“sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt”

Aeneas and Achates Outside the Temple of Juno (ca. 1615) Collection of the Louvre. Image and further information available at the Frick Collection.

Sebastiaen Vrancx, Aeneas and Achates Outside the Temple of Juno (ca. 1615). Louvre Collection. Image and further information available at the Frick Collection.

This post was originally published on October 14, 2016.

Close Reading, In Translation, With Readers From The Past

Writing your first essay in the Humanities Core Course, a literary analysis of a passage from Virgil’s Aeneid, you will have been reading and re-reading Virgil’s text in Robert Fagles’ translation in order to make claims about the text and find appropriate textual support.

 It might be hard at this point to remember exactly what you knew about Virgil’s Aeneid before you started reading it in the context of the Humanities Core. Some of you may have never encountered Virgil or the Aeneid, while others may have read all of the Aeneid before they started the course. Most students, however, will fall somewhere in between these extremes, and soon after you started attending Professor Zissos’ lectures, you started to accumulate information about Roman culture and society and the structure of the Aeneid that turned your reading experience into an informed, guided reading experience.

You can think of this kind of reading experience as part of a discussion — literally so in your discussion sections, but also metaphorically as a conversation with anyone in the past who has read Virgil’s Aeneid and left us a record of his or her reading. A text as old as the Aeneid has produced many such records of past readings, testimonies of readers that can direct our attention in turn to specific aspects of the text that we would have otherwise missed. Reading such accounts allows us to enter into a virtual conversation with past readers that enriches our present understanding of the text. First, let us recall a scene from Book 1:

…, uidet Iliacas ex ordine pugnas
bellaque iam fama totum uulgata per orbem,
Atridas Priamumque et saeuum ambobus Achillem.
constitit et lacrimans ‘quis iam locus,’ inquit, ‘Achate,
quae regio in terris nostri non plena laboris ?
en Priamus. sunt hic etiam sua praemia laudi,
sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt.
solue metus; feret haec aliquam tibi fama salutem.’
sic ait atque animum pictura pascit inani
multa gemens, largoque umectat flumine uultum.  (Virgilius Maronis, I, 456 – 465)

Translated by Fagles, in our Penguin edition, as follows:

… — all at once he sees,
spread out from first to last, the battles fought at Troy,
the fame of the Trojan War now known throughout the world,
Atreus’ sons and Priam — Achilles, savage to both at once.
Aeneas came to a halt and wept, and “Oh, Achates,”
he cried, “is there anywhere, any place on earth
not filled with our ordeals?  There’s Priam, look!
Even here, merit will have its true reward …
even here, the world is a world of tears
and the burdens of mortality touch the heart.
Dismiss your fears.  Trust me, this fame of ours
will offer us some haven.”

So Aeneas says,
feeding his spirit on empty, lifeless pictures,
groaning low, the tears rivering down his face … (Virgil 63)

In this blog post I want to focus on one such example of a past reader’s reaction to this specific passagea remark by Denis Diderot, the editor of the most famous publication during the European Enlightenment, the Encyclopédie, a friend of Rousseau, and one of the first to write evaluative essays about publicly exhibited paintings:

Un des plus beaux vers de Virgile et un des plus beaux principes de l’art imitatif, c’est celui-ci:
Sunt lacrymae rerum, et mentem mortalia tangunt.
Il faudrait l’écrire sur la porte de son [i.e. a painter’s] atelier: Ici les malheureux trouvent des yeux qui les pleurent.  (Diderot 392)

One of the most beautiful verses of Virgil, and one of the most beautiful principles of imitative art, is the following:
sunt lacrimae rerum, et mentem mortalia tangunt.
One ought to write it above the entrance to the painter’s studio: ‘Here the unfortunate ones will find eyes that shed tears for them.’ (my translation, O.B.)

The inscription Diderot proposes for a painter’s door as a reminder for the artist that his supreme aim should be to move the beholder is clearly less a translation of the Latin quotation than a metonymical summary of the whole scene.

What seems to be lost in Diderot’s version is the heart-rending conflict in which Aeneas finds himself caught, between grief (hence his own tears) at being confronted with a rendition of his own past, and hope, which he tries to impart to Achates even as he is crying. This hope is also founded on tears: the tears Aeneas assumes the inhabitants of this strange new land to have shed over his fate. It gives him reason to believe that he and his companions will finally meet with a friendly reception, quite unlike the series of encounters with monsters he has just survived, when he re-traced part of Odysseus’ itinerary on his voyage from Troy before landing in Carthage.

Diderot’s metonymy can be resolved in different ways: Diderot may be admonishing the painter to identify with his subject emotionally (the painter’s tears), or he may exhort him to paint so that someone visiting his atelier will be moved to cry. But what is missing from Diderot’s version are tears of recognition, the tears which Aeneas sheds upon recognizing his father and himself (‘se quoque‘, l.488), depicted in their most desperate moment.

Diderot then proposes that the ideal scene of reception for a painting adhering to this criterion would be for a criminal who carries his secret unrecognized in society to dread the steps leading to the public exhibition space for paintings in his contemporary Paris, the Salon, where a painting depicting his crime would have such a powerful effect on him that he would willingly sign his own sentence.

In quoting the line, as Diderot does, a reader re-contextualizes it.  Part of this process is the interruption of the narrative sequence of the original, including its sequence of emotions.

Sebastian Brant, Image of The Mural on Juno’s Temple, Publii Vergilii Opera (Strasbourg, 1502). For more information, see the digitized manuscript at the University of Heidelberg and additional commentary from Dickinson College.

Sebastian Brant, Image of The Mural on Juno’s Temple, Publii Vergilii Opera (Strasbourg, 1502). For more information, see the digitized manuscript at the University of Heidelberg and additional commentary from Dickinson College.

In this particular scene, Aeneas’ conflicted emotions of grief and joy eventually are transferred onto Achates, his companion, who has accompanied him to Carthage from the ships and now stands with Aeneas magically hidden by Venus invisibly before the artwork in Juno’s temple. It is as if Aeneas has brought in the form of his companion Achates his own, representative audience and engages before our very eyes in narrating the temporal sequence of the scene, which most commentators assume to be a mural painting.

And Achates does indeed exhibit the precise mix of fear and hope characteristic of Aeneas’ first reaction: “simul percussus Achates / laetitiaque metuque” (513-4)  Achates was simultaneously shaken both by joy and by fear. But these emotions of Achates are emotions occasioned by Dido, whose appearance with her followers and some of Aeneas’ companions, whom he had left behind at the ships, interrupts Aeneas’ contemplation of the artwork on the wall.

Achates’ reaction might then be described as a delayed emotional reaction that re-enforces the hierarchy separating him from Aeneas  his emotions are slower, he feels only now what Aeneas has felt since he laid recognizing eyes on the representation of scenes from the Trojan War. They also might be described as testifying to the effect of Aeneas’ (and, by extension, Virgil’s) ekphrasis: Aeneas’ re-telling of the scenes that Achates sees in front of him gradually awakens in him the mix of fear and joy Aeneas has been feeling from the very start.

Yet, whatever hierarchical distance between Achates and Aeneas had separated them in their initial reaction is finally effectively closed again in the next line, when both are united in an emotional confusion related to the decision whether or not they should discover themselves to their companions. They both burn with a desire to re-join them, yet they still fear to give up their supernatural disguise for fear that Dido and her people might turn out to be hostile: “auidi coniungere dextras / ardebant, sed res animos incognita turbat” (514-5).

In his commentary on the scene, Lee Fratantuono suggests that Aeneas’ initial mix of fear and joy had to have given way to “increasing horror”:

The pictures follow the story of the fall of Troy to the very point where Aeneas’ story in Book 2 [of the Aeneid] will begin; Aeneas himself will paint the rest of these pictures, as it were, when he tells the story of what happened after the Ethiopian and Amazonian allies came to Priam’s aid.  Aeneas knows that the pictures of Memnon and Penthesilea presage the final chain of events leading to the sacking of the city; the sum total of the pictures, especially in the situational context of Juno’s temple, should not be consolatory to a Trojan. These are images not set up as memorials of human compassion, but as triumphant records of the victories of Juno’s beloved Greeks over the enemies she so hates. In the first excitement of seeing the early scenes from the war that so changed his life … it is as if Aeneas momentarily forgot the dreadful context of the artwork … The scene is one of increasing horror as Aeneas surveys the paintings in their terrible order, before he finally cries out after seeing the desecration of his friend Hector’s body: tum vero ingentem gemitum dat pectore ab imo (1.485) Then indeed he gave a mighty groan from deep in his breast. The pictures might have been fitting to help rouse Carthaginian morale during the Punic Wars; they celebrate the worst degradation of the Trojans. Aeneas stares fixed and agape at these images as Dido finally enters the temple and interrupts the tour of her art gallery. (Fratantuono 19)

Fratantuono’s more detailed and more faithful reading of the scene allows us to see that in quoting and re-contextualizing Aeneas’ initial emotional reaction to the artwork in Juno’s temple Diderot seems to have effectively blinded us to the narrative sequence of pathos that leaves Aeneas much more troubled, and much less relieved, than we might initially assume.

That readers should be tempted to quote and re-contextualize the line like this has in part to do with the difficulty of translating it in a prosaic, straightforward way. In a literal, word-for-word translation we would read for ‘sunt lacrimae rerum / et mentem mortalia tangunt’: “there are tears of – or for – things (rerum) / and human things (mortalia) touch the mind”.

In translation, rerum and mortalia take on heightened affective qualities, as they are often generalized to stand in for the fate of being human. Thus, Ronald Austin in his 1971 Oxford edition translates: “even here tears fall for men’s lot, and mortality touches the heart” (Austin n.p.), while Allen Mandelbaum renders rerum in English with “passing things”, and mortalia with “things mortal” (Mandelbaum 17).

But beyond pathos there is also a second aspect that contributes to the temptation to quote and re-contextualize this line and in doing so to disturb its temporality, the temporality it has in the sequence of Virgil’s narrative — and this temptation has to do with the complex temporality of Virgil’s narrative itself, with a structure of prolepsis and analepsis that re-enforces the main themes of his epic, fuses together its parts and shackles those parts in turn to the Homeric tradition.

Inasmuch as Aeneas at first interprets the artwork in Juno’s temple as a sign that he will find refuge on these unknown shores he looks toward the future.  Inasmuch as he draws hope from a representation of his own past, he looks toward that past.  Both past and present are united in this moment.

His interpretation repeats an act of interpretation in which Dido herself engaged when she first arrived at the very same spot with her followers as refugees from the city of Tyre: “Now deep in the heart of Carthage stood a grove, / lavish with shade, where the Tyrians, making landfall, / still shaken by wind and breakers, first unearthed that sign: / Queen Juno had led their way to the fierce stallion’s head / that signaled power in war and ease in life for ages. / Here Dido of Tyre was building Juno a mighty temple, …” (Fagles 63).

For Aeneas, looking at his own representation in the battle scenes from Troy offers an anagnorisis, a literal, pictorial recognition of himself that is part of an emotional crisis: “Aeneas gives a groan, heaving up from his depths, / he sees the plundered armor, the car, the corpse / of his great friend, and Priam reaching out / with helpless hands … / He even sees himself / swept up in the melee, clashing with Greek captains, / sees the troops of the Dawn and swarthy Memnon’s arms.” (Fagles 64).

For Virgil’s Augustan reader, Dido’s interpretation of the stallion’s head as “… power in war and ease in life for ages …” is offered up as a fulfilled prediction, a proleptic description of the power and wealth of the Carthage that was to be Rome’s adversary in its two most desperate, formative wars, the first and second Punic War. Indeed, the Aeneid as a whole is structured proleptically by this conflict, and it has often been faulted for this constraint of imperial flattery, which projects existing history back in time to re-create a founding myth for the Augustan Roman empire, an analepsis that purports to be a prolepsis, a vaticinium ex eventu, a prophecy fulfilled that strains to pretend the outcome could be any different.

It’s now time to interrupt our close reading of this passage and take stock of what we have done.

(1) We have applied techniques of close reading to a sample passage from Virgil’s Aeneid.

(2) We have tried to account for the difference translation makes in our interpretation of this passage.

(3) We have applied technical terms from rhetoricart and literary criticism (ekphrasis, analepsis, prolepsis, anagnorisis, vaticinium ex eventu).

(4) By taking a closer look at this passage, we have become aware of some important themes and structures of Virgil’s Aeneid that we encounter elsewhere in the poem (e.g., ekphrasis in book 8; vaticinium ex eventu; structures of repetition and imitation that inform the relationship of parts of the Aeneid to each other, and to epic poetry that preceded it).

Where could one go from here?

One could contextualize the passage, either in the context of a reading of Diderot or of reading Virgil, with the ultimate goal of contributing to an interpretation of the work of one of these two authors.  One could also connect this sample reading to larger theoretical concerns.  One such concern that has informed my own approach to literature is reader-response criticism and hermeneutics, another a conscious application of rhetoric to the study of literature.  In order to do so, one would have to take into account more detailed readings of this passage by specialists like the classicist Michael Putnam, who dedicates a chapter to it in his 1998 book Virgil’s Epic Designs: Ekphrasis in the AeneidOne could also engage in an informed visual analysis (Essay #2!) of art work depicting this passage in Virgil, like the works by Sebastian Brant and Sebastiaen Vrancx featured here.

Works Cited

Diderot, Denis.  Oeuvres Complètes.  Gen Ed. Herbert DieckmannJean Varloot,  Herrmann, 1975, vol. XIV.

Fratantuono, Lee.  Madness Unchained. A reading of Virgil’s Aeneid.  Lanham, 2007.

Virgilius Maronis, Publius. Aeneidos. Liber Primus. Ed. R.G. Austin, Clarendon Press, 1971.

Virgil. The Aeneid of Virgil.  Tr. Allen Mandelbaum. University of California Press, 1982.

Virgil. The Aeneid.  Tr. Robert Fagles.  Penguin, 2006.

Further Reading

Putnam, Michael C. J.  Virgil’s Epic Designs: Ekphrasis in the Aeneid.  Yale University Press, 1998.


berghofOliver Berghof received his PhD in Comparative Literature from UC Irvine in 1995.  He taught in the Humanities Core program as a graduate student between 1992 and 1995, and has done so again as a lecturer since 1999. A native of Germany, he specializes in European Literature, Literary Theory and Humanities Computing. In teaching Humanities Core, he particularly  enjoys the challenge of teaching students in UCI’s Honors Program.

In Defense of (Some) Binary Oppositions

Edward Said’s Reflections on Exile (2000), the collection in which “The Politics of Knowledge” (1991) appears.

HumCore inaugurated the cycle’s foray into empire and its ruins with Edward W. Said’s “The Politics of Knowledge”—with good reason. Said emphasizes the role that binary oppositions play in constituting politics of power-knowledge vis-à-vis the epistemology of imperialism, including nationalism and the discourse of orientalism.[1]

Correlatively, HumCore’s examinations have highlighted structural inequities generated by binaries and concatenations thereof—including order/chaos, man/woman, civilization/barbarism, white/black, freedom/enslavement, enlightenment/self-incurred-minority, and so on—to reject and resist unjust hierarchies.

The role that binary oppositions play in generating unjust hierarchies has led some humanists to believe that we should reject and resist all binary oppositions or “binarism” generally, depending on how one defines that notion.[2] Yet, from the fact that specific binaries are iniquitous or generate unjust hierarchies, it does not follow—without further argument—that all binary oppositions are problematic. Nor does it follow that binary oppositions are inadequate to the task of characterizing personal and political realities in conceptual terms. Nor does it follow that all hierarchies generated by binary oppositions are unjust.

This blog post, qua attempt, argues that there is nothing inherently wrong with binary oppositions. Only some are detrimental, whereas others are beneficial—and, indeed, can facilitate the pursuit of justice for all, without exception. The spectra of difference, diversity, and multiplicity that many humanists value can find expression in conceptual systems grounded by clear, precise, and subtle distinctions, including binary oppositions of the this/that kind.[3] Consequently, we should reject and resist unclear, imprecise, and simplistic binary oppositions, especially those involved in iniquitous hierarchies; but we should not reject and resist all binary oppositions.

(There is a foundational and extraordinarily consequential philosophical question at issue here. It concerns whether an “analytic logic of contraries” enables us to adequately represent the complexity of personal and political realities. Some humanists think not and maintain that we should employ a “dialectical logic of narratives” to help account for the personal and political. This post does not attempt to settle this contentious issue, but raises it to underscore its significance.[4])

A binary opposition is binary, in that it is a relation involving two items. The meaning of “item” is intentionally open-ended. An item might be an object, process, name, description, etc., depending on relevant theoretical and practical interests.

A binary opposition is an opposition, moreover, in that it involves difference. The meaning of “difference,” too, is intentionally open-ended. A difference might be objectual, categorial, referential, descriptive, etc., depending on relevant theoretical and practical interests.

Binary oppositions both include and exclude, though humanists tend to accentuate the latter operation. Consider the toy model of apples and oranges. Binary oppositions such as apples/oranges include, in that one “side” of the opposition constitutes one item: the item specified by the first term, e.g., “apples.” The other “side” of an opposition constitutes another item: the item specified by the second term, e.g., “oranges.” The binary opposition apples/oranges, accordingly, purports to represent all apples, on one side, and all oranges, on the other. Thereby, we can compare apples to oranges, despite idiomatic implications of the everyday expression.

Such inclusions on each “side” of a binary opposition immediately exclude other items. The category of apples excludes oranges; the category of oranges excludes apples: one entity cannot be both an apple and an orange. The opposition apples/oranges, moreover, facilitates supplementary distinctions pertaining to color, taste, etc. Yet, apples and oranges are similar in some respects: instances of each kind are fruit, have color, are spatiotemporally located, and so on. Hence one can invoke additional binary oppositions, such as fruit/vegetable and tart/sweet, to help limn reality and the constitution thereof.

Note that, unlike the mutually exclusive opposition fruit/vegetable, tart/sweet is not mutually exclusive: some foods are both tart and sweet—a particular apple or orange, for instance. A binary opposition, therefore, does not automatically entail the total exclusion of the items that it represents. Only some binary oppositions purport to be mutually exclusive and exhaustive: spatiotemporal-entity/non-spatiotemporal-entity, for instance.

Things become more complicated and contentious when we move away from toy models and consider foci of humanistic inquiry. Even so, binary oppositions can be explanatory and personally-politically useful, if they (and their parsings) are clear, precise, and subtle. To see how (and why), let us consider a fresh example before we examine binaries already treated in the course.

Consider the phenomenological distinction between the object and meaning of your present experience. The objects of phenomenal perception as your experience unfolds here, now, are the words of this sentence; and your experience “tracks” these (!) perceptual objects as you grasp their individual and collective meanings. The words on this page are not identical to the meanings that they express. Similarly, the objects of your experience are not identical to the meanings in virtue of which your experience is significant—not only for you, but also for others.

This raises a question: Does distinguishing between the objects and meanings of experience enhance language’s explanatory power?

Having postulated an opposition between experience’s objects and meanings, the object/meaning binary enables us to explain how one and the same object can figure into experiences with different meanings. When one is sufficiently hydrated, a glass of water presents itself as an object of potential action (phenomenally speaking): one could drink, or… When one is extremely parched, in contrast, the same glass may present itself as an object of necessary action (phenomenally speaking): one must drink, or…[5]

Giving one and the same object as a gift, to take another example, can mean radically different things in different contexts: a tactful expression of generosity in some, a tactless faux pas in others. The same piece of art, moreover, can inspire or infuriate; the same lecture can illuminate or obfuscate; the same gesture can supplicate or remonstrate. In each case, the same object means (or signifies) differently, depending on contextual considerations.

“Which animals are most like each other? Rabbit and Duck,” originally appeared in Fliegende Blätter (October 23,1892)

A canonical example of this phenomenon is the duck-rabbit illusion, pictured above. While the sketched object of the duck-rabbit remains the same, experienced meaning fluctuates between <duck> and <rabbit> as attention shifts.

The objects of experience, therefore, can remain the same even as their meanings—the ways in which they present themselves—shift. This suggests that experience’s objects and meanings are formally distinct: they play structurally dissimilar, albeit complementary, roles in the constitution of experience.

(Note that the object/meaning opposition is not mutually exclusive. In humanistic inquiry, we often take up meanings as explicit objects of thought, without violating the structurally distinct roles that objects and meanings play in the constitution of experience.)

Concordantly, the following meanings present the same object: <Morning Star>, <Evening Star>, <Venus>, <second planet from the sun>. The meaning or mode of presentation of the planet Venus differs in each case. When navigating, “Evening Star” may be more informative than “Venus”; whereas, when memorizing the order of the planets, “second planet from the sun” may be more informative than alternative meanings. The fact that the phrases “Morning Star” and “Evening Star” co-refer to the same celestial body, moreover, represents an epistemic achievement. We did not always know, but discovered, that the Morning Star is the Evening Star; or, more precisely, that the phrases “Morning Star” and “Evening Star” refer to the same celestial body.

So far, the object/meaning opposition seems well-suited for enhancing the clarity, precision, and subtly of our expressive capacities.

The object/meaning binary also enables us to explain how different objects can be presented via one and the same meaning. Take the meaning, <compassion>, for example. One can manifest compassion for a multitude of “objects,” in the formal sense (which includes fellow human subjects): oneself, one’s mother, one’s father, one’s partner, one’s friend, one’s friends, one’s acquaintance, one’s acquaintances, one’s “enemy,” one’s “enemies,” one’s institutions, one’s block, one’s city, one’s county, one’s state, one’s country, one’s continent, one’s world…

All of these objects are accommodatable by the meaning, <compassion>; for that meaning can play a preeminent role in presenting whatever manifests in the flow of experience. Compassion, in other words, does not have one and only one “proper” object, but can present an astoundingly diverse range of objects. Compassion can literally be the mode of presentation—the meaning—of all objects of experience, in this sense.

These examples help illustrate the way in which the binary opposition, object/meaning, is useful for explanatorily and (potentially) personal-political purposes. The opposition does not do violence to or reduce the complexity of experience, but enables us to express it in clear, precise, and subtle terms.[6]

One might object that the object/meaning opposition is not binary, but presupposes a range of other items, such as the background, phenomenal character, act-character, and intersubjective constitution of experience.

This objection presupposes the explanatory efficacy of what it criticizes: binary oppositions between object/background, meaning/background, object/phenomenal-character, meaning/phenomenal-character, object/act-character, meaning/act-character, object/intersubjective-constitution, meaning/intersubjective-constitution, and so on. The important point is that, since our central thesis concerns the explanatory efficacy of some binary oppositions, introducing additional oppositions does not threaten, but may even strengthen, the argument for that thesis.

Unfortunately, unclear, imprecise, and simplistic binaries (and their parsings) circulate widely in contemporary culture. They are always ready-to-hand—which, fortunately, entails that their critique is always present-at-hand.

People who have not thought critically about sex and gender, for example, might use those terms interchangeably, as if the concepts were neither distinguishable, nor worth distinguishing, let alone parsing in ways that facilitate difference.[7] If one were to parse gender into two simplistic and mutually exclusive items, such as man/woman, then that parsing—though not necessarily the concept of gender itself—would be worth rejecting and resisting.[8] The binary, as parsed, dichotomizes people into only two categories, thereby doing violence to them and their complexity.[9]

But there are many ways to parse a binary opposition and the items that it involves. Some parsings not only allow for, but facilitate, difference, diversity, and multiplicity. This brings us back to the essay’s central thesis: From the fact that one, many, or even most binary oppositions are problematic, it does not follow that binaries are inherently anathema to conceptual articulations that facilitate difference and preserve radical multiplicity. Nor does it follow that binaries are inherently anathema to the pursuit of justice. Here, as elsewhere, the devil is in the detail.

Arguably, even the relatively fluid socio-cultural identities that we have encountered in HumCore, such as those exemplified by Zitkála-Šá, José Gabriel Túpac Amaru, and Martín Chambi, are adequately describable via binary oppositions, including the opposition relatively-stable/relatively-fluid—assuming relevant parsings are sufficiently nuanced and complex to preserve the multiplicities that they express. Indeed, one might deploy specific binaries to oppose (!) hierarchies that privilege certain categories and identities over others, or any category or identity over any other.

This brings us back to Said, who employs the exclusive-identity-politics/inclusive-worldliness binary to argue that identity politics is ultimately incapable of achieving what Aimé Césaire refers to as “a place for all at the Rendezvous of Victory.” For, while temporarily identifying as (say) Indian could play an instrumental role in resisting the British Empire (à la Vinayak Savarkar) or modern civilization (à la Mohandas Gandhi), Said argues that any nationalist identification ultimately participates in, and thereby strengthens, the logic of imperialism, founded as it is on fundamentally excluding, dividing, and conquering people. Thus, Said’s argument employs a clear, precise, and subtle binary opposition to reject and resist the unclear, imprecise, and simplistic binary oppositions that ground the epistemology of imperialism, including nationalism and the discourse of orientalism.

President Bush declares the end of major combat in Iraq as he speaks aboard the aircraft carrier USS Abraham Lincoln off the California coast (May 1, 2003 file photo). J. Scott Applewhite, AP Photo.

Many binary oppositions are anathema to the humanistic values of equality, equity, inclusivity, and compassion. When George W. Bush claimed that, “Every nation, in every region, now has a decision to make; either you are with us, or you are with the terrorists,” the with-us/with-the-terrorists opposition that drives Bush’s “reasoning” is unclear, imprecise, and simplistic: it asserts a false dichotomy. Problems of this kind are not only logical, but also personal and political. The with-us/with-the-terrorists binary suggests that one supports either the U. S. War in Iraq or terrorism—as if this categorization were informative, exhaustive, and adequate justification for impeaching anyone who opposed the war on moral grounds.

The difference between the exclusive-identity-politics/inclusive-worldliness opposition, on the one hand, and the with-us/with-the-terrorists opposition, on the other, helps demonstrate that “the difference that makes a difference,” if I may, concerns the clarity, precision, and subtly of relevant oppositions and their parsings, not binaries themselves.

Some humanists remain attached to the belief that rejecting and resisting inequitable hierarchies requires rejecting and resisting all binary oppositions or “binarism.” Ironically, this belief is not only unjustified, but self-undermining: it destructively interferes with our ability to defend difference, diversity, and multiplicity, whether one prefers an analytic logic of contraries or a dialectical logic of narrative developments.

Binary oppositions are meaningful in virtue of their relationships to other terms. All oppositions function within “larger” logics, including discourses of power-knowledge, which help shape their significance.

Barbara J. Fields and Karen Elise Fields, Racecraft: The Soul of Inequality in American Life (2012)

Having distinguished race from racism, for example, we can concatenate race/racism with another concept that helps explain their relation, while remaining distinct from each: racecraft. The oppositions between race/racism, race/racecraft, and racism/racecraft allow for the schematization: <racism + racecraft = race>. This conceptual schema allows us to articulate the way in which race, which might appear to be a natural-biological-physical category, is in fact a socio-political product of the discourse of racism, inextricably interwoven as it is with the machinations of racecraft.[10] Our ability to articulate this subtle point seems to presuppose there being relations of interdependence and contrariety (distinctness) between racism, racecraft, and race.

If there are possibilities for which a conceptual system fails to account, we may introduce additional or alternative oppositions, thereby adding clarity, precision, and subtly to our expressive resources. An unclear, imprecise, or simplistic opposition often calls for a more clear, precise, and subtle opposition (or set thereof).

Nuanced distinctions can facilitate more effective forms of resistance and manifest more encompassing forms of compassion. Some never recognize differences between the objects and meanings of experience; between sex and gender; between race and racism; between identity politics and worldliness; and so on. Once one does, however, it is as if reality shifts. A new world emerges, or can emerge, which fosters difference, diversity, and multiplicity as far as possible—far enough, perhaps, to create a place for all at the rendezvous of victory.[11]

Notes

[1] Edward W. Said, “The Politics of Knowledge,” in Reflections on Exile and Other Essays (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2000), 372-85; “Introduction,” in Orientalism (New York: Vintage Books, 1979), 1-28.

[2] This is especially evident in scholarship influenced by dialectical logic, post-structuralism, and deconstruction. Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, to invoke a paradigmatic example, claim that, “There is always something that flows or flees, that escapes the binary organizations, the resonance apparatus, and the overcoding machine: things that are attributed to a ‘change in values,’ the youth, women, the mad, etc.” (A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1987), 216). Note, however, that Deleuze and Guattari also recognize a kind of “supple segmentarity,” whereby binaries result from multiplicities of n dimensions, as opposed to (!) “rigid segmentarity,” whereby binaries claim to be totalizing and self-sufficient (ibid., 212).

[3] More precisely, I would argue that clear, precise, and subtle binary oppositions help facilitate conceptual articulations of relative truths regarding phenomenal reality.

[4] Thanks to Ermanno Bencivenga for reminding me of this point. For a lucid explication of the distinction between analytic and dialectical logic, see Bencivenga’s Hegel’s Dialectical Logic (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 6-42.

[5] For details regarding relevant modalities, see David Woodruff Smith, “On Basic Modes of Being: Meta-metaphysical Reflections in Light of Whitehead, Husserl, Ingarden, Hintikka,” in Themes from Ontology, Mind and Logic, Part and Present: Essays in Honor of Peter Simons, Ed. Sandra Lapointe (Boston: Brill Rodopi, 2015), 217-42.

[6] Furthermore, as simple as it might seem, the object/meaning opposition helps ensure that, when we disagree about issues concerning the personal and political, the target of our disagreement is substantive, and not merely linguistic. Substantive disagreement, after all, concerns notions themselves, not the words we use to refer to those notions.

[7] Thanks to Rodrigo Lazo for accentuating this point.

[8] Thanks to Larisa Castillo for helping me clarify this point.

[9] Consider, again, Deleuze and Guattari: “[Sexuality] is badly explained by the binary organization of the sexes, and just as badly by a bisexual organization within each sex. Sexuality brings into play too great a diversity of conjugated becomings; these are like n sexes, an entire war machine through which love passes” (A Thousand Plateaus, 278).

[10] For details, see Barbara J. Fields and Karen E. Fields, “How Race is Conjured”: https://www.jacobinmag.com/2015/06/karen-barbara-fields-racecraft-dolezal-racism/

[11] In addition to the aforementioned, I am grateful to Tamara Beauchamp, Sharon Block,  Christine Connell, Susan Morse, and Valentina Ricci for their candid comments and criticisms, even and especially where they disagreed.


Dan Siakel received his bachelor’s degree (with honors) and first Master’s degree from the University of Chicago, then a Master’s degree and Ph.D. from UCI, all in the discipline of philosophy. His research focuses on issues in metaphysics, philosophy of mind, early modern philosophy, the history of 20th-century philosophy, and, more recently, Shambhala Buddhism and Meditation. Dan’s pedagogical interests have found expression in his capacities as a Senior Pedagogical Fellow for UCI’s Center for Engaged instruction and more recently as a Pedagogical Fellow for the Andrew W. Mellon Teaching Institute. He has previously shared his work with the HumCore Research Blog as part of the program’s Friday Forum series.

Cultural Dissonance in a 19th-Century Newspaper Illustration

The post originally appeared in Surfacing Memory: Seeking the Voices that Inform Me, a multimedia site where seminar leader Susan Morse explores artifacts and heirlooms in an effort to reconstruct her own family’s history. Our gratitude to Dr. Morse for sharing this personal story here in hopes that it will serve as a model for Humanities Core students’ own oral history and artifact-based research projects this quarter.


“Do not judge your neighbor until you walk two moons in your neighbor’s moccasins” (Cheyenne Proverb)

Just above illustrations pictured below was written the date

I’m not sure if this date refers to when the nine panel “funny” was originally published in the newspaper or to when it was pasted in the McNiven (my great great grandmother’s and then Jesse McNiven’s) Scrapbook. There are very few clues to indicate in which newspaper (or in which country) this illustration was even printed. Given my knowledge of the McNiven family time-line, there is a distinct possibility it appeared in a Canadian newspaper prior to the family exodus to the then American territories to the south. Then again, in 1879 they may still have been in Scotland.

What interests me about these possibilities is that the illustration clearly demonstrates a fascination with empire; in particular with the clear demarcation between the old inheritance-based British Empire and the newly expanding American empire making its presence known deep into the “Wild Western frontier.” What’s more, the panels characterize — or even satirize — a clear cultural dissonance between these positions that makes possible a third and more compelling ethnographic reading outside of empire altogether.

So let’s try walking through this illustration wearing different pairs of moccasins to see how each fits beginning with the caption at the end of the illustration which reads:

Given ethnolinguistic references from the 19th century, it is clear from the caption that an American Indian (pejoratively described as a “Red Shirt”) and a cowboy (also referenced negatively as an untamed or wild “Broncho Bill”) have been invited to a hunting event but one that will not align with their expectations. The superior “Master of Hounds” serves as the host for this occasion, and given this final revelation it seems clear that from a socio-cultural context this event would be both foreign and unknowable to the two American men, something that gives satire some legs. Spoiler aside, the caption confirms the medium’s rhetorical design as one that will draw on cultural dissonance to drive a particular narrative.

Our narrative begins with an American Indian traveling together with a fairly stereotypical characterization of an old “Wild West” cowboy. The two ride together in peace and in harmony with each other and in nature; the horses also moving in step. The teepee and war bonnet place the American Indian in a tribe, like the Cheyenne, that hunts and follows the seasons and the movement of big game; bison in particular. Other noteworthy markers — such as the feathers and long war bonnet — situate the American Indian riding in the front as both his tribe’s leader as well as a singularly courageous and prominent member of his tribe.

Traditionally, tribal members earn their first eagle feather to commemorate a rite of passage into adulthood. I witnessed this ritual annually while coaching and living on the Salish-Kootenai Reservation in Arlee, Montana while I was an undergraduate. Tribal elders presented High School seniors with an eagle feather along with their diplomas at the Graduation ceremony. After the presentations were completed, one of the Tribal Elders explained that the American Indians from the northwest and plains region consider the eagle to be the bravest and strongest of all birds. Not only does this spirit travel with the feather, but also anyone who possesses and wears a ceremonial eagle feather carries honor and pride at being one of the First Peoples (feathers were offered to all non-tribal seniors as well). As a final gesture, the Tribal Elder waved his feathers over the crowd as a means of wishing everyone in the community prosperity, peace and happiness.

Additional feathers are then awarded following actions recognized by the tribe as courageous or heroic. The feathered head dress pictured above, for example, conveys much more than this man’s role as the tribal chief. This war bonnet signals a lifetime’s worth of feathers earned through heroic action. Additionally, the warrior’s pole he carries and the horse he rides contain a number of overflow feathers earned. Finally, both the war bonnet and warrior’s pole are ceremonial, reserved for special occasions, and serve as a sign of respect for the coming event –  say, for example, a ritualistic hunt or an invitation to meet with a “neighbor” in the Cheyenne sense of the word.

This ethnographic reading of the two Americans, however, may have been lost on the readers of the time who might have preferred instead to see these men as wild and weak or inferior in comparison to the imperial power whose newspaper they read. The chief, for example, carries his own teepee, a task usually reserved for women in the tribe. This, along with a hyperbolic abundance of ceremonial feathers offers those sympathetic to the British Empire a rhetorical reading of this so-called great and heroic leader as anything but formidable or worthy. The cowboy representative of the American Empire maintains an even weaker position, since he trails behind the chief and rides a paint horse. The paint horse — a mix of Barb, Andalusian and Arabian breeds — was originally brought to the frontier during the Spanish “conquest” of the Americas by Cortez and his Conquistadors. Nineteenth century associations of the paint horse by white colonizers and Europeans were pejorative given its mixed blood, connections with a defeated imperial intervention and its most common association as the “Big Dog” or “God Dog” of the American Indian, in particular with those tribes that hunt and wage war on the plains.

Additionally, although later panels of this illustration clearly name the cowboy as a man, the depiction above not only feminizes him, but it also places him in an even more inferior, weaker position in contrast to the already emasculated chief. His long, free flowing hair characterizes his identity as untamed, wild and therefore “savage” or uncivilized according to beliefs that were widely-held by Europeans (as well as by their descendants living in the established states of America) at this time. As a representative of the American imperial machine, the feminized American stands in sharp contrast to the masculinized British “Master of Hounds” (not yet pictured but named in the closing caption). This man — the “Master” — is a figure with distinction, a man fronting a clear title and legacy bound to a deep, long-standing aristocratic British tradition. Unlike the “Master,” the cowboy bears the name “Broncho Bill.” His identity characterizes him, in part, as a “broncho” (or the more common bronco) which in “Wild West” equestrian circles describes an untamed and untrained “frontier” horse. Interestingly, it is also a term used to denote a mustang, another mixed breed of range pony introduced to the American territories by the Spanish (and which continue to run feral in the hills to this day).  Moreover, this man is identified by first name only and does not garner societal distinction enough to hold a family name; therefore this (Imperial agent) “broncho” represents an uncivilized, culturally mixed emasculated man, but this is not a reliable ethnographic reading. Let’s get back to that…

The second panel in the series reflects — on the one hand — a harmonious, symbiotic relationship between the American Indian and his cowboy companion.  In this frame, the cowboy prepares what is mockingly described as “light refreshment” presumably for both men as the chief smokes a pipe, a ceremonial gesture signaling agreement with a covenant between parties or preparation for a planned ceremonial event.  Perhaps he smokes in this case  to acknowledge the invitation to join “the Hunt.” The horse adorning the teepee elevates this animal to a spirit or totem animal that symbolizes a balance between personal drive and untamed passions, between individual agency and a responsibility to others, quite suitable given the chief’s role in his community.   Harmony extends also to the two horses standing behind the teepee that have been acculturated to two different traditions, and that live and rest comfortably together which parallels the two men who bear markers to clearly different yet compatible ways to exist and to live together.

On the other hand, the designation of this space as a “Wild West Camp” recalls earlier depictions of the American representative of empire as uncivilized and weak. What’s more, the cowboy performs a woman’s labor by preparing the refreshment and probably also by serving the chief who currently smokes alone. I’m partial to the symbiotic and harmonious reading, of course, but as someone who studies this history, I must acknowledge the generosity of such a narrative in hindsight given widespread and systematic atrocities perpetrated against the First Peoples by agents of American imperialism in the 19th and 20th centuries.

Negative attitudes about the First Peoples were perpetuated in part through cultural dissonance (through the notion of a “gender frontiers,” for example), the implications of which are clearly depicted in panel three. It appears that a well-dressed local (looks a little “dandy” to me) on an afternoon walk has just happened on the cowboy and the chief engaging in some afternoon teepee relations — so to speak — with the chief having taken a superior position. This interaction sharply mocks American colonizers (represented by our “broncho”) as having succumbed to or been seduced by the so-called “unnatural behaviors” of the “savage” American Indians.

Additionally, the depiction of the chief places him in an overtly sexually aggressive stance counter to the man passing by. This exchange facilitates what might have counted in 19th-century America as a threat to white culture; first, through a mixed race, same-sex relationship and second, through the aggressive encounter triggered by the exposure of, what looks like, a naked and virile “Indian” chief to the startled, unarmed white stranger shown as innocently passing by.  The cultural reality, however, is that heteronormative ideals and constructs didn’t really exist among American Indian tribes until they were imposed on them by European colonizers.  And — as an interesting aside that the illustrator may not have known — American Indian hunters traditionally abstained from intercourse for a few days prior to a hunt as part of a ceremonial practice (abstinence from sex to produce an abundant bounty during the hunt).

The threat of a blended culture to imperial civilization and legacy continues to figure prominently in panel four. Clearly, the sight of the American Indian chief and “Wild West” cowboy seems so strange and “savage” in contrast to the waiting members of the British hunting group, that neither the “civilized” men nor beasts among them including the dogs can control its feelings or “sensation[s]” of desperation. At the same time, and funnily, the two Americans calmly and quietly enter the scene to witness pure chaos as the well-dressed, British fox hunters struggle to sit or to control their mounts and hounds marking a clear dissonance between the cultural groups.

The cultural disconnect depicted in this frame and implied throughout the illustration extends primarily to the differences between what counts as a hunt for each group. The British riders with their hounds are waiting for a Fox Hunt, a sport of leisure (pffft) that goes back to the 16th Century that does not yield any food as bounty for a successful run. The primary objective of this kind of hunt is the performance of human superiority over animals, of wielding control over a pack of trained dogs to chase down and to kill the red fox. These unarmed riders (chasers more than hunters) work together with the “Master” of the hounds to control and to direct their hounds as they search for, chase down, and kill a fox victim. The Master may then choose to reward those hunters who perform most admirably during the event with some trophy from the dead fox — a paw, the mask, or the tail (the biggest honor). The remaining carcass is then tossed to the hounds. Very civilized indeed and then light refreshment follows.

However, one doesn’t have to look beyond the above panel to recognize that the chief and his partner had a much different hunt in mind.  The chief who is positioned as standing and surveying the landscape in front of him, clearly, searches for big game — most likely bison — as the objective of the hunt. This hunt does not describe a mere sport for those in the American “frontier.” The hunt for bison (buffalo where I come from) which may last a single day or several, ideally yields tens of animals all of which are honored, eaten, worn and otherwise utilized by members of the tribe. No part of the animal goes to waste.  In terms of a hunting bounty, the hunter responsible for bringing a buffalo down with his bow and arrow is entitled to claim the hide and some of the choicest meat cuts as his prize.

An even more special prize for American Indians — like the Cheyenne — is marked by a hunter’s first kill, where as his trophy and as an important rite of passage, he will drink some of the blood of his kill. While drinking the blood of a freshly killed animal may seem at first savage (and certainly would for the Fox Hunters), this is in reality a culturally short-sighted position.  American Indians live in harmony with nature, belong to the land and see themselves as brothers to the animals they kill. Blood symbolizes the force that gives life to all beings. The blood, along with the animal that sacrifices it, is a gift that deserves and demands respect (a message my Navajo godfather Jimmy John relayed to me throughout my childhood). A hunter who drinks the warm blood of the animal he has killed demonstrates his deep respect for the animal’s sacrifice. It also symbolizes that the life of this animal will continue in the hunter. In death, the animal’s body (and blood) serves as a gift that will ultimately prolong the lives of many in the hunter’s tribe. Given this naturalist reading of the scene, the calm entry of the two men signifies their harmonious relationship with nature, with their horses and with each other.

The British hounds, however, are not in harmony with this nature but express such a discord at the sight of these two individuals and their horses that the American men must hide until the more “civilized” and trained hounds will no longer be negatively affected (or even influenced) by their presence (which really pushes the “othering” boundaries).

Throughout these panels, the harmony and symbiosis of the two American men persists, despite rhetorical efforts to depict them as weak, emasculated and inferior.  This symbiosis and harmony between the men, their horses and their inner nature or “impulse” continues in frame six as the men are thrown from their mounts. It is unclear what particular impulse led to this unexpected ejection (perhaps it simply mocks them as irrational creatures), but the double stop of the horses and the double flight of the men further illustrates an equity between these two men even though they clearly come from different cultural backgrounds (and from different equestrian traditions). They remain in harmony with each other and with the natural world including with their inner “impulse.” And their horses aren’t getting ready to run away from the men (which you’ll notice on the next frame).

In panel seven the two Americans are back on their mounts and chasing after “information” about some “natives” depicted above that look quite like British citizens, don’t they?  In fact, these “natives” resemble 19th-century bobbies, a police force first put in place in London in the early 19th century to maintain law and order on the British home-front.  Perhaps the spoof here is on the American wanton disregard for the British imperial claim on the western territories.  These two “wild” Americans lack the decorum to perform accordingly at the Fox Hunt.  Their very presence disrupts the event precisely because they are “savage” outsiders or “others” in the context of European Imperialism.  Further taking the above panel into account, they wildly chase these “natives” without control over their own trajectory (or their mounts) at the same time as they fail to recognize the so-called “native” claim to the land as conferred by the panel’s caption. There is a sharp irony that features one of the First Peoples in this fight against the “natives”: one, because he travels with a member of the American Imperial team and two, because the British bobbies claim “native” ownership, which, as we know, was but one of many attempted European interventions on territory already fully populated by a diverse, self-regulating, autonomous indigenous population.

Have you noticed a clear lack of narrative between some of these panels? So have I! Two consistent features, however, seem to be the persistence of satire and the two Americans.  The above scene, for example, satirizes “frontier” scouting techniques, although it is quite unclear what these men are trying to find, and where the third guy came from. Maybe they are still scouting for the “information” they were seeking in the previous panel. The above depiction of “Broncho Bill” mocks his lack of scouting skills as he presumably uses his hand to reach for scat and other tangible clues about the particular “scent” they seek. The illustration pokes further fun by depicting the American Indian as literally utilizing a white man to accomplish this same task (which seems much more practical) and which degrades the white man’s and the cowboy’s ethos. In reality, however, American Indian scouts enjoy a long-standing reputation as quasi-diviners who can detect and read seemingly obscure natural signs, or pick up a trail by vibration and sound, or observe and gather vital knowledge about an enemy without detection.

And so we come to the final frame in the series, which appears to answer a few unanswered questions, offers a clear commentary about the two American riders, and throws an additional means for understanding the “hunt” into conversation. As it turns out, the hunt and the scouting excursion seem, in the last few frames, to have been to locate one of any available run-away horses for the British rider to carry him back home. Although many of these panels have promoted a claim of British superiority, when it comes to real riding, this Brit and his mount look spent. In this panel, the Brit trails behind both American riders who begin and end their journey on their own horses, illustrating that they are both good riders and possess “good riding knowledge,” perhaps a positive nod to having “impulse” that may be akin to sound horse sense. This stands in stark contrast to the Britisher who was dismounted and who lost control of three different horses. It doesn’t appear that he even travels home on his own horse. Also noteworthy is that while there were consistently negative characterizations of the two American men, they are referred to in these final lines as “our Wild West friends” who (you may have noticed) have been riding and working together for some panels now.

“Our Wild West friends” bring me to the final tidbit about this peculiar illustration. According to the caption that follows this final panel (the one we began our discussion with), the hunt was set to meet in Hertfordshire, but there is no Hertfordshire in America or in Canada. The closest is a county located in southern England. After all of this consideration and analysis, in the end, it is possible this illustration may not have been published or set on the North American continent at all but rather took place in the 19th-century British imagination.

Perhaps this illustration nods to early iterations of the “Wild West” spectacles, the most famous of which are the Buffalo Bill Wild West Shows. If you do any digging, you’ll certainly notice a lot of Bills as headliners (Pawnee Bill, Buckskin Bill, Buffalo Bill…Broncho Bill). Smaller versions of these shows began in England in the early 1870s and featured an array of “frontier” types that fed consumer curiosity about “unnatural” oddities of the American “Wild West” including cowboys, American Indians, infamous outlaws, lady sharp shooters, etc. These curious figures were all put on public display and observed and marveled and consumed for their “strange” manners like any number of traveling “freak shows” and other marvels of nature that were popular in Europe in the 19th century.  Is it possible that “Our Wild West Friends” depicted as living in symbiosis and harmony with each other and in nature were actually meant to stand in as marvels of nature in a kind of illustrated “Wild West Freak Show” published in a British newspaper way back on January 1, 1879?  If that was the intention, then the joke is on them for having missed the deeper meaning.  I think I prefer walking around in my neighbor’s moccasins for a few moons…

After Professor Sharon Block’s lecture on Thursday, April 13th, I decided to add a postscript:

The moccasins to the left above are mine and were made in the traditional way.  Men perform the hunt and women perform the remaining labor. They dress the animal, prepare the meat, other animal parts, and hide: scrape, tan, chew (yes, you read that correctly) and smoke the leather. The bead work was done by Jeannie Peak whose mother is very famous in the region for traditional beaded crafts she made for famous people like the Queen of England and Roy Rogers (of old Western Film and Radio Spectaculars). Many members of the area tribes — including many of my Salish friends in Arlee, MT — are descended from American Indians converted in the late 1800s to Catholicism (see the Mission in St. Ignatius, MT). The flower on the two pieces above is the “Salish Rose,” symbolic of femininity, fertile bounty (reproduction), and the natural cycles of life. The Salish Rose also has a second meaning that most outside of the community might not know; it is a symbol of the Catholic Sacred Heart of Christ. The second piece — the necklace featured to the right above — is traditionally worn by Salish women who participate in tribal and intertribal dancing ceremonies and rituals called Pow Wows (during fourth of July weekend in Arlee).  The Shawl Dance or the Traditional Dance are danced by the American Indian woman to celebrate her femininity, her role within the tribal community, and her direct connection to mother nature.


Susan Morse is a continuing lecturer in the Humanities Core Program at UC Irvine, where she has enjoyed teaching for many years. She received her PhD in German Studies from the UCI Department of European Languages & Studies in 2006. She also studied Asian and Middle Eastern Studies, Psychology and English at the Universities of Montana and Arizona, which is another reason why she loves teaching in the Humanities. Her research focuses on Holocaust memory and the limits of representation in the Holocaust. In addition to leading seminars in Core, she also enjoys teaching a Romantic Fairy Tales course for the Department of European Languages & Studies and Comparative Literature.

 

 

 

Vinayak Chaturvedi’s Winter Quarter Playlist

 

Asian Dub Foundation performing live in Berlin, November 2008

To the delight of students and seminar leaders alike, Professor Chaturvedi has been sharing politicized songs that bring together musicians and sound profiles from the South Asian and Afro-Caribbean diaspora before each of his Humanities Core lectures. Here is his essential HumCore playlist, along with some videos and additional information about the artists that have been featured.


Steel Pulse, “Handsworth Revolution”

More information on Steel Pulse available here.


Burning Spear, “Marcus Garvey” and “Christopher Columbus”

More information on Burning Spear available here.


Asian Dub Foundation, “Rebel Warrior,” “Fortress Europe,” and “Naxalite”

More information about Asian Dub Foundation available here.


State of Bengal, “Flight IC408”


Riz MC, “Englistan”

For more information about the Asian Underground movement in 1990s British rock, Professor Chaturvedi recommends Vivek Bald’s documentary Mutiny: Asians Storm British Music. You can also stream music like this (along with newer bands) through the BBC Asian Music Network.


Vinayak Chaturvedi is an associate professor of history and faculty lecturer in the Humanities Core Program at UCI this cycle. He is the author of Peasant Pasts: History and Memory in Western India (University of California Press, 2007) along with many articles on South Asian social and intellectual history, includingA Revolutionary’s Biography: The case of V.D. Savarkar” in Postcolonial Studies, “Rethinking Knowledge with Action: V.D. Savarkar, the Bhagavad Gita, and Histories of Warfare” in Modern Intellectual History, and Vinayak & Me: Hindutva and the Politics of Naming” in Social History.