Tommo’s Imprisonment to His Own Cultural Values: Recognizing Cultural Bias in Typee

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by David Collings

Herman Melville’s Typee depicts cannibalism at a time when the practice’s nature, and even its existence, is an uncertain question for its contemporary readers. During the colonization of Pacific islands such as the Marquesas, on which Melville spent time after abandoning a whaling vessel and subsequently set Typee, groups indigenous to the islands were often assumed to practice anthropophagy, but evidence for these practices was primarily second-hand and of limited reliability. Melville’s text is similarly limited in its ability to view or provide evidence for cannibalism, but Tommo’s perspective on it nevertheless changes over the course of the work. Geoffrey Sanborn’s The Sign of the Cannibal suggests that the specific mechanism at work is a change in the understanding of cannibalism’s motive: from enjoyment of the taste of flesh to a belief that the Typees possess no motive and the practice is fictitious; then to vengeance against enemies such as the Happars; and finally to an understanding that the figure of the cannibal, which generates fear and apprehension in colonizers, is more significant than the act itself (Sanborn, 76-7). However, although Melville’s portrayal of cannibalism is more nuanced than might be expected of the time, to the degree that scholarship like Sanborn’s frames it as postcolonial in its exposure of imagined cannibals in contrast with the truth of the practice, it is equally noted that Melville does not finish Typee in postcolonial terms. While Melville interrogates the practices of colonialism, Typee still confines the Typee people he depicts to a purely natural setting, and through narrative sidelines such as the British takeover of Hawai’i suggests that such indigenous groups need not be afforded equal footing in contexts British or American readers might recognise as civilized; these elements of the work may be read as providing a model for continued inequity, complicating access to any postcolonial work in Typee.

Elsewhere, in Ta-Nehisi Coates’s Between the World and Me, both cannibalism and the effects of Melville’s revised social structures are visible, to lesser and greater extents. Cannibalism is mentioned explicitly only once in Between the World and Me, when Coates considers the ramifications of “a democracy independent of cannibalism” (Coates 105). Though its appearance is brief and the text itself does not mark its use as significant, Coates’s definition of cannibalism can be loosely mapped onto Melville’s work with the concept, and these links are illustrative of a possible continuity between Typee and Between the World and Me. Coates’s cannibalism, which might more clearly be called “social cannibalism,” describes the creation of the Dream through the systemic destruction of Black bodies, elevating the Dreamers into their comfortable world by situating them apart from and above America’s Black citizens. In this system, where an ingroup is created and defined through the literal or figurative consumption of an outgroup, Melville’s work echoes; certainly one of the motives proposed for Typee cannibalism, ritualized vengeance against a Happar outgroup, bears some similarity to the process Coates describes, but in a broader sense Melville critiques the reliance of colonial groups such as the French occupiers of Nukuheva on the same force. The indigenous peoples of the Marquesas are used exclusively to reinforce French superiority, without any real insight into the peoples so used. However, Melville’s new framework for the handling of non-white outgroups, where such groups can be accepted and celebrated only on the terms of the ingroup, renders Typee as much a precursor to Coates’s modern Dream as it is a critique of its principles. Although these two texts are most often read separately, both leave space for the other to contribute important elements, and their complexly interlinked relationship is worth exploring.

Cannibalism’s invisibility in Melville is central to its depiction, and to the effect it has on the sailors who fear it. When Tommo first arrives in Nukuheva’s largest bay, he says of the groups living on the island that “although I was convinced that the inhabitants of our bay were as arrant cannibals as any of the other tribes on the island, still I could not but feel a particular and most unqualified repugnance to the aforesaid Typees” (Melville 25). This demonstrates two linked factors essential to the way cannibalism works in Melville: first, that distant sailors arrive convinced of cannibalism’s presence in spite of the absence of evidence; and second, that the figure of the cannibal that Tommo and the sailors fear is disconnected from the act of cannibalism itself, as Tommo expresses greater terror at the thought of the Typees’ cannibal reputation despite his certainty that all the inhabitants of the region practice anthropophagy in equal measure. As his experience with the reality of Typee life grows, Tommo briefly disbelieves their cannibalism altogether, but the appearance of “three long narrow bundles, carefully wrapped in ample coverings” after a skirmish with the Happars and before a grand celebration to which Tommo is refused entry persuades him that the Typees have brought home and devoured Happar bodies, an understanding that Sanborn terms “vengeful cannibalism” (Melville 235; Sanborn, 91). This representation suggests, but does not mirror, the social cannibalism of Coates, as Typees seem to devour Happar bodies after a border skirmish in defense of Typee space; cannibalism occurs after a conflict between ingroup and outgroup, and the subsequent consumption only reinforces Typee-ness instead of creating it. It is worth noting, as well, that even in this moment of apparent clarity Tommo makes assumptions based on seemingly-implicating evidence—it has been suggested that non-cannibalistic Polynesian burial practices may have produced evidence capable of being mistaken for cannibalism (Jones). Returning to Sanborn, Melville may already have grappled with this idea: the absence of definitive evidence can allow cannibalism in Typee to be read as “a kind of stage effect,” produced by the unfamiliar sailors as a category into which the Typee people and others can be comfortably fit, easing and justifying colonialism in the process (Sanborn 77).

The colonial figures most clearly described in Melville are the French soldiers sent to Nukuheva to claim the island, and they adhere neatly, in different ways, to both Melville’s and Coates’s account of cannibalism. When the “king” of Nukuheva, set up with French backing as the rightful ruler of the island to cement their control of it, boards the French man-of-war alongside his wife, the ship band “[strikes] up ‘The King of the Cannibal Islands,’” mocking the Nukuhevans while appearing to honour them (Melville 7). This is the social cannibalism at work in Coates transposed directly into a colonial setting; the French soldiers perform their French-ness and their supposed colonial superiority at the expense of the king and queen, elevating their own position by making explicit both who the outgroup is and where they are situated—namely, below them in power and prestige. The words they use for this practice, however, resonate with Melville’s treatment of cannibalism: the Nukuhevans are other because they are cannibals and their king is a cannibal king, more out of colonial fear of the term than due to any authentic consideration of the practices the term implies. The greater comprehension of cannibalism’s role that Melville demonstrates over the course of the novel gives him standing to criticize the colonialist practices which rely on it, putting weight behind his suggestion that the forcible French occupation of Nukuheva is “a signal infraction of the rights of humanity” (Melville 17). Here, the Typees and other inhabitants of the island are included in the definition of humanity, bringing the human underlying the figure of the cannibal to the foreground. Melville critiques social cannibalism by revealing, despite Tommo’s reflexive revulsion, the complex nature of the actual cannibals it uses as fuel.

When so laid out, Coates’s critique of the Dream, that it relies upon the inferiority of Blackness and forcibly projects this vulnerability onto America’s Black citizens, seems to align itself closely with Melville. The comfort the Dream provides to the Americans who “believe that they are white,” a belief Coates goes on to interrogate, is composed of “bedding made from [Black] bodies” (Coates 7, 11). The Dreamers are elevated because they have created a division along racial boundaries, allowing them to ensure “that there was someone down in the valley because a mountain is not a mountain if there is nothing below” (Coates 105). This is social cannibalism on a grand scale, although Coates refers to it as such only rarely; the Dreamers, having defined Black Americans as the outgroup fit to fuel their worldview, leverage their otherness to create and reinforce their own superior whiteness in the same way that Melville’s French soldiers leverage the Nukuhevans. The racism common to both groups, then, is also a common method of social cannibalism. In Coates, the complicating factor is the degree to which such social cannibalism is systematized; from America’s foundation on the back of slavery, the system has enshrined “rape so regular as to be industrial,” referring to the constant violence both literal and figurative experienced by Black Americans in the course of daily life (Coates 103). The Dreamers can benefit from their brand of cannibalism even without directly perpetrating it, as the system embedded in Coates’s description of American culture will continue to perpetuate the superiority of the Dream. Coates, then, represents the individual act of social cannibalism committed by Melville’s French sailors taken to a further extreme, where the process of group creation the act aims at has succeeded and become self-perpetuating.

Although accepting that Melville and Coates align neatly in their respective philosophies would simplify the collaborative reading of the two texts, an important question remains unasked: what does Melville offer in place of the old colonial processes he critiques? The answer has much more to do with the Dream than Melville’s apparent opposition to social cannibalism suggests. Throughout Typee, although he praises the idyllic, almost Edenic lifestyle of the Typees for its unexpected beauty, Melville does not extend the unusual-for-the-time privileges that Polynesia’s indigenous groups enjoy in the text beyond a natural setting. The failures of indigenous peoples in “civilized” settings are often remarked upon, and these remarks do more than denigrate the prospective civilizer. Indeed, Typee’s final chapter praises the British Lord George Paulet’s time governing over Hawai’i, then called the Sandwich Islands, for the fondness it supposedly inspired in the native Hawai’ians, who “look back in gratitude to the time when his liberal and paternal sway diffused peace and happiness among them” (Melville 258). By Melville’s account, the trouble is that the Hawai’ians and their king are “half-civilized” (Melville 255). Although the act of colonization itself was inexcusable, once colonized, the denizens of the various Pacific Islands cannot be afforded equality; they are not equipped for independence, and it is hardly the fault of the individual governor that their subjects have already been hauled from “prelapsarian bliss,” as A Political Companion to Melville puts it (Frank 37). These are conditions conducive to the Dream that Coates describes, rather than precluding it: the individual acts of social cannibalism committed by parties such as the French sailors are inexcusable, but the broader system established by these initial acts must simply be accepted. Perhaps it is no surprise, then, that the America Melville calls home, reading Melville’s accounts of Polynesia, produces the Dream in spite of Melville’s apparent protests.

Melville’s protests—the anticolonial or imaginatively postcolonial content of his work—occupy uncertain space in the work in light of the Dream he enables. His objections to colonialism and social cannibalism still exist within the text, and his critiques that colonial forces “burn, slaughter, and destroy… and sailing away from the scene of devastation, call upon all Christendom to applaud their courage and their justice” hew closely to Coates’s suggestion that Dreamers rely on “the pillaging of life, liberty, labor, and land” (Melville 27; Coates 8). However, Melville’s tacit acceptance of the system that has been established in spite of his critiques is difficult to read past, and the momentary flashes of postcolonial space created by tearing away the image of the cannibal are obscured by the work’s apparent disinterest in accessing it on a wider scale. Coates’s presence in any reading of Typee further complicates the matter; in Between the World and Me, social cannibalism is problematic because of the systems that Melville seems to half-knowingly endorse,enforcing in Black life in America a series of altercations with the Dream and whiteness, as when a young Samori is shoved aside in a crowded theater. Coates’s encounter with this injustice is not personal—the figures he argues with are “a white woman” and “a white man,” not specific individuals (Coates 94-95). The woman pushes Samori because in the crowded, majority-white theatre her membership in the ingroup provides a basis for such an action. Modernity leaves no room and little justification for Melville’s suggestion that distinct cultural groups should remain entirely isolated, and no other models for the absence of social cannibalism exist in Typee.

Coates, however, offers no clearer account of a future absent social cannibalism than Melville does. Although his insights into the nature of the Dream are incisive and far more modern than Melville’s anticolonial language, Coates is hesitant to suggest that the world will ever actually change in accordance with these insights. Coates asks his son to struggle for the sake of his individual life, but also advises that Samori should not “pin [his] struggle on [the Dreamers’] conversion” (Coates 151). To Coates, no outside force can cause the Dreamers to change, and the comfort they are afforded as beneficiaries of the Dream makes them unlikely to change themselves. Dana Williams, summarizing criticism of Coates for this fatalist quality of his work, notes the absence of worthwhile new perspectives for Black readers already familiar with the broad-strokes systemic issues Coates depicts, exacerbated by “an unwillingness to offer even the smallest meaningful insight into the interior lives of those Coates narrates as powerless and disembodied” (Williams 182). The descriptions of Blackness used as fuel for the dream are not new to Black audiences, Williams says, making the white readers who might be surprised by these accounts an important part of Coates’s audience—but Coates has already established his belief that they will not change as a result of his outside input, making the function of his text an open question. Like Melville, Coates struggles to elaborate on any possible future beyond the flaws he critiques, and although the absence of such a blueprint for a future is unlikely to lead Coates to seeming acceptance of that which he critiques, as it did for Melville, there is a similar sense that the text is missing a conclusive takeaway for readers who still hope for a better world.

If neither Melville nor Coates satisfactorily produce a description of a future beyond social cannibalism, the connections between the two works may help to fill in the space left by both Typee and Between the World and Me. Coates’s reference to “a democracy independent of cannibalism,” cursory as it is, provides the essential connection to Melville’s work with the same subjects (Coates 105). In Melville, the literal cannibals, who possess complex and uncertain motivations for the practice of anthropophagy and are not defined by it, are obscured by the image of a cannibal conjured by colonists. Be they French or otherwise, colonial groups practice social cannibalism by reducing indigenous Polynesians to a single label, that of the cannibal, and reinforcing their own group’s boundaries and superiority in relation to the feared other who supposedly lusts after human flesh. By exposing the shallowness and inaccuracy of this conceit through a progressive exploration of the motives underlying Typee cannibalism, Melville gradually humanizes for the reader the formerly-obscured Typees. When Tommo’s failure to discover definitive evidence of the practice reveals the image of the cannibal’s total disconnect from reality, its absence briefly creates postcolonial space for the Typees, independent of the impositions of social cannibalism. Coates’s suggestion that any progress towards the death of social cannibalism in America must come from the Dreamers themselves is less hopeless in light of Melville’s success displacing an outgroup label, limited as it may be. Melville may be complicit in the creation of the conditions which produced the Dream in America, but if even he understood and was able to set in widely-read writing the flaws of the Dream 200 years before Coates, there is hope that the Dreamers may one day wake themselves in the manner that Coates suggests. Though Melville fails to extend his criticisms of social cannibalism and Coates fears that those who need to will never produce broadly-accessible self-criticism at all, a connected reading of Typee and Between the World and Me allows each to answer the gaps in the other.

In Melville and Coates alike, cannibalism is an object of criticism, and these criticisms are levied in often-similar terms. In Melville, the image of the cannibal supplants the humanity of Polynesia’s inigenous peoples in the eyes of colonizers, while in Coates the idea of Blackness as a designation used by the Dreamers to elevate themselves causes untold damage to America. Both authors criticize the use of humans as resources to enforce an ingroup’s superiority, although colonial forces and Dreamers alike aim to obscure the basic nature of the practice through systematization; the Dreamers have already achieved this, while Melville addresses colonialism in Polynesia at a time when its systems are still being established. It must be acknowledged, however, that the two texts do not read entirely neatly when set alongside each other. Melville is responsible for endorsing Lord Paulet’s governorship and other impositions on Polynesian natives with the justification that these indigenous groups, once removed from their natural isolation, will not function in society if they are treated as equals. This meek acceptance of the systems established by social cannibalism and casual racism, although common at the time Typee was written, fosters the conditions which ultimately lead to the Dream. Though Melville’s work opposing the image of the cannibal has utility to Coates precisely because of his proximity to the Dream, the fact remains that the postcolonial work in Melville’s text can only be accessed if the reader consciously pushes through his responsibility for the very situation that his text critiques. The effect of this conflict on the hopeful future that can be cautiously synthesized from Typee and Between the World and Me together is uncertain; perhaps uncertainty is appropriate, for opposition to the force of social cannibalism is a task as monumental as it is necessary.

Works Cited

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by Own Finlay

“God is dead.” So said Friedrich Nietzsche in 1882’s The Gay Science, but for some, God had been dead long before Nietzsche wrote His death into the public consciousness and put in His place stood a new breed of men, the Übermensch. Before Nietzsche, there was Fyodor Dostoevsky who, at the time of writing Crime and Punishment in 1866, set out to deconstruct this type of man who epitomized a distancing from the church, something the reformed clerical reactionary could not let succeed. To accomplish this, Dostoevsky created the character of Rodion Raskolnikov whom the author posits as a precursor for what would become Nietzsche’s Übermensch, the superman or ‘extraordinary man’ as Raskolnikov refers to it in the novel. Dostoevsky, on his tours of Europe, had observed this type of person and despised them for having stepped away from the Orthodox Church that he so cherished. To this end, he portrays Raskonlikov’s proto-Übermensch philosophy as self-destructive and contradictory in the wake of his crime. Only through suffering and rebirth with the help of the church does Raskolnikov cease the raving and illness that plagued him. Additionally, Dostoevsky parallels Raskolnikov with the biblical figure of Lazarus, showing how both are reborn to praise God, very much to Dostoevsky’s liking. However, Dostoevsky also creates a character in Svidrigailov who is so far beyond Raskolnikov in his extraordinary ways that Dostoevsky’s belief that even the worst can recover by submitting to God seems to falter. Svidrigailov is one half of a deep and affecting divide in C & P that appears in the mind of both Raskolnikov and Dostoevsky and one that appears to haunt both throughout the novel.

The concept of the Übermensch was created and defined in philosophical and psychological terms by Nietzsche in his 1883 book, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, where he uses it to contrast the other-worldliness morality of Christianity and instead posits these superhuman men as able to do anything they wish within the moral vacuum of nihilism. Dostoevsky first observed these now archetypal figures on his various tours of Western Europe, mainly London, Paris, and Berlin, between 1862-3. In his Writer’s Diary, Dostoevsky, a proud Russian Orthodox, warily remarks of Western Europe that, “Do you know how many tears we shed and the pangs of heart we suffer at the fate of this dear and native country, and how frightened we are by the storm clouds that are ever gathering on her horizon?” (Dostoevsky 198).

Although not mentioned here by name, the storm clouds Dostoevsky refers to are the proto-Übermensch, very liberal figures who were forming the middle class of Western Europe and sprouting up in Western European literature of the time. The author’s worry is that, as scholar Vsevolod Bagno notes, “the tragedy of the Europe of his time was that it had gone away from Christ” (Bagno 50). Dostoevsky sees the emergence of the extraordinary man as a direct product from this distancing from the church, because they are people who believe they can act on a level above God. Bagno further remarks on Dostoevesky’s view of Western Europe that, “his complaints and forecasts are to be perceived as a view ‘from within’ whereas his compatriots, broad as their scope may have been, basically regarded Europe ‘from without’” (49). Perhaps because of his travels, Dosteovesky didn’t see Western Europe as quite so distant from his beloved Russia. As a result, his anxiety about a potential Übermensch ‘invasion’ of Russia can be seen in his writing of C&P, where Raskolnikov and Svidrigailov enact the values of an Übermensch to varying degrees. Even though C&P predates the publishing of Zarathustra by 17 years, this figure, the Übermensch persona, was flourishing in Europe and Dostoevsky, to say the least, eschewed it and set out to deconstruct it in C&P.

In the article that Raskolnikov writes prior to committing his crime, he outlines Dostoevsky’s view of the extraordinary man. Detective Porfiry Petrovich sums up Raskolnikov’s article as, “Ordinary people should live a life of obedience and do not have the right to overstep the law” (310), but “extraordinary people have the right to carry out all manner of crimes and to break the law as they please, all because they are extraordinary” (310). Raskolnikov is somewhat annoyed at how bluntly Porfiry summarizes his ideas, but Porfiry’s definition is accurate: the extraordinary man is able to circumvent laws and restrictions to further his vision. Raskolnikov adds some nuance to the definition in his response, “All I did was hint that an ‘extraordinary’ person has the right … not an official right, that is, but a personal one, to permit his conscience to step over … certain obstacles, but if and only if the fulfilment of his idea demands it.” (310). Raskolnikov modifies the idea into a personal choice; there is no official law stating extraordinary men are above it, but this is beside the point as an Übermensch most likely would not even observe, or maybe discard, these rules in the first place given his high status. He goes on to describe how humanity’s greatest leaders have been criminals, but also extraordinary people: “if for no other reason than that, by introducing a new law, they violated the ancient law held sacred … and it goes without saying that they did not fear from bloodshed, so long as the blood could help them.” (311). This is a perfect description of Raskolnikov’s mindset going into the murder. He believes that, by committing this crime, he will be able to fund his education and help hundreds if not thousands. However, this is only the argument Raskolnikov uses to patch over the emerging extraordinary thoughts that are bouncing around his mind. He overhears this very concept being discussed earlier in the novel between a man who tells a policeman that, “Won’t thousands of good deeds iron out one tiny little crime? For one life – thousands of lives saved from decay and ruin” (80). These are not extraordinary men. They make arguments to keep themselves confined inside the rules of the law; the crime may be outside of the law but the ensuing productive results are not; they don’t harbour the same nihilism that is so striking in Svidrigailov and is the reason he does not observe the law. A truly extraordinary man does not need to bother with middling utilitarian justifications for their actions when they are committed to furthering themselves and themselves alone, within the realms of the law or otherwise. In Giorgio Faro’s words, “Therefore it is no longer merely utilitarian or humanitarian reasons that explain Rodya’s deed, but the passage to the proud, contemptuous conception of the Übermensch” (277). Towards the end of the novel, Raskolnikov bluntly admits that he desperately wanted to be an Übermensch when he breaks down to Sonya and confesses, “I wanted to become a Napoleon, that’s why I killed” (498) and “I killed for a dare” (502) because that’s what Napoleon, an Übermensch, would do. Dostoevsky includes the important detail that Raskolnikov never truly is an Übermensch; he merely wants to be. No matter how hard Raskolnikov tries to become an extraordinary man, he never can be one just because he wants to. Dostoevsky installs this philosophy in Raskolnikov’s character in order to show the terrible effects and outcomes he perceives. By the end of the text, Raskolnikov has become a twisted and raving lunatic all because of the crime he commits to test himself.

Dostoyevsky’s portrayal of the many extraordinary contradictions that tear Raskolnikov apart demonstrates just how negatively he views the Übermensch philosophy. The most startling of these contradictions is the one most physically taxing on Raskolnikov. The Übermensch shouldn’t suffer for their crimes because they contribute to humanity’s progress. Yet, following his crime, Raskolnikov becomes viciously ill. Raskolnikov even admits this and contradicts his prior statements on foregoing suffering when discussing the matter with Porfiry: “Suffering and pain are always mandatory for broad minds and deep hearts. Truly great people, it seems to me, should feel great sadness on this earth” (317). Another fierce contradiction for Dostoevsky is why an extraordinary man should be so secretive if he is benefiting humanity. Raskolnikov tells Porfiry that he would “hardly tell you if I did step over them” (318) in reference to the lines of law and society. If he was making strides for the greater good then why would he not be inclined to share his actions? What perhaps hounds Raskolnikov the most is the ability of the superman to “utter a new word” (312), something he admits to desiring when he responds “Quite possibly” (318) after Porfiry asks him if it was his goal to express his Übermensch philosophy when writing his article. However, as Razumikhin points out, “this [Raskolnikov’s article] isn’t new and resembles everything we’ve read and heard a thousand times before” (315), which Raskolnikov reluctantly agrees with. The most damning contradiction is Raskolnikov’s quest to know whether or not he really is an extraordinary man, but, of course, an extraordinary man does not need to wonder about such things. Dostoyevsky clarifies his views on this when Porfiry asks Raskolnikov if there’s an identifier of an Übermensch and Raskolnikov’s answer is that “there’s nothing, in short, for you to worry about … There’s a law at work here” (314), which implies that an identifier is not needed because the extraordinary man will know of their extraordinariness. The great problem here is that Raskolnikov commits his crime to see if he can be a Napoleon, thereby proving he’s not a Napoleon. Raskolnikov’s regret and shame are palpable when he tells this to Sonya, “I was horribly ashamed when it finally got through to me that not only would he [Napoleon] not have been put off, it wouldn’t even have occurred to him that there was nothing grand about it [the crime]” (498-9). Faro aptly sums Raskolnikov’s contradiction and resulting illness as, “nobody is more prey to evil than he who believes he can put himself and his actions above good and evil” (282). Dosteovesky clearly portrays how Raskolnikov is haunted by the many contradictions of the Übermensch philosophy, one that picks apart his psyche and unravels his mind as each mistake becomes more obvious to him.

Raskolnikov’s only option then, as presented by Dosteovesky, is recantation. Raskolnikov must give himself up to God, admit his mistake and bear his suffering if he wishes to both repent for his crime and recover from the illness that stems from trying to become an extraordinary man. To illustrate this concept, Dostoevsky parallels Raskolnikov’s death as an Übermensch and rebirth into Orthodoxy with the biblical figure of Lazarus. In the bible, Lazarus is raised from the dead by Jesus because “he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die” (11:25-6, KJV). In C&P, Sonya convinces Raskolnikov to give into God and be reborn a Christian, which Raskolnikov does, completing the parallel. Lazarus himself is referenced numerous times throughout the course ofC&P, including a near full description of his resurrection that Raskolnikov demands Sonya read to him (390-3). Indeed, when Sonya reads, “And the dead man came out” (393), it reeks of Raskolnikov’s disposition. Allusions to the concept of death and rebirth appear earlier, most notably when Raskolnikov is being treated by the doctor, Zosimov. He tells Raskolnikov that “your full recovery now depends mainly and solely on you … I should like to impress upon you how essential it is for you to eliminate the primary and, as it were, deep-rooted causes that helped bring about your illness; only then will you be cured” (267). These lines are not in direct reference to a repentance from Raskolnikov; they apply to his illness, but Dostoevsky is alluding here to how Raskolnikov must exorcise the Übermensch philosophy inside of him to return to health. Eventually, Raskolnikov repents of his crime and takes Sonya’s advice to “tell everyone out loud: ‘I have killed!’ Then God will send you life once more” (504) and that he must suffer for his crimes because he has to “Accept suffering and through suffering redeem yourself” (505). For Raskolnikov, that means he must spend the lawfully acquitted time in jail in Siberia, where we end the novel. By paralleling the two stories of Raskolnikov and Lazarus, Dostoevsky is showing how faith in God and accepting punishment will absolve your crimes. As Harold Bloom phrases it, “His [Dostoevsky’s] design upon us is to raise us, like Lazarus, from our own nihilism or skepticism, and then convert us to Orthodoxy” (4). For Dostoevsky, it is both a physical and a philosophical crime to believe in an ideology as conceited and sacrilegious as the extraordinary man that Raskolnikov almost becomes.

However, Dostoevsky doesn’t seem to fully commit to his evangelical side, as a certain character seems to escape his Christian redemption narrative. Svidrigailov is the Übermenschiest of the Übermensch; he is so extraordinary as to reject all the flaws of Raskolnikov’s precarious extraordinary status that cause his hysterical descent. Raskolnikov himself laments this fact when he’s questioning his actions in Siberia: “those people [extraordinary men] coped with the step that they took, which is why they are right, but I couldn’t cope with mine, so I had no right to take it” (651). Unlike Raskolnikov, Svidrigailov is able to cope with the three murders, at a minimum, to which Dostoevsky alludes. This is because Svidrigailov is an utterly selfish being with no remorse. He handles himself in an idiosyncratic and eerie manner, inhuman perhaps, an ability the former doesn’t have. Raskolnikov recognizes this when thinking of Svidrigailov’s suicide: “Was the desire to live really so strong, was it really that hard to overcome? Hadn’t Svidrigailov overcome it, despite his fear of death?” (651). More than anything, Svidrigailov is bored with life. His one goal seemed to be to have Dunya love him, but when she walks out on him after she fails to kill him, he loses the one thing his extraordinary capabilities cannot control. After he loses this goal that has kept him confined to this world, his nihilistic outlook becomes so strong as to decry life itself by committing suicide. To disregard the rules of life is as extraordinary as one can possibly be. If he had tried to stop her and rape her, something he certainly feels no qualms doing, it would seem to play into the Übermensch model. However, the “moment of dreadful, dumb struggle” (596) that occurs in Svidrigailov’s soul forms him into a being of only pure nihilism, the fuel of the extraordinary man. This is the harsh reality of the extraordinary men that Dostoevsky depicts: the nihilism that allows them to step over all boundaries is the one that crushes them in the end. Just as the five year-old girl turns into “one of those French ladies of the night” (611) in Svidrigailov’s dreams, Dostoevsky paints both Svidrigailov and Raskolnikov’s nihilism as initially beneficial, but as in the case of the former where his nihilism consumes him, it figures a mortal end.

Still, Svidrigailov plays counter to Dostoevsky’s Orthodox morals. He is a character for whom recantation can neither save nor is even an option, and in Dostoevsky’s creation of a character as supremely nihilistic as Svidrigailov, he lets the reader observe a place of doubt that plagues the writer’s mind. This place of doubt is seeded in Raskolnikov too, as the narrator remarks of Raskolnikov’s prior realization of Svidrigailov’s extraordinariness that “He couldn’t understand that this premonition might have been the herald of a future breaking point in his existence, a future resurrection, his view of life” (651). When Svidrigailov commits suicide, fully embracing his extraordinary status, he defies a fundamental belief for a devout Orthodox such as Dostoevsky, that anyone can be saved by God. If Dostoevsky believes Raskolnikov can be saved, and as Svidrigailov coolly observes, “wasn’t I right to say we’re birds of a feather?” (348), he too should be given the chance at redemption. The two aren’t so different as it first seems, yet Dostoevsky only chooses to save one. It suggests a fear in Dostoevsky; he’s not as sure of his faith as Raskolnikov’s salvation makes it seem. Dostoevsky doesn’t even seem to suggest that Svidrigailov will be worse off in the afterlife of a supposed hell. After all, Svidrigailov’s vision of eternity is “there’ll just be some little room, some sooty bath-hut, say, with spiders in every corner” (347) and this astonishingly, above all else, boring afterlife is “exactly how I’d arrange things myself!” (347). This extraordinary view of life becomes the demonic side of the divide in C&P that exists between Svidrigailov and Sonya, inside of Raskolnikov, and inside of Dostoevsky as well. Svidrigailov’s manner of existence serves to widen the chasm in Dostoevsky’s mind as much as Raskolnikov’s. Both appear to be fearful of his nihilism and this is the true reason for Raskolnikov’s ultimate repentance.

In Crime and Punishment, Dostoyevsky presents the reader with a thorough breakdown of the extraordinary man. He accomplishes this by drawing on his visits to western Europe and the figures he encountered there. He also makes the novel a catalyst to promote his own Orthodoxy as a means of redemption. However, like the fierce battle in Raskolnikov’s mind between his extraordinary and Christian thoughts, there existed a deep divide in Dostoevsky between his own Christian morals and his need to fully realize the philosophy of the people whom he viewed as harbingers of secularism. One side is embodied by the ‘to a fault’ saint Sonya who will love and thrust God upon anyone, while, on the other side, is the demonic Svidrigailov, whose nihilism drives him to death and renders all notions of God’s salvation futile. Raskolnikov acts as the bridge between the sides of the chasm. His decision to repent ultimately places him on the side of Orthodoxy, affirming Dostoevsky’s intentions to show the virtue of the church. Indeed, Faro succinctly explains Dostoevsky’s anachronistic conundrum: “To choose Nietzsche’s Übermensch, one must, therefore, bet on the inexistence of God” (283). However, Raskolnikov’s sudden embrace of faith and Dostoevsky’s tendentiousness may leave the reader unconvinced of both his change of heart and therefore Dostoevsky’s reactionary vision of a redeeming church. Perhaps, somewhere out in the world ‘Svidrigailov lives’ is spray-painted onto subway walls.

Works Cited

Bagno, Vsevolod E. “Europe as Goddaughter (Dostoevsky’s Second Homeland).” Russian

Studies in Philosophy, vol. 50, no. 3, pp. 48-56.

The Bible. Authorized King James Version, Oxford UP, 1998.

Bloom, Harold. Raskolnikov and Svidrigailov. Chelsea House, 2004.

Dostoevsky, Fyodor. Crime and Punishment. Trans. Oliver Ready. Penguin Classics, 2015.

Dostoevsky, Fyodor. A Writer’s Diary. Vol. 2: 1877–1881. Trans. Kenneth Lantz. Northwestern

University Press, 2000.

Faro, Giorgio. “A criminal’s confession: comparing rival ethics in crime and punishment.”

Church, Communication and Culture, vol. 2, no. 3, pp. 272-283.

Nietzsche, Friedrich. The Gay Science. Trans. Walter Kaufmann. Penguin Random House,

1974.

Nietzsche, Friedrich. Thus Spoke Zarathustra. Trans R. J. Hollingdale. Penguin Classics, 1961.

Photo via Wikimedia Commons

by Emma Britton

There are many similarities between Herman Melville’s 1846 novel Typee and Margaret Cavendish’s 1666 novel The Blazing-World. Both texts focus on an outsider who is given an intimate view of a society fundamentally different from their own. In Typee, a sailor named Tommo spends four months with the Typee, an Indigenous tribe on the South Pacific island of Nukuheva. Melville, through the character of Tommo, expresses his views on the European occupation and “civilization” of the Marquesas islands. In The Blazing-World, an unnamed woman becomes the Emperess of the Blazing-World, a peaceful society filled with different kinds of talking animal-men. The Emperess is a reflection of Cavendish’s views toward British colonialism and imperial power. Tommo questions the accepted European view of the Typee people, eventually coming to respect them, but the Emperess does the opposite. She forces her beliefs and lifestyle on the inhabitants of the Blazing-World, eventually using them in a military effort to prove the naval superiority of her home country, a thinly-veiled allusion to England. Melville and Cavendish both tell stories of colonialism, with Cavendish advocating for European superiority and power, and Melville warning about the dangers of the very same thing.

At the beginning of Typee, Tommo’s view of the Indigenous islanders is influenced by rumours he has heard during his time at sea, and he believes them to be dangerous cannibals. The consensus among the European expansionists that occupy the island is that the Happar tribe is morally good and the Typee tribe is morally evil, but this belief appears to be based on rumour, not evidence. Upon his arrival to Nukuheva, Tommo contrasts the “the lovely valley of Happar” with “the valley of the dreaded Typees”, even though he has not personally met people from either tribe or visited either valley (Melville, pg. 24). Tommo feels hatred for the Typees, even saying “they who we denominate ‘savages’ are made to deserve the title” (Melville, pg. 26). Melville employs Tommo’s fear and hatred to demonstrate the extreme prejudice and cruelty of the white European and American expansionists toward Indigenous people. In the nineteenth century, this hateful prejudice was disturbingly common and universally accepted as the truth, something Melville is clearly aware of. He uses this prejudice, in Tommo and likely in the nineteenth-century reader, as a foundation to build on throughout the rest of the novel. European biases toward the islanders are consistently disproven as the story progresses, and Tommo is thus given a chance to grow and learn from his initial prejudice.

The Typee people show generosity and kindness to Tommo, which causes him to question his prejudices toward them. They provide Tommo and his companion Toby with food, water, and shelter, not asking or expecting anything in return (Melville, pg. 72-74). Tommo is hesitant at first, but soon grows comfortable in the valley, while Toby remains skeptical. After a few days on the island, the two men are fed meat, which Toby exclaims must be “baked baby”, refusing to eat it (Melville, pg. 94). Tommo is much more trusting of the Typees at this point and ventures to try the meat, discovering that it is roasted pig (Melville, pg. 95). Melville here illustrates this fundamental difference between Toby and Tommo. In contrast to Toby, who here represents stubborn colonial prejudice, Tommo doubts his preconceptions and displays a capacity for growth, learning, and compassion. Tommo’s willingness to learn means that Melville can use him as a blank slate, a canvas on which Melville can paint his own political ideas.

Melville’s criticism of colonialism and European expansion becomes clear as Tommo spends more time in the Typee valley. Tommo initially refers to the islanders as “cruel savages”, but after some time with them decides that “the Polynesian savage… enjoy[s] an infinitely happier existence” than the typical European man (Melville, pg. 51, 124). This causes Tommo to contemplate the dangers of “civilization” (meaning European civilization) and its impacts on the “now diseased, starving, and dying natives” (Melville, pg. 124). He even comes to question the use of the term “savage”, saying it is “often misapplied” and that Europeans display an equal or greater amount of “savagery” in their own behavior (Melville, pg. 125). This commentary is instrumental in understanding Melville’s progressive view on the dangers of colonialism. Tommo’s experience with the Typees exposes him to a peaceful way of life he is unaccustomed to, and he feels enlightened in the realization that the Indigenous way of life is not inferior to his own, but in fact equal, if not superior in many ways. Melville’s commentary on the treatment of the Indigenous people by colonial settlers evokes empathy and compassion in the reader, and he urges us to overcome our biases alongside Tommo. Melville’s progressive analysis, though a widely-established and accepted view in 2021, was likely largely influential on nineteenth century readers. The idea that white people could learn from Indigenous ways of life was extremely uncommon at the time, and the cultural and religious assimilation of Indigenous people into Christian European society was a major goal of colonialism. Melville forces the reader to question these norms by humanizing the Indigenous islanders and in turn demonizing the colonial settlers, turning typical stereotypes on their heads.

Margaret Cavendish voices an opposite opinion, advocating for colonialism in The Blazing-World. At the beginning of the novel, The Emperess fears the many different species of animal-men, but her fear quickly dissipates. When she first meets the bear-men, she is “extremely strucken with fear” and believes that “her life will be a sacrifice to their cruelty” (Cavendish, pg. 9). This description is nearly identical to Tommo’s reaction upon meeting the Typees. Unlike Tommo, however, the Emperess does not come to question her prejudice. Her fear dissipates for a completely different reason: she is given power. Astounded by her beauty and believing her to be a superior being, the Emperor of the Blazing-World gives her “absolute power to rule and govern all the world” (Cavendish, pg. 15). Upon an initial reading, this appears to be a declaration of love and a display of generosity and kindness on behalf of the Emperor. A deeper reading, however, reveals the disturbingly racist connotations of this scene.

The Emperor’s treatment of the Emperess is a clear metaphor for the way the Indigenous peoples of North America welcomed the European expansionists in the early seventeenth century. The Emperess refers to her subjects as bear- men, ape-men, fish-men, and other such animal-man hybrids. She also refers to them as “monsters” (Cavendish pg. 44). This terminology is reminiscent of that which colonial expansionists would use to refer to Indigenous people, and likely stems from Indigenous spiritual ideas about animals and nature. The animal-men’s happiness to have her in charge is a hollow depiction of historical Indigenous kindness and the ways that Europeans took advantage of it. European colonizers committed genocide against the Indigenous peoples in North America in order to seize absolute power over the land, yet according to the original British history, the land and resources were happily gifted (Canadian Encyclopedia). It is now understood that this was a blatant attempt to rewrite history. This context reveals the weight of the Emperess’s so-called “gift” of absolute power over the Blazing-World (Cavendish pg. 15). When we read The Blazing World as a metaphor for colonialism, we must question if the Emperess is truly given her power as freely and openly as it appears. The connotations of this metaphor implicate Cavendish’s overt prejudice toward Indigenous peoples.

The changes made to the Blazing-World by the Emperess echo some of the changes Europeans were making to Indigenous societies in America: cultural and religious assimilation and the annihilation of personal rights. The Emperess “convert[s] the Blazing-World to her own religion”, building churches and “preaching sermons” to the animal-men (Cavendish, pg. 50-51). She determines the jobs of all the inhabitants of the Blazing-World, and threatens punishment when tasks are not performed exactly to her liking. For example, she criticizes the bear-men heavily for their love of telescopes, even though the use of telescopes is a large part of their job as experimental philosophers (Cavendish, pg. 27-28). The Emperess also militarizes the fish-men, using them to serve her imperial agenda (Cavendish pg. 102). The novel ends on a dangerous advocation for British superiority, as the Emperess’ description of the “naval force and power” of her home country is a clear allusion to Cavendish’s home of Britain (Cavendish, pg. 103). The animal-men, who have been manipulated to serve the Emperess’ imperial interests, are used to gain power. Cavendish does not consider the ethics of these actions, nor does she prompt her reader to consider them, instead praising the Emperess and depicting her as the undeniable hero of the story. After winning the initial naval battle, the Emperess decides she will not “return into the Blazing-World until she ha[s] forced all the rest of the world to submit to that same nation” (Cavendish, pg. 104). The Emperess exploits and manipulates the Indigenous citizens of the Blazing-World for power and superiority in an abhorrent display of British colonialism, an action Cavendish presents as indisputably moral and brave.

Just as the animal-men welcome the Emperess in The Blazing-World, the Typees show nothing but kindness and generosity toward Tommo in Typee. Tommo embraces Typee culture in many ways, learning more of the language and dressing up in traditional clothing for the “Feast of the Calabashes,” a Typee festival (Melville, pg. 161-162). Tommo has developed respect for the Typee culture at this point, but his admiration has its limits. He repeatedly criticizes the tattoos that cover the Typee people, especially the ones that decorate their faces. At the beginning of the novel, Tommo’s ship’s captain describes the Indigenous tattoos as “damaging [a face] for life,” which demonstrates the general European attitude toward the practice (Melville, pg. 34). After spending several months with the Typees, they request that Tommo undergo this process of tattooing, as it is important to their culture (Melville, pg. 218). Tommo is “horrified… at the thought of being rendered hideous for life,” and it becomes clear to the reader that even after all the Typees have done for him, Tommo is still repulsed at the idea of a permanent connection to their culture (Melville, pg. 219). Melville intends this response to disappoint the reader, because it had appeared that Tommo had overcome this prejudice, when in reality, all it takes is slight discomfort to reignite his feelings of disgust toward the Indigenous culture. This development causes a shift in the peaceful tone of the novel and leads to its bitter conclusion.

Melville uses Tommo’s rejection of Typee culture to force discomfort upon the reader as the novel ends. Though the threat of cannibalism is dormant for the greater part of the novel, Tommo eventually discovers a pouch containing three shrunken human heads, confirming the cannibalistic practices he had initially suspected of the Typees (Melville, pg. 232). He is repulsed and reverts back to his prejudicial view of the islanders, forgetting all they have done for him. Although he had previously questioned if cannibalism was truly more “savage” than the Europeans’ treatment of their enemies, his reaction to the discovery of the heads is one of disgust, horror, and hypocrisy (Melville, pg. 125, 233). We are reminded of Tommo’s initial prejudice toward the Typees as Melville throws it back in our face, distorting the islanders into dangerous and violent cannibals. Tommo plots his escape, eventually leaving the Typee valley, and the last image we have of the gentle Typees is a haunting one: they swim after Tommo, knives between their teeth, “ferocious expressions” on their faces (Melville, pg. 252).

This depiction of the Typees as evil, animalistic, and dangerous is antithetical to Melville’s discussion of Indigenous people throughout the rest of the text and reminds the reader of the terrifying reputation the islanders carry among European sailors. The discomfort and disappointment of the novel’s conclusion illustrates the evolution of our perception of the Typees because Melville presents them in a way that has continually been disproven. He thus warns the reader of the dangers of prejudice and hatred, because without Tommo’s prejudice and hatred toward the Typees, he would never have needed to fear them. It was Tommo’s prejudice that pushed the Typees to act in a violent way (and even as such, they never did commit any acts of violence against him). This misrepresentation of fundamentally peaceful and kind people is what Melville leaves us with, and one can only assume that he hoped our disappointment in Tommo could extend to colonialism as a whole.

In recent weeks, the bodies of over one thousand Indigenous children have been found in residential school sites across Canada (BBC News). These schools, funded by the Roman Catholic Church during the 19^thand 20^thcenturies, were intended to “assimilate indigenous youth” into European culture (BBC News). Typee, written during the creation of the first residential schools in the mid-nineteenth century, feels move relevant than ever before. The hatred and prejudice exhibited by Tommo and the other European sailors is not hyperbolic or metaphorical, it was real in 1846 and it remails real in 2021. While Melville’s novel provides a relevant historical lens through which to view the European mistreatment of Indigenous peoples, it is far from a comprehensive guide to Indigenous cultural relations. If we want to truly understand the issues Melville introduces in Typee, it is imperative that we read Indigenous texts and listen to Indigenous voices, and analyze them as diligently as we do books from 200 years ago.

Melville employs the last chapter of Typeeas a microcosm for the dangers of colonialism and the mistreatment of Indigenous people. This is in harsh contrast to Cavendish’s message in the final pages of The Blazing-World. Although the two stories have many similarities, it is clear that the authors’ understandings of prejudice and colonialism are vastly different. Cavendish advocates for a system that benefits her, the same system Melville questions and criticizes. Typeeaddresses the horrifying repercussions of colonialism and criticizes the European and American treatment of Indigenous peoples, a much-needed opinion at a time of cultural assimilation and genocide. In 1846, Melville’s lens provided a guide for the deconstruction of the pro-colonial narrative presented in many popular texts at the time, including The Blazing-World.Typeeis a relevant historical tool which can and should be used as a foundation for correcting and reforming our treatment of Indigenous peoples—in 1846, 2021, and for all the years to come.

Works Cited

BBC News.“Canada: 751 Unmarked Graves Found at Residential School.” BBC News, 24

June 2021, www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-57592243.

Burgess, Miranda. “Margaret Lucas Cavendish, The Blazing World.” Canvas. 23 Nov. 2020.

Canadian Encyclopedia. “Genocide and Indigenous Peoples in Canada.” The Canadian

Encyclopedia, www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/article/genocide-and-indigenous-

peoples-in-canada.

Cavendish, Margaret. The Description of a New World, Called the Blazing World. Figgy Tree

Publishers, 1666, reprinted 2016.

Marshall, Toph. “Melville Lecture.” Canvas. 22 Feb. 2021.

Melville, Herman. Typee: A Peep at Polynesian Life. Penguin, 2001.

Photo via Wikimedia Commons

by Holly Maurer

Herman Melville explored the art of carefully placed sexual innuendo, implied romance, and extended metaphor across multiple queer-coded texts throughout his 19th-century literary career. Typee, Billy Budd, and Moby Dick are all examples of notable work by Melville that feature queer-coded protagonists and clearly defined same-sex romantic subplots. The largely negative outcomes of these romances seem to suggest Melville’s internal grappling with the idea that an openly queer lifestyle was not achievable or accepted in the time in which he lived and wrote.

Melville’s Typeeis an allegory for queer self-acceptance in the 19th century. Tommo experiences implied homoerotic urges almost immediately upon leaving his ship, first with Toby, then with Kory-Kory and Marnoo upon entering Nuku Hiva. Tommo also experiences strained interest in the young woman Fayaway, and in navigating his compulsory heterosexuality^[1], masculinizes her to the reader in a clear effort to make her more attractive to himself. Melville uses sexual innuendo to emphasize Tommo’s queerness and attraction to these individuals in lieu of explicitly described sex scenes. Tommo’s exploratory queer journey in Nuku Hiva is brought to a close in a sudden, unfulfilling, and uncomfortable way, and the negative tone suggests Melville’s takeaway from Tommo’s depicted queerness: during the era and environment in which Typee was written, the life of open queer expression that Tommo pursues is unachievable. Tommo retreats to the ship, symbolizing his return to a lifestyle in which he represses his sexuality.

Tommo’s sexualizing gaze of Toby indicates that Tommo perceives him and his masculinity as godlike, ethereal, and deeply attractive. When Tommo first meets Toby he notes his “remarkably prepossessing exterior,” “great flexibility of limb,” his “mass of jetty locks,” and his “moody, fitful, and melancholy—at times almost morose [disposition]” (Melville 32). Homoeroticism pervades this description; it is much less that of a stranger than an object of sexual interest. This initial suggestion of Tommo’s fascination with Toby reads as his unconscious acknowledgement of same-sex attraction, which takes place at the precipice of Tommo’s immersion into the open-minded, welcoming, and expressive Typee culture. While Toby is initially presented to the reader as being downtrodden and erratic, there is a notable change in his demeanour once he spends more time alone with Tommo: “[b]eing with Tommo, the beast Toby is tamed … He sleeps peacefully, becomes reasonable and calm, and uses his natural instincts in wending his way through the jungle” (Beliele 34). Toby is Tommo’s tall, dark, and handsome object of interest, who, although at first seems unfriendly, later displays tenderness and warmth upon building a relationship with Tommo. This romanticized archetype seems to fit more into a slow-burn romance than a traditional voyager novel. Tommo’s interested gaze is what illuminates this likeness, because it is through his eyes that we see the deep attraction and admiration he feels for Toby.

The interactions between Toby and Tommo while they navigate the forest revolve around subtle sexuality, innuendo, and foreplay. Tommo’s intent fixation on Toby is evident in his engaged and focused narration of Toby’s actions, which Tommo recounts in a wholly erotic way. This heavily suggests that this scene should be interpreted as a courtship between the two. Tommo observes Toby to be “[t]hrusting his hand … into the bosom of this capacious receptacle” to retrieve the “wet and dripping” sea-bread (Melville 42). Toby then rescues more of the contents of his frock, and in “drawing [the] calico slowly from his bosom inch by inch, Toby remind[s] [Tommo] of a juggler performing the feat of the endless ribbon” (Melville 43). The use of sexually suggestive words such as “thrusting,” “bosom,” “wet and dripping,” “inch by inch” (Melville 42-43) are certainly no accident by Melville; these lines serve as their own indication of Tommo’s sexual yearning and budding interest in Toby. Tommo likens Toby to a juggler, which suggests a sexual atmosphere in Toby’s subtle performance; the men carefully and intently study one another, as if Toby were performing a sort of mating call or courting routine for the aroused Tommo.

The language Melville uses to illuminate Toby and Tommo’s dangerous navigation of the forest is also incredibly sexually charged and suggestive of mutual attraction:

My brain grew dizzy with the idea of the frightful risk I had just run, and I involuntarily closed my eyes to shut out the view of the depth beneath me. For the instant I was safe, and I uttered a devout ejaculation of thanksgiving for my escape.

“Pretty well done,” shouted Toby underneath me; “you are nimbler than I thought you to be, hopping about up there from root to root like any young squirrel. As soon as you have diverted yourself sufficiently, I would advise you to proceed. (Melville 61-62)

I want to draw attention to words such as “depth,” and “ejaculation,” as well as to Toby’s open praise of Tommo’s physical prowess. Tommo is “nimbler than [Toby] thought [him] to be,” (Melville 61) which not only implies that Toby is routinely evaluating Tommo’s shape and form, but also that he is paying close attention to his friend’s strength and flexibility. In fact, Melville uses the word “ejaculation” a second time within the same interaction when Tommo “utter[s] one comprehensive ejaculation of prayer” (Melville 63). Melville uses the deliberate repetition of sexual imagery to extend the metaphor of courtship between Tommo and Toby. Beliele supports this, and adds that “Melville has created a vision of paradise: the gay adolescent dream of being alone in a secluded, preferably pastoral, setting with the beloved– away from intrusive and restrictive societal mores and laws … Tommo has Toby to himself while they are in the hills, a partner, best friend, and collaborator” (Beliele 34). This connection with Toby establishes itself among Tommo’s first queer experiences; after identifying his latent same-sex attraction, the two men share these tender moments of pseudo-courtship in the privacy of the Nuku Hiva forest.

Tommo’s supposed attraction to Fayaway indicates his compulsory heterosexuality, rather than a legitimate budding romance. The image Tommo conjures of Fayaway seems as though it were a fill-in-the-blanks activity of his description of Toby. While Fayaway has a “free pliant figure,” Toby has a “great flexibility of limb”; while Fayaway has “a rich and mantling olive [complexion],” Toby has a “naturally dark complexion … deepened by exposure to the tropical sun”; while Fayaway has eyes that “in a contemplative mood, … [seem] most placid yet unfathomable,” Toby’s “mass of jetty locks clustered about his temples … threw a darker shade into his large black eyes”  (Melville 86, 32). These parallels suggest that Tommo’s experiences with Toby lay the groundwork for how the reader should interpret Tommo’s sexual identity. Tommo’s perception of Fayaway follows the structure of his perception of Toby, therefore his supposed attraction to women is only functional using the reference of his same-sex experiences. It is as if, upon meeting Fayaway, Tommo must refer to his “Toby” notes on how to be attracted to someone to ensure that he is correctly engaging in heterosexuality.

Tommo’s canoe expedition with Fayaway is, much like the forest scene with Toby, erotically coded and rife with sexual innuendo. Tommo masculinizes Fayaway in an effort to make her appear more attractive, and Melville leans heavily into male sexuality in both his word choice and his overall description of the scene:

As I turned the canoe, Fayaway, who was with me, seemed all at once to be struck with some happy idea. With a wild exclamation of delight, she disengaged from her person the ample robe of tappa which was knotted over her shoulder … and spreading it out like a sail, stood erect with upraised arms in the head of the canoe … In a moment the tappa was distended by the breeze—the long brown tresses of Fayaway streamed in the air—and the canoe glided rapidly through the water, and shot towards the shore. (Melville 134)

The scene indicates Fayaway’s nudity and physical liberation, which in itself implies a sexually charged atmosphere. Melville plays on phallic imagery through the diction of this scene. When Tommo is sexualizing Fayaway, she is “stood erect” (Melville 134) and effectively “standing up like a big penis” (Marshall 2021). Not only is her posture phallic, but she is turned around so that Tommo can only see her from behind. Her breasts are hidden from Tommo and he is androgenizing her through his gaze. Scholar Linda T. Shealey notes that “Melville’s language is sexually suggestive: the terms ‘erect,’ ‘upraised,’ ‘head, ‘straight,’ ‘distended,’ ‘mast,’ and ‘shot’ are replete with phallic undertones … [t]he canoe, a symbol of the phallus, ‘glides’ rapidly through the feminine ‘water’ and ‘shoots’ towards the shore in another unmistakably sexual metaphor” (Shealey 62). Earlier in the book, Melville chooses words such as “thrusting” and “bosom” (Melville 42) to bring nuance to Tommo’s forest expedition with Toby. This subtle sexuality is paralleled in the canoe scene with Fayaway, where once again Tommo cross-references the framework of his sexual experiences with Toby. This is a placeholder for intercourse as well as a checkpoint of Tommo’s sexually exploratory experience in Nuku Hiva.

The autoerotic fire-starting scene involving Kory-Kory, Tommo’s obedient body servant, serves as another facet of Tommo’s erotically liberating experience. Much like the canoe scene, Kory-Kory’s act of making a fire is replete with sexual language and imagery, and therefore serves as an indication of a sexual act without explicit acknowledgement by Melville. Tommo receives a massage from a group of Typee girls while Kory-Kory watches “with the most jealous attention,” (Melville 110) making fire in a manner that seems to suggest that he is watching Tommo whilst bringing himself to orgasm. The language in this passage is sexually suggestive, with the repeated phallic image of “[Kory-Kory’s] stick,” (Melville 111) but more prominently, the success of the fire-making progresses as if it were Kory-Kory’s engagement in masturbation and eventual climax. Kory-Kory suggests the very motion of autoeroticism when he “gradually quickens his pace … plying his hands to and fro with amazing rapidity,” (Melville 111). Melville then implies an orgasm: Kory-Kory begins to perspire, and  “approaches the climax of his effort … [and] pants and gasps for breath” (Melville 111).  Dr. Robert C. Suggs conducted a study on Marquesan sexual behaviours and found that “homosexual and autoerotic play is standard for Marquesan children and adolescents” (Suggs 31), and scholar Que Jun corroborates that “[Kory-Kory’s] autoerotic act in front of Tommo strongly alludes to his queer love” (Jun 22). Jun continues that Melville’s language suggests Kory-Kory’s ejaculation: “[he] symbolically dispers[es] seed or in this passage, ‘smoke’ that dissolves into the thin air” (Jun 22). This detailed sexual encounter involving Kory-Kory and Tommo is perhaps the closest instance Melville produces of explicit eroticism in Typee. Although Kory-Kory’s interest in Tommo is implied to be unrequited, the action of masturbation in this scene serves as yet another significant point in Tommo’s queer experience in Nuku Hiva. Tommo is not only lusting after others, he has also established himself as an attractive queer person on whom others may dote as well.

Tommo meets the enchanting Marnoo and immediately dives into an extensive explanation of how tremendously attractive and beguiling he is, describing him to be “built like a Polynesian Apollo [with] curling ringlets, which danced up and down [on the] feminine softness of his cheek” (Melville 135-136) as if he were “under the most favourable developments of nature” (Melville 135). Tommo is delving into an extensive account of Marnoo’s physical beauty, just as he did with both Toby and Fayaway. Upon meeting, Tommo and Marnoo join hands in what Tommo interprets as a subtly romantic manner:

I had hardly recovered from my surprise, when he turned round, and, with a most benignant countenance extended his right hand gracefully towards me. Of course I accepted the courteous challenge, and, as soon as our palms met, he bent towards me, and murmured in musical accents―“How you do?” “How long you been in this bay?” “You like this bay?” (Melville 139)

Tommo’s desire for Marnoo establishes yet another facet of his queer identity: Tommo finally feels the freedom to express his sexuality to such a great extent that he heavily implies his attraction to Marnoo. Tommo is flustered, marvelling: “Had I been pierced simultaneously by three Happar spears, I could not have started more than I did at hearing these simple questions … [f]or a moment I was overwhelmed with astonishment” (Melville 139). His reaction indicates that Marnoo’s extension of his hand is enough to send Tommo into the throes of queer panic. Scholar Que Jun notes that “the ‘piercing’ spears contain powerful queer strains, as they are charged with phallic significance; hence, physical penetration is metaphorically presented …  Tommo’s emotional response to Marnoo’s ‘simple questions’ reflects his queer desire to be ‘pierced’ by other males” (Jun 23). This shared act with another queer-coded character symbolizes Tommo’s commitment to his free expression of sexuality in Nuku Hiva.

The character of Marnoo is presented to the reader as androgynous, which in this case codes for “taboo” and indicates that he comfortably expresses his gender identity with both traditionally masculine and feminine characteristics. Marnoo’s masculine excellence and power is highlighted in Tommo’s observation that he is “one of the most striking specimens of humanity that [Tommo] ever beheld,” but this does not deny his alluring femininity: his smooth and untattooed cheek is “of a feminine softness” (Melville 135-36). Marnoo wears a “slight girdle of white tappa, scarcely two inches in width, but hanging before and behind in spreading tassels,” which is clothing traditionally intended for a Polynesian woman (Melville 136). Scholar Que Jun comments that Marnoo’s androgyny indicates Melville’s identification of latent sexual urges of Western male readers:

Though [the scholar] Said observes that “the ‘East’ has been a psychological sphere where heterosexual men can gratify their illicit sexual desires and explore a different type of sexuality in Western world (Said 190), he does not mention “queer love” as part of that “different type of sexuality.” Considering the fact that “the target readers of sea adventure novels were mostly males” (Said 191), the feminized “Polynesian Apollo” may serve as an erotic image for the latent queer readers in the 19th century America. (Jun 24)

This perspective demands the involvement of Melville’s awareness of the heterosexual norm as well as his own latent queer desires. Marnoo not only enjoys the sexual liberation that most others cannot, but he also comfortably expresses his gender identity in what Western ideology would consider non-standard ways. Tommo is a Westerner and we as the audience view the Typee valley through his eyes, so Marnoo embodies “taboo” not only through a Nuku Hiva gaze but also through Tommo’s Western gaze.

Marnoo proudly touts and enjoys his “taboo” status, which grants him full freedom of navigating the island, and the emphasis that the islanders place on taboo is a metaphor for queerness, sexual liberation, and non-conformity to gender norms. The Typee people consider women going out on the water as taboo, and as seen from the erotically charged canoe scene with Fayaway and Tommo, Melville codes a “taboo” canoe trip as a sexual encounter. In fact, Tommo androgynizes Fayaway during this expedition, and Marnoo, who has free reign over the valley, actively presents as androgynous. The similarity between androgynous, taboo Fayaway and androgynous, taboo Marnoo indicates that Melville intentionally positioned these two characters to be compared to one another as transgressive love interests of Tommo.

Tattooing is a theme in Typeethat is not considered taboo by the inhabitants of Nuku Hiva, but certainly is considered as such by Tommo. Despite Tommo’s apparent disgust at the heavily tattooed Typee people, he still considers tattooing as a “marker for what is sexually desirable” (Marshall 2021). Tommo immediately notices Kory-Kory’s tattoos and seems at once repulsed and interested:

His countenance thus triply hooped, as it were, with tattooing, always reminded me of those unhappy wretches whom I have sometimes observed gazing out sentimentally from behind the grated bars of a prison window; whilst the entire body of my savage valet, covered all over with representations of birds and fishes, and a variety of most unaccountable-looking creatures, suggested to me the idea of a pictorial museum of natural history, or an illustrated copy of “Goldsmith’s Animated Nature.” (Melville 83)

Although Tommo likens Kory-Kory to a prison inmate, he also compares his tattoos to the objectively delightful and interesting museum of natural history. This suggests a subtle conflict inside of Tommo, as he is clearly attracted to the tattooed Typees, but he grapples with his Western preconceptions and judgments. Tommo’s inclination to judge tattooed Typees is deconstructed later in the novel upon meeting Marnoo, which emphasizes Tommo’s increased comfort in his queer identity and his abandonment of traditional Western ideals. He remarks that “[t]he tattooing on [Marnoo’s] back in particular attracted [his] attention … [t]he artist employed must indeed have excelled at his profession” (Melville 136) and continues to give a detailed account of the beauty and intricacy of Marnoo’s tattoos. Both of these natives’ tattoos serve as signifiers to Tommo of what is sexually interesting and attractive, and this idea is supported by Tommo’s direct or indirect sexual engagement with both Kory-Kory and Marnoo. Tommo’s interaction with the tattooed natives poses an important development in his sense of self and queer identity, as well as his disengagement with his prior-held Western standards.

Tommo’s abrupt, dissatisfying, and desperate departure from Nuku Hiva symbolizes his inability to commit to the expression of his queerness. His journey is that of self-acceptance: gradual, rewarding, and passionate, while his act of leaving works to dismantle that. As soon as he finds it possible, Tommo escapes on a boat and violently hurls a boat-hook at the esteemed Mow-Mow, which “[strikes] him just below the throat, and force[s] him downwards” (Melville 252) shortly after bidding a hasty and half-hearted goodbye to Fayaway and Kory-Kory who are “both weeping violently” (Melville 248). This serves as a reminder from Melville that open queerness was not a viable path to take in the time in whichTypee was written, suggesting that it is easier, albeit more horrifying, violent, and upsetting, to return to a life of repression and confinement than it is to pursue self-expression in a time where it is not widely accepted.

Melville echoes this sentiment of latent queerness and repressed identity in his other texts, which may suggest that the inspiration for Tommo’s heavily queer-coded storyline is Melville’s own queer interest. The attraction Tommo feels for individuals such as Toby and Marnoo in 1846 Typee is paralleled in 1924 Billy Budd, a novella by Melville depicting the eponymous handsome sailor whose beauty is praised and envied by his shipmates. Billy is described to be “such a fine specimen of the genus homo, who in the nude might have posed for a statue of young Adam before the Fall” (Melville 53). Even the narrator, who is not ascribed to any particular character in the story, seems to be completely convinced of Billy’s ethereal beauty and superiority. This narrator may act as a manifestation of Melville and his own queer interest. Billy’s homoerotically charged dynamic with the ship’s master-at-arms Claggart is strongly implied, but the latter’s sexual advances go largely unnoticed:

Claggart, the Master-at-arms, official rattan in hand, happened to be passing along … Stepping over [the soup], he was proceeding on his way without comment, since the matter was nothing to take notice of under the circumstances, when he happened to observe who it was that had done the spilling. His countenance changed. Pausing, he was about to ejaculate something hasty at the sailor, but checked himself, and pointing down to the streaming soup, playfully tapped him from behind with his rattan, saying in a low musical voice peculiar to him at times, “Handsomely done, my lad! And handsome is as handsome did it too!” (Melville’s Billy Budd, 31)

In this passage, it is clear that Claggart is engaging in subtle flirtation with Billy. His “countenance change[s]” (Melville 31) when he notices that Billy was the one who made the small infraction of spilling soup, which indicates that another individual for whom Claggart does not have nearly as much fondness may have garnered a worse punishment. He flirtatiously hits Budd on his rear with his rattan, an action which scholar Dana Sliva interprets as Claggart being “[u]nable to control his homoerotic desires,” and that “[his] actions with his rattan suggest sodomy” (Sliva 2). The courtship and sexual tension is as clearly indicated here as it is between Tommo and his objects of queer interest in Typee. Melville’s pessimism regarding the acceptability of homosexual relationships becomes evident when Billy inadvertently kills Claggart and is executed for it, thereby nullifying any potential of the two to acknowledge their mutual attraction. Melville engages with what is now a common trope of killing LGBTQ+ characters, which suggests his writing to be an outlet for his sexual repression and pain. It is highly likely that the social climate of the 19th century and Melville’s consequential sexual repression spurred the sudden misfortunes of his queer-coded characters.

Melville’s Moby Dick is yet another homoerotically coded novel which prominently features perhaps the most glaring example of queer literary fantasy: a 19th century interracial queer marriage. Ishmael feels “mysteriously drawn towards” his friend Queequeg, an individual who, “[s]avage though he was, and hideously marred about the face … had a something in [his countenance] which was by no means disagreeable … You cannot hide the soul” (Melville’s Moby Dickch. 10). Ishmael makes a clear indication of his romantic interest in his “bosom friend”: “[t]hrough all [Queequeg’s] unearthly tattooings, [Ishmael] thought [he] saw the traces of a simple honest heart; and in [Queequeg’s] large, deep eyes, fiery black and bold, there seemed tokens of a spirit that would dare a thousand devils” (Melville ch. 10). The two routinely sleep together, and Chapter 4 opens with Ishmael reporting that he wakes up in the morning to “Queequeg’s arm thrown over [him] … in the most affectionate manner” (Melville ch. 4). Chapter 10 continues with the two engaging in an unmistakable instance of same-sex matrimony:

I began to be sensible of strange feelings. I felt a melting in me … [Queequeg] pressed his forehead against mine, clasped me round the waist, and said that henceforth we were married; meaning, in his country’s phrase, that we were bosom friends; he would gladly die for me, if need me … Thus, then, in our hearts’ honeymoon, lay I and Queequeg — a cosy, loving pair. (Melville ch. 10)

Melville is clearly representing queer romance, and unlike in Typee, this account of mutual attraction is not at all shrouded in innuendo. Ishmael and Queequeg spend the following day after their “marriage” engaging in a detailed account by Melville of the two cuddling and “enjoy[ing] [each other’s] bodily warmth” (Melville ch. 11). This serves as a manifestation of what Melville did not accomplish in his other queer-coded texts: a documentation in American 19th-century literature of same-sex marriage and overt romance.

Melville’s work was potentially, but not necessarily, an outlet for fleshing out his queer fantasies and his frustration with the inaccessibility of an openly queer lifestyle in the 19th century. Typeeserves as a clear progression of Tommo’s sexual identity and his various romantic interests in the Typee valley, and the suggested queer subplots in Billy Budd and Moby Dickecho Typee’s sentiment of acknowledging and enjoying same-sex romance. Tommo’s choice to leave Nuku Hiva in an act of violence forces the reader to face an unpleasant image: a man forced to turn against himself and those he grew to love during his queer journey and retreat to the very society which birthed his repression. Melville implicitly calls on a more accepting society for queer identities, by likening Typee’s Nuku Hiva to that which did not exist at the time of publication: a queer space in which individuals can express their sexual identity to the greatest degree. Scholar Steven B. Herrmann remarks on Melville’s potential queerness that “[w]hether Melville engaged in actual homosexual activity or not does not matter so much … [t]he fact that he leaves the question open for readers stands out as one of his greatest virtues as a writer” (Herrmann 71). Indeed, whether or not Melville himself was queer is not entirely relevant. His texts pioneered the representation of same-sex romance in 19th-century literature, which in itself is an incredible feat for the historical visibility of the queer experience.

^[1]I refer to compulsory heterosexuality here as the acknowledgement of a heteronormative standard to which queer individuals feel they must conform. Generally speaking, compulsory heterosexuality is experienced through a queer person’s inability to identify in themselves what constitutes legitimate heterosexual interest and what is their feigned heterosexuality due to a subconscious self-encouragement to fit into a heteronormative society.

Works Cited

Beliele, Kelvin Ray. “Beloved Savages and Other Outsiders: Genre and Gender Transgressions

in the Travel Writings of Herman Melville, Bayard Taylor, and Charles Warren

Stoddard.” 2009. https://digitalrepository.unm.edu/engl_etds/5

Herrmann, Steven B. “Melville’s Portrait of Same-Sex Marriage in Moby-Dick.” Jung Journal:

Culture & Psyche, vol. 4, no. 3, 2010, pp. 65–82. JSTOR,

www.jstor.org/stable/10.1525/jung.2010.4.3.65. Accessed 23 Apr. 2021.

Jun, Q. “Queer Space in Herman Melville’s Typee.” Advances in Literary Study, 5, 22-28. 2017.

DOI: 10.4236/als.2017.51003.

Marshall, Toph. Arts One Tutorial. Zoom. 4 Mar. 2021.

Melville, Herman. Billy Budd. Edited by Jim Manis, Electronic Classics Series, 2001.

mseffie.com, https://mseffie.com/assignments/billy_budd/Billy%20Budd%20Text.pdf.

Accessed 22 April 2021.

Melville, Herman. Moby Dick; or The Whale. Project Gutenberg, 2001. The Project Gutenberg,

https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2701/2701-h/2701-h.htm#link2HCH0010. Accessed 22 April 2021.

Melville, Herman. Typee: A Peep at Polynesian Life. Edited by John Bryant, Penguin Classics,

1996.

Said, E. “Orientalism.” New York: Vintage. 1978.

Shealey, Linda T. “Elasticity of Mind in Herman Melville’s Typee: A Quest for Individuation and

Voice.” 2011. https://minds.wisconsin.edu/bitstream/handle/1793/60975/Shealy%2C_

Linda.pdf?sequence=1&isAllowed=y

Dana, Sliva. “Exploring Homoeroticism in Herman Melville’s Novella Billy Budd, Sailor.”

Agora, vol. 15, 2006. Digital Showcase, https://digitalshowcase.lynchburg.edu/cgi/

viewcontent.cgi?article=1044&context=agora. Accessed 22 April 2021.

Suggs, R. C. “Marquesan Sexual Behaviour.” New York: Harcourt, Brace & World. 1966.

Photo via Wikimedia Commons

by Mia Gregg

Still life with a Bridle navigates the stories conveyed by art and other artifacts from the Dutch Golden Age. Herbert records his “artistic journey”, with the keen eye of a historian, weaving in poetic “descriptions of places and artefacts of interest to him” (Slodczyk 127). The text ties many accurate facts loosely to reality, forming a collage of fact and fiction, both imaginative and informative. Playing with the binary of appearance and reality in many ways; the work explores visual and literary art as both illusive and accurate, the text itself as a manner of representation, and evaluating ekphrasis as a form of description. This exploration blurs boundaries between appearance and reality in representation, and yet sheds light on topics of perspective and the individual experience. The relationship between visual and literary forms of art and how they inform appearance and reality in Zbigniew Herbert’s Still Life with a Bridle demonstrate the ways in which representations can be both illusive and illuminating. Herbert’s exploration of art through literature is essentially an exploration of perspective, the “deceptiveness of seeing” (Slodczyk 122) and the gap between “seeing and description” (Slodczyk 123).

This paper will examine contrasting arguments for art as both illusive and accurate in the visual art described by Herbert and the literature itself. The paper will then examine ekphrasis as a tool to combine visual and literary arts to create an integrated representation of reality. Ekphrasis can be defined as a poetic description often of visual art or a “reproduction through the medium of words of sensuously perceptible objects d’art” (qtd. in Slodczyk 124). References to secondary sources, including Slodcyk’s work on “Modes of Ekphrasis”, which discusses the nuances of a specific ekphrastic poem by Herbert and Andrew Miller’s work on lyrical representations of art, “The Shadow of the Former Self” provide additional insight into the art of ekphrasis. This exploration finds the combined effort of both literary and visual art forms augment reality. Although both forms of representation have limitations, together they strengthen truth and speak to the reader on an emotional level.

1. The Illusion of Art

From early in the novel, Herbert introduces art as both an illusion and reality. On one hand, paintings themselves are not “faithful representations of reality” (Slodczyk 127). While on the other hand, Still Life with a Bridle designates art as an accurate representation of reality, able to reach “the heart of things” (Herbert, 5). Herbert explores the “disharmony” between “the faithful rendering of appearance” and “a suggested allusion or symbolic statement” (Slodczyk, 127). The discussion of illusive art elicits many questions; What is the purpose of art? Is it to please the eye? Is it to affirm reality? How does art establish truths? In what ways does art limit understanding?

At many points in the text, Herbert indicates that art is a deceptive form of representation, often pointing to historical inaccuracies. Paintings are representations of reality that can be true artifacts while at the same time only “[shadows] of existing things” (Herbert 39). One example is a painting of tulips, which is viewed as a beautiful image and celebration of the flower. Herbert informs the context surrounding the painting to find it was only commissioned because the owner couldn’t afford real tulips during Tulipomania. Herberts argues that the painting stands in for the real flowers, but cannot accomplish the same effect. A still life painting or a landscape, although seeming to have captured a moment in time, has been created over many hours. Trees move and light shifts, giving the artist power to transcend time and space by curating the image from their minds eye. Portraits are one example Herbert provides to explore appearance and reality in art as “Everyone wants to look better and more dignified than in reality.” (Herbert 31). This brings to question art as a tool to record history in which flaws may be softened with the paintbrush in order to please the viewer. Art is a “deadly abstraction” that feeds on “the blood of reality” (Herbert 97). In this way, visual art can be a deceptive representation of appearances and cannot possibly capture reality with accuracy.

Although art is an illusive form of representation in many cases, Herbert also contradicts this perspective, often reflecting on the admirable accuracy of art. The authenticity of art is championed, along with its ability to express the “heart of things” (Herbert 5). The painters of the Dutch Golden Age “Augment the visible world of their small country and to multiply reality by the thousands” (Herbert 21). Art offers reflection on the real world by augmenting perspective, as if through a microscope. Herbert praises “the painter’s precision” (Herbert 116), presenting paintings as able to “immortalize” people, events, objects and landscapes at a certain point in time, preserving reality in an artifact and immortalizing the perspective of the artist (Herbert 31). Herbert praises art’s ability to render an image that “seems alive” to evoke a sensual and emotional reaction in the viewer (Herbert 99). Herbert says of painting, “From pigments dissolved in oil arise flowers, towns, bays of the ocean, and views of paradise truer than the real ones” (Herbert 80). Here, art is elevated above reality, possessing more truth than reality.

The contradiction between art as illusive and informative is well expressed in the role of the artist. Herbert argues that Dutch painters “[worked] to please the public” (Herbert 37), suggesting they altered reality for the sake of appearances. At the same time “They affirmed visible reality with an inspired scrupulousness and childish seriousness” (Herbert 37). Artists worked at once to preserve reality and to alter it forever. A painting lives by “its own light, the clear, penetrating light of clarity” (Herbert 105). Artists depict light while altering reality to display precision, true detail and though it sounds contradictory, preserve reality. This results in a paradox of preservation; in attempting to reproduce reality, a painting remains a representation of reality. The talented artist Torrentius is described as a “Master of illusory realism” implying that artists are deceptive in their ability to reproduce reality (Herbert 99). Herbert further discusses the authenticity of artists in apocrypha 9. “Letter” :

“We artists record appearances, the life of shadows and the deceptive surface of the world; we do not have the courage or ability to reach the essence of things. We are craftsmen, so to speak, who work in the matter of illusion” (Herbert 148)

Here, art is an illusion tied to appearances and cannot be seen to accurately depict reality. Vermeer concludes that although art cannot completely uncover reality, it may “reconcile man with surrounding reality” and “speak of joy from recovered harmony, of the eternal desire for reciprocated love” (Herbert 150). Art, even if illusive, proves also capable of capturing truth.

The ability of art to express truth is further explored in “The Nonheroic Subject” which explores the value of art. Herbert investigates why paintings of average, everyday objects were highly valued over paintings depicting glorious historical events during the Dutch “Golden Age”. Herbert questions the value of art, “Is it dignity and truth? Is it greatness? Is it beauty?” (Herbert 108). He concludes, “There is no division in their art between what is great and what is small, what is important and unimportant, elevated and ordinary” (Herbert 118). Herbert’s exploration of Art from the golden age finds value in the truth of the ordinary. “The Nonheroic Subject” demonstrates how the art of the everyday can furnish a more accurate depiction of life, though still influenced by the painter. What remains of these artifacts in museums of historical events may not represent the whole truth because the paintings were greatly influenced by their context. Art can represent both illusion and reality. Thus, Herbert warns that one painting cannot represent the whole picture. “Many works of art have been condemned to a secret life, and what we see in the museums and art galleries, accessible to everyone, is only a part of the existing heritage of the past.” (Herbert 94). Herbert gives the example of the cauldron in the Leids museum and the painting “History from the perspective of God” as the remaining artefacts from the attack of the Dutch flotilla against the Spanish entrenchments (Herbert 113). These remnants do not capture in entirety the epic battle, however they do hold some portion of the truth. Although art is not always an accurate representation of reality, it remains meaningful. Herbert presents art as a part of a whole, one idea of reality possessing the power to influence history by either excluding some details or glorifying others.

2. The Illusion of Literature

Herbert’s literary art form and the very structure of his novel attest to the indistinct boundary between appearance and reality. Herbert explores the accuracy of literary art and poetry throughout the text with the use of unreliable narration, genre mixing and ekphrasis. The use of ekphrasis, essays and apocrypha that both beguile and inform cause the reader to question appearance and reality within the book itself. The coalescing genres of essays, poetry and apocrypha present literature as another illusive art form, though still able to provide valuable insights and perspective.

The confusion of genre and varied writing style found in Still Life with a Bridle are used to question the authenticity of the literary arts. Essays are considered fact-based argumentative literature which weigh arguments and come to a conclusion. Herbert’s use of the genre combines factual analysis with intimate reverie. “Herbert’s style is flexible and has an unusually wide range: it can be factual, concise, and stringent, but it can also be poetic and sensual.” (qtd. in Slodczyk 130). The apocrypha are another illusion within art, hiding truth within fictional tales, to provoke questionable accuracy and reliability. Poetic, descriptive language along with the apocrypha contrast the factual and the fictional throughout the novel. Literature is an illusive and often inaccurate form of representation. Miller recognizes the limitations of language in depicting appearance and reality, “language will always form a net or a chasm between us and any sense of union or reunion with our origins” (Miller 27).

Herbert’s all too reliable narration also points to the constraints of language. Herbert’s honest narration goes so far as to question the authenticity of the work itself. “I know well, too well, all the agonies and vain effort of what is called description, and also the audacity of translating the wonderful language of painting into the language – as voluminous, as receptive as hell- in which court verdicts and love novels are written.” (Herbert 97) Herbert is minutely aware of distinguishing speculative language from objective language. He also makes the reader aware of this distinction and in doing so leads them to trust his authenticity. Herbert even comments on the authenticity of his own sources in the apocrypha “Letter”. Herbert discusses the letter and the flimsy evidence that it is authentic, supposedly between Vermeer and Van Lewenhoek. Language is seen by some as only a “cacophony of echoes, none of which draw one any closer to feelings, but instead render one isolated in a seemingly disingenuous house of chatter” (Miller 28).

Although the narration and defiance of genre paint language as a poor informant of reality, Herbert’s poetry also demonstrates the value in literature’s ability to promote understanding. Ekphrasis allows Herbert to write his essays from a unique perspective with accurate yet vivid descriptions, while also demonstrating how they may be biased in some ways. Through the use of ekphrasis, the reader learns to question the role of art (both visual and literary) in history and society. The reader is led to question the objectivity of the viewer and their own subjective interpretation. Ekphrasis, used to describe the painting “Bouquet against a vaulted Window” not only describes the painting, but also details the effect it has on the viewer. Herbert depicts the bouquet under a “clear and objective” light, painted with the “impartiality of a botanist and anatomist” (Herbert 41). The limited quality of these descriptions is not hidden from the reader. “I have invented all this unnecessary anecdote to motivate these two heads against the heavy, dark background” (Herbert 67). Herbert explains that he relies only on the painting and “the museum of [his] imagination” (Herbert 14) to conjure an image for the reader. Everything has been touched in some way by the past, the painter is not a clear lens through which to see the past but has also, in some way, given shape to the past. “Language is a cheap and unreliable harlot”, while visual representations are “alive with the loveliest feelings” (Miller 26). At the same time art is capable of reuniting the past with the future, evoking “lovely feelings and satisfying longing” (Miller 28). “We should apologize that we dare to speak about painting. I was always aware of committing a tactless act” (Herbert 97). The ability of visual art to evoke the senses and provoke thought and emotion is valuable, perhaps more valuable than any attempt at accuracy in descriptive representation. Herbert’s recognition of both the constraints and strengths of representation allows for a better understanding of truth and the value of accuracy.

Herbert’s process of describing art using artful language helps to impart the view that literary and visual arts may be at once illusions and contain essential truths. “One should approach them by degrees of meaning, carefully and on tiptoes, because literalness renders their meaning shallow and frightens away mystery.” (Herbert 101). Herbert describes his own artistic method: “The gray abstractions of philosophers are replaced by graceful symbols and images; everything connects with everything else and moves towards the desired Unity.” (Herbert 102). Herbert views academic analysis as “blind to the essence of a work and concentrated solely on its dry analysis” (Slodczyk 129). “Scholarly, scrupulous treatments seemed to Herbert bare, boring; which does not mean, however, that he did not make use of them” (qtd. in Slodczyk 129). Therefore the essays do not attempt a complete description but rather “an inquiry into the mystery that is hidden in art and into individual experience.” (qtd. in Slodczyk 129). Throughout the novel, Herbert accomplishes this task with the use of both fact and fiction, art and history.

Herbert’s writing recognizes its own inaccuracy, but still attributes meaning to literary art. Herbert’s historical inquiry does not claim to be objective, istead it actively preserves the myths found within history. Literature may be incomplete but also legitimate. Herbert reclaims the boring desert of factual analysis with speculation. “I did not manage to break the code. The enigmatic painter, the incomprehensible man, begins to pass from the plane of investigation based on flimsy sources to an indistinct sphere of fantasy, the domain of tellers of tales” (Herbert 106). Although Herbert’s “investigation” into the life of Torrentius is not complete with historical accuracy, there is still value in literary exploration of the past. Herbert concludes that although he cannot relay a perfectly accurate history of Torrentius, the confounding of fantasy and history in literature is able to reach “the heart of things” more authentically than either method on its own. Still Life with a Bridle is “suspended between fantasy and reality”, constructed with pieces of scrupulous research held together by fantasy to prove that literature can be a limited, yet valuable representation of reality (Slodczyk 126).

3. Ekphrasis : The Illumination of Art and Literature Combined

Herbert’s ekphrasis is the culmination of truth, bringing the overlapping stories and perspectives together, “both forms of artistic expression into confrontation with one another.” (Slodczyk 122). Slodzyk offers a helpful analysis of Herbert’s ekphrasis alongside a piece of art. Slodczyk also points to the inaccuracies of ekphrasis as a form of description.

“The images beneath our eyelids create our own private museum of imagination. The remembered look of a work of art can, however, differ from works in real museums, churches and palaces. This, in turn, has consequences in the case of attempts to recreate encounters with artefacts” (Slodczyk 122).

Ekphrasis provides “evidence of the deceptiveness of seeing, of the mixing and superimposition of images” (qtd. in Slodczyk 123). Slodzcyk comments on supplementing descriptions with commentary to provide the reader with a specific perspective. Presenting both a reproduction of the image’s “faithful description” as well as the subjective interpretation and the emotional and sensory reaction elucidated by the viewer (Slodczyk 123). Herbert’s combined analysis and emotional response transport the reader to a specific perspective which allows exploration of the individual experience. Ekphrasis enables the reader to perceive art through the eyes of the describer, questioning appearance and reality in art and literature. Herbert’s ekphrasis provides the reader with “the perspective of a concrete viewer” (Slodczyk 131). This description is not neutral, but “filtered through the personality and language of the poet.” (Slodczyk 131). Herbert’s accurate descriptions contain “traces of emotion” along with “speculative interpretations” (Slodczyk 132). These “assertions may be read both as a private judgement and as an objective affirmation.” (Slodczyk 129). Both the art and the description of the artwork provoke thought and reflection on perspective and subjectivity.

The “Mutual illumination of verbal and visual works” furnishes a deeper truth which art and literature alone cannot access (Slodczyk 124). Although Herbert is aware of the challenges to the accuracy of ekphrasis, he uses it to provide insight, that perhaps neither art form alone can. Herbert does not believe in one clear truth, but believes there is a way to access the “heart of things” (Herbert 5). The authentic heart of things is found in a mixture of fact, fiction and embellishments of history, combinations of art and literature. Herbert believes not in one singular truth, but in a full picture of many overlapping perspectives. Ekphrastic description is able to bridge some of these overlapping perspectives to create a more integrated view. There is truth in everything for Herbert and also truth in nothing. It is all just a matter of perspective.

In his work On poetry and Photography Miller posits that Herbert values poetry’s ability to “evaluate photographic evidence”, relegating it to a “secondary status under language” which is the true “agency of meaning” (Miller 26). Throughout history, many poets have hailed the power of art and celebrated its accuracy (Miller 27). Miller argues that “the rivalry between the image and the text” manifests in ekphrasis (Miller 3). This “rivalry” is a problem of accuracy and “power to express the past”. Miller views poetry as the victor in the work of Herbert (Miller 4). Miller’s argument assumes that Herbert views visual art as a “threat” to literary art and wishes for a “return” to the art of language (Miller 27). I however would argue that Herbert celebrates both and his poetic descriptions express the value of both arts in establishing appearance and reality. As previously argued, Herbert recognizes the deficiencies of both literary and visual art forms and yet still celebrates both. Instead of a “return to language” I would postulate Herbert emphasizes a return to art, both literary and visual. Herbert recognizes both the inaccuracies and the powers of visual art and literature. This is apparent in the celebration of their combined ability to “reunite the past with the future, bringing “lovely” feelings and satisfying longing” The struggle to evaluate which is more powerful becomes meaningless when both are equal. Rather than “relegate art to secondary status behind language”, Herbert celebrates the illuminating power of the two.

Conclusion:

The exploration of visual and literary arts ability to express truth has led to the conclusion that both forms of representation, although limited, possess invaluable and genuine perspectives both on their own, and when combined in ekphrasis. Although both literary and visual arts can be seen to both inform and detract from reality in a number of ways, when fused in ekphrasis, they provide a unique perspective. Life is not still, it cannot be captured in a single frame. Herbert’s exploration of art and how it informs appearance and reality gives the reader a greater sense of the role of art in establishing truth. This truth may not be entirely accurate or factual in an empirical sense but rather a sensual and emotional experience able to capture a specific perspective. What makes art both beautiful and valuable is its ability to represent a singular perspective and resonate with another individual in some way to connect people with their surroundings, thus creating a sense of community and belonging in the shared experience. Although meaning, truth, appearance and reality may all be foggy, art (both literary and visual) embodies the presence of another human being and their perspective. Art can be meaningful though not necessarily true. Herbert’s truth is elusive but can be meaningful even if not entirely accurate. The carefully crafted essays, apocrypha and ekphrastic descriptions of paintings found in Herbert’s writing collide to establish art as a powerful and important informant of reality, past, present and future. Although art at times may appear to capture reality, it cannot fully represent the truth. Individual interpretations of art can lead one closer to reconcile with reality by representing the essence of perspective.