Hamlet: Revenge Over Remembrance

by Samuel Huang

Few facts are certain in William Shakespeare’s Hamlet, whether in terms of its characters’ allegiances, the motivations behind their actions, and in a few cases, even the sanity of some characters. This ambiguity, aside from having several narrative implications, pertains heavily toward the play’s permeated theme of memory, synthesizing together a text which chiefly focuses on the idea of forgetfulness and the decay of the past. Indeed, in Hamlet the memories of individual characters regarding the events of the past are often mired in personal perspective. Absolute truth, or even a semblance of it, stands as an elusive concept for both the characters of Hamlet and its audience to grasp. This essay will examine how the mind can twist one’s memories of the past to adhere to certain beliefs, the intertwinement of memories and madness, and the process in which memories ultimately decay. References will be made to “Hamlet and the Myth of Memory” by James P. Hammersmith, and “’REMEMBER ME’: MEMORY AND ACTION IN HAMLET” by Michael Cameron Andrews for alternative perspectives to compare this essay with.

Bias and subjectivity define Hamlet’s memories of his father. In his recollections of his father, Hamlet views him more akin to a deity than a human being. This is evident even as early as in scene ii of Act 1, in which, during a monologue in which he contrasts Claudius and his father, he describes the latter as comparable to the mythical Titan Hyperion. Later in the scene, Hamlet bemoans his uncle to be “no more like my father / Than I to Hercules”, and in doing so, indirectly implies the scale of the gap he considers to be between him and his father (Shakespeare 1.2.152-53). In these examples, it can be seen that Hamlet’s descriptions of his father are, besides being vague and generally meaningless, also mostly based on fanciful speculation. Though never stating so outright, the play routinely implies that Hamlet’s illustrations of his father are grounded mostly on stories he’s been told and second-hand accounts, not personal familiarity. It can be reasoned that as time flows by, an individual’s recollection of their deceased loved ones will subtly begin to shift and morph. For someone in the case of Hamlet, who saw his father more from the perspective of a subject than a son even before their death, this human vulnerability is only to be expanded. This is seemingly affirmed by Hammersmith when he makes the assertion that The Ghost is a “dramatized memory [of Hamlet’s father], a past entity given present being” (598). Yet though he might agree with this observation regarding Hamlet’s memory of his father as being “dramatized”, Hammersmith’s position otherwise denies that Hamlet’s memory of his father is imperfect. Rather, he takes an oppositional view, claiming that Hamlet, by taking the Ghost’s request to be remembered “as the sole item in the book and volume of his brain,” manages to create what is, apart from the dramatization, essentially a perfect memory of his father’s image (598). The argument he posits is that “memory and purpose are functions of time”, in other words, that it is by the passage of time by which a memory is distorted and forgotten (598). But if “one’s sole action is to remember”, such as it is the case with Hamlet, then memory does not fade, and the issue of time therefore is lessened into “a non-problem” (Hammersmith 598).

Valid though these arguments may seem at first, on the assumption that Hamlet’s initial memory of his father was faultless from the start. Yet this is not the case. Indeed, as stated prior, Hamlet was unlikely to ever have known his father to much more than a superficial degree even before the man’s death. He may have retained the memory of his father in the sense of it not decaying after the man’s death, but this means little if that initial memory is, in of itself, more false than real. The falsehood of Hamlet’s preliminary recollection is made most prominently evident in Act 5, scene I, and can be found in the clear dichotomy between Hamlet’s vague remembrance of Old Hamlet versus the clear recollection he has of his other father figure in life: Yorick. When he discovers Yorick’s skull in a graveyard, Hamlet can recall specific details and traits about the man. He remembers the jester fondly as a “fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy” (Shakespeare 5.1.175). With his father, however, the prince can only speak of abstract attributes and qualities. Even then, all these traits only ever speak to how “excellent a king” Old Hamlet was, not how decent he was as a father (Shakespeare 1.2.139). Aside from being unable to specify any real, meaningful traits of Old Hamlet’s, the young Hamlet also never thinks of or mentions any past experiences he has shared with him, likely because of an inability to do so. This contrasts with Yorick, with whom Hamlet can specifically recall bonding with in a close, paternal-son manner various times, such as by riding “on his back a thousand times”, and even kissing them on the cheek a few occasions (Shakespeare 5.1.176).

Ironically, the reverence that Hamlet has for his father ultimately acts in contradiction of the request the latter makes in the form of the Ghost, for his son to “remember [him]” (Shakespeare 1.5.90). Though Hamlet does technically recall his father much throughout the first half of the play, his falsified perception of the man makes it so that the one he perceives is not truly his father, but instead an idol to be venerated–the true man and the idealized form sharing the same identity in face and name only. Though Yorick is only ever mentioned in a single passage in Act 5 and Old Hamlet is referenced abundantly across the play, it is the former that ends up truly being engraved in memory. The latter, meanwhile, becomes analogous to a symbolic amalgamation of virtues, which twists their memory and legacy as a father into one completely different. Let alone “not [being able to] look upon [Old Hamlet’s] like again”, young Hamlet likely never saw the true face of his father even before the man’s assassination (Shakespeare 1.2.187). Ultimately, Old Hamlet is posthumously given traits that only vaguely define and exaggerate his kingly side, while the memory of his true self is hidden away, known neither to his son nor the audience.

As bad as this distortion already is, even this abstract idol imagined in young Hamlet’s mind also fades away as the story continues. Though Old Hamlet and his ghost are the initial cruxes which drive the play’s narrative, they become more and more infrequently mentioned as it progresses, until eventually disappearing mid-way through. Along with his disappearance from the play, so too are his original requests to his son also forgotten. For one, as previously mentioned, Hamlet fails to truly adhere to his father’s desire to remember him, fancying instead an almost defied figure in their name only. For another, Hamlet also fails to enact vengeance in the manner the Ghost asked him to. In his first appearance to Hamlet, the Ghost only ever asks Hamlet to take revenge on Claudius. He never asks for Hamlet to embark upon the killing of anyone else, even specifically requesting that he not taint his mind by letting his “soul contrive / Against thy mother” (Shakespeare 1.5.85-86). As is known, Hamlet ends up wholly contradicting this request by pioneering the mass slaughter that culminates the end of the play. In committing this bloodbath, Hamlet personalizes his revenge beyond The Ghost’s demands. No longer are Hamlet’s thoughts “confined to avenging his father”, but instead, they stretch to encompass all the deeds that he views Claudius and the others involved in the play’s affair, as “merit[ing] destruction” for (Andrews 269). Andrews deems this bloodthirst of his, now driven more by angst and fury than righteous (or at least justifiable) desire to avenge, as a “savage… overstep” in what he was first ordered to do (265). Withdrawing from the climax of the play, it is also possible to return to Act 3, scene iv, to address several details which reveal Hamlet’s failure to recall. The first is the dubiety of the Ghost’s presence. Here, in which it should be noted that the Ghost makes its final chronological appearance, Queen Gertrude is unable to see the Ghost. She regards Hamlet as mad for conversing with “incorporeal air” and, when considering the circumstances of the scene, it is a plausible conclusion to derive that the Ghost which Hamlet sees here is not the being previously shown, but instead a conjuration of his mind (Shakespeare 3.4.114). The real Ghost has already disappeared from the play, its memory replaced by the vengeance and madness which has consumed Hamlet, and as stated above, it is never to return. Aside from the development with the ghost, there is also another development in this scene which gives evidence to the claim that Hamlet has fallen to madness. This occurs prior to Gertrude’s outcry and is his treatment of Polonius–both in his killing of Polonius, and his subsequent actions and statements after the act. Here, it is important to contextualize that Polonius’ killing was spontaneous, and in engaging in it, Hamlet was at first unaware of who he had killed. This is made evident by the fact that, when asked whether he knows of what he has just done by his mother, Hamlet responds “[n]ay, I know not”, instead questioning whether he had killed the King (3.4.24). Yet, as Andrews notes, in but “within a moment [Hamlet] will speak as if he believed Claudius was the hidden spy” all along (265): “[Uncovers the body of Polonius.] / Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell: / I took thee for thy better” (3.4.28-30). This response, which is “obviously at odds” with his prior statement of uncertainty, gives what is a thoughtless and unplanned action a “purposiveness proper to a revenger” (Andrews 265). Yet this purposiveness is, in the end, a second-hand addition, made to justify a plainly arbitrary action without any true intent in it. Moreover, in his statement of taking Polonius for Claudius, Hamlet also finds a “way of striking at his mother… he must not kill her,” but he can slight her in this way. This slight showcases Hamlet actively ignoring the Ghost’s request for him not to harm Gertrude, or at the very least, trying to maneuver loopholes to justify targeted spite towards his mother. As Andrews states, it is in this scene and in the young prince’s killing of Polonius that Shakespeare manages to “most forcefully emphasizes Hamlet’s failure to ‘remember’” (265).

Time is inextricably linked as a factor to Hamlet’s forgetfulness. As time passes by, people tend to forget of the memory of others, and Hamlet delays his actions for much of the play. Acknowledging this, it can be deduced that “forgetfulness… is clearly a factor in [Hamlet’s] delay” (Andrews 267). Ultimately, this stems from Hamlet’s fixation on his duty’s consequences. Instead of giving primary “focus… on his task, Hamlet looks beyond, to the unknowable future” (Andrews 263). It is, therefore, that Hamlet focuses not on the past, which can be seen as synonymous with memory, but the future, which “impinges on the present with compulsive force” (Andrews 263). For example, when he is given the opportunity to kill Claudius while the man is praying, Hamlet turns it down, hoping to instead find his uncle in a situation “[t]hat has no relish of salvation in’t” for them (3.3.92). Here he acts as if he has “world enough and time”, when in reality, “time is tightening to a noose… not to act with celerity may be not to act at all” (Andrews 265). Hamlet’s delaying in this case also reveals the depths of his anger, which, just like with his attempt to slight Gertrude, overturns even the decree given to him by the Ghost. After all, here Hamlet has been given a chance to enact what he has been requested by the Ghost, and he turns it down on the basis of his own seething fury rather than that of his father’s spirit. Ultimately, what constitutes true remembrance, “in the Ghost’s sense… [is an] “exclusive dedication” to the task of which it has bestowed him (Andrews 261). Yet, the action the Ghost demands is “more than Hamlet is capable of doing” for most of the play (Andrews 267). Even in the end, after killing Claudius and fulfilling the Ghost’s request, ones naturally questions whether he did the act more for his father’s memory, or to sate his own vengeance.

Memory comes full circle when, at the end of the play, as Hamlet has reached the height of his mania after completing his revenge and nearing his death, he makes the request for Horatio to “tell his story” (5.2.333). This mirrors the Ghost’s own request to be remembered, especially in that neither request will be fulfilled according to either of the Hamlets’ intentions. In order to remember Old Hamlet, the younger Hamlet must grossly alter and even create his own memory of the man, filling in his gaps of knowledge about him with self-created falsifications. Much in the same way, Horatio and those who remaining living will have to conjure his own memory of Prince Hamlet, for he knows not of his true nature nor identity–as neither does the audience, which is left to speculate on many of his actions in the latter portion of the play. Hammersmith attempts to reason that here, on the contrary of being forgotten, Hamlet may actually have his memory properly remembered. Hamlet and Horatio were good friends, and the latter knew the former to a far better degree than they ever did with Hamlet and his father. Horatio, moreover, was alongside Hamlet for much of the play’s duration, and so can be said to be well-aware of how to recollect the deceased prince’s memory. “In [Horatio’s] memory Hamlet lives… to be reported aright,” Hammersmith states (602). But when one reads further beyond this moment, it becomes apparent that odds are that this memory will not be so perfectly preserved. This is indicated in the fact that after he makes his request and dies, Hamlet’s memory is quickly violated by Prince Fortinbras. This happens when Fortinbras, after entering the throne room and witnessing the aftermath of the massacre with little context, declares that Hamlet will be brought “like a soldier to the stage, / For he was likely, had he been put on, / To have proved most royal”, and that his funeral will be accompanied by “soldiers’ music and the rite of war” (Shakespeare 5.2.380-383). Here, it is clear that Fortinbras has created a twisted version of Hamlet with no actual basis or knowledge of the latter, likely through projection of his own princely status, and in doing so, bastardized Hamlet’s memory. Horatio, meanwhile, makes no move to correct Fortinbras, and thus, one can assume that he lacks a true enough understanding of Hamlet to correct the foreign prince.

Yet, despite the narrative’s depiction of the bastardization of young Hamlet’s memory, there is an argument to be made that Hamlet, in a meta sense, admittedly does make a fair preservation of its titular protagonist. Hammersmith notes that the prince has managed to have himself memorialized simply by being the central lead character to a play which acts as a record of his legacy. It is a “testimony to his memory”, which allows him to “live in our mind’s eye and in our physical eye each time a player resurrects his ghost upon the stage” (Hammersmith 604). More yet, his stage is not an ordinary one, or even merely of some measure of renown, but is rather one of the greatest, if not arguably the greatest of all time. Indeed, Hamlet–both in the sense of the character and the play for which he is named–has managed to endure throughout centuries of literary evolution and scrutiny. It stands as the well-known work of the most well- known playwright of all history and has persisted till today to fascinate literary academics and influence pop culture. Just as it may be that Hamlet is a story which regards “memory, language, and the conquest of time in the significance of human action”, it also in of itself “is memory, language, and the significance of Hamlet’s action in the transcendence of time” (Hammersmith 603). By allowing Hamlet to exist in the play, featuring him as its protagonist, and even simply yet quite notably naming the play after him, “Shakespeare [forms his] own response to Prince Hamlet’s ‘remember me’,” permanently eternalizing him in the highest echelons of literature (Hammersmith 604). As similarly stated by Andrews, after the King has died and Hamlet has succeeded in his mission, he passes his memory down not only to Horatio, but also, “…to us”, the readers and audience (269). True though it may be that the assertion was made earlier that not even the audience knows the truth of Hamlet’s character, it can be said that this is largely applicable to most other characters in the play, as well. And, even if his internal intentions and reasons may sometimes be mysterious and indecipherable, it may be admitted that his external actions are at the very least plainly unobscured and clear for readers and audiences alike to see unfiltered. Ultimately, however, it should also be remembered that all this only applies to the play at a deeply hypothetical meta-perspective. Analyzing Hamlet from a more standard lens, which focuses on the themes of the play as they are seen in just that–the context of the play–it is clear these abstract speculations are not applicable, though they may certainly have merit in other forms of analysis.

Memory in Hamlet proves to be both powerful and painful, mired in subjectivity, and prone to being altered and forgotten. Old Hamlet’s legacy is compromised more by his son’s own imaginations of him than actual truth, and Hamlet in turn ends up forgetting his original purposes, becoming lost in the vengeance and vindication which his façade-turned-real act of insanity justifies. Though maybe the argument can be made that Hamlet manages to fulfill the Ghost’s request in the end, or perhaps that Hamlet’s memory may be preserved from a roundabout, meta-perspective, there is similarly no denying that his process of doing so is shaky at best, and realistically doubtful in terms of his intentions. Ultimately, Hamlet culminates with the titular prince failing to adhere to his father’s wishes in the manner the latter desired, and with him making the same foolhardy dying request that his predecessor made, both destined to be misconstrued by the ones who remain in the living world. In his subtle implication of these ideas rather than direct exposition, Shakespeare manages to encapsulate the essence of how memories twist, morph, and vanish in reality: Not explicitly pushed away from the forefront of one’s mind and promptly disappearing, but instead slowly being forgotten, dying and fading away into its shadowy recesses.

Works Cited

Andrews, Michael Cameron. “‘REMEMBER ME’: MEMORY AND ACTION IN HAMLET.” The Journal of General Education, vol. 32, no. 4, 1981, pp. 261–70. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/27796826. Accessed 21 Apr. 2023.

Hammersmith, James P. “Hamlet and the Myth of Memory.” ELH, vol. 45, no. 4, 1978, pp. 597– 605. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/2872579. Accessed 21 Apr. 2023.

by Hannah Madar

It is through the intricately-detailed prose of Frantz Fanon’s writing that scenes of objectification are depicted in Black Skin, White Masks. Specifically, Fanon utilizes descriptive language to outline two different forms of objectification that present themselves in society: external objectification as dehumanizing perceptions of others, and self-objectification as internalized oppression and disconnection. This essay will seek to distinguish between these descriptions of the objectification of Black individuals—as external and internal functions—and present objectification altogether as the key analytical viewpoint for how racism manifests within society. Furthermore, this essay will explore the origins of objectification itself by analyzing a universal, human desire for recognition, and attempt to construct an optimistic alternative for this cycle of objectification by means of mutual recognition. This leads to the notion that once individuals understand the origins of objectification, humanity can progress toward true equality. In the end, this essay’s interpretation of Fanon’s detailed writings will contend that both outward- and self-objectification lie at the root of not just racism, but widespread social injustices as a whole. As a result, as long as the objectification of people exists, societal processes will ultimately breed societies that conflict with virtues of equality, genuine communication between people, and respect for other human beings.

Throughout the book, Fanon describes external objectification through narrative scenes, which allow readers to visualize and feel his recreations of real experiences upon themselves. In doing so, his text suggests that the process of racial objectification is catalyzed by the external stimulus of a single, dehumanizing perception. One of these instances of external objectification is depicted in an anecdote, where a “little white boy” points out at the narrator, exclaiming in a “passing sting” that he is “scared” (Fanon, 91) of him due to his race. Even a child has “no scruples about imprisoning” (Fanon, 92) others with an objectifying gaze, as here, the external stimulus of the child’s remark minimizes the focus and worth of an individual to their physical self. The impression that can be extracted from this example is that these moments of outward dehumanization, predominantly from white society, begin the process of racial objectification within greater society. He proposes that for the individual, artificial ideas of racial inferiority are only made visible to the self due to dehumanizing perceptions from other humans, and that only by living “in the white world, the man of color encounters difficulties in elaborating his body schema” (Fanon, 90). Illustrating how impossible it is for a Black individual to avoid feeling objectified in an external, white-dominated environment, Fanon expresses that when the “white man is all around” and “the earth […] sings white, white”, the result of all “this whiteness burns [them] to a cinder” (Fanon, 94). As long as the Black individual remains in a white society, they will continue to be subject to the burning, objectifying gaze of those outsiders. He goes on to convey that it is the outside source of the “white world” itself that catalyzes the objectification of Black individuals, as it “demand[s] of [him] that [he] behave[s] like a black man” (Fanon, 94). Thus, Fanon’s descriptions of external objectification—an outside, dehumanizing stimulus that reduces an individual to nothing more than their physical body—can be understood to trigger the beginnings of the next stage of objectification for those who are subjected to it: that is, derealization and disconnection from the self.

While external objectification is directed from outside forces towards a targeted group, Fanon’s work proposes that self-objectification stems from the internal processes directly following this outside provocation—and from there, the cycle of systemic racial inequality can be explored. First, Fanon details self-objectification as a compelled reaction for the objectified person. Following the child’s outburst in the anecdote, Fanon describes the objectified target as being “disoriented” and “transformed” (Fanon, 92) as “the image of one’s body [becomes] solely negating. [It becomes] an image in the third person” (Fanon, 90). This produces a disconnect from the self, where the objectified person now views their own body in hyper-awareness, as an object, detached from the individual—a mental function that “the black man adopts in the face of white civilization” (Fanon, xvi). Consequently, a disconnect from the self leads to internalized oppression, as the objectified person suddenly finds themself “responsible not only for [their] body but also for [their] race and [their] ancestors” (Fanon, 92). When the objectified Black person is unable to recognize their own bodily schema, and is “attacked in [their] corporeality”, they may come to believe that it is their “actual being that is dangerous” (Fanon, 142). Fanon exemplifies this personally, describing this internalized oppression as feeling like his “body was returned to [him] spread-eagled, disjointed, redone,” only being able to recognize himself as “an animal”, “wicked”, and “ugly” (Fanon, 93). Oppression and self-hatred become an internal reality for the racially objectified individual, initiated by the onslaught of a single, dehumanizing perception.

As Fanon presents examples of the effects of objectification through narrative imagery, Charles Villet provides an exposition of both the functionality of, and reasoning behind, this interaction with a philosophical concept from Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel. Specifically, Villet refers to the “master-slave dialectic in [Hegel’s] Phenomenology of Spirit” (Villet, 40). When a demeaning, outside stimulus activates feelings of self-objectification for a targeted individual, it stems from a “need for recognition” (Villet, 39). A desire for recognition, as explained by Fanon himself, is universal. As Fanon states in Black Skin White Masks, “[m]an is human only to the extent to which he tries to impose himself on another man in order to be recognized by him.” (Fanon, 191). In reference to this interaction of objectification, Hegel’s philosophical concept describes this assertion of positive feelings of recognition in the outside party, but in the process, the targeted individual experiences degradation: this idea constitutes the master-slave dialectic. For Hegel, the self can only feel recognized in its humanity by being aware of the presence of the targeted individual—the Other—which allows the self to assert certainty of itself as a singularly significant being in comparison. This “process of self-consciousness”, however, “takes place at the expense of the Other” (Villet, 40). Hegel’s work claims that when a person executes a dehumanizing observation towards another, that person fulfills its desire to be recognized as a “subject” in contrast to the targeted individual, who becomes diminished to an object. While the subject is “able to affix its own meaning” in feeling recognized in its humanity, becoming a “being-for-self”, the objectified individual receives the damage—since its meaning is determined by the actions of the subject, the target is reduced to a “being-for-other” (Villet, 42). Thus, Villet presents Hegel’s master-slave dialectic as equating this interaction of objectification to a reshaping of two sides into the recognized subject and the targeted object. It is through both Fanon’s vividly-written dialogue and Hegel’s discussion of his master-slave dialectic that the psyche of the objectified person—being one of a mental disconnect and self-directed oppression—only exists due to the outside provocation of society’s dehumanizing, external perceptions.

With the acknowledgement that self-objectification—the feeling of viewing the self as degraded to an object—stems from an external force of objectification, racial inequality can be revealed as the product of these two processes functioning in a self-perpetuating cycle with one another. Essentially, the more an individual undergoes a disconnect from the self, the more that repeated objectification becomes, erroneously, acceptable. Fanon showcases this vicious cycle in a reference to Jean-Paul Sartre’s essay, Anti-Semite and Jew:

In Anti-Semite and Jew Sartre writes: “They [the Jews] have allowed themselves to be poisoned by the stereotype that others have of them, and they live in fear that their acts will correspond to this stereotype.   We may say that their conduct is perpetually overdetermined from the inside.” (Fanon, 95)

Fanon’s mention of Sarte’s writing is a prime example of how racism is processed: as a repeated loop of outside and self-oppression. When a racial group experiences an external objectification, whether it be from the poisonous quality of stereotypes or the “dissecting” perceptions of “the white gaze”, individuals within the group will experience a self-disconnect, accepting their positions as one with these stereotypes—and they will “slip into corners” and “keep silent”, praying to be unnoticed, to “be anonymous, to be forgotten” (Fanon, 96). Their self-objectification has taken hold, and the more oppression that is repeated from the outside, the more accepting the objectified and dissociated group is to further external oppression. This social psychosis—the poisoning of the mind, and the forced acceptance that comes along with it—is the culmination of a racially unjust society’s “unreasoning hatred of one race for another” (Fanon, 97). In fact, Derek Hook contributes to this sentiment that over time, a targeted racial group will gradually come to be associated with these repeated, dehumanizing perceptions, as “[t]he racial other […], be it the Jew or the Muslim, is reduced to this particular quality” (Hook, 133). As the targeted group’s actions are influenced by these objectifications in turn, this perpetuates and illustrates a power dynamic between the targets and the outside group. What Hook “detect[s] here, in the unrealistic and racist reduction of a person or category to one or more basic qualities, is the racial stereotype” (Hook, 133)—in other words, the product of consistent racial objectification, brought about by a cycle of dehumanizing perceptions. Thus, the “juxtaposition of the black and white races” is presented: that which has manifested, repeated, and “resulted in a massive psycho-existential complex” (Fanon, xvi) for the oppressed racial groups within a society.

Hook also expands on the reasoning for the way in which racism functions in repetition. He establishes racially dehumanizing perceptions as irrational in nature, stemming from places of paranoia, jealousy, and fragility of the self. For instance, he asserts that noticing differences in the Other can be “enough to create a sense of inadequacy and insecurity” (Hook, 132) in the perceivers who do not possess such potentially coveted traits, relating back to the concept that every human desires feelings of recognition, desires to feel human. Therefore, to “defend against [their] own lack”, there lies only one solution: “the threat of the [O]ther needs to be hopelessly exaggerated” (Hook, 134). Continued instances of racially-objectifying exaggerations restore self-worth in the objectifiers, as Fanon states that it is the existence and recognition of the Other that “human worth and reality depend[s] on” (Fanon, 191). Racial objectifications as methods of defending self-worth, such as mocking or stereotyping, are illogically fearful due to their repetitive structure. Hook illustrates this by providing a first-person dialogue of the deep-rooted paranoia behind these dehumanizing objectifications:

It is not that I lack a particular quality, it is rather than you have this quality in an excessive and hence dangerous quantity. In this twisted emotional logic of racism I, the racist, hence become the victim of you, the ‘racial other’ who undermines and threatens my existence. You, on the other hand, become my persecutor, that which represents all that is threatening to me. Hence, I deserve protection against you, and you, on the other hand, deserve punishment. (Hook, 134)

By exaggerating the perceived and irrational threat of the Other, the self-inadequacies felt by the dehumanizing party are reduced in comparison. Hence, the purpose of repetitiveness in the cycle of systemic rational inequality is revealed as eliminating insecurities of self-worth and humanity in white society—and subsequently, the true origins of racial inequality become clear. Racism can be understood as the paranoid recapitulation of repression and sublimation between individuals and the society they live in. An outside group will project dehumanizing perceptions onto targeted groups in order to feel more human themselves. Hook’s reasoning relates back to the notion that the desire for recognition as a subject—a being secure in its humanity—is a universal human attribute. His arguments support Fanon’s work, which expresses that when the objectification of racial groups is accomplished internally and externally within both individuals and their society, racial injustice is founded. It is evident that Fanon’s work outlines how objectifying perceptions of other humans, which generate self-oppression within individuals, lie at the heart of racial inequality. However, these mechanisms of objectification can be extended beyond the subject of race; Black Skin, White Masks also offers objectification as a means for how inequalities of all types develop and thrive within society. This fact is demonstrated in two ways: first, through the book’s discussion of language, and second, through the support of Michael Vannoy Adams in The Multicultural Imagination. According to Fanon’s own book, it is true that learning a language involves a conceptual and mechanical comprehension of the syntax and morphology, “but it means above all assuming a culture and bearing the weight of a civilization” (Fanon, 2). To adopt an identity and integrate into a civilization implies a denial of any intrinsic human culture, or any ingrained temperamental traits amongst groups of people. Furthering this inference, Fanon writings suggest that each human begins as a self-contained being, “constitut[ing] an isolated, arid, assertive atom, along well-defined rights of passage; each of them is” (Fanon, 187). In this way, each and every individual primitively exists for themselves, independent of communal, societally-constructed characteristics. Fanon therefore presents us with the concept that the psychological damage that results from incorrectly objectifying others spans all types of objectification, as regardless of how they are being objectified, the individual is “locked in” the “suffocating reification” of being classified as an “object among other objects” (Fanon, 89).

Adams upholds a similar stance regarding the belief that categorizing humans into collective identities regarding their perceptible attributes is unnatural. These perceptible attributes can be considered equivalent to the “differences” that Hook described: differences as notable human characteristics that induce feelings of insecurity in those who perceive them. These “difference[s] must be ‘perceptible’ in order for [them] to result in a complex” (Adams, 161), yet differences themselves only instigate negative emotions under specific demographic conditions. Adams states that it is possible for an existence of “inferiority complex[es] even among people who are in the majority if the minority is in power socially, politically, and economically” (Adams, 161). For Fanon’s context of race, this majority alludes to white society, while the minority refers to Black individuals; however, Adam’s views can apply to any perceivable differences in people. In summation, Adams is arguing that the worth of an individual cannot be measured by the worth of that individual’s perceivable attributes, as the superiority or inferiority of these attributes—depending on the demographic circumstance—are wholly arbitrary. For the unfairly categorized human, ideas such as inferiority of skin colour are “imposed” by outside forces—including forms of objectification—and are then “adopted by them” (Adams, III) rather than existing as natural qualities. Ergo, both the classification of individuals into inferior or superior classes—as well as the psychological internalization of this—fosters social discrimination, regardless of the traits they are being sorted in or compared against. Fanon’s writing supports the idea that inequalities within society begin with the objectification and unreasonable categorization of individuals from others, leading to a mental disconnect and internalized oppression upon the self; meanwhile, Adams declares that the worth of the noticeable qualities used for objectification and categorization are determined randomly, all depending on the social, political, or economic environment they occur in. This is because no human can be born with the psychological attributes associated with their observable characteristics, and the perceived value of these characteristics are arbitrary as well. So, categorizations based on objectification are unnatural and rightly uncomfortable. The foundational abstraction from both philosopher’s works maintains that as long as people continue to unfairly categorize and stereotype one another, the societal and psychological processes of objectification will continue to birth societies that harbour distresses, discommunication and injustices. By understanding the implications of language in Black Skin, White Masks, along with Adam’s opinions in The Multicultural Imagination, it becomes clear that the workings of objectification are fundamentally flawed, repeating and self-perpetuating to allow inequalities of all types—including racial disparities—to thrive.

Progress toward true equality, however, is achievable. Villet articulates a hopeful viewpoint within Fanon’s writing. Through analyzing Villet’s position as supported by the understandings of objectification expressed thus far in Fanon’s work—the cycle it functions in, and its origins rooted in a basic human desire for recognition—an alternative psychological loop between individuals and their society becomes clear: a cycle of mutual recognition from both sides, which Villet maintains is powered by an understanding of the core values that lie at the heart of humanity. This leads to the interpretation that in Black Skin, White Masks, Fanon details objectification as a method of abolishing inequalities and one-sided oppression, and that by understanding objectification, society can advance toward equality. In Villet’s view, mutual recognition starts with the shared awareness of differences between people—a prompting to affirm and assert differences in the self against the Other. He makes it clear that the acknowledgement of differences is vital, because “if differences are stamped out then forgetfulness creeps in of both colonialism’s atrocities and the history of race and racism it embodies” (Villet, 46). Indeed, the Black man “knows there is a difference. He wants it” (Fanon, 196). For Fanon, an acknowledgment of perceivable differences between people spurs the need for them to “keep their alterity—alterity of rupture, of struggle and combat” (Fanon, 197); this violence alludes to the notions of overhanging insecurity and oppression that follow this interaction. Villet, however, views the psychological turmoil as a human’s refusal to be objectified: a targeted individual can be “rendered active by the challenges [of objectification] from the outside to his desire for subjectivity” (Villet, 47).Therefore, the key in perceiving differences between the self and other individuals lies in a deliberate resistance to objectification on both sides. This assertion of differences promotes individuals on both sides to declare their own subjectivity.

Subjectivity of the self, in this sense, does not have to represent the inverse of an objectified person, as it did for those targeted by a dehumanizing, objectifying gaze. Villet advocates that instead, the individual can define themselves by understanding, engaging with and respecting the basic, universal values of humanity. For instance, Villet states that this can be done through the intelligent thought that comes from education. The concept of humanity can be problematic when it benefits solely the “subject, and the object is totally ignored” (Fanon, 186). In these cases, “the extent of the imposition of one’s existence on [another] becomes the measure of humanity” (Villet, 42). Instead, Villet stresses the importance of mutual recognition, advocating for a new defining of humanity through incentivizing action by means of education, as opposed to the reaction of self-objectification within targeted individuals. He claims that “only once intelligent thought has transpired can Fanonian action take place. According to Fanon, ‘[t]o educate man is to be actional, preserving in all his relations his respect for basic values that constitute a human world, is the prime task of him who, having taken thought, prepares to act’” (Villet, 47). These basic values are described by Fanon to be universally human: “man [is] an affirmation” to “life”, “love” and “generosity” while being a “negation” to “man’s contempt”, the “indignity of man”, “the exploitation of man” and “the massacre” of “freedom” (Fanon, 197). These values transcend a person’s bodily schema and perceivable differences as a “human reality, different from [their] natural reality” (Fanon, 192). Conceptualizing humanity in this way—or by widely teaching values of life, love, and generosity as a foundation for humanity—serves as the starting point for mutual subjectivity by motivating action in individuals. This is an action to identify themselves as aligned with these core values, which ultimately leads to them being able to identify these values in the Other. By recognizing this humanity in themselves, individuals can recognize humanity in the Other. Mutual recognition, therefore, provokes awareness of the value of a person’s own life, as well as the importance of realizing the value of the life of the Other. The desire for subjectivity—finding humanity in the self—can be represented as a desire to ascend beyond the physical realm “toward an ideal which is the transformation of subjective certainty of my own worth into a universally valid objective truth” (Fanon, 193). These truths are the core values of humanity, which the individual can identify these values in both themselves and their society. Conclusively, objectification as a term in Black Skin, White Masks—along with Villet’s redefining of subjectivity through understanding humanitarian values—provide the education needed for mutual recognition amongst individuals in society, where the truly priceless value of human life itself is affirmed in daily interactions between people, perpetuating in a reciprocal, unifying cycle of subjectivity for both sides.

For Fanon, objectification encompasses a cycle of verbally or physically externalized and psychologically internalized racism. Extending from this, objectification can be used as a term to describe the origins of all inequalities that manifest within greater society. When the essence of a person is reduced to their physical form, as well as the dehumanizing presumptions and categorizations that follow, that there can be no genuine connection between humans—and consequently, true equality cannot be achieved. However, being aware of the external and internal processes of objectification can lead to greater understanding within society. By educating individuals on the basic, universal values of humanity, mutual recognition amongst people can be fostered. Only once individuals understand the origins of objectification can humanity make progress towards true equality.

Works Cited

Fanon, Frantz. Black Skin, White Masks. Grove Press, 1967.

Villet, Charles. “Hegel and Fanon on the Question of Mutual Recognition: A Comparative Analysis.” The Journal of Pan African Studies, Nov. 2011, www.jpanafrican.org/docs/vol4no7/4.7-4Hegel.pdf.

Hook, Derek. “Fanon and the Psychoanalysis of Racism.” LSE Research Online, Juta Academic Publishing, 1 Jan. 1970, http://eprints.lse.ac.uk/2567/.

Adams, Michael Vannoy. The Multicultural Imagination: Race, Color, and the Unconscious. 1st Edition ed., Routledge, 1997.

by Sarah Kwak

In Mahatma Gandhi’s work Hind Swaraj, the notion of individual self-control and political self-rule is analyzed in great detail. As a text written to criticize British settler rule and the influence of
modern Western civilization in India, concepts of power and the self are exceedingly prevalent throughout the work. These concepts represent Gandhi’s reason for resistance, with power representing the means of self-liberation, and the self representing a connection between personal morals and commitments to the political. Furthermore, they may be understood as a means of understanding political self-rule and personal self-control as both separate and interconnected entities. In the context of modern civilization and true justice, such notions of power and self also underpin the Platonic and Marxist connotations of the Gandhian “self”. Through the narratives of modernity, moral perfectionism and democratic governance imparted in B.S Chimini and Mohamed Medhi’s textual analyses, Gandhi’s notion of personal self-control may be understood as a spiritual entity transcending both Karl Marx and Plato as well as the text’s conception of modernity. Additionally, they may be collectively utilized, supplementing one another from the perspective of the modern reader in order to encourage political change. Consequently, while Gandhi argues that political self-rule is unattainable without personal self-control, it may be understood that personal self-control is attainable even without political self-rule.

One of Gandhi’s main focuses within the text is the notion of the self, which he understands as foundational to the development of “moral” Indian society. Gandhi writes that a moral self attempts to work towards an honest job in the face of modernity (Gandhi, 2009, p.42), rediscovers cultural and traditional values (ibid, p.69), and accepts one’s duty to better society (ibid, p.75). According to B.S Chimini, Gandhi’s notion of a moral self is similar to that of the “self” that is defined in Marxist philosophy. Gandhi understands the importance of utilizing the self as a means of “understand[ing] the meaning of being” (Chimini, 2012), by recognizing its influence on social conflict and Indian industrial capitalism (Heredia, 1999, p.1876). His liberal usage of the term “swaraj” acts as a faute de mieux “radical” concept depicting “an epistemological break in the world of anti-colonial movements” (Chimini, 2012). Thus, the term “swaraj” depicts the possibility of a world where one could be liberated from colonial rule without sacrificing the ethical and spiritual self. This is especially profound as the notion of the self is understood as fundamental to “bringing about social and political emancipation” (ibid). Without this understanding of the self, the Gandhian notion of the “suck[ing] of our lifeblood” (Gandhi, 2009, p.15) by English settlers is subsequently comparable to the Marxist notion of “self-estrangement” (Chimini, 2012), a term referring to “the alienation of man’s essence” (A Textbook of Marxist Philosophy, n.d.). Gandhi’s understanding of both the spiritual and ethical self as a pursuivant of truth interconnects to the Marxist notion of “objective truth” (ibid)—a similarity reflected throughout his previous conceptions of social and political liberation.

Conversely, Gandhi’s conception of the self may also be interpreted through a Platonic perspective. In the line, “I believe that after all a people has the government it deserves” (Rachel Fell
Mcdermott et al., 2014) quoted from Gandhi, Gandhi expresses the notion that Indian freedom is unattainable, not due to British colonial presence and imperialism, but rather due to the people’s flawed “condition of the mind” (Medhi, 2012). The notion of a collective “condition” here refers not to a communal setback, but rather to the collective inability of Indian civilians to utilize their mind for the better—through perfecting one’s allotted role and fulfilling their “duties”, such as to community service and by working an honest job. This collective inability, in turn, affects the Indian sense of self. Gandhi also writes of the notion of “duty” throughout the text in a way that is seemingly reminiscent of Plato’s notion of State structure and duty—a notion especially comparable to his three classes of the “Guardians”, the “Auxiliaries”, and the “Producers” (Plato & Jowett, 2008, p.111), and their individual roles. Furthermore, Gandhi stresses the notion of individual duty throughout the text, and in doing so, rejects liberal theories and understandings of human rights. This is as modern liberal theories often do the opposite, by “assert[ing] the priority of rights over duties” (Gandhi, 2009, p.82).

While this collective sense of self is initially directed at those influenced by English materialism and a “‘satanic’ modern Western way of life” (Medhi, 2012), Gandhi frequently compares the morally perfect notion of the traditional Indian village to the intrinsic inadequacy of the world just outside of it. He writes that the introduction of British colonialism marked the beginning of the masses’ inability to revert back to “the ideal of performing moral dut[ies]” (ibid). This is consequently used as a critique against all who live outside of the narrow confines of what Gandhi deems as an acceptable lifestyle. In a manner reminiscent of Plato’s dualistic conception of the real world versus the realm of “forms” (Plato & Jowett, 2008, p.37), Gandhi also vehemently rejects the “singular conception of [a] good life that is inhospitable to the idea of an ethical and spiritual self” (Medhi, 2012), as demonstrated by the modern world. This is done through his emphasis on the importance of cultivating and perfecting the inner self. As opposed to modern liberal interpretations of true justice that typically adheres to philosopher John Rawl’s measure of “fairness” (Wenar, 2021), Gandhi instead focuses on a subjective belief in the “greater good”, that contains proximity to Platonic philosophy.

This aforementioned subjective belief is further demonstrated in the quote, “[t]he political form is but a concrete expression of that [average individual’s] soul-force” (Rachel Fell Mcdermott et al., 2014), which enforces the notion that the self plays a larger role in one’s life beyond that of one’s personal life. Furthermore, it insinuates that the “lack of political representation” in India and throughout “is not due to political oppression by corrupt powers, but rather a case of those entitlements not having been earned, or deserved, through the development of the requisite moral capacities” (Medhi, 2012). In this case, even the established form of one’s government reflects the moral identity of the people and their ability to practice self-control, rather than their desires regarding the future of self-rule.

This notion is alternatively echoed in Plato’s The Republic, which introduces the possibility of establishing a “philosopher-king” (Plato & Jowett, 2008, p.400) system. This outlines a hierarchical structure where wise and just philosophers, guided by reason rather than by self-interest, encompass and inspire the moral values, as well as the development of self-control within the people. Gandhi’s “bottom-up” approach to prioritizing people’s responsibility of self-control before self-rule, and Plato’s “top-bottom” approach of prioritizing the political responsibility of the King’s self-rule before self-control establishes the core difference between both philosophies. Despite this, both Plato and Gandhi stress the individual responsibility of the “self” in establishing a just society. Leo Tolstoy’s understanding of India’s loss of freedom being the fault of Indians themselves in the text Letter to a Hindu (Medhi, 2012) implies a similar advocacy for self-reflection, and stresses the need for individuals to reject the flaws of colonial modernity by firstly embracing the self.

Consequently, it may be argued that what Gandhi understands as crucial to confronting Western modernity or British colonial rule is only possible through firstly establishing, and developing one’s control over the self. This may be achieved by rejecting the colonial narrative of modernity, and by abandoning its deficient narrative on the self. For instance, this may be understood as adopting fearlessness in order to attain the ultimate goal of independence. Gandhi writes that “one who is free from hatred requires no sword” (Gandhi, 2009, p.99), even when fighting for self-rule. The lack of a “sword” additionally symbolizes the idea that, due to one’s prioritization of the self, one could be liberated not only from the aftermaths of violence, but also from the burden of hatred that accompanies it. While self-control may be exercised during political events in less dramatic ways, such as by slowing the spread of radical rhetoric or calling for a smaller military presence, Gandhi argues that the very core of his political philosophy is rooted within this emphasis on self-control.

Furthermore, Gandhi argues that in the context of political rebellion in Bengal, where a call for independence was prompted by “people [who] were ready to resist” (Gandhi, 2009, p.20) and exhibit self-control, self-rule became possible—and the consequences of violence and hatred were also successfully avoided. The notion of political “discontent” (ibid, p.25)—which Gandhi refers to as “the [people’s] awakening”(ibid, p.24) [1]—is described as a mechanism that further encouraged people to “outgrow [political unrest]”. In fact, while notions of political self-rule may initially spark feelings of rebellion, it is through self-reflection and growth that rebellion is organized, and self-rule is achieved. Thus, self-control arguably prompts positive and more effective means of collective action and self-rule. Gandhi connects the self and the collective group in his writing, stating that, “just as the state between sleep and awakening must be considered to be necessary, so may the present unrest in India be considered as necessary and, therefore, a proper state” (ibid, p.24). While unrest may invoke political instability, it also initiates personal self-control; thus, when utilized successfully, one may see it lead to political self-rule.

It must be stressed, as mentioned previously, that while political self-rule may be crucial in prompting initial collective action (to work towards the betterment of society), self-control is necessary in achieving self-betterment. This commitment to self-betterment and control is thought to encompass true political liberation, as well as what Gandhi personally defines as “Swaraj”: a notion mentioned previously in connection to Marxist philosophy. In the quote, “[t]o build a house takes time. Its destruction takes none” (ibid, p.48), Gandhi suggests that effective political self-rule may only be curated when personal self-control is entirely achieved. Furthermore, his reliance on the term “Swaraj” additionally distinguishes between the two principles of political self-rule and personal self-control. Though political self-rule and personal self-control are indeed inseparable to an extent, the foundations of Gandhian “Swaraj” may be argued to be far more dependent on the personal self rather than the political. This contrast leads to the belief that true “swaraj means control over the mind” (Gandhi, 2009, p.68), and not political liberation. This notion of personal control and liberation is further expanded in the line, “if we become free, India is free” (ibid, p.73), and that “Swaraj has to be experienced by each one for himself [for] one drowning man
will never save another” (ibid, 73).

Here, Gandhi’s notion of “swaraj” begins to converge from its initial ties to Marxist ideology. While the mutual notion of collectivity and the importance placed on self-understanding indicates a
fundamental similarity between both philosophies, the notion of non-violence, passive resistance, and the prioritization of the self over collective class struggle and liberation indicates the core difference between Marx’s focus on self-rule and Gandhi’s focus on self-control. This is further emphasized in that while one’s political environment may prompt political action, Gandhi argues for the importance of saving one’s self first and channeling inner self-control before working towards that of others. In doing so, he relays a clear order of achieving “Swaraj”—a state that is translated as occurring “when we [first] learn to rule ourselves”, and “by each one for himself” (ibid, p.73).

Circumstances depicting self-rule without personal self-control, as arguably practiced in Marxism, is exemplified by Gandhi as people “blindly” wishing to expand governmental power (Gandhi,
2009, p.93), such as through the spread of “radical politics”. This is then referenced as “kick[ing] against the very step from which we have risen higher” (ibid, p.15). Furthermore, the hastened desire to expand government authority stemming from a lack of personal self-control and self-reflection may lead to people’s desires for a stronger military presence, resembling a “want[ing] [of] English rule without the Englishman” (ibid, p.28), or as a precipitated desire for modernity, referenced as “evil ha[ving] wings” (ibid, p.48). This fear is similar to Plato’s wariness regarding the notion of hastened modernity, as well as that of prioritizing ease and instantaneous gain over self-rule and thoughtfulness. Indeed, this is exemplified in the quote, “and so at last, instead of loving contention and glory, men become lovers of trade and money” (Plato & Jowett, 2008, p.315). Plato, like Gandhi, thus stresses the importance of self-control in the context of political self-rule.

Additionally, the importance of self-control within self-rule is necessary to understand the essence of Gandhi’s claim against modernity. Parallel to Marx, Gandhi understands the significance of the relationship between capitalism and imperialism in India. His critique of capitalist modernity and imperialism but not fundamental modernity—referring to a critical examination of all things modern—is arguably comparable to the pillars of Marxist philosophy (Chimini, 2012). Indeed, Marx also addressed systemic issues in his philosophy rather than the entirety of modern inventions. This is mainly expressed through Marx’s understanding of capital and technology, which is seen as a direct parallel to Gandhi’s notion of a Platonic “good life” and the means of achieving such a lifestyle. Gandhi’s disdain for trains (Gandhi, 2009, p.36) and not sewing machines (ibid, p.166), also known as charkhas, elicits a seemingly similar vein of thought, where trains as conceived as maintaining capital, which both “exploits wage labour” (Chimini, 2012) and upholds systems of imperialism and capitalism.

This idea of exploitation is emphasized in the quote, “A man, whilst he is dreaming, believes in his dream; he is undeceived only when… awakened… A man labouring under the bane of civilisation is like a dreaming man… one by one, we are drawn into the vortex” (Gandhi, 2009, p.35). When machinery allows for benefit to human labour in the case of sewing machines, but doesn’t take from the hard-earned fruits of one’s work, Gandhi deems modern inventions as acceptable. As such, Gandhian philosophy is often symbolized through the image of the charkha, or the spinning wheel. Furthermore, his emphasis on the need for class equality in Indian society demonstrates a profoundly Marxist understanding of social change and modernity, even despite the splitting difference between Marx and Gandhi’s political philosophies.

Gandhi’s analysis regarding modernity also centers around a personal conception of the “modern conduct of politics” (Medhi, 2012), which in turn contains similarities to Platonic philosophy. As
previously explored within his critique of modern technological developments, Gandhi’s critique of the government is seen as “inseparable from a moral critique of the people” (Medhi, 2012). This is similar to Plato’s argument mentioned previously that a politician would learn to enforce the preconceived beliefs of the masses, rather than reconstruct them. Moreso, this also connects to Plato’s belief that a politician ultimately “adopt[s] [the people’s] conception of the good” (ibid). In a society that is, arguably, deeply affected by the values Gandhi attributes to modernity—that of ease and “comfort” (Gandhi, 2009, p.130), “exploitation” (ibid, p.173) and material “greed” (ibid, p.166)—it could be argued that Gandhi, similar to Plato, feared that the government could soon exemplify and exacerbate such values. However, unlike Gandhi’s emphasis on self-rule and self-control, Plato criticized actions that could reap instantaneous benefits, especially when done for one’s self. Instead, he believed that individuals focusing on working towards the greater good of society could avoid the possibility of conflict—further dodging the ultimate possibility of undermining the overall stability of society.

Be that as it may, Gandhi and Plato both believed in the notion that political change includes the conception of a morally perfect community—one based within further developing the structure of their community through shared moral identities. On a deeper level, this insinuates a shift within the masses, which contains the opportunity for emancipation, switching from the various negative effects of modern industrial society to a newfound “ethical” outlook rooted in “duty and service to humanity” (Medhi, 2012). This shift may be actualized in two distinct ways. Firstly, this may be Platonically actualized through the means of organization: for example in The Republic, the text’s depicted hierarchical structure includes individualized roles, means of education, and notions of child-rearing. Secondly, in the case of Hind Swaraj, this shift may be actualized through one’s moral identity instead—Gandhi found political change to be based within the collective development of a new, morally perfected identity for the individuals within the “emerging” nation of India (ibid), which is especially poignant within their struggle for independence.

The similarities and differences explored between Marxist, Platonic and Gandhian philosophy thus far have explored Gandhi’s notion of personal self-control as a spiritual entity, transcending both Marx and Plato, as well as Hind Swaraj’s conception of modernity. It may be equally as crucial, however, to explore this examination of self-rule and self-control in order to understand the notion of one’s rights and government in the context of modern society. This is especially as such an application allows for insight into the role of individuals in shaping the dynamics of modern governance as well as the notion of person duty within pressing issues of social inequality and political power. Afterall, the balance between one’s freedoms, which may represent self-rule, and well-being, which may represent self-control, arguably often verges on disproportionate and morally flawed, as argued throughout the whole of Hind Swaraj (Gandhi, 2009, p.130).

As previously exemplified in the line, “I believe that after all a people has the government it deserves” (Rachel Fell Mcdermott et al., 2014), Gandhi’s tendency to prioritize the “greater good” over
the minority may evoke a sense of bewilderment, especially for those raised “in the age of liberal interventionism” (Chimini, 2012)—referring to people preadjusted to majoritively sympathetic
government systems. This is often understood through the means of foreign aid and intervention for those seeking escape from tyrannical governments, whether that be through “the form of money [or] arms” (Medhi, 2012). The idea of essentially prioritizing oneself and one’s moral self before others may thus seem bizarre, particularly in a society that understands the notion of democratic governance as a right. As Gandhi singularly advocates for passive resistance and non-violence to attain rights, the implications that those engaged in such political turbulence are inherently morally righteous, and the exclusion of those who don’t meet this ideal to achieve self-rule may strike as particularly troubling. As quoted by Gandhi, “religion, pity or love is the root…of the body…we should not abandon pity so long as we are alive.” (Gandhi, 2009, p.88). Hence, Gandhi seemingly suggests that one’s personal values, and means of self-control must not be surrendered in the name of political change—even at the cost of indicting a lengthier process.

As such, Medhi questions who in society may be tasked with identifying and bringing about necessary moral reforms within communities—and how Gandhi’s dedication to participatory politics is
consequently incompatible with his moral judgment regarding citizens and their society. The notion that democratic governance is earned and not given is especially concerning, particularly in an era where democratic rights and governance are considered one’s birthright. In the quote, “There is an excess of international law today. What is more, international law is forgetful of the ethical and spiritual self” (Chimini, 2012), Chimini’s claim that international rules have developed to facilitate the worldwide production and circulation of consumer goods in order to promote bodily comfort represents the sum of Gandhian philosophy. In short, Gandhi emphasizes that nations must be left alone by international law and institutions as much as possible, in order for them to create and fulfill their own futures. The implications of international regulations is that it works against self-control, rather than cultivating it. This further prevents the culmination of swaraj, as demonstrated in the quote, “we cannot bring ‘self-rule’ to others” (ibid).

As such, Gandhi raises the profound significance of understanding, practicing, and perfecting the self through his various illustrated means. The comparison of his political and social philosophy to that of Marxist and Platonic philosophy demonstrates a collective, societal toil to discover and define the notion of “true” justice and true “self”—as well as an examination on how to balance both phenomena in a way that allows for the ultimate “good life”. Though each philosopher illustrates a diverging conception of such liberation, such as through the careful criteria of the “kallipolis”, “worker’s utopia”, or “home rule”, it may be argued that their merging in the end goal of achieving true justice illustrates the vastly profound possibility of a society that is, at the very least, reflective and synchronously self-ruled and self-controlled. By analyzing Gandhi’s conception of moral perfectionism, the controversial nature of his conception of democratic governance, his critique of modernity, and ultimately, his notion of self in contrast to that of Marxist and Platonic philosophy, it can be ultimately understood that the notion of justice transcends political self-rule, and begins through personal self-control.

In conclusion, through Gandhi’s depictions of both personal self-control and political self-rule, one can understand that personal self-control is attainable even without political self-rule. Though both are, at times, inseparable in achieving specific goals, self-control can be understood as a crucial element in everyday life—not just in achieving political liberation. Beyond this, these concepts offer a means of transcending both Marxist and Platonic understandings of justice and existing narratives surrounding modernity, moral perfectionism, and democratic governance. This is particularly crucial because, from the perspective of the modern reader, these ideas can collectively reinforce one another, effectively encouraging and inspiring relevant political change. As such, they exemplify differing understandings of modernity which may result in the general betterment and moral development of people and societies across the globe. The points in which these three philosophies often diverge upon is ultimately the core of Gandhi’s argument—the belief that by critically examining one’s self, it is possible to work towards self-betterment, and thus, toward the betterment of one’s nation. It is here where the reader may find the greatest gift of Gandhian philosophy. As Gandhi writes throughout the text, “real home rule is possible only where passive resistance is the guiding force of the people. Any other rule is foreign rule” (Gandhi, 2009, p.95). Indeed, it can be concluded that the ultimate barrier to achieving “Swaraj”, and therefore
“true” justice, is simply the inability to look within oneself.

Endnotes

[1] in the vein of political rebellion and liberation

Works Cited

1. A Textbook of Marxist Philosophy. (n.d.). Www.marxists.org. Retrieved April 21, 2023, from https://www.marxists.org/history/international/comintern/sections/britain/subject/left-book-club/1937/textbook/06.htm#:~:text=MARX%20AND%20LENIN%20call%20objective

2. Chimni, B. S. (2012). The Self, Modern Civilization, and International Law: Learning from Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi’s Hind Swaraj or Indian Home Rule. European Journal of
International Law, 23(4), 1159–1173. https://doi.org/10.1093/ejil/chs075

3. Gandhi, M. (2009). Hind Swaraj and Other Writings (A. J. Parel, Ed.) [Review of Hind Swaraj and Other Writings]. Cambridge University Press.

4. Heredia, R. C. (1999). Interpreting Gandhi’s Hind Swaraj. Economic and Political Weekly, 34(24), 1497–1502. http://www.jstor.org/stable/4408073

5. Mehdi, M. (2012). Moral Perfection and Political Participation [Review of Moral Perfection and Political Participation]. In A. Bilgrami (Ed.), Democratic Culture (pp. 87–100). Routledge India.
https://www.taylorfrancis.com/chapters/edit/10.4324/9780203085387-4/moral-perfection-political-participation-mohamed-mehdi

6. Plato, & Jowett, B. (2008). Plato: The Republic. Forgotten Books.

7. Rachel Fell Mcdermott, Gordon, L. A., Embree, A. T., Pritchett, F. W., & Dalton, D. (2014). Sources of Indian Traditions Modern India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh, (pp. 257). New York
Chichester, West Sussex Columbia University Press.

8. Wenar, L. (2021, April 12). John Rawls (Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy). Stanford.edu. https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/rawls/

by Ewan Keenan

Conceptualizing a time when America was merely an extension of the British Empire, rather than the red-white-and-blue, gun-toting, eagle-loving, land of the free some proudly proclaim it to be today would be quite the undertaking. The national identity of the USA is far more potent than that of any other country worldwide. Be it due to its overwhelming presence in the global entertainment industry, its economic and military presence across the world, or just the ear-splitting volume of its culture, America has certainly distinguished itself on the world stage. This is not always for the best. In fact, America’s distinct national identity more often than not lands the country in the ire of world politics. Mohsin Hamid seems to share some of these anti-American sentiments, which are put on full display in his novel, The Reluctant Fundamentalist. A significant portion of the country is characterized by an identity of exclusion: there’s an in-group and an out-group, you’re an American or you’re not. However, as Changez (the narrator of Hamid’s novel) finds, there is for a moment in time a corner of the nation which welcomes all into its bustling streets and monoliths of glass and steel: New York. Functioning as a sort of global city, Changez feels that he holds a place in New York—that he belongs: “I was, in four and half years, never an American; I was immediately a New Yorker” (Hamid 33). This does not last, though. That exclusionary force that plagues so much of the nation returns in full force after the 9/11 attacks. Widespread Islamophobia and anti-Arab racism infects the country, and being at ground zero, Changez’s new home is no exception. While the characters in the novel are fictional, the events and themes that it presents are harrowingly real and many conclusions drawn in the text echo the theses of other contemporary thinkers. In examining both Hamid’s novel and the world that it is reflecting, it becomes clear that for Changez and many people like him, the “America” of New York, that global city, died in 2001. Further autopsy finds the cause of death not to be the tragedy of the Twin Towers itself, but rather the bolstering of a national identity built upon a dangerous mix of fantastical nostalgia, sentiments of cultural supremacy, and reactionary preconception.

When speaking about New York and America in this context, it is imperative that the abstract be separated from the concrete. In Hamid’s novel, New York does not simply denote the municipality of New York City but rather works to define the notion of a global city mentioned above. New York here is the concept of a place within which anyone from anywhere could find themselves at home. This is what the term “New York” will be referring to going forward. America at large embodies an identity quite contrary to that of New York, one which this investigation seeks to explore. As such, the term “America” will also refer to a grander sense of identity in much the same way New York does, though instead built upon the nostalgia, supremacy, and preconception that are to be further defined. To speak of the actual physical country itself, the abbreviation of the country’s proper name, the USA, will be used. 

When a city of forward motion such as New York is seized by a strong inclination to look back, its spirit withers and the elements of its greatness go with it. Such is the role of nostalgia in The Reluctant Fundamentalist. After the destruction of the World Trade Center, Changez remarks on how the nation as a whole began to lose itself in wrathful visions of a stronger, safer, more American past: “I had always thought of America as a nation that looked forward; for the first time I was struck by its determination to look back” (115). When the dust settled at ground zero, New York was “invaded” (79) by a uniquely American aesthetic, one rooted in a history of “dominance […] of safety […] of moral certainty” (115), which is to say an era of cultural homogeneity. This supposed history leaves Changez with very little place to go, as he demonstrates through his observations at this time: “that they were scrambling to don the costumes of another era was apparent. I felt treacherous for wondering whether that era was fictitious, and whether—if it could indeed be animated—it contained a part written for someone like me” (115).  This nation that had taken Changez in for his potential excellence, via Princeton’s international scholarship program (4), had now turned its back on him, its eyes swimming in daydreams of a past that perhaps never even existed. 

It is hard to think of this relationship Changez has with New York and the nation in general and not immediately call to mind the analogue of Erica. While Erica does not reflect the same senses of superiority and preconception that are to be explored later, on the topic of fantastical nostalgia there is no figure with more parallels. While Changez and Erica spend many happy days together at the outset of their relationship, time finds Erica still longing for Chris, her dead boyfriend. This leaves Changez in a difficult position, in love with a woman who is “disappearing into a powerful nostalgia” (113).  While Changez is there in front of her, she is losing herself in memories of a past which Changez comes to doubt the accuracy of: “perhaps theirs was a past all the more potent for its being imaginary. I did not know whether I believed in the truth of their love; it was, after all, a religion that would not accept me as a convert” (114). It is from here that the parallel between Erica and the increasingly nostalgic America begins to elucidate its use. Erica became sexually stunted after Chris died, so much like an immigrant sacrificing pieces of their culture to appease American society, Changez pretends to be Chris during sex. While she could not be aroused before this, when Changez was himself in bed, she is, in this moment, able to feel pleasure while he emulates her dead lover. The experience was almost as real for Changez as it was for Erica, with him claiming, “I did not seem to be myself” (105). However, unlike Erica, when they had finished Changez found himself feeling “ashamed”, as though he had “diminished [himself] in [his] own eyes” (106). Drawing the parallel to America, it is clear how unwelcoming the nation is to those not fitting with their delusions of the past. Changez as himself could not please Erica, it was only by taking on the guise of Chris that he could be with her. So too is the experience of those coming to America, having to warp themselves into the expectations of the nation’s boundless nostalgia.

These nostalgic delusions also give birth to this strange sense of faith in and loyalty to the American system which harms more people than it benefits, something best exemplified by Jim in the novel. Acting as a sort of mentor figure to Changez, Jim does a lot of vouching for the American Dream (this being the promise of equal opportunity integral to American culture). He grew up in poverty and as such feels he can relate to Changez being in this strange position of power despite originating from a place of marginalization. As he puts it, “We came from places that were wasting away” (97). It is also important to note the implications of Jim’s sexuality, readable through his possession of several phallic artworks (119), as this understanding of his character elucidates further the importance of his attachment to the American Dream and thus the role of nostalgia in the novel at large. Having hailed from poverty and potentially living as a closeted homosexual, Jim’s success would appear to be, if anything, proof that America, and New York especially, is indeed the land of opportunity it claims to be. However, Jim is an invisible minority. Unless he were to tell someone his past or show them his collection of “male nudes” (119), Jim could function entirely as a straight white man with all the privilege that entails, which is precisely what he does. Changez, obviously, does not have this same luxury. Jim’s consistent reminders to Changez about how one can surpass their station in life given the meritocracy of capitalism are as blindly nostalgic as Erica’s dreams of Chris. He fails to see that he only got this far by, to some degree, hiding his un-American features. Jim also places a great emphasis on progress. “Time only moves in one direction”, he says to Changez, “Remember that. Things always change” (96). Once again, this notion of progress appears counterintuitive to the claim of Jim’s nostalgia but given the reality of the political climate in the USA, this idea of progression is evidently one of daydreams. When in Chile, Juan-Bautista awakens Changez to the unchanging tune of American “progress”: “Juan-Bautista’s words plunged me into a deep bout of introspection. […] I was a modern-day janissary, a servant of the American empire at a time when it was invading a country with a kinship to mine” (152). While Changez becomes disillusioned with these falsehoods of progress and opportunity, Jim, blinded by memories of his own rags-to-riches fairy tale, holds on. It is this breed of nostalgia, this faith and loyalty to the system, that prevents any real change and hinders progressive politics, thus culminating in the discriminatory landscape of post-9/11 America.

From these daydreams of a fantastical past and illusions of a system that “just works” is born the political framework that delivered New York its death sentence. While the focus here remains on the fallout of the 9/11 attacks as is documented in The Reluctant Fundamentalist, it would be negligent not to observe the more contemporary example of Trump-era nostalgic politics that Bryan D. Price explores in his essay, “Material Memory: The Politics of Nostalgia on the Eve of ‘MAGA’”. Recalling the Charlottesville demonstrations in 2017, as well as former president Donald Trump’s cult of personality, both the invention of a preferable past and the nostalgic faith in a corrupt system are on full display well beyond 2001. Price describes this phenomenon, which he refers to here as “Trumpism”, as a “revanchist need to reclaim the hegemony of a largely patriarchal whiteness lost to liberalism’s meddling desire to topple it” (Price 104). It is here that the true danger of nostalgia reveals itself. With various hate groups (primarily those centred on white supremacy) rallying behind the “deeply nostalgic slogan Make America Great Again” (104), it becomes undeniable that visions of a “pure America” rooted in fanciful history breed the kind of hatred and violence that not only soured New York for Changez and others like him but that plagues the whole of America to this day. The situation was perfect. With disaster comes the need for comfort, and there’s no better comfort than the promise of returning to a better time. As Price puts it, “As anxieties rise, wealth falls, jobs are lost, homes are abandoned, and debt piles up, nostalgia, because of its terminological slipperiness, becomes a seductive conceptual framework through which to view politics” (110). Nostalgia functions as a foundation upon which campaigns of hate and exclusion can be built. When the world is frightening, be it due to a terrorist attack or economic devastation, particularly charismatic individuals appeal to that fear and offer the respite that nostalgia craves. The deified presence of figures like Donald Trump gives these nostalgia-drowned constituents a reason to remain loyal to the American machine, especially when these figures are in power. Similar conditions were present during the Bush administration during which time Hamid’s novel takes place.

With this nostalgic connection to an idealized American history and unwavering faith in those promising to deliver it, the second aspect of American identity takes hold: supremacy. When the Twin Towers were destroyed by international terrorists and America fell into a daze of its rose-tinted (or, perhaps, whitewashed) past, the already present sentiment of America’s position over the rest of the world was heightened to a concerning degree. Changez recalls these heightened sentiments shortly after 9/11:

Your country’s flag invaded New York after the attacks; it was everywhere…They all seemed to proclaim: We are America — not New York, which, in my opinion, means something quite different — the mightiest civilization the world has ever known; you have slighted us; beware our wrath. (79)

Hamid is not the only one to observe these patriotic sentiments of superiority. In an article titled “Beyond Orientalism and Islamophobia: 9/11, Anti-Arab Racism, and the Mythos of National Pride,” Steven Salaita corroborates Hamid’s thesis, claiming, “most Americans who would consider themselves patriotic formulate the mores of their national identification in opposition to the sanctified mirage of Arab barbarity” (Salaita 246). While the tragedy of 9/11 accentuated the element of contrast in American patriotism, Hamid displays the sense of American supremacy existing well before the attacks. For instance, when he and his colleagues are in Manila, Changez finds his Pakistani self in a position of inferiority. Not only was his new home in America wealthier than his origin, but even the likes of Manila outshined Lahore (Hamid 64). To combat this inferiority, Changez “attempted to act and speak, as much as [his] dignity would permit, more like an American” (65). It is clear, then, that this air of American supremacy was established prior to the 9/11 attacks.

The implied inferiority of Lahore is itself also essential to understanding Hamid’s exploration of America’s superiority complex. Early in the text, as Changez is addressing the American to which he recounts his life story, he alludes to the diversity of inhabitants abundant in Lahore; he only recognizes that this man is American by his “bearing” (2). Throughout the novel, Changez takes breaks from weaving his tale to speak of the city surrounding him and the mysterious American, often praising it and its inhabitants, the “lovely buildings” (170) and beautiful women (16). It quickly becomes clear how Changez is drawing parallels between New York and Lahore. After leaving New York and returning to his home city, Changez wishes to portray Lahore as a global city, one which will remain so, unlike New York. By the mere virtue of his efforts, however, it appears that he has internalized a certain degree of cultural inferiority in comparison with America. He has to prove to the American why Lahore is just as diverse and sophisticated as New York, despite him having dozens of valid reasons for making such a claim. This informs the aforementioned incident in Manila where Changez tries to emulate his American colleagues as best he can — he too has been infected by that facet of American identity which preaches its supremacy over all else.

Returning to New York post-9/11, it is clear that this sense of superiority was only strengthened in the light of such tragedy. With the boost in nostalgic delusion after the attacks, Americans had more reason to believe in their own might, simultaneously raising their perception of themselves and lowering that of all outside their patriotic in-group — particularly those they associated with the attackers, which is to say, Arabic people. Salaita explains, “conservatives, particularly neoconservatives, invoked 9/11 as evidence of Arab perfidy and later as evidence of the need to retain George W. Bush to protect ‘us’ from ‘them’” (Salaita 251). The grandeur captured in the nation’s memory of a better America fostered this sense of superiority which itself would go on to place the final nail in New York’s coffin: reactionary preconception or, perhaps more simply, violent bigotry. Positioning themselves as superior to the radical Muslim terrorists, those considered “real Americans” (largely white Americans), took to profiling all individuals with brown skin, especially those with beards. Salaita also observes this divide: “the totalized pronoun ‘they’ is exclusionary and imbues American-ness with assumed criteria of whiteness and Christianity for which Arabs do not qualify, even if they are residents or citizens of the United States” (259).  Changez, who makes no substantial reference to religion in the text and has no personal link to the aforementioned terrorist organization, is quickly met with such treatment. He recounts one such instance where he is accosted by a pair of men he had never met before:

I was walking to my rental car in the parking lot of the cable company when I was approached by a man I did not know. He made a series of unintelligible noises… and pressed his face alarmingly close to mine… Just then another man appeared; he, too, glared at me, but he took his friend by the arm and tugged at him, saying it was not worth it. Reluctantly, the first allowed himself to be led away. “Fucking Arab,” he said. I am not, of course, an Arab. (Hamid 117)

Strangers in a parking lot took it upon themselves to berate Changez for an identity he never claimed on only the basis of his physical appearance. He experiences similar profiling, if less belligerent, among his peers: “My colleagues greeted with considerable — although often partially suppressed — consternation my reappearance in our offices. For despite my mother’s request, and my knowledge of the difficulties it could well present me at immigration, I had not shaved my two-week-old beard” (129-130). This city where he once felt entirely welcomed within its diverse ranks, where he could board a subway train in a kurta without drawing a single eye (48), now ostracized him for the mere presence of facial hair. 

Devastatingly, official FBI hate crime statistics provide a picture of the uptick in violence against Muslim people and immigrants in general. In the year 2000, there were 36 victims of anti-Islamic hate crimes and 453 victims of hate crimes against those of other national origins, Hispanic immigrants excluded (2000 Hate Crimes 7). In 2001 those numbers leapt to 554 and 1,822 respectively (2001 Hate Crimes 9). These are only the hate crimes that were reported and officially documented by the FBI; there could very well have been more. As Salaita writes, after 9/11 “preexisting anti-Arab racism evolved from a troublesome but politically immaterial phenomenon into a discursive participant in countless issues of great national import (e.g., the USA PATRIOT Act, invasion of Iraq, elections, support for Israel, homeland security)” (Salaita 252). American identity has always involved exclusionary and reactionary tenets, ones which do evolve into violence, but after 9/11 this became far more central to the national identity. On top of this, as Salaita mentions, these reactionary tenets were weaponized to further the profit-motivated ventures of the Bush administration, namely the invasion of Iraq. This facet is further explored in Michael Moore’s documentary Fahrenheit 9/11, exemplified by Moore’s voice-over midway through the film: “They just wanted us to be fearful enough so that we’d get behind what their real plan was” (Fahrenheit 9/11 1:07:43). The public may have come to their bigotry through the evolution tracked in The Reluctant Fundamentalist, but it was the government that facilitated its growth and perpetuation. Needless to say, the America which promised many immigrants that they could be successful and happy and loved, the one which New York had been so emblematic of, was dead and gone. In its place was an empire of preconceived notions, unwarranted hate, and bigoted violence, all serving the interests of the American capitalist machine.  

The September 11th attacks were undeniably tragic. Thousands died. It’s this tragedy that makes Changez’s confession of pleasure at the sight of the collapsing buildings all the more chilling. However, with how violently America turned on a substantial part of its immigrant population, a population which was already at a place of disadvantage, one might sympathize with Changez’s cathartic joy at the sight of someone “so visibly [bringing] America to her knees” (Hamid 73). Though New York had once opened itself up to the likes of Changez, the destruction of the Twin Towers entirely turned the tide. The global city was swallowed by American nostalgia, dreams of a time when no one dared step to the might of the world’s most powerful nation, awakening a sense of cultural superiority over all those not visibly American. Hatred festered within this veneer of supremacy, and everyone who did not so outwardly bleed red-white-and-blue was exiled from the in-group. They were hated, accosted, and attacked. Inextricably tied to the nation’s beating heart was this fervent bigotry. In Salaita’s words, “Ridding the United States of anti-Arab racism requires nothing less than a rejection of all that is now considered fundamentally American” (Salaita 265). There could be no America without hate. Being a New Yorker meant nothing anymore. New York was dead. The American Dream, as it was promised to Changez, was dead. In its place was the USA, a nation of profit, of power, dreaming sweet dreams of what they never were at the expense of what they could have been.

Works Cited

Federal Bureau of Investigation. “2000 Hate Crime Statistics – Federal Bureau of Investigation.” Fbi.gov, https://ucr.fbi.gov/hate-crime/2000. 

Federal Bureau of Investigation. “2001 Hate Crime Statistics – Federal Bureau of Investigation.” Fbi.gov, https://ucr.fbi.gov/hate-crime/2001.  

Hamid, Mohsin. The Reluctant Fundamentalist. Anchor Canada, 2013. 

Moore, Michael, director. Fahrenheit 9/11. FLIC Distributors, 2004. 

Price, Bryan D. “Material Memory: The Politics of Nostalgia on the Eve of ‘MAGA.’” American Studies, vol. 57, no. 1/2, 2018, pp. 103–15. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/44982666.

Salaita, Steven George. “Beyond Orientalism and Islamophobia: 9/11, Anti-Arab Racism, and the Mythos of National Pride.” CR: The New Centennial Review, vol. 6 no. 2, 2006, p. 245-266. Project MUSE, doi:10.1353/ncr.2007.0011.

by Rory Maddinson

Mary: A Fiction is a deeply psychological text that describes, as Wollstonecraft writes in her opening Advertisement, “the mind of a woman” (76). Central to understanding Mary’s mind, and hence the text as a whole, is the concept of compassion. Mary’s identity is tied to her need for a compassionate object. Rooted in her neglectful and traumatic childhood, Mary’s compassion acts as a catalyst both for her actions in the text, and for her changing mentality. In particular, compassion influences her relationships with her mother, Ann, Henry, and even the wider public. She uses compassion to help ground her sense of self, but is ultimately left at the end of the text with “a void” (148) in her heart as she comes to the realisation that the comfort of compassion is ephemeral and fleeting.

For a text that is preoccupied with compassion, Mary: A Fiction starts with a remarkable lack of it. Growing up, Mary was “neglected in every respect” (82) by her parents. Her mother felt “very few sentiments of maternal tenderness” (82) towards Mary, and referred to her as “the awkward thing” (82) that should be sent away. Meanwhile, her father was “very tyrannical and passionate” (83), so much so that Mary was “continually in dread” (83) that he might “frighten her mother to death” (83). Clearly, Mary grew up in a household that was notable for its lack of compassion, something that likely led her “to search for an object to love” (84) – a compassionate object. We can already see this compassionate urge growing later on in the same chapter. When a girl in her nursery stabbed herself “in a fit of delirium” (85), it clearly made a strong impression on Mary’s psyche, so much so that, from that point on, “every night of her life the bleeding corpse presented itself to her when she first began to slumber”. Once more, Mary converts childhood trauma into a need to be compassionate. She makes a “vow” (85) that if she was ever a mistress of a household “she would herself watch over every part of it” (85) – she would show compassion. Overall, the start of the text sets Mary up as a “slave of compassion” (85), someone who needs compassion in order to become “singular and permanent” (85). Denied a fully-realised identity by her indifferent parents, Mary uses the act of being compassionate as a way of grounding her sense of self, something that becomes more apparent as she finally finds an object for her compassion: Ann.

Mary initially feels that Ann will allow her “to experience the pleasure of being beloved” (87). However, whilst to Mary she “was all the world” (87), Ann felt only “gratitude’. As Wollstonecraft indicates, Mary “was not necessary to [Ann’s] happiness” (87). The difference in affection here is reminiscent of Mary’s relationship with her parents, and the response is the same – Mary finds a way to act compassionately so as to avoid a collapse of identity. In this case, Mary imagines that Ann “looked sickly or unhappy” (87), so that “her tenderness would return like a torrent” (87). Wollstonecraft states later that this tenderness, this “warmth of compassion” (90), “gave the colour to her mind” (90). The idea of giving “colour” to one’s “mind” seems analogous to the construction of identity. Indeed, she says that responding to “the distress of others” (90), “carried her out of herself” (90). Being compassionate enables Mary to manifest a sense of identity. It grounds her through her relationship with other people; Mary requires a compassionate object.

The intensity of this desire to be compassionate is made clear when Ann falls further ill. For instance, the fact that “the canker-worm was lodged in [Ann’s] heart and preyed on her health” (93) put “a bewitching softness” in Mary’s mind (93). Clearly, Ann’s need for support, her need for compassion, is attractive to Mary. Moreover, Mary later proclaims that “to snatch [Ann] from the very jaws of destruction”, she “would have encountered a lion” (95). Again, her desire to be compassionate is overwhelming; it is enough to metaphorically challenge a lion. Even with her dying mother, who willingly admits that “I have not always treated you with kindness” (95), Mary shows compassion. She forgives her, much to her own “astonishment” (95).

At this point in the novel, Mary reluctantly marries Charles. As someone who ideologically opposed conventional marriage describing it as akin to enslavement, Wollstonecraft presents this as a threat to Mary’s individual identity. Her response then, is to act all the more compassionate to Ann. Indeed, when “the sound of [her husband’s] name made her turn sick” (97) she would listen to Ann’s cough and “forget all” (97). There is even an uncomfortable sense of pleasure that is expressed, as Mary goes about her acts of compassion “with convulsive eagerness” (97). As the threat to her identity increases, she becomes more reliant on the external sense of stability that being compassionate provides. In this way, “her comfort, almost her existence” (100) is dependent on Ann.

When Mary goes abroad with Ann to Lisbon, she is introduced to another object of compassion: Henry. Understanding Mary’s need to be compassionate is essential to understanding the character of Henry and Mary’s relationship to him. Even Mary’s first encounter with him is influenced by her compassionate drives. There are two men playing music in front of Ann and Mary. One is a “handsome, well-bred, sensible man” (103) – the picture of health. In contrast, the other, Henry, is “rather ugly” and “awkward” (103). It is the latter, rather than the former, that interests Mary, as the “invalid” (102) Henry offers an outlet for her compassion. Moreover, the fact that his violin music deeply impacts Mary is interesting. We learn later that Henry has similar childhood trauma to Mary. His father died before he was born and his mother favoured his eldest brother. He channels this trauma into his violin music, telling “the sorrows” (116) of his childhood “only to [his] violin” (116). Perhaps then, Mary was initially attracted to Henry’s violin music because her subconscious recognised signs of trauma – a trauma in need of compassion. After all, having heard his music, she “shed tears almost without being conscious of it” (105). The implications are profound: Mary’s need to be compassionate has become so embedded in her identity that it forms part of her subconscious, something that we potentially saw earlier when she was astonished by the fact she showed compassion to her neglectful mother.

Whatever the case, after Ann’s death, Henry becomes Mary’s new object of compassion. The death of Ann, like her marriage to Charles, threatens Mary’s identity because she no longer has an object of compassion. As she phrases it, “there was a void in [her heart]” (117). Hence, she receives in her heart “a new guest” (117): Henry. Similar to how Ann’s illness was “bewitching’, Henry’s need for compassion is “rather pleasing” (113) for Mary. His suffering becomes positive in Mary’s eyes, as it enables her to be compassionate. Caring for Henry provides only temporary relief however, as leaving Lisbon to return to England necessitates that she finds yet another new object of compassion.

Mary’s behaviour on the voyage back to England, and during the time she spent with Ann’s mother, can largely be understood as a search for some way to exercise her compassionate drives in order to ground her sense of self. For example, caring for the woman who was hauled on board “gratified her benevolence, and stole her out of herself” (127). The notion of Mary being stolen “out of herself” may be seen as an assertion of her identity, an identity that had been in a state of inward collapse since the death of Ann. Similarly, when back in England, Mary set herself to poor relief as “it was the only employment that eased her aching heart” (131). The trademark sign of suffering being viewed by Mary as positive is present once more, as seeing children who have “sallow cheeks” and “languid eyes” and are “covered with dirt” (132) gives her a “mixture of horror and satisfaction” (132). The way in which Mary fluctuates between objects of compassion at this point potentially foreshadows her eventual realisation that this her externally constructed self is unsustainable and fleeting.

Eventually, Mary reunites with Henry and he resumes his role as her object of compassion. At this point, Mary’s need to be compassionate is all-consuming and manifests itself in unhealthy ways. For example, she starts to feel envy towards Henry’s mother as “she wished involuntarily, that all the comfort [Henry] received should be from her” (138). The adverb “involuntarily” here potentially suggests that her compassionate drives, rooted as we have seen in her subconscious, have taken control of her active mind. Moreover, she begins to have suicidal thoughts, as she “cannot live without loving” (143) – being compassionate is too essential to her identity. For instance, Wollstonecraft writes that Mary “wished to have sought with him a watry grave; to have escaped the horror of surviving him” (141). She sees no future without her object of compassion.

Hence, when Henry eventually dies, we see a dramatic collapse of Mary’s sense of self, as she can no longer ground it in her acts of compassion. Henry shows an awareness of this, and asks if she will still be “comforted” (146) despite his death. Mary replies yes, but “the words almost choked her” (146), suggesting she may not actually believe this to be the case. Henry’s death, combined with the memory of Ann’s passing, shatters Mary’s externally constructed self, as she realises that the comfort of compassion is ephemeral. The resultant change is stark. She can no longer “bear” “the sight of the sick” (147) and she is unable “to fix on the mode of conduct she ought now to pursue” (147).  Her identity is once more “a void” but this time she knows “benevolence [compassion] could not fill” it (148).

To conclude, understanding the way in which Mary’s need to have an object of compassion functions is essential in understanding the text as a whole. Her need to be compassionate, born out of childhood neglect, influences her actions throughout the novella and constitutes a key part of her identity. It also contributes to the tragedy of the text’s conclusion as, with the death of Henry, Mary comes to the realisation that the comfort of compassion is ephemeral and fleeting.

Works Cited

Wollstonecraft, Mary. Mary, a Fiction (1788) and the Wrongs of Woman, or Maria (1798).  Edited by Michelle Faubert, Broadview Press Ltd, 2012.