the theory and 

practice of the novel. The f u l l text of t h i s " o f f i c i a l " 

autobiography was published in 1936, the same year as his 

f i c t i o n a l s e l f - p o r t r a i t , Les Faux Monnayeurs, but the 
34 

autobiography had been finished e a r l i e r . Gide had written 
that he required of autobiographical writing that i t must 

"presente comme successifs des etats de simultaneite . . 
35 

confuse." Here he i s r e f f e r i n g to the kind of 

c e n t r i f u g a l i t y and m u l t i p l i c i t y of the s e l f which he 

discerned and imitated in Montaigne, Baudelaire and 

Dostoevsky. 

Gide chose the novel as the genre best suited to 

"succession." Autobiography he saw as l i m i t e d , as a 

prisoner of the " r e a l " where truthfulness i s equated with 

veracity and i t s correspondence to "what r e a l l y happened." 

It i s a d i f f e r e n t kind of truthfulness he has in mind when 

he describes in h i s journal the novelist's prime purpose as 

being to express his s e l f , therefore making him "le seul 



14 

garant de l a v e r i t e q u 1 i l revele, le seul juge.""^ We are 

reminded again in the male autobiographical f i c t i o n t r a d i t i o n 

of the a r t i s t seeing himself as a God-like creator, Yeats' 

" a r t i f i c e r of the great moments," even when he i s showing us 

h i s methodology as Gide does. 

Any such n o v e l i s t i c p o r t r a i t of the a r t i s t can only be 

complete for Gide i f succession and simultaneity are i t s 

s t r u c t u r a l p r i n c i p l e s . The "authentic" and "subjective" 

novelist Gide wishes to be, wrestling with the problem of 

s e l f - c r e a t i o n through language, uses every one of his 

characters to represent some Gidean impulse, and never more 

completely than i n Les Faux Monnayeurs. 

The character of Edouard i s the most s t r i k i n g r e f l e x i v e 

device of t h i s novel. He i s a Gide-like figure engaged, 

and sometimes non-engaged in writing a novel c a l l e d Les  

Faux Monnayeurs. Edouard i s more than Gide's representative, 

however. He i s the genuine incarnation of the a r t i s t i c 

consciousness. Even his inadequacies and shortcomings as a 

writer are part of Gide's d e f i n i t i o n of the a r t i s t which i s 

one of the bookls central concerns. Neither Edouard the 

writer, nor Gide the writer, portrays himself i n his novel; 

each creates himself as he creates his work. Identity i s 

protean, a matter of "successions." S e l f - a c t u a l i z a t i o n for 

Gide must be dynamic. But there i s a vast range of other 

characters and other stories than Edouard's, though many of 

them overlap, to make up one large, v i t a l i s t i c p o r t r a i t of 

the a r t i s t in f i c t i o n . Gide believed that the s e l f was too 



" r i c h " to express i t s e l f t o t a l l y as one person; i t must grow 

into a f i c t i o n a l world. Therefore Gide, the author, appears 

not only as Edouard, but also as Boris, the l i t t l e boy who 

i s b u l l i e d into suicide. At a s t r u c t u r a l l e v e l , the author 

i s recognizable both as the occasionally omniscient narrator, 

and as the s t o r y - t e l l i n g "je" whose voice can deceptively 

blur into a character's voice and disappear for a moment or 

a chapter. Behind a l l of these manifestations of the author, 

the f i r s t person narration serves to remind us that the story 

i t s e l f i s very much the product of a s t o r y - t e l l i n g . .. 

consciousness. 

But Gide also believed that " l a creation de nouveaux 

personnages ne devient un besoin naturel que chez ceux qu'une 

imperieuse complexite interieure tourmente et que leur propre 
s 3 "7 

geste n'epuise pas." Gide infuses himself into the host 

of characters in Les Faux Monnayeurs, male and female, 

homosexual and heterosexual, c h i l d and adult, the object of 

desire and the one who desires. They are enclosed by his 

consciousness while appearing, i n a pastiche of nineteenth 

century realism, to l i v e . This technique of having his 

characters impersonate his myriad q u a l i t i e s , thoughts and 

ideas, culminates i n a point of complete depersonalization 

in the novel. 

In projecting himself so thoroughly into his characters, 

catharsis and s e l f - c r e a t i o n are possible for Gide, whose 

aesthetic i s e s s e n t i a l l y negative otherwise. He compares 

t h i s goal of his to the accomplishment of Dostoevsky, "tout 



16 

e p a r p i l l e dan ses heros, sans, serassembler pourtant jamais 
3 8 

dans un seul." In t h i s , Gide made sophisticated advances 

on the more t r a d i t i o n a l " p o r t r a i t of the a r t i s t " of early-

Modernism as created by Joyce, Lawrence and Proust. 

Nevertheless, the lineage of the male Romantic God-like 

a r t i s t figure in f u l l control of his f i c t i o n a l world and 

f i c t i o n a l s e l f , i s d i s c e r n i b l e i n Gide's 1930's n o v e l i s t i c 

s e l f - p o r t r a i t u r e , however much the author enjoys p l a y f u l 

i n t e r t e x t u a l i t y with his heritage.. This, I would argue, 

i s a male t r a d i t i o n . Women writers from the same period 

have, on the whole, stories other than "how I became an 

a r t i s t " to t e l l us. 

The A r t i s t as Woman 

Before going on to discuss these s t o r i e s , i t i s necessary 

to consider ways in which gender informs a writer's work. 

Early in the history of feminist l i t e r a r y c r i t i c i s m , female 

c r i t i c s made strong e f f o r t s to prove that there were no 

d i s c e r n i b l e differences between male and female writing, and 

based t h e i r claim for sexual equality on t h i s premise. 

This c r i t i c i s m focused largely on male writing, on 

pinpointing female stereotypes and general inadequacies in 

the a r t i s t i c representation of women by men. A subsequent 

s h i f t i n focus has seen a new concentration on texts 

written by women themselves. The q u a l i t y of female 

experience i t s e l f , rather than male views of i t , now comes 

under scrutiny. C r i t i c s now discuss the d i s t i n c t i v e features 

of a female text and the lineage of women writers; they 



1 7 

consider the i n t e r t e x t u a l i t y of women's writing within a 

semi-autonomous t r a d i t i o n . This allows for discussion of 

the differences between women writers as well as of t h e i r 

common q u a l i t i e s , as they are d i f f e r e n t from male writers. 

If the t r a d i t i o n of male writing i s the dominant t r a d i t i o n 

i n English l i t e r a t u r e , then a study of women's writing must 

see i t as a reactive t r a d i t i o n , one which operates at almost 

every l e v e l within the context of male l i t e r a r y h i s t o r y , 

language and conventions. Therefore i t i s i n t e r e s t i n g and 

important to see the kinds of deliberate appropriations, 

revisions and subversions of male texts undertaken by women 

writers. As Cora Kaplan puts., i t , "The analysis of female 

talent grappling with a male t r a d i t i o n translates sexual 

difference into l i t e r a r y differences of genre, structure, 
39 

voice and p l o t . " 

We analyse the ways in which women writers revise and 

subvert p r e v a i l i n g themes and styles with a range of 

approaches: psychoanalytic, deconstructive, h i s t o r i c a l , 
40 

formalist, generic and b i o l o g i c a l . Different n a t i o n a l i t i e s 

of female c r i t i c s have handled the nature of sexual difference 

i n writing within these categories in d i f f e r e n t ways. French 

feminist c r i t i c i s m has based i t s e l f on.the b i o l o g i c a l notion 

of "ecriture feminine," the i n s c r i p t i o n of the female body 
4 1 

and womanhood in the language of the text. English 

feminists have, on the whole, been more t r a d i t i o n a l in t h e i r 

c r i t i c a l approach, choosing to concentrate s p e c i f i c a l l y on 

textual i n t e r p r e t a t i o n , p a r t i c u l a r l y using Marxist and 



18 
42 psychoanalytic approaches. American feminist c r i t i c s have 

also focussed on textual analysis but with the emphasis on 
4 3 

language and expression. In each of these c r i t i c a l approaches 

the emphasis i s on the woman writer and the female text. 

Elaine Showalter has c a l l e d t h i s "Gynocriticism" as opposed 
to the e a r l i e r "feminist c r i t i q u e " of male art which represented-

44 
women. 

Within d i f f e r i n g national approaches, c r i t i c s have 

considered four models of difference, as to exactly what makes 

the woman writer and her text d i f f e r e n t from her male 

counterparts. F i r s t , the b i o l o g i c a l difference i s seen by 

some to inform a woman's text. Talk of p h a l l i c and ovarian 

theories of a r t i s t i c production, metaphors of l i t e r a r y 

paternity and maternity, the body functions as sources of 

imagery at a primal l e v e l , may a l l be considered crude and 

p r e s c r i p t i v e , but become more viable when mediated, as they 

must be by l i n g u i s t i c , s o c i a l and l i t e r a r y structures. The 

second model, then, concerns these l i n g u i s t i c and textual 

theories of women's writing, which ask the basic question of 

whether men and women use language d i f f e r e n t l y . Does gender 

i n fact determine styles of speaking, reading and writing? 

We have already noted that the l i t e r a r y t r a d i t i o n i n English 

i s predominantly masculine in discourse. When women speak 

or write, they are doing so in reaction to masculine norms 

and t h e i r implied'ideologies. Women write as outsiders. 

The English c r i t i c Mary Jacobus has suggested that women's 

writing which works within the "male" discourse, necessarily 



19 

works "ceasely to deconstruct i t : to write what cannot be 

written." "The problem," she goes on, "has not been that 

language has been i n s u f f i c i e n t to express women's consciousness, 

but that p a t r i a r c h a l c u l t u r a l norms have forced women into a 

position where they must use s t y l i s t i c camouflage, euphemism, 
4 5 

obliqueness and circumlocution." 

A t h i r d model of sexual difference, the psychoanalytic, 

locates difference i n the author's psyche in r e l a t i n g gender 

to the creative process. A theory of the female psyche sees 

the s e l f as shaped by the body, and by the development of 

language as well as by s o c i a l and sexual t r a i n i n g . A major 

stumbling block i s the Freudian model which needs constant 

updating to make i t comprehensible in g y n o c r i t i c a l terms. 

With i t s central concerns of penis envy, the castration 

complex and the oedipal phase, women's relationship to 

language, fantasy and culture seem to be explained away. 

Jacques Lacan has extended castration to a t o t a l metaphor 
46 

for female l i t e r a r y and l i n g u i s t i c disadvantage. Lacan 

theorizes that the a c q u i s i t i o n of language and the entry 

into i t s symbolic order occur at the oedipal phase, in which 

the c h i l d accepts his/her gender i d e n t i t y . This stage 

requires an acceptance of the phallus as a p r i v i l e g e d 

s i g n i f i c a t i o n and consequent female displacement, p a r t i c u l a r l y 

in l i n g u i s t i c terms as Cora Kaplan explains: 
The phallus as a s i g n i f i e r has a central c r u c i a l 
p o s i t i o n in language, for i f language embodies 
the p a t r i a r c h a l law of culture, i t s basic 
meanings refer to the recurring process by which 
sexual difference and s u b j e c t i v i t y are acquired 



20 

. . . . T h u s t h e l i t t l e . g i r l s ' a c c e s s t o t h e s y m b o l i c , 
t h a t i s , t o l a n g u a g e and i t s l a w , i s a l w a y s 
n e g a t i v e and o r m e d i a t e d by i n t r o d u c i n g a s u b j e c t i v e 
r e l a t i o n t o a t h i r d t e r m , f o r i t i s c h a r a c t e r i z e d 
by an i d e n t i f i c a t i o n w i t h l a c k . 4 7 

The p s y c h o a n a l y t i c m o d e l d e f i n e s t h e woman a r t i s t b a s i c a l l y 

a s d i s p l a c e d , d i s i n h e r i t e d and e x c l u d e d . T h e r e f o r e t h e 

" d i f f e r e n c e " i n women's w r i t i n g i s n e g a t i v e i n i t s t r o u b l e d 

r e l a t i o n s h i p t o f e m a l e i d e n t i t y . The woman w r i t e r e x p e r i e n c e s 

h e r own g e n d e r a s p a i n f u l and a s a d e b i l i t a t i n g o b s t a c l e o r 

i n a d e q u a c y . R e c e n t d e v e l o p m e n t s i n f e m i n i s t p s y c h o a n a l y s i s 

w h i c h do n o t f o c u s on r e v i s i n g F r e u d have b e e n somewhat more 

e n c o u r a g i n g . Nancy C h o d o r o w ' s The R e p r o d u c t i o n o f M o t h e r i n g : 

P s y c h o a n a l y s i s and t h e S o c i o l o g y o f Gender (1978) e m p h a s i z e s 

t h e d e v e l o p m e n t and c o n s t r u c t i o n o f g e n d e r i d e n t i t i e s and 

f o c u s e s p o s i t i v e l y on t h e p r e - O e d i p a l p r o c e s s o f p s y c h o - s e x u a l 
48 

d i f f e r e n t i a t i o n . 

F i n a l l y , a c u l t u r a l a n a l y s i s o f s e x u a l d i f f e r e n c e 

d i s c e r n s a f e m a l e c u l t u r e w i t h i n t h e g e n e r a l c u l t u r e , a k i n d 

o f c u l t u r a l c o l o n y . A t t e m p t s t o l o c a t e p r e c i s e l y t h e c u l t u r a l 

l o c u s o f f e m a l e l i t e r a r y i d e n t i t y must d e s c r i b e t h e f o r c e s 

t h a t i n t e r s e c t w i t h an i n d i v i d u a l w r i t e r ' s c u l t u r a l f i e l d . 

S u c h an a p p r o a c h r a i s e s i n t e r e s t i n g q u e s t i o n s a b o u t t h e 

n a t u r e o f p e r i d d i z a t i o n so p r e v a l e n t i n l i t e r a r y s t u d i e s . 

I f l i t e r a r y p e r i o d i z a t i o n - - t h e s t u d y o f s u p p o s e d l y s e l f -

c o n t a i n e d e r a s - - t h e R e n a i s s a n c e , t h e Modern p e r i o d , t h e 

P o s t - m o d e r n , a r e b a s e d on m e n ' s w r i t i n g , t h e n women's 

w r i t i n g must h a v e b e e n subsumed o r f o r c i b l y a s s i m i l a t e d . 

Was t h e R e n a i s s a n c e a r e n a i s s a n c e f o r women? Were male 



21 

a n d f e m a l e w r i t e r s i n t h e M o d e r n i s t p e r i o d , M o d e r n i s t s i n t h e 

s a m e s e n s e ? 

A s a c r i t i c w h o i s i n t e r e s t e d i n e x p l o r i n g a t r a d i t i o n 

o f women w r i t e r s a n d a f e m a l e c u l t u r a l c o n t i n u u m w i t h i n t h e 

g e n e r a l c u l t u r e , E l a i n e S h o w a l t e r i n A L i t e r a t u r e o f T h e i r 

Own a r g u e s f o r a f e m a l e s u b - c u l t u r e , e m e r g i n g i n l i t e r a t u r e 

a s a n " i m a g i n a t i v e c o n t i n u u m , t h e r e c u r r e n c e o f c e r t a i n 

p a t t e r n s , t h e m e s , p r o b l e m s a n d i m a g e s f r o m g e n e r a t i o n t o 

g e n e r a t i o n . . . . a l i t e r a r y s u b c u l t u r e . . . . u n i f i e d b y v a l u e s , 

c o n v e n t i o n s , e x p e r i e n c e s a n d b e h a v i o u r s i m p i n g i n g o n e a c h 

4 9 

i n d i v i d u a l . " T h i s i s a c o h e r e n t a p p r o a c h t o w o m e n ' s 

w r i t i n g , a n d o n e w h i c h a s s i m i l a t e s m a n y o f t h e p o i n t s r a i s e d 

b y o t h e r n a r r o w e r c r i t i c a l c a t e g o r i e s . I t a v o i d s s l i p p e r y 

a n d n e b u l o u s n o t i o n s l i k e " f e m a l e s e n s i b i l i t y " a n d " f e m a l e 

i m a g i n a t i o n " w h i l e a c k n o w l e d g i n g t h a t f u n d a m e n t a l l y , w o m e n ' s 

l i f e e x p e r i e n c e i s q u i t e d i f f e r e n t f r o m t h a t o f m e n , a n d i t 

m u s t i n f l u e n c e t h e i r w r i t i n g a n d a p p e a r i n t h e i r t e x t s i n 

d i s c e r n i b l e w a y s . S h o w a l t e r c o n c l u d e s t h a t " a s p e c i a l 

f e m a l e s e l f - a w a r e n e s s e m e r g e s t h r o u g h l i t e r a t u r e i n e v e r y 

p e r i o d . 

W h i l e i t i s e f f e c t i v e i n c e r t a i n r e s p e c t s , S h o w a l t e r ' s 

s c h e m a d o e s , h o w e v e r , p r o v i d e t h e i l l u s i o n t h a t t h e t r a d i t i o n 

o f w o m e n ' s l i t e r a t u r e i s a s e a m l e s s w h o l e . I t d o e s n o t 

a l l o w f o r t h e k i n d o f c u l t u r a l p l u r a l i s m o f o u t l o o k we 

r e c o g n i z e t o d a y a s r e l e v a n t t o u n d e r s t a n d i n g t h e d i f f e r e n c e s 

b e t w e e n w o m e n w r i t e r s ; d i f f e r e n c e s o f r a c e , c l a s s , w e a l t h , 

g e o g r a p h y a n d s e x u a l p r e f e r e n c e w i l l m a t t e r e v e r y b i t a s 



much to the a r t i s t as gender. 

Showalter's focus i s on the "ways in which the 

self-awareness of the woman writer has translated i t s e l f into 
51 

a l i t e r a r y form in a s p e c i f i c place and time span." I 

propose i n t h i s thesis to extend t h i s idea considerably to 

consider women writers who may occupy positions and record 

experience of even more problematical subcultures than that 

of "woman writer;" I think here of the e x i l e , the demi-mondaine 

or the lesbian. 

Female Autobiography 

The i history of female autobiography indicates that women 

have most often approached the issue of s e l f - d e f i n i t i o n 
50 

evasively, i f not obliquely. Only in s p i r i t u a l confessions 
have-they been prepared to take centre stage l i k e t h e i r male 

53 
counterparts. This has been the case up to and including 
some s u r p r i s i n g l y recent autobiographies by L i l l i a n Hellman, 

54 

Golda Meir and Emma Goldman for example. As documented 

by P a t r i c i a Meyer Spacks i n her a r t i c l e "Women's Stories: 

Women's Selves," the overwhelming tendency has been for 

women to define, themselves i n terms of t h e i r r e l a t i o n s with 

others; and to use those r e l a t i o n s as methods of, and 
55 

metaphors f o r , s e l f - r e v e l a t i o n . Spacks comments on the 

remarkably "hidden," ego-less q u a l i t y of autobiographies by 

even quite prepossessing women l i k e Goldman and Meir who 

make much more accurate records of "the times" than "the 

l i f e . " This, seems to be one recurring difference between 

male and female autobiographies. 



2 3 

There are c e r t a i n formal differences in women's 
56 autobiography as well, as documented by E s t e l l e Jelinek. 

She sees women using discontinuous forms—often fragmentary 

but self-contained units of discourse, and t h e i r approach as 

fundamentally personal rather than professional and h i s t o r i c a l . 

Even with successful women's accounts of t h e i r l i v e s , t h i s 

leads to an emphasis away from t h e i r work to focus on family 

and personal r e l a t i o n s . This contrasts with the prototypical 

male autobiography as outlined by Mary Mason. It usually 

involves "a dramatic presentation of unfolding s e l f discovery 

where characters and events are l i t t l e more than aspects of 
57 

the author's evolving consciousness." In other words, men 

and women distance themselves from t h e i r material i n very 

d i f f e r e n t ways. In male texts, the s e l f i s prominent. The 

woman writer, on the other hand, reveals herself obliquely, 

through r e l a t i o n or i d e n t i f i c a t i o n with some other. 

Self-consciousness i n women's autobiographical writing 

emerges, then, only in t h i s kind of context, which involves 

s i f t i n g and sorting through l i v e d experience for explanation 

and understanding rather than in any desire to impose 

dramatic ordering structures upon i t . 

In a more p o s i t i v e l i g h t , t h i s kind of speculation 

connects with updated psychological concepts of the female 

i d e n t i t y as processive and thus a very d i f f e r e n t personality 

structure from the. male. Nancy Chodorow's psychoanalytic 

theory sees t h i s female i d e n t i t y "process" as leading the 

female a r t i s t to defy much more r e a d i l y , for example, 



24 

conventional generic boundaries and t r a d i t i o n a l 

characterization. A second theory relevant here to the nature 

of women's self-representation sees female i d e n t i t y which 

presents "the hero [as] her author's daughter," a b a s i c a l l y 

maternal metaphor of female authorship, which c l a r i f i e s the 

woman writer's d i s t i n c t i v e engagement with her characters and 

which indicates an analagous r e l a t i o n s h i p between narrator, 

author and reader, and the representation of memory. 

Chodorow sees that throughout women's l i v e s , the s e l f i s 

defined, as Jelinek observed, through s o c i a l r e l a t i o n s h i p s ; 

issues of fusion and the merger of the s e l f with others are 

s i g n i f i c a n t . The female personality i s then r a t i o n a l , 

f l u i d l y defined and c y c l i c a l as well as progressive rather 

than simply passive or evasive when compared with male 

autobiographical models. Twentieth century women writers 

have often communicated a consciousness of t h e i r i d e n t i t y 

through paradoxes of sameness and d i f f e r e n c e — f r o m other 

women, e s p e c i a l l y t h e i r mothers, and here I think p a r t i c u l a r l y 
59 

of the French writer, Colette; from men; and from s o c i a l 

injunctions for what women should be, including those 

inscribed in the l i t e r a r y canon. This a l t e r n a t i v e formulation 

of female i d e n t i t y as processive stresses f l u i d and f l e x i b l e 

aspects of women's primary i d e n t i t i e s . One r e f l e c t i o n of 

t h i s f l u i d i t y i s that women's writing does not conform to 

the generic prescriptions of the male canon. As E s t e l l e 

Jelinek t y p i f i e s , recent scholars have concluded that 

autobiographies by women tend to be less l i n e a r , u n i f i e d 



and chronological than men's autobiographies. Women's novels 

are often c a l l e d autobiographical and t h e i r autobiographies, 

n o v e l i s t i c . Mary McCarthy's Memories of a Catholic Girlhood 

and Maxine Hong Kingston's The Woman Warrior: Memoirs of a  

Girlhood among Ghosts are examples of t h i s generic crossover 

w r i t i n g . ^ Because of the continual crossing of s e l f and 

other, women's writing may blur the public and private and 

defy completion. Thus we have writers l i k e Dorothy Richardson, 

Colette and Anals Nin whose l i v e s , l e t t e r s , journals and 

f i c t i o n become almost co-terminous. 

Female Autobiographical F i c t i o n 

Does i t follow, then, that female autobiographical 

f i c t i o n w i l l r e f l e c t these differences i n characterization, 

distance from material and angle of observation? F i c t i o n a l 

autobiography involves a p a r t i c u l a r kind of s e l f - c r e a t i o n , 

we have said, one in which the writer may in a sense, 

"invent" himself i n the f i c t i o n a l i z i n g process. The a r t i s t 

fashions an image for himself i n his art work. As one of 

Djuna Barnes' characters puts i t : "One's l i f e i s never so 

much one's own as when one invents i t . " 6 " * " 

One aspect of the dilemma women face, when they come 

to write f i c t i o n a l versions of some aspects of t h e i r l i v e s , 

i s that p a t r i a r c h a l society has t r a d i t i o n a l l y regarded women 

as already e x i s t i n g works of art themselves. John Berger, 

the art c r i t i c , r e f l e c t e d on t h i s phenomenon in more general 

representational terms i n Ways of Seeing: 



2 6 

Men act and women appear. Men look at women. 
Women watch themselves being looked at. This 
determines not only most r e l a t i o n s between 
men and women but also the r e l a t i o n of women 
to themselves. The surveyor of woman in 
herself i s male; the surveyed female. Thus : 
she turns herself into an object--and most 
p a r t i c u l a r l y an object of v i s i o n ; a sight.... 
Her own sense of being in herself i s supplanted 
by being appreciated as herself by another. 

In George E l i o t ' s Middlemarch, W i l l Ladislaw comforts 

Dorothea Brooke when she despairs over her a b i l i t y to- become 
6 3 

a poet: "You are a poem." In E l i o t ' s works as a whole, 

as G i l b e r t and Gubar r i g h t l y observe, a number of women 

characters deform t h e i r c r e a t i v i t y "in t h e i r e f f o r t s to 

reconstruct t h e i r own images;" Dorothea Brooke c e r t a i n l y 

among them. In the process, they become less autonomous 

individuals than "character(s) i n search of an author of 
V, * » 6 4 

a page in search of a pen." 

As W i l l Ladislaw's metaphor indicates, female sexuality 

i s often i d e n t i f i e d with t e x t u a l i t y . There i s a discernible 

element of fear of the female body's power to a r t i c u l a t e 

i t s e l f . It i s far less f e a r f u l to think of the author/ 

creator as male and of the art object/creation as female. 

The c r i t i c Susan Gubar takes as a text which emblematizes 

the female sense of s e l f as text and a r t i f a c t , Isak 

Dinesen's short story, "The Blank Page."^ B r i e f l y the 

story t e l l s of an order of Carmelite nuns in a remote community 

of Portugal who grow f l a x to make fine l i n e n . The linen i s 

used by royal households for b r i d a l bed-sheets when princesses 

marry. After each wedding night the sheet i s displayed to 



2 7 

a t t e s t t h e b r i d e ' s v i r g i n i t y . T h e n t h e n u n s r e c l a i m i t , 

r e m o v e t h e c e n t r a l s t a i n e d a r e a o f t h e s h e e t , w h i c h t h e y t h e n 

f r a m e a n d h a n g i n a l o n g g a l l e r y , a l o n g w i t h name p l a t e s 

i d e n t i f y i n g t h e p r i n c e s s . Y o u n g w o m e n m a k e p i l g r i m a g e s t o 

t h e c o n v e n t t o s e e t h e s e " f a d e d m a r k i n g s , " f o r " e a c h s e p a r a t e 

c a n v a s w i t h i t s c o r o n e t e d name p l a t e h a s a s t o r y t o t e l l , a n d 

6 6 

e a c h h a s b e e n s e t u p i n l o y a l t y t o t h e s t o r y , " T h e m o s t 

f a s c i n a t i n g c a n v a s o f a l l h o w e v e r , i s t h e p u r e ' w h i t e , b l a n k 

s h e e t a f t e r w h i c h D i n e s e n n a m e s h e r s t o r y . 

T h e a r t o b j e c t s . i n " T h e B l a n k P a g e " h a v e l i t e r a l l y b e e n 

c r e a t e d b y t h e b o d i e s o f t h e r o y a l w o m e n , o u t o f t h e i r 

p r i v a t e l i v e s a n d t h e i r o t h e r w i s e m u t e e x i s t e n c e s . T h e 

" d e c o r a t i v e i m p e r a t i v e " w h i c h c o m p e l s s o m a n y women t o t u r n 

t h e m s e l v e s i n t o a e s t h e t i c o b j e c t s , h a s h e r e o b l i t e r a t e d a n y 

d i s t a n c e b e t w e e n l i f e a n d a r t . T h i s p o i n t s a g a i n t o t h e 

w o r k o f w r i t e r s l i k e C o l e t t e a n d A n a ' i s N i n w h o s e f o r m s o f 

e x p r e s s i o n a r e a l w a y s h i g h l y p e r s o n a l — t h e d i a r y , t h e l e t t e r , 

a n d a u t o b i o g r a p h i c a l f i c t i o n — a n d w h o c l e a r l y r e g a r d e d t h e i r 

l i v e s a s a r t f o r m s a n d t h e i r a r t a s l i f e f o r m s . 

W h e n women d o c o m e t o r e p r e s e n t t h e m s e l v e s i n f i c t i o n a l 

f o r m s , t h e y h a v e r a r e l y d o n e s o i n t h e f o r m o f a K i i n s t l e r r o m a n 

o r a r t i s t n o v e l . T h e r e a r e v e r y f e w f e m a l e e q u i v a l e n t s i n 

M o d e r n i s m o f P o r t r a i t o f t h e A r t i s t a s a Y o u n g M a n , a l t h o u g h 

t h e r e a l i s t i c A u s t r a l i a n w r i t e r s H e n r y H a n d e l R i c h a r d s o n 

a n d M i l e s F r a n k l i n , t h e A m e r i c a n W i l l a C a t h e r a n d t h e F r e n c h 

w r i t e r , C o l e t t e , h a v e a l l w r i t t e n n o v e l s w h i c h i n c o r p o r a t e 

6 7 t h i s i d e a . I t h a s m o r e o f t e n b e e n t h e c a s e , a s S h a r o n 



28 

S p e n c e r p o i n t s o u t , t h a t women " h a v e t u r n e d a w a y f r o m t h e 

r e p r e s e n t a t i o n i n f i c t i o n o f women l i k e t h e m s e l v e s , women 

w h o s e d e s i r e f o r s e l f - e x p r e s s i o n i s s o s t r o n g a n d s o 

6 8 

c o n s i s t e n t t h a t t h e y d e f i n e t h e m s e l v e s a s a r t i s t s . " 

I h a v e a l r e a d y d i s c u s s e d i n r e l a t i o n t o d i r e c t 

a u t o b i o g r a p h i c a l f o r m s , t h e p o s s i b l i t y t h a t w o m e n ' s a t t i t u d e s 

t o s e l f - d r a m a t i z a t i o n a n d s e l f - r e v e l a t i o n may b e q u i t e 

d i f f e r e n t t o t h o s e o f m a l e w r i t e r s . We h a v e s e e n , t o o , 

t h a t t h e woman w r i t e r may a l r e a d y s e e h e r s e l f a s a n a e s t h e t i c 

o b j e c t i n a m a l e t e x t , s o u n d e r m i n i n g h e r a u t h o r i t y t o c r e a t e 

h e r o w n . S o c i a l s t e r e o t y p e s w o u l d h a v e h e r a s s e l f - l e s s 

r a t h e r t h a n a s s e l f - e x p r e s s i v e . I d o n o t w i s h t o f a l l i n t o 

t h e t r a p , h o w e v e r , o f c r e a t i n g a n y f a l s e d i s t i n c t i o n s b e t w e e n 

m a l e a n d f e m a l e w r i t e r s . I am m o r e c o n c e r n e d t o e x p l o r e a 

r a n g e o f l i t e r a r y s t r a t e g i e s f o r s e l f - r e p r e s e n t a t i o n i n 

f i c t i o n d u r i n g t h i s p e r i o d b y b o t h men a n d women i n E n g l a n d 

a n d o n t h e C o n t i n e n t . My f o c u s w i l l b e n e v e r t h e l e s s o n 

t h r e e w o m e n : J e a n R h y s , G e r t r u d e S t e i n a n d D j u n a B a r n e s , 

f o r t w o r e a s o n s . P r i m a r i l y , I b e l i e v e t h a t t h e i n t e r e s t i n g 

w o r k d o n e i n a u t o b i o g r a p h i c a l f i c t i o n b y t h e s e t h r e e i n t h e 

1 9 2 0 ' s a n d 1 9 3 0 . ' s h a s y e t t o b e p r o p e r l y e v a l u a t e d . B e c a u s e 

t h e y w e r e w o m e n , a n d b e c a u s e M o d e r n i s m w a s d o m i n a t e d b y m a l e 

l u m i n a r i e s , t h e i r w o r k s e e m s t o h a v e e l u d e d t h e c r i t i c a l 

s c r u t i n y d e v o t e d t o w o r k s e s t a b l i s h e d a s t h e M o d e r n i s t c a n o n , 

h o w e v e r u n i n t e n t i o n a l l y , b y t h e l i k e s o f E d m u n d W i l s o n i n 
69 h i s p i o n e e r i n g s t u d y , A x e l ' s C a s t l e . B u t t h e r e i s a n o t h e r 

r e a s o n , a s i d e f r o m t h e i r b e i n g w o m e n , f o r t h e i r o m i s s i o n 



from the canon, and t h i s i s my second reason for taking them 

up. As I plan to show, Rhys, Stein and Barnes were writing 

autobiographical f i c t i o n s that were quite d i f f e r e n t from 

those being written by either men or women i n Modernism's 

f i r s t phase. The reasons for t h i s I have already alluded to: 

that each of them was writing from within a sub-culture at 

an even greater remove from mainstream, masculine, 

establishment Modernism than that of the "woman writer." 

Rhys l i v e d the h a l f - l i f e of the impoverished fringe a r t i s t , 

Gertrude Stein wrote from a p o s i t i o n of i n t e l l e c t u a l and 

imaginative androgyny and Barnes as a lesbian. A l l three 

l i v e d , during t h e i r most productive years, as writers and 

expatriates distanced from t h e i r native cultures and points 

of o r i g i n . From time to time each of them f e l t more an 

e x i l e than an expatriate. These factors w i l l have influenced 

what they wrote every b i t as much as t h e i r womanhood. 

The Female A e s t h e t i c i s t s 

To assess properly the work of Rhys, Stein and Barnes, 

and the d i f f e r e n t kinds of f i c t i o n a l s e l f - p o r t r a i t s they were 

to o f f e r , l e t us f i r s t consider the woman who are usually 

discussed by c r i t i c s as "female Modernists." 

One strand of female Modernism—and many take i t to be 

the only one because of the significance of the writers 

i h v o l v e d — E l a i n e Showalter has r i g h t l y grouped under the 

t i t l e — f e m a l e a e s t h e t i c i s t s : they key figures here are 
70 

Dorothy Richardson, Katherine Mansfield and V i r g i n i a Woolf. 

What i s the status of the female s e l f as a r t i s t , or simply 



30 

as person i n t h e i r works? Their f i c t i o n , Showalter argues 

"created a deliberate .female aesthetic, which transformed 

the feminine code of s e l f - s a c r i f i c e into an a n n i h i l a t i o n of 

the narrative s e l f . . . . T h e i r version of Modernism was a 

determined response to the material culture of male Edwardian 

novelists l i k e Arnold Bennett and H.G. Wells, but, l i k e D.H. 

Lawrence, the female a e s t h e t i c i s t s saw the world as mystically 

and t o t a l l y polarized by sex. For them, female s e n s i b i l i t y 

took on a sacred q u a l i t y , and i t s exercise became a holy, 
71 

exhausting and ultimately self-destructive r i t e . " (emphasis 

added) In t h e i r works women are rendered as inevitable 

victims because of t h e i r agonizing perceptiveness and s e l f 

doubt. This aesthetic v i s i o n i s at once impersonal and 

renunciatory: either way, self-denying. 

Dorothy Richardson, i t i s true, attempted a version of 

the " p o r t r a i t of the a r t i s t " novel i n her thirteen-volume 

sequence, Pilgrimage, whose f i r s t volume, Pointed Roofs, 
72 

appeared in 1915. Despite the c l a r i t y of her intention, 

to write a f i c t i o n a l study of the female a r t i s t ' s 

consciousness, I believe that she i s undermined by unclear 

and self-defeating ideas: f i r s t that women l i v e on a 

d i f f e r e n t plane of r e a l i t y from men; and secondly, that 

"shapelessness" i s woman's natural form of expression; 

"pattern," that i s , any adequate sense of narrative of 

other design i s suffocatingly masculine. Consequently the 

s e l f as represented in her work i s frequently paralyzed by 

"feminine impressionism," and constantly r i s k s "ego death 



3 1 

73 from the state of pure s e n s i b i l i t y . " This makes her s e l f 

p o r t r a i t as oblique and as "hidden" as any of the d i r e c t l y 

autobiographical women's writings discussed e a r l i e r . We 

f i n d t h i s to be the case as well in works by the other two 

"female a e s t h e t i c i s t s " as designated by Showalter. 

Katherine Mansfield, who at one stage pledged herself 

to recreating i n f i c t i o n the d i s t i l l e d essence of her New 

Zealand childhood, displays in her short s t o r i e s a s i m i l a r 

f a i l u r e of nerve when i t comes to representing her adult 
74 

a r t i s t s e l f in f i c t i o n . She sees women as either myth-

makers, dealing in essence and yearning for unity of s e l f 

through a kind of d i s s o l v i n g into nature, or as crippled 

observers of l i f e ' s incidental b r u t a l i t i e s ; frequently both. 

When one of the female characters approaches any new, 

transforming knowledge of herself, however, or any state 

approaching transcendence, she i s cut down. Beneath the 

dreamy aesthetic surface of domestic transfigurations 

which p r i n c i p a l l y occupy these characters, there i s a 

c e r t a i n sense of b i t t e r i n e v i t a b i l i t y and the same tendency 

as Richardson's text showed for the authorial s e l f to 

disappear into the work. 

V i r g i n i a Woolf i s perhaps the quintessential case of 

the woman a r t i s t writing herself out of existence i n her 

work. This formula i s an echo of Joyce's at the end of 

P o r t r a i t of the A r t i s t as a Young Man, where he talks about 

the a r t i s t " r e f i n i n g " himself out of existence i n his text; 

in Joyce's case, however, t h i s i s b l a t a n t l y untrue. L i l y 



32 

B r i s c o e i n T o t h e L i g h t h o u s e , i s , i t i s t r u e , a f u n c t i o n i n g 

a r t i s t . S h e d o e s n o t , we a r e l e d t o b e l i e v e p a i n t v e r y w e l l , 

h o w e v e r , a n d s h e y e a r n s n o t s i m p l y t o c a p t u r e M r s . R a m s a y o n 

c a n v a s , b u t t o be_ M r s . R a m s a y w h o , l i k e M r s . D a l l o w a y b e f o r e 

h e r , u s e s a l l h e r c r e a t i v e p o w e r s t o t r a n s f o r m d o m e s t i c i t y 

i n t o a r t — m e a l s , g e s t u r e s a n d a r r a n g e m e n t s o f f l o w e r s a n d 

p e o p l e . W h a t o f t h e " s e l f " i n t h e s e w o r k s ? C o n s c i o u s n e s s 

i n W o o l f ' s n o v e l s o p e r a t e s a t a l e v e l o f " m u l t i - p e r s o n a l 

s u b j e c t i v i t y " a s t h e c r i t i c J a m e s N a r e m o r e p u t s i t . T h e 

t e x t e m b o d i e s n o t o n e p e r s o n ' s e m o t i o n a l l i f e , b u t a 

t o t a l i t y o f t h e f e e l i n g s o f d i f f e r e n t c h a r a c t e r s . I t i s 

a c o m p o s i t e c o n s c i o u s n e s s , i n w h i c h t h e c h a r a c t e r s y e a r n 

f o r t h e d i s s o l v i n g , i f n o t e x t i n c t i o n o f p e r s o n a l i t y ; t o b e 

— a s o n e o f T o t h e L i g h t h o u s e ' s m o s t f a m o u s i m a g e s h a s i t — 

" s h r u n k , w i t h a s e n s e o f s o l e m n i t y , t o b e i n g o n e s e l f , a 

w e d g e - s h a p e d c o r e o f d a r k n e s s , s o m e t h i n g i n v i s i b l e t o 

o t h e r s . . . . 

T h e s e l f w i s h e s p a s s i o n a t e l y t o d i s s o l v e i n t o t h e 

" a n d r o g y n o u s m i n d , " t h e c o m m u n i t y o f f e e l i n g s , n a t u r e , o r 

a n y o n e o f n u m b e r s o f w a t e r i m a g e s W o o l f s u m m o n s t o e m b o d y 

t h i s s t a t e . A t i t s m o s t e x t r e m e , i n T h e W a v e s , t h e o n l y 

c l e a r l y d i s c e r n i b l e v o i c e ( t h e s i x c h a r a c t e r s a r e a l m o s t 

i n d i s t i n g u i s h a b l e e m a n a t i o n s r a t h e r t h a n i n d i v i d u a t e d 

s e l v e s ) a c t u a l l y b e l o n g s t o t h e w a v e s . J a m e s N a r e m o r e h a s 

c a l l e d t h e w o r l d o f V i r g i n i a W o o l f ' s f i c t i o n " A W o r l d W i t h o u t 

7 7 
A S e l f . " I t i s n o t e n t i r e l y t r u e t o s a y t h a t s h e i s n o t 

d i s c e r n i b l e i n h e r t e x t s ; b u t h e r p r e s e n c e i s h a u n t i n g , 



rather than c o n t r o l l i n g or focusing, as the "central 

consciousness" i n a novel by Henry James would be. V i r g i n i a 

Woolf's e s s e n t i a l s e l f , as embodied in her set of works, can 

only be defined n e g a t i v e l y — a s that shared dark realm which 

she believes we a l l have in common, and to which she admits 

her characters only in moments of hypnotic revelation. Hers 

i s an art based not only on the delicate recording of 

sensations and states of mind, but more fundamentally, on 

the tenuousnessof the recording s e l f , of i d e n t i t y and 

existence. 

Despite the great beauties and accomplishments of works 

by the "female a e s t h e t i c i s t s " , they unfortunately reinforce 

a number of c r i p p l i n g l i t e r a r y stereotypes for women: a 

mystical p a s s i v i t y , agonized perceptiveness leading to 

s u i c i d a l v u l n e r a b i l i t y and f l i g h t from the harsh material 

world. I t becomes clear why these women, at l e a s t , did not 

write themselves into t h e i r texts as a r t i s t figures in f u l l 

control of t h e i r l i v e s and t h e i r a r t . 

One woman who did was the French writer, Colette. She 

stands.vin r e l a t i o n to the female a e s t h e t i c i s t s of the English 

t r a d i t i o n much as Gide, in my e a r l i e r comments, did to Joyce 

and Lawrence. She was c e n t r a l l y concerned with the idea of 

self-representation i n f i c t i o n , but unlike Woolf, Richardson 

and Mansfield, expressed the power and pleasure of female 

consciousness with great confidence. Like Gide, she 

addressed e a r l i e r eras i n French l i t e r a t u r e , while ' u. 

simulataneously taking the novel, and the autobiographical 



novel in p a r t i c u l a r , onto new ground, beyond Modernism. 

It would be d i f f i c u l t and even undesirable to s l o t 

Colette neatly into a continuum of women writers such as 

Showalter's, not so much because of the French writer's 

subject matter, making her an exemplar of feminine 

s e n s i b i l i t y and perception, but because she wrote when she 

did, and at such a successful and independent tangent to 

mainstream l i t e r a r y culture in France. She l i v e d and wrote 

on the boundaries of s o c i a l and a r t i s t i c r e s p e c t a b i l i t y ; 

yet a time when the best-known of women writers in England 

portrayed themselves only in the most oblique fashion, 

Colette placed her own search for i d e n t i t y , the m u l t i p l i c i t y 

of ways t h i s might be captured in f i c t i o n , her sexuality and 

her profession as a writer, firmly at the centre of a l l she 

wrote. 

La Vagabonde of 1911 i s the study of a woman's discovery 

and affirmation of h e r s e l f , largely through an awakened sense 

of v o c a t i o n — w r i t i n g and stage performance—which provides 

her with an autonomy which love can only compromise or 
7 8 

destroy. Throughout the novel are images of s e l f - r e v e l a t i o n 

and self-representation, notably the mirror. When Renee, 

the protagonist, at the end of a t h e a t r i c a l performance i s 

l e f t alone to face the dressing room mirror, 
...je vais me trouver seule avec moi-meme, en 
face de cette c o n s e i l l e r e maquillee qui me 
regarde, de 1'autre cote de l a glace....J'ai 
devant moi, de 1'autre cote du m i r r o i r , dans 
l a mysterieuse chambre des r e f l e t s , 1'image 
'd'une femme de l e t t r e s qui a mal tournee.'79 



F o r R e n e e a s a w r i t e r , t h a t s a m e "femme d e l e t t r e s , " t h e 

w r i t i n g o n t h e p a g e c a n a l s o a c t a s a m i r r o r . 

. . . e c r i r e , c ' e s t s e f a c i l e ! . . . l a n c e r a t r a v e r s 
d e s p a g e s b l a n c h e s l ' e c r i t u r e r a p i d e , i r e g a l e 
q u ' i l c o m p a r e a mon v i s a g e m o b i l e , s u r m e n e p a r 
l ' e x c e s d ' e x p r e s s i o n . J ' e n e s p e r e u n s o u l a g e m e n t , 
c e t t e s o r t e d e s i l e n c e i n t e r i e u r q u i s u i t u n 
c r i , u n a v e u . . . 8 0 

T h e s e i m a g i s t i c r e f l e c t i o n s o f t h e h e r o i n e r e m i n d u s o f L a c a n ' s 

d i s c u s s i o n o f t h e " m i r r o r s t a g e " i n t h e p r o c e s s o f s e l f 

d i s c o v e r y a n d t h e " i d e n t i f i c a t i o n o f t h e s e l f t h r o u g h t h e 

8 1 

o t h e r n e s s o f t h e i m a g e . " F o r L a c a n , t h e r e f l e c t i o n i s t h e 

p a r a d o x i c a l s e l f / o t h e r a l i e n a t e d a t t h e m o m e n t o f i n c e p t i o n . 

I n t h e l a s t p a g e s o f L a V a g a b o n d e , w h e n R e n e e N e r e e d e c i d e s 

t h a t s h e w i l l r e f u s e t o s e e t h e w o r l d a n d h e r s e l f a s 

r e f l e c t i o n s i n h e r l o v e r ' s e y e s , s h e f o c u s s e s o n a n e p h e m e r a l 

a r r a n g e m e n t o f o b j e c t s , i n c l u d i n g a c h e v a l m i r r o r o n h e r 

w r i t i n g t a b l e . L a c a n w o u l d w e l l u n d e r s t a n d t h e p r i m o r d i a l 

r e l a t i o n C o l e t t e s e t s u p a t t h i s m o m e n t b e t w e e n t h e m i r r o r , 

t h e p o s s e s s i o n s w h i c h o b j e c t i f y t h e s e l f , t h e w o m a n w r i t e r 

h e r s e l f , a n d t h e l e t t e r s h e c o m p a r e s r e j e c t i n g h e r l o v e r 

a n d r e s t o r i n g h e r s e l f t o h e r s e l f . L a c a n w o u l d d e s c r i b e t h i s 

c o n f i g u r a t i o n o f e l e m e n t s a s o n e b a s e d o n l a n g u a g e r e s t o r i n g 

t h e " I " i t s f u n c t i o n as" s u b j e c t , h e r e a n a u t o n o m o u s f e m a l e 
8 2 

s u b j e c t , t h e " w o m a n w r i t e r . " 

L a N a i s s a n c e d u J o u r i s C o l e t t e ' s m o s t c o m p l e t e a n d y e t 

m o s t e l u s i v e s e l f - p o r t r a i t , a n e n i g m a t i c m i x t u r e o f 
8 3 

a u t o b i o g r a p h y a n d f i c t i o n . A r o u n d a f i c t i o n a l l o v e s t o r y 

a r e a r r a n g e d c o u n t l e s s a u t o b i o g r a p h i c a l d e t a i l s o f h e r r e a l 

l i f e i n t h e s o u t h o f F r a n c e i n t h e 1 9 2 0 ' s . A t t h e c e n t r e o f 



3 6 

the novel i s "Colette," a successful and professional writer 

in her middle years. Despite the d e l i c a t e l y manipulated 

elements of "tabulation" in the text, i t i s nevertheless 

primarily an exercise in s e l f - d e f i n i t i o n , as La Vagabonde 

had been seventeen years e a r l i e r . The novel's epigram i s 

Imaginez-vous, a* me l i r e , que je f a i s mon 
p o r t r a i t ? Patience: c'est seulement mon 
module. 8 4 

The text i s a " s e l f - r e f e r e n t i a l f i c t i o n , " autobiographical 
8 5 

in tone and content but not in form. 

In t h i s novel Colette acknowledges that she defines 

herself more and more in l i f e by remembering and imitating 

her mother. For t h i s woman writer then, the creation of 

the s e l f and the creation of the text merge in images of 

motherhood and creation, a r t i s t and text. Letters from the 

mother, Sido, to the daughter, Colette, reminding her of her 

o r i g i n s and her legacy, frequently are the text, and they 

are r e a l l e t t e r s . As Colette shares them with us, we are 

to understand that she i s showing us what she has become as 

the r e s u l t of Sido's nurturing and s e n s i b i l i t y . Helene 

Cixous has spoken of the woman writer's need l i t e r a l l y to 

"write herself," and t h i s i s what Colette i s doing h e r e . ^ 

In the character of Colette who i s also the daughter of the 

r e a l Sido, she i s inventing a f i g u r a t i v e textual s e l f , a 

l i v i n g f i c t i o n , and a projection of the r e a l s e l f i n writing, 

simultaneously a metaphor of the s e l f and an actual 

s e l f - p o r t r a i t . Thus, as her epigram indicated, she can use 

herself as a model, a metaphor for an exploration of female 



i d e n t i t y . This she does with a number of r e f l e x i v e forms 

t r a d i t i o n a l l y regarded as feminine: l e t t e r s , journals, the 
8 7 

e p i s t o l a r y novel and the inner dialogue. She put these 

conventions to work for her in quite u n t r a d i t i o n a l ways, 

however, using them for her characters' self-expression 

rather than the repression, the s i l e n c i n g and the s e l f -

abnegating of women characters in the hands of the English 

female a e s t h e t i c i s t s . And t h i s i s the l i n k I wish to draw 

between Colette and the women I go on to discuss—Rhys, 

Stein and Barnes. 

Just as Gide has shown with his hybrid forms in l i t e r a r y 

self-representation where the autobiographical novel w i l l go 

a f t e r Modernism, a f t e r the t r a d i t i o n a l " p o r t r a i t of the 

a r t i s t , " so Colette shows where female self-representation i n 

f i c t i o n can go a f t e r female aestheticism. Rhys, Stein and 

Barnes are examples in the English t r a d i t i o n of the woman 

writer, more common i n the 1930's than the 1920's, who i s 

newly empowered to go beyond the search for the "woman's 

sentence," to remake the language and structures of f i c t i o n 

so that i t might more adequately r e f l e c t t h e i r female 

experience, i f not that of a l l women, "while r e v i s i n g 

conventions so that female a r t i s t s might, as Stein put i t , 

'Reject' what was oppressive in t r a d i t i o n , [both female and 

male traditions] 'Rejoice' in what was possible for the 
8 8 

future, and 'Rejuvenate' what was stale in the present." 

Rhys, Stein and Barnes are such newly empowered women of the 

1930's writing in ways that could not receive mainstream 



38 

recognition, because they were r e j e c t i n g the touchstones of 

Modernism as i t flourished in the '20 's as inappropriate to 

t h e i r i d i o s y n c r a t i c needs. They rejected e s p e c i a l l y the 

precious and d e f e a t i s t works of the female a e s t h e t i c i s t s of 

the e a r l i e r decade. 

What did they do instead? Jean Rhys, in her urban 

European novels, takes up the female victim, but uses her J 

as the basis for a damning c r i t i q u e of the s o c i a l and sexual 

forces that made her a victim. She o f f e r s a Kafka-like 

expose from the female perspective of expatriate l i f e and of 

the bourgeois infrastructure beneath bohemian appearances. 

As an outsider, an expatriate from the Caribbean, both to 

Europe and and to the l i t e r a r y and moneyed e l i t e s of the day, 

she i s able to present a counter-vision: f i r s t , to the male 

Modernist mainstream, whose p o r t r a i t s of female consciousness 

she obviously considered misconceived and misrepresentative; 

and secondly, to the female a e s t h e t i c i s t t r a d i t i o n , which 

genuinely embraced female s e l f - a n n i h i l a t i o n as a f i c t i o n a l 

structure. One sees in her works, l i k e those of the t h i r t i e s ' 

male writers, the grim d e t a i l of survival on the fringes of 

the s o c i a l order, providing a c y n i c a l response to the female 

" l y r i c a l transcendence" writers l i k e Mansfield and Woolf. 

A l l was not f l u i d and b e a u t i f u l , she said. Much was ugly, 

uncontrollable and unignorable. She was concerned always 

with the horror behind the beauty, in a way in which the 

female aesthetics would not, or could not be. She i s a 

r a d i c a l and unique voice in the Modernist t r a d i t i o n , 



39 

pointing the way with her "ahead of i t s time" psycho-social 

s t y l e , to Nathalie Sarraute, Marguerite Duras, Renata Adler 
89 

and other contemporary Post-Modern writers. 

Gertrude Stein frequently declared herself one of the 

founders of the modern. During her l i f e - l o n g experiments 

with prose, she established new rules for the rendering of 

consciousness and the representation of s e l f . She sought 

to eliminate the psyche, the memory and the past and future 

tenses from a r t . She declared narrative meaningless, while 

continuing to turn fact into f i c t i o n . In her autobiography 

of 1934 she set about to w i l f u l l y "deconstruct" (her term) 

the form, providing herself with a cubist s e l f - p o r t r a i t , a 

multi-faceted, imaginative, unreliable record of her own 

"continuous present." In the process she reinterpreted the 

conventions of autobiography, turning herself into a work 

of art and her l i f e into a f i c t i o n . 

Underlying her s e l f - p o r t r a i t however, i s a f i e r c e l y 

androgynous consciousness, one which sought, paradoxically, 

the kind of ego-dominated a r t i s t i c control of a Proust, 

Joyce or Lawrence. In recording the d e t a i l s of her l i f e 

as a lesbian, she was forced to "do i t a l l with mirrors," 

or s h i f t i n g cubist planes; such information was not for 

public consumption in 1934. Therefore i t must become a 

cerebral joke. Metaphors must be found. The central comic 

metaphor i s of course that her autobiography masquerades as 

that of her lover, A l i c e B. Toklas. Nevertheless, the 

s e l f - p r o t e c t i v e exercise suited her a r t i s t i c p r i n c i p l e s 



40 

well. She wrote the only kind of autobiography she believed 

i s possible to write, and i n so doing, transformed the genre. 

In her late-modernist masterpiece, Nightwood, Djuna 

Barnes journeys metaphorically into the dark spaces of the 

female mind, s p e c i f i c a l l y , the lesbian mind. She i s concerned 

with the expressive p o s s i b i l i t i e s of poetic language as i t 

s i g n i f i e s for a woman at odds with her world. This woman i s , 

l i k e Rhys's protagonists, marginalized by poverty. Like . 

Stein, she i s a member of a sexual sub-culture which has no 

o f f i c i a l l i t e r a r y t r a d i t i o n . The narrative of the s e l f which 

she creates out of these l i f e circumstances explores with 

layers of r i c h night-world imagery, the s p i r i t u a l and 

aesthetic i d e a l of androgyny, and the f i n a l irrelevance of 

gender. 



P o r t r a i t 

Chapter Two 

of the A r t i s t in E x i l e 

When Jean Rhys came to write an autobiography 

acknowledged as such, her main problem, according to her 

f r i e n d and editor, Diana A t h i l l , was that most of her l i f e 

had been "used up" in her novels. "They were not 

autobiographical i n every detail...but autobiographical 

they were, and t h i s therapeutic function was the purging 

of unhappiness....Once something had been written out, she 

said, i t was done with and one should s t a r t again at the 
i „1 beginning. 

A solution to her problem was to adapt, as an 

autobiographical form, the style with which she had begun 

her writing c a r e e r — t h e vignette. In Smile Please: an 

unfinished autobiography, she attempts to "catch the past 

here and there, at points where i t happened to c r y s t a l l i s e 

l i n k i n g them i m p r e s s i o n i s t i c a l l y to form a kind of 
2 

"fragmentary continuation," an i n s t i n c t i v e whole. 

As Rhys commented herself i n an interview with the 

c r i t i c Thomas Staley on her methods as an a r t i s t , the 

autobiographical impulse in her writing was strong. "I 

always s t a r t with something I f e e l or something that 

happened and then i n the middle i t becomes something else. 
3 

I add and subtract." Her f i r s t concern as a writer, 

A t h i l l confirms, was to get experience down as accurately 

as possible. But "I l i k e shape very much," she said. So 



an i n s t i n c t i v e leaning towards the truth i n what she chose to 

write about was tempered by a highly developed sense of form. 

" . . . . I f the novel was going to work, then i t would soon s t a r t 
4 

to have i t s own shape." In her novels neither textual 

d e t a i l nor the often i n t r i c a t e arrangement of them took her 

very far from the experience of them. This i s not to diminish 

Rhys's formal achievement in writing out of her l i f e ' s 

experience. Nor i s i t , on the other hand, to accept the 

views of c r i t i c s who have included her i n a very l i m i t i n g 

category of f i c t i o n w r i t e r s — t h a t of the pathologically 

narrow autobiographical voice, compounded in i t s narrowness, 

i n these c r i t i c s ' eyes, by being female as well. Rhys does 

far more with her autobiographically based material than 

confess. 

In her acute re-reading of Good Morning, Midnight, 

Judith Kegan Gardiner describes Rhys as a "novelist of 

a l i e n a t i o n , " a female Kafka; her a l i e n a t i o n , however, 

according to Gardiner, i s s o c i a l l y determined—the s p e c i f i c 

h i s t o r i c a l r e s u l t of s o c i a l polarizations of the period in 
5 

which she wrote about sex, c l a s s , morality and race. 

Rhys's female protagonists are alienated from themselves--

and from society and others for the very s p e c i f i c reasons 

that they are female, sexually active and above a l l poor. 

Kegan Gardiner sees these women at the further disadvantage 

of being "misdefined by a language and l i t e r a r y heritage 

that belong primarily to propertied men." In other words, 

i f the Rhys woman i s a "chronic victim," she i s a v i c t i m of 



43 

the state of European society after World War One, and of the 

p o l a r i z a t i o n s within i t which worked to oppress women and the 

poor. This oppression was reinforced in Gardiner's view, by 

bourgeois and male domination of language and the' l i t e r a r y 

t r a d i t i o n . I believe that Rhys was f u l l y aware of t h i s and 

that her f i c t i o n s are indictments. 

This feminist reading of Rhys considers the most . , 

r a d i c a l l y o r i g i n a l aspects of her "autobiographical f i c t i o n s " 

as a r a d i c a l c r i t i q u e of the hypocrisies and imbalances of 

sex, money and morality as they determine l i v e s , p a r t i c u l a r l y 

women's l i v e s . Unlike the female a e s t h e t i c i s t s Woolf and 

Mansfield, Rhys never occupied the f i n a n c i a l , class or 

c u l t u r a l p o s i t i o n to "transcend" the l i m i t a t i o n s of ordinary 

l i f e . The "bourgeois p o l a r i z a t i o n s " which Gardiner accurately 

i d e n t i f i e s can induce i n t h e i r victims a passive despair 

which i s i r o n i c a l l y compliant to the status quo. But t h i s 

too can be seen as an indictment of the paralyzing e f f e c t s 

of poverty and depression. There i s another element at work 

in Rhys'o f i c t i o n which suggests the comparison with Kafka 

made e a r l i e r ; i t i s a quality of e x i s t e n t i a l despair that i s 

not e n t i r e l y s o c i a l l y determined and only p a r t l y the r e s u l t 

of s o c i a l defeat, a l i e n a t i o n and e x i l e of various kinds. 

This underlying and unremitting bleakness bears l i t t l e 

r e l a t i o n to the disengaged ironies t y p i c a l of the male 

Modernist writers. In every novel of Rhys' her female 

characters reach e x i s t e n t i a l impasse when t h e i r l i v e s 

collapse into long-anticipated disorder and f u t i l i t y . At 



t h i s point, there i s no question either of redemption by 

l y r i c a l transcendence as Woolf o r .Mansfield would have i t . 

The Caribbean 

If the major focus of Rhys' f i c t i o n i s what i t i s l i k e 

to be a woman in Europe in the period between the wars, then 

the s e n s i b i l i t y with which she perceived and recorded t h i s 

was formed i n an e n t i r e l y d i f f e r e n t place and time. The 

Caribbean, where she spent her f i r s t sixteen years, had l e f t 

i t s mark. Her f i r s t sense of what i t i s to be a woman was 

formed here. In an already oppressively closed white 

minority culture, women in Dominica in the f i r s t twenty 

years of the century were expected to l i v e the l i v e s of 

V i c t o r i a n hot-house flowers. They were to be passive and 

domestic, possessed and provided f o r . Reminiscent of the 

women of another slave-based c o l o n i a l c u l t u r e — t h e Old 

South of the United States—well-bred Dominican women were 
7 

bored, ornamental and u n s k i l l e d at anything but g e n t i l i t y . 

Although they formed an intensely sheltered and p r i v i l e g e d 

group, these women were in c e r t a i n respects as much victims 

of t h e i r circumstances as the native slave population. 

Authority in t h i s c o l o n i a l culture rested firmly in the 

hands of English male conservative forces. Their power 

managed to contain i n both groups--women and n a t i v e s — a 

p o t e n t i a l l y r e b e l l i o u s , sensual "female" element, kept 

largely in check by the force of English convention, even 

in the t r o p i c s , and sheer economic dominance. These two 

elements of her native c u l t u r e — c o n v e n t i o n and money as 



determinants of power—Rhys recognized early in her l i f e , and 

went on to despise and expose them in her f i c t i o n . As in 

much V i c t o r i a n f i c t i o n , however, the power structures endure; 

s e l f awareness merely cripples her women, who for a variety 

of disabling reasons, continue to be complicit victims who 

give every impression of allowing t h e i r oppressors to determine 

t h e i r well-being. 

The idea of power, what determines i t and how i t i s used, 

c l e a r l y seized Jean Rhys early in l i f e . Her f i r s t exposure 

to formalized power was i n the ambivalent race r e l a t i o n s she 

saw around her as a c h i l d in Dominica. She remembers being 

uneasy with her automatic authority over black servants, and 

at the same time mesmerized by t h e i r arrogance and sensuality, 

t h e i r subtle ways of avoiding submission while appearing to 
g 

do as they were t o l d . The l i f e force seemed to invest them 

with mystery and danger, though they l i v e d as servants and 

underdogs. Rhys appreciated t h e i r i n s t i n c t s for s k i r t i n g 

humiliation, and as a fellow-outsider to the power structure, 

at least by temperament, she i d e n t i f i e d with t h i s s t r a i n in 

her native culture, and appears to have been s i g n i f i c a n t l y 

formed by i t . Several of her women characters in f i c t i o n a l 

Caribbean settings are struck and frightened by that source 

of demonic energy for the natives—obeah—which provided them 

with an authentic source of power and a separate white-

defying code connecting them with the l i v i n g dead, curses, 
9 

potions to a f f e c t love or death and nocturnal soucriants. 

Despite the sympathy the white Rhys woman, l i k e her creator, 

f e e l s for the b l a c k s — o f t e n a longing to be black and to 



renounce the structures of an inauthentic r u l i n g c l a s s , the 

natives w i l l not have her. So the Rhys woman i s at a t h i r d 

remove from the polarized elements in the culture she was 

born to. 

So Rhys took from her Caribbean childhood as l i f e 

concerns the nature of power, the experience of the underdog 

and a loathing for the self-perpetuating strategies of the 

middle c l a s s — p r i n c i p a l l y the English middle c l a s s — w h i c h 

maintained these structures for power. It i s not surprising 

then that she both saw and sought out the underdog wherever 

she went. In Paris, which she saw as a kind of s p i r i t u a l 

home, her f i c t i o n led her i n s t i n c t i v e l y toward a long 

l i t e r a r y t r a d i t i o n i n France which originated i n the 

"demi-monde"--the shadowy periphery of the respectable world, 

one of kept women, the criminal fringe, starving a r t i s t s 

and students, hangers-on and strays. In English one of 

the few clear examples of t h i s kind of writing i s George 

Orwell's Down and Out in Paris and London and though his 

submersion i n t h i s world of hunger and doss-houses i s 

undeniably authentic, i t i s also an i n t e l l e c t u a l experiment; 

t h i s i s not his natural or inevitable milieu.1'"' It i s 

i n t e r e s t i n g to note that in her perception of r e a l i t y Rhys 

might have more in common with late Modernist male writers 

l i k e Orwell, Huxley and Graham Greene than with her female 

peers, Woolf and Mansfield. 

Like no other English writer, Rhys takes up the French 

t r a d i t i o n , in both her style and content, of drawing a 



psychological p o r t a i t of t h i s underworld from within i t . 

There are traces of Colette, Flaubert and de Maupassant in 

her s t y l e , but the psychological veracity with which she 

speaks l i n k s her more profoundly with Francois V i l l o n and . 

his descendants, the symbolist poets—Baudelaire, Rimbaud 

and Verlaine. Rhys' l i n k to t h i s t r a d i t i o n i s undoubtedly 

the French poet, novelist and c r i t i c . Francis Carco, 

whose novel of the French criminal underworld, Perversite, 

Ford Madox Ford arranged for her to translate into English 

in 1927-28. Despite the fact that the book l a t e r appeared 

with Ford credited as the t r a n s l a t o r , his biographer 

v e r i f i e s that the t r a n s l a t i o n was Rhys' work."'""'" Carco had 

written at length on V i l l o n and the symbolists, and t h e i r 

preoccupation with the morally outcast i s evident in his 

novel. Many of Rhys' concerns are there, too. It was a 

very appropriate novel for her to translate, and no doubt 

influenced and confirmed the world view she took to her ear 

short stories and novels. Carco's novel i s the sordid f i n a 

act in the l i f e of an aging French p r o s t i t u t e , Irma, her 

thuggish pimp boyfriend, Bebert,and her simpleton brother, 

Emile. Bebert tyrannizes the other two into submission by 
s 

i n c i d e n t a l acts of b r u t a l i t y , usually at Emile's expense. 

The woman becomes addicted to the mistreatment, continues 

to hand over a l l her money to her increasingly absent lover 

and i s powerless to intervene when Bebert s a d i s t i c a l l y 

wounds Emile in a knife attack. Eebert's f i n a l v i c t o r y 

comes when Emile k i l l s his s i s t e r , perhaps a c c i d e n t a l l y , 



4 8 

with the gun he had intended to use to murder his tormentor. 

Pehaps he intended to end his s i s t e r ' s degradation. 

Perversite f i n e l y explores the sadomasochistic elements of 

love which were often to preoccupy Jean Rhys and her characters. 

"Is love no more the wish to torment another?" one of Carco's 

characters asks. 

Carco's work l i n k s Rhys, as well, with another major 

French t r a d i t i o n — e x i s t e n t i a l i s m . Carco focuses in his work, 

as did V i l l o n before him, on his characters' primitive 

preoccupation with survival in the p r e s e n t — a room, food, 

warmth, s e x — o r the l i t t l e of these available to a s o c i a l l y 

displaced person. Both Carco and Rhys would t e l l us that 

economics determine r e s p e c t a b i l i t y . Those without money 

l i v e from moment to moment. In t h i s , one i s reminded of 

l a t e r French writers of the e x i s t e n t i a l school—Camus in 

L'Etranger and more p r e c i s e l y , i n connection with Rhys, 

Marguerite Duras, who in Le Ravissement de Lol V. Stein, 

has her female protagonist survive with a drugged resignation 
13 

reminiscent of the Rhys woman. 

There i s always in Rhys, however, at least early in 

the novels before her women characters are f i n a l l y defeated, 

a redemptive trace of her other major French influence, 

Colette, who also created highly polished selective mosaics 

based on l i f e . Colette and Rhys the most sordid of 

rooms and the worst despair, can be redeemed momentarily, 

and transformed by the aesthetic perception of o b j e c t s — a 

s i l k dress hanging behind a door, the way l i g h t f a l l s on a 



4 9 

table, a vase of cheap flowers, a glimpse of tree or street. 

They share a saving grace for o b j e c t i f i c a t i o n of the s e l f 

when i t i s in danger of being extinguished. 

Expatriation 

The perspective which Rhys took with her to England was 

a Caribbean one. But her West Indian childhood and 

adolescence had not equipped her for adulthood in Europe. 

She was unsuited for survival there in very s p e c i f i c ways. 

She had been raised e s s e n t i a l l y as a V i c t o r i a n woman. When 

she found herself alone i n England at 16 without any of the 

t r a d i t i o n a l supports for women--family, money or s k i l l , she 

quickly slipped into a declasse existence. Despite the years 

of hand to mouth l i v i n g which followed, the legacy of 

"unpreparedness" in her background did provide her, when she 

began to write, with an exotic perceptual slant. I t reminds 

us of the angle of Orwell's v i s i o n of England a f t e r his 

a l i e n a t i n g c o l o n i a l experience. For Rhys t h i s slanted 

v i s i o n often provided, in her writing, a point of departure 

or rupture in her observation of the apparently seamless 

status quo,in England e s p e c i a l l y . Rhys' f i c t i o n i s i m p l i c i t l y 

subversive i n that i t involves a perception of human a f f a i r s 

and attitudes to l i f e that i s at odds with urban European 

society, i t s unwritten laws, s o c i a l hierarchies and moral 

codes. It i s i n content.rather than form that Rhys writes 

at a tangent to her male and female Modernist l i t e r a r y 

counterparts. Her connections to the s o c i a l c r i t i c i s m novels 



o f t h e 1 9 3 0 ' s a r e m u c h s t r o n g e r . I t i s a p i t y t h a t h e r 

l i t e r a r y r e p u t a t i o n s e e m s t o h a v e b e e n l o s t b e t w e e n t h e 

g e n e r a t i o n s . 

I n h e r m o s t p o w e r f u l a n d ; a c c o m p l i s h e d n o v e l , W i d e 

S a r g a s s o S e a , w h i c h i s s e t a l m o s t e n t i r e l y i n t h e W e s t 

I n d i e s , s h e r e t u r n s t o t h e s e t t i n g o f h e r c h i l d h o o d a n d t h e 

f o r c e s w h i c h f o r m e d h e r s e n s i b i l i t y , t o c o n f r o n t w i t h 

m a t u r i t y t h e " t e r r i f i e d c o n s c i o u s n e s s " o n e c r i t i c a s c r i b e d 

1 5 

t o t h e c u l t u r e t h e r e . I t i s t h i s c o n s c i o u s n e s s w h i c h 

u n d e r l i e s b o t h h e r p o w e r a s a n o v e l i s t a n d h e r d i f f e r e n c e 

f r o m o t h e r men a n d women w r i t i n g a t t h e s a m e t i m e . I n t h i s 

l a s t w o r k , s h e s u c c e e d s i n i n t e g r a t i n g a l l o f h e r f i c t i o n a l 

c a u s e s a n d i n p r o v i d i n g t h e m o s t r a d i c a l , t h o r o u g h a n d 

u n i v e r s a l o f a l l h e r c r i t i q u e s o f h u m a n a f f a i r s . 

A u t o b i o g r a p h i c a l F i c t i o n s 

C h a r a c t e r 

T h e c e n t r a l c r e a t i o n o f R h y s ' f i c t i o n i s , t o v a r y i n g 

d e g r e e s a d i s t i l l e d s e l f - p o r t r a i t i n t h e e x p r e s s i o n i s t 

s t y l e . ^ T h e R h y s h e r o i n e e x i s t s i n P a r i s , L o n d o n o r V i e n n a 

a l o n e e x c e p t w h e n s u p p o r t e d b y l o v e r s , u t t e r l y a t t h e m e r c y 

o f men a n d c i r c u m s t a n c e s f o r p a t r o n a g e . S h e m o v e s f r o m ; 

h o t e l t o h o t e l r o o m , l o v e r t o l o v e r , w i t h d i m i n i s h i n g 

r e s o u r c e s , t h e s e l f a l i t t l e f u r t h e r e x t i n g u i s h e d w i t h e a c h 

s h i f t . S h e w o r k s a s a c h o r u s g i r l , m a n n e q u i n , g u i d e a n d 

E n g l i s h t e a c h e r f o r s h o r t p e r i o d s u n t i l h e r u n s u i t a b i l i t y 

i s e x p o s e d . H e r m i n i m a l e x i s t e n c e i s r e d u c e d t o m a n , m o n e y , 



51 

drink and sleep, the simple aesthetics of a room or a new 

dress. These women in Rhys' novels "share a central nervous 
17 

system." There i s r e a l l y only one woman. She i s the single 

urban woman who has nothing and f i t s nowhere. She does not 

f i g h t for s u r v i v a l , but simply to keep herself together. 

The most she hopes for i s stalemate. She i s e s s e n t i a l l y 

dispossessed and consistently denied. She i s an e x i l e several 

times over as an impoverished foreigner, aging and apparently 

t a l e n t l e s s . "The society i s closed: the i s o l a t i o n of the 
expatriate, the woman, the outsider, i s complete; she exists 

18 
i n a void." She i s a sexual creature and her only currency 

i s her looks. Her l i f e prospects depend on money and sex and 

both diminish as she ages. Both desert the Rhys woman when 

she needs them most, leaving her vulnerable and unarmed. As 

one c r i t i c has observed, [she is] slowly driven out of [her] 

wits by the harshness and unnaturalness of the world...and 
19 

men who are ' s p o i l e r s ' . . . i n an unequal war." Such men are 

portrayed as bourgeois p h i l i s t i n e s , and the Rhys heroine i s 

constantly coming up against them in her love a f f a i r s . 

Relationships between these characters in her novels are 

c h i l l i n g sexual and f i n a n c i a l transactions, each one costing 

the heroine more of her innocence and sanity. She i s often 

reduced to trading a moment of warmth or sex for dinner, 

a room or p a t h e t i c a l l y needed cash. 

Essential to Rhys' powerful s o c i a l c r i t i q u e i s t h i s 

expose of the connections between sex and money: i t 

underlies a l l her p o r t r a i t s of emotional e x p l o i t a t i o n . 



Power i n society Rhys sees as e s s e n t i a l l y masculine. Society 

she sees as set up to conceal and f a c i l i t a t e the m u l t i p l i c i t y 

of subtle ways in which money enslaves. Her novels are 

studies i n subjection--either the manipulation of innocence 

or p a s s i v i t y , the controlled witholding of love or money (or 

both), and the subjugation of victims of sexual obsession. 

The Rhys woman i s however, no simple victim. She understands 

her enemies too well. "Victims are necessary," says Marya 

i n Quartet "so that the strong may exercise t h e i r w i l l and 
20 

become more strong." Rhys does not often t e l l us that the 

strong ever discover that cruelty i s inherent in p r i v i l e g e . 

Respectability, from which the Rhys heroine i s excluded, 

she both despises and craves. She wants to rebel against i t 

and i s at the same time helpless in the face of i t . The 

psychological state that t h i s inevitably produces o s c i l l a t e s 

between rage and despair. She i s free of these only when 

she i s resigned to hopelessness, and f e e l s that she has 

nothing further to lose. At other times she drinks or sleeps 

to escape consciousness. 

She i s a victim of t i m e — o f age and fading looks, and 

of e x i l e whever she goes. But she i s a strangely complicit 

victim. There i s a perversity in her compliant p a s s i v i t y , 

which almost puts her i n league with her oppressors to ruin 

her. Sometimes the Rhys woman almost courts our disgust in 

her apparent willingness to be mutilated; i t i s as though 

the author wishes to make clear i n t h i s , that sympathy for 

the underdog can be cheap, a f a c i l e reader response. Rhys 



53 

i s interested in e l i c i t i n g a far more r a d i c a l awareness in 

her reader than that. And t h i s i s where her stature as a 

writer of a l i e n a t i o n draws close to Kafka. "To be wretched 

to the very roots of existence and yet to be coolheaded, 
2 1 

watching the wretchedness, i s the fate of these women." 

Every tortuous d e t a i l of t h e i r suffering—hunger, abandonment, 

sordidness and nightmare i s drawn with a c h i l l i n g precision 

and lack of sentimentality. Lovers are interchangeable in 

t h e i r inadequacy and casual b r u t a l i t y ; a l l of the rooms are 

the same shabby prison. The woman i s always haunted by her 

past, often a dead c h i l d and a f a i l e d marriage. When times 

are good, the woman i s dressed in a fur coat, many times 

pawned and recovered, the l a s t trace of a temporary former 

affluence. The woman i s an e x i l e from l i f e , at a loose end 

i n Europe, broke, aging and alone. This i s the underdog 

Rhys created out of her experience. 

Vignette 

Although childhood and adolescence i n Dominica did not 

equip Jean Rhys for womanhood i n Europe, i t provided her 

with the r e b e l l i o u s force needed to "expatriate" h e r s e l f , 

and to try to focus her l i f e in Europe once she was there. 

From her e a r l i e s t vignettes i n The Left Bank, however, i t 

i s clear that she was unable to avoid using the West Indies 
2 2 

as a f i c t i o n a l counterpoint to her new landscape. One of 

these fragments, "Trio," describes a moment of homesickness 

in a Montparnasse cafe-, as her Dominican narrator glimpses 

three A n t i l l e s natives at another table. They inadvertently 



54 

break free of the restaurant code of behaviour with t h e i r 
23 

"noise" and "gusto," t h e i r pleasure and innocent unconcern 

in eating and t a l k i n g . The moment turns into one of exotic 

license-taking when one of them, a young g i r l , b e a u t i f u l l y 

naked beneath a red dress, begins to dance 1alone and excited 

in the restaurant. It i s t h i s moment of l i b e r t y and 

sensuality which forces the Rhys narrator to recognize her 

"compatriots" on foreign s o i l . Another vignette, "Mixing 

Cocktails," records the progress of a day in a young g i r l ' s 

melancholy and dreamy Dominican childhood. It i s set in the 

mountains, a refuge from the heat. The c h i l d peers down at 

the v a l l e y s , the jungle and the .sea through a telescope set 

on the verandah. She passionately resents any interruption 

to her day-dreaming and her observation of t h i s "wild place, 

Dominica, savage and l o s t : " ^ 
So soon does one learn the b i t t e r lesson that 
humanity i s never content just to d i f f e r from 
you and l e t i t go at that. Never. They must 
i n t e r f e r e , a c t i v e l y and grimly between your 
thoughts and yourself with the passionate wish 
to l e v e l up everything and everybody. (p. 89) 

This w i l l provide almost a paradigm for female consciousness 

in the l a t e r Rhys f i c t i o n , as i t struggles to survive with 

i t s own gentle, a l i e n equilibrium in d i f f e r e n t climates from 

i t s own. She does, even as a c h i l d however, mix a good 

cocktail--her one successful s o c i a l gesture, at the end of 

a hot and languid West Indian day. It i s "something I can 

do" (p. 92). 

"Again the A n t i l l e s , " the t h i r d of the Caribbean 

vignettes in The Left Bank, t e l l s of a public argument 



b e t w e e n a b l a c k n e w s p a p e r e d i t o r i n D o m i n i c a a n d a w h i t e 

p l a n t a t i o n o w n e r . T h e i r f e u d i s c o n d u c t e d i n l e t t e r s t o t h e 

n e w s p a p e r , a n d i s u l t i m a t e l y t o d o w i t h " t h e c o n d u c t o f a n 

E n g l i s h g e n t l e m a n " a s e s t a b l i s h e d i n t h e w o r k s o f S h a k e s p e a r e 

2 5 

a n d C h a u c e r a n d t h e n t r a n s p o r t e d t o t h e W e s t I n d i e s . A t 

o n e s t a g e t h e w o r d s " t h e i g n o r a n t o f a n o t h e r r a c e a n d c o l o u r " 

a r e d i s c r e e t l y s u b s t i t u t e d b y t h e e d i t o r f o r " d a m n n i g g e r s " 

( p p . 9 6 - 9 7 ) . T h e s t o r y i s o f c o u r s e a b o u t t h e p o w e r o f t h e 

E n g l i s h i n D o m i n i c a w i t h t h e f u l l w e i g h t o f l i t e r a t u r e b e h i n d 

i t . 

W h a t t h e s e t h r e e f r a g m e n t s — j u v e n i l i a r e a l l y — s h o w u s 

a b o u t J e a n R h y s ' e a r l y e x p a t r i a t e w r i t i n g c a n b e s u m m e d u p 

a s f o l l o w s : a t a r e m o v e f r o m D o m i n i c a s h e o f t e n u n e x p e c t e d l y 

r e m e m b e r s a n d m i s s e s i n a c o m p l e x w a y t h e b l a c k s p i r i t i n t h e 

W e s t I n d i e s , t h o u g h t e c h n i c a l l y s h e w a s p a r t o f a c l a s s t h a t 

e x e r c i s e d p o w e r o v e r i t a n d d e f i n e d i t s e l f a g a i n s t i t . T h e s e 

m o m e n t s l e a v e h e r e x p o s e d a n d v u l n e r a b l e i n a c h i l l i n g w h i t e 

c u l t u r e . " M i x i n g C o c k t a i l s " t e l l s u s o f t h e f o r m a t i o n o f 

a f e m a l e c o n s c i o u s n e s s i n i s o l a t i o n , e v e n o n h o m e g r o u n d . T h e 

m a t u r e w r i t e r , w h o w i l l l a t e r f o c u s m o s t c l e a r l y o n t h o s e 

t h i n g s i n p e o p l e w h i c h s e p a r a t e a n d d r i v e a p a r t , w a s f o r m e d 

i n p e c u l i a r , h i g h l y - c h a r g e d s e c l u s i o n , o b s e s s e d w i t h t h e 

b e a u t i f u l b u t e q u a l l y t r e a c h e r o u s D o m i n i c a n l a n d s c a p e . J u d i t h 

T h u r m a n i n a 1 9 7 6 a r t i c l e c o m m e n t s t h a t t h e r e i s i n R h y s ' 

f i c t i o n " a y e a r n i n g . . . f o r a l o s t w a r m t h , f o r a p l a c e w h e r e 
2 6 e v e r y t h i n g i s b r i g h t n e s s o r d a r k . " T h e p o l a r i t i e s o f t h e 

p l a c e — " b r i g h t " a n d " d a r k , " s e n s u a l a n d r e p r e s s i v e , . a. 



56 

t a n t a l i z i n g and claustrophobic, sent Rhys to England, but 

these p o l a r i t i e s remained with her. 

Voyage i n the Dark 

In her 1934 novel Voyage in the Dark, Rhys deals with 

her t r a n s i t i o n from one world to another, the Caribbean to 

Europe; the book's central image i s the l i t e r a l voyage from 

one to the other and the two-way voyage of memory between 
27 

them. In a hauntingly autobiographical narrative, Rhys 

places her heroine, Anna Morgan, a young woman of indeterminate 

s o c i a l background, in England in 1912. She leads a makeshift 

existence as chorus g i r l in down-at-heel touring companies. 

She has been orphaned and brought to England two years e a r l i e r 

by her step-mother. She i s picked up on the pier at Southsea 

by Walter J e f f r i e s , a moneyed older man, who l a t e r meets and 

seduces her in London. He looks a f t e r her when she i s i l l 

and reduced, and she f a l l s in love with him. After a year, 

Walter t i r e s of the a f f a i r and ends i t with a cheque. 

Abandoned, Anna.breaks down and begins to d r i f t , accepting 

money for sex from various men and f i n a l l y becoming pregnant. 

Uncertain of the father, she begs Walter for money to pay 

for an abortion. The novel ends with Anna's near death as 

the r e s u l t of the operation, and her b i t t e r sense that 

another, more informed beginning i s now possible. 

Louis James i n his essay, "The Caribbean i n a Cold 

Place," observes that Rhys' characters are r a r e l y at rest 

in the physical present wherever i t i s . "The immediate 

exists as part of the remembered past, the past as part of 



57 
2 8 the present." In t h i s novel she uses e x i l e and memory in 

very s p e c i f i c ways to interpret the present place and time--

that i s , pre-World War I London. Memory images of Dominica 

and Anna's childhood there, operate l i k e photographs or 

cinematic s t i l l s interspersed among London scenes, undercutting 

and counter-pointing them. Details of the West Indies are 

sharp and sensuous, accumulating meaning and resonance 

throughout the text. They have the e f f e c t rupturing the power 

of the present over Anna. 

Rhys has her narrative design rest on the impossible 

p o l a r i t y in Anna's mind of these two worlds, and of the 

states of mind each requires. In the c o n f l i c t which follows 

one place serves only to disrupt and d i s t o r t the other. 

The novel begins with the break with the e a r l i e r world and 

time in Anna's l i f e and the a l i e n a t i o n that such a r a d i c a l 

s h i f t produces: 

I t was as i f a curtain had f a l l e n , hiding 
everything I had ever known; It was almost 
l i k e being born again. The colors were 
d i f f e r e n t , the smells d i f f e r e n t , the feelings 
things gave you right down inside yourself 
was d i f f e r e n t . Not just the difference between 
heat, cold; l i g h t , darkness; purple, grey. 
But a difference in the way I was frightened 
and the way I was happy.29 

From the f i r s t there i s a r a d i c a l perceptual difference in 

her appreciation of the two countries. Dominica i s in her 

mind, i n high focus, in bright sun-light. "...the sea 

was m i l l i o n s of spangles...purple as Tyre" (pp. 7-8). She 

can s t i l l smell the place--"...niggers and woodsmoke and 



58 

s a l t f i s h c a k e s f r i e d i n l a r d . . . f r a g i p a n n i a n d l i m e j u i c e . . . 

c i n n a m o n . . . c l o v e s . . . a n d i n c e n s e " ( p . 8 ) . E n g l a n d i s p a l e 

a n d m e a n b y c o m p a r i s o n : 

- - t h i s i s L o n d o n — h u n d r e d s o f t h o u s a n d s o f w h i t e 
p e o p l e w h i t e p e o p l e r u s h i n g a l o n g a n d t h e d a r k 
h o u s e s a l l a l i k e f r o w n i n g d o w n o n e a f t e r t h e 
o t h e r a l l a l i k e a l l s t u c k t o g e t h e r — t h e s t r e e t s 
l i k e s m o o t h s h u t i n r a v i n e s a n d t h e d a r k h o u s e s 
f r o w n d o w n — o h I ' m n o t g o i n g t o l i k e t h i s p l a c e , 
( p . 7) 

M o r e s i g n i f i c a n t , e v e n t h a n t h e b r u t a l c o n t r a s t s b e t w e e n 

t h e t w o p l a c e s i s A n n a ' s c o m p l e t e i n a b i l i t y t o i n t e g r a t e t h e m 

i n a n y w a y , t o c o n t a i n t h e m b o t h i n h e r e x p e r i e n c e . 

" S o m e t i m e s i t w a s a s i f I w e r e b a c k t h e r e a n d a s i f E n g l a n d 

w e r e a d r e a m . A t o t h e r t i m e s E n g l a n d w a s t h e r e a l t h i n g 

a n d o u t t h e r e w a s t h e d r e a m , b u t I c o u l d n e v e r f i t t h e m 

t o g e t h e r " ( p . 8 ) . A t t h e m e r c y o f t h e s e t w o i r r e c o n c i l a b l e 

f o r c e s , a n d d e e p l y a l i e n a t e d f r o m h e r p r e s e n t e n v i r o n m e n t , 

A n n a f a l l s i n t o h e r f i r s t l o v e a f f a i r w i t h a n u t t e r l y 

c o n v e n t i o n a l s p e c i m e n f r o m t h e a l i e n c u l t u r e — W a l t e r J e f f r i e s . 

A n n a i n h e r y o u t h a n d i n e x p e r i e n c e i s s i m p l y g r a t e f u l f o r t h e 

s u b s t a n c e h i s r e s p e c t a b i l i t y a n d c o n c e r n s e e m s t o o f f e r . 

S h e e x p e r i e n c e s o n l y m o m e n t a r y c o n f u s i o n w h e n h e b e g i n s 

d i s c r e e t l y , t o p a y h e r f o r s l e e p i n g w i t h h i m . S h e a c c e p t s 

i t a s a k i n d n e s s o r t h e s t y l e h e r e . I t i s p r i n c i p a l l y a b o u t 

t h e s u b t l e p o w e r s o f m o n e y t h a t s h e l e a r n s a s t h e l o v e 

a f f a i r p r o g r e s s e s . F o r o n e t h i n g s h e g e t s u s e d t o a c c e p t i n g 

i t , c o m e s t o d e p e n d o n i t , a n d s e e s f o r t h e f i r s t t i m e t h a t 

s e x a n d m o n e y a r e i n t i m a t e l y c o n n e c t e d . S h e b e g i n s t o l e a r n 

t o o a b o u t t h e i n e x o r a b l e s o c i a l l a w s o f w e a l t h a n d p o v e r t y : 



59 

" T h e p o o r d o t h i s a n d t h e r i c h d o t h a t , t h e w o r l d i s s o - a n d -

s o a n d n o t h i n g c a n c h a n g e i t . F o r e v e r a n d f o r e v e r t u r n i n g 

a n d n o t h i n g , n o t h i n g c a n c h a n g e i t " ( p . 4 3 ) . O n e o f A n n a ' s 

h a r d - n o s e d c h o r u s g i r l f r i e n d s p u t s i t m o r e c y n i c a l l y : 

. . . h a v e y o u e v e r t h o u g h t t h a t a g i r l ' s c l o t h e s 
c o s t m o r e t h a n t h e g i r l i n s i d e t h e m ? . . . Y o u 
c a n g e t a v e r y n i c e g i r l f o r f i v e p o u n d s , a v e r y 
n i c e g i r l i n d e e d ; y o u c a n e v e n g e t a v e r y n i c e 
g i r l f o r n o t h i n g i f y o u k n o w h o w t o g o a b o u t i t . 
B u t y o u c a n ' t g e t a v e r y n i c e c o s t u m e f o r h e r f o r 
f i v e p o u n d s . . . . P e o p l e a r e m u c h c h e a p e r t h a n 
t h i n g s . " ( p . 4 5 ) 

T h i s b i t t e r n e s s a b o u t m o n e y a n d t h e p o w e r t h a t i t g i v e s 

m e n o v e r women i s o n e o f t h e m o s t s i g n i f i c a n t t h a t E n g l a n d 

t e a c h e s A n n a . S h e d o e s n o t l e a r n i t p r o p e r l y u n t i l W a l t e r 

J e f f r i e s w i t h d r a w s f i r s t l o v e a n d t h e n m o n e y , l e a v i n g h e r 

w i t h o u t e i t h e r , a n d l e a v i n g t h e m i n e x t r i c a b l y c o n n e c t e d w i t h 

o n e a n o t h e r i n h e r m i n d . T h e r e i s o n e p o w e r f u l e p i s o d e i n 

t h e n o v e l w h e r e t h e f u l l p s y c h o l o g i c a l e f f e c t o f A n n a ' s 

v i o l a t i o n i s m a d e c l e a r . i t d r a w s o n p r i m a l i m a g e s a n d 

m e m o r i e s i n A n n a ' s c o n s c i o u s n e s s , i n w h i c h m a l e n e s s , t e r r o r 

a n d t h e u n k n o w n m e r g e , s u d d e n l y t o r u p t u r e a n d t e a r r e a l i t y 

f o r h e r . A s s h e s t a n d s i n h e r h o t e l r o o m r e a d i n g t h e l e t t e r 

f r o m W a l t e r ' s c o u s i n d e l e g a t e d t o t e l l h e r t h a t t h e l o v e 

a f f a i r i s o v e r , a m o m e n t o f c h i l d h o o d t e r r o r i n s e r t s i t s e l f 

i n t o h e r m i n d . On h e r D o m i n i c a n v e r a n d a h , s h e r e m e m b e r s a s 

a c h i l d a p p r o a c h i n g h e r s l e e p i n g a n d t r u s t e d u n c l e . 

. . . U n c l e B o m o v e d a n d s i g h e d a n d : l o n g y e l l o w 
t u s k s l i k e f a n g s c a m e o u t o f h i s m o u t h a n d 
p r o t r u d e d d o w n i n t o h i s c h i n - - y o u d o n ' t s c r e a m 
w h e n y o u a r e f r i g h t e n e d b e c a u s e y o u c a n ' t — 
a f t e r a l o n g t i m e h e s i g h e d a n d o p e n e d h i s 
e y e s a n d c l i c k e d h i s t e e t h b a c k i n t o p l a c e a n d 



60 

said what on earth do you want c h i l d — 
I thought, 'But what's the matter with me? 
That was years and years ago, ages and ages 
go. Twelve years ago or something l i k e 
that. What's t h i s l e t t e r got to do with 
false teeth?' (p. 92) 

What has happened in both cases i s that Anna's psychic 

equilibrium has been suddenly shattered in an ugly and 

unexpected piece of male behaviour h o r r i f y i n g in i t s i n t e n s i t y 

for her. 

Dismissal by Walter feeds into a strong current of 

despair already present in Anna's character. She associates 

t h i s new pain with a l i f e l o n g knowledge that i t would happen 

to her again and again. The moment when t h i s i s confirmed 

threatens to consume her. "There's fear, of course, with 

everybody. But now i t had grown gigantic; i t f i l l e d me and 

i t f i l l e d the whole world" (p. 96). This state and a f i n a l 

scene with Walter involving money induce a kind of trance 

i n Anna, of long periods of drugged sleeping and sensory 

d i s l o c a t i o n . She f l o a t s back into chorus g i r l c i r c l e s and 

with new knowledge and less f e e l i n g , and makes love with 

stray men for money. In her dream state of simultaneous 

withdrawal and compliance with the world, Anna's second 

v i o l e n t confrontation with r e s p e c t a b i l i t y comes, t h i s time 

with a woman, Ethel Matthews. She i s a rather worn and 

scheming middle-aged woman with s o c i a l aspirations. At 

f i r s t she enters Anna's l i f e as a potential protector, 

comforting her when she i s i l l . Soon, however, she puts a 

f i n a n c i a l proposition to h e r — a share in a "Swedish 

Massage" business, masquerading as an o f f e r of somewhere to 



l i v e . Anna succumbs to another a l l i a n c e where she i s 

f i n a n c i a l l y and emotionally exploited, in t h i s case by Ethel 

Matthews' neurotic fears, f i n a n c i a l swindling and a h y s t e r i c a l 

concern for appearances should her shabby p r o s t i t u t i o n be 

revealed. Anna's ultimate reaction to her treatment by the 

other woman i s to behave badly, to drink, to bring home random 

men and f i n a l l y to break up a l l the cozy furniture in her 

room before leaving. 

With Ethel Matthews, Rhys has reminded us that hypocrisy 

and cruelty are not r e s t r i c t e d to male members of the 

respectable classes; members of either sex can be vain and 

greedy. In f a c t , Rhys' p o r t r a i t s of women tend to be more 

grotesque than those of male equivalents. In t h i s novel, 

Ethel's viciousness i s magnified by a knowing q u a l i t y , a 

self-awareness, which Walter J e f f r i e s does not have. Neither 

of her apparent protectors i s of any use to Anna when her 

"voyage" reaches i t s psychic destination; she becomes 

pregnant by one of the men she has allowed to pick her up, 

and with whom she has haphazardly s l e p t . She panics and 

collapses into surreal dream voyages into the past. 

I dreamt that I was on a ship. From the deck you 
could see small i s l a n d s - - d o l l s of i s l a n d s — a n d the 
ship was s a i l i n g in a d o l l ' s sea, transparent as 
glass. Somebody said in my ear, 'That's your 
i s l a n d that you t a l k such a l o t about. ' 

Anna's two worlds merge in nightmare as she looks at her 

island to f i n d English trees, "their leaves t r a i l i n g in the 

water." Op. 16 4) She t r i e s to make her way up the sloping 

deck to grasp one of the English branches to the shore, but 



6 2 

h e r " f l y i n g s t r i d e s " w e r e n o m a t c h f o r t h e e x p a n d i n g d e c k . 

A t t h a t m o e m n t s o m e o n e f a l l s o v e r b o a r d " a n d t h e r e w a s a 

s a i l o r c a r r y i n g a c h i l d ' s c o f f i n " ( p . 1 6 5 ) . . . . T h e a b o r t i o n 

w h i c h f o l l o w s f o r m s a p a r t i c u l a r l y g r o t e s q u e a n d n i g h t m a r i s h 

c l i m a x t o t h e n o v e l a n d t o A n n a ' s j o u r n e y i n g . S h e h a s 

a r r i v e d a t t h e w o r s t t h a t c a n h a p p e n t o h e r . T h e t e r m i n a t i o n 

o f t h e p r e g n a n c y i n v o l v e d t h e k i l l i n g o f t h e f o e t u s , w i t h a 

t w o t o t h r e e w e e k d e l a y b e f o r e t h e d e a d b a b y i s e x p e l l e d 

a f t e r a p e r i o d o f l a b o u r . T h e i n t e r i m i s a w a i t i n g f o r 

d e a t h , a n d i n l a b o u r , A n n a c o m e s c l o s e t o i t h e r s e l f . O n e 

o f t h e n o v e l ' s m o s t s t r i k i n g C a r i b b e a n i m a g e s i n v a d e s h e r 

c o n s c i o u s n e s s i n h a l l u c i n a t i o n , i n l a b o u r . A g a i n s h e i s a 

c h i l d i n D o m i n i c a l o o k i n g a t o n e o f t h e i r b l a c k s e r v a n t s 

d r e s s e d f o r t h e M a s q u e r a d e i n a h i d e o u s m a s k . T h e s e r v a n t 

a p p r o a c h e s t h e c h i l d a n d s h e s u d d e n l y " p u t o u t h e r t o n g u e 

a t me t h r o u g h t h e s l i t i n h e r m a s k . . . . a n d t h e s l o b b e r i n g 

t o n g u e o f a n i d i o t w i l l s t i c k o u t — a m a s k F a t h e r s a i d w i t h 

a n i d i o t b e h i n d i t I ) b e l i e v e t h e w h o l e d a m n e d b u s i n e s s i s 

l i k e t h a t — " ( p . 1 8 4 ) . A t t h i s o u t e r e d g e o f p a i n , e n d u r a n c e , 

a n d a b a n d o n m e n t , h u m a n i t y t a k e s o n t h e p r o p o r t i o n s o f t h e 

e v i l m a s k w i t h i t s t e r r i f y i n g t o n g u e , i t s a p p e r t u r e s 

d a n g e r o u s s l i t s t h r o u g h w h i c h v i o l e n c e c a n e s c a p e w i t h o u t 

w a r n i n g . I n m e m o r y , s h e i s s w a l l o w e d u p b y t h e n a t i v e s ' 

h y s t e r i c a l p a r a d e , f a l l s a n d f i n d s t h a t s h e i s f a l l i n g f r o m 

a h o r s e o n a D o m i n i c a n m o u n t a i n p a t h . T h e r e a r e n o 

s t i r r u p s o n t h e h o r s e t o h e l p h e r , a n d w h i l e t h e w i l d m u s i c 

a n d d a n c i n g g o o n a b o u t h e r , t h e h o r s e t u r n s i n t o a r o c k i n g 



6 3 

horse and as she approaches consciousness, she finds herself 

in t e r r i f y i n g shadows where as a c h i l d she knew that the old 

d i s f i g u r e d woman with yaws waited for her. As she delivers 

her dead c h i l d , a supercilious English doctor reassures her: 

"She'll be a l l r i g h t , " he said. "Ready to s t a r t 
a l l over again in no time, I've no doubt.... 
You g i r l s are too naive to l i v e , aren't you?" 
(p. 187) 

What sets t h i s novel apart from Rhys' other f i c t i o n i s the 

elegiac incorporation of the Caribbean into an otherwise 

European "getting of wisdom" study. A l l of the force of 

memory in Voyage In The Dark i s located in Dominica. A l l of 

the novel's potent imagery comes from here, to become wild 

and surreal i n an English context. As well t h i s imagery 

inspires an inevitable c r i t i q u e of a corrupt urban society 

where r e s p e c t a b i l i t y creates tyrants, both seen here through 

the d i s t o r t i n g lens of the natural world. The novel marks 

too the establishment of an important f i c t i o n a l pattern of 

Rhys': that of collapsing p o l a r i t i e s . Childhood memories 

of Dominica should comfort Anna; instead they t e r r i f y , 

a l i e n a t i n g her from the past as well as the present while 

making t h i s present more unbearable. Power and fear are the 

same in both plsaces, and Anna's f i n a l awareness of t h i s has 

made her a creature of duality for the f i r s t time. Because 

her topography i s fundamentally that of the alienated 

consciousness rather than geographical place and r e a l time, 

Rhys turns the England/Dominica dichotomy in Anna's l i f e 

into a d i a l e c t i c ; what i s t e r r i f y i n g in both worlds meets 

in her subconscious and work together in f r u i t f u l opposition. 



Within t h i s f e a r f u l d i a l e c t i c of past/present, childhood/ 

adulthood, male/female, black/white, nature/city, home/exile, 

there i s greatest fear when the absolutes collapse into one 

another and the protagonist i s consumed by j u s t i f i e d paranoia. 

Wide Sargasso Sea 

'.i' The novel Wide Sargasso Sea, published i n 1966, brought 

Jean Rhys fame for the f i r s t time. It appeared a f t e r a 

t h i r t y year absence from p r i n t , and an accidental resurrection. 

It i s her most polished and successful work. In i t she 

abandons the focus of Europe from her middle period, and 

returns to the West Indies. It i s i n a r t i s t i c terms an attempt 

at c i r c u l a r i t y — a rereading of the past on the basis of new 

knowledge and of t h i r t y years' d i f f i c u l t existence in Europe 

which had taught her that a l i e n a t i o n i s not always to do with 

place. 

The novel i s a b r i l l i a n t f i c t i o n a l prologue to Charlotte 

Bronte's Jane Eyre. It c l e v e r l y takes many of Bronte's 

d e t a i l s and works backwards from them, reconstructing t h e i r 

o r i g i n s i n the past, setting them i n Edward Rochester's 

mysterious Caribbean interlude p r i o r to his return to 

England with his mad wife and his meeting with Jane Eyre. 

Rhys' protagonist i s "the mad woman i n the a t t i c " i n Bronte's 

novel, c a l l e d Bertha there, but given her f u l l family name— 

Antoinette Cosway i n Rhys' book. I t t e l l s of her childhood, 

her ruined family, and of her marriage to Edward Rochester, 

the Englishman who had come to the colony to make money. 

The f i r s t section of the novel i s t o l d i n Antoinette's 



voice. The second section c l e v e r l y switches to Rochester's 

voice to describe the i n t e n s i t y of his unexpected seduction 

a f t e r marriage, by the exotic creature he had married for 

money, and by the landscape she exposed him to. The novel's 

v i o l e n t f i n a l section and climax i s f i l t e r e d through the now 

maddened consciousness of Antoinette, in e x i l e i n England 

where she i s to die. 

The h i s t o r i c a l background to Rhys' novel, about which 

she i s very accurate, i s quite t e l l i n g . Kenneth Ramchand 

in The West Indian Novel and i t s Background spoke of a 

" t e r r i f i e d consciousness" which informed that minority 
31 

group, the White West Indians. Both Jean.Rhys and 

Antoinette Cosway were the o f f s p r i n g of t h i s Caribbean 

minority, i t s history and consciousness. In 1887 one 

h i s t o r i a n said of t h i s group--"The English of these islands 
32 

are melting away." The emanicipation of the slaves in 

Dominica i n 1832 had f u l l y revealed the s p i r i t u a l and 

economic f a i l u r e s of the plantation class there. Many were 

ruined. Rhys' novel i s set i n t h i s class and in the period 

immediately a f t e r emancipation, when the process of 

"decolonization" was at i t s most uncontrolled and v i o l e n t ; 

t h i s sudden release of native force put under d i r e c t attack 

the t e r r i f i e d presence of white c o l o n i a l s i n a b e a u t i f u l 

but a l i e n landscape which they had attempted to usurp. 

In obviously cast grave doubts too on the status of those 

tenuous l i n k s between the races under plantation c u l t u r e : 2 

the long-serving negro family servants; in Rhys' novel t h i s 



figure i s simultaneously the children's nurse and the 

dangerous "obeah" woman, an occult power figure. If the 

consciousness of the white c o l o n i a l s had been " t e r r i f i e d " 

of the Caribbean before t h i s time, then t h i s element was 

profoundly magnified when the natives began to r i o t and 

burn down t h e i r houses, revealing for the f i r s t time the 

horror and violence which had been the underside to an 

apparently gracious c o l o n i a l culture. P h y l l i s Shaffley, 

another Caribbean writer and contemporary of Rhys', describes 

Dominica i n these terms: "Beauty and disease, beauty and 
33 

sickness, beauty and horror; that was the i s l a n d . " 

I t i s my suggestion that what Rhys returns t o J i n her 

only "Caribbean" novel i s t h i s " t e r r i f i e d consciousness" of 

the alienated white in a dangerous place. Beauty and i t s 

underside, horror, sickness and disease provide the key to 

the e a r l i e s t a l i e n a t i o n Rhys saw and experienced. I t 

provided a paradigm too for what she saw l a t e r i n her l i f e 

i n European c i t i e s and in human behaviour everywhere. 

Acquired i n her youth i t inspired the c r i t i q u e her f i c t i o n 

l e v e l l e d against the bourgeois culture of appearance which 

f a l s e l y t r i e d to deny or to l e v e l out these p o l a r i t i e s in 

human nature. Rhys' more general conclusions about the 

state of human nature and the world then have been grounded 

in a time and place where r e l a t i o n s between human beings 

could actually be categorised according to race and the 

master/slave balance of power. Given t h i s primitive 

p o l a r i t y , i t i s not altogether surprising that Rhys sees 



67 

much apparently c i v i l i z e d human behaviour in these terms; her 

characters are generally capable of no more than a troubled 

blend of polarized reactions to one another a l t e r n a t i n g 

a t t r a c t i o n and repulsion, sympathy and hatred. 

In Wide Sargasso Sea, Rhys f i n a l l y faces and reveals 

that the " s p e c i f i c " t e r r i f i e d consciousness of the 

h i s t o r i c a l l y marooned white West Indian, i s in f a c t a 

universal heritage. It i s the consciousness with which a l l 

her characters have had to l i v e , of the horror behind the 

beauty. Antoinette Cosway describes the garden around her 

family home as she remembers i t in childhood: 

Our garden was large and b e a u t i f u l as that 
garden in the B i b l e — t h e tree of l i f e grew 
there. But i t had gone wild. The paths were 
overgrown and a smell of dead flowers mixed 
with the fresh l i v i n g smell. Underneath the 
tree ferns, t a l l as forest tree ferns, the 
l i g h t was green. Orchids flourished out of 
reach or for some reason not to be touched. 
One was snaky looking, another l i k e an 
octopus with long thin brown tentacles bare 
of leaves hanging from a twisted root. Twice 
a year the octopus orchid flowered—then not 
an inch of tentacle showed. It was a b e l l -
shaped mass of white, mauve, deep-purples, 
wonderful to see. The scent was very sweet 
and strong. I never went near it.24 

The forces i n c o n f l i c t in Wide Sargasso Sea—reason and 

the unknowable, male and female, the c i v i l i z e d world and the 

t r o p i c s , make up two mutually exclusive worlds; in the 

marriage of Edward Rochester and Antoinette Cosway they meet 

head on, and the f a m i l i a r paradigm of master/slave and 

beauty/horror emerge. Rochester arrives in the West Indies 

as a "colonizer" ready to take what he can and to use up 



68 

what i s best i n the place. Instead, he finds himself seduced 

by the pleasures of the place, a n t i t h e t i c a l in i t s sensuousness 

to England. F i n a l l y , however, he i s not able to y i e l d to i t 

completely the caution, s e l f interest and reason of his 

t r a i n i n g ; his expectation of betrayal by "the foreign" f u l f i l l s 

i t s e l f . He leaves with more than he came, the temptations of 

the place exorcized. 

In t h i s war of worlds the imagery of the landscape—and 

for t h i s Rhys used Dominica, though i t i s not named—provides 

a powerful subtext. From the f i r s t the s p i r i t , even the look 

of t h i s place confuses and disquiets Rochester. When he 

marries a woman who i s deeply at ease with i t , who goes so 

far as to c a l l i t her place, he quickly i d e n t i f i e s woman 

with landscape, making of the island a natural, psychological 

and sexual t e r r a i n . It i s a lush and fragrant jungle, with 

w a t e r f a l l s , emerald pools, mysterious forests, and flowers 

that look both f r a g i l e and deadly. On the way to the estate 

where they w i l l honeymoon, Rochester i s disturbed and 

d i s t r u s t f u l of t h i s "....wild place. Not only wild but 

menacing. The h i l l s would close in on you....'What an 

extreme green', was a l l I could say.... Everything i s too much, 

I f e l t as I rode wearily after her. Too much blue, too much 

purple, too much green. The flowers too red, the mountains 

too high, the h i l l s to near" (pp. 69-70). At t h i s stage of 

his "marriage" to woman and place, his thoughts are s t i l l 

predominantly m a t e r i a l — o f the mercantile world and the dowry 

he has to c o l l e c t . 



69 

...Dear Father. The t h i r t y pounds have been 
paid to me without question or conditions, no 
provision made for her (that must be seen to.) 
I have a modest competence now. 

...I have sold my soul, or you have sold i t , 
and after a l l i s i t such a bad bargain? The 
g i r l i t thought to be b e a u t i f u l , she i s 
b e a u t i f u l . And yet... (p. 70) 

At Granbois, the estate where Antoinette had spent holidays 

as a c h i l d , Rochester i s quickly intoxicated, f i r s t by the 

freshness of the a i r and the abundant flowers, and as he 

stays longer, he succumbs to i t s "disturbing secret 

l i v e l i n e s s . " "I'd f i n d myself thinking...I want what i t 

hides" (p. 92). He succumbs as well to his exotic wife, 

as though his senses had been drugged. He forgets caution 

and curses himself for his former weakness. Only when he 

senses danger does he f a l l back on what i s worst in his 

Englishness; then he becomes imperious when he i s challenged 

by the servants, or Antoinette, or changing perceptions of 

the place. Then "...they are mistaken, melodramatic, 

unreal" (p. 102). When he receives Daniel Cosway's l e t t e r 

t e l l i n g him of his wife's family history of madness, and of 

the p o s s i b i l i t y that she has sexually betrayed him with a 

negro r e l a t i v e he r e c o i l s into his Europeanness, his 

a l i e n a t i o n vindicated. At the nadir of his withdrawal from 

his wife and the place, he becomes l o s t in a h o s t i l e jungle 

f o r e s t . He i s mistaken by a screaming c h i l d for one of the 

l i v i n g dead and becomes himself, in a state of profound 

disturbance,, obsessed with the idea of death in l i f e , and 

how at least for him, t h i s island seems to embody that idea. 



70 

The trees were threatening and the shadows of 
the trees menaced me. That green menace. I 
had f e l t i t evers ince I saw t h i s place. There 
was nothing I knew, nothing to comfort me. 
(p. 150) 

When his mind clears and his reason i s restored the matter 

becomes much simpler; the place had simply turned out to be 

a "false heaveny" a place which he had f i n a l l y f a i l e d to 

usurp, or as he sees at other moments, into which he had 

f a i l e d to gain admission. "Sane...I hated the place...I 

hated i t s beauty and i t s magic and the secret I would never 

know...I hated the mountains and the h i l l s — f o r what I had 

l o s t before I found i t (p. 172). So he abandons the island, 

and takes with him to her English abandoment, his West 

Indian wife. He has succeeded in usurping her. 

If Rochester in Rhys' novel i s one world, then Antoinette 

i s the other. Rochester was right when he met her, to say 

that she was o_f the place; she understood i t and respected 

i t . Speaking of his fear of i t , she says that such a 

reaction i s i r r e l e v a n t . "It i s not for you not for me. 

It has nothing to do with either of. That i s why you are 

a f r a i d of i t , because i t i s something e l s e . I found that 

out long ago when I was a c h i l d " (p. 130). In f a c t , i t i s 

as a c h i l d , that Antoinette has f i r s t defined herself against 

the English. When she observes her English step-father, Mr. 

Mason, display minimal understanding of the West Indies and 

e s p e c i a l l y of the natives "...They are c h i l d r e n — t h e y 

wouldn't hurt a fly"--she knows that he i s a f o o l , however 

kind. As Creoles, Antoinette and her mother are at a remove 



71 

from both the blacks and the English. Antoinette takes her 

cue from her mother "...so without a doubt not English, but 

no white nigger e i t h e r : (p. 23) ...She grows up excluded from 

both groups, but e s p e c i a l l y despised by the blacks as 

"tainted" whites—"Old time white people nothing but white 

nigger now, and black nigger better than white nigger," they 

t e l l her as they burn down the Mason house once they have 

been set free. 

So Antoinette has grouwn up susceptible to the incredible 

beauties of her birthplace and at the same time, aware of and 

susceptible to the h o s t i l e forces at work in i t . When she 

f a l l s i n love with Rochester she wants to share the best of 

the place with him; in return she requires that he 

unconditionally enter t h i s world of her. For a time, aided 

by wine and summer nights, she wins him. But the cost to 

her i s high. When he turns on her, fearing betrayal, her 

sense of security in her place i s most damaged: 
Do you know what you've done to me?....I 
loved t h i s place and you have made i t into 
a place I hate. I used to think that i f 
everything else went out of my l i f e I would 
s t i l l have t h i s , and now you have s p o i l t i t . 
I t ' s just somewhere else where I have been 
unhappy, (p. 14 8) 

While i t i s true that the Englishman in Rochester, quite 

d i r e c t l y i n a sense, ruined Antoinette Cosway by what he 

was incapable of doing and f e e l i n g , and by his need to 

destroy what frightened him, Antoinette, l i k e a l l Rhys' 

heroines, contributed s i g n i f i c a n t l y to her own downfall. 

Her consciousness had been formed in the midst of profound 



c u l t u r a l a l i e n a t i o n . Her childhood was a neglected, decaying, 

V i c t o r i a n a f f a i r . The psycho-historical context of t h i s 

childhood was steeped in violence, upheaval, and tragedy, 

i n s p i r i n g in her some dreams of safety and substance. She i s , 

when Rochester meets her, a creature of fear, who needs from 

him dramatic affirmation of her world, grim and dying though 

i t i s . As one c r i t i c describes i t "In both myth and r e a l i t y 

the whites of the i s l a n d f e e l as though, they are i n the heart 

of Eden after the f a l l , " t h e i r existence requiring confirmation. 

Antoinette's psychic legacy from her class and family i s 

unstable, unfocused and f u l l of fear and passion. Details of 

her l i f e cannot help but r e f l e c t the complex and malignant 

psycho-sexual r e l a t i o n s between the races on the i s l a n d . When 

her mother goes mad, her guardians are blacks who sexually 

abuse her; the former mistress i s sexually subject to her 

servants. When Rochester seduces a native servant g i r l to 

free himself from Antoinette's sexual hold on him, he too 

f a l l s into t h i s disturbing legacy of slavery. 

Rhys' almost incantatory descriptions of the landscape 

which takes over Rochester's mind and senses, she c a r e f u l l y 

invests with the dual powers of beauty and horror. Behind 

the lush seductiveness and apparent f r a g i l i t y , i s the 

p o t e n t i a l l y malignant and t e r r i f y i n g natural world, r e f l e c t i n g 

i n a kind of s p i r i t u a l correspondence, the behaviour of the 

characters. Rochester c e r t a i n l y sees his West Indian wife 

as a creature of place, in these d u a l i s t i c terms: as both 

compellingly beautiful and as f a t a l l y diseased. Though she 



73 

d e n i e s t h a t p l a c e h a s a n y e f f e c t o n t h e i r b e h a v i o u r , R h y s 

m a k e s c l e a r t h a t i t d o e s , a l t h o u g h i n q u i t e o p p o s i t e w a y s . 

I n R o c h e s t e r , t h e p l a c e h a s a r o u s e d p r e v i o u s l y c l o s e t e d 

i n s t i n c t a n d a n e r o t i c s e n s i t i v i t y . I n A n t o i n e t t e i s 

e x p o s e d a d e s p e r a t e n e e d t o d r a w E d w a r d i n t o h e r e x o t i c 

p r i v a t e w o r l d , o n e w h i c h o p e r a t e s a c c o r d i n g t o n a t u r a l 

r h y t h m s a n d t h e h a r m o n y o f t h e s e n s e s . I n t h e n o v e l t h e 

m o o n i s h e r o b j e c t i v e c o r r e l a t i v e . I t i s o f c o u r s e a w o r l d 

b e y o n d R o c h e s t e r ' s c o m p r e h e n s i o n . H e r n e e d o f h i m s i m p l y 

a d d s t o h i s f e a r . " I t w a s n o t a s a f e game t o p l a y . L i f e , 

D e a t h c a m e v e r y c l o s e i n t h e d a r k n e s s " ( p . 9 4 ) 

R e c u r r e n t R h y s t h e m e s a r e h e r e : t h e d e s p e r a t e p o w e r 

s t r u g g l e , i n t h e s e x u a l r e l a t i o n s h i p b e t w e e n A n t o i n e t t e a n d 

R o c h e s t e r , o f f e m a l e p a s s i o n a n d m a l e f e a r ; t h e u r g e n c y 

a n d o b s e s s i o n o f t h e woman m e t b y h e s i t a t i o n a n d w i t h d r a w a l 

i n t h e m a n . T h i s s t a t e o f t h i n g s f i n a l l y r e t u r n s t h e 

h e r o i n e t o t h a t s t a t e d f d e s p a i r a n d i s o l a t i o n w h i c h i s 

J e a n R h y s ' p r i n c i p a l s u b j e c t m a t t e r o n c e h e r a n g r y s o c i a l 

a n d s e x u a l c r i t i q u e s h a v e e x h a u s t e d t h e m s e l v e s . R o c h e s t e r 

t a k e s h i s w i f e i n t o a c o l d e x i l e i n E n g l a n d . S h e b e c o m e s 

m a d d e n e d b y d e s p a i r i n t h e a t t i c o f h i s c o u n t r y h o u s e . 

A n t o i n e t t e C o s w a y ' s s t o r y — e x i l e a n d m a d n e s s - l e a v e s r o o m 

f o r o n l y o n e f i n a l g e s t u r e o f r e s i s t a n c e t o t h e f o r c e s w h i c h 

h a v e a l l b u t e x t i n g u i s h e d h e r . I n a s e l f - a n n i h i l a t i n g b u t 

t r a n s c e n d e n t m o m e n t , A n t o i n e t t e s u m m o n s u p a l l o f t h e f i r e 

a n d r a d i a n c e o f h e r C a r i b b e a n p a s t , a n d b u r n s d o w n h e r 

E n g l i s h p r i s o n , R o c h e s t e r ' s h o u s e , a s t h e D o m i n i c a n n a t i v e s 



74 

had ruined the houses of t h e i r masters once they had been set 

free. The cost i s her l i f e . 

Europe 

In my readings of Voyage In The Dark and Wide Sargasso  

Sea I have attempted to suggest ways in which the " t e r r i f i e d " 

West Indian consciousness threaded through Rhys' otherwise 

pastoral childhood, and informed the f i c t i o n which had, as 

i t s base, memories of the Caribbean. She translated t h i s 

impulse into a c r i t i q u e of s o c i a l and i n d i v i d u a l behaviour 

based on sex, money and power. The universe Rhys envisions, 

in these works i s a malevolent one, and never more so than 

when her characters ignore these fundamentally i r r e c o n c i l a b l e 

d i s t i n c t i o n s , and imagine that connections between t h e i r 

private worlds are possible. 

In three novels written in Europe between 1928 and 1939, 

Jean Rhys provides a d i f f e r e n t focus and a far more ambivalent 

setting for despair. These are urban pieces, and while 

memory plays a s i g n i f i c a n t role in characters' l i v e s , there 

i s not the attempt to piece together the past and present as 

wholly as Voyage In The Dark and Wide Sargasso Sea attempted. 

Quartet (1928), published in the United States as Postures, 

After Leaving Mr. Mackenzie (1931) and Good Morning, 

Midnight (1939) take, as t h e i r form and subject matter, the 

precarious f r e e - f l o a t i n g existence of the vagrant expatriate 

between the wars. A c r i t i q u e of that condition i s implied 

as surely as that informed by her Caribbean experience, but 

the consciousness underlying her c r i t i q u e here i s that of 



75 

impoverished e x i l e , rootless and e x i s t i n g e n t i r e l y in the 

present tense. 

T y p i c a l l y , Marya Z e l l i ' s l i f e in Quartet i s described 

as "...haphazard. It lacked, as i t were, s o l i d i t y ; i t lacked 

the necessary fixed background. A bedroom, balcony and 

cabinet de t o i l e t t e i n a cheap Montmartre hotel cannot 
3 6 

possibly be c a l l e d a s o l i d background." 

The best description of Rhys 1 world at t h i s time i s 

provided by the Australian painter, S t e l l a Brown, lover of 
3 7 

Ford Madox Ford, i n her memoirs, Drawn From L i f e . She 

records her meeting with Jean Rhys honestly, I think, despite 

a certain retrospective emotional antagonism, based on Ford's 

subsequent involvement with the young writer. Rhys also 

records the'meeting, with her own biases, in Quartet. But 

young Jean Rhys: 
The g i r l was a r e a l l y t r a g i c person. She had 
written an unpublishably sordid novel of great 
sensitiveness and persuasiveness, but her g i f t 
for prose and her personal attractiveness were 
not enough to ensure her any reasonable l i f e , 
for on the other side of the balance were bad 
health and d e s t i t u t i o n , shattered nerves, an 
undesirable husband, lack of n a t i o n a l i t y , and 
a complete absence of any desire for independence. 
When we met her she possessed nothing but a 
cardboard suitcase and the astonishing manuscript. 
She was down to her l a s t three francs and she was 
sick. 
[Nevertheless] 
...She took the l i d o f f the world that she knew, 
and showed us an underworld of darkness and 
disorder, where officialdom, the bourgeoisie and 
the police were the eternal enemies and the 
f u g i t i v e the only hero. A l l the v i r t u e s , in her 



76 

view, were summed up in 'being a sport,' which 
meant being w i l l i n g to take r i s k s and show 
gallantry and share one's l a s t crust, more 
a t t r a c t i v e q u a l i t i e s , no doubt, than patience 
or honesty or f o r t i t u d e . She regarded the 
law as the instrument of the 'haves' against 
the 'have nots' and was well acquainted with 
every rung of that long and dismal ladder by 
which the respectable c i t i z e n descends towards 
degradation.38 (emphasis added) 

This i s a p o r t r a i t of Jean Rhys the writer, and I do not 
i. 

wish to blur biography and l i t e r a r y output. But i t i s the 

idea that a p o s i t i o n of utter degradation can f u e l a talent 

to expose that I concentrate on—r"She took the l i d o f f the 

world that she knew." This world i s the impoverished 

a r t i s t i c / c r i m i n a l fringe, in which Rhys' three autiobiogra-

p h i c a l heroines, Marya Z e l l i , J u l i a Martin and Sasha Jansen 

are marooned. 

Each of these novels t e l l s the same story of love and 

abandonment, expectation and betrayal, and for the heroine, 

i s o l a t e d and desperate survival at the edge of the s o c i a l 

order. The three women are chronological developments of 

the same character, progressively more broken by what happens 

to her. In each novel, what i s destructive in the world 

becomes more revealed and more undeniable. Despair becomes 

more profound. Good Morning, Midnight, the culminating 

work i n t h i s series of three novels, i s Rhys' darkest work, 

and precedes a t h i r t y year silence. 

S t r u c t u r a l l y , these works are perceptually fragmented, 

and c e r t a i n l y they deal with s o c i a l and psychic fragmentation; 

yet they are c a r e f u l l y formed, s t r u c t u r a l l y precise works, 

r e l e n t l e s s i n t h e i r dual focus: ; that i s to explore the 



7 7 

private worlds of t h e i r female protagonists and to confront 

the bourgeois world in which they w i l l inevitably be victims. 

These concerns are brought into high focus in precise human 

terms when Rhys portrays with great cynicism, the f a t a l 

cross-purposes of men's and women's behaviour toward each 

other. Men and women provide the psychological poles Rhys 

wishes to explore, just as London and Paris, the two 

alternating settings in these novels, are both geographical 

and psychological poles. For Rhys, London i s always the 

centre of crushing r e s p e c t a b i l i t y and Paris, the dream 

landscape where at least some things are possible. 

Marya Z e l l i , the e a r l i e s t of these heroines, i s the most 

innocent as well. She i s a bewildered expatriate, whose 

marriage to a foreigner has robbed her of her own sense of 

n a t i o n a l i t y without providing her with a new one. It has 

cast her o f f into European society but not provided any of 

the resources needed to keep her there. With her husband 

in prison and no money, she i s at her most reduced u n t i l she 

i s "saved" by H.J. and Lois Heidler (as Rhys had been by 

Ford Madox Ford and S t e l l a Brown), two luminaries i n 

expatriate l i t e r a r y c i r c l e s in Paris. When taken up by 

these two apparent benefactors, Marya wrongly believes them 
to be " i n t e r n a t i o n a l i s t s " and therefore natural a l l i e s , 

f i g h t i n g , l i k e her, by i n s t i n c t , against r e s p e c t a b i l i t y , 
2 9 

monotony and "the soul destroying middle." When she f a l l s 

in love with Heidler, and his world i s more f u l l y revealed 

to her, she quickly sees through the experimental lowlife 



78 

of the expatriate a r t i s t s i n Montparnasse--"The Beautiful 

Young Men, the Dazzlers, the Middle Westerners, the Down and 

Outs, and Freaks who would never do anything, the Freaks who 

just possibly might" (p. 129). She denounces e s p e c i a l l y the 

l i t e r a r y hangers-on and poseurs, "Imagining they know anything 

when they know i t s name" (p. 130). Underneath a bohemian 

veneer were the same orthodox, class-determined individuals 

as everywhere else. For them in Paris, "even sin was an 

a f f a i r of p r i n c i p l e and u p l i f t i f you were an American, and 

of proving conclusively that you belonged to the upper 

classes, but were nevertheless an anarchist, i f you were 

English" (p. 62). 

The Heidlers above a l l , maintain Bohemian appearances, 

beneath which "they were inscrutable people, invulnerable 

people," and Marya "hadn't a chance against them, naive 

sinner that she was" (p. 101). The apparently agreeable 

menage a t r o i s into which she i s lured with them i s in fact 

a power play for the Heidlers--H.J. to have a woman he wants, 

and Lois to keep the man—very conventional orthodoxies of 

the middle-class married. Marya i s "safe" with them as long 

as she plays by the rules of t h e i r l i v e s . F i n a l l y , she 

cracks under the pressure of t h e i r respectable cannibalizing 

of her l i f e and of her genuine and p a t h e t i c a l l y dependent love 

for Heidler. When she begins to make trouble for Heidler, 

Heidler drops the cosmopolitan facade and begs her to play 

according to the rules, and not to make his l i f e d i f f i c u l t 

or disordered. Marya gives i n "to have a l i t t l e peace," 

and subjects herself to a degrading interlude, also 



79 

conventional, in which she i s set up i n a cheap hotel, where 

Heidler v i s i t s her intermittently for sex in "an atmosphere 

of departed and ephemeral love [which] hung about the room 

l i k e stale scent" (p. I l l ) . It i s t h i s subjection that 

p r e c i p i t a t e s her descent into despair. "I f e e l as i f I had 

f a l l e n down a p r e c i p i c e " (p. 112). Now her v i c t i m i z a t i o n 

becomes h o r r i f y i n g l y clear to her, as does her awareness 

that she i s powerless to stop i t . Her role in the s o c i a l 

f a b r i c i s becoming clearer to her, too. She remembers being 

t o l d by a sculptor that "victims are necessary so that the 

strong may exercise t h e i r w i l l and become more strong" 

(p. 73). When Heidler pays her to stay away, f i n a l l y 

discarding her, "she was quivering and abject in his arms, 

l i k e some unfortunate dog abasing i t s e l f before i t s master" 

(p. 131). Heidler, the "large, invulnerable, p e r f e c t l y 

respectable" Englishman i s forced to r e j e c t Marya, the 

genuine demi-mondaine who f i l l s him with fear and forces him 

to behave badly. "I have a horror of you. When I think of 

you I f e e l sick," he says in parting, ...what did you do 

when the man you loved said a thing l i k e that? You laughed 

obviously... 'So t h i s i s the cafe fine of rupture* (p. 78). 

There are flaws in t h i s f i r s t novel of Rhys'--certain 

lapses in narrative force, an occasional f a i l u r e to 

synchronize, a degree of self-indulgence, and a rather 

unbalanced conclusion—Marya's abrupt murder at the hands 

of her husband, just as things are beginning to unravel. 

Yet the novel has displayed for the f i r s t time Rhys' 



80 

d i s t i n c t i v e s t y l e , a n d t h e m a j o r c o n c e r n s o f a l l h e r l a t e r 

f i c t i o n . We s e e f o r t h e f i r s t t i m e , t h a t d i s t u r b i n g t r i c k 

o f n a r r a t i o n — a n d h e r d i s t i n g u i s h i n g f e a t u r e a s a w r i t e r 

w h o l i n k s t h e m o d e r n w i t h t h e p o s t - m o d e r n — a d e l i b e r a t e 

c u l t i v a t i o n o f d i s t a n c e b e t w e e n t h e c o o l , b r i t t l e s u r f a c e 

o f t h e w o r k , t h e a p p a r e n t n a r r a t i v e v o i c e , a n d a n u n d e r l y i n g 

c o m p l i c i t v o i c e . S u b j e c t i v i t y i s a t o n c e b o t h t h e f o r m a n d 

t h e s u b s t a n c e o f t h e w o r k , s o t h a t c h a r a c t e r s a r e r e v e a l e d 

n o t s i m p l y b y w h a t t h e y d o , o r c o n f r o n t — t h i s m a k e s u p R h y s ' 

s o c i a l c r i t i q u e — b u t a l s o b y t h e s t y l e i n w h i c h t h e i r 

c o n s c i o u s n e s s i s r e n d e r e d . I n t h i s r e p r e s e n t a t i o n o f 

c o n s c i o u s n e s s , R h y s i s u n s e n t i m e n t a l , u n d e r s t a t e d a n d i r o n i c , 

b o t h t e r s e a n d e l e g a n t . T h i s i s e s p e c i a l l y i m p o r t a n t i n 

m a k i n g c o m p r e h e n s i b l e t h e e x t r e m e p a s s i v i t y o f h e r c e n t r a l 

women c h a r a c t e r s a n d i t s l a r g e r i m p l i c a t i o n s . W h a t h a p p e n s 

t o t h e m i s r e a d i l y u n d e r s t o o d . I t i s n o t d i f f i c u l t t o b e 

p a r t i s a n w h e n R h y s p o r t r a y s i n a m a t t e r o f f a c t w a y a n d 

t h e r e f o r e d a m n i n g l y , s o c i a l l y p r e - d e t e r m i n e d b e h a v i o u r , 

b u t i t i s d i f f i c u l t t o u n d e r s t a n d s o m e t i m e s t h e d e g r e e o f 

w i l l i n g n e s s t o s u f f e r , w i t h w h i c h R h y s e n d o w s h e r h e r o i n e s . 

W h e n t h e y m a n a g e t o e s c a p e d i r e c t a s s a u l t , t h e y s e e m t o 

d r i f t i n t o d i s a s t e r a n d p a r a l y s i s b y t h e i r o w n m o m e n t u m . 

B u t a t t h e h e a r t o f t h e i r p a s s i v i t y i s f e a r . 

I t w a s a v a g u e a n d s h a d o w y f e a r o f s o m e t h i n g 
c r u e l a n d s t u p i d t h a t h a d c a u g h t h e r a n d 
w o u l d n e v e r l e t h e r g o . S h e h a d k n o w n t h a t 
i t w a s t h e r e - - h i d d e n u n d e r t h e m o r e o r l e s s 
p l e a s a n t s u r f a c e o f t h i n g s . . . . A l w a y s . E v e r 
s i n c e s h e w a s a c h i l d , ( p . 3 3 ) 



81 

Marya i s in some sense, a natural victim then, ever at the 

mercy of anyone who detects i t . Despite her v i c t i m status 

and occasional delusions however, she i s l i k e her creator, 

clear-eyed and acute in her observation of others, p a r t i c u l a r l y 

her tormentors. Their behaviour i s such that the writer need 

do no more than transcribe t h e i r words and actions completely 

unadorned, to damn them. And at t h i s , Rhys and her heroines 

are p a r t i c u l a r l y g i f t e d . This talent tends to add to her 

heroine's d i f f i c u l t i e s . For her characters, the pain of 

surviving ugly and brutal behaviour requires a c e r t a i n 

b l u r r i n g of the f a c t s , a moving from rescue'to rescue i f one 

i s to continue l i v i n g . Only in a kind of dream state can 

Marya accept the unbearable present in unredeemed i s o l a t i o n . 

The i n t e r i o r monologue within t h i s trance becomes a key 

figure in Rhys' f i c t i o n . It i s at t h i s l e v e l that the 

complicit authorial voice functions below the surface of the 

text. These monologues reveal both the character's private 

world and the i m p o s s i b i l i t y of communicating i t to anyone. 

As Marya f a l l s further and further into despair and disorder, 

Rhys subtly a l t e r s the pattern of images and rhythms used 

to convey t h i s state of alternating dream/nightmare. In 

these we see beyond the primitive patterns of dependence that 

seem to trap her character, into something l a r g e r — a broader 

human v u l n e r a b i l i t y than pathological p a s s i t i v i t y would imply, 

and a b r u t a l l y clear sense of who and what i s to blame. 

As Marya's options narrow, her mind becomes less and less 

stable; she sees herself as a trapped animal. This image of 



82 

confinement, of l i f e l i v e d at a primitive l e v e l beyond our 

c o n t r o l , i s to be a key idea in Rhys' other f i c t i o n , where 

powerless characters battle to survive i n a mercilessly 

deterministic universe. This i s the ground-level at which 

characters in her novels are oppressed; a l l other c o n f l i c t s 

between classes, races and the sexes—are echoes of i t . At 

i t s most extreme, t h i s metaphor of oppression r i v a l s Kafka's 

images of horror, fear and d i s o r i e n t a t i o n . 

She was t r y i n g to climb out of the blackness 
up an interminable ladder. She was very small, 
as small as a f l y , yet so heavy, so weighted 
down that i t was impossible to hoist herself 
to the next rung. The weight on her was 
t e r r i b l e . She was going to f a l l . She was 
f a l l i n g . The breath l e f t in her body. (p. 16 2) 

Such passages do more than render consciousness. They 

s t y l i z e i t . This nightmarish q u a l i t y invades the detached 

surface realism of the novel. Marya's only escape from 

fear at t h i s p i t c h i s to drink, to sleep and to engage in 

temporary fantasies based on love and money, ordering with 

absurd precision every minute of her waking existence, 

which in i t s f u t i l i t y , i s reminiscent too, of Kafka. 

Rhys' focus in the novel i s narrow, but i t i s 

d i s c i p l i n e d to provide shape for an all-encompassing theme: 

that beneath her c r i t i q u e (that men are spoilers and that 

bourgeois society mutilates), a l l are victims. If men are 

b l i n d and s e l f i s h , driven by fear and l u s t , then women are 

t h e i r accomplices, driven by a desperate and life-denying 

need for protection. This i s the d i s t i l l e d i n t e r i o r of the 

novel working in complicity with, (though in apparent 



83 

opposition to) the detached surface of the work. This 

narrative tension i s at the heart of the d i a l e c t i c between 

consciousness and c r i t i q u e which informs a l l of Rhys' f i c t i o n . 

She refines i t further i n After Leaving Mr. Mackenzie 

(1931), where the b r i t t l e surface becomes a glassy 
40 

o b j e c t i v i t y . In keeping with t h i s , her heroine i s an even 

more anonymous e x i l e than Marya. J u l i a ' s "career of ups and 

downs has rubbed most of the hallmarks o f f her, so that i t 

was not easy to guess at her age, her n a t i o n a l i t y , or the 

s o c i a l background to which she properly belonged" (p. 14). 

Her world i s harsher, her status c l e a r e r . In "organized 

society" she "had no place and against [it] she had not a 

dog's chance" (p. 22). J u l i a too has impaled herself on her 

love of a conventional Englishman, who, she discovers too 

l a t e , "was p e r f e c t l y adapted to the s o c i a l system" (p. 24). 

J u l i a i s the force of "the other" in his l i f e ; he i s tempted 

by the perversity of his a t t r a c t i o n to t h i s demi-mondaine. 

One of his love l e t t e r s to her had begun, "I would l i k e to 

put my throat under your feet" (p. 28). At a l l other times, 

however, "He wanted to e s t a b l i s h a sane and normal atmosphere." 

His conventionality, and i t s underside, "smashed [her] up." 

J u l i a i s without resources—"too vulnerable ever to make a 

success of a career of chance" (p. 14). She i s not without 

toughness and endurance, but as before i t i s passive: 
Of course you clung on because you were 
obstinate. You clung on because people 
t r i e d to shove you o f f , despised you, and 
were rude to you. So you clung on. Let 
quite alone, you would have l e t go of your 
own accord. (P. 180). 



8 4 

B u t when h e r c o n v e n t i o n a l l o v e r s p u r n s h e r , J u l i a c o n f r o n t s 

i n h i m a l l t h a t she d e s p i s e s i n " o r g a n i z e d s o c i e t y " and f i n d s 

h e r s e l f s t i l l c a p a b l e o f r a g e . "If a l l g o o d , r e s p e c t a b l e 

p e o p l e had one f a c e , I ' d s p i t i n i t . I w i s h t h e y a l l had 

one f a c e so I c o u l d s p i t i n i t " ( p . 1 3 5 ) . 

The n a r r a t i v e m o n i t o r s J u l i a ' s e x i s t e n c e a s she e n d u r e s 

d e s p a i r . I t i s a t a f u r t h e r remove f r o m c r i s i s t h a n Q u a r t e t 

^ - a s t u d y o f a f t e r m a t h , o f " c l i n g i n g o n . " F o r J u l i a t h e 

game i s t e m p o r a r i l y o v e r . T h i s i s R h y s ' f i r s t e x p a n d e d 

s t u d y o f f e m a l e c o n s c i o u s n e s s i n i m p a s s e - - " t h e abandonment 

o f f a t i g u e " ( p . 7 8 ) . Here random s e x u a l e n c o u n t e r s a r e a 

s e a r c h f o r any human c o n n e c t i o n r a t h e r t h a n f o r l o v e . J u l i a ' s 

e x p e c t a t i o n s a r e m i n i m a l , b u t e v e n t h e n she i s d i s a p p o i n t e d . 

When a l o v e r l e a v e s q u i c k l y b e f o r e she wakes a f t e r a n i g h t 

t o g e t h e r , s h e l o o k s a t t h e n o t e he l e a v e s . I t i s " a s i f she 

were r e a d i n g s o m e t h i n g w r i t t e n by a s t r a n g e r t o someone she 

had n e v e r s e e n " ( p . 1 5 7 ) . Q u a r t e t d e c l a r e s a l l i t s 

c h a r a c t e r s v i c t i m s ; A f t e r L e a v i n g M r . M a c k e n z i e f o c u s e s on 

t h e i n e v i t a b l y a b o r t i v e a t t e m p t s o f t h e s e v i c t i m s t o c o n n e c t 

w i t h one a n o t h e r . T h e y a r e p r o f o u n d l y i s o l a t e d , l i v i n g 

a l o n e i n " t h e h o u r b e t w e e n dog a n d w o l f " ( p . 1 9 0 ) . 

Good M o r n i n g , M i d n i g h t 

D e s p i t e t h e f a c t t h a t J e a n Rhys h a s c o n c e r n e d h e r s e l f 

c o n s i s t e n t l y i n f i c t i o n w i t h t h e p r i v a t e r a t h e r t h a n t h e 

p u b l i c w o r l d , w i t h c o n s c i o u s n e s s r a t h e r t h a n h i s t o r y , t h e r e 

a r e s e v e r a l i m p o r t a n t s e n s e s i n w h i c h Good M o r n i n g , M i d n i g h t 



8 5 

i s a novel of i t s time. It appeared in 1 9 3 9 . The novel 

completes the p o r t r a i t of her woman protagonist in decline 

over four novels. Sasha Jansen i s the l a s t of these 

incarnations, with, for the moment, s l i g h t l y more money than 

the others, but much less c o n t r o l . Judith Kegan Gardiner's 

reading of his novel sees i t as "goodnight to Modernism," 

the l i t e r a r y mainstream of the day: Thomas Staley connects 

i t s central anxieties with "the broad economic decline and 

the sense of impending disaster that was part of the 1 9 3 0 ' s . " 

The central character i s "beached," but a l i v e . 

I stayed there, staring at myself in the glass. 
What do I want to cry about?...On the contrary, 
i t ' s when I am quite sane l i k e t h i s , when I have 
had a couple of extra drinks and am quite sane, 
that I r e a l i z e how lucky I am. Saved, rescued, 
fished-up half-drowned, out of the deep, dark 
r i v e r , dry clothes, hair shampooed and set. 
Nobody would know I have ever been in i t . 
Except, of course, that there always remains 
something. Yes, there always remains something 
....Never mind, here I am, sane and dry, with my 
place to hide i n . What more do I want...I'm 
a b i t of an automaton, but sane surely--dry, 
cold and sane. Now I have forgotten about dark 
streets, dark r i v e r s , the pain, the struggle and 
the drowning... 42 

As the t i t l e taken from a poem by Emily Dickenson implies, 

the heroine i s dispossessed: of day, order, l i g h t and love. 

Sunshine was a sweet place. 
I l i k e d to s t a y -
But Morn didn't want me—now—-
So good-night, Day!43 

In Dickinson's poem, times of day and night and degrees of 

l i g h t are spoken of as though they are placed, persons, 

states of mind. Though dispossessed, t h i s i n i t i a l speaker 
44 

seems to be w i l l i n g herself away from l i g h t and acceptance. 



86 

There are many l i t e r a r y instances—not least from t h i s 

period, V i r g i n i a Woolf's A Room of One's Own (and I think in 

certain senses that t h i s novel of Rhys' i s a c y n i c a l reply 

to Woolf)--of a woman's space as a metaphor for the condition 
4 5 

of the woman h e r s e l f . In Good Morning, Midnight Sasha's 

room i s given a voice--"Quite l i k e old times," the room says. 

"Yes? No?" (p. 9 ) . It has power, and i s a l l of the rooms of 

her past superimposed on one another. This room i s austere 

and shabby. There i s a c e l l - l i k e f i n a l i t y , a c l a r i t y about 

i t s d e t a i l s although no c i t y or quarter i s s p e c i f i e d : 
There i s two beds, a big one for madame and a 
smaller one on the opposite side for monsieur. 
The washbasin i s shut o f f by a curtain. It 
i s a larger room, the smell of cheap hotels 
f a i n t , almost imperceptible. The street 
outside i s narrow, cobble-stoned, going 
sharply u p h i l l and ending in a f l i g h t of 
steps. What they c a l l an impasse. (p. 9) 

There i s no description of the building which contains the 

room. The eye moves from room to street. It i s as though 

the room i s suspended in a i r , out of ordinary context. The 

street i t s e l f i s l i k e a d e t a i l from a dream or a children's 

story--cobble stones turning into s t a i r s r i s i n g up to end 

i n impasse. 

We then hear of the temporal impasse in which the 

heroine i s l i v i n g : 
I have been here f i v e days. I have decided on 
a place to eat in at midday, a place to eat in 
at night, a place to have my drink i n a f t e r 
dinner. I have arranged by l i t t l e l i f e . (p. 9) 

She presents her entire existence as an i n t e r s t i c e , but 

within i t the timing of the minutiae of her day has been 



8 7 

arranged with geometric p r e c i s i o n . There must be no gaps in 

which the past might intrude on sanity. We f i n d that the 

heroine has recently recreated herself, changing her name to 

Sasha to try to improve her luck. We never know what her 

other name i s . She invents herself and her current condition. 

She i s a woman in fading middle age, l i v i n g in Paris at the 

expense of a f r i e n d who had come across her in London, broken 

down and without resources. She l i k e s Paris because she has 

survived i t i n other l i v e s . "Paris i s looking very nice 

tonight....You are looking very nice tonight, my b e a u t i f u l , 

my d a r l i n g , and oh what a b i t c h you can be! But you didn't 

k i l l me a f t e r a l l , did you? And they couldn't k i l l me 

either" (p. 16). Her " f i l m mind," her consciousness 

functioning l i k e cinema, constantly draws her back into 

memories of past loves and other f a i l u r e s in t h i s , the only 

c i t y where she has ever had any luck. Her l i f e within i t s 

stalemate i s rigorously arranged according to her private 

survival code based on luck, experience, and association. 

My l i f e , which seems so simple and monotonous, 
i s r e a l l y a complicated a f f a i r of cafes where 
they l i k e me and cafes where they don't, streets 
that are f r i e n d l y , streets that aren't, rooms 
where I might be happy, rooms where I never 
s h a l l be, looking glasses I look nice i n , looking 
glasses I don't, dresses that w i l l be lucky, 
dresses that won't, and so on. (p. 46) 

The thing i s to have a programme, not to leave 
anything to chance—no gaps. (p. 15) 

We understand that the gaps would be quickly f i l l e d up with 

bloodied images of the past--with defeat i n the present and 

despair for the future. 



88 

In t h i s novel, the now f a m i l i a r d i a l e c t i c between the 

world and the s e l f , at the base of Sasha's paranoia and 

obsession, becomes war, which she cannot even be sure of 

surviving. In t h i s Rhys does not mean to l o c a l i z e her 

c r i t i q u e of the s o c i a l order to either the male sex or to 

the bourgeoise. She means us to understand that these 

people are both predators and prey because they are party to 

that s o c i a l contract whereby some must always dominate over 

others. Their freedom i s as l i k e l y to be l o s t as anyone 

else's. Her focus i s power and i t s e f f e c t s — a n d t h i s can 

express i t s e l f in language as well as action: 

"Why don't you drown yourself in the Seine?" 
These phrases run t r i p p i n g l y o f f the tongues 
of the extremely respectable. They think in 
terms of a sentimental b a l l a d . And that's 
what t e r r i f i e s you about them. It i s n ' t 
t h e i r cruelty, i t i s n ' t even t h e i r shrewdness 
— i t ' s t h e i r extraordinary naivete. 
Everything in t h e i r whole bloody world i s a 
c l i c h e . Everything i s born out of a c l i c h e , 
rests on a c l i c h e , survives on a c l i c h e . And 
they believe in the c l i c h e s - - t h e r e 1 s no hope, 
(p. 42) 

The c l i c h e i s of course the bourgeois l i f e which Sasha both 

envies and despises; and of course at times i t i s important 

for her to appear to be l i v i n g t h i s c l i c h e too—whenever she 

i s an employee for example. "Please, please, monsieur et 

madame, mister, missis and miss, I am t r y i n g so hard to be 

l i k e you" (p. 106). But her ultimate f a i l u r e to do so i s 

also s t r i k i n g l y captured in language—when language i s 

appropriated by the moneyed, and the powerful, before whom 

she f a l l s s i l e n t , only to rage i n t e r n a l l y l a t e r and to 

imagine, what she might have said i f she could have found 



89 

her voice. This happens to her when she i s working i n 

a fashion house in Paris. Profoundly alienated by the kind 

of work involved, she c o l l i d e s head on one day, with the new 

boss--"the r e a l English type...Bowler hat, majestic trousers, 

oh-my-God expression...I know him at once" (p. 19) . He at 

once attacks her for lacking the languages her job requires. 

Her mind free-associates wildly while he lectures and 

interrogates her. She i s incapable of any but the most 

elementary or absurd response. She panics, and in her 

anxiety botches an errand he sends her on; the f a i l u r e i s 

actually his--he mispronounces the French word for cashier, 

and she becomes l o s t in the building looking for someone 

who does not e x i s t . She stumbles through the language 

trap that she imagines he has set for her—"dozens of small 

rooms, passages that don't lead anywhere, steps going up 

and steps going down" (p. 25). When she gives up and returns 

to him he humiliates her for her incompetence. "God knows 

I'm used to f o o l s , but t h i s complete imbecility....This woman 

i s the biggest f o o l I've ever met in my l i f e . She seems to 

be half-witted....Just a hopeless, helpless l i t t l e f o o l 

aren't you?...Well, aren't you? "Yes, yes, yes, yes. Oh 

yes" (pp. 27-28). Terror silences her. 

Later, alone, when she recovers her composure, she 

imagines what an e f f e c t i v e response to him might have been: 

"Well, l e t ' s argue t h i s out Mr. Blank. You, 
who represent Society, have the right to pay 
me four hundred francs a month. That's my 
market value, for I am an i n e f f i c i e n t member 
of Society, slow in the uptake, uncertain, 



s l i g h t l y damaged in the fray, there's no denying 
i t . So you have the r i g h t to pay me four 
hundred francs a month, to lodge me in a small, 
dark room, to clothe me shabbily, to harass 
me with worry and monotony and u n s a t i s f i e d 
longings t i l l you get me to the point when I 
blush at a look, cry at a word. We can't a l l 
be happy, we can't a l l be r i c h , we can't a l l 
be lucky....Isn't i t so Mr. Blank? There must 
be the dark background to show up the bright 
colours. Some must cry so that others may be 
able to laugh more h e a r t i l y . S a c r i f i c e s are 
necessary.... Let's say that you have t h i s 
mystical right to cut my legs o f f . But the 
right to r i d i c u l e me afterwards because I 'am 
cripple—-no, that I think you haven't got. 
And that's the right you hold most dearly, 
i s n ' t i t ? You must be able to despise the 
people you e x p l o i t . " 

"Did I say a l l this? Of course, I didn't. I 
didn't even think i t (p. 29). 

The power of t h i s incident keeps i t in Sasha's mind long 

a f t e r the event. It enters the narrative as memory--

remembered powerlessness. It i s one of the sharpest 

outbursts against exploitation anywhere in Rhys' f i c t i o n . 

Good Morning, Midnight i s the only novel of Rhys' 

where there i s a male equivalent in experience and 

s e n s i b i l i t y to her female protagonist. The young gigolo, 

Rene, i s Sasha's double. He too i s of uncertain o r i g i n s , 

an abscure past, "no papers, no passport... the s l i g h t e s t 

accident and I'm f i n i s h e d " (p. 76), a troubled present and 

doubtful future; l i k e Sasha he l i v e s off the temporary 

affections of strangers and his looks. Given t h e i r 

q u a l i t i e s in common, they should be a l l i e s . . . even lovers; 

c e r t a i n l y Sasha i s attracted to Rene, glimpses again the 

almost abandoned p o s s i b i l i t y of connection with another. 



Rene wishes to t e l l her everything. But because he too has 

become a creature of circumstance who invents his l i f e from 

minute to minute, she can believe nothing that he says. She 

worries most about t h e i r possible involvement when "they 

s t a r t believing each other" (p. 174). She must d i s t r u s t his 

opportunism because she recognizes i t so well. She i s 

convinced that he only approached her in the f i r s t place 

because of her fur coat, many times pawned, and now worn as 

a reminder of former well-being. Rene imagines that she i s 

an aging wealthy woman who w i l l pay for a younger man. For 

once, in the face of t h i s , she i s f e a r l e s s . "He i s out for 

money and I haven't got any. I am invulnerable" (p. 76). 

At the simplest l e v e l she mistrusts him too because he i s a 

man, one who can at w i l l switch back into the brutal male 

stereotype with which she i s so f a m i l i a r ; at these moments 

he believes that i n t e l l i g e n t women are monstrosities and 

that sexually reluctant woman should be gang-raped. In her 

state of psychological impasse, she manages to balance her 

polar reactions to Rene--those of alternating a t t r a c t i o n 

and r e p u l s i o n — u n t i l the climax of the novel where the impass 

i s broken. 

This f i n a l scene i s Rhys' l a s t comment on the r e l a t i o n s 

between the sexes, and a powerful parting metaphor for the 

maimed consciousness at war with the world; she i s not to 

take i s up again, and never in quite t h i s way, for t h i r t y 

years. The climax involves three people: Sasha at a 

h y s t e r i c a l p i t c h of need and physical desire for Rene before 



he disappears, Rene t r y i n g desperately to claim a moment of 

intimacy from her, and the nameless "commis voyageur," the 

spectre of a displaced t r a v e l l i n g salesman who l i v e s in the 

hotel room next to Sasha. He has haunted her throughout the 

novel--a deathshead—"in his b e a u t i f u l dressing-gown, 

immaculately white, with long, wide, hanging sleeves...He 

looks l i k e a p r i e s t , the p r i e s t of some obscene, h a l f -

understood r e l i g i o n " (p. 34). He looks l i k e death waiting 

for her; he i s at the same time simply an unsavoury character 

t r y i n g to proposition her. To succumb to him would mark her 

lowest ebb. It i s Rene's l a s t night in Paris. He cannot 

believe that Sasha w i l l not take him to her bed. "But why 

shouldn't we believe each other just for tonight?... 

Something must have happened to make you l i k e t h i s . " "It 

took years," she thinks. "It was a slow process" (p. 175). 

As they drive towards 1'Hotel de l"Esperance she remembers 

a l i f e t i m e of mistreatment by men. When her need i s greater 

than her fear, she embraces him, and begins to make love to 

him, despite her better judgment. At that moment things 

s t a r t to go wrong and her c r i p p l i n g self-consciousness 

returns--"the room springs out at me, laughing, triumphant 

...Les Hommes en Cage...Exactly" (p. 178). She drinks and 

the room becomes more grotesque. "The damned room grinning 

at me...Qu'est-ce qu'elle fout i c i , l a v i e i l l e ? " (p. 179). 

They struggle. He t r i e s to take her seuxally. Intimacy i s 

f i n a l l y s h o r t - c i r c u i t e d when she fobs him o f f - - t e l l s him not 

to bother with the sex, simply to take the money and go. 



While her voice i s clear and deadly, her " f i l m mind" screams 

renunciation. When he goes, he does not take the money, nor 

does he come back. 

Rhys then gives us a f i n a l monologue for Sasha, as 

powerful i n reverse as that provided by Joyce for his heroine, 
4 3 

Molly Bloom, at the conclusion to Ulysses. Where f i n a l l y , 

Molly opens herself to her husband as a gesture of 

r e c o n c i l i a t i o n and regeneration, the Rhys heroine i n a 

gesture of supreme s e l f a n n i h i l a t i o n , opens herself to sexual 

negation, a new kind of death. "The l a s t performance of 

What's-her-name And her Boys... P o s i t i v e l y the l a s t performance" 

(p. 184).1 I n her " f i l m mind" she sees Rene, the genuine 

object of desire returning to her. In t h i s v i s i o n she opens 

the door to him, undresses and l i e s in bed, l i k e Molly, 

trembling with expectation. "I l i e very s t i l l , with my arm 

over my eyes. As s t i l l as i f I were dead..." (p. 190). 

In Rene's place, in f a c t , comes the spectral commis 

voyageur, in his death-like white dressing gown. It i s to 

t h i s degraded transient whom she abhors, that she responds 

with Molly's l i f e affirming c r i e s of "Yes—yes--yes..." 

(p. 190) . 

It i s Rhys' darkest moment, and the closest that she 

brings her European heroine to the a n n i h i l a t i o n of s e l f . 

"I look straight into his eyes and despise another poor 

d e v i l of a human being for the l a s t time. For the l a s t 

time..." (p. 190). It i s tempting to see t h i s episode as 

Judith Kegan Gardiner has done, as Jean Rhys' response to 



the mythologizing and misrepresentation of female 

consciousness at the hands of the male Modernists. Where 

Joyce has portrayed sexual union and the mystically 

regenerative powers of women in transcendentally charged, 

l i f e - a f f i r m i n g terms, Rhys sees them in the end as the s t u f f 

of f i n a l nightmare, at least for women, i f honestly portrayed. 

It i s possible to see Good Morning, Midnight as a potent 

c r i t i q u e of some of the major myths of Modernism. Rhys' 

characters and her f i c t i o n , bear the f u l l weight of 

impoverished existence. 

The s t y l e of a l l her works has denied at every turn, 

too, the disengagement and the irony of mainstream Modernism. 

As A. Alvarez in his 19 74 reappraisal of her work noted "She 

makes you r e a l i z e that almost every other novel, however 

apparently anarchic, i s rooted f i n a l l y i n the respectable 
46 

world." Although Jean Rhys f i r s t appeared i n p r i n t in 

Ford's t r a n s a t l a n t i c review along with Pound, Hemingway, 

Richardson, Stein, Barnes and Ford himself, her work was 

not, even at that early stage, t y p i c a l of the review or of 

her Parisian expatriate peers. In many respects, Rhys' 

writing was not p a r t i c u l a r l y "of i t s time." It has often 

been noted that the novels share a p e c u l i a r l y timeless 

q u a l i t y — a deliberate and dreamlike exclusion of temporal 

and geographical e x p l i c i t n e s s . Some of her themes l i n k 

her with Woolf, Richardson, Mansfield, and Nin, but her 

preoccupation with the sordid and the demi-monde gives her 

more i n common with Henry M i l l e r and l a t e r , Celine. 



9 5 

When Rhys f i r s t arrived on the continent, she cannot 

have been unaware of the experiments of Proust, Joyce, Pound 

and E l i o t , with l i t e r a r y form—with the i n t e r i o r monologue, 

"stream of consciousness" and time s h i f t . There were many 

expatriates in Paris in the twenties when Rhys was there, 

as attested by the scores of l i t e r a r y magazines and reviews 

which emerged, providing an immediate forum for t h i s l i t e r a r y 

experiment. Rhys however, was a rather d i f f e r e n t kind of 

expatriate from most others. As V.S. Naipaul has put i t , 

she writes "outside the t r a d i t i o n of imperial expatriate 

writing in which the metropolitan outsider i s thrown into 

r e l i e f against an a l i e n background. She was an expatriate 

but her journey had been the other way around, from a 

background of nothing to an organized world with which her 

heroines could never come to terms...This journey, t h i s 
4 7 

break in l i f e , i s the e s s e n t i a l theme of her f i v e novels." 

Rhys' general reaction to Paris' l i t e r a r y expatriate 

population can be quickly deduced from the searing p o r t r a i t s 

i n Quartet. Beneath a t h i n veneer of "bohemianism" she sees 

the same moneyed, bourgeois hypocrisy that she saw and 

loathed in the middle class everywhere. Ford Madox Ford, 

as remarked e a r l i e r , provided the raw material for one of her 

most damning p o r t r a i t s — H . J . Heidler in Quartet. In l i f e , 

however, he was rather more useful, providing for Rhys a 

l i n k with contemporary l i t e r a t u r e . He in fact served as a 

mentor, and was an i n f l u e n t i a l editor of Rhys' work as i t 

began to appear in p r i n t . She must inevitably have been 



96 

influenced by his views on f i c t i o n , e s p e c i a l l y in matters of 

form. He undoubtedly conveyed to her the value of an 

impressionistic s t y l e , which he himself had perfected in 
4 8 

The Good Soldier. This novel's narrator, John Dowell, 

constantly revises and recreates his perception of events as 

he acquires a deeper understanding of t h e i r s i g n i f i c a n c e . 

Just as impressionistic painting r e l i e s on the s h i f t i n g 

play of l i g h t , so in l i t e r a r y impressionism according to 

Ford, narration w i l l s h i f t according to the narrator's angle 

or distance from the events. Ford saw t h i s q u a l i t y already 

i n the works of Flaubert, de.Maupassant and Henry James. 

Just before the publication of The Good Solider, Ford 

pointed out the supreme paradox of t h i s kind of writing: 

that while the novel's effectiveness depended e n t i r e l y on 

the "impressions" accumulated and dispensed by the writer, 

nevertheless the writer must be c a r e f u l "to avoid l e t t i n g 
4 9 

his personality appear in the course of the book." In 

impressionism, the author's "whole book, his whole poem i s 

merely an expression of his personality, which i s the 

rendering of experience through t h i s d i s t i l l a t i o n of c e r t a i n 

recorded phenomena that capture the essence of that 

e x p e r i e n c e . O n a formal l e v e l t h i s may be true, but the 

Kafkaesque c r i t i q u e runs counter to i t . There i s a d i s t i n c t 

s e l f involved. 

Rhys i s nonetheless, on a purely s t y l i s t i c l e v e l , true 

to the model, and i t provides an i n t e r e s t i n g key to her 

autobiographical f i c t i o n s . Her novels are at once 



impersonal, formally controlled and cool, and on the other 

hand, saturated with the intensely personal and private. 

Impressionist writing at i t s best, according to Ford, should 

be "minimalist". In t h i s mode and central to Rhys' sensuous 

notation of experience, i s the emotional e l l i p s i s , which 

marks her characters' most subtle s h i f t s . Ford advocated 

and Rhys perfected, non-sequential dialogue, stressing the 

i r o n i c discrepancy between speech and feeling--speech when 

i t f a i l s to be any kind of objective c o r r e l a t i v e . In e f f e c t , 

Rhys s t y l i s t i c a l l y takes much from her Modernist antecedents 

and denies much of what they have to say. 

Writing outside the moneyed and c u l t u r a l mainstream, 

Rhys was also outside the transcendental element in Modernist 

f i c t i o n , as taken up by the a e s t h e t i c i s t s of either sex. The 

aesthetic in f i c t i o n resided for her, almost e n t i r e l y in 

the realm of form; and in t h i s she i s one of the most elegant 

and purest writers of the twenties and t h i r t i e s . She i s 

primarily however, a novelist of a l i e n a t i o n . Despite a 

formal element of "timelessness" in her narrative, one of 

the reasons her f i c t i o n s are so e f f e c t i v e as a l i e n a t i o n 

studies, i s that they are so exact; the Rhys woman embodies 

a l l outsiders at the mercy of p r i v i l e g e d , s o c i a l ; : 

configurations in Europe between the wars. She focuses 

p r e c i s e l y on the way language works, both in society in 

which her victims struggle to survive and in the l i t e r a r y 

world of the Modernists in which she struggles to function 

as a pure s t y l i s t in the European t r a d i t i o n of Flaubert 



9 8 

and Turgenev, and as an alienated female voice which does 

not speak to an appropriate audience. As a writer, Jean Rhys 

functions outside the disengaged ironies of Modernism though 

using several of i t s key f o r m s — p r i n c i p a l l y the 

autobiographical novel. In other words I would suggest that 

a l i e n a t i o n i n Rhys' f i c t i o n s functions at two l e v e l s — s o c i a l 

and e x i s t e n t i a l . She compounds the a l i e n a t i n g facts of her 

characters' l i v e s by t r e a t i n g them f i n a l l y outside a s o c i a l 

context, as universal facts of existence; in so doing she 

seals t h e i r fates and creates a devastatingly complete 

p o r t r a i t of l i f e l i v e d in despair, where the p o l a r i t i e s 

which torment her c h a r a c t e r s — o f sex, money, power and race, 

w i l l never be resolved. 

To conclude, then, Rhys' autobiographical novels of 

a l i e n a t i o n written from a female expatriate perspective do 

much to disrupt fixed notions of neat l i t e r a r y chronology— 

impressionistic f i c t i o n followed by the Modernist novel 

giving way to the post-modern anti-novel. Perhaps t h i s i s 

the reason she i s not often discussed as a s i g n i f i c a n t 

woman writer of her day, or as "belonging" to a p a r t i c u l a r 

decade or school, or even n a t i o n a l i t y . The " s e l f " she 

brought to f i c t i o n was a rootless international creature, 

haunted by Caribbean power structures from another century, 

a r t i s t i c a l l y influenced more by the French and the Russians 

than the English i n whose language she wrote, and seeing 

l i t e r a t u r e as a vocation, but one at which she could never 



99 

earn a l i v i n g l i k e the comfortably o f f and widely respected 

Mrs. Woolf. Her studies of j u s t i f i e d paranoia, obsession 

and defeat, exposees of the English bourgeoisie and i t s 

capacity to maim and tyrannize, portrayed with the precision 

of a nightmare, would not have won her a popular readership 

i n the 1920's. In the 1930's she was regarded as 

s t y l i s t i c a l l y out of touch, a Georgian s e n s i b i l i t y in the 

shadow of the politico-documentary style of Isherwood, Greene 

and Orwell. She was l o s t between the two decades as the 

antipathetic and uncomprehending reviews she received well 

indicate. 

She i s , however, a fascinating and an important 

t r a n s i t i o n a l writer i n several respects. She was a far more 

subtle ideologue than the male writers of the t h i r t i e s and 

at the same time offered far greater s o c i a l awareness than 

her female contemporaries. Her damning s o c i a l c r i t i q u e s 

were written with such vividness that they take one into the 

world of universal and inevitable t e r r o r , Kafka's world, 

where one's only response i s the "nausea" of a Sartre. An 

important consideration i s that she i s a woman's Kafka, 

o f f e r i n g expressionistic nightmare canvases which illuminate 

the grotesque consequence of power, cruelty and masochism 

based on sex and rendering love and l i f e meaningless. 

I do not believe that i t i s possible to dismiss Rhys 

s t y l i s t i c a l l y on the grounds that she was a Georgian writer 

trained by Ford, e i t h e r . Here too, in the area of s t y l e , 

Rhys i s an i n t e r e s t i n g crossover writer. She wrote with 



100 

the formal purity of Turgenev or Checkhov, writers she admired. 

There are strong echoes of Colette's l y r i c i s m too. But there 

were s t r i k i n g l y o r i g i n a l and forward-looking aspects of her 

s t y l e which confused her c r i t i c s . The formal purity, the cool 

and exquisite precision of her d e t a i l , editing and narrative 

structure, create an a i r of surface calm for her f i c t i o n . 

There i s , at the same time, a c h i l l i n g irony to the play of 

tensions between t h i s calm elegance and narrative poise, 

and the psycho-nightmare which collapses a l l r e l i a b l e order 

beneath i t . There are hints here of the kinds of post-modern 

s t y l i s t i c pastiches to which we have become used in the works 

of writers l i k e Muriel Spark, Renata Adler, Saul Bellow and 

I t a l o Calvino. 

Like these contemporary writers, Rhys brought a range 

of l i t e r a r y and perceptual styles-—expressionism, impressionism 

and r e a l i s m — t o bear on her issue, the psycho-social 

fragmentation of women between the wars. In a highly 

self-conscious and controlled way, she made of the 

autobiographical novel something much more open; she made 

i t do more, while preserving i t s e s s e n t i a l opaqueness as a 

personal document. 



1 

Chapter Three 

Self Portraiture as Cubist A r t i f i c e 

E x i l e or Expatriate 

While Jean Rhys d r i f t e d towards Europe, Gertrude Stein 

was a determined expatriate for c u l t u r a l reasons, much as 

Henry James had been in the nineteenth century. In 1903, 

Stein made a premeditated personal decision to move to Paris 

a c u l t u r a l climate that was kind to a r t i s t s . She preceded, 

by nearly twenty years, the much more self-conscious and 

t h e a t r i c a l displacement of an entire generation of other 

young Americans who went to Paris "to write." Always quick 

to remind that she was an American, Stein made i t clear that 

she did not think of herself as in any way i n e x i l e , that 

i s , l i v i n g at a disadvantage, or without choices. She was 

a voluntary expatriate, on good terms with her country, who 

l i v e d i n Paris because i t suited her and provided her with 

a suitable audience for her writing. America, she had 

decided early in a l i t e r a r y career almost r e l i g i o u s in i t s 

d a i l y application, was not a p r a c t i c a l place for her to l i v e 

and write. In answer to a questionnaire published in the 

Paris l i t e r a r y journal t r a n s i t i o n which asked "Why do you 

l i v e abroad? Gertrude Stein r e p l i e d that "the United States 

i s a country the right age to be born in and the wrong age 

to l i v e in...a r i c h and well-nourished home but not a place 

to work i n . " 

Malcolm Cowley i n his book on the twenties, Exile ' s 



102 

Return, supports t h i s verdict on America as a place to 
2 

leave i f one wants an a r t i s t i c career. Admittedly, he 

describes an America that i s a f u l l decade and a half on 

from the one Stein l e f t in 1903, but one senses that many of 

the trends he describes so passionately lay behind Stein's 

comment: 
Almost everywhere, in every department of 
c u l t u r a l l i f e , Europe offered the models to 
imitate in painting, composing, philosophy, 
folk drinking, the drama, sex, p o l i t i c s , 
national consciousness—indeed some doubted 
his country [the U.S.] was even a nation; 
i t had no t r a d i t i o n s except the f a t a l 
t r a d i t i o n of the pioneer. As for our 
contemporary l i t e r a t u r e . . . i t i s indeed one 
long l i s t of s p i r i t u a l casualties....One 
can count on one's two hands the American 
writers who are able to carry on the 
development and unfolding of t h e i r 
i n d i v i d u a l i t i e s . Year i n , year out, as 
every competent man of a f f a i r s c a r r i e s on 
his business (writers) have lapsed into 
silence or have involved themselves in 
barren e c c e n t r i c i t i e s , or have been turned 
into machines...poets...extinguished... 
novelists...unable to grow up, remain 
withered boys of seventeen...everywhere 
there i s no scope for individualism; 
ignorance, unculture, or at the best, 
mediocrity has triumphed....The highest 
achievements of our m a t e r i a l i s t i c 
c i v i l i z a t i o n . . . c o u n t as so many symbols 
of i t s s p i r i t u a l f a i l u r e . 3 

Gertrude Stein did not every speak out as f i e r c e l y as 

t h i s against her country. She simply decided that i t was 

no country for writers, and not for her. Yet she regarded 

herself as fundamentally and at a l l times an American. To 

l i v e in France was a creative decision. She did learn 

French to a l e v e l of competence, and one of the f i r s t 

exercises she set herself on a r r i v a l was to translate 



103 

Flaubert's Trois Contes; but she paid no p a r t i c u l a r attention 

to either the language or l i t e r a t u r e of France, the country-

she v i r t u a l l y adopted u n t i l her death in 1946, leaving i t 

only to go on occasional holidays. 

Thornton Wilder, l e c t u r i n g on Stein's work a f t e r her 

death, makes an i n t e r e s t i n g case for interpreting Stein's 

absence from the country she was so passionately concerned 

with, and p e r i o d i c a l l y (The Making of Americans and Four in  

America) wished to interpret for the benefit of other 

Americans. He suggests that perhaps she i s an offshoot of 

a "reclusive tendency" i n American writing. His chief 

example i s Emily Dickinson, a writer who wished to i s o l a t e 

herself from her natural audience, the better to d i s t i l l 
4 

what she had to t e l l them. Stein was in no normal way 

r e c l u s i v e , far from i t , hers was an intensely s o c i a l l i f e . 

But i n some central a r t i s t i c sense, French society did not 

count for her. It did not intrude on her, shape or i n h i b i t 

her. She l i v e d in i s o l a t i o n from both American and French 

culture, her roots and a l l the automatic points of reference 

her adult consciousness might seek out at home. 

But America was frequently on her mind. "America i s 
5 

my country, but Paris i s my home town." Within her 

i d i o s y n c r a t i c h i s t o r i c a l and geographical frameworks, 

America's p o s i t i o n was unique. She saw i t , quite curiously 

as "the oldest country in the world because by the methods 

of the c i v i l war and the commercial conception that 

followed i t , America created the twentieth century." 6 One 



s e n s e s h e r s t r o n g i d e n t i f i c a t i o n w i t h A m e r i c a ' s p o w e r a s a n 

i n n o v a t o r . S h e d i d s e e a c o n n e c t i o n b e t w e e n g e o g r a p h y a n d 

c h a r a c t e r . " A f t e r a l l , a n y b o d y i s a s t h e i r l a n d a n d a i r i s . " 

I f A m e r i c a n i n t e r e s t e d h e r i n t h e a b s t r a c t , s h e w a s 

e n c h a n t e d b y i t i n a c t u a l i t y w h e n s h e r e v i s i t e d i t f o r t h e 

f i r s t a n d o n l y t i m e i n 1 9 3 4 a f t e r T h e A u t o b i o g r a p h y o f 

A l i c e B . T o k l a s h a d b e e n a b e s t s e l l e r t h e r e . W h e n s h e 

r e t u r n e d t o F r a n c e a f t e r t h e t r i p , s h e w a s q u o t e d i n t h e 

New Y o r k H e r a l d T r i b u n e a s s a y i n g , " I am a l r e a d y h o m e s i c k 

f o r A m e r i c a — I n e v e r k n e w i t w a s s o b e a u t i f u l . I w a s l i k e 

a b a c h e l o r who g o e s a l o n g f i n e f o r t w e n t y - f i v e y e a r s a n d 

t h e n d e c i d e s t o g e t m a r r i e d . T h a t i s t h e w a y I f e e l — I m e a n 

a b o u t A m e r i c a " (May 1 3 , 1 9 3 5 ) . A s i m i l a r l y e m o t i o n a l c h o r d 

w a s s t r u c k w h e n S t e i n w a s a s k e d t o s p e a k t o A m e r i c a n s b y 

r a d i o f r o m a n a r m y c a m p n e a r h e r home i n n e w l y l i b e r a t e d 

r u r a l F r a n c e a t t h e e n d o f W o r l d W a r I I . S h e b e g a n " I c a n 

t e l l e v e r y b o d y t h a t n o n e o f y o u k n o w w h a t t h i s n a t i v e l a n d 

b u s i n e s s i s u n t i l y o u h a v e b e e n c u t o f f f r o m t h a t s a m e 

n a t i v e l a n d c o m p l e t e l y f o r y e a r s . T h i s n a t i v e l a n d b u s i n e s s 
g 

g e t s y o u a l l r i g h t . " I t i s a s t h o u g h w a r r e m i n d e d h e r o f 

h e r A m e r i c a n n e s s . " G e r t r u d e S t e i n a l w a y s s a i d t h e w a r w a s 

s o m u c h b e t t e r t h a n j u s t g o i n g t o A m e r i c a . H e r e y o u w e r e 

w i t h A m e r i c a i n a k i n d o f w a y t h a t i f y o u o n l y w e n t t o 
9 

A m e r i c a y o u c o u l d n o t p o s s i b l y b e . " T h i s w a s u n d e n i a b l y 

a n e m o t i o n a l r e s p o n s e . B u t i n t e l l e c t u a l l y , s h e w a s v e r y 

c l e a r t h a t A m e r i c a w a s n o t t h e p l a c e f o r h e r t o b e . I n 

F o u r i n A m e r i c a , h e r a n a l y s i s o f t h e A m e r i c a n c h a r a c t e r , 



105 

she states her basic assumption about American existence: 

That i t "has no context, no organizing boundaries, lacking 

a substantial limited environment, Americans f i n d themselves 

f r e e - f l o a t i n g . Therefore they are...perpetual pioneers, 

every building, never completing....All Americans have i s 
„10 

a x r . 

She regarded herself primarily as an a r t i s t and only 

secondly an American. So the appropriate milieu for her 

work mattered more than her i n s t i n c t i v e allegiance to her 

country. "I was e s s e n t i a l l y a writer's writer. My audience 

in France, that was a perfect audience.""'""'" She claimed in 

Paris France, her t r i b u t e to her home town, to need to l i v e 

there just as other major creators of the new art in the 

twentieth century needed to be there. In her explanation 

of t h i s , she provides a v i r t u a l manifesto for l i t e r a r y 

expatriates. 
After a l l everybody, that i s everybody who writes 
i s interested in l i v i n g inside themselves in 
order to t e l l what i s inside themselves. That i s 
why writers have to have two countries, the one 
where they belong and the one in which they l i v e 
r e a l l y . The second one i s romantic. It i s 
separate from themselves, i t i s not r e a l , but i t 
i s r e a l l y there....Of course, sometimes people 
discover t h e i r own country as i f i t were the 
other...but in general that other country that 
you need to be free in i s the other country not 
the country where you r e a l l y belong.12 

But why France? She explains: -"The English Victorians 

were l i k e that about I t a l y , the early nineteenth century 

Americans were l i k e that about Spain, the middle nineteenth 

century Americans were l i k e that about England, my 

generation the end of the nineteenth century American 



106 

13 generation was l i k e that about France." 
In the opening l i n e of her t r i b u t e , she declares that 

14 

"Paris, France i s e x c i t i n g and peaceful." Both concepts, 

of s t a b i l i t y and permanence on the one hand, and the p o s s i b i l i t y 

of upheaval and r a d i c a l change on the other, seem necessary 

to Stein. Dwelling lovingly on what i s enduring and therefore 

always compelling about France for the foreign a r t i s t and 

i n t e l l e c t u a l , she elaborates: 
The reason why a l l of us naturally began to l i v e 
in France i s because France has s c i e n t i f i c 
methods, machines and e l e c t r i c i t y but does not 
r e a l l y believe that these things have anything 
to do with the r e a l business of l i v i n g . L i f e 
i s t r a d i t i o n and human nature....And so in the 
beginning of the twentieth century when a new 
way had to be found naturally they needed 
France....French people r e a l l y do not believe 
that anything i s important except d a i l y l i v i n g 
and the ground that gives i t to them. 
Tradition...and private l i f e and the s o i l which 
always produces something, that is•what counts.15 

In a paradoxical sense, however, i t i s exactly t h i s 

permanence, belonging to another country, another culture, 

which provided Stein with a background of "unreality" which 

was, she said, "very necessary for anybody having to create 
16 

the twentieth century." France with i t s contradictory 

settled/unsettled nature, could free foreign a r t i s t s from 

t r a d i t i o n and the past. Paris was a c i t y were the natives' 

"acceptance of r e a l i t y i s so great that they could l e t 
17 

anyone have the emotion of unreality." 

France was good to foreigners, she reported, accepting 

them, leaving them alone and providing them with the kind 

of background they needed. It was e s p e c i a l l y good to 



107 

Americans, who in Paris could "look modern without being 
18 

d i f f e r e n t . " And, of course, the French respected the 

profession of l e t t e r s , according painters and writers certain 

p r i v i l e g e s , sensibly aware, Stein wrote, that "after a l l the 
way everything i s remembered i s by writers and painters in 

19 
the period." 

This was France's time, according to her. Different 

countries, she declared, were important at d i f f e r e n t times 

i n h i s t o r y . England had "gloriously created the nineteenth 

century" but was steadfastly refusing the twentieth, 

"American knew the twentieth century too well to create i t , " 

therefore Paris, France from 1900 to 1939 i s "where everybody 
20 

has to be to be free." Her evidence for t h i s in Paris  

France i s , as always, anecdotal—souvenirs based on encounters 

with and observations of individuals and f a m i l i e s . She o f f e r s 

no c u l t u r a l analysis. We get narrative scraps and verbal 

photographs of France's dogs, farms and potted h i s t o r i e s of 

French cooking. She makes no e f f o r t to r e l a t e her 

observations and her conclusions. She does not analyse 

French behaviour. She i s not concerned with how and why 

things are. As an a r t i s t she records what she sees. She 

wants above a l l to recreate things being--things as they 

are at the moment of observation. Her t r i b u t e i s addressed 

more to the people of France and the ways in which they 

have chosen to l i v e , rather than to the place i t s e l f . She 

has chosen, however, conversations and events that somehow 

to her are French, that embody c e r t a i n q u a l i t i e s in French 



108 

culture and i n the country's permanent sense of i t s e l f . Her 

book evaluates what i s of value there. 

The text i s not simply a t r i b u t e , a travelogue or an 

informal memoir. It continues Stein's career-long experiment 

with prose forms. While basing i t s e l f on the personal, the 

autobiographical, i t i s also a c u l t u r a l , h i s t o r i c a l 
21 

meditation. Fact and f i c t i o n interweave. Although there 

are s p e c i f i c h i s t o r i c a l references, these are recorded as 

far as possible, in the tense Stein invented to describe 

the nature of events in the twentieth century--the 

"continuous present:1" Events then are not selected or linked 

in the normal ways. They are chosen and arranged as f i c t i o n a l 

material would be. To consolidate t h i s timeless, aesthetic 

version of place and existence there, she concentrates far 

more on the v i s u a l , s p a t i a l and l i n g u i s t i c aspects of i t , 

rather than the temporal or s t r i c t l y h i s t o r i c a l . Most often 

she provides a v i s u a l or aural metaphor f o r the advantages 

of being anywhere. 
One of the things that I have l i k e d a l l these 
years i s to be surrounded by people who know 
no English. It has l e f t me more intensely 
alone with my eyes and my English...as she 
says eyes to her were more important than 
e a r s . . . i t has been so often said that the 
appeal of her work i s to the ear and to the 
subconscious. Actually i t i s her eyes and 
mind that are active and important and 
concerned in choosing.22 

Place i s always p r i v i l e g e d over time in her writing. 

In The Autobiography of A l i c e B. Toklas for example, i t i s 

place and time which i s the central marker in recording 

experience. The photographs in the book are l a b e l l e d 



109 

according to place, not year. The experience of a place 

c l e a r l y has l i t t l e to do with the duration of that experience 

i n calendar time, e.g. "Gertrude Stein was born in Allegheny, 
2 

Pennsylvania" and "she l e f t i t when she was six months o l d . " 

In the same s p i r i t , photograph t i t l e s include "Gertrude 

Stein in Vienna," "Gertrude Stein at Johns Hopkins Medical-

School," and "Gertrude Stein and A l i c e B. Toklas in front of 

Saint Mark's, Venice." No dates are provided. 

Place i s never simply a s p e c i f i c in Stein's writing--

Paris, 1903. It i s frequently a powerfully charged abstract, 

given almost phenomenological s i g n i f i c a n c e , over time. It 

can be described personally, autobiographically or 

impersonally, as an abstract background. She speaks of Paris 

almost as a stage set for the theatre of the avant-garde. 

This dual sense of place/space invests much of Stein's 

writing with a l i b e r a t i n g dimension of timelessness. 

Surrounded by the French culture and language, which she was 

able to observe and appreciate while never giving herself 

over to them, Stein was free to operate more intensely as 
24 

an American writing in English. It bothered her a great 

deal to think that anyone might mistake her for an exotic 

or foreign "coterie" writer. "There i s for me only one 
2 5 

language and that i s English." 

It suited her i d i o s y n c r a t i c l i t e r a r y purposes very 

well "to be surrounded by people who have no English. I 

do not know i f i t would have been possible to have English 

be so a l l in a l l to me otherwise. No, I l i k e l i v i n g with 



110 

so very many people and being a l l alone with English and 
2 6 

myself." One i s drawn to the idea that the kind of English 

Stein wrote under these circumstances amounted to a kind of 

foreign language, so often did i t break with the laws of 

normal usage. One must f i r s t grasp her "alphabet" and 

"vocabulary" before coming to terms with her o v e r a l l design. 

I t c e r t a i n l y requires of the readers sympathetic "translation," 

l i k e any foreign language. 

In a curious way, Stein's highly i d i o s y n c r a t i c 

expatriation managed to sustain quite refined "abstractions" 

of both her homes—American and F r a n c e — i n her mind at once 

without having to compromise one at the expense of another. 

In a sense she l i v e d in France to function more purely, at 

least i n t e l l e c t u a l l y , as an American. She was someone who 

c l e a r l y preferred to be an American abroad, than one at 

home. She was free from any of the d i s t r a c t i o n s of 

nationalism, and from having to f i g h t any c u l t u r a l battles 

she did not wish to take up. She was free too, to l i v e the 

kind of personal and creative l i f e that may not have been 

possible in the U.S. p r i o r to 1920. She was one of the 

very few Americans who remained i n Europe after the t h i r t i e s 

when i t was no longer fashionable. Her l i f e plan as an 

expatriate was a very personal one. It i s curious to think 

about whether she would have done what she did to the 

English language—that i s to put i t under a microscope and 

then fracture i t — i f she had l i v e d i n an English speaking 

country. But i t seems paramount to her that she did not. 



I l l 

She needed to work in a kind of language i s o l a t i o n . 

She c l e a r l y needed and responded to the stimulus of 

other forms of r a d i c a l art being produced around her. Paris 

met an e s s e n t i a l requirement for c r o s s - f e r t i l i z a t i o n that 

resulted in some of her r i c h e s t forms, e.g. the word 

p o r t r a i t in d i r e c t response to early cubism, and the poetic 

opera under the influence of musicians l i k e V i r g i l Thompson. 

Stein did not ever wish to detach herself from her American 

o r i g i n s and s e n s i b i l i t y to become e n t i r e l y the f r e e - f l o a t i n g 

i n t e r n a t i o n a l i s t , however, and many of her readers believe 

there to be something d i s t i n c t l y American about her a r t . 

Stein would have us believe that her expatriation, l i k e 

her a r t , was an e n t i r e l y i n t e l l e c t u a l matter. One 

u n i n t e l l e c t u a l aspect of her l i f e intrudes at t h i s point, 

however, and that i s her lesbianism. Lesbianism was far 

more sympathetically regarded in Europe than in America in 

1903. Stein was much freer in Paris to l i v e as a s e l f -

declared lesbian i n t e l l e c t u a l . Her lesbianism, l i k e Jean 

Rhys' poverty, put her in a d i f f e r e n t subculture than that 

of simple expatriate or woman writer. We should note as 

well, though, that Stein was an independently wealthy 

expatriate lesbian, so r a d i c a l l y distinguishing herself 

from Rhys. When we read Stein's version of autobiographical 

f i c t i o n we must be aware of t h i s aspect of her private l i f e , 

which provided a personal and creative s t a r t i n g point. Many 

of the "metaphors of the s e l f " she uses for her cubist 

s e l f - p o r t r a i t are d i s t o r t i n g mirrors intended to deceive, 



1 1 2 

to entertain, to deflect and to reveal in the only way she 

genuinely believed p o s s i b l e — a s a confusing and p o t e n t i a l l y 

contradictory t o t a l i t y . The p o r t r a i t was the objective 

c o r r e l a t i v e of an i n t e r n a t i o n a l i s t , androgynous mind. Stein 

was multi-faceted, playing the American "card" when i t suited 

her, just as at other times, she played the lesbian "card" 

to s u i t . 

Autiobiograhy: Cubist Self Creation 

Soon after i t s publication, a denunciation of Gertrude 

Stein's The Autobiography of A l i c e B. Toklas by some of 

those who saw themselves as the book's victims appear in 
2 7 

the i n f l u e n t i a l arts publication, t r a n s i t i o n . Among others, 

Matisse, Tristan Tzara and Andre Salmon accused her of 

ignorance of the f a c t s , and in some cases of pathological 

l y i n g . Matisse, at one time a close f r i e n d of Stein's, went 

into more d e t a i l : 
Her book i s composed, l i k e a picture puzzle, of 
d i f f e r e n t pictures which at f i r s t , by t h e i r 
very chaos, give an i l l u s i o n of the movement 
of l i f e . But, i f we attempt to envisage the 
things she mentions, t h i s i l l u s i o n does not 
l a s t . In short, i t i s more l i k e a harlequin's 
costume the d i f f e r e n t pieces of which, having 
been more or less invented by herself, have 
been sewn together without taste and without 
r e l a t i o n to r e a l i t y . 

Many consider these very q u a l i t i e s to be the book's 

strengths rather than i t s weaknesses. Matisse inadvertently 

chooses one of the central images in the post-impressionist 
painting of the period to symbolize the book—the harlequin, 

2 8 
made famous in many of Picasso's canvases of the period; 



113 

and the image i s an appropriate one. I t reminds us that Stein 

was a key figure i n the avant-garde of both the l i t e r a r y and 

art worlds in the f i r s t forty years of the centry and i t i s 

only in t h i s context that her work can properly be assessed. 

Along with writers Joyce, Pound and E l i o t , painters 

Cezanne, Matisse and Picasso and musicians Schonberg, Satie 

and Stravinsky, Gertrude Stein sensed at the beginning of the 

twentieth century that t r a d i t i o n a l forms for representing 

r e a l i t y in art were exhausted. A new mimesis was needed. 

In order to r e - e s t a b l i s h a r t i s t i c representation on a new 

set of f i r s t p r i n c i p l e s , these a r t i s t s set about d e l i b e r a t e l y 

to "deconstruct" as Gertrude Stein described i t , t r a d i t i o n a l 

a r t i s t i c structures. This meant a thorough dismantling of 

both the s t r u c t u r a l p r i n c i p l e s of a subject and the 

t r a d i t i o n a l unexamined habits of i t s perception, preparatory 

to a complete reconstruction of the object. In Stein's case, 

techniques for deconstruction and reconstruction are so 

c l o s e l y related, however, that they can v i r t u a l l y be 
29 

simultaneous movements of her mind. She and others were 

responding to philosophical breakthroughs in the works of 

Henri Bergson and William James which had led to the 

r e a l i z a t i o n that the structures within which a r t i s t s had 

always worked were in fact received conventions which could 

be manipulated, r a d i c a l l y altered or ignored. 

In the v i s u a l arts, Picasso challenged the laws of 

perspective i n his paintings of the f i r s t twenty years of 

the centry, Matisse—the t r a d i t i o n a l use of colour and 



1 1 4 

d i m e n s i o n a l s p a c e — C e z a n n e , t h e n a t u r e o f r e p r e s e n t a t i o n a l 

f o r m . T h e s e a r t i s t s m a d e i t c l e a r t h a t a r t n o l o n g e r n e e d 

b e b o u n d t o a m i m e t i c r e c o r d i n g o f r e a l i t y . S t e i n t o o 

w a n t e d h e r w o r k t o b e f r e e o f a r t ' s t r a d i t i o n a l r e s p o n s i b i l i t y 

t o t h e " r e a l w o r l d " t o h o l d a m i r r o r u p t o i t . S h e w a n t e d 

h e r l i t e r a r y p i e c e s t o b e c o m p l e t e l y s e l f - d e t e r m i n i n g a n d 

s e l f - c o n t a i n e d a r t i f a c t s . T h r o u g h o u t h e r c a r e e r , a s a r e s u l t , 

h e r s t y l e b e c o m e s m o r e a n d m o r e a b s t r a c t . S h e b e g a n w i t h a 

k i n d o f s c i e n t i f i c n a t u r a l i s m , p r o c e e d e d t o a J a m e s i a n 

s t y l i z a t i o n o f r e a l i t y , a n d f i n a l l y t o a p o i n t o f 

f r a g m e n t a t i o n w h e r e h e r w o r d s c e a s e t o c o n v e y c o n v e n t i o n a l 

30 

m e a n i n g o f a n y k i n d . T h e y b e c o m e , a s o n e c r i t i c h a s 

c a l l e d t h e m , " p l a s t i c c o u n t e r s t o b e m a n i p u l a t e d p u r e l y i n 

o b e d i e n c e t o t h e a r t i s t ' s e x p r e s s i v e w i l l , j u s t a s p a i n t e r s 
3 1 

m a n i p u l a t e s e m a n t i c l i n e a n d c o l o u r . " 

S t e i n may h a v e f a i l e d t o m a t c h t h e a c h i e v e m e n t s o f 

p a i n t e r s w h o s e a i m s s h e w i s h e d t o p a r a l l e l i n h e r w r i t i n g ; 

i t may n o t b e p o s s i b l e t o w r i t e " c u b i s t p r o s e " t h a t w o r k s . 

N e v e r t h e l e s s , s h e h e r s e l f c i t e d m o d e r n w o r k s o f a r t a s 

a n a l o g u e s f o r h e r o w n v e r b a l e x p e r i m e n t s . I n T h e 

A u t o b i o g r a p h y o f A l i c e B . T o k l a s f o r e x a m p l e , s h e d i s c u s s e s 

M a t i s s e ' s e a r l y "Femme a u C h a p e a u " a n d " B o n h e u r d e V i v r e . " 
I t w a s i n t h i s [ l a t t e r ] p i c t u r e t h a t M a t i s s e 
c l e a r l y r e a l i z e d h i s i n t e n t i o n o f d e f o r m i n g 
t h e d r a w i n g o f t h e h u m a n b o d y i n o r d e r t o 
h a r m o n i z e a n d i n t e n s i f y t h e c o l o u r v a l u e s . . . . 
He u s e d h i s d i s t o r t e d d r a w i n g s a s a 
d i s s o n a n c e i s u s e d i n m u s i c o r a s v i n e g a r 
o r l e m o n s a r e u s e d i n c o o k i n g o r e g g s h e l l s 
i n c o f f e e t o c l a r i f y . 3 2 



115 

By her references to "deforming" and " d i s t o r t i n g ; " Stein must 

have meant "abstracting." In the same s p i r i t she intended 

to use verbal " d i s t o r t i o n s " of language to " c l a r i f y " i t . 

The painters, and for that matter, the sculptors (and i n 

d i f f e r e n t ways, musicians) with whom she associated herself, 

did not ever have to face the problem of "meaning" as a 

writer must. Their concerns were as always, form, mass, 
33 

colour, texture and l i n e . Nevertheless, Stein's work i f 

i t i s to be properly understood must be considered in 

r e l a t i o n to the attitudes and practices she purposefully 

shared with the cubist v i s u a l a r t i s t s . J.M. Brinnin 

highlights t h i s connection i n his study, The Third Rose: 

Gertrude Stein and Her World. 
In most previous associations of poets and 
painters, and in a l l previous comparisons of 
t h e i r work, i d e n t i f i c a t i o n s and congruencies 
had for the most part hinged upon s i m i l a r i t i e s 
in subject matter and attitude....When the 
cubists jettisoned subject matter, l i a i s o n s 
between poetry and painting on the old basis 
were no longer possible....When the l i t e r a r y 
content of painting was omitted in favour of 
f r e e l y conceived mathematical/intuitive 
exercise of purely p l a s t i c values, Gertrude 
Stein also attempted to drop subject matter 
in order to concentrate f r e e l y on the " p l a s t i c " 
p o t e n t i a l i t i e s of the language i t s e l f . 3 4 

So, from 1910 onwards, Stein "buries" narrative beneath 

an art of the surface, a surface that i s non-mimetic and 

" p l a s t i c " where words, l e t t e r s and sounds are manipulated 

as colour, texture and l i n e are refashioned in the 

canvasses of Picasso, Braque and Juan Gris. Of course, i t 

i s understood that the comparison of one art with another 
35 

i s at best, a metaphor. But in t h i s case i t i s a 



116 

necessary one. 

Stein applied her p r i n c i p l e s of "composition" f r e e l y to 

both the v i s u a l and l i t e r a r y a r t s . In fact composition i s 

her word for culture. In "Composition as Explanation," a 

lecture given to the Cambridge L i t e r a r y Society in May 1926, 

she put forward her thesis that generations were " a l l a l i k e 

--nothing changes except what i s seen—that i s the manner 

of composition. Composition i s determined by the manner i n 

which l i f e i s being conducted at any given moment." How 

l i t e r a t u r e was being conducted in the f i r s t quarter of the 

century has been documented by many in t h e i r attempts to 

"place" the modern. David Lodge, in an important essay, 

"The Language of Modernist F i c t i o n : Metaphor and Metonymyy" 

neatly c o d i f i e s the q u a l i t i e s of "Modernist" f i c t i o n as 

exemplified by three of i t s figureheads in prose—James 
3 7 

Joyce, Gertrude Stein and Marcel Proust. Lodge defines 

modern f i c t i o n ' as "experimental or innovatory in form," 

" c l e a r l y deviating from other modes of discourse, both 

l i t e r a r y and non-literary;" i t i s "much concerned with 

consciousness" and the workings of the subconscious. 

"External 'objective' events"--the s t u f f of t r a d i t i o n a l 

n a r r a t i v e — a r e diminished in scope, and when present, are 

rendered " s e l e c t i v e l y and obliquely," leaving more room for 

"introspection, analysis [and] r e f l e c t i o n . " The modern 

novel defies the "beginning-middle-end" structure of 

t r a d i t i o n a l narrative, plunging us instead into a "flowing 

stream of experience." A good deal i s asked of the reader. 



By a process of "inference and association" he i s asked to 

piece the puzzle of the prose together. Other modes of 

aesthetic ordering of d e t a i l than those of t r a d i t i o n a l 

narrative construction are given prominence: " a l l u s i o n or 

imitation of l i t e r a r y models or mythical archetypes or 

r e p e t i t i o n — w i t h v a r i a t i o n of motifs, images, symbols, a 

technique often c a l l e d 'rhythm,' ' l e i t m o t i f ' or 'spatial 

form.'" Modern f i c t i o n abandons straight chronology as an 

ordering p r i n c i p l e and the use of a t r a d i t i o n a l omniscient 

narrator. Instead there i s a new r e l a t i v i s m of perspective 

and p o t e n t i a l l y , a m u l t i p l i c i t y of viewpoints. The 

manipulation of time as a f i c t i o n a l construct takes on a new 

experimental s i g n i f i c a n c e . In English, Joyce, Stein and 
38 

V i r g i n i a Woolf display nearly a l l of these q u a l i t i e s . 

Stein preceded these l i t e r a r y developments largely of 

the twenties, by some years. She began to base her writing 
on practices of t h i s kind as early as 1909, with The Making 

39 
of Americans. The contemporary with whom she i s most 

r e a d i l y comparable i s James Joyce, another resident expatriate 

of Paris for whom the place was largely i r r e l e v a n t . Their 

intentions would appear to be s i m i l a r , to overthrow the 

e x i s t i n g l i t e r a r y canon. They shared the basic view that 

art should transcend r e a l i t y , that works of art should be 

autonomous, highly integrated in texture and structure, and 

that a l l facets of the work should be of equal importance: 

hence the Modernist premise that to understand anything 

about t h e i r novels, we must know everything about them. 



118 

This shared intention for l i t e r a t u r e was almost the only-

thing they had in common as writers. Their sense and use 

of language was almost diametrically opposed. Their handling 

of time separated them even further; though they both 

believed that only the present moment has any r e a l h i s t o r i c a l 

significance and that the past and future are s i g n i f i c a n t 

only in t h e i r power to interpret the present. Joyce's 

present moment i s an intense, s p e c i f i c and ornately textured 

one; for Stein i t i s possible to abstract the present and to 

deal with units of time that are discrete and autonomous. 

Stein brought t h i s contrast to bear on her major work, 

The Autobiography of A l i c e B. Toklas, her " s e l f - p o r t r a i t " 

which displays a l l of the q u a l i t i e s which David Lodge 

i d e n t i f i e s as "Modernist." Curiously i t was a best s e l l e r 

as well, which c e r t a i n l y sets i t apart from work by Joyce, 

E l i o t , Pound and Woolf, whose popularity was limited to an 

appreciative c u l t u r a l e l i t e . Yet Stein's text remains an 

enigmatic one. While i t demands much of the reader, i t can 

be read as nothing more than entertaining memoir, one of a 

great many written about l i f e i n Europe in the twenties and 

t h i r t i e s . There i s no doubt that Stein wanted i t to s e l l . 

She had made l i t t l e or no money from her books, often having 

printed them at her own expense. Nevertheless, i t i s also 

clear that in i t , she wished to continue her l i f e - l o n g 

l i t e r a r y experiment. In f a c t , she constructs her s e l f -

p o r t r a i t as a Modernist novel and as a cubist painting, 

incorporating the expected architecture of memoir or 



119 

autobiography into a large, more sophisticated, hybrid design. 

The Autobiography of A l i c e E. Toklas i s the only one of 

her books that many consider readable. She wrote i t against 

her better judgement, d i s t r u s t i n g profoundly the p r i n c i p l e s 

and practices of t r a d i t i o n a l memoir and even of the highly 

complex, transmuted autobiographical f i c t i o n of Joyce and 

Proust, in which memory i s invested with enormous resonance 

as a l i t e r a r y t o o l . Just as she had needed to depart 

r a d i c a l l y from the n a t u r a l i s t i c nineteenth century f i c t i o n 

with which she had started her career, Stein could not 

imagine writing either an actual or a transmuted autobiography 

in 19 32 which acknowledged in any way, what she would have 

considered the " r e v i s i o n i s t " power of memory to record 

r e a l i t y accurately or imaginatively. In a peculiar way she 

wanted to create a new, heightened "realism" which was also 

modern, and had nothing to do with memory. After great 

prompting, she wrote her version of a l i t e r a r y memoir in 

six weeks, and i t appeared i n 1933. I t may not be any kind 

of v e r i f i a b l e record of the l i f e of Gertrude Stein, the 

woman and a r t i s t , but i t i s a t e l l i n g memoir of the r i c h e s t 

period in French and international c u l t u r a l history, t h i s 
40 

century: Jean Cocteau c a l l e d i t "the heroic age of cubism." 

The book spans the years from Stein's a r r i v a l in Paris in 

1903 u n t i l the "present" time of writing—1932. She 

allocates a b r i e f preliminary chapter to her childhood and 

adolescence in the U.S.A. But the book focuses above a l l on 

the c i r c l e of a r t i s t s , writers and musicians who were known 



120 

and entertained by Stein and her companion, A l i c e Toklas. 

These included many of the luminaries of the day—Matisse, 

Picasso, Satie, Pound and Hemingway—all s l y l y revealed in 

apparently a r t l e s s anecdote and wickedly t e l l i n g incident. 

The heart of the book, however, i s the a l l i a n c e formed and 

sustained during that period between Gertrude Stein and 

A l i c e Toklas. 

Stein's Autobiography of A l i c e B. Toklas, I w i l l argue 

was written in the same s p i r i t as Ford Madox Ford's It Was 

the Nightingale and Ernest Hemingway's A Moveable Feast, 
41 

two other memoirs documenting Paris at t h i s time. A l l 

share a rather elusive sense of the author as r e l i a b l e 

voice; there i s i n each case, however, a discernible and 

dominating ego s e l e c t i n g and arranging d e t a i l . A l l of 

these are c l e v e r l y wrought f i c t i o n s , and declared so by 

t h e i r authors, where r e a l i t y and narrative confront one 

another and interweave constantly. Ford's autobiography 

declares i t s e l f f i c t i o n a l i n i t s preface, and Hemingway 

d i r e c t s his reader towards an appreciation of the 

" n o v e l i s t i c " techniques he has employed. Stein's t i t l e 

provides her clue for readers as to the true nature of her 

book. Throughout, and much to the horror of some of the 

r e a l people she portrayed, she treats facts whimsically, 

selecting some and ignoring others which do not interest 

her, highlighting some characters when they were in favour 

with her and diminishing them again when they had faded. 

She merges some d e t a i l — k a l e i d e s c o p i n g whole years into a 



single evening—and, to sustain the autobiographical aspect, 

places herself c e n t r a l l y in most s t o r i e s , whether she was 
42 

or not. As George Wickes points out, "The myth of the 
Modernist movement was more important to her than actual 

43 
f a c t s . " So, from the beginning, her treatment of people 

and events was n o v e l i s t i c , and her presence of central 

narrative importance. But i t must be said that i n c e r t a i n 

important respects, the book operates outside the commonly 

accepted laws of the novel genre as well as those of 

autobiography. There i s no p l o t , for example. True to her 

p r i n c i p l e s , Stein t r i e s to t e l l what happened without 

t e l l i n g s t o r i e s . Characters do not develop; they "inhabit" 

s h i f t i n g verbal landscapes she provides for them. 

Generally speaking, the book operates between the known 

forms of memoir and f i c t i o n , o f f e r i n g quite deliberate 

challenges to both. Her elaborate pretensions to o b j e c t i v i t y 

( i . e . h i s t o r i c a l record) notwithstanding, i t i s quickly clear 

to readers that i t i s a d i s t i n c t l y subjective, indeed 

i d i o s y n c r a t i c work, which i s neither s t r i c t narrative, nor 

a s t r i c t l y accurate record of her time, but manages a l i t t l e 

of both. 

I w i l l argue that the work i s considerably more 

f i c t i o n a l than i t i s h i s t o r i c a l ; that i t s proper category 

i s the autobiographical novel. Narrative, s t r i c t l y defined, 
45 

had always "bothered" Stein. In "Narration," she had 
defined narrative as "a t e l l i n g of what i s happening in 

44 successive moments of i t s happening." One thinks here 



of Gide's idea of "succession" as the only adequate method 

for capturing experience. Stein no longer believed i t 

possible in the modern world to r e l y on a coherent sequence 

for events. 

"Moving i s in every d i r e c t i o n " (p. 19). To her, s t r i c t 

narrative was inadequate for dealing with the world as i t 

now existed. Ambivalent about whether to attempt a deviant 

version of i t , that i s to try to subvert i t from within, or 

to abandon i t altogether, she decides in The Autobiography  

of A l i c e B. Toklas for the former, in the guise of something 

else. Using f i c t i o n a l constructs, she bases her text, as 

Boswell did before her, on intimate factual knowledge of 

her subject, h e r s e l f , and the world as she saw i t . 

Stein's parting reference to Robinson Crusoe at the 

end of the autobiography i s her clear concluding indication 

that her intention has been to blur the d i s t i n c t i o n s between 

fact and f i c t i o n , art and l i f e . Her "autobiographical novel 

i s so constructed that i t i s frequently d i f f i c u l t for the 

reader to t e l l exactly where facts stop and invention begins 

t h i s i s p r e c i s e l y what the author intends. Her joke i s that 

a novel i s inevitably an autobiography and vice versa. 

A l i c e ' s narration of the book i s a f i c t i o n , or in 

Stein's terminology a t r a n s l a t i o n . One of the central jokes 

of the book i s that the actual authorship i s not made clear 

u n t i l the l a s t page, where we are also confronted with the 

same photograph which served as the book's frontspiece to 

remind us that i t has a l l been a d e l i g h t f u l , c i r c u l a r game. 



123 

N o t o n l y i s t h e t e x t w i t h o u t a r e l i a b l e n a r r a t o r , a n o t h e r 

j o k e o n t h e w h o l e i d e a o f s e l f - p o r t r a i t u r e ; t h e r e i s n o 

c l e a r p r i n c i p a l s u b j e c t s a s s u c h . S t e i n ' s i m i t a t i o n o f A l i c e 

i s a n a c k n o w l e d g e d t o u r d e f o r c e ; h e r p r o s e i s f r e q u e n t l y 

i d e n t i c a l i n t o n e a n d v o c a b u l a r y t o t h a t o f A l i c e ' s o w n 

l a t e r m e m o i r — a n d i t i s t h e o n l y w o r k o f S t e i n ' s e v e r t o 

s o u n d l i k e t h i s . T h e t e x t i s , a m o n g o t h e r t h i n g s , a c o m p o s i t e 

p o r t r a i t o f b o t h w o m e n — e a c h o f t h e o t h e r , a n d i t i s a s c l o s e 

a s S t e i n w i l l c o m e t o a r e p r e s e n t a t i o n o f h e r " s e l f . " A s i t 

e x i s t s a t t h a t t i m e , h e r " s e l f " l i v e s w i t h a n d t h r o u g h t h e 

a g e n c y o f A l i c e T o k l a s , a n d m u s t b e r e p r e s e n t e d e s s e n t i a l l y 

a s d o i n g s o . T h e b o o k i s a t r i b u t e , a w o r k o f l o v e , a s w e l l 

a s a n i n t e l l e c t u a l j o k e a t t h e e x p e n s e o f e s t a b l i s h e d l i t e r a r y 

t r a d i t i o n s . I t i s a p a r o d y o f b o t h t h e t r a d i t i o n a l 

a u t o b i o g r a p h y a n d t h e p o r t r a i t o f t h e a r t i s t n o v e l . 

O n a s t y l i s t i c l e v e l t h e b o o k m i r r o r s t h i s b l e n d e d 

p o r t r a i t o f t h e t w o w o m e n . A l i c e ' s d o m e s t i c i t y , h e r l o v e o f 

g a r d e n s a n d c o o k i n g , h e r w h i m s y m i x e d w i t h a c i d i c p r e c i s i o n 

- - h a v e a m u c h n e e d e d " t r a n s l a t i o n " e f f e c t o n S t e i n ' s r a t h e r 

i n t r a c t a b l e t e n d e n c i e s t o r e p e t i t i o n a n d d i g r e s s i o n . O f t e n 

i n t h e t e x t , i t i s u n c l e a r w h i c h o f t h e t w o i s s p e a k i n g . 

T h i s i s b o t h d e l i b e r a t e a n d S t e i n h i n t s , u n a v o i d a b l e . 

T h i s i s h e r a u t o b i o g r a p h y o n e o f t w o 
B u t w h i c h i t i s : n o o n e c a n k n o w . 4 5 

I n a p a r t i c u l a r p s y c h o l o g i c a l s e n s e , i t i_s A l i c e ' s 

s t o r y , i n t h a t i t r e c o r d s h e r g r a d u a l a n d t h e n , l i f e l o n g 

d e d i c a t i o n t o S t e i n , w h o b e c a m e t h e f o c u s o f h e r l i f e . ' 



Therefore any p o r t r a i t of Gertrude i s also a p o r t r a i t of 

A l i c e . As one c r i t i c has noted, i f A l i c e Toklas had written 
4 6 

the book, we would expect i t to have much the same focus. 

So i t i s a mediated p o r t r a i t , of each by the other, 

maintaining to quite a high degree, something of the 

psychological veracity of both. The supposed autobiography 

has f u l f i l l e d the t r a d i t i o n a l expectations of the genre--

that i s a degree of s e l f - d e f i n i t i o n . 

Stein preferred to c a l l her text a "translation" rather 

than narrative or autobiography. In 1930 she had agreed to 

perform an actual t r a n s l a t i n g exercise/ which in fact 

provided her with a methodology which she could accept for 

the writing of an "autobiography," something she had always 

considered a spurious exercise, and only undertook after 

considerable goading. She was to translate into English, 

poems by the young French poet, Georges Hugnet. She got as 

far as a l i t e r a l t r a n s l a t i o n of the f i r s t l i n e before her 

ego intervened. She then departed compulsively and 

imaginatively from the test for good, "and I f i n i s h e d the 

whole thing not t r a n s l a t i n g but carrying out an idea that 

was already e x i s t i n g . " 
And then as a joke I began to write The  
Autobiography of A l i c e B. Toklas. And at that 
moment I had made a rather i n t e r e s t i n g discovery. 
A young French poet had begun to write, and I 
was asked to translate his poems, and there I 
made a rather s t a r t l i n g discovery that other 
people's words were quite d i f f e r e n t from one's 
own, and that they cannot be the r e s u l t of your 
i n t e r n a l troubles as a writer. They have a 
t o t a l l y d i f f e r e n t sense than when they are your 



125 

own words... and t h i s brought to me a great deal 
of illumination of narrative, because most 
narrative i s based not about your opinions but 
someone'else 1 s . . . . Therefore narrative has a 
d i f f e r e n t concept than poetry or even 
exposition, because, you see, the narrative in 
i t s e l f i s not what i s in somebody else's...and 
so I did a tour de force with The Autobiography  
of A l i c e B. Toklas and when I sent the f i r s t half 
to the agent, they sent back a telegram to see 
which one of us had written i t ! But s t i l l I had 
done what I saw, what you do in translations or 
i n a narrative. I had recreated the point of 
view of somebody else. Therefore the words 
ran with a certain smoothness.47 

A t r a n s l a t i o n would provide p r e c i s e l y the kind of 

"disembodied" narrative Stein wanted to create. The idea 

frees her to reconceptualize narrative as thought written 

by someone e l s e — a s analogous to an act of t r a n s l a t i o n . 

In the process she i s free to write about herself outside 

the i n h i b i t i n g l i m i t a t i o n s of the autobiographic genre— 

of chronology and the idea that i d e n t i t y as i t exists in 

the text, i s shaped by i t . 

In s t y l i s t i c terms, too, she adapts t h i s p r i n c i p l e 

of "translation" to her purposes. In weaving actual 

events into a modified form of narrative, she provides 

s t y l i s t i c equivalents of f a c t s — r e p e t i t i o n , for example, 

which she uses to bolster her notion of the "continuous 

present" as the only appropriate tense for writing in the 

twentieth century. , Ey t h i s she does not mean "continuous" 

in any normal sense--rather an absence of that q u a l i t y of 
48 

continuity which embraces past, present and future. If 

possible, and she t r i e s , the writer must use words without 

the associations of the past, in fact without any q u a l i t y 



126 

w h i c h t i e s w o r d t o e x p e r i e n c e . I t m e a n s a s t r i p p i n g a w a y 

f r o m l a n g u a g e o f a l l i t s a s s o c i a t i o n a l p o w e r - - b a s e d o n 

s o c i a l o r e m o t i o n a l o r a r c h e t y p a l c o n n o t a t i o n s . T o f u l l y 

a c h i e v e t h e " l a n g u a g e o f t h e m o m e n t , " e v e n q u i t e o r d i n a r y 

s e m a n t i c o r s y n t a c t i c a l e x p e c t a t i o n s m u s t b e e l i m i n a t e d . 

S h e w i s h e s t o r e c r e a t e , n o t d e s c r i b e , t h e p r o c e s s w h e r e b y 

t h e r e a l i z a t i o n o f t h e i d e n t i t y o f a n o b j e c t i s a c t u a l l y 

h a p p e n i n g i n t h e m i n d . I t i s t o b e r e c o r d e d a s i t h a p p e n s 

— h e r v e r s i o n o f " s t r e a m o f c o n s c i o u s n e s s " — b e c a u s e p r o c e s s 

m a t t e r s i n f i n i t e l y m o r e t o S t e i n t h a n r e p r e s e n t a t i o n a f t e r 

t h e e v e n t , w h i c h a t a n y r a t e , s h e d o e s n o t c o n s i d e r t o b e , 

i f i t i s t r u t h f u l , p o s s i b l e : 

I f o u n d o u t t h a t i n t h e e s s e n c e o f n a r r a t i v e 
i s t h i s p r o b l e m o f t i m e . Y o u h a v e a s a p e r s o n 
w r i t i n g , a n d a l l t h e r e a l l y g r e a t n a r r a t i v e 
h a s i t , y o u h a v e t o d e n u d e y o u r s e l f o f t i m e 
s o t h a t w r i t i n g t i m e d o e s n o t e x i s t . I d i d 
i t u n c o n s c i o u s l y i n T h e A u t o b i o g r a p h y o f A l i c e  
B . T o k l a s . . . . T h e r e s h o u l d n o t b e a s e n s e o f 
t i m e , b u t a n e x i s t e n c e s u s p e n d e d i n t i m e . 4 9 

S t e i n ' s e m p h a s i s may d e f i n e h e r a s a M o d e r n i s t , b u t 

h e r p r a c t i c e s e t s h e r c l e a r l y a p a r t f r o m o t h e r m a j o r w r i t e r s 

o f t h e p e r i o d w o r k i n g i n " t i m e c o m p o s i t i o n " — J o y c e w i t h h i s 

e p i p h a n i e s a n d P r o u s t ' s " i m p r e s s i o n s b i e n h e u r e u s e s . " R a t h e r 

t h a n t r a n s p o r t i n g t h e r e a d e r t h r o u g h t i m e i n m y t h a n d s y m b o l , 

S t e i n w a n t s i n s t e a d t o s e a l o f f t i m e - - t o s e p a r a t e t h e 

p r e s e n t f r o m t h e p a s t a s c o m p l e t e l y a s p o s s i b l e . S h e 

d i s t r u s t s t h e s u p p o s e d p o w e r o f m e m o r y t o t h r o w u p i m a g e s 

o f n a r r a t i v e s t r u c t u r e , s h e i s f r e e t o p e r f e c t t h e 



"continuous present." She has a range of devices for t r y i n g 

to sustain i t in her prose. On a s y n t a c t i c a l l e v e l , her 

time connectives are simple, but l a t e r a l rather than 

chronological, e.g. "from time to time" and "later or once," 

t y p i c a l of non-specific time. She consistently forces the 

reader back to the present, to begin again. This is.hammered 

home by a persistent use of the present p a r t i c i p l e — a g a i n 

non-specific, action that i s on-going. Her tone of the 

faux naif reminds the reader of a c h i l d who can only operate 

i n the present tense—innocent of a l l but immediate sensations 

and perceptions. 

In r e a l i t y , there can never be less than two "present 

tenses" i n t h i s rather disingenuous writing s t r a t e g y — t h a t of 

time recorded, which i s h i s t o r i c a l time, no matter how many 

present p a r t i c i p l e s there are and how "immediate" i t s 

rendering, and the time of actual writing. So her challenge 

i s to stop things from getting "fixed" permanently in either 

time or language, which would l i m i t and ultimately n u l l i f y 

them. Bergson's notion of " l a duree" was always an important 
50 

one for Stein. She said that the subject of a painting 
was only t r u l y a l i v e i f i t s "movement would propel i t out 

51 
of the prison of i t s frame." 

If The Autobiography of A l i c e B. Toklas i s more f i c t i o n 

than personal or h i s t o r i c a l record, i t i s so without the 

usual s t r u c t u r a l aids of narrator, plot and chronology. 

What does the narrative consist of? The book's architecture 

i s e s s e n t i a l l y that of the memoir. The chapter t i t l e s at 



128 

l e a s t , r e l y on chronology and they are in order. Chapter one 

concentrates on A l i c e ' s l i f e before she came to Paris. I t 

i s very short. Chapter two documents her dramatic a r r i v a l 

i n Paris, i t s drama centering on her meeting with Stein and 

the subsequent r e d i r e c t i o n of her l i f e . Stein c e r t a i n l y edits 

her account of t h i s meeting with f l a i r , and a sense of history, 

i f not too close an observation of the f a c t s : 

This was the year 1907. Gertrude Stein was just 
seeing through the press Three Lives.... Picasso 
had just f i n i s h e d his p o r t r a i t of her...and he 
had just begun his strange complicated picture 
of three women, Matisse had just finished his 
Bonheur de V i v r e . . . . I t was the moment Max Jacob 
has since c a l l e d theiheroic age of cubism.52 

And at t h i s moment, with these luminaries arranged in 

a v e r i t a b l e c o n s t e l l a t i o n , A l i c e a r r i v e s , and proceeds to 

t e l l us "what I saw when I came." This i s a r e f r a i n 

throughout—echoing Stein's conviction that a l l that can be 

t o l d i s what i s seen. The rest i s up to the reader. To 

the innocent eye, as A l i c e ' s apparently was, what there was 

to see was overwhelming—avant-garde art shows that took 

Paris by storm, Picasso's squalid studio, and the Stein's 

home at 2 7 rue de Fleurus, combined salon and studded private 

g a l l e r y . "The pictures were so strange that one quite 

i n s t i n c t i v e l y looked at anything rather than at them just 

at f i r s t " (p. 8) . 

She meets the major a r t i s t i c figures of the period. 

P i c a s s o — t h e hero of the book i f Stein i s the heroine — i s 

described f i r s t of a l l in terms of his voracious eyes 

"which had the strange faculty of opening wide and drinking 



i n what they wished to see" (p. 11). His status at the 

centre of the c o n s t e l l a t i o n i s c l e a r . "He had the i s o l a t i o n 

and movement of the head of a b u l l fighter at the head of 

t h e i r procession" (p. 11). At one stage Matisse i s reported 

to have said, "Mademoiselle Gertrude, the world i s a theatre 

for you..." and chapter two i s ample evidence of her talent 

for stage management. At the end of the chapter we come to 

the true subject matter of the autobiography. 

And now I w i l l t e l l you how two Americans happened 
to be in the heart of an art movement of which the 
outside world knew nothing. (p. 26) 

Modern art was generated here, and Gertrude Stein wants 

to make i t clear to us that she was one of the people with 

whom i t began. Picasso, she t e l l s us, began i t in his 

painting, and she i n her writing: 

...the story of Melanctha the negress, the second 
story of Three Lives which was the f i r s t d e f i n i t e 
step away from the nineteenth century and into 
the twentieth century in l i t e r a t u r e , (p. 50) 

Chapter three documents Gertrude Stein i n Paris from 

1903-1907, her f i r s t art purchases t i e d to her f i r s t 

writing in Europe, her l i f e with her brother, Leo Stein, 

Picasso and his love l i f e and the Stein salon with i t s 

endless v i s i t o r s ; Paris in w i n t e r — I t a l y in summer. Up 

to 1914 and the close of chapter f i v e , "It was an endless 

variety. And everybody came and no one made any difference" 

(p. 116). After the war had begun, c u l t u r a l l i f e was 

eclipsed i n some fundamental way, however, and "the old 

l i f e was over" (p. 134). Chapter six d e t a i l s Paris and 



1 3 0 

F r a n c e d u r i n g w a r t i m e , d e s c r i b i n g S t e i n ' s a n d T o k l a s ' 

v o l u n t e e r w o r k . A s a b o u t m o s t t h i n g s , S t e i n t o o k a h i g h l y -

p e r s o n a l i z e d a n d s o m e w h a t a p o l i t i c a l l i n e o n t h e w a r . T h e 

w a r , s h e c l a i m e d , m a d e e v e r y o n e " n o t o n l y c o n t e m p o r a r y i n 

a c t , n o r o n l y c o n t e m p o r a r y i n t h o u g h t b u t c o n t e m p o r a r y i n 

52 

s e l f c o n s c i o u s n e s s . " T h e e x c i t e m e n t o f t h i s c o u p l e d w i t h 

a s t r e a k o f h e r e t o f o r e l a t e n t A m e r i c a n n e s s , c o u l d e x p l a i n 

h e r t o n e w h e n d e s c r i b i n g t h e w a r ' s e n d w i t h a n a l l i e d p a r a d e 

d o w n t h e C h a m p s E l y s e e s , " . . . a n d p e a c e w a s u p o n u s " ( p . 1 8 1 ) . 

I n c h a p t e r s e v e n , " A f t e r t h e w a r 1 9 1 9 - 1 9 3 2 , " t h e c o n s t a n t 

s e e i n g o f p e o p l e c o n t i n u e s ; t h e y i n c l u d e t h e t w e n t i e s s t a r s 

i n P a r i s — E z r a P o u n d , E r n e s t H e m i n g w a y , J o y c e , S y l v i a B e a c h , 

S h e r w o o d A n d e r s o n , F . S c o t t F i t z g e r a l d a n d R o b e r t M c A l m o n . 

T . S . E l i o t v i s i t e d o n c e . P i c a s s o c a m e a n d w e n t . I n 1 9 2 5 , 

S t e i n r e c o r d s a g a i n " t h e b e g i n n i n g o f m o d e r n w r i t i n g ' ! w h e n 

R o b e r t M c A l m o n p u b l i s h e d a C o n t a c t e d i t i o n o f T h e M a k i n g o f 

54 

A m e r i c a n s . A s c i r c l e s o f y o u n g men f a d e i n i n t e r e s t w i t h 

t h e d e c a d e , s u m m e r s a t B i l i g n i n i n r u r a l n o r t h e a s t e r n 

F r a n c e b e c o m e t h e c e n t r e o f S t e i n ' s a n d T o k l a s ' l i v e s . 

S e l e c t d e v o t e e s t h e y r e c e i v e t h e r e , b u t f o r S t e i n , t h e l i g h t 

o f P a r i s i n t h e . t w e n t i e s , d o m i n a t e d b y t h o s e t w o g e n i u s e s , 

P a b l o P i c a s s o a n d G e r t r u d e S t e i n , w h o b e t w e e n t h e m , h a d 

d i s c o v e r e d t h e t w e n t i e t h c e n t u r y , h a d d i m m e d . T h i s w a s o n e 

r e a s o n f o r c o n s i d e r i n g p o s s i b l e g l o r y i n E n g l a n d a n d t h e 

U . S . A . r a t h e r t h a n j u s t i n h e r a d o p t e d h o m e l a n d i n t h e 

a n x i o u s y e a r s b e f o r e W o r l d W a r I I . We l e a v e t h e 

a u t o b i o g r a p h y w i t h S t e i n r a t h e r m o u r n f u l l y c a s t i n g a b o u t 



131 

for Picasso's successor, as the centre, the generator, of 

what i s newest in the present. 

More than half the book deals with the pre-war years 

and seeks to place Stein in context in the turbulent creative 

history of that period. She s k i l l f u l l y weaves the 

international and the domestic—daily notes on painters 1 

l i v e s and the history of modern a r t , to show both the surface 

a r t i f i c e and the domestic substructure of a r t i s t i c production. 

This i s also r e f l e c t e d in the story she wanted to t e l l of 

the success of the Stein/Toklas menage behind the Stein 

genius, and t h i s i t does. 

So the book i s apparently ordered according to time 

and event. But within t h i s framework the basic narrative 

units are the anecdote and the remark, the conversation 

and the encounter. This i s where the text ceases to be 

memoir and becomes invention. She begins with a fake 

narrator and pretended o b j e c t i v i t y , and we are meant to see 

a l l that happens i n t h i s comedic l i g h t . The existence of 

a r e a l A l i c e Toklas serves as a constant reminder that the 

planes of r e a l i t y may s h i f t at w i l l . Once t h i s i s 

understood one gains a sense of the text as "humorous 

c u b i s t i c a r t i f i c e . " " ^ In his chapter on "The Cubist Novel" 

i n From Rococo to Cubism, Wylie Sypher discusses the cubist 

experiment in a r t , based on the assumption that r e a l i t y i s 

a series of "continual transformations where f i c t i o n impinges 
56 on f a c t , where art intersects with l i f e . " In t h i s study 

his exemplary novelist i s Andre Gide: 



132 

Much of Gide's " f i c t i o n " i s a factual record 
seen from a certain angle and thus transformed. 
As suggested in Les Caves du Vatican " f i c t i o n 
i s a history that might have taken place, and 
history i f a f i c t i o n that has taken place.57 

This i s very much the s p i r i t in which Stein wrote her 

"autobiography." In 1891, Gide had made an early attempt 

to overlay a f i c t i o n a l dimension onto autobiography with 

his Les Cahiers d'Andre Walter. Both Stein and Gide, i t 

can be said, were c e n t r a l l y concerned with the cubist 
5 8 

problem of "the distance of art from a c t u a l i t y . " As in 

cubist paintings of objects where the r e l a t i o n s between the 

painted object and the r e a l object are ambivalent, so the 

r e l a t i o n s , for these writers, between plot and autobiography 

are "unresolved and reciprocating." Les Faux-Monnayeurs i s 

Gide's inquiry into "the innumerable t r a n s i t i o n s between 

the object and the conception of the object." Gide's a r t , 

Sypher concludes, was the successful practice of "counter-

f e i t , " which i s a "camouflage" of the "document (the 

journal)" and a representation of the document at some 
59 

uncertain l e v e l of f i c t i o n . " (emphasis added) And so 

i t i s with Stein's autobiography, whose facts are 

"camouflaged" and transformed by f i c t i o n a l handling. 

The book, then, i s an "invented memoir." Stein had 

already denounced memory and association as f i c t i o n a l 

constructs and possible aids in her "camouflage" process. 

Despite t h i s , however, and perhaps because i t i s impossible 

to avoid, the book i s organized, a l b e i t e r r a t i c a l l y , on an 

associational matrix. One of the main means of connecting 



133 

events, and simultaneously of breaking up conventional time 

u n i t s , i s by a process of sustained interweaving--of 

digression, afterthought, future projection, c i r c l e and 

return to the i n i t i a l statement. By these means Stein plays 

with chronology rather than submitting to i t ; thus, in her 

fashion, she transcends i t . In the description of A l i c e ' s 

f i r s t soiree, for example, within a few hundred words, there 

are more than half a dozen references to times other than 

that of the party. The mixture of tenses and times i s 

remarkable and apparently a r t l e s s : 

The room was soon very f u l l and who were they a l l . 
Groups of Hungarian painters and writers, i t 
happened that some had once been brought and the 
word had spread from his throughout a l l Hungary; 
any v i l l a g e where there was a young man who had 
ambitions heard of 2 7 rue de Fleurus and then he 
l i v e d but to get there and a great many did get 
there. They were always there. (pp. 12-13).... 
I did not know what i t was a l l about. But 
gradually I knew and l a t e r on I w i l l t e l l the 
story of the pictures, t h e i r painters and t h e i r 
followers and what t h i s conversation meant, 
(p. 14)....And now the evening was drawing to a 
close. Everybody was leaving and everybody was 
s t i l l taking... (p. 15) 

It i s r e c o l l e c t i o n , but the s h i f t i n g tenses and the 

disembodied associations do contribute to a sense of 

s i m u l t a n e i t y — o f past with present, both then and now. 

Above a l l , the evening i s created in the text as physical/ 

s p a t i a l c o n f i g u r a t i o n — a multi-dimensional one with the 

s t r i c t focus on what was seen and the subsidiary category 

of what was heard. Space i s frequently what Gertrude 

Stein, as a l i v e to the v i s u a l as to the verbal or written, 

substitutes for time. Her "continuous present" i s defined 



i n Lectures i n America as "having to do with a sense of 
6 0 

movement i n time included in a given space." In the 

Autobiography, the "space of time" of an event or a 

conversation replaces chronological progression in narrative 

— l e a d i n g to a multiple v i s i o n of events and people and of 

given moments in the narrative, with the emphasis on t h e i r 

shape.^ This mirrors in prose the work of cubist painters 

l i k e Picasso (at that time), Braque and Gris, and 

s p e c i f i c a l l y challenges the idea that narrative must " f i x " 

what i t describes. Her w i l l e d digressions force narrative 

to begin again and again, so foregoing any claim to 

naturalism or permanence. 

The f i r s t soiree i s t y p i c a l and representative of the 

way information i s given in the book--anecdotal configurations, 

and of i t s use of players, speech, time and narrative 

information. It i s a s p a t i a l formula, not a temporal one. 

"Facts" are included for our information, but they are not 

connected in the usual ways. Logic i s abandoned. There i s 

no causal connection provided between one fact and another 

nor between events. (This i s Stein's version of Modernism's 

relativism.) A l l of the elements of the chatty memoir are 

t h e r e — g o s s i p , memories and opinions, fashion notes, 

contentious remarks and value judgements. But the lack of 

causal connection between any of these puts Stein's prose 

into quite another category than memoir. O b j e c t i v i t y and 

truth are, she believes, impossible to render. She 

substitutes m u l t i p l i c i t y , accurately recorded. The 



135 

"continuous present" i s a kind of s t r u c t u r a l metaphor for 

the ambiguity inherent in any fact or event and for the 

necessarily compromised attempts of any genre be i t biography, 

autobiography, diary or s o c i a l memoir to record things as 

they were. Stein enjoys the f u l l p o t e n t i a l of the ambiguity, 

rather than t r y i n g to deny i t as many a t r a d i t i o n a l writer 

has done. She exploits and manipulates i t , playing with i t 

to the point of s e l f parody, because f i n a l l y i t i s her own 

"continuous present" that she i s recording, not A l i c e ' s , 

because that i s unknowable. 

As an extension of her replacement of the temporal with 

the s p a t i a l , so further undermining memoir and creating, in 

e f f e c t , f i c t i o n , Stein has c a r e f u l l y selected i l l u s t r a t i o n s 

for the book, which the c r i t i c , Paul Alkon i n a fascinating 

a r t i c l e , has said make up a separate, complementary "visual 
6 2 

r h e t o r i c . " The photographs she chose provide images for 

the text. Their arrangement, Alkon claims, serves to 

further reverse and blur t r a d i t i o n a l time structure, based 

on clear d i s t i n c t i o n s between past, present and future. 

They are v i s u a l clues for what the reader w i l l f i n d in the 

text, though they are never c l e a r l y attached to or explained 

by the text. True to her p r i n c i p l e s , Stein provides no 

context for them, and no explanation of t h e i r s i g n i f i c a n c e . 

We are l e f t to assume that a photograph of Picasso and 

Fernande O l i v i e r , his mistress early in the book, i s included 

merely to give i t i t s c u l t u r a l bearings, as i f to say 

"these are the kinds of people I know." S i m i l a r l y , the 



136 

the photograph of a sturdy young Gertrude Stein peering into 

a microscope at John Hopkins Medical School i s there to 

convince us that she has had a s o l i d i n t e l l e c t u a l background 

despite what the American c r i t i c s said about her in p r i n t 

throughout the twenties. 

The most s t r i k i n g and well-known of the i l l u s t r a t i o n s 

i s the Man Ray photograph which serves as the book's 

f r o n t i s p i e c e . It i s intended to be emblematic of the whole 

text. It shows the heavy form of Gertrude Stein writing 

at her Renaissance desk, with A l i c e Toklas illuminated from 

behind i n an open doorway leading into a room where Stein 

i s working, and shedding l i g h t on i t . 

One of the c e n t r a l games Stein plays with text and 

reader i s revealed i n the i l l u s t r a t i o n s . The book 

acknowledges at the outset that photographs are as much 

works of art as paintings. She nevertheless draws an 

i n t e r e s t i n g d i s t i n c t i o n between photographs and paintings, 

which r e f l e c t s on the d i s t i n c t i o n sometimes disguised, in 

her work, between factual representation and invention. 

Paintings she declares a r t , while photographs seem to show 

things as they are. Alkon goes on to note in connection 

with t h i s d i s t i n c t i o n , that in successive i l l u s t r a t i o n s , 

there i s "...a gradual—but not complete displacement of 

photographs of r e a l i t y by photographs of paintings and at 

the end, the photographs of a manuscript page. Photographs 

of r e a l i t y give way to photographs of works of a r t . But 

as t h i s happens the d i s t i n c t i o n between art and r e a l i t y 



137 

collapses, because whatever can be photographed must be 
, „ 6 3 r e a l . " 

Stein uses the i l l u s t r a t i o n for other purposes as well. 

Sometimes they act as a corrective for the text. 

I l l u s t r a t i o n s of rooms f u l l of paintings but empty of people 

w i l l face pages f u l l of v i s i t o r s and p a r t i e s . Photographs 

of p a r t i c u l a r paintings remind us that she c i t e s these 

paintings e.g. Matisse's "Femme au Chapeau" and "Bonheur de 

Vivre" as analogues for her own work. One of her key ideas 

in writing i s that i t i s only possible to write what i s 

seen; that makes the issue of viewpoint or angle v i s i o n 

important in the i l l u s t r a t i o n s , which often provide metaphors 

the text does not. Stein's stated aim was to present the 

inside from the outside, and t h i s the i l l u s t r a t i o n s also do. 

They also highlight her favoured idea of simultaneity with 

camera angles showing Stein for example , from both inside 

and outside rooms; or i n another case providing a d i f f e r e n t 

but nevertheless e s s e n t i a l version of Stein, not in the f l e s h , 

but in Picasso's p o r t r a i t of her on the wall of one of the 

rooms photographed. Thus v i s u a l metaphors are provided for 

the idea that the text i s asking us to consider the subject, 

(Gertrude Stein) through the eyes of an assumed other. "The 
64 

s e l f in t h i s case i s presented as another. 

Stein i s very concerned with the metamorphosis of 

r e a l i t y into a r t . Of the crowded s o c i a l blur a f t e r the war, 

she has " A l i c e " describe i t thus: "I cannot remember who 

came i n and out, whether they were r e a l or whether they 



1 3 8 

w e r e s c u l p t u r e d b u t t h e r e w e r e a g r e a t m a n y " ( p . 2 5 1 ) . T h e 

b o o k ' s f i n a l i l l u s t r a t i o n s b l e n d t h e r e a l a n d t h e s c u l p t u r e d , 

p h o t o g r a p h s a n d p a i n t i n g s . T h i s m a r k s a p r o g r e s s i o n w h i c h 

" m i r r o r s " a f i n a l t r a n s f o r m a t i o n , w i t h i n t h e a u t o b i o g r a p h y , 

o f b o t h G e r t r u d e a n d A l i c e i n t o w o r k s o f a r t . " W h e t h e r t h e y 

w e r e r e a l o r w h e t h e r t h e y w e r e s c u l p t u r e d b e c o m e s h a r d e r t o 

6 5 

t e l l a n d m a t t e r s l e s s . " A l k o n n o t e s i n c o n c l u s i o n a 

l i t e r a r y d e c l a r a t i o n b y S t e i n i n t h e J u n e 1 9 2 9 i s s u e o f 

t r a n s i t i o n u n d e r t h e h e a d i n g s — " T h e R e v o l u t i o n o f t h e W o r d " 

a n d " A P r o c l a m a t i o n , " c o n s i s t i n g o f t w e l v e a r t i c l e s p r i n t e d 

i n c a p i t a l s . N u m b e r s f o u r a n d t e n p o t e n t i a l l y s u m u p , h e 

b e l i e v e s , w h a t S t e i n a c h i e v e s i n T h e A u t o b i o g r a p h y o f A l i c e  

B . T o k l a s : 

( 4 ) N A R R A T I V E I S NOT M E R E A N E C D O T E , B U T T H E 
P R O J E C T I O N OF A M E T A M O R P H O S I S OF R E A L I T Y . . . 

( 1 0 ) T I M E I S A T Y R A N N Y TO B E A B O L I S H E D 6 6 

S t e i n h a s p o w e r f u l l y i n t e g r a t e d t h e v e r b a l a n d v i s u a l 

i n h e r a u t o b i o g r a p h y i n a r a d i c a l a t t e m p t t o c h a l l e n g e t h e 

p o w e r o f t i m e o v e r t h e g e n r e . S h e p r o p o s e s a d r a m a t i c a l l y 

d i f f e r e n t " r e p r e s e n t a t i o n o f s e l f " t h a n t h e g e n r e 

t r a d i t i o n a l l y m a k e s a v a i l a b l e , o n e w h i c h c o u l d a d m i t a 

f i c t i o n a l i z i n g o f t i m e , a " s p a t i a l i z i n g " o f l i f e a n d t h e 

" p a i n t i n g " o f a n i d e n t i t y . 

S o , i f t h i s t e x t i s t h e n b y d e s i g n , m o r e a r t i f a c t 

t h a n a u t o b i o g r a p h y h o w r e p r e s e n t a t i o n a l l y t r u e c a n i t b e 

c o n s i d e r e d t o b e ? R o y P a s c a l i n a p i o n e e r w o r k , D e s i g n  

a n d T r u t h i n A u t o b i o g r a p h y , p u t f o r w a r d t h e i d e a t h a t t h e 

a u t o b i o g r a p h i c a l c o n s c i e n c e h a d a n " o b l i g a t i o n t o o n e s e l f , 



1 3 9 

6 7 
t o o n e ' s o w n t r u t h . " T h e " t r u t h " o f a u t o b i o g r a p h y , h e 

s a i d , " l i e s i n t h e b u i l d i n g u p o f a p e r s o n a l i t y t h r o u g h 

t h e i m a g e s i t m a k e s o f i t s e l f , t h a t e m b o d y i t s m o d e o f 

a b s o r b i n g a n d r e a c t i n g t o t h e o u t e r w o r l d " ( p . 1 8 8 ) . P e r h a p s 

t h e k e y w o r d h e r e , i f we t r y t o r e l a t e t h e s e i d e a s t o S t e i n ' s 

f i c t i o n a l a u t o b i o g r a p h y a n d w h a t i t r e p r e s e n t s , i s m o d e — 

t h e s t y l e o f r e p r e s e n t a t i o n , a n d i n d e e d o f p e r c e p t i o n . 

P e r h a p s , a s t h e S w i s s c r i t i c J e a n S t a r o b i n s k i h a s c o m m e n t e d , 

s t y l e c a n b e t a k e n a s a n i n d i c a t o r o f a k i n d o f t r u t h : 

. . . a 1 1 a u t o r e f e ' r e n c e e x p l i c i t e d e l a n a r r a t i o n 
e l l e - m e m e , l e s t y l e a j o u t e l a v a l e u r 
a u t o r e f e r e n t i e l l e i m p l i c i t e d ' u n mode s i n g u l i e r 
d e 1 ' e l o c u t i o n . 6 8 

T h e a u t o b i o g r a p h i c a l w r i t e r ' s s t y l e a c t s a s a n " i n d i c e " 

- - a c l u e t o h i s s e n s e o f h i m s e l f i n h i s t i m e a n d h o w h e 

w o u l d l i k e t o b e s e e n . B y i m p l i c a t i o n t h e n i t i s r e l a t i v e , 

a s o n e ' s s e n s e o f s e l f c h a n g e s w i t h c i r c u m s t a n c e s , a n d a 

w r i t e r t h e r e f o r e c a n n o t j u s t l y b e c h a r g e d , a s S t e i n s o 

v e h e m e n t l y w a s , w i t h " m i s r e p r e s e n t a t i o n , " w h e n a l l s h e e v e r 

i n t e n d e d w i t h h e r t e x t a n d a n a s s o r t m e n t o f p l a y e r s , w a s a n 

i m a g i n a t i v e r e p r e s e n t a t i o n o f h e r s e l f , o f a t l e a s t o f h e r 

c o n s c i o u s n e s s a n d h o w i t p e r c e i v e d t h e w o r l d . I n h e r c a s e , 

" m i s r e p r e s e n t a t i o n " w a s h i g h l y c o n s c i o u s a n d o n e o f t h e 

e n e r g i s i n g p r i n c i p l e s o f t h e t e x t . S h e d e l i b e r a t e l y u s e s 

t h e r e a d e r ' s e x p e c t a t i o n o f a u t o b i o g r a p h y t o p r o v i d e a 

s l i g h t l y i n g e n u o u s c o n s t r u c t f o r t h e r e p r e s e n t a t i o n o f s e l f 

t h a t c a n n e v e r b e , s h e b e l i e v e s , " t r u e " i n a n y a b s o l u t e 

s e n s e , b u t t r u e a s p h o t o g r a p h s a n d p a i n t i n g s a r e " t r u e " 



1 4 0 

at the time of painting, according to the desire of the 

a r t i s t , l i g h t , arrangement and audience. She s t y l i z e s 

realism to display the process whereby art emerges from l i f e . 

She turns the s e l f into a r t i f a c t , p r e c i s e l y as she uses the 

d e t a i l of the domestic, personal l i v e s of the a r t i s t s to 

enrich and o f f s e t a sense of the complexity with which t h e i r 

art emerged, incorporating and in collaboration with, t h e i r 

d a i l y l i v e s . 

Thornton Wilder in his Introduction to Four in America 

describes Stein's tendency, i n the accuracy of her record of 

the movements of her consciousness, to include 

...the i r r u p t i o n of d a i l y life....She may suddenly 
introduce [into her text] some phrase she has 
just heard over the garden wall. This resembles 
a practice that her friends the Post-impressionist 
painters occasionally resorted to. They pasted 
a subway t i c k e t to the surface of t h e i r painting. 
The r e a l i t y of a work of art i s one r e a l i t y ; the 
r e a l i t y of a "thing" i s another r e a l i t y ; the 
juxtaposition of the two kinds of r e a l i t y gives a' 
bracing shock....It refreshes in the writer the 
sense that the writer i s a l l alone, alone with 
his thoughts and his struggle and even with his g 
r e l a t i o n to the outside world that l i e s about him. 

It may not be "truth" with any moral connotation or 

sense of r e s p o n s i b i l i t y to events, which Stein records, but 

she does display an almost exhaustive desire for accuracy 

of a s c i e n t i f i c kind, when i t comes to recording the 

fluctuations of her own consciousness. This makes her an 

autobiographical writer, in the same sense that Montaigne i s 
70 

an autobiographical writer. Stein's attempt i s , as one 

of her leading c r i t i c s , Richard Bridgman has put i t , never 

less than to "represent her consciousness in i t s actual 



141 

state of existence" so providing us with "an outpouring of 

verbal responses to her experience mixed with fantasies 

generated by the primary experiences and with words stimulated 

by the appearance or sound of other words already on the page 
71 

or s t i l l in her head." 

As for existence i n the external world, Stein holds 

f a s t to the idea that writers can only write what they see, 

but an accurate record of what they think and perceive i s 

possible, i f i t i s treated in the same way as v i s u a l subject 

matter, whose existence can be photographed or painted. She 

divests authorial consciousness of the God-like power to 

control through narration (Joyce, Flaubert, James). 

Consciousness as Stein perceives i t can f i n a l l y express 

nothing but i t s own continuous flow of thought, f e e l i n g and 

the i d i o s y n c r a t i c perceptions of objects and people; (which 

places her much closer to Beckett and the writers of the 

nouveau roman) and i t i s the perception of these things as 

process which we are given instead of narrative based on 

t h e i r o b j e c t i v e l y accepted existence. (One i s reminded here 

of Nancy Chodorow's theory of female i d e n t i t y as processive.) 

Perceived objects and people, Stein says, can only exist in 

consciousness and she w i l l not allow memory and convention 

to force consciousness into any palatable, a r t i f i c i a l patterns 

other than those emerging from i t s own i n t e r n a l structure. 

In recording what Bergson and William James might c a l l "the 

immediate data of consciousness," Stein never ignores the 

i m p l i c i t l i m i t a t i o n s of language i n ever coming close to 



describing the human consciousness. Laugage can only play 

at the idea. She requires simply of language that i t be as 

a l i v e to i t s challenges as the best paintings are a l i v e , — 

"moving out of t h e i r frames." 

The idea of writing autobiography in any s t r i c t sense 

of the word would seem to go against a l l of Stein's l i t e r a r y 

p r i n c i p l e s . (But then so would f i c t i o n / n a r r a t i v e as a 

fixed l i t e r a r y mode.) Throughout her career, she managed 

v i g i l a n t l y to avoid the issue of memory, which dominated 

the f i c t i o n a l masterpieces of her day, and would d i r e c t her 

necessarily, i f she undertook anything l i k e a conventional 

memoir. T.S. E l i o t , James Joyce, Marcel Proust and Ezra 

Pound were, compared to her, obsessed with the past and with 

the a r t i s t i c forms of the past. Stein was firmly a member 

of the Paris-based European avant-garde, and was perhaps 

apart from Gide, the most successful writer to take up i t s 

revolutionary implications for a l l of the a r t s . As a part 

of her platform as a polemical writer, she distrusted above 

a l l memory as a creative agency and t r i e d to eliminate a l l 

time-based associations whenever possible. "The minute 

your memory functions while you are doing anything i t may 
72 

be very popular but actually i t i s d u l l . " Notions of 

i d e n t i t y are f a l s e when they are based on repeated 

behavioural t r a i t s or l o c a l i z e d habits. Identity "destroys 

creation," as does memory. Both o f f e r f a l s e and misleading 

strategies, she suggests, for "demystifying" the e s s e n t i a l 

strangeness and unknowableness of others. Memory and i d e n t i t y 



143 

as t r a d i t i o n a l l y conceived, succeed only in t r a n s l a t i n g 

what i s e s s e n t i a l about others into more f a m i l i a r terms by 

stressing the patterns in t h e i r l i v e s and in overlaying and 

substituting the past for the present. To f u l l y l i v e or 

write i n the present, the idea of i d e n t i t y based on memory 

must be broken down. But then how i s anything the least b i t 

autobiographical to be written? I t must deal with the past 

and i t must presumably operate on some notion of i d e n t i t y 

that does not change from minute to minute, even i f Stein's 

aim i s not to v e r i f y but to record. 

Stein's r e l a t i o n to autobiography (and f i c t i o n ? ) i s 

f i n a l l y p a r a l l e l to what she says of the r e l a t i o n of a 

genuis to time. He or she must "accept i t and deny i t by 
73 

creating i t . " In her exploration of the formal dilemmas 

of the genre, t h i s i s p r e c i s e l y what she does with 

autobiography 1—accept i t , as a construct at l e a s t , deny i t , 

by substituting f i c t i o n a l i z e d or at least modified 

information transmuted by her consciousness for factual 

account, and in the process, create i t , at least her v i s i o n 

of i t , which, a f t e r a l l , represents herself very well 

indeed. 

But The Autobiography of A l i c e B. Toklas i s not just a 

representation of s e l f . It i s also a s t i l l l i f e p o r t r a i t 

of "a l i f e , " that i s a shared l i f e , a separate complete 

e n t i t y whose other half was A l i c e Toklas, as indicated by 

t h e i r shared "authorship." This l i f e was described p r e c i s e l y 

as Stein described a l l discrete o b j e c t s — i t s component parts 



1 4 4 

— d a i l y events, conversations, meals, etc. It i s a "memoir" 

of the world of modern art and of Paris which she and many 

others had declared to be at the centre of that world. It 

i s a memoir too, of Picasso, or at least of almost t h i r t y 

years of his l i f e . He i s always the hero of the piece; even 

when absent he i s the spoken and unspoken example of the 

success of the modern a r t i s t , and of a genius at work in 

interpreting the world for others to follow behind in a 

kind or procession. It i s a memoir and a t r i b u t e to France 

and i t s capacity to endure, as one of the central players 

i n the theatre of the World War I. Stein's i s c e r t a i n l y 

the most important memoir of any Modernist, p r i n c i p a l l y 

because i t i s a l i v e with l i t e r a r y invention. In i t she has 

created a most viable myth of Paris as the seat of modern 

art in the twentieth century. 

The style of the book, where i t i s arguable that i t s 

"truth" resides, has been whimsical, digressive, r e p e t i t i v e 

and highly s t y l i z e d . It i s self-declared and self-conscious 

a r t i f i c e , while in the process recording a dynamic and 

e c l e c t i c s e l f , functioning almost metaphorically as that 

s e l f functions. While i t i s a memoir that does j u s t i c e to 

the time i t addresses, the book i s at the same time, a 

f i c t i o n a l and quite personal construct of that time, and 

of the s e l f seen at i t s centre. 



1 4 5 

C o n c l u s i o n 

P e r h a p s f o r t h e v e r y r e a s o n t h a t s o many h a d r e a d The 

A u t o b i o g r a p h y o f A l i c e B . T o k l a s a s a c o n v e n t i o n a l memoir o f 

G e r t r u d e S t e i n , she f o u n d h e r s e l f u n a b l e t o l e t d r o p t h e 

r o l e a n d i m p l i c a t i o n s o f a u t o b i o g r a p h i c a l w r i t i n g i n h e r 

o e u v r e . She was u n t i l h e r d e a t h v e r y c o n c e r n e d , i n i r o n i c a l l y 

q u i t e t r a d i t i o n a l w a y s , t o r e n d e r h e r own c o n s c i o u s n e s s 

e f f e c t i v e l y on t h e p a g e — n o t n e c e s s a r i l y i n " f i c t i o n a l " f o r m 

a s she h a d done i n The A u t o b i o g r a p h y , b u t t o e x a m i n e i n o t h e r 

ways a s w e l l , t h e c o n t i n u o u s p r o c e s s o f t r a n s f o r m i n g r e a l i t y 

i n t o a r t — w h i c h i n c l u d e d t h e d a t a o f h e r own l i f e . Her a i m 

i n w r i t i n g b e t w e e n 1 9 3 2 and h e r d e a t h i n 1 9 4 6 she e x p r e s s e d 

w e l l i n E v e r y b o d y ' s A u t o b i o g r a p h y : " T h e r e s h o u l d n o t be a 

7 4 

s e n s e o f t i m e , b u t an e x i s t e n c e s u s p e n d e d i n t i m e . " I n h e r 

f i n a l works she was i f a n y t h i n g more c o n c e r n e d w i t h what s h e 

c a l l e d t h a t " l a s t t o u c h o f b e i n g " t h a t o n l y p e r s o n a l r e c o r d 

c a n p r o v i d e . And she c e r t a i n l y c o u l d n o t r e s t w i t h t h e i d e a 

t h a t The A u t o b i o g r a p h y o f A l i c e B . T o k l a s , s u c c e s s o r n o , 

was t o be h e r " l a s t t o u c h o f b e i n g . " I t w a s , t o h e r , 

i n a u t h e n t i c i n t o o many w a y s . She h a d h a d t o c o m p r o m i s e t o o 

many o f h e r a r t i s t i c p r i n c i p l e s t o w r i t e i t . She f e l t 

u n d e n i a b l e j o y a t r e c o g n i t i o n and a c c e p t a n c e , b u t h o r r o r 

a t " c o m m e r c i a l " s u c c e s s w h i c h s h e h a d a l w a y s l o u d l y d e n o u n c e d . 

M o s t o f a l l s h e was i n deep c o n f u s i o n a b o u t i s s u e s o f i d e n t i t y , 

r e c e n t l y r e a w a k e n e d f o r h e r b y h e r f i r s t t r i p b a c k t o A m e r i c a 

i n t h i r t y y e a r s . I t c u l m i n a t e d i n a c o m b i n e d w r i t e r ' s b l o c k 

and i d e n t i t y c r i s i s w h i c h p a r a l y s e d h e r . When she b r o k e 



1 4 6 

through i t , her next project was one which she used to probe 

her way back to clear-headedness about matters of i d e n t i t y . 

The Geographical History of America or The Relation of Human  

Nature to The Human Mind was a book of geographical and 
75 

l i t e r a r y meditations drawn from her recent American t r i p . 

She was determined to d i s t i n g u i s h in the book between what 

she c a l l e d Human Nature and the higher Human Mind, in her 

quest to grasp and c l a r i f y her own i d e n t i t y as a writer and 

to better understand the writer's r e l a t i o n to his audience. 

Stein's audience had recently delighted her by praising her 

on a huge scale for the f i r s t time, and simultaneously, had 

disappointed her profoundly by embracing that p a r t i c u l a r book, 

whose o r i g i n s were something of a "commercial joke." 

She had mentioned f i r s t in a lecture to an American 

audience the difference between writing for "God" and writing 
for "mammon." Writing for "God" both requires and i s a 
function of the Higher Mind; " i t must be d i r e c t , the r e l a t i o n 

7 6 

between the thing done and the doer must be d i r e c t . " 

Writing for "mammon" which may be defined as "'success'... 

[or] a pleasure [the writer] has from hearing what he 

himself has done, mammon may be his way of explaining, 

mammon may be a laziness that needs nothing but going on, 
77 

i n short mammon may be anything that i s done i n d i r e c t l y . " 

In other words, i t i s writing in f u l l awareness of an u 

audience. Such an awareness can only i n v i t e concessions 

and undermine c r e a t i v i t y . Stein i s very anxious in these 

meditations to get beyond the idea of i d e n t i t y as i t seems 



147 

to be inevitably bound in t r a d i t i o n a l works to an audience 

and memory. The notion of i d e n t i t y , l i k e autobiography, 

she finds weak and f a l s e l y reassuring when i t i s the product 

of Human Nature. She prefers the p o s s i b i l i t y of transcendence 

for .the writer, a purer state from which to create. She never 

managed to resolve t h i s issue i n t h e o r e t i c a l terms, but 

believed herself nevertheless to be writing from t h i s 

transcendent height in a l l her l a t e r work. 

This realignment of her d i r e c t i o n necessitated denouncing 

her e a r l i e r work, in p a r t i c u l a r The Autobiography of A l i c e 

B. Toklas which she now saw as an i n f e r i o r work written "for 

mammon." A l l subsequent expressions of her i d e n t i t y were to 

be works of the Higher Mind. There were to be no compromises. 

As a corrective gesture, she began a new autobiography in 

March 1936 . Everybody's Autobiography was to be the a l l 
7 8 

inclusive autobiography. In i t she dropped the authorial 

pose of writing as A l i c e Toklas supposedly would have. While 

she wanted the book to have the same successful blend of 

famous names and l o c a l colour as the e a r l i e r book, t h i s 

one was to be written in Stein's f a m i l i a r authentic s t y l e ; 

as before, i t was conversational, energetic, warm, r e p e t i t i v e 

and somewhat unstoppable. Most of the events recorded i n i t 

were quite recent, to do with her American tour and return 

to Europe. It s t i l l managed to display an amusing number of 

errors i n memory just as the e a r l i e r book's c r i t i c s had 

accused her of there. It was published by Random House in 

1937. It did not succeed as the f i r s t memoir had. Though 



148 

n e i t h e r c r e a t e s n o r t h e g e n e r a l r e a d e r e m b r a c e d i t , S t e i n 

w a s m o r e t h a n p l e a s e d w i t h i t a s a n a u t o b i o g r a p h i c a l p i e c e 

e n t i r e l y i n k e e p i n g w i t h h e r l i t e r a r y p r i n c i p l e s . B y c o n t r a s t 

T h e f i r s t a u t o b i o g r a p h y . . . w a s a d e s c r i p t i o n 
a n d a c r e a t i o n o f s o m e t h i n g t h a t h a v i n g h a p p e n e d 
w a s i n a w a y h a p p e n i n g n o t a g a i n b u t a s i t h a d 
b e e n w h i c h i s h i s t o r y w h i c h i s n e w s p a p e r w h i c h 
i s i l l u s t r a t i o n b u t i t i s n o t a s i m p l e n a r r a t i v e 
o f w h a t i s h a p p e n i n g . . . . A n d n o w i n t h i s b o o k I 
h a v e d o n e i t i f I h a v e d o n e i t . 7 9 

I n o t h e r w o r d s , t h e e a r l i e r b o o k h a d d e a l t i n t o o f a c t u a l 

a m a n n e r ( t h o u g h s h e d o e s c a l l i t a " c r e a t i o n " ) w i t h w h a t 

h a d h a p p e n e d , a n d n o t w i t h w h a t i s ; h a p p e n i n g . E v e r y b o d y ' s  

A u t o b i o g r a p h y o p e r a t e s m o r e c o n s i s t e n t l y w i t h i n S t e i n ' s 

" c o n t i n u o u s p r e s e n t . " S h e b e l i e v e d h e r s e l f t o b e w i t h t h i s 

w o r k , o n e s t e p c l o s e r t o a s s i m i l a t i n g t h e a u t o b i o g r a p h i c a l 

a c t w i t h h e r a e s t h e t i c p r i n c i p l e s , w h i c h s o o f t e n s e e m t o 

b e a t o d d s w i t h i t . 

I n h e r n e x t w o r k , A D i a r y , s h e t a k e s u p t h a t m o s t 

8 0 

a u t o b i o g r a p h i c a l o f f o r m s , t h e j o u r n a l , f o r t h e f i r s t t i m e . 

S h e p r o c e e d s t o s a b o t a g e i t b y r e f u s i n g t o l o c a t e i t s 

e n t r i e s i n t i m e . E n t r y h e a d i n g s a r e f o r e x a m p l e , " t o d a y , " 

" t h e d a y b e f o r e , " a n d " t h e d a y a f t e r , " i n a n e f f o r t t o k e e p 

t h e m f i r m l y i n t h e " c o n t i n u o u s p r e s e n t . " T h i s d i d p r e s e n t 

p r o b l e m s . " S h o u l d a d i a r y b e w r i t t e n o n t h e m o r n i n g o f 
81 

t h e d a y d e s c r i b e d o r b e f o r e ? " s h e w r o t e . L i k e a l l w r i t i n g , 
8 2 

h o w e v e r , " A d i a r y s h o u l d s i m p l y b e . " A n d w h a t s h o u l d i t 

b e ? " A d i a r y s h o u l d b e i n s t a n t l y i n r e c o r d i n g a t e l e g r a m . 

A l s o i n r e c o r d i n g a v i s i t a l s o i n r e c o r d i n g a c o n v e r s a t i o n 

a l s o i n r e c o r d i n g e m b r o i d e r y a l s o i n r e c o r d i n g h a v i n g w i s h e d 



149 

to buy a basket. That i s i t . " To be true to i t s purpose 

then, a diary should record everything " i n s t a n t l y ; " an 

impossible task of course, unless i t also f i c t i o n a l i z e s or 

d i s t i l s , because events follow t h e i r own natural chronology. 

Wars I Have Seen i s a further attempt to abstract event, 

to take i t out of time and into the "continuous present" of 

the Higher Mind, by reconceptualizing temporal or h i s t o r i c a l 
84 

fact into a study of i t s timeless essence. In t h i s case 

i t i s war. In an e a r l i e r work i t had been Paris, France. 

Both studies play havoc with time. Paradoxically, Stein wants 

to locate both works i n terms of the twentieth century, but 

by that one can assume that she merely means "the present"; 

the twentieth century here i s an abstraction, a background 

tableau appropriate to her action. She i s concerned with 

time--"now in 1943" but only as i t located the present 

i s o l a t e d moment, not as i t forms part of any time continuum 

or causal r e l a t i o n in h i s t o r y . She does not discuss the 

wars she has seen in any r e l a t i o n to history at a l l . She 

presents instead a meditation on the e s s e n t i a l nature of 

war and c i t e s examples—The American C i v i l War, the Spanish 

American War and the two World Wars t h i s century. Obviously 

she has not "seen" the e a r l i e r two; she r e f l e c t s on war as 

narrative, as s t o r i e s t o l d to c h i l d r e n . "War i s more l i k e 

a novel than i t i s l i k e r e a l l i f e and that i s i t s eternal 

f a s c i n a t i o n . I t i s a thing based on r e a l i t y but invented, i t i s a dream made r e a l , a l l the things that make a novel 
8 5 

but not r e a l l y l i f e . " 



150 

She i s s t i l l very interested in the ways we transform 

actual experience by invention, into f i c t i o n , in an attempt 

to capture and translate the essence of the experience, 

making i t transmissable to other times. While f u l l y aware 

of t h i s inevitable " f i c t i o n a l i z i n g aspect" in her writing, 

Stein must s t i l l face the old problems of memory and 

s e l e c t i o n . "I do not know whether to put in things I do 
8 6 

not remember as well as the things I do remember." "How 

much s h a l l I make up?" she asks. 

Her conclusions to both meditations—Paris France and 

Wars I Have Seen—are a contradictory blend of the timeless 

and the temporal. Throughout she has discussed the timeless 

q u a l i t i e s of these phenomena—country and war. In a strange 

attempt (explicable only by her very odd concepts of history 

when she did think of i t ) to combine these two essences in 

some way, these two central experiences of her l i f e , she 

comes up with the conclusion that i f France was the 

necessary background to the twentieth century, then war was 

the agency for pushing the world into the twentieth century. 

End Note 

The writer, who i s concerned to transform the workings 

of consciousness into a r t i f a c t , must face the inevitable 

problems of rendering the s e l f on the page. These are 

p r i n c i p a l l y to do with form. In Gertrude Stein's case, to 

incarnate herself in language according to her own l i t e r a r y 

p r i n c i p l e s , required the creation of new l i t e r a r y forms— 



the autobiographical novel, the non-sequential journal, the 

n o n - h i s t o r i c a l meditation on time and place. In these works, 

she wants to describe l i f e as far as i t i s possible to do so, 

i n the "continuous present"—as i t i s being l i v e d . She wants 

to eliminate confessions or psychological revelation from 

her rendering of i d e n t i t y . She therefore "depersonalizes" 

her autobiographies, f i r s t by using a transferred narrator 

in The Autobiography of A l i c e B. Toklas and by including a l l 

of mankind i n Everybody's Autobiography. Certainly, in the 

former, Stein exists i n the text as a t h i r d person whose 

l i f e i s being recorded from the outside, however intimately; 

as Shirley Neuman has neatly put i t , "The t h i r d person i s a 
8 7 

f i c t i o n a l person." By making f i c t i o n out of autobiography 

as she does i n t h i s book, she sidesteps a number of issues 

which would compromise her otherwise impersonal stand as a 

writer: truth, the subconscious, the emotions. The 

l i b e r t i e s she takes here, arranging the data of her l i f e as 

an experimental novel, allow her to play o f f the inevitable 

r e l a t i v i t y of truth in a memoir against the inevitably 

a r t i f i c i a l l o g i c of f i c t i o n . 

Stein wrote in autobiographical forms the better to 

record the processes of a l i f e and the a c t i v i t i e s of a 

consciousness, s p e c i f i c a l l y the consciousness of an a r t i s t 

going about the process of writing. Her works as the 

r e s u l t , are highly self-conscious and s e l f - r e f l e x i v e in 

that one of t h e i r p r i n c i p a l subjects i s always the process 

of t h e i r being written. One i s reminded repeatedly of 



152 

Montaigne's attempt to record as much as he could grasp of 

himself at the moment of observation. 

A l l that can be t o l d , Stein says, i s what i s seen. Roy 

Pascal has said that autobiographical t r u t h — t h e e f f e c t i v e 

rendering of consciousness—Is determined by the accumulation 

of images a personality makes of i t s e l f to embody the s e l f 

and i t s mode of seeing and reacting. Each of Stein's 

autobiographical " f i c t i o n s " i s one of these images or "pieces" 

of an i d e n t i t y , each invented.by h e r s e l f ; together they form, 

as Matisse perceived, a whole "picture puzzle" or a l i t e r a r y 

"harlequin's costume." 

We have said that Gertrude Stein belonged to several 

s o c i a l sub-cultures beyond that of woman writer; she was an 

American expatriate, independently wealthy and a lesbian. 

Each of 'these played a role in her most serious contribution 

to the l i t e r a t u r e of the period, and that i s her challenge 

to gender as a s i g n i f i c a n t category in human experience. 

Stein declared that her subject would be human nature and 

the functioning of the human mind. Her stance was e s s e n t i a l l y 

philosophical; she had been a student of Santayana and v 

William James and was the f r i e n d of A l f r e d North Whitehead. 

She was interested in character, and her r a d i c a l b e l i e f was 

that character was not at a l l determined by gender. "I 

think nothing about men and women because i t has nothing to 

do with anything. Anybody who i s an American can know 
8 8 

anything about t h i s thing." 
She shared a b e l i e f with V i r g i n i a Woolf that the human 



m i n d w a s w i t h o u t g e n d e r . B o t h women b e l i e v e d t h a t i n t h e 

t w e n t i e t h c e n t u r y , a p e r i o d o f c o n f u s i o n , m a s c u l i n i t y h a d 

g o t t e n o u t o f h a n d . T h e y b o t h s a w a n d r o g y n y a s a p o w e r f u l 

c r e a t i v e f o r c e , a n d i t w a s a s a n a n d r o g y n o u s w r i t e r t h a t 

S t e i n s a w h e r s e l f m a k i n g a c o n t r i b u t i o n t o M o d e r n i s m t h a t 

o t h e r women w r i t e r s c o u l d n o t m a k e . S h e d i s m i s s e d H . D . ' s 

c o m m i t m e n t t o m y t h ( H e l e n o f E g y p t ) a n d W o o l f ' s t o r e a l i s m 

8 9 

a n d p l o t . B y a v o i d i n g t h e s e l i t e r a r y c o n v e n t i o n s , a s s h e 

f e l t s h e m u s t , S t e i n a l s o a v o i d e d p r e s e n t i n g t h e s e x e s a s 

t h e y c o n v e n t i o n a l l y e x p e r i e n c e t h e m s e l v e s . S h e p r e f e r r e d 

t o s e e t h e m a n d r e c o r d t h e m f r o m a g e n d e r - f r e e p e r s p e c t i v e . 

S h e d e a l t w i t h h u m a n t y p e s r a t h e r t h a n g e n d e r s . T h i s s h e 

s a w a s n e c e s s a r y i f s h e , a s a n i n t e l l e c t u a l l y a n d r o g y n o u s 

w o m a n , w a s t o c o n v e y h e r e x p e r i e n c e a s a h u m a n b e i n g . I f 

h e r l i t e r a r y v o i c e w a s a u t h e n t i c a l l y t o r e p r e s e n t h e r 

p e r s p e c t i v e — t h a t o f a w o m a n , a l e s b i a n a n d a J e w — t h e n lane 

c o u l d n o t a f f o r d t o f a l l b a c k o n t h e l i t e r a r y c o n v e n t i o n s . 

S t e i n ' s f o c u s a s a n a r t i s t w a s c o n s e q u e n t l y v e r y d i f f e r e n t 

f r o m h e r c o n t e m p o r a r i e s ' . T h e c o n f i d e n c e t o a c t a s a 

l i t e r a r y f r e e - a g e n t t h a t h e r a n d r o g y n y a l l o w e d h e r , m a y w e l 

a c c o u n t f o r t h e c o n f u s i o n o f c r i t i c s i n h e r d a y , a n d f o r 

h e r l a s t i n g i m p a c t o n s e v e r a l g e n e r a t i o n s o f w r i t e r s . 



154 

Chapter Four 

Djuna Barnes: The Patterned Self 

Origins 

"I wish every man were beyond the reach of his own 

biography. 

"It w i l l take him, as i t w i l l the others, a l l his 
2 

l i f e to unravel the tangle of his upbringing." 
"You can bury your past as deep as you l i k e , but 

3 

carrion w i l l out!" 

Djuna Barnes began her career as a poet, j o u r n a l i s t , 

i l l u s t r a t o r and short story writer. In her f i r s t c o l l e c t i o n 

of s t o r i e s , poems, one act plays and sketches, A Book, 

American content was high. So was the raw material of her 

early l i f e . Many of these pieces are set i n her birth-place, 

Cornwa11-on-Hudson, New York, or i t s symbolic equivalent, 

with characters l i v i n g i n peculiar, highly charged i s o l a t i o n , 

doing immense amounts of damage to one another as her family 

had. Many of her l a t e r concerns are here i n embryo, as she 

"writes out" her o r i g i n s . In a style which curiously 

anticipates that of Harold Pinter's plays in the second half 

of the century, Barnes i s already in 1923 urgently concerned 

with what she perceived to be the f a i l u r e of language to 

embody experience or to connect people. Communication 

between her characters i s often no more than s u r r e a l l y 

c i v i l i z e d chat, hardly masking primitive connections and an 

ever present p o s s i b i l i t y of violence. "Three From the Earth," 



155 

an early one act play in t h i s c o l l e c t i o n , has three young 

men v i s i t an aging actress to t e l l her of the death of t h e i r 
4 

father, who i t seems, had at one time been her lover. What 

at f i r s t appears to be a case of "the lady" entertaining 

"the peasants" i s quickly stripped away by vicious word 

play to expose a s i t u a t i o n of old and v i o l e n t l y sexual 

complicity in another generation. The suddenness of the 

reversal from c i v i l i z e d to p r i m i t i v e , and the crazy dialogue 

which s k i r t s i t , are highly reminiscent of Pinter's The 

Homecoming, where sex underlies every comment and i s 

capable of pushing any s i t u a t i o n over into physical violence. 

Themes of mingling decay and desire pervade the l i v e s 

of her i s o l a t e d characters. Often simple-minded men try 

to claim with passion women who are "beyond desire" by v i r t u e 

of what they know of l i f e . Helena in "To the Dogs" responds 

to her would-be lover with "Death from you, w i l l begin where 

my cradle started rocking." She, l i k e many other female 

characters in these early pieces, i s concerned instead only 

with the preservation and arrangement of the "beauty of 

object." One i s reminded here of both Colette and Jean Rhys 

and t h e i r reliance on moments of " o b j e c t i f i c a t i o n " and 

perceived beauty to redeem a p a l l i n g s i t u a t i o n s . "I want 

the b e a u t i f u l thing to be, how can l o g i c have anything to 
7 

do with i t , or probable sequence." 

In Barnes', early f i c t i o n , some of these women devote 

themselves obsessively to decor and decoration, others 

become hard and b e a i t u f u l in death as the jewels they had 



156 

worn i n l i f e . S t i l l others are empty rooms waiting to be 

occupied. "Indian Summer" t e l l s of a p l a i n woman, a "clean 

room...exposed by the catching back a heavy and melancholy 

curtains" who i s transformed late in l i f e into a "salon" f u l l 

of exotic objects. "One by one the old and awkward things 

went, leaving in t h e i r wake Venetian glass and bowls of onyx, 
8 

s i l k s , cushions and perfume." Presently she entertains a 
lover there for the f i r s t time and takes him "as she would 

9 

have taken a piece of cake at a tea party. 

On the whole, the pieces are Chekhovian with a 

Dostolievskian undertow, a play of tensions reminiscent of 

Jean Rhys' strategies for dealing with the breakdown of 

beauty into horror. Many, in t h e i r focus on death and the 

grotesque joke i t makes of l i f e , prepare the way for 

Nightwood, her l a t e r masterpiece. One early character when 

asked by another for guidance, responds with a flood of 

defeated loquacity much as Matthew O'Connor w i l l respond 

to Nora's despair in the l a t e r work. 
I'm incapable...mystified. Death would be a 
release, but i t wouldn't s e t t l e anything.... 
How do I know but that everything I have thought, 
and said, and done, has not been f a l s e , a l i t t l e 
abyss from which I s h a l l crawl laughing at the 
e v i l of my own limitation.10 

The tone of these pieces i s very much one of "what 

are we doing here? Are we a l l mad or merely overwrought?""'"1 

A l l of these themes are incorporated and made large in 
12 Barnes' f i r s t novel, Ryder, published in 1928. Over 

f i f t y disconnected chapters she parodies with picaresque 



flamboyance, her own strange but humble o r i g i n s , well 

disguised beneath elaborate and accomplished l i t e r a r y 

pastiches of the King James Bible, Chaucer, Sterne, F i e l d i n g 

and of course, more recently James Joyce, who had made her a 

g i f t of the proofs of Ulysses which bears more than a 

passing r e l a t i o n to t h i s text. The book concerns an 

eccentric r u r a l p a t r i a r c h , Wendall Ryder, his r e l a t i o n s 

with his two "wives," his eight children and his mother who 

a l l share a house in the country. Society i s hounding 

Wendall for his i d i o s y n c r a t i c l i f e s t y l e and in p a r t i c u l a r 

for refusing to send his children to school, saying that he 

can teach them better himself. When he manages to f i g h t 

o f f the school board, he i s persecuted for l i v i n g with two 

women. As the novel closes, he must face the fact that he 

cannot decide between them. But the work i s far more a 

s t y l i s t i c tour de force, pushing the genre of the novel to 

i t s l i m i t s , than i t i s a successful narrative. I t i s only 

when the shattered units of poetry, prose, i l l u s t r a t i o n , and 

dramatic monologue are considered whole as a fable or 

parable, that the work succeeds, and in t h i s i t reminds us 

of many post-modern pastiches indebted to Joyce, where the 

idea of authorial s i n c e r i t y has become meaningless, to be 

replaced by layers of s t y l e , e x i s t i n g in p l a y f u l 

cohabitation and producing only composite meaning. 

But there i s a serious matter i n Ryder as w e l l . It can 

be read, for example, as a tragi-comic study of the eternal 

l o t of women. However, the central character, Wendall Ryder, 



158 

chief perpetrator of t h e i r suffering, claims some of our 

sympathy as well by l i v i n g in a much closer and more 

creative a l l i a n c e with nature than conventional human beings, 

and receiving the support of his author for i t . In a 

grotesque and comic fashion, Wendall i s a kind of cosmic man 

fending o f f women, children and authorities while passionately 

wishing t h i s his farm animals would communicate with him, so 

preoccupied i s he with exactly what the presumed difference 

between man and animal i s . His concern with the nature of 

"the Beast" introduces us, however, to some highly serious 

and poetic r e f l e c t i o n on the notion of a dream-time 

pre-history, when the r a t i o n a l and the b e s t i a l elements in 

man were i n perfect balance: 

In the beginning was the jungle, with thick 
flowers and thick leaves, and the roots of 
things: went down into a heavy tiger-pawed 
earth, and on the branches sat the puma, duke 
of the morning, and through blood red l i l l i e s 
went the wild cat, and the slender hoofed 
deer, and wild cows, whose teats had never 
served man, and the bellowings and trumpetings 
and the roarings and screechlings, went forth 
in one sound that was a band of strength against 
the unknown quantity that was, one day to be the 
slayer. There time rotted on the stem of night 
and day, and the water ripened on the branches of 
the ocean; there with the weight of unseen swift 
f l y i n g , making t e r r i b l e his feathers, came the 
nightbird through the thick gloves, and clove 
them as o i l i s cloven and records not the break, 
and stood and pecked s o f t l y and s w i f t l y at the 
earth that trembled under no f o o t f a l l of man and 
pecking, went his way with l i t t l e speckled feathers 
dwindling into the dark.13 

This i s to be the primeval time and landscape to which Barnes 

returns again and again with a painterly eye. 

Ryder i s one of a series of large, experimental Modernist 



works to appear i n the twenties. In i t s e b u l l i e n t a r t i f i c e , 

i t s breaking up of the t r a d i t i o n a l novel's surfaces and i t s 

p l a y f u l manhandling of space, time and language, i t follows 

on s t y l i s t i c a l l y not only from Ulysses, but also from E l i o t 1 
14 

Wasteland and Pound's imagist poetry. As with these key 

Modernists texts, Barnes' readers too are put to the t e s t . 

A l o t i s expected of them, with the text's frequent leaps, 

without bridges, from simple speech and narrative at one 

moment, to e c c e n t r i c a l l y elaborate, baroque syntactic 

flourishes and streams of consciousness r i d d l e d with word 

play. At f i r s t glance the text appears to be studded with 

archaisms, but of course her taking up of abandoned forms, 

as George Steiner said of E l i o t , was the height of Modernism 

Her s t y l i s t i c chaos has been d e l i c a t e l y planned, as she 

broadly parodies not only her father, her young s e l f in 

J u l i e Ryder, who "Becomes What She Had Read," but also the 

church, marriage, sex and l i t e r a t u r e . I t i s in f a c t , a 

harlequin s u i t of l i t e r a r y styles and tones of voice sewn 

together with remarkable seamlessness and bravado. It 

marks an i n t e r e s t i n g stage of "writing out one's l i f e " in 

two senses, one personal and the other professional, 

operating as she was in a context of international Modernism 

in the 1920's Joyce, E l i o t , Pound and Proust were setting 

the standards in harlequin costumes. 
Expatriation 

If Barnes' f i r s t c o l l e c t i o n and her f i r s t novel were 

imaginatively set in America, a c o l l e c t i o n of stories which 



160 

appeared in 1929 after nine years abroad was d i s t i n c t l y 

European i n texture. Collected under the t i t l e A Night 

Among the Horses, these f i c t i o n s r i c h l y and strangely combine 

old and new worlds. 1 ^ She had always been inspired by the 

European masters—Chekhov, Strindberg and Dostoevsky as 
17 

well as Joyce and the I r i s h playwright, J.M. Synge. 

Setting i s always important for Barnes; in these pieces, 

America i s s t i l l v i s i b l e , but i t i s an America heavily 

populated with immigrants—many Russians and a strong 

European Jewish mix of heavily ethnic names. Almost a l l of 

the s i g n i f i c a n t characters are from somewhere else, and those 
18 

who are not are alienated in t h e i r own lands. In addition, 

the cast includes many people on t r a i n s between European 

c i t i e s , the permanently " l o s t generation" of Paris cafe 

residents, children of nature a d r i f t in c i t i e s , and disengaged 

men and women f i g h t i n g for supremacy over one another in the 

face of rootlessness and despair on an international stage. 

However, Barnes i s interested i n t h e i r expatriated 

condition more than t h e i r h i s t o r i c a l or geographical 

circumstances, and t h i s i s psychic rather than determined 

by l o c a l e . She found i t a natural symbol, p a r t i c u l a r l y in 

the 20's, both for her own lesbianism and, on a larger 

scale, for man's e s s e n t i a l Angst. At i t s best, though, 

she points out that t h i s "middle condition" of belonging 

nowhere i n p a r t i c u l a r can be b e n e f i c i a l , even l i b e r a t i n g . 

This is* the sort of freedom to which both Gertrude Stein 

and V i r g i n i a Woolf referred, in t h e i r very d i f f e r e n t ways, 



161 

when they talked about the power of s p i r i t u a l and i n t e l l e c t u a l 

androgyny. In her opening story, " A l l e r et Retour," Barnes' 

c e n t r a l character, Madame Von Bartmann has been liberated in 
19 

t h i s way. She i s one of Barnes' strong, wise women who 

l i v e s "in the stream of time," with a "manner at once c a r e f u l 

and absent," looking about her on her travels with an even 

gaze at whores, s a i l o r s , churches and incidental b r u t a l i t i e s , 
20 

"neither pleased nor displeased." She i s a woman of 
"vigorous understanding" who i s capable, when required, of 

21 
an "excellently arranged encounter with estangement." In 

t h i s case i t i s with her now grown daughter, whom she has 

not seen for seven years. Unaware that the c h i l d has an 

u t t e r l y d i f f e r e n t temperament, and that i t i s in any case, 

too late for her words to have any e f f e c t , she returns to 

o f f e r counsel on the basis of what l i f e and t r a v e l have 

taught her; that l i f e i s -'f i l t h y . . . f r i g h t f u l " but that in i t , 

there i s everything..."murder, pain, beauty, disease and 

death." In the face of t h i s she advises, "You must know 

everything, and then begin." Detached by t r a v e l , she has 

learned not to judge. "I do not want you to turn your nose 

up at any whore i n the street; pray and wallow and cease, 
21 

but without prejudice." Passion she warns, serves only 

to "season the horror." I r o n i c a l l y , the g i r l has already 

signed herself over to a passionless l i f e by agreeing to 

marry a s t e r i l e young clerk who w i l l c e r t a i n l y try to r 

c u r t a i l any l a t e r desire to put her mother's advice to use. 

Hence the irony of the t i t l e — a l l e r et r e t o u r — a round t r i p 



1 6 2 

to where madame began, allowing time out for t h i s perhaps 

unnecessary detour. 

This has been a gentle l i t t l e story about the condition 

of the expatriate. But when t h i s same condition i s part of 

a general d i s i n t e g r a t i o n process, and i s death-bound, i t 

becomes nothing less than the "halt position of the damned." 

For characters i n t h i s position "the ground i s not low 

enough...it i s suffering without a consummation...alien to 

l i f e . . . l o s t i n s t i l l water...Darkness closing in...the 
24 

interminable d i s c i p l i n e of learning to stand everything." 

Here actual e x p a t r i a t i o n — t h e abandoning of o r i g i n s , u . 

s u r r e a l l y exaggerated contact between people without 

context, l i v e s l i v e d without any of the i n t e g r i t y of simple 

isolation—produces figures who are estranged even from 

themselves, t h e i r attempts to locate order, to f i n d love, 

to transcend themselves, fumbling and abortive. In stories 

of t h i s kind, the world Barnes presents i s t r u l y one of 
2 5 

r a d i c a l l y displaced persons. 

In these pieces, expatriation l i n e s up within a range 

of overwhelmingly negative forces which predetermine men's 

l i v e s : estrangement, sex, disease, godlessness and f i n a l l y 

death. They provide a s c r i p t , a narrative with which the 

characters can only comply. L i f e i s c y c l i c a l ; men are as 

powerless as insects; p a s s i v i t y i s the p r i n c i p a l means of 

s u r v i v a l . In the meantime, "The r e a l the proper i d e a — i s design, 

a thing should have a design; torment should have some 



meaning." Art, Barnes says, i s the r e a l middle ground, 

where a c e r t a i n amount of dispassionate observation i s 

possible, even i f the pattern we observe i s t r a g i c and 

i r r e v e r s i b l e . It i s t h i s detached patterning of experience 

that Barnes' recurring images and concerns appear: sex, 

power and death, nature at war with c i v i l i z a t i o n and the 

idea of l i v i n g "beyond the end." Women of indeterminate 

sexuality are always her central characters, regardless of 

t h e i r age, class or n a t i o n a l i t y ; where they are not c e n t r a l , 

they are s t i l l the determining forces in men's l i v e s ; 

i t i s never the other way around. Sexual combat i s always 

a central theme. Women adapt men to t h e i r needs, and 

r a r e l y allow them to intrude on t h e i r often autonomous 
27 

w i l l s . In the two stories with male protagonists, "The 

Rabbit" and "A Night Among the Horses," the women manipulate 

male destiny and become in the process synonymous with 

death. 

These stories are primarly about l e v e l s of knowledge; 

in each case the man has possessed knowledge of the natural 

world, and the woman has t r i e d to goad or torture him into 

a s o c i a l sense that can only corrupt him. In the f i r s t of 

these s t o r i e s , a l i t t l e Armenian t a i l o r i s advised by friends 

and neighbours to go to New York to become "educated," "a 

man of the world." Too gentle even to protest e f f e c t i v e l y , 

he leaves for the big c i t y , which alienates him profoundly, 

i t s a c t i v i t i e s exemplified for him by the butcher shop across 

from h i s own, " i t s colours..a very harvest of death." But 



164 

i t takes the woman with whom he i s involved to i n i t i a t e him 

into t h i s "harvest." She requires of him, to take him at 

a l l seriously, a nameless "heroic" deed, which he i n t u i t s 

can only have to do with death. He k i l l s a c r e a t u r e — a 

rabbit with his bare hands. After the deed, he begins to 

walk. He "did not seem to know where he was, he had 

forgotten her. He was shaking, his head straight up, his 
2 9 

heart wringing wet." 

"A Night Among the Horses" i s Barnes' most complete 

statement of t h i s theme. Strongly influenced by Strindberg's 

Miss J u l i e , i t t e l l s of a young hostler tormented by his 

landowning mistress who desires him and torments him "with 
30 

her objects of 'culture'." When she humiliates him in 

public, he flees into the night, and i t i s here that we 

f i r s t see him in the story, c l e a r l y v i s i b l e in the darkness 

and as s t i l l as a piece of sculpture, Barnes' powerful image 

for those l o s t between classes, countries or cultures: 
Toward dusk, in the summer of the year, a man 
in evening dress, carrying a top hat and a cane, 
crept on hands and knees through the underbush 
bordering the pastures of the Buckler estate. 
His wrists hurt him from holding his weight and 
he sat down. Sticky ground vines a l l about him; 
they climbed the trees, the posts of the fence, 
they were everywhere. He peered through the 
t r i c k y tangled branches and saw, standing against 
the darkness, a grove of white b i r t h shimmering 
l i k e teeth in a skull...the man struggled for 
breath, the a i r was heavy and hot, as though he 
were nested in a p i t of astonishment....If he 
married her...what would she leave of him?... 
absolutely nothing, not even his horse....He 
wouldn't f i t i n anywhere...he'd be neither what 
he was nor what he had been; he'd be a thing, 
half-standing, l i k e those figures under the roofs 
of h i s t o r i c buildings, the halt position of the 
damned.31 (emphasis added) 



165 

He, in t h i s p o s i t i o n , trampled to death by his horses. 

This condition of loss and damnation taken to i t s 

extreme leads to l i f e l i v e d "beyond the end," that i s , a f t e r 

an awareness of the fact that i t i s l i f e that i s inchoate; 

pre-determined and r e l e n t l e s s l y punishing rather than 

death. This Barnes explores in two of the c o l l e c t i o n ' s most 

i n t r i g u i n g s t o r i e s . Both o f f e r human representations of 

death. For Katrina S i l v e r s t a f f in "The Doctors" i t i s the 

t r a v e l l i n g Bible salesman she takes up just before k i l l i n g 

herself: "some people drink poison, some take the knife, 
32 

others drown. I take you." In a paradoxical inversion, 

her embrace of death can be seen as a quest for " l i f e " 

because she chooses i t as embodying meaning. The death 

figure in "Spillway" i s J u l i e Anspacher, a woman with a 

terminal i l l n e s s who has l i v e d on borrowed time for f i v e 

years. She returns home to her husband from the sanatorium 

with the c h i l d she has had by one of the other patients 

there, who has since died. The c h i l d too has the disease. 

J u l i e f e e l s that her r e a l disease i s that she i s without 

conscience, so she returns, hoping that her husband w i l l 

inspire some g u i l t , some f e e l i n g in her which i t might then 

be possible to expiate. "There just i s n ' t the r i g h t kind 

of misery in the world for me to s u f f e r , nor the r i g h t 

kind of p i t y for you to f e e l ; there i s n ' t a word in the 

world to heal me; penance cannot undo me." Her condition 
33 i s "a thing beyond the end of everything." Instead of 

healing or changing the design of her l i f e in any way, 



166 

i t inspires her husband's suicide. She survives, 

paradoxically; her knowledge of her imminent mortality i s 

her strength, and i t k i l l s her husband before i t w i l l k i l l 

her. 

The female characters in these stories are f i n a l l y 

enigmatic and unfathomable, as i s the detached t h i r d person 

narrator. One thinks again of androgyny as a creature of 

force. These opaque characters exist not only between 

countries and classes but also on some middle ground between 

the sexes, and i t gives them tremendous strength which they 

frequently misuse. This Barnes woman appears in two of 

the stories as an older woman, recently arrived from America, 

l i s t e n i n g to a younger woman's story in a Paris cafe. She 

i s simply an auditor. This curious p a s s i v i t y inspires a 

similar sense i n the reader, before these parables of a 

pre-determined universe. The characters in t h e i r extremity 

and androgyny have a peculiar and perfect autonomy and are 

as repelled as t h e i r creator by a disruptive and p o t e n t i a l l y 

f a t a l need for love. Passion, in fact any act of kindness, 

serves only to "season the horror." Not only are characters 

dissociated from t h e i r pasts, but they are permanently 

i s o l a t e d i n the present by the unremitting ironies of t h e i r 

d e s t i n i e s . It i s a key element i n t h e i r condition as 

expatriates from ordinary l i f e , that they can accept nothing 

that i_s ordinary, or "daily" from existence. In reaction 
34 to i t , some die, others move on. The non-committal 

narrator i s shocking in her remoteness from these characters. 



167 

In t h i s there i s a most e f f e c t i v e correspondence between 

matter and manner—between l i f e and design. 

Barnes uses these stor i e s to d i s t i l and to pattern the 

images thrown up by expatriate l i f e in Europe in the 1920's. 

From the f i r s t , she f e l t compelled to extricate from these 

experiences a s a t i s f a c t o r y image for herself, one that 

would embody her and her state of mind, that of an 

expatriated and often impoverished American, bi-sexual woman. 

In the process she provides a v i s u a l and verbal equivalent 

for the knowing, detached observer of tragedies in her short 

s t o r i e s , the kind of observer she would wish to be—the 

s i l e n t woman whose "middle condition" has freed her from 

engagement. In her e a r l i e s t published j o u r n a l i s t i c sketch 

of Paris, "Vagaries Malicieuses" she finds such an image 

for herself: that of the Paris church: 

Notre Dame somehow leaves you comparatively 
untouched, you may not remember her for fear 
of intruding.... She i s a lonely creature by 
preference. She i s not disturbed by those 
devotees who f a l l into two classes; those 
going toward and those coming from f a i t h . 
She i s i n the centre condition, where there 
i s no going and no coming. Perhaps t h i s i s 
why, for me, there was something more possible 
i n the church of Saint Germain des Pres, the 
oldest church i n Paris. It i s a place for 
those who have "only a l i t t l e while to stay" 
- - i t too i s aloof, but i t has the aloofness 
of a woman loved by one dog and many men. 
And here one takes one's tears, leaving them 
unshed, to count the thin candles that r i s e 
above the feet of the V i r g i n l i k e flowers on 
fire.35 



1 6 8 

Nightwood 

Nightwood can be thought of as a female Modernist 

autobiographical f i c t i o n in the same sense that Joyce's 

P o r t r a i t of the A r t i s t as a Young Man and Ulysses, Lawrence's 

Sons and Lovers and Women in Love, and Proust's A* l a 

recherche du temps perdu are considered Male Modernist 
3 6 

autobiographical f i c t i o n s . In each of these texts there 

i s some writing out of the author's l i f e and o r i g i n s , some 

manipulation of the tension between an autobiographical 

and a f i c t i v e pact with the reader. These male writers 

chose to represent themselves in t h e i r works through an 

a r t i s t figure, a synthesizing consciousness whose perspective 

we as readers come to r e l y on in interpreting the events of 

the text. Joyce's Stephen Dedalus, Lawrence's Paul Morel 

and Rupert B i r k i n and Proust's Marcel function as a r t i s t s or 

transmuting consciousnesses within the text, and serve to 

indicate the ways in which the f i c t i o n a l work i s a 

construction of the authorial consciousness. 

As I have noted e a r l i e r , female Modernist writers do 

not usually provide an equivalent intermediary or a r t i s t 

figure i n t h e i r works. There i s none i n Nightwood, perhaps 

the most accomplished novel by a woman in the period. I t 

i s not self-effacement or p a s s i v i t y on Barnes' part that 

she does not provide such a f i g u r e . I w i l l argue that her 

a r t i s t i c intentions are simply quite d i f f e r e n t from those 

of her male counterparts. She i s concerned with presenting 

a de-centred narrative in order to portray as accurately 



169 

as possible a world where meaning and perspective are 

profoundly f l u i d and r e l a t i v i s t i c . Therefore no image of 

i t can be fixed, and no character or voice empowered to f i x 

i t . Narrative coherence i s provided by the patterns of 

poetic connection the reader i s asked to make from these 

images. The design of the novel then i s e s s e n t i a l l y 

f i g u r a t i v e . The author i s represented in her text only in 

oblique a e s t h e t i c a l l y " o b j e c t i f i e d " form--as object, design 

or a r t i f a c t — t h e product of creation, rather than in the 

figure of a creator within the narrative. 

I argue that i f Nightwood i s a " f i c t i o n of the s e l f , " 

i t i s not confession; nor i s i t t h i n l y v e i l e d autobiography. 

Like the work of her contemporary, Jean Rhys, i t incorporates 

many d e t a i l s of her l i f e and times, but i t i s an aesthetic 

construct, a f i c t i o n of the s e l f — o n e version of a segment 

of l i f e in the form of many images of herself and others. 

Like Rhys, Barnes' intention, apart from the s t r i c t l y 

aesthetic, i s to transcend those l i f e d e t a i l s by transmuting 

them out of the realm of the s t r i c t l y f a c t u a l : : in other 

words, to write an escape from the s e l f . Like Gertrude 

Stein, Barnes attempts to represent authentically a s e l f 

that i s part of a sexual sub-culture which had no o f f i c i a l 

l i t e r a r y t r a d i t i o n ; she too must do a certain amount of i t 

with mirrors i f she i s not to give herself away. Barnes' 

biographer i s , I think, j u s t i f i e d when he says that i t i s 

"a fundamental error to claim as Frank does that Nightwood 

lacks a narrative structure in the ordinary sense and cannot 



1 7 0 

be reduced to any sequence of action for purposes of 

explanation.... There i s a simple main story...and i t i s , 

moreover, a story which repeats rather c l o s e l y a series of 

events which r e a l l y did occur. That story i s the profound 

and impossible love of a woman who contemplates for a woman 
3 7 

who rages and destroys." He documents the fact that the 

chronology of Nightwood i s v e r i f i a b l y that of the Djuna 

Barnes/Thelma Wood love a f f a i r as evidenced by Barnes ' 

l e t t e r s . He goes on to ask as the r e s u l t of a l l t h i s 

"verifying"--How many facts does a l i f e story require? 

What i s a fact and what i s a l i f e story? There i s an 

answer to his question given in Nightwood: "The more facts 
3 8 

we have about a person the less we know." F i e l d maintains, 

however, that i t i s important to know about the well-

documented love a f f a i r between Barnes and Wood in order to 

understand the important connection between the love and 

the "highly s t y l i z e d " r e l a t i o n s h i p i n the novel. "The one 

came out of the other," but l i k e the p o r t r a i t of Dr. 

O'Connor based on the r e a l Dan Mahoney, Barnes has "sea-
39 

changed" inchoate experience into patterned a r t . The 

tone of doom, however, seems to have c a r r i e d over from 

r e a l l i f e events quite i n t a c t . 

I would draw attention to the " s t y l i z a t i o n " of 

r e l a t i o n s h i p s — t h e techniques for t h e i r representation, 

rather than struggle, as F i e l d has done, to i d e n t i f y 

whether textual data are "true." Art gives, i t i s true, 

undeniable power over r e a l people and events. Barnes 



171 

seems to see i t as capable of perpetuating a kind of 
4 0 

"bloodless murder." There i_s a l i f e story underlying 

Barnes' imaginative work. It i s unmistakeable. But the 

work of art serves as an ornate mask for i t — s e r v i n g to 

disguise i t , and only obliquely to represent i t . 

As a f i c t i o n , Nightwood provides a poetic narrative for 

a group of expatriates l i v i n g in Paris between the wars. It 

explores the impact of one of them--Robin Vote—on the others 

—Nora Flood, F e l i x Volkbein, Matthew O'Connor and Jenny 

Petherbridge, whose l i v e s she moves through as though in a 

trance. The novel begins at an e a r l i e r time in history in 

B e r l i n with studies of F e l i x ' s parents, and ends at Nora's 

f a m i l i a l home in upstate New York. The "present" in the 

novel i s taken to be Paris, 1920, though we are made quickly 
41 

aware at the novel's opening that "truth i s a h i s t o r i c a l . " 

The plot involves the marriage of F e l i x Volkbein to 

Robin Vote, the b i r t h of t h e i r c h i l d Guido, and Robin's 

abandoning of both of them; her subsequent meeting with 

Nora Flood i n America, t h e i r return to Europe, and ten year 

love a f f a i r in Paris; Jenny Petherbridge's "stealing" of 

Robin from Nora, Robin's acquiescence and f i n a l l y her 

f l i g h t to America with Jenny. The novel concludes with 

Robin's return to Nora at a l a t e r time, in America. 

The Divided Self 
In t h i s narrative the " s e l f " i s represented as a 

mosaic of images and metaphorical utterances. The aesthetic 



surface and patterning of these elements are given prominence 

over t h e i r i n t r i n s i c q u a l i t i e s . But at the simplest 

narrative l e v e l , the s e l f i s seen as f a t a l l y d i v i d e d — t h e 

s e l f and i t s double, the s e l f and the other, the alienated 

s e l f and love as a primeval search for n a r c i s s i s t i c 

complementarity. That man i s a divided creature Matthew 

O'Connor t e l l s us early in the novel--"bOrn damned and 
42 

innocent from the s t a r t . " The doctor should know, because 
he himself, i s a creature of tragi-comic c o n t r a d i c t i o n s — 

man/woman, doctor/abortionist, seer/fool. His ferocious 

monologuing style i s d u a l i s t i c too; he appears to be saying 

a great deal, and as a poet he does, but in the end he 

acknowledges that language i s f u t i l e . I t i s not that he 

knows l i t t l e of the world. It i s rather the reverse problem. 

He functions as a one-man Greek chorus in the text reminding 

characters that i t i s pointless to look to man or God for 

completion or transcendence. His advice--to hang on by the 

l a s t remaining muscle—"the heart" (N. p. 263). Called a 

"defrocked p r i e s t of words" by one c r i t i c , he f a l l s back 

on language as his only recourse, and he i s aware as the 

Modernist writer Barnes must have been, that i t i s degraded 

s p i r i t u a l and creative currency: Modernist discourse as 
43 

self-consuming a r t i f a c t . 
O'Connor i s Tiresias/Cassandra; no-one hears or believes 

44 
his predictions or counsel. They cannot, as long as they 

hope to be completed by another and thereby redeemed. Nora 

needs to believe that her love for Robin can save them both. 



F e l i x thinks that i f he can unite himself with history he 

w i l l legitimize himself as a Wandering Jew in the twentieth 

century. Only union with the unknown "other" can invest 

the unbearableness of d a i l y l i f e with s i g n i f i c a n c e , as 

Death transfigures l i f e . It i s of course one of the novel's 

great paradoxes that most of the characters approach 

transcendence through w i l l f u l degradation rather than a 

c a l l to God. Catholicism, Barnes seems to suggest by the 

force and beauty of her imagery for the Church, might have 

been expected to provide, where sexual love cannot, some 

bridge between the despairing i n d i v i d u a l and a higher order. 

She concludes, however, that the gap between man and God 

i s too great, too grotesquely comic; a l l that man can do 

i n the face of i t i s to j o i n Matthew O'Connor, a yearning, 

sinning Catholic, in his b l i n d appeal to his maker. "Pain 
4 5 

increases in d i r e c t proportion to consciousness," however. 

There are echoes of t h i s gap between divine order and human 

degradation throughout the book. It i s the same gap that 

separates the i n t e n s i t y of characters' psychological horror 

at events from any capacity to express or confront i t 

d i r e c t l y . There are few violent revelations or dramatic 

confrontations in the novel. Instead, there are strained, 

frozen encounters and endless "introspective monologues," 

s p i l l i n g over into desperate speech to a t h i r d person in 

the form of confession. There i s the f a i l u r e to properly 

a r t i c u l a t e s u f f e r i n g in word or action, a sense of incurable 

disease, from which no release or resolution i s ever 



174 

possible. 

The quest for an " i d e n t i t y " in the face of inevitable 

d u a l i t y i s one of the central concerns of the book. Barnes 

renders t h i s psychic predicament in a number of f i g u r a t i v e 

oppositions reminiscent of Jean Rhys' l i t e r a r y structures, 

beginning with the r a t i o n a l world of the day and i t s 

i r r a t i o n a l and considerably more powerful and dangerous 

reverse, the night world. In contrast to the world of 

daylight, control and order, the night i s a jungle and the 

forces man faces there, in dream for example, are b e s t i a l 

and p r i m i t i v e . 

As Alan Williamson points out, Barnes i s much concerned 

with Eden--not the C h r i s t i a n version, though she c e r t a i n l y 
46 

adheres to the idea of the F a l l . He suggests that her 

myth i s rather in the "hermetic t r a d i t i o n according to 

which man was created in the union of conscious mind and 

animal matter, as a single hermaphroditic being, whose 
fragmentation into separate sexes occurred at the time of 

4 7 
the F a l l . " Adam was "an i d e a l l y u n i f i e d e n t i t y , " or as 

Barnes puts in Nightwood, exists at "the moment of the 

beast turning human" (N. p. 262). I t i s the moment which 

haunts her narrative and much of i t s imagery, as the moment 

when the unconscious (the passionate animal v i t a l i t y ) 

acquired r a t i o n a l consciousness, the moment of fragmentation 

into male and female, leaving androgyny as a l o s t i d e a l , a 

v i s i o n of wholeness. Barnes, in the images of her characters' 

yearning, repeatedly strains back to t h i s moment which she 



175 

describes i n Jungian terms as "a mirage of an eternal 

wedding cast on the r a c i a l memory" (N. p. 262). In the 

post Edenic world, she t e l l s us, the Hermetic Adam l i v e s 

on only in i d i o t s , the insane, the defeated victims of the 

night and i n creatures l i k e Robin Vote, who lack "human 

q u a l i t i e s . " Knowledge of t h i s loss i s the universal malady 

of which Barnes writes. 

Robin Vote is_ the character in the novel who i s "the 

beast turning human." She compels the attention of a l l of 

the other characters by her power to suggest in her 

provocative and sensual silence, images which they desire 

and which they are convinced w i l l complete them as both 

men and women. With her ruthless talent for self-, 

preservation, she i s able to survive as a timeless, 

aesthetic object, created by them. As long as she i s 

p e r f e c t l y self-contained and has no memory of the beds 

she leaves, she can survive both as a creature of r e a l 

time, the night, and as an embodiment of the ancient moment 

when the beast turns human. Her attention, F e l i x r e f l e c t s , 

seems perpetually absorbed by something "not yet in 

h i s t o r y . " (N. p. 267). Her essence then, i s pre-time just 

as i t i s pre-moral. She l i s t e n s to "the echo of some force 

i n the blood that had no known setting" (N. p. 267). 

Intimacy with her i s simply an acknowledgement of t h i s f a c t . 

When she i s pregnant, she i s c a t a l e p t i c a l l y calm, newly 

aware of some " l o s t land" in herself (N. p. 268). She 

wanders through the countryside, and to other c i t i e s , and 



176 

f i n a l l y into churches. She prays monstrous prayers based 

on no judgement, no morality. She gives b i r t h , crying out 

in affirmation and despair " l i k e a c h i l d who has walked into 

the commencement of a horror" (N. p. 270). Such i s l i f e in 

Barnes' terms. 

Robin's d u a l i t y i s extreme—often hovering, the somnambule, 

between l i f e and death, day and night. But versions of t h i s 

same d i v i s i o n are true of a l l the characters; they d i f f e r 

only in degree. Even Nora Flood, whose equilibrium i s the 

most detached, bases her poise on alternating states of 

savagery and refinement. This i s the chord then that the 

u t t e r l y savage Robin s t r i k e s in her with her love. This 

i s p r e c i s e l y what Nora needs to love. It i s at her p e r i l 

that she does so and she i s destroyed by i t . In her need 

to possess and claim such a creature, i t i s not d i f f i c u l t to 

see Nora's need for self-possession, for control of her own 

sub-conscious, her " n i g h t - s e l f " . In her anguish at losing 

Robin, she c r i e s out to O'Connor much as one of her l i t e r a r y 

ancestors, Catherine Ernshaw had c r i e d out to Nelly Dean, 

"She i s myself. What am I to do?" (N. p. 127) 

Of course, Robin can only sustain her existence and 

sanity i f she remains impervious to such claims from others. 

"She managed in that sleep to keep whole" (N. p. 142). Nora, 

who v i r t u a l l y "slaps" Robin awake into consciousness, 

becomes a kind of Madonna figure for her—both loving her 

and f i l l i n g her with g u i l t , while o f f e r i n g the only chance 

for her redemption. When Robin i s broken at the end of the 



177 

novel, and at the moment of turning back from human into 

beast, she comes to Nora to o f f e r herself up at her feet. 

F e l i x too takes up the powerful imagery that Robin invokes 

and embodies. He expects i t to complete him and to transform 

his destiny. He recognizes the ancient q u a l i t y in her and 

mistakes i t for n o b i l i t y with which he can a l i g n himself. 

So while he senses danger in her involvement with the p a s t — 

she i s "an infected c a r r i e r of the p a s t " — i t i s s t i l l for him 

overwhelmingly "as i f t h i s g i r l were the converging halves 

of a broken fate, setting face, i n sleep, toward i t s e l f in 

time, as an image and i t s r e f l e c t i o n in a lake seem parted 

only by the h e s i t a t i o n in the hour" (N. p. 262). So Robin 

s i l e n t l y throws up images to each of the characters in 

which they see t h e i r needs mirrored; she evokes in each 

t h e i r p a r t i c u l a r version of the "eternal wedding" between 

time and the timeless, animal and human, grace and s i n , man 

and woman. In the face of her they are a l l "human hunger 

pressing i t s breast to the prey" (N. p. 262). 

For a l l t h i s , Robin i s , as Joseph Frank r i g h t l y states, 

a "figure" rather than a character, "since character implies 

humanity and she has not yet attained to the l e v e l of the 
48 

human." We meet her as a somnambule at the moment before 

she i s awakened. For a l l that we ever know of her past l i f e 

and o r i g i n s , she could be being born at t h i s moment—an 

image coming out of nowhere, about to be taken up by those 

who discover her, as a metaphor by an a r t i s t . She 

symbolizes that "state of existence which i s before rather 



178 

than beyond, good and evil...she i s both innocent and 

depraved." She glides through l i f e as though i t were a 
4 9 

dream, a "formless meditation." To awaken would be to 

admit consciousness and an awareness of moral value. She 

i s both supremely e g o t i s t i c a l and without secure i d e n t i t y . 

"She knows she i s innocent because she can't do anything in 

r e l a t i o n to anyone but herself" (N. p. 347). The doctor 

t e l l s F e l i x , Robin's abandoned husband, that Robin had 

written from America saying "Remember me." "Probably," he 

remarks, "because she has d i f f i c u l t y remembering herself" 

(N. p. 327). She i s the s e l f out of time, amoral and 

therefore innocent of a l l but elemental creaturely vanity 

--the momentary vanity of a figure captured i n a painting. 

The doctor describes her as "outside the human type,...a 

wild thing caught i n a woman's skin, monstrously alone, 

monstrously vain." As one c r i t i c astutely puts i t , Robin 
i s best r e a l i z e d as the f i c t i o n a l counterpart of a r e a l 

50 
person. 

Both F e l i x and Nora "love" Robin. Love then seems to 

be the obvious means for t h e i r self-completion. Barnes i s 

interested, as her l a t e r play, The Antiphon indicates, with 

the antiphonal.nature of love as a f i n a l attempt to make 

whole. This idea sees love as that between two halves of 

the same i d e n t i t y as man's main hope for transcendence of 

his debased p o s i t i o n : ...as the high plucked banks 
Of the v i o l a rend out the unplucked strings below 
There i s the antiphon. 



179 

I've seen loves so eat each other's mouth 
T i l l that the common clamour, co-intwined 
Wrung out the hidden singing in the tongue 
Its chaste, economy-—there i s the adoration 
So the day, day f i t for dying i n , 
Is the plucked accord.51 (emphasis added) 

In that play Barnes' pessimism has the antiphonal r e l a t i o n s h i p 

between mother and daughter end in mutual destruction. In 

Nightwood, Robin wants from Nora, despite herself, a love 

that w i l l break through her c a t a l e p t i c trance, to make 

something of her, to make her capable of antiphonal love. 

In i t s doomed nature, however, Nora can only o f f e r a kind 

of s a c r i f i c a l love, as a parent for a c h i l d who w i l l 

c e r t a i n l y leave, O'Connor t e l l s her—"You should have had 

a thousand children and Robin... should have been a l l of them" 

(N. p. 311). 

Love might have succeeded where language f a i l s in giving 

the characters something to enact; but love for Barnes most 

often seals characters o f f more t e r r i b l y than before. Most 

frequently she deals with versions of love which are not at 

a l l l i k e l y to free the lovers i . e . incestuous, f a m i l i a l or 

homosexual love. Some are l i k e l y to dismiss such a stand, 

but I think i t reasonable to see i t as important and 

universal a version of love i n extremis, as one might f i n d 

in an Expressionistic painting of similar subjects. Barnes' 

suggestion i s that for characters hungering for Edenic 

completion, the most perfect and appropriate love should 

involve a mirror image of the s e l f found on the same basis 

of i d e n t i t y , i n blood or sex. Early i n her writing career, 



180 

Barnes expressed t h i s idea in an elegiac poem to a dead 

l o v e r — " S i x Songs of Khalidine." 

It i s not gentleness but mad despair 
That sets us k i s s i n g mouths, Oh Khalidine 
Your mouth and mine...and one sweet mouth unseen 
We c a l l our soul...52 (emphasis added) 

Nightwood o f f e r s another version of t h i s key to Barnes 1 

representation of herself in a r t : "A man i s another person--

a woman i s yourself caught as you turn in panic; on her 

mouth you kiss your own. If she i s taken you cry that you 

have been robber of yourself. God laughs at me, but his 

laughter i s my love" (No. p. 344). Homosexual or incestuous 

love i s Barnes ' most perfect image for recovery of the l o s t 

s e l f . Man i s always the other. 

But neither F e l i x nor Nora i s capable of s e l f -

transforming love, even i f Robin were capable of adequate 

response, because they are f a t a l l y flawed by d i v i s i o n s 

within t h e i r own characters. Nora Flood, the observer, who 

l i k e Matthew O'Connor watches the night rather than be one 

of i t s victims, i s as much a victim of her own contradictory 

attitudes as of circumstance. She was "by temperament an 

early C h r i s t i a n ' she believed the word; t h i s meant that 

she robbed herself for everyone...wandering people the world 

over found her p r o f i t a b l e in that she could be sold for a 

price forever, for she c a r r i e d her betrayal money in her 

own pocket" (N. p. 273). Her American salon i s a parody 

of the Parisian salon for the c u l t u r a l l y e l e c t ; i t i s 

populated by paupers and s o c i a l outcasts. She i s described 



181 

not as a woman of the world, but in images of the American 

west. These and references to her puritan temperament base 

her seemingly naive s p i r i t u a l attitude on the h i s t o r i c a l 

innocence of the American people and t h e i r b e l i e f in the 

inherent goodness in man, and in the p o s s i b i l i t y of change, 

along with, i n Joseph Frank's words, "an indiscriminate 

approbation of a l l forms of e t h i c a l and i n t e l l e c t u a l 
53 

unconventionality." Godless as she f e e l s herself to be, 

i t i s simple C h r i s t i a n p i t y that draws her to Robin. She 

expects both to win her and to save her by enveloping her 

in an unjudging love based on goodness. But the 

i n e v i t a b l i t y at work here has nothing to do with C h r i s t i a n 

j u s t i c e . In Barnes' world, she has "given herself away" in 

the ferocious externalizing of her love, and she has 

therefore brought about her own r u i n . 

Nora's reaction on meeting Robin at the circus runs 

p a r a l l e l to that of the lioness who "recognizes" a fellow 

wild creature temporarily tamed. "Being neither animal 
54 

nor human, Robin evokes p i t y from both species. Nora 

too responds i n t u i t i v e l y to Robin, taking her hand and 

leading her away from t h i s tragic "recognition" scene 

which i s c l e a r l y d i s t r e s s i n g her. Robin i s v i r t u a l l y a 

mute character in the novel, yet at t h i s meeting she i s 

compelled by another primitive recognition to ask Nora to 

set up a home for her, "aware, without conscious knowledge, 

that she belonged to Nora, and that i f Nora did not make i t 

permanent by her own strength, she would forget" (N. p. 276). 



182 

And t h i s Nora manages to do for a time. In the process 

Nora i s able to ease "the tension i n Robin between the 
55 animal and the human forces which are tearing her apart." 

In the end, however, unconditional love and acceptance f a i l 

to "give Robin permission to l i v e , " as F e l i x puts i t (N. 

p. 324). Love has broken down her elemental vanity and 

threatened her trance-like equilibrium, so she must leave i t . 

As a wild creature, p a r t i a l l y tamed, she i s t e r r i f i e d of 

leaving her protected state. She c l i n g s to Nora desperately 

during t h e i r protracted estrangement, tortured by a newly 

awakened sense that she may be required to make moral and 

emotional choices a f t e r a l l . 

In the process, Nora i s , as O'Connor puts i t , 

"dismantled" h e r s e l f . Her c a r e f u l l y balanced equilibrium 

i s shattered. "Love has f a l l e n o f f her wall, 1 ! he continues. 

"A r e l i g i o u s woman...without the joy and safety of the 

Catholic faith...take that safety from a woman and love 

gets loose and into the rafters...Out looking for what she's 

a f r a i d to f i n d — R o b i n . There goes the mother of mischief, 

running about t r y i n g to get the world home" (N. p. 311). 

Like a displaced and g r i e f - s t r i c k e n madonna, t r y i n g to 

administer comfort to Robin, to the world, when she i s the 

abandoned creature. 

As she and Robin f a l l apart, Nora's p u r i t a n i c a l l y 

repressed subconscious r i s e s up against her in dreams, 

which o f f e r valuable imagistic keys to her psyche i n v i s i b l e 

at any other time, images of the tormented sexual s e l f . 



183 

—- Asleep she dreams of her grandmother, of the old woman's 

fading possessions, of her past, of sex, of her childhood 

house and of the instruments of Barnes' own c r a f t — " a plume 

and an inkwell--the ink faded into the q u i l l " (N. p. 281). 

When Robin enters the dream Nora t r i e s to bring her 

upstairs to her grandmother's room, a place which i s "taboo." 

A submerged, incestuous, f a m i l i a l s e l f - l o v e becomes 

hopelessly merged with the fading love for yet another 

version of h e r s e l f — h e r female lover. In her dream the 

grandmother appears in a variety of costumes—one of them 

a man's. She looks at Nora with a "leer of love," c a l l i n g 

her "my l i t t l e sweetheart!" (N. p. 282). Nora's own 

lesbianism seems to originate here i n t h i s former version 

of herself, with waves of an incestuous suggestion s t i l l 

f e l t i n adult l i f e , when she loves Robin in her boy's 

clothes. One cannot help but remember Nora's words on 

entering Doctor O'Connor's room late at night to f i n d him 

s i t t i n g up in bed wearing a woman's nightdress and a 

crooked wig. "God, children know something they can't 

t e l l ; they l i k e Red Riding Hood and the wolf in bed!" (N. 

p. 295). The only element missing from her r e f l e c t i o n 

here i s the grandmother. In the adult Nora, i s i t the 

covertly lesbian and devouring grandmother who appears i n 

dream to undermine her younger version of herself? 

It i s only through sub-conscious playing out that 

Nora comes to see, at the very edge of sanity, what she 

has been doing. "I struggled with her [Robin] ...as with 



184 

the c o i l s of my own most obvious heart. I thought I loved 

her for her own sake, and I found i t was for my own" (N. 

p. 351). One aspect of lesbian influence during t h i s 

period i s discussed by Susan Gubar in her a r t i c l e : "Blessings 

i n Disguise" Cross-Dressing as Re-Dressing for Female 
56 

Modernists." This she discusses as a p a r t i c u l a r l y 

i n f l u e n t i a l style among women, e s p e c i a l l y women a r t i s t s 

l i v i n g i n Europe between the wars. She sees i t as an 

alienated expression of selfhood, but at the same time, a 

confident expression of love for other women, and by 

extension, the female s e l f . Robin Vote i s a reasonably 

discreet cross-dresser by comparison with Matthew O'Connor, 

the novel's most tortured homosexual. He has none of 

Robin's power over people, yet he i s frequently consulted 

as an authority on the nightworld. He i s the p r i n c i p a l 

voicer of i t s images. 

In f a c t , the novel could well be O'Connor's imagined 

story. Most of the narrative consists of his commentary 

on the events and t h e i r cosmic implications. As T.S. 

E l i o t says of T i r e s i a s in The Waste Land, what he sees i s 
5 7 

the substance of the piece. Like T i r e s i a s , he seems 

to have experienced i t a l l , which gives him the r i g h t to 

act as confessor to the novel's night creatures. For t h i s 

reason Nora comes to him with her question, "Watchman, what 

of the night?" At f i r s t he appears to be outside the 

s u f f e r i n g his discourse explores, while at the same time 

f u l l y aware of the p r a c t i c a l f u t i l i t y of his knowledge. 



185 

But we become quickly aware that he i s helpless, and even 

more hopeless, than the other characters, t a l k i n g because 

there i s nothing else that can be done. " . . . t e l l i n g my 

s t o r i e s to people l i k e you to take the mortal agony out of 

t h e i r guts...I talk too much because I have been made so 

miserable by what you're keeping hushed" (p. 339). We 

learn that he i s c e n t r a l l y concerned with his own mortal 

agony and that t h i s i s what makes him such an authority. 

He occasionally becomes h y s t e r i c a l with the e f f o r t . In an 

outburst to Nora, who i n her obsession i s not l i s t e n i n g — 

he c r i e s "Do you think there i s no lament in t h i s world 

but your own?...A broken heart have you! I have f a l l i n g 

arches, f l y i n g dandruff, a f l o a t i n g kidney, shattered 

nerves and a broken heart!...Am I going forward screaming 

that i t hurts, that my mind goes back, or holding my guts 

as i f they were a c o i l of knives?" (N. p. 353). In fact 

he occupies the middle position which Barnes elsewhere 

c a l l s "the halt p o s i t i o n of the damned." He i s god of the 

night who would be C h r i s t , or at very l e a s t , Dante, In 

his mortally compromised p o s i t i o n , he i s capable of both 

profound detachment, and deep complicity with the universal 

misery of ours. 

The Designing S e l f : The Self as Design 

There i s in the p o r t r a i t s of Nora and 0' Connor, the 

two "registering consciousnesses" of the novel, a fascination 

with disorder and depravity under the oppression of the 



186 

C h r i s t i a n e t h i c , as though perversity and C h r i s t i a n i t y were 

the only two natural poles for human behaviour. Nevertheless, 

Barnes 1 narrative i s not i t s e l f subject to the same laws as 

her characters' l i v e s . She assigns t r a g i c value to t h e i r 

experiences and then proceeds to i n s i s t on pattern in t h e i r 

desperate struggles with i n e v i t a b i l i t y and d i s s o l u t i o n . 

Experience may be grotesquely random, but in the a r t i s t i c 

processes of t r y i n g to gather the fragments, one guards 

oneself against r u i n . There i s design in these degraded 

d u a l i t i e s , which provides the novel with the q u a l i t i e s of 

an a r t i s t i c parable. But while the characters f a i l , and, 

f i n a l l y the author f a l l s s i l e n t , matter has been d i s t i l l e d . 

transformed, and therefore in some sense redeemed: 

We were created that the earth might be 
made sensible of her inhuman taste; and love 
that the body might be so dear that even the 
earth should roar with i t . (N. p. 314) 

Just as the loved object can be transformed and "made 

sensible" by the investment of imagery and value, so i t 

i s possible that the experience of l i v i n g can be redeemed 

in l i k e manner in works of a r t . 

The o v e r a l l design of the novel has been described by 
5 8 

Andrew F i e l d as that of a "verbal art deco construct." 

It also draws on other v i s u a l arts s t y l e s — s u r r e a l i s m , 

expressionism, rococo and the grotesque, a l l i n f l u e n t i a l 

styles in representation in the 20's and 30's when Barnes 

was t r a v e l l i n g around Europe, and to which, she as a 

painter and i l l u s t r a t o r must have responded. Barnes' test 



187 

i s verbally, and through i t s " s p a t i a l i z e d " images, v i s u a l l y 

ornate. She frequently substitutes pattern and texture for 

t r a d i t i o n a l n o v e l i s t i c constructs, which makes her use of 

ornament far more subversive and compelling than her fin-de-

s i e c l e "beauty i n barbarity" heritage alone would imply. 
« f 

(Her early i l l u s t r a t i o n s were very much i n the Yellow Book 

Beardsley s t y l e , though i n the twenties, with Ryder, she 

moves curiously closer to Blake.) Of these v i s u a l arts 

s t y l e s , i t i s the grotesque that most thoroughly and 

i n t r i c a t e l y i n f i l t r a t e s the text. Ruskin had defined the 

grotesque in connection with Roman grotto painting as "a 

series of symbols thrown together with a bold and fearless 

connection of truths which i t would have taken a long time 
59 

to express i n any verbal way." I t i s easy to interpret 

i n the work of Barnes, a "painterly" writer, the same 

sense of "silences...encrustations...humour...and at base 

...horror before l i f e " which the grotesque t r a d i t i o n in 

art embodied.^ 

The grotesque, according to Wolfgang Kayser, i s the 

primary a r t i s t i c expression of "estrangement... a l i e n a t i o n , 

the absurd [and] the incomprehensible."^''' In i t the laws 

of nature are suspended, the inanimate comes to l i f e and 

l i f e i s at the mercy of unseen forces. Its f i f t e e n t h and 

sixteenth century o r i g i n s stressed above a l l a c e r t a i n 

ornamental s t y l e , one i n t e r e s t i n g aspect of which, in 

r e l a t i o n to Barnes, i s the blending of animal, plant and 

human forms. The world of these grotesque designs i s 



1 8 8 

meant to form "the dark and s i n i s t e r background of a 

brigher, r a t i o n a l l y organized world...a world where...the 

laws of s t a t i c s , symmetry and proportion are no longer v a l i d . 

The sixteenth century synonym for the grotesque i s 'the 

dreams of the painters ' [sogni dei p i t t o r i ] involving the 

d i s s o l u t i o n of r e a l i t y and the p a r t i c i p a t i o n of the observer 
6 2 

i n a d i f f e r e n t kind of existence." It i s not very far at 

a l l , i t seems to me, from t h i s description of an a r t i s t i c 

archetype, to i t s very s p e c i f i c application in Barnes' 

creation of such a dreamlike, s i n i s t e r night world f u l l of 

attenuated creatures. 

It was Montaigne, the ancestor of a l l imaginative 

attempts at self-representation, who transferred the term 

from fine arts to l i t e r a t u r e . Speaking of his own essays, 

he c a l l e d them "monstrous bodies, pieced together of the 

most diverse members, without d i s t i n c t form, in which order 
6 3 

and proportion are l e f t to chance." The twentieth century 

preoccupation with the grotesque can be seen in works as 

diverse as Wedekind's Erdgeist (Earth S p i r i t ) , which deals 

with the Beast or primitive force [Urgestalt] as the r e a l 

s e l f , to the works of the I t a l i a n playwrights who formed the 

"Teatro del grottesco" ( 1 9 1 6 - 1 9 2 5 ) ; most famous of them was 

Pirandello, whose personal creed, p a r a l l e l i n g that of his 

contemporary, Djuna Barnes, could be stated as: 
The absolute conviction that everything i s 
vain and hollow, and that man i s only a 
puppet in the hand of fate. Man's pains 
and pleasures as well as his deeds are 
unsubstantial dreams in a world of ominous 
darkness that i s ruled by b l i n d f o r t u n e . " 6 4 



189 

B o t h o f t h e s e s e t s o f a r t i s t s - - W e d e k i n d a n d t h e G e r m a n 

E x p r e s s i o n i s t d r a m a t i s t s , a n d t h e I t a l i a n t h e a t r e o f t h e 

g r o t e s q u e w e r e c o n t e m p o r a n e o u s w i t h B a r n e s ' w o r k i n t h e 2 0 ' s , 

a n d t h e r e a r e u n d e n i a b l e s i m i l a r i t i e s i n w o r l d v i e w a n d 

a p p r o a c h . We s h o u l d n o t b e , w i t h a n y o f t h e s e w r i t e r s , 

o v e r l y d i s t r a c t e d b y t h e " f a n t a s t i c " e l e m e n t o f t h e g r o t e s q u e 

o r l o s e s i g h t o f i t s p r i m a r y p u r p o s e i n t h e t w e n t i e t h c e n t u r y . 

T h o m a s M a n n r e m i n d s u s t h a t " T h e g r o t e s q u e i s t h a t w h i c h i s 

e x t r e m e l y t r u e a n d e x c e s s i v e l y r e a l , n o t t h a t w h i c h i s 

6 5 

a r b i t r a r y , f a l s e , i r r e a l a n d a b s u r d . " 

I f t h i s i s t h e c o r e , a s I a r g u e , t h e r a d i c a l p u r p o s e o f 

B a r n e s ' t e x t , i t i s i m p o r t a n t f i r s t t o c o n s i d e r t h e w i l f u l l y 

n o n - n a t u r a l i s t i c m e t h o d s f o r i t s e m b o d i m e n t : t h e a r t i f i c e 

o f t h e n o v e l , i n w h i c h , i f i t i s t o s u c c e e d , t h e " f o r m a l " 

v a l u e o f t h e t e x t m u s t b e s h o w n " t o b e a n a c c u r a t e e x p r e s s i o n 

o f t h e i n n e r v a l u e , i n s u c h a w a y t h a t d u a l i t y o f f o r m a n d 

c o n t e n t c e a s e s t o e x i s t . O n e o f t h e p r i n c i p a l m e a n s o f 

d i s s o l v i n g t h i s d u a l i t y i s b y o b j e c t i f y i n g t h e s u b j e c t i v e 

i n n e w w a y s . A n d t h i s i s w h a t , I p r o p o s e , B a r n e s i n t e n d e d 

w i t h t h e i m a g e s i n h e r t e x t . T h e y w e r e t o e m b o d y a w o r l d , 

a s t a t e o f m i n d , a v e r s i o n o f h e r s e l f i n a e s t h e t i c f o r m s 

t h a t t h e t r a d i t i o n a l n o v e l d i d n o t a l l o w . T h i s o p e r a t e s i n 

t w o w a y s : f i r s t — o n t h e l a r g e r l e v e l o f t h e f o r m s o f w h i c h 

t h e n a r r a t i v e w o r l d o f N i g h t w o o d i s c o m p o s e d — o r d e r i n g 

f r a m e s / t a b l e a u x , e s s e n t i a l l y a s J o s e p h F r a n k c o n c l u d e s , 

s p a t i a l u n i t s o f p e r c e p t i o n , r a t h e r t h a n t e m p o r a l o r 

p s y c h o l o g i c a l o n e s ; i n a s e c o n d s e n s e , a n d o n e w h i c h o p e r a t e s 



190 

more i n t r i c a t e l y and t h o r o u g h l y — l i k e coloured threads 

running through the t e x t — c h a r a c t e r , relations and states 

of consciousness too are o b j e c t i f i e d into aesthetic forms 

as objects, images or arrangements, as metaphorical or 

poetic constructs. This produces a remarkable sense of 

design in the work, uniting v i s u a l and thematic components 

into an elaborate and highly ordered collage or tapestry 

of s e n s i b i l i t y . 

These poetic ordering techniques do not simply "embellish 

or f l e s h out narrative," as the c r i t i c Louis Kannenstine 

notes. They achieve a far more r a d i c a l intention: to 

"reformulate narrative design." 6 ^ (emphasis added) It i s 

more than a matter of suffering made tolerable by a r t ; the 

narrative i s freed from the t r a d i t i o n a l r e s t r i c t i o n s of 

sequence and c a u s a l i t y as the p r i n c i p a l means of encoding 

aesthetic meaning. Here, meaning i s given form in image; 

and patterns of meaning are based e n t i r e l y on the novel's 

metaphorical patterning. Such patterns "objectify, the 

subjective...worldify the imminent" as Ortega Gasset puts 

i t . 6 8 

There i s a new approach to character i m p l i c i t in such 

an ordering process. Characters may embody c e r t a i n ideas 

or forces, but r e f e r e n t i a l d e t a i l about them based in 

r e a l i t y , i s i r r e l e v a n t to Barnes' purpose, and i s therefore 

not provided. They become figures of a mythic perspective 

rather than an h i s t o r i c a l or psychological one. Barnes' 

o b j e c t i f y i n g process, focusing as i t does on catalogues of 



objects, streams of description based on patterns of 

association of clothing, rooms and furniture, works to 

subvert any " n a t u r a l i s t i c " reader involvement with the text, 

characters or "human" s i t u a t i o n s . By eliminating a r e a l i s t i c 

surface, we are l e f t to face the text passively, as her 

characters must confront the f a n t a s t i c tableaux that surround 

them—frozen emblems of a world in extremis with the 
6 9 

"freakish contours of a dream." In t h i s dream world 

transient d e t a i l becomes transmuted as though under sudden 

spotlight, into pure metaphor whose l i t e r a l or narrative 

reference ceases to matter. 

This realm of pure metaphor i s a verbal world whose 

order i s symbolic, and whose frames of action are frozen 

into emblematic tableaux as highly charged, and i n t r i c a t e l y 

coded as any painting where design and purpose are one. As 

i s only appropriate to such a design, there i s a s t a t i c 

q u a l i t y to the action within these frames. Language serves 

to illuminate, i n t r a g i c idiom, timeless frames in which i t 

i s understood that change, for any character, i s impossible. 

There i s necessarily a gap between language and action. 

Introspective monologue and confession take the place of 

enacted confrontation or resolution i n the novel. Instead 

of resolution, Barnes o f f e r s ceaselessly revised perspectives, 

"substituting one i d e n t i t y among differences for another i n 

an i n f i n i t e process of emergent meaning"--a c l a s s i c iirtodernist 
70 

achievement in the Joycean s t y l e . T.S. E l i o t recognized t h i s metaphorical design in 



Barnes' novel when he wrote in his introduction to i t s 

f i r s t e d i t i o n that i t would "appeal primarily to readers of 
71 

poetry." He quickly q u a l i f i e s t h i s by saying "I do not 

mean that Miss Barnes 1 style i s "poetic prose." But I do 

mean that most contemporary novels are not r e a l l y 'written:'" 

He then focuses on what he c a l l s the compelling "pattern" of 

the book. "The book i s not simply a c o l l e c t i o n of i n d i v i d u a l 

p o r t r a i t s ; the characters are a l l knotted together, as 

people are i n r e a l l i f e , by what one may c a l l chance and 

destiny, rather than by deliberate choice of each other's 

company: i t i s the whole pattern that they form, rather 
than any i n d i v i d u a l constituent, that i s the focus of 

72 
i n t e r e s t " (emphasis added.) 

While agreeing e n t i r e l y with his remarks about the sense 

of design in the novel, I disagree with E l i o t in his c 

conclusion that Barnes' style i s not poetic. I t is_ poetic 

prose, and moreover, the world of Nightwood could only have 

been created by a poet. I agree with Ralph Freedman in his 

study of the l y r i c a l novel which places Barnes along with 
73 

Joyce and Woolf at the apex of the "novel as poem." In 

the works of these writers, "the world i s transformed into 

the s o l i l o q u i s t ' s images (including those of the author) 
74 

from which character and action are made to emerge." 

What d i f f e r e n t i a t e s l y r i c a l from n o n - l y r i c a l writing 

Freedman says, i s "a d i f f e r e n t concept of o b j e c t i v i t y . . . 

independent designs in which awareness of men's experiences 

i s merged with i t s objects. Rather than finding i t s 



Gestalt in the imitation of an action, the l y r i c a l novel 

absorbs action altogether and refashions i t as a pattern of 
7 5 

imagery." This i s p r e c i s e l y Barnes' narrative strategy 
in Nightwood. Her "principles of composition" are based on 

7 6 

"the i n t r i c a t e cross-reference of image and symbol." A 

l a t e r remark by E l i o t i s relevant in t h i s regard. "It seems 

to me that a l l of us, so far as we attach ourselves to 

created objects and surrender our w i l l s to temporal ends, 
7 7 

are eaten by the same worm" (emphasis added). The 

compulsion to "attach ourselves to created objects" i s a 

universal malady which serves as the basis for Barnes 1 

poetic designs. It i s p r e c i s e l y t h i s almost b i b l i c a l sense 

of a man's material existence and of his inevitable 

mortality on which Barnes constructs her novel. 

To better e s t a b l i s h t h i s sense of metaphorical structure, 

I w i l l examine a number of the novel's key tableaux. Its 

opening frame, for example, c l e a r l y places the action, at 

the outset, in h i s t o r i c a l time. It i s quickly injected with 

a sense of timeless metaphorical resonance, however, from 

history to fable i n two pages. I t i s "early in 1880" when 

F e l i x Volkbein's imagined mother—a f a m i l i a r androgynous 

Barnes female type--a "Viennese woman of great strength 

and m i l i t a r y beauty" surrounded by the heavy Hapsburg 

decor of her time and s t a t u s — " a canopied bed of a r i c h 

spectacular crimson" beneath a feather coverlet enveloped 

i n s a t i n , on which "in massive and tarnished gold threads 

stood the Volkbein arms, i s engaged in an act of central 



194 

concern in a l l Barnes f i c t i o n — t h a t of giving b i r t h (N. 

p. 233). B i r t h and death are always i n close proximity in 

Barnes 1 writing, and the decor of characters' l i v e s serves 

merely to furnish the interim spaces. Here the tarnished 

crest i s no guard against the mortal r i s k of t r y i n g to 

perpetuate the l i n e . Barnes never f a i l s to remind us of 

what curses women—here--the grotesque contortion required 

to produce l i f e — " t h e genuflexion of the hunted body makes 

from muscular contraction, going down before the impending 

and inaccessible, as before a great heat" (N. p. 234). The 

woman's husband had died some months p r e v i o u s l y — c h i l d l e s s , 

and "impaled" on his wife the C h r i s t i a n Hedvig, himself an 

I t a l i a n Jew who had done a l l he could to "be one with her" 

and f a i l e d . This too i s a Barnes paradigm for human 

r e l a t i o n s , and points to other unsatisfactory a l l i a n c e s we 

well--with God for example. Hedwig's m i l i t a r i n e s s reminds 

us of the fact that the novel i s being written in the 30's 

when elements of German expressionism, Nietzschean 

v i t a l i s m and p o l i t i c a l fascism were taking m i l i t a r y shape 

i n Europe. This woman too had some of the heroic q u a l i t i e s 

of Shakespeare's cross-dressing heroines, reminding us of 

the lesbian i n t e l l i g e n t s i a which was at the centre of 

Barnes' s o c i a l and i n t e l l e c t u a l l i f e i n Paris a f t e r World 

War I. "The feather in her hat had been knife clean and 

quivering as i f in an heraldic wind; she had been a woman 

held up to nature, precise, deep-bosomed and gay....She 

personified massive chic" (N. p. 236) 



The metaphorical house of F e l i x ' s imagined parents i s 

the f i r s t stage setting of the novel. It was a "fantastic 

museum" of the encounters that took place t h e r e — w i t h i t s 

rococo h a l l s , "giddy with plush, whorled designs in gold... 

Roman fragments, white and dis-associated" (N. p. 236). As 

a salon i t could not but overwhelm with i t s shields, birds 

and massive pianos. Beneath the huge bulk of the furniture 

and the gleaming surfaces, there i s a strong suggestion of 

violence, blood and uncontrollable force, barely contained. 

There i s underfoot a "thick dragon's blood p i l e of rugs 

from Madrid" (N. p. 237). In the room were "two rambling 

desks in r i c h and bloody wood." Both feature in ornamental 

design reminiscent of f i f t e e n t h and sixteenth century 

I t a l i a n grotesque, animal figures, hammered out of s i l v e r 

to form "a l i o n , a bear, a ram, a dove, and in t h e i r midst 

a flaming torch" (N. p. 237). In t h i s intensely coded decor, 

there is. a profoundly disturbing and d e s t a b i l i z i n g M 

juxtaposition of images, of on the one hand immovable 

substance and the power of history, and on the other, of 

blood,fire and lurking animality below the surface. As i f 

we were ourselves spectators in t h i s f a n t a s t i c room, our 

attention i s drawn toward a painting of the dead husband's 

mother. There i s in i t s description, the usual Barnes high 

focus on clothing as possessing a great deal of disembodied 

information about the wearer. The reader's gaze i s 

directed from the subject of the p o r t r a i t ' s sumptuous visage 

and "overt mouth," to "pearled sleeves" and " s t i f f lace" 



framing a "conical and braided head." Below i t , "the deep 

accumulation of dress f e l l about in groined shadows; the 

t r a i n , rambling through a v i s t a of primitive trees, was 

carpet thick" (N. p. 237). Here Barnes uses the power of 

clothing to mask, with almost Elizabethan formality, and at 

the same time to suggest powerfully, both sex and i d e n t i t y . 

The dress i s described as an "accumulation," an accretion of 

meaning added to the wearer i n layers; the t r a i n rambles 

almost independently of the wearer, through what appears to 

be an e a r l i e r , or possibly the same timeless version, of the 

nightwood i n which a l l of the novel's l a t e r characters w i l l 

be l o s t . 

The power of his opening t a b l e a u — t h i s "fantastic 

museum"--is i n no way diminished by the annoucement at i t s 

end, that i t i s a fake, " f i c t i o n a l . " The woman's painting 

was purchased by F e l i x as an a l i b i to help account for 

o r i g i n s unknown. We are i n the realm of personal f i c t i o n , 

decorated with the objects F e l i x Volkbein has chosen, l a t e r , 

a f t e r adult r e f l e c t i o n , to represent him. This i s the room 

he might have, would l i k e to have, been born i n . This i s 

the kind of Old European scenario he would have chosen to 

appear i n . It helps to explain and o b j e c t i f y his condition, 

and the mystery of his l i f e , which he experiences as a 

kind of Immaculate Conception, making a more poignant comedy 

than ever of his l o t as the twentieth century Wandering Jew. 

After t h i s associative excursion into "history" we return 

to the "present" of narrative time—1920. F e l i x i s a dandy 



197 

i n Paris, stuck in the f i n - d e - s i e c l e s t y l e , looking for 

"anyone who looked as i f he might be 'someone'" who w i l l 

perhaps remind him of the actors in the stage setting of 

his b i r t h , and back through i t into history, with which he 

craves union (N. p. 240). 

I have dwelt for so long on t h i s opening scene of the 

novel, to e s t a b l i s h an immediate example of Barnes' densely 

imagistic ordering process. I do not want simply to catalogue 

images. Every l i n e of the book would have to be considered, 

so intense and crafted i s the writing in i t s poetry. Barnes 

i s doing more than presenting us with a Byzantine wall of 

superb images—though she does simultaneously do that. She 

i s establishing t h i s reliance on pattern, juxtaposition and 

cross-reference of image and symbol to give us a l l of the 

e s s e n t i a l narrative information of the text. We receive i t , 

as we would receive, passively and having to translate for 

ourselv'es, the meaning of a painting. It i s at once d i s t i l l e d 

— t h e images are frozen and c l e a r — a n d expanding out into 

timeless resonance, through texturing and layering, 

choreographing,nuance and counterpoint. 

F e l i x himself i s constantly searching for images or 

tableaux that w i l l both d i s t r a c t him from his obsession 

with the past, and l i k e the paintings of his "ancestors," 

provide him with further v i s i b l e "objective c o r r e l a t i v e s " 

for his existence. The diversion that Barnes provides for 

him—the o b j e c t i f i c a t i o n of a l l diversionary a c t i v i t y in 

the decadent c a p i t a l s of Europe between the w a r s — i s the 



198 

c i r c u s , the night theatre of B e r l i n . This makes up the 

novel's second major tableau. F e l i x had since childhood 

been caught up with the pageantry of the c i r c u s . The 

version he encounters as an adult does not feature the kings 

and queens he had imagined as a c h i l d , but wonderful fakes, 

the circus n o b i l i t y of f a l s e princesses, l y i n g kings and 

pretend duchesses, wonderful t i t l e s for "gaudy cheap cuts 

from the beast l i f e " — d e c o r a t i n g themselves with an a r i s t o c r a t i c 

overlay barely concealing t h e i r reeking, animal v i t a l i t y . 

Their t i t l e s were only meant to "dazzle boys" and to make 

l i f e mysterious (N. p. 241). These people take t h e i r props 

and sets with them, moving between sham salons a l l over 

Europe. I t i s t h e i r shameless, flaunting falseness which 

wins F e l i x ' s heart, and he "became for a l i t t l e while a 

part of t h e i r splendid and reeking f a l s i f i c a t i o n " (p. 241). 

Thus i s encapsulated one of Barnes' favourite d u a l i t i e s — 

the splendid pageant, the b r i g h t l y coloured, the v i t a l , 

the ornamental and the ephemeral miraculous show—and i t s 

underside—the rank, the degraded, the decay beneath the 

i l l u s i o n . 

In the c i r c u s , sex and animal v i t a l i t y merge—the warm 

smell "stronger than the beasts" (N. p. 241). This world 

provides a natural scenario for F e l i x ; in i t he finds "a 

sense of peace which formerly he had experienced only i n 

museums" (N. p. 241). His existence has found, for a time, 

a perfect set of o b j e c t i f i c a t i o n s — a n d he cleaves to them 

with "humble hysteria" and a profound sense of recognition. 



199 

The decaying brocades and laces" he remembers from his 

imagined past, the "old and documented splendour" (N. p. 

2 4 1 ) . His love for his world where the beast roams free 

i s that of "the love of the l i o n for i t s tamer--that sweat-

tarnished spangled enigma that, i n bringing the beast to 

heel, had somehow turned toward him a face l i k e his own... 

[it] had...picked the precise fury from his brain" (N. p. 

241) . 

F e l i x loves, too, the "emotional s p i r a l of the c i r c u s " 

- - f a m i l i a r yet unknowable (N. p. 2 4 1 ) . I t provides him 

with a s c r i p t . He detects that the cast, the audience and 

above a l l , the action in the centre r i n g , re-enact a primeval 

drama from the r a c i a l unconscious, a p o t e n t i a l l y comic, 

monstrous replaying of the t r a g i c material of ancient 

amphitheatres. The performers are rendered larger than 

l i f e , more than themselves, in t h e i r performance. The 

androgynous a e r i a l i s t , Frau Mann the Duchess of Broadback, 

i s "preserved"--defined forever by her performance. As 

she survives by s k i l l in the a l i e n element of the a i r , she 

becomes a kind of performing bi-sexual a r t i f a c t . 

She seemed to have a skin that was the pattern 
of her costume; a bodice of lozenges, red and 
yellow, low in the back and r u f f l e d over and 
under the arms, faded with the reek of her 
three-day c o n t r o l , red t i g h t s , laced boots... 
they ran through her as the design runs through 
hard holiday candies, and the bulge in the 
groin where she took the bar...was so s o l i d , 
s p e c i a l i z e d and as polished as oak. The s t u f f 
of the t i g h t s was no longer a covering, i t 
was herself ; the span of the t i g h t l y stitched 
crotch was so much her own f l e s h that she was 
as unsexed as a d o l l . The needle that made 



200 

one the property of the c h i l d made the other the 
property of no man. (N. p. 242) (emphasis 
added) 

It i s not d i f f i c u l t to read t h i s as a feminist inspired 

version of the o b j e c t i f i c a t i o n of womanhood v i a costume 

and performance. The irony comes only at the end, that the 

costume and the t r i c k s unsex as they provide i d e n t i t y . The 

woman who i s intent upon denying gravity, cannot be possessed. 

The description of the a e r i a l i s t provides valuable clues as 

to the kind of representation Barnes i s interested i n . The 

pattern of her costume, i t s colours and markings, form a  

design which seems to "run through her" to the core, 

indistinguishable from h e r s e l f . They do not form an a r t i f i c i a l 

covering—the skin and the coloured pattern are one. She i s 

a performing work of a r t , sexless as a marionette, but 

d e f i a n t l y the "property of no man," because she i s h a l f -

man. She i s what Angela Carter in her recent novel Nights 

at the Circus, might have c a l l e d her f l y i n g , harlequined 
7 8 

heroine, an "acrobat of desire." 

We hear too, from Matthew O'Connor on his entrance in 

the narrative, of another version of the artifact/performer 

--Nikka, the bear-fighting negro, "tattooed from head to 

heel with a l l the ameublement of depravity! Garlanded with 

rosebuds and hackwork of the devil...over his belly...an 

angel from Chartres; on each buttock...a quotation from the 

book of magic... across his knees...'I' on one and on the 

other 'can'...Across his chest, beneath a caravel in f u l l 

s a i l , two clasped hands, the wrist bones f r e t t e d with point 



201 

lace. On each bosom an arrow speared heart." There i s 

ornament on l i t e r a l l y every part of his body with words 

s p i l l i n g down his armpits and his legs covered in vinework 

and rambling roses. Even his private parts were guarded by 

tattooed words of warning. "Why a l l t h i s barbarity?" 

0' Connor asked him. "He loved beauty ahd would have i t 

about him," we hear (N. p. 245). 

This circus world i s one where the currency for meaning 

i s s t r i c t l y v i s u a l , and where there i s an extravagant, almost 

a vulgar excess of s i g n i f i c a n c e ; a parody of the text i t s e l f ? 

Is the tattooed wrestler, the harlequined a e r i a l i s t , the 

creative a r t i s t "embodying" himself in his a r t i s t r y ? 

It i s i n t h i s world of performing metaphors that the 

novel's central love a f f a i r i s i n i t i a t e d , and i t too follows 

d i s t i n c t patterns of o b j e c t i f i c a t i o n . At the lovers' 

emblematic meeting, Nora has taken a front row seat above 

the timeless arena of the circus r i n g . She i s aware of the 

primeval charge beneath the t r a d i t i o n a l smears of colour 

in clown face and costume; i t i s both ancient and s e x u a l — 

barely containing animality in man or beast. As she looked, 

the clowns"were r o l l i n g over the sawdust, as i f they were 

i n the b e l l y of a great mother whale where there was yet  

room to play" (N. p. 275). (emphasis added) This i s the 

excessively illuminated comic r i n g in the c e n t r e — t h e play 

of s i g n i f i c a t i o n — b e y o n d i t darkness, s i l e n c e , and 

i n e v i t a b i l i t y . The creatures are tense, the horses trembling 

on hind legs before the trainer's whip. The l i o n s — t h e i r 



202 

t a i l s heavy and dragging as they are l e t out of t h e i r cages, 

make "the a i r seem f u l l of withheld strength" (N. p. 275). 

As Nora takes t h i s i n , her attention i s caught by the g i r l 

s i t t i n g next to her, whose hands are shaking as she l i g h t s 

a c i g a r e t t e . This moment .of one woman turning to face the 

o t h e r — t h e longed-for second s e l f — i s f i n e l y choreographed 

as the seeming climax for which the animals 1 tension has 

provided the momentum. "She looked at her suddenly because 

the animals going around and around the r i n g , a l l but 

climbed over at t h i s point" (N. p. 275). The animals' eyes 

sought out the g i r l l i k e searchlights. Nora had turned 

just in time to see one powerful lioness in her cage come 

over to a point exactly opposite the g i r l ; , "she turned her 

furious great head with i t s yellow eyes a f i r e and went down, 

her paws thrust through the bars and, as she regarded the 

g i r l , as i f a r i v e r were f a l l i n g behind impassible heat, 

her eyes flowed tears that never reached the surface. At 

that the g i r l rose...up" (N. p. 275-76). Nora rescues her 

from t h i s primitive "recognition" scene and leads her away. 

From that time on "they were so 'haunted' of each other 

that separation was impossible." 

The circus i s a potent f i g u r a t i v e construct in Barnes' 

novel. Often the action seems to take place i n just such 

an unnaturally illuminated arena as t h i s , with characters 

spotlighted as they speak, or "perform" for one another. 

Lesser versions of t h i s arena are the rooms the characters 

occupy, p a r t i c u l a r l y when, l i k e the one that opened the 



203 

novel, they seem to "generate" the character, in a sense. 

We f i r s t see Robin Vote, for example, unconscious or asleep, 

in her hotel room. O'Connor i s brought in when she cannot 

be roused. When f i r s t seen, she i s placed, beautiful and 

l i f e l e s s , i n v i r t u a l l y a Douanier Rousseau canvas. The 

room seems to speak of her o r i g i n s ; i t i s a jungle room with 

red carpets, "a confusion of potted plants, exotic palms 

and cut flowers, f a i n t l y over-sung by the notes of unseen 

birds." Her head i s turned away from the spectator and 

"threatened consciousness" (N. p. 259). She i s dressed in 

f l a n n e l trousers and her legs are frozen in the position 

of the dance. Her hands frame her face. This i s what i s 

seen. Next we are t o l d what she evokes, as one studies 

her, looking for information to make sense of her. What i s 

received i s primarily a perfume that her body seems to 

exhale, of 

earth-flesh, fungi...captured dampness...yet... 
dry, over cast with the odour of o i l of amber, 
which i s an inner malady of the sea, making her 
seem as i f she had invaded a sleep incautious 
and e n t i r e . Her f l e s h was the texture of plant 
l i f e , and beneath i t one sensed a frame, broad, 
porous and sleepworn, as i f sleep were a decay 
f i s h i n g her beneath the v i s i b l e surface. About 
her head there was an effulgence as of 
phosphorous glowing about the circumference of 
a body of water—as i f her l i f e lay through her 
in ungainly deteriorations. (N. pp. 259-60) 
(emphasis added) 

In her prostrate, almost annihilated state, she evokes 

e f f o r t l e s s l y , as a figure in a painting or an image in a 

poem evokes--ancient l i f e - - s m e l l s - - p l a n t s - - l i g h t in water 



204 

--decayJ When F e l i x looks into her eyes because of t h e i r 

s t a r t l i n g colour, he sees "the long unqualified range in 

the i r i s of wild beasts who have not tamed the focus down 

to meet the human eye" (N. pp. 261-62). 

This tableau of what seems to be the essence of t h i s 

woman's existence, reminds us of one of the key messages of 

the whole n o v e l — t h a t "the woman who presents herself to the 

spectator as a picture forever arranged i s , for the 

contemplative mind, the chiefest danger" (N. p. 261). The 

central metaphor for Robin's existence resonates out of the 

room and into the mythic landscape which i t suggests: 

Sometimes one meets a woman who i s beast turning 
human. Such a person's every movement w i l l  
reduce to an image of a forgotten experience; a 
mirage of an eternal wedding cast on the r a c i a l 
memory; as insupportable joy as would be the 
v i s i o n of an eland coming down an a i s l e of trees, 
chapleted with orange blossoms and b r i d a l v e i l , 
a hoof raised in the economy of fear, stepping 
in the trepidation of f l e s h that w i l l become 
myth; as the unicord i s neither man nor beast 
deprived, but human hunger pressing i t s breast 
to i t s prey....Such a woman i s the infected 
c a r r i e r of the past...she i s eaten death 
returning... (M. pp. 262-53) (emphasis added) 

The room contains i n i t s ornamental imagery a l l of these 

signs of "the way back" (N. p. 264). 

When Nora and Robin l i v e together in Paris in an 

apartment on the rue du Cherche-Midi, they decorate i t s 

i n t e r i o r to provide material v e r i f i c a t i o n of t h e i r a l l i a n c e , 

aesthetic o b j e c t i f i c a t i o n of t h e i r love. Once more, rooms 

are metaphorical designs for experience: 



205 

In the passage of t h e i r l i v e s together every object 
in the garden, every item in the house, every word 
they spoke, attested to t h e i r mutual love, the 
combining of t h e i r humours.... There were circus 
chairs, wooden horses from a ring of an old merry 
go round. Venetian chandeliers from the Flea 
F a i r , stage drops from Munich, cherubim from 
Vienna, e c c l e s i a s t i c a l hangings from Rome, a spinet 
from England, and a miscellaneous c o l l e c t i o n of 
music boxes from many countries. (N. p. 26 7) 

Such was the "museum" of t h e i r l i f e together. When they 

begin to f a l l apart i t i s t h i s very "personality of the 

house" which torments Nora—"the punishment of those who 

c o l l e c t t h e i r l i v e s together" (N. p. 277). She fears that 

i f she disarranges anything, Robin may become confused and 

"lose the scent of home" (N. p. 277). Once t h i s l e v e l of 

s u f f e r i n g enters, love i t s e l f i s open to re-interpretation 

and r e - o b j e c t i f i c a t i o n . If i t had existed previously in 

t h e i r shared c o l l e c t i o n of objects, i t must now take new 

form, as i t comes to e x i s t only in Nora's desperate 

imagination, "love becomes the deposit of the heart analogous 

in a l l degrees to the 'findings' in a tomb" (N. p. 277). 

Love tokens and death tokens are to merge. 

As Robin had reminded F e l i x of amber preserved through 

time in Nora's heart she i s the " f o s s i l . . . t h e i n t a g l i o , the 

engraved design of her own i d e n t i t y — k e p t a l i v e by Nora's 

blood." As amber or f o s s i l , "Robin was now beyond timely 

changes, except in the blood that animated her" (N. p. 2 77). 

Without the animating blood, that i s , without Nora, who has 

become the necessary supplier of objects tying her to time, 



206 

she w i l l be out of time altogether. 

In Nora's haunted imagination i s the "fixed walking 

image of Robin" in the night, as though in sleep, nightmare 

or death. As Nora battles to sleep herself, she f a l l s back 

into the "tide of dreams...taking the body of Robin down 

with her into i t , as the ground things take the corpses, 

with minute persistence, down into the earth, leaving a  

pattern of i t on the grass, as i f they stitched as they 

descended" (N. p. 277). (emphasis added) Love has become 

death, with only the pattern of the transformation l e f t v i s i b 

Nora receives a l l of these images of her experience 

with great and p a i n f u l accuracy. Because she i s not an 

a r t i s t , she i s helpless before them. Hers i s a s e n s i b i l i t y 

which absorbs and r e f l e c t s , l i k e a piece of polished metal 

— a gunbarrel, whose v i s i o n i s seen as a weapon of 

destruction; but she merely r e f l e c t s ; she does not judge. 

She i s hyper-responsive, the eyes and ears at least of the 

woman writer, recording and receiving play-opera-music 

with the force of a weapon trained upon them. Her 

consciousness reproduces them "in a smaller but more intense 

o r c h e s t r a t i o n " — t h e poetic image (N. p. 2 74). She i s an 

agonized viewer of experience, a translator not a creator. 

In pain she receives, then translates and d i s t i l s . Her 

sense of herself and any vanity i s absent; "the world and 

i t s history were to Nora l i k e a ship in a b o t t l e ; she 

herself was outside, and u n i d e n t i f i e d , endlessly embroiled 

in a preoccupation without a problem" (N. p. 275). 



207 

Robin i s an abandoned figure in a Douanier Rousseau 

Nora's "image" i s that of a Klimt design, c a r e f u l l y 

a chamber music s e n s i b i l i t y . 

Wherever she was met, at the opera, at a play, 
s i t t i n g alone and apart, the programme face down on 
her knee, one would discover in her eyes, large, 
protruding and c l e a r , that mirrorless look of 
polished metals which report not so much the object 
as the movement of the object. As the surface of 
a gun's b a r r e l , r e f l e c t i n g a scene, w i l l add to the 
image the portent of i t s construction, so her eyes 
contracted and f o r t i f i e d the play before her in her 
own unconscious terms. One senses in the way she 
held her head that her ears were recording Wagner 
or S c a r l a t t i , Chopin, Palestrina, or the l i g h t e r 
songs of the Viennese school, in smaller but more 
intense orchestration (N. 274). 

If Nora i s not an a r t i s t and therefore not Djuna Barnes, 

how then i s the authorial s e l f represented in the text? If 

there i s a character whose utterance and whose patterns of 

o b j e c t i f i c a t i o n most c l o s e l y resemble the authorial 

consciousness in Nightwood, i t i s Matthew O'Connor, as we 
79 

are reminded by Alan Singer. Certainly t h e i r views of 

the world coincide. Among the things expected of him in 

the text i s the d i f f i c u l t task of "explaining" Robin Vote 

to a l l the other characters. He f a i l s to do t h i s , and more 

importantly, i n the process f a i l s to be a voice or 

synthesizer for Barnes, because of the fundamental break 

with t r a d i t i o n a l characterization that Barnes makes. O'Connor 

i s no more a " r e a l i s t i c " or psychologically probable 

character than any of the others. The more he says (the 

t r a d i t i o n a l means of "rounding out" a character), the more 

If 

canvas, 

masking 



2 0 8 

we become aware t h a t b o t h he and B a r n e s a r e o f f e r i n g no 

more t h a n weary and s e l f - c o n s c i o u s a r t i s t i c i l l u s i o n s . 

When N o r a and F e l i x a s k h i m a n g u i s h e d q u e s t i o n s , he c a n o n l y 

r e s p o n d o b l i q u e l y by p r o v i d i n g f u r t h e r and o f t e n t a n g e n t i a l 

m e t a p h o r s f o r t h e i r s i t u a t i o n s . B e c a u s e he h a s no a n s w e r s , 

b e c a u s e he i s i n t h e same p r e d i c a m e n t , he must be e v a s i v e . 

H i s r e s p o n s e s , b e c a u s e o f t h e e s s e n t i a l l y f i g u r a t i v e ( r a t h e r 

t h a n r e f e r e n t i a l ) d e s i g n o f t h e b o o k , must t h e r e f o r e 

p r i m a r i l y a d d r e s s t h e r e a d e r , who i s m a k i n g p o e t i c o r 

a s s o c i a t i v e c o n n e c t i o n s where t h e c h a r a c t e r s c a n n o t . When 

N o r a s a y s t o h i m i n d e s p e r a t i o n : "What am I t o d o ? " when 

she i s u n a b l e t o d e c i d e whom she h a s l o v e d m o r e — R o b i n o r 

h e r s e l f — h e r e s p o n d s w i t h "Make b i r d s 1 n e s t s w i t h y o u r 

t e e t h " (N. p . 3 3 3 ) . We a r e t o t h i n k o f a l l t h e o t h e r b i r d s 

i n t h e n o v e l . By t h e p o e t r y he p r o v i d e s i n s t e a d o f any 

k i n d o f s o l u t i o n , o r e v e n a d i r e c t r e p l y , he p a r a d o x i c a l l y 

a n d q u i t e p o w e r f u l l y r e v i s e s t h e c o n t e x t o f t h e q u e s t i o n 

p u t . 

B a r n e s p r o v i d e s , t h r o u g h O ' C o n n o r ' s f a i l u r e t o e x p l a i n 

a n d h i s c o n n e c t e d m e t a p h o r i c a l e v a s i o n s , a l e v e l o f p u r e l y 

i m a g i s t i c c o h e r e n c e i n t h e n o v e l , w h i c h s u p p o r t s t h e i d e a 

t h a t t h e r e i s d e l i b e r a t e l y t o be no a r t i s t f i g u r e i n t h e 

t e x t , b e c a u s e B a r n e s s i m p l y d o e s n o t i n t e r p r e t t h e r o l e s o f 

a u t h o r a n d c h a r a c t e r i n any way. By i n v e s t i n g o b j e c t s w i t h 

t h e s i g n i f i c a n c e o f c h a r a c t e r s , and by a r r a n g i n g c h a r a c t e r s 

and s i t u a t i o n s a s v i s u a l l y i m a g i n e d f a t h e r t h a n a s p o s s e s s i n g 

p s y c h o l o g i c a l a u t h e n t i c i t y , she makes t h e image i t s e l f 



2 0 9 

the container of meaning i n the t e s t . And i t i s not a 

f i x e d image. Because there i s no-one p a r t i c u l a r l y to control 

or synthesize them, the reader i s l e f t with a de-centred 

narrative, where images are constantly being revised, t h e i r 

meanings subtly altered with every accretion, and producing 

a l e v e l of meaning and a perspective that are profoundly 

f l u i d and r e l a t i v i s t i c . We have noted the i n f e r i o r i t y of 

the text, the absence of dramatic confrontation or event. 

I suggest that i t i s a metaphor which supplants action as 

the energising force in the text. This makes i t a very 

d i f f e r e n t kind of " s e l f - c r e a t i n g " narrative than other 

Modernist texts. 

I do not mean to imply, as Alan Singer accuses many 

c r i t i c s of doing, that the poetic image in Barnes' hands 

contains the "mirage" of metaphysical truth. Nor do I 

mean to invoke "poetic prose" as being of transcendant 

value because of the "irreducible q u a l i t y " of poetry. Both 

approaches make of poetry a f a l s e god. I do not claim that 

Nightwood i s a novel of supreme value because of the 

metaphysical truth or i r r e d u s c i b l e q u a l i t y of i t s poetic 

writing. I claim instead that one of i t s remarkable aspects, 

and a major contribution to Modernism by Barnes, i s that 

through her manipulation of s t r i c t l y poetic design and 

strategies for revelation, she i s able to l i b e r a t e the text 

from a number of narrative conventions for coherence, and 

i n the process create a self-contained and independent 

a r t i f a c t . She i s very concerned not to be v i s i b l e i n the 



2 1 0 

text i n order to, i n Singer's words " n u l l i f y the i n t e r n a l 
8 0 (dramatic) and external (authorial) levels i n the novel." 

If Nightwood i s to be seen as' a structure of construction 

of the authorial s e l f , i t i s remarkable for the divestment 

of the a r t i s t ' s ego. That s e l f i s a r t i c u l a t e d not in the 

omnipresent sense of the author's presence, but in o b j e c t i f i e d 

form in every utterance, by every character in each frame 

of the book, in the form of densely textured, but u t t e r l y 

coherent sets of r e l a t i o n s between character, event and image. 

Conclusion 

A limited and t r a d i t i o n a l reading of lesbian f i c t i o n 

i n English sees Nightwood as one more novel of damnation 

written by a suffering outcast. I prefer a more p o s i t i v e 

view of Barnes' contribution as a female, late Modernist 

writer. 

I t i s possible to take as one important set of 

d i s t i n c t i o n s between Modernist writers, the ways in which 

they used the idea of gender. Male Modernists, l i k e t h e i r 

female counterparts, were frequently very concerned with 

ideas of sexual representation: Lawrence in his "male 

and female worlds" i n The Rainbow and Women in Love and 

e s p e c i a l l y in short stories l i k e "The Fox;" E l i o t ' s 

Wasteland i n which sexual disorder i s at the heart of the 

Unreal C i t y ; and i n Joyce's Ulysses, the key episode i s 



"Nighttown," a Walpurgisnacht of comically grotesque, 
81 

sexual inversions. These male writers play with the idea 

of sexual chaos, inversion and misrule, but s t r i c t l y within 

a conventional appearance-reality dichotomy, which f i n a l l y 

r e s u l t s , in each case, in a restoration of h i e r a r c h i c a l 

s o c i a l order, t r a d i t i o n a l c u l t u r a l paradigms and patterns 
8 2 

of male/female d i s t i n c t i o n s . These f i c t i o n s of the s e l f , 

when they take sexual form, are very conservative. Feminist 

f i c t i o n s of the sexual s e l f from the same period are far 

more imaginatively r a d i c a l . And t h i s i s the essence of 

Barnes' contribution to late Modernist f i c t i o n . 

Barnes' o b j e c t i f i c a t i o n of the s e l f was based on an 

androgynous v i s i o n . Well beyond E l i o t ' s "objective 

c o r r e l a t i v e , " are the metaphors Barnes used to embody and 

communicate a view of the s e l f and world which put her 

outside t r a d i t i o n . This metaphorical rendering of s e l f 

was far more than just an imagistic ordering process, as 

Joyce perfected i t . Her metaphors had to do more than 

disrupt t r a d i t i o n a l narrative forms; they had to communicate 

an expression of inner values and versions of the s e l f which 

the t r a d i t i o n a l novel and t r a d i t i o n a l society did not know 

how to accommodate. Scenes of sexual inversion and sexual 

transformations of a l l kinds p r o l i f e r a t e i n her novel. 

Disembodied elements of male and female behaviour and 

perspectives s h i f t constantly within and between characters 

and scenes as they search for.balance, epitomized in the 

androgynous i d e a l . Whereas Joyce's "Nighttown" i s one 



212 

episode of apocalyptic sexual confusion in an e s s e n t i a l l y 

daylight world, harmoniously resolved when Leopold/Ulysses 

f i n a l l y goes home to his Molly/Penelope who says "yes" to 

him, sexual disorder and the night are Barnes 1 whole world. 

In t h i s night world of permanent misrule, there can 

be no fixed or single s e l f for author or characters. 

Androgyny for Barnes i s a gender-free r e a l i t y which may 

inhabit many selves. This accounts for the absence of the 

author in the novel as character or a r t i s t figure; for 

Barnes there can be no Leopold Bloom or Stephen Dedalus. 

She i s writing i n the dangerous a i r outside the r e a l i s t i c 

t r a d i t i o n , or even the disrupted r e a l i s t i c t r a d i t i o n of 

Modernism in i t s f i r s t wave. In Nightwood, psychological 

authenticity matters l i t t l e ; objects convey as much meaning 

as people. 

Barnes o f f e r s us in Nightwood a set of imagistic 

r e f l e c t i o n s on gender, which share c e r t a i n common q u a l i t i e s 

with another late Modern fable of androgyny, V i r g i n i a 
8 3 

Woolf*s Orlando. Where Nightwood i s a Greek tragedy 

however, Orlando i s an enchanting and e n t i r e l y p o s i t i v e 

f a i r y tale which skates through time, sex and i d e n t i t y , 

e f f o r t l e s s l y creating, in i t s central character, the kind 

of r i c h l y dressed and magical " t h i r d sexed being" behind 

gender and myth, happy and free, that Barnes can only 

dream about in her 30's European despair. 

Both Orlando and Nightwood display the r a d i c a l , 

imaginative freedom of "androgynous" works, wildly and 



213 

fluidly.choreagraphing the ancient play of male and female 

within and between characters, rather than r e l y i n g on the 

t r a d i t i o n a l sexual and imaginative patterns of a s o c i a l 

order which, to Woolf and Barnes, seemed both f a l l e n and 

misguided. The novels were both written in t h e t h i r t i e s . 

Woolf had moved away from her early Modernist works l i k e 

Night and Day and The Voyage Out towards a more fragmented, 

o b j e c t i f i e d style i n To the Lighthouse, The Waves and 
84 

Between the Acts. One of the most p o s i t i v e developments 

for Woolf in her mature phase was, I believe, a movement away 

from the sense of a s e l f extinguished in her early f i c t i o n , 

to the marvellously free, androgynous s e l f - p o r t r a i t in 

Orlando. Despite Barnes 1 t r a g i c v i s i o n of her s e l f and her 

world, she was permitted a measure of freedom, at least 

s t y l i s t i c a l l y , in breaking away from l i t e r a r y and s o c i a l 

norms. She takes metaphor further than the male twenties' 

writers in putting i t to more r a d i c a l use, to capture the 

androgynous i d e a l of a pure, o b j e c t i f i e d and gender-free 

s e l f and the c y n i c a l , compromised versions of the alienated 

s e l f when the idea i s l o s t . These are p o s i t i v e a r t i s t i c 

contributions. With consummate a r t i s t r y s t i l l , but on the 

negative plane, she r e f l e c t s , as a late-Modernist, the 

dying b e l i e f i n the t h i r t i e s that language was a powerful 

and redeeming force i n i t s e l f . In the mouths of her 

characters, i t i s degraded currency, with a decade of 

extravagant t a l k and waste behind i t . In Barnes' t h i r t i e s ' 

world, both language and people are self-consuming a r t i f a c t s . 



214 
Conclusion 

I have suggested in t h i s thesis that one reason for the 

c r i t i c a l neglect of Rhys, Stein and Barnes i s that t h e i r 

best work appeared in the 1930's, a period that i s generally 

regarded i n twentieth-century l i t e r a r y chronology as a "lapse 

period" for f i c t i o n . The poetry of the period, p a r t i c u l a r l y 

that of the "Auden generation" has gathered more respect. 

There are two points I would l i k e to make, one that runs 

counter to the idea of the 30's as a "lapse" period, and the 

other which addresses the idea that the three women writers 

under consideration must inevitably suffer by comparison 

with the acknolwedged "great writers" of canonical 

Modernism, generally accepted as covering the period from 

1910-1925. 

I believe that i t i s f a c i l e and unhelpful to draw 

a r t i f i c i a l d i s t i n c t i o n s between l i t e r a r y periods, to say 

that Modernism ended i n 1925 or 1930. Culture, including 

l i t e r a r y culture, i s a continuum, not a series of stops and 

s t a r t s . It i s tempting to "periodize," to declare a group 

of a r t i s t s a "school" because they were*, contemporaries, 

and to declare for the sake of i n t e l l e c t u a l neatness, some 

writers and events "important" simply to f a c i l i t a t e the 

making of patterns and theories. There have c e r t a i n l y been 

stages i n Modernism, but what i s to prevent Post-Modernism 

being seen as a culminating point or apotheosis of Modernism, 

rather than any kind of reversal? 

I f , as I argue, we look at twentieth century writing as a 



continuum, proper value must be attached to i t s t r a n s i t i o n 

periods, periods of marked h i s t o r i c a l change when l i t e r a t u r e 

of course r e f l e c t e d that change in new concerns and evolving 

s t y l e s . Rhys, Stein and Barnes are, I suggest, writers of 

such a t r a n s i t i o n period, whose works both revise the 

touchstones of pure Modernism and point to l a t e r developments 

beyond i t . They are "later Modernists," along with the 

V i r g i n i a Woolf of Orlando and Between the Acts, Christopher 

Isherwood, Ivy Compton-Burnett, George Orwell, Graham Greene, 

Evelyn Waugh, Andre Gide and I t a l o Svevo. The f i c t i o n s of 

t h i s period c e r t a i n l y indicate a changed state of mind in 

response to a changed world. Stephen Spender,speaking for 

his generation, describes his attempt to "turn the reader's 

and the writer's attention outwards from himself to the 
2 

world." There i s , in the late Modernist f i c t i o n , a l e v e l 

of engagement with the world for which the metaphysical 

self-absorption of the 20's had no room. At one extreme i s 

Christopher Isherwood's f i c t i o n a l "reportage," docu-fiction 

designed to capture the immense build-up of s o c i a l tension 

and m i l i t a r y pressure i n that decade; but at another point 

on the spectrum of t h i r t i e s writing, that same l e v e l of 

engagement, of seeing the world as a mirror of self-concern, 

rather than the reverse of ten years' e a r l i e r , can be seen 

i n a text l i k e Woolf's Between the Acts. 

After the world slump of 1929, the unworldliness of 

t h e - e a r l i e r decade no longer seemed appropriate as an a r t i s t i c 

s t y l e . A more p o l i t i c a l and documentary slant incorporated 



2 1 6 

i d e a s f r o m p s y c h o l o g y a n d s o c i o l o g y i n t o a s t y l e w h i c h 

m i x e d M o d e r n i s t n o r m s w i t h i n c r e a s i n g d o s e s o f r e a l i s m a n d 

s u r r e a l i s m , t o p r e s e n t a v i s i o n o f a d i s t u r b e d a n d d i s o r d e r e d 

w o r l d . T h i s w a s a p e r i o d o f s e r i o u s p o l i t i c a l a n d s o c i a l 

t r a n s i t i o n a n d E u r o p e a n f i c t i o n c a p t u r e d t h e u n c e r t a i n t y o f 

d i r e c t i o n a n d t h e s t a t e o f t e n s e i r r e s o l u t i o n i n t h e w o r l d ' s 

a f f a i r s . C h r i s t o p h e r I s h e r w o o d s p o k e o f t h e " f a n t a s t i c 
3 

r e a l i t i e s o f t h e e v e r y d a y w o r l d , " a n d i t w a s t h e n o v e l i s t ' s 

p r o b l e m i n t h e 3 0 ' s a s t o h o w t o a d d r e s s t h e m . T h e 2 0 ' s 

o b s e s s i o n w i t h " c o n s c i o u s n e s s , " t r a n s c e n d e n c e a n d t u r n i n g 

i n w a r d , h a d l e d t o a d i s p l a c e d p e r c e p t i o n o f t h e w o r l d . 

N o v e l s o f t h e 3 0 ' s m a d e a v a r i e t y o f a t t e m p t s t o b r e a k o u t 

o f t h i s i m p a s s e . E v e n a " h i g h M o d e r n i s t " o f t h e 2 0 ' s l i k e 

V i r g i n i a W o o l f , a l o n g w i t h M a r x i s t w r i t e r s l i k e E d w a r d 

U p w a r d , s o u g h t t o e n g a g e w i t h t h e s o c i a l r e a l i t y o f t h e 

t i m e s . 

T h e r e w a s a m o u n t i n g s e n s e o f d e p e r s o n a l i z e d c o n t r o l : i 

i n t h e 3 0 ' s . T h e r i s e o f t o t a l i t a r i a n r e g i m e s a n d t h e 

r a p i d d e v e l o p m e n t o f s c i e n c e , t e c h n o l o g y a n d c o m m u n i c a t i o n s 

s y s t e m s a l l p o s e d a m a s s i v e t h r e a t t o i n d i v i d u a l s . O n e 

c r i t i c , A l a n W i l d e , h a s s a i d t h a t w r i t e r s o f f i c t i o n i n 

t h e 3 0 ' s u n d e r t o o k , o f n e c e s s i t y , " t o r e m a k e t h e f u n c t i o n s 

o f l a n g u a g e a n d l i t e r a t u r e , " s e e i n g i t n o l o n g e r i n t h e 

s y m b o l i s t t r a d i t i o n " a s a m e a n s o f d e c l a r i n g a n d e v o k i n g 

s o m e f i n a l a n d u l t i m a t e ' T r u t h , ' b u t a s a w a y o f r e l e a s i n g 

t h e ' s e l f ' a n d o f t h e r e b y m a k i n g t h e p h e n o m e n a l w o r l d o n c e 
4 m o r e t h e s c e n e o f p u r p o s e f u l a c t i o n . " T h i s d e s i r e t o 



217 

move beyond the consciousness-obsessed " s e l f " of the 20's 

a r t i s t , inevitably led to changes in self-representation. 

A sense of engagement with the world, with things as they 

r e a l l y are, led to "a curious tension between s i t u a t i n g 

and at the same time voiding the p a r t i c u l a r i d e n t i t y of the 

s e l f , " an "equivocal treatment of the s e l f " which attempts 

to "exploit and minimize the facts and also the subjective 
5 

resonance of the author's private l i f e . " Autobiography 

provides a "surface" i n these works. Style i s less 

a e s t h e t i c a l l y r a d i c a l , perhaps giving in to exhaustion, 

and replaced by a need to come to terms with the world and 

the s e l f in i t . 

I said in my introduction that works of high Modernism 

by male writers were frequently autobiographical f i c t i o n s , 

where a mask of impersonality f a i l e d to conceal an a r t i s t 

figure or designing consciousness within the text, which 

r e f l e c t e d an e l i t i s t , self-generated and conservative 

sense of order. In the 30's, an element of authorial 

s e l f - r e f l e x i v e n e s s that prefigures post-modern works by 

writers l i k e Capote, Adler, Butor, Robbe-Grillet, Eeckett, 

Sarraute and Handke emerges.6 The massive threat to . i 

individuals by m i l i t a r i s m and technology leading up to 

World War II was r e f l e c t e d in l i t e r a r y styles of 

representation as a kind of "dehumanization," leading to a 

r a d i c a l l y revised version of the authorial s e l f , and 

characterization generally. Fragmentation, neurosis and 

an atmosphere of threat, fear and violence had to be accepted 



2 1 8 

a n d a s s i m i l a t e d ; t h i s , i n t h e f a c e o f M o d e r n i s m ' s l o n g -

s t a n d i n g f a i t h t h a t , i n t h e h a n d s o f a g o o d w r i t e r , t h e 

e s s e n t i a l u n i t y a n d t r u t h o f t h e w o r l d , a n d t h e f u n d a m e n t a l 

" i n t a c t n e s s " o f c h a r a c t e r , w o u l d b e r e v e a l e d . A l a n W i l d e 

c a l l e d t h i s a p r e o c c u p a t i o n w i t h " d e p t h " a s i t i s l i n k e d , 

i n t e r m s o f p s y c h o l o g i c a l v e r a c i t y , w i t h t r u t h . Now i n t h e 

3 0 ' s we m o v e f r o m " d e p t h " t o a d i s t r u s t f u l p r e o c c u p a t i o n w i t h 

" s u r f a c e . " T h i s a c c o r d s p r e c i s e l y w i t h my t e r m 

" o b j e c t i f i c a t i o n " a s d e s c r i b i n g 3 0 ' s s t y l e s o f f i c t i o n a l 

s e l f - r e p r e s e n t a t i o n t h r o u g h o u t t h i s t h e s i s . " D e h u m a n i z a t i o n " 

i s a n o t h e r w a y t o d e s c r i b e i t , a n d i t m a r k s a s i g n i f i c a n t 

s h i f t i n s e n s i b i l i t y b e t w e e n t h e 2 0 ' s a n d 3 0 ' s . W i t h t h i s 

n e w c o n c e n t r a t i o n o n l i n g u i s t i c s u r f a c e c o m e s " a r e l i n q u i s h i n g 

o f c o m p l e x i t y i n f a v o u r o f c o n t r a d i c t i o n s e m b o d i e d i n 

m e t a p h o r s t h a t a r e h a r d , b r i g h t , i n o r g a n i c f a c e t s o f 

c h a r a c t e r , " v e r y m u c h t h e o b j e c t i f i e d " m e t a p h o r s o f t h e s e l f " 
7 

I h a v e d e s c r i b e d . ( e m p h a s i s a d d e d ) 

I t b e c o m e s c l e a r t h a t P o s t - M o d e r n i s m , i n c o r p o r a t i n g 

t h e s t r a t e g i e s a n d p r e s u p p o s i t i o n s o f M o d e r n i s m , e m e r g e d i n 

a n e v o l u t i o n a r y w a y i n t h i s p e r i o d o f t r a n s i t i o n . M o d e r n i s m 

w a s , t h e n , s u b v e r t e d b y a n u m b e r o f w r i t e r s i n t h e 3 0 ' s w h o 

s h a r e d a s t a t e o f m i n d w h i c h c o n c l u d e d t h a t t h e d a y o f 
F o r s t e r ' s " r o u n d " c h a r a c t e r , a n d t h e a r t i s t f i g u r e a s a 

m e a n s o f s e l f r e p r e s e n t a t i o n , w a s o v e r ; t h a t p e r s o n a l i t y w a s 
g 

" a m e r e l o c u s f o r e x p e r i e n c e . " 

I f 3 0 ' s w r i t i n g o f t e n a d o p t e d a n a u t o b i o g r a p h i c a l 

" s u r f a c e , " a s t y l i s t i c o b j e c t i f i c a t i o n o f t h e s e l f i n t h e 



world, and at the same time engaged with that world and 

things as they r e a l l y are, then how do Jean Rhys, Gertrude 

Stein and Djuna Barnes resolve t h i s apparent contradiction 

i n t h e i r late-Modernist f i c t i o n s ? Do they remain hold-overs 

from pure Modernism? Or are they precursors of Post-

Modernism? In what senses were they late-Modernists and 

therefore s i g n i f i c a n t " t r a n s i t i o n a l " writers as I have defined 

that term? Each of them was representative of her time in 

that she absorbed what she wanted to use from 20's Modernism 

and added important variations of her own, that did, i n each 

case, prefigure l a t e r writing developments. I want to focus 

on what I consider to be the p r i n c i p a l factor which connects 

the three writers, and that i s that in the 30's t h e i r 

autobiographical f i c t i o n s revealed an i d e o l o g i c a l element 

which acted not only to revise Modernism, but to/subvert i t . 

This subversive element was both s t y l i s t i c and substantive. 

Its focus was gender, the representation of the sexual 

s e l f in an o b j e c t i f y i n g , metaphorical way. In t h e i r diverse 

works, they represented in an engaged way, t h e i r world and 

themselves as mirrored in i t , as sexual, class and 

geographical e x i l e s . Their strategies were d i f f e r e n t but 

the i d e o l o g i c a l focus i s common to a l l three. 

For the male Modernist, gender was most often the 

ultimate r e a l i t y , while for his female counterpart, an 
9 

ultimate r e a l i t y exists only i f one journeys beyond gender. 

The r a d i c a l revisions of Modernism undertaken by these three 

women involved, at an i d e o l o g i c a l l e v e l , a questioning, a 



220 

subverting, even a repudiation of the conservative, 

h i e r a r c h i c a l views of t h e i r male predecessors. Though the 

i d e o l o g i c a l impulse has a sexual base, many of i t s 

implications are s o c i a l . They question, with t h e i r styles 

of sexual representation, the e t h i c a l l y orthodox and the 

fixed s o c i a l order of the male aesthetic which had dominated 

in the 2 0 's. As Sandra G i l b e r t concludes in her a r t i c l e , 

"Costumes of the Mind," i t i s not surprising that 

a male Modernist should have wanted the consolation 
of orthodoxy... for i t i s , a f t e r a l l , only those who 
are oppressed or repressed by history and society 
who want to shatter the established paradigms of 
dominance and submission associated with hierarchies 
of gender and restore the primordial chaos of... 
genderlessness. Such p o l i t i c a l devotees of the 
'third sex' wish to say 'I am not that fixed s e l f 
you have restrained in these net t i g h t garments. 
I am a l l selves and no selves. ' 1 0 

The i d e o l o g i c a l element which l i n k s three such d i f f e r e n t 

writers as Rhys, Stein and Barnes centres on the idea that, 

in t h e i r diverse autobiographical f i c t i o n s , they look 

beyond gender for ideas and metaphors of the s e l f , for 

author, character and even reader. In "the process whereby 

the s e l f creates i t s e l f in the experience of creating a r t , 

to read...portraits of women entangled in f a m i l i a l and 

e r o t i c bonds, we must j o i n the narrator in reconstructing 

the other women by whom; we know ourselves.""'""'" Each of them, 

in her f i c t i o n a l representation of s e l f and world, explored 

the assumed conformity between gender a s c r i p t i o n and a l l 

other aspects of personality. 

In Jean Rhys' autobiographical novels, she o f f e r s a 



221 

decidedly anti-romantic treatment of heterosexuality. Her 

"gender i d e n t i t y " seems to have been one of the few secure 

aspects of her existence, but in her dispassionate recordings 

of her protagonists 1 e f f o r t s to keep a l i v e through another 

day, she makes a profound challenge to t r a d i t i o n a l , and 

s p e c i f i c a l l y Modernist, representations of the sexes. In 

formal and s t y l i s t i c terms however, she was in most respects 

a high Modernist, mistress of the impressionistic Georgian 

vignette and the polished surface; she had perfected the 

i n t e r i o r monologue, stream of consciousness and cinematic 

time s h i f t s . But t h i s was the "surface" of her work, and i t 

i s p r e c i s e l y the play of tensions between surface and depth 

i n her novels which takes her beyond Modernism. S t y l i s t i c a l l y , 

hers i s an elegant, a e s t h e t i c a l l y cool and dispassionate 

voice. It was her disturbing narrative t r i c k , however, to 

c u l t i v a t e , d e l i b e r a t e l y , a sense of distance between the 

cool, i r o n i c surface of the text, whose voice i s poised and 

controlled, and i t s underlying voice, which i s that of the 

alienated female consciousness, mute with horror, yet 

possessing a b r u t a l l y clear sense of who and what i s to 

blame. This s t y l i s t i c gap, between surface calm and psycho-

nightmare beneath, reminds us of the l e i t - m o t i f of many 

of her novels: the horror beneath apparent beauty. And 

i t i s b a s i c a l l y content rather than form which puts Rhys 

at odds with her Modernist forbears, male and female. I f , 

in the beauty/horror dichotomy, we'.were to substitute 

convention/the status quo for the apparent surface r e a l i t y 



2 2 2 

and the primitive nightmare existence of the victim of 

tyrannical and predetermined s o c i a l and sexual forces for 

the horror, we can see the subversive s o c i a l implications 

of her work. If we were to go further and substitute male 

for apparent r e a l i t y and female for horror, at least i n 

terms of experience, we can see the subversive sexual 

implications of her work. 

The existence and survival of her impoverished and 

declassee female protagonists in geographical e x i l e on the 

c r i m i n a l , a r t i s t i c fringe of respectable society, act as 

indictiments of both the bourgeoisie and the bohemians. 

As an outsider to both, the Rhys woman exposes them as 

equally conventional, h i e r a r c h i c a l and h y p o c r i t i c a l . Her 

p o s i t i o n of e x i l e gives her an oddly p r i v i l e g e d angle of 

v i s i o n oh them. Because she wishes to subvert and expose 

them, she makes the. dramatic moments in her texts moments 

of rupture, when the horror smashes through the surface 

calm. Because t h i s a r t i f i c i a l calm i s so frequently 

maintained by the men in her books, at great cost to women 

who are generally l i v i n g the horror, she provides a : 

r a d i c a l counter-vision to the mainstream Modernists 1 

representation of the sexes and the patterns of order 

implied. She saw i n male Modernist f i c t i o n s a f a l s e 

mythologizing and misrepresentation of female conscious-

ness, a f a l s e sense of "resolution" in sexual union and 

a misplaced sense of restored order, when for example, at 

the end of Ulysses, Molly f i n a l l y gives i n . Rhys intended 



223 

a great deal more.innher rendering of the dispossessed 

female consciousness than the t r a d i t i o n a l Modernist 

examination of the gap between speech and f e e l i n g . In her 

works, she passionately denies the c u l t u r a l truisms for 

appropriate sexual emotions and behaviour as the male 

Modernists have r e f l e c t e d them, and never more c l e a r l y 

than in her l a s t novel of the 30's, Good Morning, Midnight, 

described accurately by one c r i t i c as "Good Night to 
12 

Modernism." 
i 

The novel i s a quintessential work of late-Modernism, 

embodying the sense of impending disaster of the 30's; the 

protagonist's whole existence i s recorded as an i n t e r s t i c e . 

Her t o t a l concern i s with s u r v i v a l . She i s at war with the 

world even as the world becomes increasingly the landscape 

of her alienated mind. Freedom, and the power of 

uncontrollable outside forces to crush i t , are central 

concerns. The characters, c i t i z e n s of Europe, are e x i l e s 

of uncertain i d e n t i t y — " n o paper, no passport... the 
13 

s l i g h t e s t accident and I'm f i n i s h e d . " The book ends 

with a sex scene which reads l i k e a grotesque parody of 

Joyce's at the end of Ulysses, and thus returns us to the 

i d e o l o g i c a l component of Rhys' writing which f u e l l e d her 

damning c r i t i q u e of c l a s s , sexual and s o c i a l power 

structures. Her character, Sasha Jansen, allows herself 

to be sexually taken by a spectral death's-head f i g u r e , 

the "commis voyageur" in. the sordid boarding house rather 

than the man she cares f o r , because she i s despairing and 



exhausted and because she f i n a l l y admits that, to the 

outside world at least, she and the ugly and s o l i t a r y 

t r a v e l l i n g salesman are equals. When she says "yes" to him, 

i t i s the s t u f f of ultimate nightmare for author and 

character. This i s Rhys:! e x p l i c i t commentary on Joyce's 

conclusion to Ulysses, a t r a d i t i o n a l l y l i f e affirming 

scene, which i s , she says, f a l s e to the core. This episode 

of pure s e l f - a n n i h i l a t i o n marks the onset of a 28 year 

silence for Rhys. 

Jean Rhys had attacked the power structures of conventional 

society as they immobilized and misrepresented women. She 

did so from what feminists would c a l l "a secure gender base," 

however, Gertrude Stein offered a very d i f f e r e n t challenge 

to gender and i t s representation in a r t . Her challenge was 

a psychological one. Her r e f u s a l in narrative to '•' 

"psychologize" characters or to ascribe motives, combined 

with her powerful b e l i e f i n androgyny as an ideal 

i n t e l l e c t u a l and a r t i s t i c p o s i t i o n from which to write, meant 

that she refused to consider her own or her characters' 

a l i e n a t i o n from the gender conventions of t h e i r culture. 

Alienation was not a concept she bothered with. Like Rhys, 

Stein was an expatriate, but one who was a central figure 

in her adopted culture, largely due to her independent 

wealth. Like Rhys' poverty, Stein's lesbianism may have 

put her into a less than p r i v i l e g e d sub-culture, but by 

adopting the persona of the wealthy, independent androgyne, 

she refused to be marginalized. She was able to create a 



2 2 5 

powerful sense of herself in the present on terms which 

suited her. As her s e l f - p o r t r a i t embodied her a r t i s t i c 

p r i n c i p l e s , we see her f o r c i b l y eliminating the psyche, the 

memory, past and present from her rendering of her own 

existence and consciousness. She turns herself from a 

three-dimensional being with a l l these q u a l i t i e s into a 

f l a t , one dimensional work of v i s u a l a r t , a p o r t r a i t made 

up of r e f l e c t i n g cubist planes. This exercise i s very 

much in keeping with a move from "depth" to "surface" 

s t y l i s t i c representation t y p i c a l of late Modernist novels 
14 

i n the view of c r i t i c , Alan Wilde. Nevertheless there 

were some rather murky depths to Stein's deceptive 

s e l f - p o r t r a i t . She claimed, as an i n t e l l e c t u a l and.as an 

a r t i s t , to be genderless, while l i v i n g as a lesbian and 

frequently acting l i k e the Grand Old Man of Modernism, and 

i n the process as an A r t i s t Figure. It i s paradoxical 

that as a profound disbeliever in poetry and metaphor, 

she had to use them in her autobiography; she was forced to 

encode/inscribe herself i n the metaphors she chose to reveal 

only selected glimpses of her actual l i f e . 

.Her challenge to gender representation in l i t e r a t u r e 

i s subversive and successful p r e c i s e l y because she considers 

i t i r r e l e v a n t . Human nature and the.workings of the human 

mind are her declared subjects. Character and c r e a t i v i t y , 

she believed, have nothing to do with gender. This 

philosophical b e l i e f required her to ignore a great number 

of l i t e r a r y conventions that would have bound her to 



226 

Modernism and made her a l e s s i n f l u e n t i a l w r i t e r . Because 

she p o r t r a y e d h e r s e l f and others from a gender-free 

p e r s p e c t i v e , she made i t c l e a r t h a t she was d e a l i n g with 

human types i n a n o n - p s y c h o l o g i c a l , n o n - r e a l i s t i c and 

non-mythical manner. Her b e l i e f t h a t consciousness i s 

f i n a l l y a b l e to express nothing but i t s own continuous flow 

o f thought r e p r e s e n t s a r t i s t i c anarchy a f t e r the sense of 

a c o n t r o l l e d r e a l i t y which the w r i t e r s of the 20's attempted 

and v a l u e d . 

L i k e Rhys, S t e i n was i n the 30's, a w r i t e r i n t r a n s i t i o n . 

The Autobiography of A l i c e B. Toklas i s , i n c e r t a i n 

s t y l i s t i c r e s p e c t s , a p e r f e c t Modernist t e x t . But i n 

a d d i t i o n to i t s s u b v e r s i v e q u a l i t i e s as a s e l f - p o r t r a i t 

beyond gender, t h e r e are other aspects of the work which 

p o i n t beyond the p e r i o d . As a Modernist, she had c o n t i n u e d 

to " s t y l i z e " r e a l i t y , but by 1934 she had taken t h i s 

s t y l i z e d r e a l i t y to the p o i n t of fragmentation, where words 

cease to convey c o n v e n t i o n a l meaning of any k i n d . 

" D e c o n s t r u c t i o n , " her p r i n c i p l e of composition s i n c e 1927, 

which i n v o l v e d i g n o r i n g , manipulating or a l t e r i n g r e c e i v e d 

conventions, she now a p p l i e s to 20's Modernism, as w e l l as 

to the i m p r e s s i o n i s t i c p e r i o d b e f o r e i t . The p a r t i c u l a r 

brand of l i t e r a r y minimalism she develops a t t h i s stage 

l i n k s her with much l a t e r developments i n t w e n t i e t h century 

w r i t i n g , n o t a b l y with Beckett and Sarraute and o t h e r w r i t e r s 

of the French nouveau roman, and with the e n t i r e body of 
15 

post-modern, s e l f - r e f l e x i v e American f i c t i o n . 



227 

A purely s t y l i s t i c reading of Djuna Barnes 1 c l a s s i c , 

Nightwood, sees her as the prose poet of Modernism, combining 

the strengths of E l i o t and Joyce. However, her challenge 

to Modernism, those q u a l i t i e s that.made her a late-Modernist 

and an important t r a n s i t i o n a l writer, were not i n matters of 

form, but' l i k e Rhys, in content. Like Stein, she offered 

an androgynous challenge to the p r e v a i l i n g Modernist sense 

of o r d e r — s e x u a l , s o c i a l and l i t e r a r y . The c i v i l i z i n g power 

of art in her works, including, one senses her own mastery 

of metaphor, f a i l s to conceal the primitive and i t s v i o l e n t 

threat to apparent order. Her masterpiece i s set e n t i r e l y 

in t h i s primitive nightworld, where the beauties of i n t r i c a t e 

surface design and the metaphorical i n s c r i p t i o n s of meaning 

s i g n i f y Modernism exhausted, and the human s p i r i t approaching 

collapse into war, s i m i l a r l y exhausted. 

Like both Rhys and Stein, Barnes was an e x i l e from 

conventional society several times over. The product of a 

alienated and sexually eccentric family, Barnes was another 

displaced American in Paris in the 1920's and 30's. 

Frequently impoverished l i k e Rhys, she too was a c u l t u r a l 

fringe dweller, rather than a central figure l i k e Stein. 

But she shared with Stein the desire, as a lesbian 

i n t e l l e c t u a l , to display, in her f i c t i o n , how i r r e l e v a n t 

conventions about gender are. Her motives were d i f f e r e n t 

from Stein's however; where Stein saw herself above gender, 

Barnes saw i t as an i r r e l e v a n t consideration in the face 

of the abyss of human desire generally. Her transvestites. 



228 

simply embody the worst of the male and female l o t . Like 

Rhys and Stein, Barnes refused to i n t e r n a l i z e or r e f l e c t , 

in her work, the p a t r i a r c h a l view of her s e l f and her 

p o s i t i o n as a sexual or s o c i a l being. The human position , 

e s p e c i a l l y as i t faces the gun once more in the 30's i s her 

concern. Its metaphorical landscape i s the "night wood," 

just as the characters, regardless of t h e i r sex, are 

metaphors of human desire. And a l l of these are metaphorical 

representations of Djuna Barnes' sense of herself and her 

world. 

Like i t s close contemporary, Rhys' Good Morning, Midnight, 

Nightwood i s also a farewell to Modernism in several important 

respects. It begins as a f i c t i o n a l s e l f - p o r t r a i t of a 

s p i r i t facing extinction,showing the conventions of sexual 

desire as just one more torture, and pure being, beyond 

gender and time, an i d e a l that f e l l with Eden. The novel 

i s , as well, a b r i l l i a n t metaphorical p o r t r a i t of Europe, 

wasted by the corruption and indulgence of the 20's, doomed 

and s l i d i n g hopelessly towards war and r u i h . F i n a l l y and 

most compellingly, the book also marks the f a l l of what 

was r i c h and powerful in the language of the Modernist 

masters, into the degraded, i r r e l e v a n t chatter of her 

characters. Djuna Barnes, l i k e Jean Rhys, also f e l l s i l e n t 

a f t e r t h i s novel, for many years. 

The multiple and metaphorical s e l f - p o r t r a i t s in f i c t i o n 

by Jean Rhys, Gertrude Stein and Djuna Barnes indicate a 

much larger r e - d e f i n i t i o n of s u b j e c t i v i t y in f i c t i o n a l forms 



i n the 1930's. Their decentred narratives allow the author to 

move i n and out of the personal, breaking with mimetic 

disclosure as the p r i n c i p l e concern of autobiographical 

writing. So begins what Roland Barthes has c a l l e d a 

"conscious deconstructing of the s e l f , an a l e r t r e j e c t i o n of 

wholeness or transcendence, showing that the psychoanalytic 

function of self-representation has given way in the modern 

period to a consciously philosophical and deconstructive one." 

The three women who have been the subjects of t h i s thesis 

were part of t h i s deconstructive process in the i d e o l o g i c a l l y 

subversive expression of t h e i r r e f u s a l to be a r t i s t figures 

i n t h e i r texts, or to be the extinguished selves of e a r l i e r 

female aestheticism. Instead, they metaphorized, in f i c t i o n , 

the r e a l ingredients of t h e i r l i v e s , lesbianism or poverty 

and e x i l e , so exposing the falsehoods of the "unified, whole 

s p i r i t u a l s e l f " which was the male Modernist i d e a l . 



2 3 0 1 

FOOTNOTES 

Chapter One 

1 Malcolm Bradbury and James McFarlane ed., Modernism 
(Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1976) 19-52. 

2 
David Hume, A. Treatise of Human Nature (1739-4 9 ; rpt. 

London J.M. Dent & Sons Ltd., 1959) quoted in P a t r i c i a Meyer 
Spacks, Imagining a S e l f : Autobiography and the Novel in  
Eighteenth Century England (Cambridge, Mass: Harvard Univ. 
Press, 1976) 239. 

3 
F. Nietzsche, The W i l l to Power, trans. Walter 

Kaufman & R.J. Hollingdale, ed. Walter Kaufmann (New York: 
Vintage, 1968) 267. 

4 
C r i t i c s who o f f e r deconstructionist readings of the 

f i c t i v e s e l f include J. Mehlman, A Structural Study of  
Autobiography: Proust, L e i r i s , Sartre, Levi-Strauss (Ithaca: 
Cornell Univ. Press, 1974). Paul Jay, Being in the Text 
(Ithaca: Cornel Univ. Press, 1984). 

5 Jay 28. 

6 Jay 28. 

7 
Paul de Man, "Autobiography as a De-facement," Modern  

Language Notes, 94 (1979): 921-27". 
o 
D.H. Lawrence, Sons and Lovers (New York: Random 

House, 1962); James Joyce, P o r t r a i t of the A r t i s t as a Young  
Man (New York: Viking Press, 1916). 

9 
Northrop Frye, Anatomy of C r i t i c i s m : Four Essays 

(Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1957) 307-8. 

John Sturrock, "The New Model Autobiographer," New  
L i t e r a r y History, 9, No. 1 (1977): 52. 

1 1 David Lodge, "The Language of Modernist F i c t i o n : 
Metaphor and Metonymy," Bradbury and McFarlane, Modernism 
481-498. 

1 2 
James Olney, Metaphors of the S e l f : The Meaning of  

Autobiography (Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1972). 



2 3 1 

13 
J a m e s O l n e y , e d . , A u t o b i o g r a p h y : E s s a y s T h e o r e t i c a l  

a n d C r i t i c a l ( P r i n c e t o n : P r i n c e t o n U n i v . P r e s s , 1 9 8 0 ) 1 0 . 

14 
O l n e y , A u t o b i o g r a p h y , 34 

1 5 
P h i l i p p e L e j e u n e , " A u t o b i o g r a p h y i n t h e 3 r d . P e r s o n , 

New L i t e r a r y H i s t o r y , 9 , N o . 1 ( 1 9 7 7 ) : 2 7 . 

16 
L e j e u n e 42 

1 7 

18 

J a m e s J o y c e , U l y s s e s q u o t e d J a y 1 1 5 

J a m e s J o y c e , P o r t r a i t o f t h e A r t i s t a s a Y o u n g M a n 
(New Y o r k : V i k i n g P r e s s , 1 9 1 6 ) ; U l y s s e s ( L o n d o n : B o d l e y 

H e a d , 1 9 4 9 ) ; D . H . L a w r e n c e , S o n s a n d L o v e r s (New Y o r k : 
R a n d o m H o u s e , 1 9 6 2 ) ; Women i n L o v e (New Y o r k : V i k i n g P r e s s , 
1 9 5 0 ) ; M a r c e l P r o u s t , Ax l a r e c h e r c h e d u t e m p s p e r d u ( P a r i s : 
G a l l i m a r d , 1 9 5 4 ) ; R e m e m b r a n c e o f T h i n g s P a s t , t r a n s . C . K . 
S c o t t M o n c r i e f f & T e r e n c e K i l m a r t i n (New Y o r k : R a n d o m H o u s e , 
1 9 8 1 ) ; T i m e R e g a i n e d , t r a n s . A n d r e a s M a y o r ( L o n d o n : C h a t t o 
& W i n d u s , 1 9 7 0 ) . 

19 
T . E . H u l m e , S p e c u l a t i o n s ; E s s a y s o n H u m a n i s m a n d t h e  

P h i l o s o p h y o f A r t , e d . H e r b e r t R e a d ( L o n d o n 
T r u b n e r & C o . 
P h i l o s o p h y , e 
K . S k r u p s k e l i 
E s s a y s i n P h i 

, L t d . , 1 9 3 6 ) ; W i l l i a m J a m e s , E 
d . F r e d e r i c k H . B u r k h a r d t , F r e d 
s ( C a m b r i d g e , M a s s . : H a r v a r d U n 
l o s o p h y , e d . F r e d e r i c k H . B u r k h 

B o w e r s , I g n a s 
P r e s s , 1 9 8 3 ) ; 
o n t h e " i m m e d 

K . S k r u p s k e l i s ( C a m b r i d g e , M a s 
H e n r i B e r g s o n , T i m e a n d F r e e W  

i a t e d a t a o f c o n s c i o u s n e s s , " a u t h o r i z e d t r a n s 

K . P a u l T r e n c h 
s s a y s i n 
s o n B o w e r s , I g n a s 
i v . P r e s s , 19 7 8 ) ; 
a r d t , F r e d s o n 
s . : H a r v a r d U n i v . 
i l l : A n e s s a y 

R . L . P o g s o n (New Y o r k : M a c m i l l a n , 1 9 1 3 ) 

2 0 
A v r o m F l e i s h m a n , F i g u r e s o f A u t o b i o g r a p h y : T h e  

L a n g u a g e o f S e l f - W r i t i n g i n V i c t o r i a n a n d M o d e r n E n g l a n d 
( C a l i f o r n i a : U n i v . o f C a l i f o r n i a P r e s s , 1 9 8 3 ) . 

2 1 
F l e i s h m a n 1 9 4 . 

22 
J . M . B e r n s t e i n , T h e P h i l o s o p h y o f t h e N o v e l : L u k a c s , 

M a r x i s m a n d t h e D i a l e c t i c s o f F o r m ( B r i g h t o n : T h e H a r v e s t e r 
P r e s s , 1 9 8 4 ) 2 4 8 . 

2 3 
W . B . Y e a t s , " A n i m a H o m i n i s , " E s s a y s ( L o n d o n : 

M a c m i l l a n , 1 9 2 6 ) 1 8 7 . 

24 
R o y P a s c a l , D e s i g n a n d T r u t h i n . A u t o b i o g r a p h y 

( C a m b r i d g e , M a s s . : H a r v a r d U n i v . P r e s s , 1 9 6 0 ) 1 7 0 . 



232 

2 5 Pascal 171. 

2 6 Pascal 171. 

2 7 
Jay 146. 

28 x 
Marcel Proust, A l a recherche du temps perdu (Paris: 

Galimard, Editions de l a Pleiade, 1954) 899. 

29 
James Joyce, Stephen Hero, ed. Theodore Spence 

(Norfolk, Conn.: New Directions, 1963). 30 , , „ Jay 143. 
31 

Jay, p. 127. For further discussion of the role of 
the language in Stephen's developing consciousness see 
Helene Cixoux, The Exile of James Joyce, trans. S a l l y A.J. 
P u r c e l l (New York: David Lewis, 1972); Dorothy Van Ghent, 
The English Novel: Form and Function (New York: Holt, 
Rinehart & Winston, 1953) 263-76. 

32 
Joyce, P o r t r a i t 24 6-7. 

33 
Maurice Beebe, Ivory Towers and Sacred Founts:  

The A r t i s t as Hero in F i c t i o n from Goethe to Joyce (New York: 
New York Univ. Press, 1964) 267. 

34 / 
Andre Gide, l e t t e r to Franq:ois Paul Albert, 17 

January, 1914, quoted Wolfgang Holdheim, Theory and Practice  
of the Novel: A Study of Andre Gide (Geneva: L i b r a i r e Druz, 
1968) 100. 

35 Holdheim 100 

3 6 / 
Andre Gide, Journal, 8 February, 1927, Holdeim 102. 

37 Holdheim 20 3 

38 / 
Andre Gide, l e t t e r to Charles DuBos, Autumn, 1920, 

Holdheim 108. 
39 

Cora Kaplan, "Language and Gender," (unpublished 
paper, University of Sussex, 1977), quoted Elizabeth Abel, 
ed., Writing and Sexual Difference (Chicago: Univ. of 
Chicago Press, 1982) 24. 



233 

40 Elaine Showalter, "Feminist C r i t i c i s m in the 
Wilderness," Abel, 9-37. 

41 
Elaine Marks and Isabelle de Courtivron ed., 

New French Feminisms (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard Univ. Press, 
1979) . 

4 2 Elaine Showalter, A Literature of Their Own: B r i t i s h  
Women Novelists from Bronte to Lessing (Princeton: Princeton 
Univ. Press, 1977) . 

^ Showalter, "Feminist C r i t i c i s m in the Wilderness," 
Abel 14-17. 

4 4 Showalter, A Literature of Their Own 15. 

4 5 
Mary Jacobus ed., Women Writing About Women (New York: 

Barnes and Noble, 1979) 22. 
4 6 

Jacques Lacan, Les quatre concepts fondamentaux .de l a  
psychanalyse (Paris: S e u i l , 1973). 

47 „ , n Kaplan 5. 

4 8 

Nancy Chodorow, The Reproduction of Mothering:  
Psychoanalysis and the Sociology of Gender (Berkeley: 
Univ. of C a l i f o r n i a Press, 1978). 

4 9 

Showalter, A Literature of Their Own 4. 
5 0 Showalter, A Literature of Their Own 12. 

5 1 Showalter, A Literature of Their Own 6. 

5 2 

Mary Mason, "The Other Voice: Autobiographies of 
Women Writers," in Olney, Autobiography 207-235. 

53 
Mason 222. 

5 4 
L i l l i a n Hellman, An Unfinished Woman: A Memoir, 

(New York: Bantam, 1969); Gold Meir, My L i f e , (New York: 
Putnam, 1975); Emma Goldman, Living My L i f e , 2 vols. (New 
York: A l f r e d A. Knopf, 1931). For a discussion of L i l l i a n 
Hellman's memoirs see Marcus K. Bilson and Sidonie A. Smith, 
" L i l l i a n Hellman and the Strategy of the 'Other,'" in 



234 

E s t e l l e Jelinek ed., Women's Autobiography: Essays in  
C r i t i c i s m (Bloomington: Indiana Univ. Press, 1980) 163-179. 

115 
^ P a t r i c i a Meyer Spacks, "Selves in Hiding," i n Jelinek 

56 
Jelinek, Introduction 4. 

57 
Mason 228. 

5 8 
Judith Kegan Gardiner, "Oh Female Identity and 

Writing by Women," in Abel 177-191. 
59 

Colette, Sido, (Paris: Ferenczi, 1930). 

^° Mary McCarthy, Memories of a Catholic Girldhood, 
(New York: Harcourt Brace, 19 57); Maxine Hong Kingston, 
The Woman Warrior: Memoirs of a Girlhood Among Ghosts, 
(New York: Knopt, 19 76) . 

^ Djuna Barnes, Nightwood in Selected Works of Djuna  
Barnes (London: Faber & Faber, 1980) 324. 

6 2 
John Berger, Ways of Seeing (London: B.B.C. & 

Penguin Books, 1972) 46-7. 
6 3 

George E l i o t , Middlemarch (Harmondsworth: Penguin ; 
Books, 1965) 166. 

64 
Susan Gubar, "'The Blank Page' and Female C r e a t i v i t y , " 

in Abel, Writing and Sexual Difference 79. 
6 5 Gubar 82. 

^ Susan Gubar, "'The Blank Page' and the Issues of 
Female C r e a t i v i t y , " in Abel 77-79. 

W i l l a Cather, The Song of the Lark (Boston & New 
York: Houghton M i f f l i n , 1915); Colette, La Vagabon'de (Paris: 
G. Gres & Cre., 1923); Miles Franklin, My B r i l l i a n t Career 
(Sydney: Angus & Robertson, 1965); Henry Handel Richardson, 
The Getting of Wisdom (London: Heinemann, 1946). There i s 
also a c r i t i c a l work by Linda Huf, whose t i t l e i s P o r t r a i t  
of the A r t i s t as a Young Woman: The Writer as Heroine in  
American Literature (New York: Frederick Ungar Publishing 
Co., 1983). Writers considered by Huf are Ruth H a l l , 
Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, Kate Chopin, W i l l a Cather, Carson 
McCullers and Sulvia Plath. 



235 

^ Sharon Spencer, "Feminism and the Woman Writer," 
Women's Studies, 11, No. 3 (1974). 

69 
Edmund Wilson, Axel's Castle: A Study in the  

Imaginative Literature of 1870-1930 (New York: Charles 
Scribner's Sons, 1931). 

70 
Dorothy Richardson, Pilgrimage, 4 vols. (London: 

J.M. Dent & The Cresset Press; New York: A l f r e d A. Knopf, 
1938); Katherine Mansfield, Thirty-Four Short Stories, 
Selected and with an Introduction by Elizabeth Bowen 
(London & Glasgow: C o l l i n s , 1963); V i r g i n i a Woolf, The  
Voyage Out (London:' The Hogarth Press, 1915); To The  
Lighthouse (New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1927); 
Mrs. Dalloway, (London: The Hogarth Press, 1929); The Waves 
(New York: Harcourt, Brace & World Inc., 1959). 

71 
Showalter, A Literature of Their Own 33-4. 

72 
Richardson, Pointed Roofs (Pilgramage v o l . 1), 

Introduction by J.D. Beresford (London: Duckworth, 1915). 
73 

G i l l i a n Hanscombe, The Art of L i f e : Dorothy  
Richardson and the Development of Feminist Consciousness 
(London & Boston: Peter Owen, 1982) 25-6. 

74 
Showalter in A Literature of Their Own, 246 c i t e s 

the short story " B l i s s " in which the heroine's self-generated 
feelings of exultation are immediately followed by the 
discovery of her husband's adultery. 

75 
James Naremore, The World Without a Self (New Haven 

& London: Yale Univ. Press, 1973) 122. 
76 

77 

78 

79 

80 

81 

Woolf, To the Lighthouse 94. 

Naremore 2 6. 

Colette, La Vagabonde (Paris: G. Gres & Cre, 1923) 

Colette, La Vagabonde 7, 17. 

Colette, La Vagabonde 2 73. 

Jacques Lacan, Le moi dans l a theorie de Freud et  
dans l a technique de l a psychanalysis 1954-1955 (Paris: 
S e u i l , 1978). 



Elaine Showalter, "Feminist C r i t i c i s m " in Abel 24. 
Q O 

Colette, La Naissance du Jour (Paris: Flammarion, 
1928) . 

84 
Colette, La Naissance du Jour, Frontispiece. 

Q C 
Nancy K. M i l l e r , "The Anamnesis of a Female 'I' in 

the Margins of S e l f - P o r t r a y a l " in Colette: The Woman, the  
Writer, ed. E r i c a Mendelson Eisinger and Mari Ward McCarty 
(Univ. Park & London: Penn. State Univ. Press, 1981) 75. 

8 6 Helene Cixous, "Le Rire de l a Meduse," L'Arc 61 
(1975),40. 

8 7 M i l l e r 77. 

8 8 
Gertrude Stein, Composition as Explanation (London: 

Hogarth Press, 1926) 54. 
8 9 

Renata Adler, Speedboat (New York: Random House, 
1976); Pitch Dark (New York: Knopf, 1983); Marguerite Duras 
L'amant (Paris: Editions de minuit, 1984); La douleur (Pari 
P.O.L., 1985); Nathalie. Sarraute, Les f r u i t s d'or (Paris: 
Gallimard, 1963); Entre l a vie et l a mort (Paris: Gallimard 
1968) . 



237 
Chapter Two 

^ Jean Rhys, "Temps Perdi," Art and L i t e r a t u r e , 12 (Spring 
1,967) 122 . 

2 
Diana A t h i l l , foreward to Jean Rhys, Smile Please: an  

Unfinished Autobiography (London: Deutsch, 1979) 6. 
3 A t h i l l 6. 

4 A t h i l l 9. 
5 

Judith Kegan Gardiner, "Good Morning, Midnight; Good 
Night Modernism""Boundary 2 9 (1982): 230-242. 

6 Kegan Gardiner 233 . 
7 

See also P h y l l i s Shand A l l f r e y , The Orchid House 
(London: Virago Press, 1982; 1st. published London: Constable, 
1953). 

8 
Kenneth Ramchand, The West Indian Novel and i t s  

Background (New York: Barnes & Noble) 223-36, explores the 
implications of t h i s uneasy master/slave r e l a t i o n s h i p . 

9 
Jean Rhys, Wide Sargasso Sea (London: Deutsch, 1966) 

133-37 i n which Antoinette resorts to native "obeah" to try 
to win Rochester back. 

George Orwell, Down and Out in Paris and London (New 
York: Harcourt & Brace, 1951). 

Francis Carco, Perversity, trans. Ford Madox Ford 
(Chicago: Pascal C o v i c i , 1928). Reported in Arthur Mizener, 
The Saddest Story: a Biography of Ford Madox Ford (New York: 
World Publishing Co., 1971) 1263 as being the work in r e a l i t y , 
of Jean Rhys. 

1 2 Carco 84. 

13 ' 
Albert Camus, L'Etranger (Paris: Gallimard, 1944; 

p r t . 1964); Marguerite Duras, Le Ravissment de Lol V. Stein 
(Paris: Gallimard, 1964). 



23-8 

M a l c o l m B r a d b u r y , T h e S o c i a l C o n t e x t o f M o d e r n 
E n g l i s h L i t e r a t u r e ( O x f o r d : O x f o r d U n i v . P r e s s , 1 9 7 1 ) . ; r 
R a y m o n d W i l l i a m s , C u l t u r e a n d S o c i e t y : 1 7 8 0 - 1 9 59 ( L o n d o n : 
M a c m i l l a n , 1 9 5 9 ) . 

1 5 
R a m c h a n d 2 3 3 . 

1 6 J u d i t h T h u r m a n , " T h e M i s t r e s s a n d t h e M a s k : J e a n 
R h y s ' F i c t i o n , " M s . , J a n . 1 9 7 6 : 5 0 - 5 3 . 

1 7 
T h u r m a n 5 4 . 

1 8 
V . S . N a i p a u l , " W i t h o u t a D o g ' s C h a n c e , " N e w Y o r k  

R e v i e w o f B o o k s 18 ( 1 8 M a y 19 7 2 ) ; 3 0 . 

19 
H o w a r d M o s s , " G o i n g t o P i e c e s , " New Y o r k e r , D e c . 1 6 , 

1 9 7 4 : 1 6 1 -

2 0 

J e a n R h y s , Q u a r t e t ( L o n d o n : D e u t s c h , 1 9 6 9 ) 7 3 . 

2 1 M o s s 1 6 0 . 
J e a n R h y s , T h e L e f t B a n k a n d O t h e r S t o r i e s ( F r e e p o r t : 

N e w Y o r k : B o o k s f o r L i b r a r i e s , P r e s s , 1 9 7 0 : r e p r i n t o f 1 9 2 7 
e d . ) . . _ 

2 3 " T r i o , " L e f t B a n k 1 4 . 

24 

" M i x i n g C o c k t a i l s , " L e f t B a n k 8 8 . 

2 5 " A g a i n t h e A n t i l l e s , " L e f t B a n k 9 7 . 

T h u r m a n 5 0 . 
J e a n R h y s , V o y a g e i n t h e D a r k (New Y o r k : W . W . N o r t o n 

1 9 6 8 ) . 

2 8 
L o u i s J a m e s , J e a n R h y s : C r i t i c a l S t u d i e s o f C a r i b b e a n  

W r i t e r s ( L o n d o n : L o n g m a n , 19 7 8 ) 5 0 . 

29 
R h y s , V o y a g e i n t h e D a r k 7 . A l l o t h e r r e f e r e n c e s t o 

t h i s n o v e l w i l l b e i n c l u d e d p a r e n t h e t i c a l l y i n t h e t e x t . 



30 Selma Vaz Diaz, an acress, advertised to see i f anyone 
knew whether Jean Rhys, who had been for some time livincr in 
seclusion, was a l i v e or dead. She wanted the rights to Good  
Morning, Midnight (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1969), to 
perform i t as a radio play. Rhys herself answered the 
advertisement. The radio play was, i n f a c t , performed and was 
responsible for a renewal of interest in Rhys' work, and for 
Rhys herself, the momentum to write Wide Sargasso Sea, her 
most widely acclaimed novel. These events were documented in 
Francis Wyndham and Diana Melly ed. Jean Rhys Letters: 1931- 
1966, (London: Deutsch, 1984). 

31 
Ramchand 22 3. 

32 
James Anthony Froude, The English in the West Indies 

(1887) as quoted in Ramchand 223. 
3 3 

Shaffley, The Orchid House, Introduction. 
34 

Rhys, Wide Sargasso Sea 19. A l l other references to 
t h i s novel w i l l be included p a r e n t e t i c a l l y in the text. 

35 
Ramchand 221. 

3 6 
Rhys, Quartet 8. 

T 7 
S t e l l a Bowen, Drawn From L i f e (London: C o l l i n s , 1941) 42 

3 8 Bowen 43. 

3 9 
Rhys, Quartet 22. A l l other references to t h i s novel 

w i l l appear parenthetically in the text. 
4(^ Jean Rhys, After Leaving Mr. Mackenzie (London: Deutsch, 

1969). A l l other references to t h i s novel w i l l appear 
parenthetically in the text. 

4 1 Thomas F. Staley, Jean Rhys: A C r i t i c a l Study (London: 
Macmillan, 1979) 84-5. 

4 2 Rhys, Good Morning, Midnight 10. A l l other references 
to t h i s novel w i l l appear parenthetically in the text. 

Emily Dickinson, "Good Morning, Midnight," quoted in 
Kegan Gardiner 2 34. 



« 

240 

Kegan Gardiner 234. 

4 5 V i r g i n i a Woolf, A Room of One's Own (New York: 
Harcourt, Brace & World, 1957). 

46 
A. Alvarez, "The Best Living English Novelist," 

New York Times Book Review, 17 March: 1-7. 
4 7 Naipaul 29. 

4 8 
Ford Madox Ford, The Good Soldier (London: The Bodley 

Head, 1915). 
49 

Ford Madox Ford, Joseph Conrad, A Personal Remembrance 
(Boston: L i t t l e , Brown & Co., 1924). 

50 
Ford, Joseph Conrad 43. 



241' 
Chapter Three 

James Mellow, Charmed C i r c l e : Gertrude Stein and  
Company (New York: Praeger Publishers, 1974) 372. 

2 
Malcolm Cowley, Exile's Return (New York: Viking Press, 

1956). 
3 

Cowley 77. 
4 

Thornton Wilder's Introduction to Gertrude Stein, Four  
in America (New Haven: Yale Univ. Press, 1947) 3-4. 

5 
Stein,Paris France 3. 

6 Gertrude Stein, The Autobiography of A l i c e B. Toklas 
in Selected Works of Gertrude Stein ed. Carl Van Vechten 
(New York: Vintage Books, 1962) 73. 

7 
Gertrude Stein, The Geographical History of America  

or the Relation of Human Nature to the Human Mind (New York: 
Random House, 19 36) 11. 

Q 

Stein, Autobiography 456. 
g 

Gertrude Stein, Wars I Have Seen, (New York: Random 
House, 1945) 32. 

1 0 Stein, Paris France 10, 30. 

11 Stein, Paris France 9 . 

12 Stein, Paris France 3. 

13 Stein, Paris France 2 . 

14 Stein, Paris France 1. 

15 Stein, Paris France 8-10 

16 Stein, Paris France 13 . 

17 Stein, Paris France 18 . 

18 Stein, Paris France 19 , 



242 

19 Stein, Paris France 20. 
20 

Stein, Paris France 3-6, 7. 
21 

See S. Neuman, Gertrude Stein: Autobiography and the  
Problem of Narration ( V i c t o r i a : English Literature Studies; 
Univ. of V i c t o r i a , 1979) 65 for a discussion of Stein's 
incorporation of s p e c i f i c a l l y narrative elements into an 
otherwise documentary format. 

22 
Stein, Autobiography 86, 91-2. 

23 
Stein, Autobiography 65. 

24 
Stein, Autobiography 86. 

2 5 
Stein, Autobiography 86. 

2 6 
Stein, Autobiography 91-2. 

2 7 
"Testimony against Gertrude Stein," t r a n s i t i o n , 

pamphlet 1, supplement to v o l . 23, July 1935. 
2 8 

For a study of the harlequin as a figure in the 
dramatic and v i s u a l arts see Robert F. Storey, P i e r r o t : A  
C r i t i c a l History of a Mask (Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 
1978) . 

2 9 
J.M. Brinnin, The Third Rose: Gertrude Stein and Her  

World (Boston: L i t t l e , Brown, 1959) 238. 
30 

For a selection of Stein's works which indicate the 
stages of her career see Carl Van Vechten ed. Selected Writings  
of Gertrude Stein (New York: Random House 1946) . It includes 
The Autobiography of A l i c e B. Toklas, Tender Buttons, Four  
Saints in Three Acts and "The Winner Loses." 

31 
Michael J. Hoffman, Gertrude Stein (Boston: Twayne, 

1976) 21. 
3 2 

Stein, The Autobiography of A l i c e B. Toklas, in 
Selected Writings of Gertrude Stein 49. 

3 3 Hoffman 54. 

3 4 Brinnin 129. 



243 
3 5Hoffman 59. 

3 6 
Richard Bridgman, Gertrude Stein in Pieces (New York: 

Something Else Press, 1966). 
37 

David Lodge, "The Language of Modernist F i c t i o n : 
Metaphor and Metonymy," i n Modernism ad. Malcolm Bradbury 
and James MacFarlane (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1976) 481-96, 

3 8 Lodge 481. 

39 
Gertrude Stein, The Making of Americans (New York: 

Something Else Press, 1966). 
4 0 

See Stein, The Autobiography 6 where t h i s remark i s 
attributed to Max Jacob. 

41 
Ford Madox Ford, It Was the Nightingale (Philadelphia: 

J.B. Lippincott, 1933); Ernest Hemminway, A Moveable Feast 
(New York: Bantam, by arrangement with Charles Scribner's 
Sons, 1969). 

42 
Most of the s i g n i f i c a n t Stein family a c t i v i t i e s Gertrude 

claimed for herself, including the decision to buy c e r t a i n 
canvases for which Leo was in fact responsible. 

43 
George Wickes, Americans in Paris (Garden City, N.Y.: 

Doubleday & Co., 1969) 117. 
44 

James Mellow, Charmed C i r c l e : Gertrude Stein and Company 
(New York: Praeger Publishers, 1974) 402-4. 

4 5 
Gertrude Stein, Stanzas in Meditation and Other Poems. 

Preface by Donald Sutherland. (New Haven: Yale Univ. Press, 
1956) 213-17. 

4 6 Mellow 403. 

4 7 
"A Transatlantic Interview, 1946," in A Primer For  

The Gradual Understanding Of Gertrude Stein ed. Robert 
B a r t l e t t Haas (Los Angeles: Black Sparrow Press, 1971) 19. 

4 8 
S.C. Neuman, Gertrude Stein: Autobiography and the  

Problem of Narration ( V i c t o r i a : English L i t e r a r y Studies; 
Univ. of V i c t o r i a Press, 1979) 29-30. 



244 

49 Neuman 23. 

Bergson Time and Free W i l l . 

51 
Gertrude Stein, Everybody's Autobiography (New York: 

Random House, 1937) 312. 
52 

Stein, The Autobiography, in Selected Writings of  
Gertrude Stein 6. A l l other references to t h i s novel w i l l 
be from t h i s e d i t i o n and w i l l be included parenthetically 
in the text. 

5 3 Mellow 297. 

54 
Stein, The Making of Americans, f i r s t published by 

Robert McAlmon's Contact Press, Paris 1925. 
.Wickes 57. 

^ 6 Wylie Sypher, From Rococo to Cubism (New York: Random 
House, 1960). 

5 7 Sypher ,2'9 7 . 

5 8 Sypher 298. 

59 

Sypher 300. 

6 0 Gertrude Stein, Lectures in America 16 0. 

6 ^ Stein, Lectures in America 160. 
Paul Alkon, "Visual Rhetoric in The Autobiography of  

A l i c e B. Toklas," C r i t i c a l Inquiry, 4 (1975): 849-81. 
6 3 Alkon 855. 

6 4 Alkon 862. 

6 5 Alkon 880. 

6 6 Gertrude Stein, "proclamation," t r a n s i t i o n , 16-17 
June 1929. 



2 4 5 

P a s c a l , D e s i g n a n d T r u t h i n A u t o b i o g r a p h y 2 0 . 

6 8 J e a n S t a r o b i n s k i , L a R e l a t i o n c r i t i q u e ( P a r i s : G a l l i m a r d 
1 9 7 0 ) 8 4 . 

G e r t r u d e S t e i n , F o u r i n A m e r i c a . I n t r o d u c t i o n b y 
T h o r n t o n W i l d e r , (New H a v e n : Y a l e U n i v . P r e s s , 1 9 3 6 ) . 

7 n 
M . M o n t a i g n e , L e s E s s a i s d e M i c h e l d e M o n t a i g n e , e d . 

P i e r r e V i l l e y ( P a r i s : P r e s s e s U n i v e r s i t a i r e s d e F r a n c e , 1 9 6 5 ) . 

7 1 
B r i d g m a n x v . 

7 2 
G e r t r u d e S t e i n , W h a t A r e M a s t e r p i e c e s . F o r e w a r d b y 

R o b e r t B a r t l e t t H a a s ( L o s A n g e l e s : C o n f e r e n c e P r e s s , 1 9 4 0 ) . 

73 
S t e i n , M a s t e r p i e c e s 4 7 . 

74 
N e u m a n 2 3 . 

7 5 t G e r t r u d e S t e i n , T h e G e o g r a p h i c a l H i s t o r y o f A m e r i c a  
o r t h e R e l a t i o n o f t h e H u m a n N a t u r e t o t h e Human M i n d . 
(New Y o r k : R a n d o m H o u s e , 1 9 3 6 ) . 

"7 £ 

. G e r t r u d e S t e i n , L e c t u r e s i n A m e r i c a (New Y o r k : 
S o m e t h i n g E l s e P r e s s , 1 9 6 6 ) 7 6 . 

7 7 

S t e i n , L e c t u r e s i n A m e r i c a 7 8 . 

7 8 
G e r t r u d e S t e i n , E v e r y b o d y ' s A u t o b i o g r a p h y (New Y o r k : 

R a n d o m H o u s e , 1 9 3 7 ) . 

7 9 

S t e i n , E v e r y b o d y ' s A u t o b i o g r a p h y 3 . 

8 0 G e r t r u d e S t e i n , A D i a r y (New Y o r k : R a n d o m H o u s e , 1 9 3 0 ) . 
Q "I 

S t e i n , A D i a r y 3 . 

S t e i n , A D i a r y 4 . 

8 3 S t e i n , A D i a r y 1 6 . 8 4 G e r t r u d e S t e i n , W a r s I H a v e S e e n (New Y o r k : R a n d o m 
H o u s e , 1 9 4 5 ) . 



2 4 6 

8 5 
Stein, Wars I Have Seen 3. 

8 6 

Stein, Wars I Have Seen 5. 

8 7 Neuman 72. 
Q O 

Stein, The Geographical History of America 16. 

H.D. Helen i n Egypt (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1961) 



C h a p t e r F o u r 

D j u n a B a r n e s , L a d i e s A l m a n a c k P r i n t e r f o r t h e A u t h o r 
a n d S o l d b y E d w a r d W. T i t u s ( P a r i s : 1 9 2 8 ) ; F a c s i m i l e e d i t i o n 
p u b l i s h e d N e w Y o r k : H a r p e r & R o w , 1 9 7 2 . 

2 
D j u n a B a r n e s , N i g h t w o o d ( L o n d o n : F a b e r & F a b e r , 1 9 3 6 ; 

N e w Y o r k : H a r c o u r t , B r u c e & C o . , 1 9 3 7 ; New Y o r k : New D i r e c t i o n s 
T h e New C l a s s i c s n o . 1 1 , 1 9 4 6 ; R e - i s s u e d i n S e l e c t e d W o r k s o f  
D j u n a B a r n e s (New Y o r k : F a r r a r , S t r a u s a n d G i r o u x , 1 9 6 2 ; L o n d o n 
F a b e r & F a b e r , 1 9 8 0 ) . A l l r e f e r e n c e s i n t h e t e x t w i l l b e 
f r o m t h i s e d i t i o n . 

3 
D j u n a B a r n e s , T h e A n t i p h o n : A P l a y ( L o n d o n : F a b e r & 

F a b e r , 1 9 5 8 ; New Y o r k : F a r r a r , S t r a u s a n d C u d a h y , 1 9 5 8 ) . A l s o 
i n S e l e c t e d W o r k s o f D j u n a B a r n e s . 

4 
D j u n a B a r n e s , " T h e D o v e " i n A B o o k (New Y o r k : B o n i & 

L i v e r i g h t , 1 9 2 3 ) 1 5 1 . 

5 
H a r o l d P i n t e r , T h e H o m e c o m i n g ( L o n d o n : M e t h u e n , 1 9 6 6 ) . 

6 B a r n e s , " T o t h e D o g s , " A B o o k 5 2 . 

7 

B a r n e s , " T h r e e F r o m t h e E a r t h , " A B o o k 1 8 - 2 5 . 

B a r n e s , " I n d i a n S u m m e r , " A B o o k 1 8 3 . 
9 

B a r n e s , " I n d i a n S u m m e r , " A B o o k 1 8 8 . 
1 0 B a r n e s , " O s c a r , " A B o o k 9 8 . 

L o u i s F . K a n n e n s t i n e , T h e A r t o f D j u n a B a r n e s (New 
Y o r k : N e w Y o r k U n i v . P r e s s , 1 9 7 7 ) 5 - 7 5 . 

12 
D j u n a B a r n e s , R y d e r (New Y o r k : H o r a c e L i v e r i g h t , 1 9 1 8 ; 

r e p u b l i s h e d w i t h a d d i t i o n a l m a t e r i a l s , New Y o r k : S t . M a r t i n ' s 
P r e s s , 1 9 7 9 ) 1 6 . 

13 
B a r n e s , R y d e r 1 8 . 

14 
I n 1 9 2 2 J o y c e p u b l i s h e d U l y s s e s i n P a r i s , E l i o t 

p u b l i s h e d T h e W a s t e L a n d i n L o n d o n , a n d P o u n d h a d b e g u n T h e 
C a n t o s . 



248 

15 George Steiner, "The C r u e l l e s t Months," New Yorker, 
22 A p r i l 1972: 134. 

16 
Djuna Barnes, A Night Among the Horses, (New York: 

Horace L i v e r i g h t , 1929). 
17 

Andrew F i e l d , Djuna: The L i f e and Times of Djuna  
Barnes (New York: Putnam, 1983) 94. 

18 
Suzanne C. Ferguson, "Djuna Barnes 1 Short Stories: 

An Estrangement of the Heart," Southern Review, Jan. 1969: 38. 
19 

Djuna Barnes " A l l e r et Retour," Selected Works of 3-11. 
20 

Barnes, "The Doctors," " A l l e r et Retour," Selected  
Works of 54. 

21 
Barnes, " A l l e r et Retour" 9. 

22 
Barnes, "The Doctors" 55. 

23 
Barnes, " A l l e r et Retour" 9. 

2 4 
:Barnes, "A Night Among the Horses," in Selected Work of 32. 

25 Barnes, "Spillway," in Selected Works of 65, 68, 69. 

2 6 F i e l d , Djuna '93. 

2 7 
James B. Scott, Djuna Barnes (Boston: Twayne, 19 76) 25, 

28 Barnes, "The Rabbit," in Selected Works of 53; "A 
ong the Horses," in Selt 

Barnes, "The Rabbit" 53 

Night Among the Horses," in Selected Works of 29-36 

29 

30 
Barnes, "A Night Among the Horses" 32. 

3 1 Barnes, "A Night Among the Horses" 29, 32 
32 Barnes, "The Doctors" 58. 



2 4 9 

33 
B a r n e s , " S p i l l w a y " 6 5 . 

34 
F e r g u s o n 4 0 . 

3 5 
D j u n a B a r n e s , V a g a r i e s M a l i c i e u s e s (New Y o r k : F r a n k 

H a l l m a n , 1 9 7 4 ; o r i g i n a l l y i n T h e D o u b l e r D e a l e r , New O r l e a n s , 
1 9 2 2 ) . 

3 6 S e e C h . 1 N o t e 1 8 . 

3 7 F i e l d 1 5 5 . 

3 8 F i e l d 1 5 5 . 

39 
F i e l d d i s c u s s e s t h e r e a l a n d t h e f i c t i o n a l D a n 

M a h o n e y 14 5 - 1 4 7 . 
40 

B a r n e s , N i g h t w o o d 3 4 8 . 

4 1 F i e l d 8 6 . 

42 
B a r n e s , N i g h t w o o d 3 2 7 . A l l o t h e r r e f e r e n c e s t o t h i s 

n o v e l w i l l b e i n c l u d e d p a r e n t h e t i c a l l y i n t h e t e x t . 
43 

C h a r l e s B a x t e r , " N i g h t w o o d a n d M o d e r n i s m , " J o u r n a l  
o f M o d e r n L i t e r a t u r e , 3 ( 1 9 7 4 ) : 1 1 7 6 . 

44 
I n h i s " N o t e s t o T h e W a s t e L a n d , " T . S . E l i o t e x p l a i n s 

t h a t " T i r e s i a s , a l t h o u g h a m e r e s p e c t a t o r a n d n o t i n d e e d a 
' c h a r a c t e r , 1 i s y e t t h e m o s t i m p o r t a n t p e r s o n a g e i n t h e p o e m , 

u n i t i n g a l l t h e r e s t . J u s t a s t h e o n e - e y e d m e r c h a n t , s e l l e r 
o f c u r r a n t s , m e l t s i n t o t h e P h o e n i c i a n S a i l o r , a n d t h e l a t t e r 
i s n o t w h o l l y d i s t i n c t f r o m F e r d i n a n d P r i n c e o f . N a p l e s , s o 
a l l t h e women a r e o n e w o m a n , a n d t h e t w o s e x e s m e e t i n 
T i r e s i a s . W h a t T i r e s i a s s e e s , i n f a c t , i s t h e s u b s t a n c e o f 
t h e p o e m ; " C o l l e c t e d P o e m s 1 9 0 9 - 1 9 3 5 ( L o n d o n : F a b e r & F a b e r , 
1 9 5 1 ) 8 0 . C a s s a n d r a , w h e n s h e h a d b e e n l o v e d b y t h e g o d , 
A p o l l o h a d b e e n g i v e n t h e g i f t o f p r o p h e s y b y h i m . W h e n h e 
w a s l a t e r o f f e n d e d b y h e r , h e r e n d e r e d h e r g i f t u s e l e s s b y 
o r d a i n i n g t h a t h e r p r e d i c t i o n s s h o u l d n e v e r b e b e l i e v e d . S e e 
C M . G a y l e y , T h e C l a s s i c M y t h s i n E n g l i s h L i t e r a t u r e a n d  
A r t (New Y o r k : J o h n W i l e y & S o n s , 1 9 3 9 ) . 

4 5 F i e l d 2 4 0 . 



2 50 

46 
A l a n W i l l i a m s o n , 7 T h e D i v i d e d I m a g e : T h e Q u e s t f o r 

I d e n t i t y i n t h e W o r k s o f D j u n a B a r n e s , " C r i t i q u e : S t u d i e s  
i n M o d e r n F i c t i o n 7 ( 1 9 6 4 ) : 5 8 - 7 4 . 

4 7 W i l l i a m s o n 6 2 . 

48 
J o s e p h F r a n k , " S p a t i a l F o r m i n M o d e r n L i t e r a t u r e , " 

i n T h e W i d e n i n g G y r e : C r i s i s a n d M a s t e r y i n M o d e r n L i t e r a t u r e 
( B l o o m i n g t o n a n d L o n d o n : I n d i a n a U n i v . P r e s s , 1 9 6 3 ) 3 2 . 

49 
F r a n k 3 3 . 

A l a n S i n g e r , " T h e H o r s e Who K n e w T o o M u c h : M e t a p h o r 
a n d t h e N a r r a t i v e o f D i s c o n t i n u i t y i n N i g h t w o o d , " 
C o n t e m p o r a r y L i t e r a t u r e , 2 5 n o . 1 , ( 1 9 8 4 ) 6 5 - 7 4 . 

5 1 
B a r n e s , T h e A n t i p h o n 2 1 4 . 

52 

B a r n e s , " S i x S o n g s o f K h a l i d i n e , " A B o o k 14 5 . 

5 3 F r a n k 3 8 . 

5 4 F r a n k 3 9 . 

5 5 F r a n k 3 9 . 

56 
S u s a n G u b a r , " B l e s s i n g s I n D i s g u i s e : C r o s s - D r e s s i n g 

a s R e - D r e s s i n g f o r F e m a l e M o d e r n i s t s , " M a s s a c h u s e t t s  
R e v i e w , A u t u m n 1 9 8 1 . 

5 7 T . S . E l i o t , " N o t e s t o T h e W a s t e L a n d . " 

5 8 F i e l d 2 1 4 . 

5 9 F i e l d 3 3 . 

6 0 F i e l d 3 3 . 

h 1 
W o l f g a n g K a y s e r , T h e G r o t e s q u e i n A r t a n d L i t e r a t u r e 

( B l o o m i n g t o n : I n d i a n a U n i v . P r e s s , 1 9 6 3 ) 2 0 . 
6 2 K a y s e r 2 1 . 

6 3 K a y s e r 2 4 . 



251 
6 4 Kayser 132. 

6 5 
Thomas Mann, Betrachtungen eines Unpolitischen' 

(Reflections of an U n p o l i t i c a l Man) in Kayser 13 5. 
^Wilhelm Worringer, Form in Gothic (London: Putnam & 

Sons, 1927) 7. 

6 7 
Kannenstine 87-8. 

^ 8 Ortega y Gasset, The Dehumanization of Art and other  
Writings on Art and Culture, trans. Willard A. Trask (Garden 
City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1956) 35. 

6 9 
Kannenstine 101. 

70 
Singer 67. 

71 
T.S. E l i o t , "Introduction" to Nightwood in Selected  

Works of Djuna Barnes 22 7. 
7 2 E l i o t , "Introduction" 230. 

73 
Ralph Freedman, The L y r i c a l Novel (Princeton: 

Princeton Univ. Press, 1963). 
7 4 Freedman 278. 

75 
Freedman 1-2. 
Melvin Friedman, Stream of Consciousness: A Study  

in L i t e r a r y Method (New Haven: Yale Univ. Press, 1955) 261. 

7 7 E l i o t , "Introduction" 231. 

7 8 
Angela Carter, Nights at the Circus (London: Chatto 

& Windus, 1984). 
79 

Many of these basic ideas and connections have been 
suggested by Alan Singer, "The Horse Who Knew Too Much: 
Metaphor and the Narrative of Discontinuity in Nightwood," 
Contemporary L i t e r a t u r e , 25 no. 1, (1984): 65-74. 

8 0 
Singer 68. 



2 5 2 

81 
S a n d r a G i l b e r t , " C o s t u m e s o f t h e M i n d : T r a n s v e s t i s m 

a s M e t a p h o r i n M o d e r n L i t e r a t u r e , " i n A b e l , W r i t i n g a n d  
S e x u a l D i f f e r e n c e 2 1 4 . 

8 2 G i l b e r t 1 9 5 - 6 . 

V i r g i n i a W o o l f , O r l a n d o ( L o n d o n : H o g a r t h P r e s s , 1 9 4 0 ) 

84 
V i r g i n i a W o o l f , T h e V o y a g e O u t ( L o n d o n : H o g a r t h 

P r e s s : 1 9 1 5 ) ; T o t h e L i g h t h o u s e ( L o n d o n : H o g a r t h P r e s s , 1 9 2 7 ) 
T h e W a v e s ( L o n d o n : H o g a r t h P r e s s , 1 9 3 1 ) ; B e t w e e n t h e A c t s 
(New Y o r k : H a r c o u r t & B r a c e , 1 9 4 1 ) . 



Conclusion 

For a discussion of Late Modernism see Alan Wilde, 
"Surfaces of Late Modernism," Boundary 2 8 (1980): 212-25. 

2 
Stephen Spender, The Destructive Element: A Study of  

Modern Writers and B e l i e f s (Philadelphia: Albert Sarfer, 
1953) 205. 

3 
Christopher Isherwood quoted in foreword to Edward 

Upward, "The Railway Accident," New Directions in Prose  
and Poetry 11 (1949): 34. 

4 Wilde 212-25. 

5 Wilde 215. 

6 See Harry Levin, "What Was Modernism?" in Burnshaw, 
V a r i e t i e s of L i t e r a r y Experience (New York: Knopf, 1962) 307 

7 Wilde 219. 

8 Wilde 221. 

9 
Sandra G i l b e r t , "Costumes of the Mind," i n Abel 19 5-6 

1 0 G i l b e r t 196. 

Carolyn Burke, "Gertrude Stein, the Cone S i s t e r s and 
the Puzzle of Female Friendship," in Abel 221. 

12 
Judith Kegan Gardiner, "Good Morning, Midnight: Good 

Night Modernism," Boundary 2 9 (1982): 23-242. 
13 _ 

Rhys, Good Morning, Midnight 132. 
1 4 Wilde 214. 

15 
For a discussion of post-modern autobiographical 

f i c t i o n see Paul Jay, Being in the Text (Ithaca: Cornell 
Univ. Press, 1984). 

1 6 Roland Barthes quoted in Jay 167. 



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