Ročenka textů zahraničních profesorů - FF UK - Univerzita Karlova

Ročenka textů zahraničních profesorů The Annual of Texts by Foreign Guest Professors

3 20 09 ročník

volume

V pořadí třetí vydání Ročenky, které máte v rukou, je dalším hmatatelným výsledkem rozvinuté mezinárodní spolupráce Univerzity Karlovy v Praze. Tato publikace je součástí výjimečného projektu „Hostující zahraniční odborníci“, který započal v roce 2007 a úspěšně pokračuje a získává mezi akademickou obcí velkou podporu. Filozofická fakulta Univerzity Karlovy v Praze má mezi humanitními fakultami nejen v rámci univerzity, ale v celkovém tuzemském kontextu výsadní postavení v rozsahu zahraniční kooperace. Hostování zahraničních odborníků na její půdě tvoří nezbytnou součást procesu internacionalizace výuky na Filozofické fakultě Univerzity Karlovy. Kontakt s význačnými kapacitami světové vědy je důležitý jak pro studenty, zejména v doktorském stupni studia, tak pro pedagogické pracovníky. Pobyt těchto odborníků přispívá ke zvýšení kvality výukových programů a začlenění nejnovějších poznatků vědních oborů do všech stupňů výuky. V roce 2009 jsme spolupracovali například se zahraničními odborníky z oborů hudební věda, estetika, sociální práce, historie, dějiny umění, literární teorie, lingvistika, knihovnictví a dalších. Jednalo se o významné osobnosti nejen na svých domovských univerzitách, ale též na poli mezinárodním. Ročenka obsahuje 26 příspěvků a jejich obsahová pestrost ukazuje, že o tento druh spolupráce je zájem jak na Filozofické fakultě Univerzity Karlovy v Praze, tak na univerzitách v zahraniční. Ročenka textů zahraničních profesorů 2009 je vydána z prostředků Rozvojového projektu Ministerstva školství mládeže a tělovýchovy ČR, o které si Filozofická fakulta Univerzity Karlovy v Praze požádala pod názvem „Hostující zahraniční odborníci“.

Ročenka textů zahraničních profesorů The Annual of Texts by Foreign Guest Professors

3 200 9 ročník

volume

Vydání této ročenky je financováno z prostředků Rozvojového projektu Ministerstva školství, mládeže a tělovýchovy ČR, které Filozofická fakulta Univerzity Karlovy v Praze získala na projekt „Hostující zahraniční odborníci“. Publication of the Yearbook is being financed from the Developmental Project of the Ministry of Education, Youth and Sports of the Czech Republic, for which the Faculty applied under the title “Visiting Foreign Experts”.

Za obsah příspěvku a jazykovou správnost odpovídá autor © Laurie Bauer, Antonietta Bisetto, Andrew Bowle, Ian Buchanan, Wolfgang Greisenegger, Eike Gringmuth-Dallmer, Lukas Haselböck, Ulrich Herbert, James Hill, Laura A. Janda, Rudolf Jaworski, Mindaugas Kvietkauskas, Thomas Luckman, Igor Lukes, Daniel C. Narváez Torregrosa, Marek Nekula, Carita Paradis, Leopold Pospíšil, Brian Rosenblum, Lorraine Roubertie Soliman, Janusz Salamon, Wolfgang Saus, Barbara Schmiedtová, Jürgen Schöpf, Sandra Trehub, Dalibor Vesely, 2009 © Univerzita Karlova v Praze, Filozofická fakulta, 2009 © TOGGA, 2009 ISBN 978-80-7308-290-1 (Univerzita Karlova v Praze) ISBN 978-80-87258-39-2 (TOGGA)

OBSAH / CONTENTS

Úvodní slovo / Foreword

7/8

Laurie Bauer Facets of English Plural Morphology

9

Antonietta Bisetto Italian adjectives in -bile

23

Andrew Bowie Philosophy and the Humanities Today

43

Ian Buchanan Deleuze and the Internet

53

Wolfgang Greisenegger Formende Kraft des Lichtes im Theater

75

Eike Gringmuth-Dallmer Vom Haken- zum Beetpflug – Innovationen in der mittelalterlichen Landwirtschaft?

111

Lukas Haselböck Analytische Beobachtungen zu Debussys Prélude ‚Brouillards’

133

Ulrich Herbert Zwangsarbeiter im nationalsozialistischen Deutschland und im von Deutschland besetzten Europa

149

James Hill The Interviewing. Process in Multi-Cultural Social Work Praktice

171

Laura A. Janda Quantitative methods for cultural linguistics

203

Rudolf Jaworski Austria im Zerrbild – Deutsche, tschechische und polnische Karikaturen der späten Habsburgermonarchie

227

Mindaugas Kvietkauskas The Multicultural Experience in Fin-De-Siècle Vilnius: Yiddish Literature and the Politics of Diasporism

247

Thomas Luckman Thoughts on the Communicative Construction of Reality

283

Igor Lukes A Chronicle of Wasted Opportunities: Ambassador Steinhardt’s Sluggish Beginnings in Postwar Prague

297

Daniel C. Narváez Torregrosa Aproximación cinematográfica a la Segunda Guerra Mundial: La Royal Air Force en los films Battle of Britain y Tmavomodrý svět



317

Marek Nekula Národní symbolika ve veřejném prostoru

357

Carita Paradis Good, better and superb antonyms a conceptual construal approach

385

Leopold Pospíšil Independent Thinking, Science and Civilization

403

Brian Rosenblum Roles for Libraries in Supporting Open Scholarship

421

Lorraine Roubertie Soliman Learning jazz in South Africa: what does it mean? A musical and symbolical study of jazz education and its meanings in a post-apartheid country

429

Janusz Salamon Mystical Inclusivism: Epistemology of Religious Experience and Religious Pluralism

441

Wolfgang Saus Karlheinz Stockhausen‘s STIMMUNG and Vowel Overtone Singing

471

Barbara Schmiedtová The use of aspect in Czech L2

479



Jürgen Schöpf The Serankure of Southern Africa. Interdisciplinary restudy of an indigenous bowed instrument

507

Sandra Trehub Infancy: A brief musical history

519

Dalibor Vesely Architecture and the limits of modern theory

529

Autoři / Authors

565



Úvodní slovo děkana

Vážení přátelé, již potřetí přinášíme texty přednášek zahraničních profesorů na půdě Filozofické fakulty UK v Praze, tentokrát za rok 2009. Jsem moc rád, že se nám podařilo založit životaschopnou tradici a přednášky významných zahraničních kolegů tak zůstávají zachovány i pro další akademický život. Zcela přirozeně tak pokračujeme v mnohasetleté kontinuitě mezinárodní spolupráce a komunikace naší akademické obce se zahraničními kolegy. Předkládáme Vám oborově pestrý obraz působení významných zahraničních osobností a s nimi i různost témat a přístupů. Věřím, že inspirace, kterou zahraniční kolegové ve svých pražských přednáškách zanechali ve svých posluchačích, osloví také čtenáře následujících řádků.

PhDr. Michal Stehlík, Ph.D. děkan



Foreword by the Dean

Dear friends, This year, for the third time, we are publishing the texts of the lectures given by foreign professors at the Faculty of Arts of Charles University in Prague, currently from the year 2009. I am very pleased to be able to state that we have managed to establish a viable tradition and that the lectures of our important foreign colleagues will thus be preserved for the academic life of the future. It can be stated that we are naturally continuing a tradition going back many centuries of international cooperation and communication of our academic community with its foreign colleagues. We are thus presenting the results of activities of important foreign personages from various fields and, consequently, also a range of different topics and approaches. I believe that the inspiration instilled by our foreign colleagues in their audiences at their Prague lectures will also be of interest to our readers. PhDr. Michal Stehlík, Ph.D. Dean



Facets of English Plural Morphology1 Laurie Bauer

Introduction

My title almost comes under the heading of what every schoolboy knows (to use Macaulay’s 19th century and now extremely sexist phrase). Surely, everyone learns what there is to know about English plural morphology in the very first years of learning English, and there cannot be much left to know. Surprisingly, perhaps, we will see that there are some areas where we do not actually know the facts, or where the facts are not as straightforward as is often supposed. I shall not worry about the regular plurals, except as they interact with irregular forms. There, the basic facts are too well known to merit repetition. Rather I’m going to focus on a few areas where the expression of plurality in English requires some further consideration. I shall concentrate here on four aspects of pluralmarking in English: – Plurals with voiced fricatives – The stability of irregular plurals – Foreign plurals – Zero plurals I shall deal with these topics in turn.

Plurals with fricative voicing

The example which is perhaps taken as most clearly indicating what happens in those cases where fricative voicing accompanies plural marking is also one of the

1

The research for this paper is funded by a grant from the Royal Society of New Zealand through the Marsden Fund to the author for the project ‘The Morphology of Current English’.



most marginal cases. Every textbook tells us that it we have to say /wʌn haʊs/; /tuː haʊzɪz/ so that in the plural the final fricative of the stem becomes voiced, and then the appropriate allomorph of the plural is added to fit with the new form of the stem. It is usually stated or implied that the case of house is unique. The plurals of louse and mouse are lice and mice (we will talk about this later) and the plural of spouse is spouses [spaʊsɪz] without any voicing. The reality is slightly more complex. Some speakers do have fricative voicing in spouse, and thus a plural form [spaʊzɪz], while others, in jest, have spice. Perhaps the variety here adds to the uncertainty, and means that spouse is rarely used, especially not in the plural. In any case, in some varieties of Scottish English (and other varieties influenced by Scottish), house has a perfectly regular plural, [haʊsɪz]. The only other potentially relevant word here, grouse, is only marginally relevant, for reasons that we will discuss later. But in the meaning ‘complaint’ it appears to have a regular plural only. There are three other voiceless fricatives: /f, θ, ʃ/, and of these /ʃ/ not affected, so basically we only have two kinds of fricative voicing plurals. The traditional view of those forms ending in /f/ is that there are two main groups: those where a final /f/ retained in the plural (as in chief/chiefs) and those where a final /f/ becomes /v/ (with corresponding orthographic change) in the plural (as in wife/wives). As before, we use the appropriate plural allomorph for the voiced final. A less pedagogical view says that there is a third group, where speakers vary; this group includes nouns such as behalf; dwarf; half; hoof; roof; scarf; wharf; and surprisingly, giraffe. Each of these words is different. Behalf is rarely used, and even less used in the plural; it takes its plural forms from half. It is well known that Walt Disney has seven dwarfs while Tolkien has dwarves, yet this is not simply a British versus American distinction. To some extent the form of the plural of half is col-



locational: a game of two halves versus two halfs of bitter (but I note that my spell-checker doesn’t like halfs). There is genuine uncertainty as to the plural form of hoof; Google gives 1.6m hits for hoofs, 1.8 for hooves, but hoofs includes verb forms and probably (given the way Google searches) possessive forms. The case where there is most normative pressure is the plural of roof. Many who say rooves write roofs. The standard form roofs is dominant on Google (12.5m to 0.25m), but there is some regional as well as social variation here. For the plural of scarf, Google provides a difference of 1.4m to 9.5m in favour of scarves. Wharves seems more likely that wharfs, but the voiceless plural is occasionally given as normatively ‘correct’. Where giraffe is concerned, it is clear that the adult norm is for a regular form with /fs/, but /vz/ is found among some young speakers, at least in NZ. There are a few oddities. Beeves is an old plural of beef, and means ‘cattle’. It is found in old texts, but is only found dialectally or with reference to historical use in modern usage. Staves is today the plural of stave, but historically is the plural of staff. In music, there is a certain amount of variation about the singular form. And turves, an old plural of turf, has vanished (a) as turf has become an uncountable noun and (b) as it has been replaced by countable sod (though that word, in turn, has faded in the relevant meaning because of its homonym). It is worth making the point explicitly, that in present-day English, membership of the groups is not predictable by form. We have chief/chiefs, handkerchief/ handkerchiefs or handkerchief/handkerchieves but thief/thieves. The explanation that is usually given for the current state of affairs is historical. Fricatives in Old English became voiced between sonorants, so that the fricative at the end of wīf was voiceless, but in wīfes it was voiced. As far as this goes, it is true enough, but it is unhelpful. Even someone who knows what the patterns were in Old English cannot predict from that what the patterns will be in modern English. Belief changed to /f/ from an earlier form with /v/ in the singular in the 16th C. Half has /v/ but /f/ irregularly, as we have already seen. Roof –



which historically ought to behave just like wife – has /v/ for many speakers, but it’s not standard. Scarf doesn’t join the set with a /v/ until the 18th C. A more satisfying picture of what is going on can be given by considering the way in which these words are processed. In Table 1, a series of relevant words with singulars in /f/ are set out according to the way they make their plurals: irregularly (with /v/), variably, or regularly (retaining /f/). The average frequency of plural forms form the first column in BNC is >1300; average frequency of third column <200. (The middle column shows intermediate values, but with larger standard deviations.) In other words, other things being equal, frequency protects irregularity – something for which we see a lot of evidence in historical language study. Table 1: Plurals of nouns with singulars in /f/, classified according to the plural form calves

behalfs, behalves

briefs

elves

dwarfs, dwarves

chiefs

knives

halfs, halves

fifes

lives

hoofs, hooves

oafs

loaves

roofs, rooves

proofs

sheaves

scarfs, scarves

reefs

shelves

wharfs, wharves

reliefs

thieves

safes

wives

serfs

wolves

waifs

Let us now turn to the curious question of giraffe. Until recently, among adults, the regular plural was the only one heard. Giraffe is, in adult language, a rare word, especially in the plural. But for children, giraffe is a much more common word, and since the common words that end in /f/ all have /v/ plurals, giraffe is an exception. Thus giraffe is starting to gain a /v/ plural, even though the word is of relatively low frequency and much too late



a loan to have come by the /v/ by the normal historical process. Presumably, scarf went through a similar process at an earlier period of history. Nouns ending in -th are, in principle, like the nouns ending in /f/: some have voiceless plurals, some have voiced plurals and some vary. What might be a surprise here is the size of the variable category. The standard grammars name extremely few words which definitely belong to the voicing category, while the set of variable words is extremely large. Palmer et al. (2002: 1587) give only one noun as obligatorily being in the voicing category: mouth; Quirk et al. (1985: 305) speak of ‘considerable uncertainty’. No doubt this is at least partly due to the lack of support from the orthography. In some instances, the standard descriptions suggest that different plurals of /θ/ words have become semanticised (like brethren as opposed to brothers). So, for instance, it is suggested that, at least in British English, bath has a voiced plural when it means ‘swimming pool’ and a voiceless plural when it is the plural of a domestic installation; or it is suggested that youth has a voiced plural when it means ‘young men’ and a voiceless one when it means ‘period of being young’. While there may indeed be tendencies in this direction, my students do not consistently attach these meanings to these plurals, which suggests that the variability is greater than is generally acknowledged. The stability of irregular plurals

The textbook view is that the irregular plurals of English are fixed: /ʧaɪldz/ is genitive and mans as a plural form belongs exclusively to child-language. While such a point of view has some merit, not everything is as simple. For instance, consider the plural of nouns which are generally considered to take umlauted plurals. While it seems to be true that the plural of man is reliably men, other forms are less reliable. Consider the following examples.



I have never seen so many Daffy Ducks and Mickey Mouses in one place. McNab, Andy 2007. Crossfire. London: Corgi, p. 477. One specialized in dreadful plastic kitsch; another toys, ten thousand Mickey Mice. Rathbone, Julian 2001. Homage. London: Allison & Busby, p. 26.

I might add, that my students almost always prefer mouses in such sentences. The moment the mouse concerned is not a literal cheese-eating mouse, things start to become variable. Although mice is widely used as the plural of a computer mouse, many speakers feel unhappy with this plural, and either use mouses or avoid the issue entirely. We find the same phenomenon with other lexemes, too. Todd didn’t need… wilder gooses to chase. Anderson, Kevin J & Doug Benson 1995. Ill Wind. New York: Tom Doherty, p. 381.

If it turns out that Qatar is innocent… our gooses could be cooked. Sandford, John 2001. Chosen Prey. London: Simon & Schuster, p. 300.

And that’s when those louses / Go back to their spouses / Diamonds are a girl’s best friend Jule Styne, from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, 19532

These examples appear to be idiosyncratic in the sense that they affect individual lexical items to varying degrees. We can add to the list here, the noun woman, whose plural is increasingly homophonous with the singular in New Zealand. That, though, appears to be a phonological problem, rather than a matter of figurative usage. There are some cases, though, which are 2



I should like to thank Dieter Kastovsky for drawing this example to my attention. I assume that the attested form is preferred over And that’s when those lice Go back to their spice for purely rhythmical reasons, since this version would also work.

generally taken not to be idiosyncratic in this way, but systematic. Two specific examples are repeatedly discussed in the literature: sabretooth and Maple Leaf. A sabretooth is neither a type of sabre nor a type of tooth, but a type of large cat; sabretooth is therefore an exocentric compound (though see Bauer (2008) on the notion of exocentricity more generally). It is generally agreed that it has a regular plural, sabretooths. The same is true, though in a rather specialised way, with Maple Leaf. The maple leaf is the symbol of Canada, and a Toronto icehockey team has named itself after this symbol. The team, though, is named with the plural form, Maple Leafs, although if we saw a lot of literal leaves from maples, we would expect maple leaves. Again we have an exocentric compound, this time, though the compound acts as a name. Sabretooths and Maple Leafs also differ in that the first might be expected to have an ablaut plural, the second might be expected to have a fricative-voicing plural. In Tables 2 and 3, we see other potential cases which we would expect to show parallel behaviour. To the extent that these have regular plurals, there might be said to be a rule assigning regular plurals to exocentrics. To the extent that these have the irregular plurals (umlaut plurals or fricative-voicing plurals respectively), there can be no such rule. (W) indicates that the plural form is given in Webster’s Third New International Dictionary, other forms come from The Oxford English Dictionary. Table 2: Exocentrics with potential umlauting plurals coltsfoot

coltsfoots (W)

flat-foot (sl)

flatfoots (also W), flatfeet

goosefoot

goosefoots (‘plant’), goosefeet (‘hinge, junction etc.’)

pussyfoot

pussyfoots (also W)

tenderfoot

tenderfoots, tenderfeet (both in W)



The etymology of pussyfoot may explain the form found for that word. The original form was the name of a person, Mr Pussyfoot. That became a verb, and the new noun might be a nominalisation of that verb. If this is the case, we would expect a regular plural anyway (Plank 2010). Table 3: Exocentrics with potential fricative-voicing plurals broadleaf (plant)

-fs

cloverleaf (junction)

-fs, -ves

cottonmouth (snake)

-ðz

frogmouth (owl)

-θs, -ðz

loudmouth (person)

-θs, -ðz

low-life (person)

-fs, -ves

waterleaf (plant)

-fs

wrymouth (fish)

?

To these examples we can possibly add powerhouse and jack-knife. Some sources give [paʊəhaʊsɪz] as the plural of powerhouse, presumably in the non-literal sense, but that is not clear. Jack-knife, like literal powerhouse, ought to be endocentric, but there is also the meaning deriving from the verb to jack-knife. The converted noun is not listed in The Oxford English Dictionary or in Webster’s, but we would expect a regular plural there if it exists. There are not particularly many relevant examples, but the attested plural forms from them are so variable that it does not seem possible that there is a rule about their behaviour one way of the other. Of course, it is possible that individual speakers treat these nouns more regularly than the reference books, but they are all relatively rare words, and it is difficult to find reliable data. Even the reference books may not be reliable in what they say here, but it is difficult to know how to obtain better data.



Foreign Plurals

There are so many patterns of foreign plural borrowed into English that it is impossible to discuss them all within the confines of a short paper. Rather I shall concentrate on just a couple of aspects of these, namely Italian plurals and variation between native and foreign plural forms. Italian plurals

The most obvious Italian plurals heard in English are musical: alti, bassi, castrati, celli, concerti, contralti, libretti, mezzi, soprani, tempi, virtuosi. These are used almost exclusively by musicians in a specifically musical context, and the regular plurals would be more normal in other contexts. Rather than speaking of borrowing of a plural pattern here, it seems more realistic to talk of code-switching. These are Italian plurals, not English ones. The next most obvious set of English words with Italian plural forms are the food terms: macaroni, ravioli, spaghetti, tagliatelli, tortellini, etc. These are formally plural in Italian, but are typically uncountable in English: a piece of spaghetti, how much spaghetti? This leaves a miscellaneous set. Confetti is uncountable in English, so this is like the food terms. The same is true of graffiti (graffito is a joke or a technical term from archaeology – in which case the plural may again be a case of code-switching). Paparazzi denotes a collective, and nobody seems to be really sure what the singular or the plural form should be. We find one of the paparazzi, paparazzo, paparazzos, paparazzis. Putti is perhaps a genuine plural, though one of the putti is common. Note finally that the plural of pizza is pizzas and not *pizze; similarly for piazza. The only candidates for a borrowed plural in English are Italian masculine nouns in -o. I should like to propose the following hypothesis: There are no borrowed Italian plurals in English; when we see an Italian plural form in English, it is either a case of code-switching or a case of a noun that was



borrowed primarily in its plural form. The same hypothesis might be applicable to Hebrew and to French plurals which are found in English. Native ~ Foreign

With Latin nouns there is a lot of variation as to whether the Latin or the native plural is used. For the foreign learner, knowing which to use appears impenetrable. Grammars exemplify, but give few principles. There are a few examples which are generally agreed to be semanticised, that is, the plural used depends of the meaning of the word; to the extent that this holds, we can see several lexemes being involved here (though it should be noted that the first two cases listed in Table 4 are not quite as fixed as this might suggest, and there is some variability in usage). Table 4: Semanticised foreign plurals Indexes

in a book

Indices

in mathematics

Appendixes

part of the body

Appendices

in books

Mediums

people

Media

communications

In a number of instances, it is sometimes claimed that only the Latin plural is used. Some of these are listed below with, in each case, the number of thousand hits the regular English plural gets in Google. While it is true that a hit in Google has to be taken with a very large pinch of salt, and that anything under about 3000 hits probably counts as ‘not existing’ (since it can appear by accident, as a spelling mistake, as a different word, as a warning not to use this form, etc.), nonetheless this list indicates that it is extremely dangerous to claim that the regular English plurals for these forms are not found. Addendum (379), alumnus (2), bacillus (1), bacterium (59), datum (642), desideratum (3), erratum (22), labium (7), larva (116), locus (21), stimulus (160), etc. etc.



Most of these words are, in any case, extremely rare: only two occur in LOB/Brown: data (only in that form) and stimulus. It is accordingly not surprising that there should be variation in the plural forms used for them. A generalised statement about the usage here is thus the following. Those Latin nouns which do not take the regular native plural vary between the native English plural and the Latin plural. For foreign learners (and probably for native speakers, too), this can be reformulated in the following way: Use the regular English plural unless you know that the Latin plural is what you need; or: use a Latin plural only where you have heard a Latin plural used. There are certainly places where a Latin plural is more frequent. Other things being equal, Latin plurals are more likely to be used in technical domains (including the law) or in very formal styles. But even here, it is not necessarily safe to use a Latin plural without knowing it is the right answer (see appendixes, above). One word provides a terrible warning for the unwary. Native speakers of English are very unsure as to what the plural of octopus should be. The rule just provided would lead them to a correct octopuses. Unfortunately, many of them see octopus not as Greek word, whose plural should be octopodes (since the pus element is the Greek for ‘foot’), but as a Latin second declension noun, so that they often provide the etymologically incorrect form octopi. A similar etymologically incorrect form is occasionally heard from prospectus. Zero plurals

Here as elsewhere, in the interests of economy, I must be selective. I have already indicated that woman is joining the class of zero plurals in New Zealand English. It seems to me to worth asking why quid (BrE sl. = ‘£’) is never listed as a zero plural when it clearly is one. The main area for zero plurals in English is provided by names of fish, animals and birds. Although the precise usage of zero-plurals and regular plurals here is obscure, it seems to be generally accepted that the zero

plural is more frequent when the creatures concerned are viewed as game, or as potentially edible, and less frequent if they are viewed in any other light. As far as the fish are concerned, I happened to be given access to some really valuable data. One of my students, doing a thesis on the vocabulary of the exploitation of the marine environment in New Zealand, allowed me access to her files of quotations on the subject.3 This provided me with 567 citations involving plural ‘fish’ names, mostly taken from professional sources (i.e. what happens in novels, cookery books and children’s literature is not necessarily represented in this data set). Some of the citations involved several plural nouns. Table 5 provides a brief summary of the material. Table 5: A summary of plural usage with fish names from Connor (2009) -s plurals

percentage

Diminutives

41/41

100%

Cetaceans

28/29

97%

Shellfish

158/164

96%

Miscellaneous fish names

75/188

40%

The word fish

10/106

9%

5/135

4%

Compounds ending in ~fish 4

The miscellaneous fish names in Table 5 require some further explanation. In advance, I had no way of telling what particular names would give large enough samples to be valuable. In retrospect, it seems to me that some of these names are virtually always regularly inflected (e.g. bloater), while others virtually always show a zeroplural (e.g. cod). In other words, there is a strong lexical effect. It should also be noted that the words taken into account in Table 5 are only those words which have an English form: Maori names for fish were treated sepa3

I should like to thank Cherie Connor for allowing me access to this material. Her thesis should shortly be available as Connor (2009).

4

These may include shell-fish, such as crayfish; the formal category takes precedence over the pragmatic categorisation in such cases.



rately, since Maori words in New Zealand English frequently have a zero plural in any case (there being no plural marking on most Maori nouns). Similar evidence regarding birds and animals is unfortunately difficult to come by. However, the lexical effect and the general accuracy of the traditional findings would seem to be generalisable. Grouse, for example, seems rarely to have a regular plural, while duck frequently does. Conclusion

We started out on this journey of exploration, saying that it is an area in which we might expect the facts to be well-known. I hope to have illustrated the point that, even in an area that we all know intimately, there’s a great deal to be discovered. The data is (are?) amazingly complex. And, as we might expect, the system is far from fixed, but is changing. That is partly why it is so difficult to describe satisfactorily: as is the case with all variable data, it requires a lot more evidence than is generally easily available to provide a full picture of what is going on.

References Bauer, Laurie 2008. Exocentric compounds. Morphology 18: 51–74. Connor, Cherie 2009. A Diachronic Exploration of the Contribution of the Marine Environment to a Distinctive New Zealand English Lexicon, 1796–2005. Unpublished PhD thesis, Victoria University of Wellington. Palmer, Frank, Rodney Huddleston, & Geoffrey K. Pullum 2002. Inflectional morphology and related matters. In Rodney Huddleston, & Geoffrey K. Pullum (eds), The Cambridge Grammar of the English Language. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1565–1619. Plank, Frans 2010. Variable direction in zero-derivation and the unity of polysemous lexical items. To appear in Word Structure. Quirk, Randolph, Sidney Greenbaum, Geoffrey Leech & Jan Svartvik 1985. A Comprehensive Grammar of the English Language. London and New York: Longman.



Italian Adjectives in -bile Antonietta Bisetto

1. Introduction

The Italian suffix -bile – as well as its French, Spanish and English mates (respectively -able and –ble) forms adjectives, such as trasportabile ‘transportable’ and rafforzabile ‘reinforceable’, that are mainly obtained from transitive verbs. Intransitive verbs, whether unaccusatives like morire ‘to die’ and partire ‘to leave’ or non-unaccusatives like dormire ‘to sleep’ and telefonare ‘to call’, in fact, are not suitable as bases for this adjectival suffix, as the ungrammaticality of *moribile ‘die + -able’ and *partibile ‘leave + -able’ and *dormibile ‘sleep + -able’ and *telefonabile ‘call + -able’ clearly shows. The behaviour of this suffix is, despite minor differences, crosslinguistically similar; in fact in the last quarter of the past century different proposals have been put forth in order to: a) formally account for the selectional properties manifested by this adjectival suffix and b) give the account the most convenient formal shape.1 Thi proved to be an arduous task, however, at least as far as the Italian suffix was concerned because, to the best of my knowledge, a satisfactory account of the behaviour of the suffix -bile has yet to be found. After a brief review, in section 2, of the formal analyses offered to account for the formation of -bile adjectives, in particular those dealing with the selection made by the suffix on its verbal bases, this paper will present, in section 3, data from Italian in order to show that the proposed accounts are not completely satisfac1

Among the different formal analyses there are Aronoff 1976, Scalise 1984, Roeper 1987, De Miguel 1985; mainly semantic and/or syntactic are those dealing with French, among which: Plénat 1988, Leeman 1992, Anscombre & Leeman 199?, Leeman & Meleuc 1990 and Hatout et al. (2003) to cite just a few.



tory. Section 4 I will deal with a subgroup of (Italian) -bile adjectives that manifest a peculiar meaning and try to offer an explanation for their behaviour. In section 5, finally, some concluding remarks are drawn. 2. -bile adjectives crosslinguistically

On the basis of Aronoff’s (1976) proposal on “word formation in generative grammar”, the word formation rule proposed for Italian -bile adjectives (cf. Scalise 1984) has the format illustrated in (1): (1)

[[ V[+ transitive] ] + bile] A

sem: that can be V-ed

This rule staes that the suffix attaches to transitive verbs (the selectional restriction is marked on the verb) as is the case crosslinguistically. The rule also contains, besides the formal part, what is generally called its semantic part (cf. Aronoff 1976), viz. a definition of the compositional meaning attributed to the output word, underlining that the derived adjective has a ‘passive’ reading: trasportabile, for example, means “that can be transported”, rafforzabile “that can be reinforced”. This format of WFRs was later challenged because selection by affixes simply made on the word class (i.e. the category) membership of the base word was considered inadequate (cf. for ex. Di Sciullo 1996); such rules, actually, were not able to account for the syntactic-semantic properties the derived word could share with the base one. As for these deverbal adjectives, in fact, a rule like (1) does not explicitly say anything on the relation established between the arguments projected by the verb and the arguments characterising the derived adjective. The ‘passive’ semantics attributed to -bile adjectives does not suffice to underline that, at least in principle, the internal argument of the transitive verb becomes the external argument of the derived adjective while the external agentive argument of the verb becomes (or can become) the by-phrase in the argument structure of the adjective, as happens in the verbal passive.



2.1 Roeper’s proposal

A different formalisation was offered by Roeper (1987) who suggested a formalisation of the process forming English -able adjectives that made use of theta roles. According to Roeper, derivational suffixes are characterised by a theta grid, just as words are; the grid specifies the thematic roles that will be projected by the derivative they contribute to form. -able adjectives, for example, project a grid containing two roles, an agent and a theme: the grid of the suffix, therefore, being identical to that characterising transitive verbs, can serve as a means for the expression of the selection it makes. In other words, selection is made on the matching of theta grids; matching, thus, allows for the exclusion of verbs not sharing their thematic grid with the suffix. Roeper’s proposal can be represented as follows: (2)

[[V ]Ag, Th + able Ag, Th ] A Ag, Th

From this representation one can immediately see that intransitive verbs, for example, are excluded from -bile suffixation, as the theta grid of intransitives and the grid of the suffix do not match which can explain the ungrammaticality of derivatives such as *sleepable. Roeper’s way of expressing selection, however, proves to be inadequate mainly because agentive transitive verbs are not the only verbs allowing attachment of the suffix. As Di Sciullo (1996) observed, not only agentive transitive (French) verbs are derivable by this suffix but also other kinds of verbs, e.g. ditransitives (like transform whose theta grid contains, besides the external agent, an internal theme and a goal) and psychologicals (like detest, whose grid is composed by an experiencer and a theme). 2.2 -bile adjectives in Spanish

Spanish -bile adjectives were also analysed by making use of thematic roles. De Miguel (1986) proposed that a good way of limiting rule effectiveness was the intro-



duction of a theme restriction. On the basis of this restriction only (the subclass of) verbs assigning this theta-role to one of their arguments are possible bases for -ble attachment, independent of the syntactic position that the argument occupies. Convenient bases for the suffix -ble, thus, are either transitive verbs realising the theme argument in the canonical object position and unaccusative ones whose theme argument is realised in the subject position. Moreover, this kind of restriction is also capable of accounting for -ble adjective formation whose base verbs are the pronominal intransitive correspondents of transitive verbs and that have an unaccusative use (i.e. Sp. oxidar ‘oxidise’) but not a reflexive or pronominal passive use (i.e. Sp. transitive tolerar ‘tolerate’ vs. tolerarse). De Miguel (1986: 150) proposes the following schema (here slightly modified) in order to illustrate the types of Spanish verbs admitting -ble adjectivalisation: (3) a. superar: agent V theme superar SN1 ___SN2 [Ag. Juan] supera [Th. a Pedro] ‘John surpasses Peter’ superable

[Th. Pedro] es superable [por Juan] ‘Peter is surpassable [by John]’

b. oxidar: agent V theme oxidar SN1 ___SN2 [Ag. el quimico] oxida [Th. el hierro] ‘the chemist oxidises the iron’ oxidable [Th.el hierro] es oxidable [+implicit Ag.] ‘iron is oxidable [+implicit Ag.]’

c. oxidar: theme V

oxidar SN1 ___ ‘iron oxidises’

[Th.el hierro] se oxida

oxidable

[Th.el hierro] es oxidable ‘iron is oxidable’

d. perdurar:



theme V

perdurar SN1 ___ [Th.la obra de Leonardo] perdura lit. ‘Leonardo’s work continues’

perdurable

[Th.la obra de Leonardo] es perdurable

‘Leonardo’s work is permanent’

From this schema De Miguel (1986: 151) drew the following two rules, involving the process of externalisation of an argument (cf. Williams 1981) to account for what was also called “argument inheritance” (cf. Booij & van Haaften 1988), namely the fact that the (Theme) argument of the verb becomes the argument of the derived adjective: (4) a. b.

V: [Agi, Thj] → A[ V [ ] + -ble]: [Thj, Agi] V: [Thj] → A[ V [ ] + -ble]: [Thj] *[ Agi]

When the theme argument is in the object position (i.e. the verb is transitive) the relevant rule will be (4a); where the theme argument is in the subject position the rule will be (4b). De Miguel underlines, however, that this does not guarantee that the adjective can be formed on all the members of the verb class. 3. Italian data

The proposals illustrated above are somehow both similar and different regarding the predictability that can be associated to the rules. Scalise’s and Roeper’s proposals, for instance, are quite similar in that both involve transitive verbs; but since not all transitive verbs are also agentive verbs, Roeper’s rule, based on theta-grid matching, is more restrictive than Scalise’s, because transitive verbs can project different kinds of thematic structures. In order to illustrate the inadequacy of the “transitivity” restriction when applied to Italian I will, however, overlook this difference. The restriction in fact, whatever the expressed concept may be, is too strong and does not account for the formation of adjectives on other types of verbs. Let us examine data from Italian2 where, in any case, the majority of forms come from transitive verbs. In Italian, adjectives in -bile can be formed on verbs of different types, as illustrated in the following. 2

Cf. Bisetto 2001 for a discussion of Italian -bile adjectives.



A. Pronominal intransitive version of transitive verbs, if any: (5) a. Una ferita facilmente cicatrizzabile ‘A wound that can easily form a scar’ b. Un colletto indeformabile ‘A non-deformable collar’ The adjectives in (5) can be linked either to the transitive version of cicatrizzare and deformare (cf. 6a–b) and the pronominal intransitive one (6c–d): (6) a. Questa pomata cicatrizza le ferite ‘This ointment heals scarwounds’ b. Le cattive stirature deformano i colletti delle camicie lit. ‘bad ironingPL will deform shirt collars’ c. La ferita si cicatrizzerà bene lit. ‘the wound will (si) heal well as a scar’ d. I colletti non si deformano facilmente lit. ‘collars do not (si) deform easily’ As De Miguel (1986) points out, this is due to the fact that in (6c,d) there is an implicit agent. B. Unaccusative intransitives (7a, b), though not all of them (7c, d): (7) a. Il tempo varia sovente di questa stagione / Il tempo è variabile ‘The weather frequently changes in this season / The weather is changeable’ b. Qui il terreno frana facilmente / Il terreno è franabile, qui ‘Here the earth slides down easily / Here the earth is liable to slide’ c. I ragazzi partono domani / *I ragazzi sono partibili The boys are leaving tomorrow / The boys are leavable d.



Le merci arrivano di pomeriggio / *le merci sono arrivabili

Goods arrive in the afternoon / Goods are arrivable The forms in (7a–b) can be explained only with De Miguel’s solution, obviously. However there is no explanation for the fact that verbs like partire and arrivare (as well as scoppiare ‘to burst’, esplodere ‘to explode’, sbucare ‘to pop out’, morire ‘to die’) do not admit “bil(e)-isation”. Surely this does not depend on the nature of the (subject) noun: be it either [+animate] (cf. ragazzi in 7c) or [-animate] (cf. merci in 7d), the ungrammaticality of the -bile adjective occurs in each case. Verbs such as these, further to being intransitive, are achievement verbs (according to Vendler’s 1967 terminology), i.e. dynamic, telic, non-durative. Maybe it is this property that has leverage on the impossibility for these unaccusative intransitive verbs to be adjectivalised with -bile. What can be said, for the moment, is that even De Miguel’s explanation cannot serve our purpose, since the theme restriction does not hold. Further, Italian allows some “normal” intransitive verbs like sciare ‘to ski’ and navigare ‘to sail’ to accept the suffix: sciabile ‘skiable’ and navigabile ‘navigable’ are wellformed adjectives and the argument they are predicated on does not correspond with the subject of the verb as the following examples show: (8) Gabriele scia *Gabriele è sciabile Il battello naviga *il battello è navigabile

‘Gabriel is skiing’ ‘Gabriel is skiable’ ‘the boat is sailing’ ‘the boat is navigable’

Instead, the subject argument of the adjectives corresponds to a complement assigned locative role: sciare su una pista ‘to ski on a slope’, navigare lungo/sul fiume ‘to sail on/along a river’. How can such forms be accounted for? None of the rules illustrated above (ie. By Scalise, Roeper and De Miguel) seems right for the purpose: these verbs are not transitive, do not have an (Ag, Th) grid imposing matching, nor is their argument assigned a theme role.



3.1 Non-volitional participation

Recently, Plag (2003: 94) asserted that English -able/-ible derivatives, whether of the semantic type “capable of being X-ed” or the “liable or disposed to X”, are united by an identical property: “[...] the referent of the noun modified by the -able adjectives is described as a potential non-volitional participant in an event.” Plag’s assertion is applicable also to Italian: -bile adjectives with either ‘passive’ (dimostrabile ‘provable’, abbassabile ‘reclinable’) and ‘active’ (fermentabile ‘fermentable’, variabile ‘variable’) meaning modify referents that are potential non-volitional participants. The noun that can be modified by the adjective corresponds mainly to one of the arguments of the base verb on which the adjective is constructed. Does this fact allow for an use of non-volitional participation as a restriction on -bile adjective formation? In other words: does non-volitional participation express the selection that the suffix makes on its base verb? Is potential nonvolitional participation to the verbal action the feature tying together the different types of verbs admitting -bile attachment? Italian data, at first sight, seem to give a positive answer to this question. If we compare, for example, adjectival derivatives obtained from unaccusative verbs, non-volitional participation of the sole participant to the verbal action seems to be the correct feature: (9) a. Alcune aree appartenenti al territorio di competenza del 21,1% dei comuni possono franare ‘Some areas belonging to the interested territory of 21,1 % of the municipalities are liable to Slide’ a’ Il 21,1% dei comuni ha nel proprio territorio di competenza aree franabili ‘21,1 % of the municipalities has within its jurisdiction some territory that is liable to slid’ (data from a Google search)

b. Paolo parte da Firenze in treno ‘Paolo starts from Florence by train’



b‘ *Paolo è partibile ‘Paolo is startable’ c. Paolo arriva a Bologna di mattina ‘Paolo arrives in Bologna in the morning’ c’ *Paolo è arrivabile ‘Paolo is arrivable’ As can be seen, the verbs partire and arrivare having human subjects, thus potentially volitional participants, cannot become adjectives in -bile (9 b–b’, c–c’) while the verb franare, whose subject is typically non-volitional, does accept the suffix. Things, however, are not quite this simple. If the analysis is extended to include unaccusative verbs having a human subject (like morire ‘to die, cf. 10a) or the human subject of the verbs partire and arrivare is substituted with a non-human one (cf. 10b,c), the obtained result is equally ungrammatical: (10) a. Nel fine settimana muoiono molti ragazzi a causa di incidenti stradali ‘During the week-end many young people get killed in road accidents’ a’ *Molti ragazzi sono moribili nel fine settimana a causa di incidenti stradali ‘Many young people are die+able in the week-end in road accidents’ b. Da Venezia parte un treno per Bologna ogni ora ‘An hourly train starts from Venice to Bologna’ b’ *I treni partibili per Bologna sono frequenti ‘Trains start+able for Bologna are frequent’ c. Pochi treni arrivano in orario ‘Only a few trains arrive on time’ c’ *Pochi treni sono arrivabili in orario ‘Trains arrive+able on time are only a few’ Non-volitional participation, consequently, proves itself to be useless as a restriction on verb selection: the verb morire ‘to die’ (in 10a) is an unaccusative verb whose sole participant, though sentient, is to be considered 

with a high degree of probability as non-volitional; nonetheless a -bile derivative is not possible (cf. 10a’). Also unaccusative verbs that can have either a sentient argument (9b,c) or a non-sentient one (10b,c) do not admit -bile adjectivalisation (9b’, c’; 10b’, c’). Potential non-volitional participation in an event, consequently, can only be applied as a generalisation to the referent of the noun modified by –able adjectives, whether these are with a passive or with active semantics, as Plag suggested. A restriction on -bile adjective formation, if any, is thus most probably to be found in features of the verbs which are different from the (non-)volition of participants in the event, as suggested in the preceding section. Selection and its formalisation are not, however, the issues I would like to discuss in this paper. I will, rather, take into account a small subgroup of -bile adjectives, such as mangiabile ‘edible’ and bevibile ‘drinkable’ whose meaning does not simply indicate that something “can be eaten or drunk” but that have a further implication (cf. also De Miguel 1986 for Spanish). 4. -bile adjectives with a special meaning

To illustrate this point, consider the following Italian -bile adjectives (and the correspondent base verbs): (11) Adjective



Verb

mangiabile

mangiare

edible

to eat

bevibile

bere

drinkable

to drink

abitabile

abitare

habitable

to inhabit

scendibile

scendere

descendible

to descend

salibile

salire

climbable

to climb

transitive transitive transitive (in)transitive (in)transitive

sciabile sciare

intransive

skiable

to ski

accessibile

accedere

intransitive

(bi-argumental) accessible

to enter

The meaning of these adjectives can be paraphrased, more ore less “that can be V-ed”, as the following examples show: (12) a. Non tutte le erbe spontanee sono mangiabili Not all wild herbs are edible b. L’acqua è troppo fredda: non è bevibile This water is too cold: it is undrinkable c. Quei nuovi appartamenti sono già abitabili The new flats are habitable by now d. Gli operai stanno lavorando e le scale non sono né salibili né scendibili Men are at work and the stairs are neither climbable nor descendible e. La pista nera di Pecol è stata resa sciabile, finalmente! The black slope at Pecol has been made skiable, finally! f. Quella località, in inverno, è inaccessibile That resort is inaccessible in winter In the sentences (12a–d) each -bile adjective carries the meaning “that one can” eat, drink, live in, climb, descend, respectively, while in the (12e–f) ones the paraphrase is a bit different and the two adjectives are to be rendered with an additional “where”: skiable is (a slope) where one can ski and (in)accessible is (a place) where one can(not) enter3. As pointed out above, such adjectives have an implicit further meaning, not to be confused with a figurative sense or one of a plurality of senses. Consider the following examples:

3

The paraphrase refers to Italian, of course.



(13) a. Neppure la pasta, in quel locale, è mangiabile In that restaurant not even the pasta is edible b. Il vino che ci hanno servito era appena bevibile the wine they served us was barely drinkable c. Piccolo ma abitabile, quell’appartamento! That flat is small but habitable d. Nel dipartimento di lingue ci sono scale insalibili/ inscendibili In the department of foreign languages stairs are un-climb+able and un-descend+ible e. Quella pista è estremamente sciabile That slope is extremely skiable f. Il percorso che mi hai indicato è accessibile? Is the route you recommended accessible? Here the adjectives do not simply signify that the action indicated by the verb can be done, but they also imply that: (14) a. the pasta is not enough good b. the wine was not so good c. the flat is sufficiently roomy to live in d. the stairs have been improperly built (and it is difficult to go up and down) e. the slope is very fine f. the route is not difficult How can this implied meaning of some of the -bile adjectives be explained? Are these verbs characterised by peculiar properties that allow this interpretation of the derived adjective? Or is there a different phenomenon at work? Il has been suggested (cf. Attili 1977) that Italian -bile adjectives can be grouped differently according to their meaning and the double interpretation just examined is typical of those obtained from causative (transitive) verbs. Attili’s examples (cf. 1977: 186) are the following:



(15) i. che si può + V = che è permesso + V ‘that it is possible + V = that it is allowed to + V’ a. un film proiettabile ‘a projectable film’ una carne mangiabile ‘an edible meat’ un libro leggibile ‘a readable book’ where the three adjectives are interpreted as expressing a possibility, a permission coming from being, say, the film and book not being censored and the meat not poisoned (e.g. the public-health office issued permission); ii. che si può + V = che vale la pena + V ‘that it i possible + V = that it is worth V + ing’ b. un film proiettabile una carne mangiabile un libro leggibile where the adjectives mean, respectively, that the film is good, that the book can be read because its contents are edifying and the meat is not poisoned. The double reading of this type of derivatives, according to Attili, is available for the whole class of -bile adjectives formed from transitive causative verbs; the adjectives, in fact, express the double interpretation linked to the verb potere ‘can’: è possibile ‘it is possible’ and vale la pena ‘it is worth’. It seems to me, yet, that this double meaning is not generally applicable, that is to say, not all -bile adjectives formed on the class of verbs pointed out by Attili have the two paraphrases; the interpretation of the adjectives in the examples in (16) is, in my opinion, only one; each of them can be exclusively interpreted as expressing a possibility, not a worth: (16) a. b.

questi mobili sono trasportabili ‘these pieces of furniture are transportable’ alcune sentenze sono annullabili ‘some decisions are annullable’

The to be worth meaning, thus, certainly needs a different rationale. Such a rationale, I would like to suggest,



is to be found in the semantic information linked to the noun constituting the object of the verb to which the adjectival suffix is attached. To put forth my proposal I will make use of what Pustejovsky (1995) called qualia roles that I am going to illustrate for the relevant part in the following section. 4.1 Pustejovsky’s qualia structure

In his “Generative Lexicon” Pustejovky (1995) asserts that it is not necessary to hypothesize that all the meanings manifested by a lexical item are listed in the lexicon since new senses of words come from their composition with other words. Listing of word senses can be substituted by “an organization of lexical information within a generative lexicon” (Pustejovky 1995: 61) intended as a computational system involving four levels of representation characterizing each lexical item. The levels, connected by a set of generative devices among which there are the semantic transformations in (18), are the following: (17) A = Argument Structure E = Event Structure Q = Qualia Structure I = Lexical Inheritance Structure (18) type coercion selective binding co-composition4 Let’s focus on Qualia structure which, according to Pustejovsky (1995: 76) is the representation which gives the relational force of a lexical item […] and specifies four essential aspects of a word’s meaning (or qualia):

4



Type coercion operates when a lexical item or phrase is coerced to have a specific semantic interpretation by a governing item in the phrase, without a change in its syntactic type; there is selective binding when a lexical item or phrase operates on the substructure of a phrase, without changing the overall type in the composition and co-composition when multiple elements within a phrase generate a new non-lexicalised sense for the words in composition (cf. Pustejovky 1995: 61).

(19) a. CONSTITUTIVE: indicates the relation between an object and its constituent parts; b. FORMAL: distinguishes the object within a larger domain; c. TELIC: indicates the purpose and function of an object; d. AGENTIVE: indicates the factors involved in its origin or “bringing about”. These modes of explanation for a word “permit a much richer description of meaning than either a simple decompositional view or a purely relational approach to word meaning would allow.” The value of each quale role is expressed through a predicate. The simple listing of the different qualia values says nothing about the contextual denotation of a lexical item; to this end it is necessary to treat “qualia values as expressions with “welldefined types and relational structures” (Pustejovsky, 1995: 78). For example a noun like biscuit has the following a quale role: (20)

biscuit: [TELIC = to eat (e, y, x)]

telling us that the telic of a biscuit (x) is to be eaten by (y). The predicate eat, thus, connects its two arguments x and y each of which represents an argument type. Argument types are defined in the argument structure of biscuit which are, respectively, x: food and y: human. Also the predicate type must be specified: to eat is an event (e), more precisely a process (e: process); this information is represented in the Event structure of biscuit. The representation of biscuit, thus, is the following: (21)

Biscuit EVENTSTR =

E1 = e1: process E2 = e2: process

ARGSTR =

ARG1 = x: food_individual ARG2 = w: human ARG3 = z: animate D-ARG1 = y: mass

QUALIA =

CONST = y FORMAL = x TELIC = eat: (e2, z, x) AGENTIVE = bake_act: (e1, w, y)



It is tha qualia, then, that through the relations expressing the links with and between the argument and event structure allow elicitation of the lexical item semantics. Qualia structure also allows us to establish what the interaction is between the lexical item and the co-occuring words, through the use of generative mechanisms (i.e. the semantic transformations) seen above. 4.2 -bile adjectives and the qualia role of verbal objects

Consider the base verbs of the adjectives exemplified in (11) and (13) above and the nouns of which the adjectives are the predicates, nouns that constitute the direct objects of the verbs: (22) mangiare pasta bere vino abitare un appartamento salire/scendere le scale sciare (su una pista) accedere ad un percorso proiettare un film

‘to eat pasta’ ‘to drink wine’ ‘to inhabit a flat’ ‘to ascend/descend the stairs’ ‘to ski (on a slope)’ ‘to access a route’ ‘to project a film’

Each noun represents a kind of “default” object of the verb because eating implies eating food (such as pasta is), drinking has drinks as default object and wine is a drink, a flat is a place typically conceived for living in and stairs for going up and down, slopes are the natural place where to ski and with routes to be accessed while the default for a film is to be projected. If Pustejovsky’s qualia roles are used to express this phenomenon we can say that all the listed verbal objects in (22) are characterised by a telic role: the telos of pasta is actually to be eaten, that of wine to be drunk, of flats to be lived in, of stairs to be descended or climbed, etc. The verbs, then, indicate the action typically performed with the objects which are the referents of the nouns they govern; said differently, the verb-noun combination realises the telic quale of the (direct object) noun. Consequently, -bile adjectives constructed on these verbs, while admitting the general paraphrases ‘that can be V-ed / where one can V’, reveal themselves 

to be redundant when predicated of/attributed to nouns referring to entities whose telos is to be involved in the action expressed by the verb. The expression of generic possibility expressed by the -bile adjective is effective only in particular situations like those illustrated in (10). This is the reason why, I would like to suggest, -bile adjectives obtained from these verbs and predicated of the nouns the verbs govern assume an evaluative meaning. To say that a drink is drinkable, stairs are descendible or a slope is skiable is rather superfluous if the intended meaning is that one can drink the drink, descend the stairs or ski on that slope. The meaning of the adjective must, in a sense, be different to be informative. The special meaning of such derivatives comes thus from it being the ‘literal’ reading, which is ultimately dispensable since that latter reading is in the telos of the adjective’s subject noun. The situation is different with adjectives like those in (14) and many others (e.g. incardinabile ‘hinge + able’, maneggiabile ‘handy’, navigabile ‘navigable’, dilatabile ‘dilatable’, analizzabile ‘analysable’ etc.), i.e. adjectives derived from verbs governing nouns whose referents do not establish a telic relation with the verb. A prediction on the reading of -bile adjectives formed on transitive verbs and intransitives with (peculiar) indirect objects can therefore be made. The prediction is the following: (23) Prediction on the evaluative meaning of -bile adjectives If the telic (quale) role of a noun is bound to (one of) the argument(s) of its governing noun, the -bile adjective derived from that verb assumes an evaluative meaning when predicated of the entity the noun refers to.

Other questions concerning -bile adjectives remain still to be discussed; among these the fact that many such adjectives, at least in Italian, have a better use when negated than when positively used (as it is the case for inconfessabile ‘unavowable’ vs. confessabile ‘admissible’, incontentabile ‘hard to please’ vs. contentabile ‘easy to please’,



inarrestabile ‘unstoppable’ vs. arrestabile lit. ‘halt + able’, etc.) and the issue, fundamental in my opinion, regarding the possibility of adequately describing the selectional properties manifested by the -bile suffix. Whether or not qualia roles can be utilised to solve these problems is a question that deserves further research. 5. Conclusion

As we have seen, adjectives ending in-bile are concerned with a series of questions some of which are much debated, for instance the definition of the useful criteria useful to account for the selectional properties of the suffix and the phrasing the semantic content of the word formation process – among other questions that are ignored for the time being, as the unusual reading of -bile adjectives as bearers of an evaluative meaning or as more acceptable in their negative meaning as against their positive one. In this paper, after a brief presentation of the choices that the Italian -bile suffix makes on the verbal bases and a discussion of the different proposals put forth in the literature to account for the behaviour of this suffix in different languages, the issue concerning the evaluative meaning manifested by a group of such adjectives was discussed. To account for this peculiar behaviour of a few -bile adjectives, Pustejovsky’s (1995) qualia structure has been used. It was demonstrated that, when in the combination of a verb and its (direct and sometimes indirect) object a telic relation is at work, the adjective that can be obtained adjoining the suffix -bile to the verb assumes a peculiar interpretation. Specifically such an adjective, when predicated of the verbal object, introduces an evaluative meaning and not the ‘typical’ meaning ‘that can be V-ed’. The successful application of the qualia roles to this peculiar behaviour of part of -bile adjectives suggests that other problems manifested by these derivatives too could be dealt with by applying Pustejovsky’s proposal



on the generative lexicon. This is, however, a matter deserving further research.

References Anscombre Jean Claude et Danielle Leeman, 1994, ”La dérivation des adjectifs en -ble: morphologie ou sémantique? ”, Langue française, 103, pp. 32–44. Aronoff Mark, 1976, Word Formation in Generative Grammar. Cambridge, (MA), MIT Press. Attili Grazia, 1977, “Gli aggettivi in -bile: un’analisi semantica”, Lingua e Stile XII.2. pp. 185-198. Bisetto Antonietta, 2001, “Le Regole di Formazione di Parola e l’adeguatezza esplicativa”, in Albano Leoni Federico et al. (a cura di) Dati empirici e teorie linguistiche, Atti del XXXIII Congresso Internazionali di Studi della Società di Linguistica Italiana, Napoli, 28–30 ottobre 1999, Roma, Bulzoni, pp. 377–397. Booij Geert & Ton van Haaften, 1988, “The external Syntax of derived Words: evidence from Dutch”, Yearbook of morphology 1, pp. 29–44, Dordrecht, Foris Publications. De Miguel Elena, 1986, “Sulla regola di formazione degli aggettivi in -ble in spagnolo”, Rivista di Grammatica Generativa 11, pp. 127–165. Di Sciullo Anne-Marie, 1996, “X’ selection”, In: J. Rooryck & L. Zaring (a cura di). Phrase structure and the lexicon, Dordrecht, Foris, pp. 77–108. Hathout Nabil, Marc Plénat & Ludovic Tanguy, 2003, “Enquête sur les dérivés en –able ”, Cahiers de Grammaire, 28, pp. 50–90. Leeman Danielle, 1992, “Deux classes d’adjectifs en -ble, Langue française“, 96, déc., pp. 44–4. Leeman Danielle et Serge Meleuc, 1990, ”Verbes en tables et adjectifs en -able”, Langue française 87, pp. 30–51. Plag Ingo, 2003, Word Formation in English, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Plénat Marc, 1988, ”Morphologie de adjectifs en -able ”, Cahiers de grammaire 13, pp. 101–132. Pustejovsky James, 1995, The Generative Lexicon, Cambridge, The MIT Press. Roeper Thomas, 1987, ”Implicit Argument and the Head-Complement Relation”, Linguistic Inquiry, 18.2, pp. 267–310. Scalise Sergio, 1994, Morfologia, Bologna, Il Mulino. Vendler Zeno, 1968, Adjectives and nominalizations, Den Haag & Paris, Mouton.



Philosophy and the Humanities Today Andrew Bowie

My title could be construed as suggesting that philosophy is not one of the humanities, and this possibility already indicates the direction of what I want to say. Clearly one cannot pass general judgements on whatever relations concretely exist between philosophy and the humanities, as these relations are hugely diverse, and anyway depend on how one initially conceives of the borders of each notional area. It is only when a specific tension emerges which has consequences for how we think of the respective tasks of each that the relationships between philosophy and the humanities become concretely significant. From sometime around the 1970s the philosophy which had the most influence on the humanities largely derived from France, in the form of Structuralism and post-Structuralism. The degree of heat this generated among analytical philosophers was quite remarkable, from the unprecedented attempts to stop Derrida being awarded an honorary degree at Cambridge University, to ritual denouncements, such as the British philosopher A.C. Grayling’s that ‘post modernism’ (a term he doesn’t bother to define, though he associates it with Derrida) is ‘that cancer of the contemporary intellect’. Although there has been some kind of tension between analytical philosophy and ‘European/ continental’ philosophy since the very beginning of the former – analytical philosophy was essentially initiated by a rejection of Hegelian holism, in the name of a version of atomism – the threat perceived by analytical philosophers in deconstruction was out of all proportion to the danger. Above all, what discredited so many of the attacks was the clear evidence in them that the attackers hadn’t actually troubled to read much, or any, of what Derrida actually said. Had they done so, they would, as Samuel Wheeler and others pointed out, have found that the core of what Derrida says about mean

ing is very close to what Quine – who himself launched specious attacks on Derrida – also says. Both Quine and Derrida share the sense that as Wheeler puts it: ‘If there are no magical, naturally referring words, then meaning is nothing deeper than uses of ordinary words in particular circumstances’ (Samuel Wheeler, Deconstruction as Analytical Philosophy, Stanford University Press, 2000, p. 63). It is now clear that the more exclusive versions of deconstruction have had their day: too often deconstructing a text ended up showing the same thing about all texts, namely that attempts to give them definitive interpretations come up against various kinds of undecidability. Once versions of this insight (which is already adumbrated in aspects of the hermeneutic tradition) became widespread, the sense that this could be equated, as Derrida sometimes did, with some grand story about the end of metaphysics began to look over-inflated, and people started to look elsewhere. Telling a story about the end of ‘grand narratives’, such as that of the ‘history of metaphysics’, is itself a grand narrative, as Derrida at his best realised. This example is informative insofar as a philosophical stance with questionable pretensions to radical novelty helped to generate new approaches to texts in other areas of the humanities which were themselves often less questionable. Questions of power, race, gender, etc., became more visible as a result of deconstruction, because certain ruling assumptions about how texts could be interpreted had been shaken. The results of this change of focus could often be of very dubious quality, but interpretations based on many traditional scholarly assumptions could be equally defective. The latter could lead to a blindness to injustices inherent in cultural products, which, as Walter Benjamin reminds us, are always likely to bear traces of barbarism. Deconstruction may, then, not be as philosophically significant (or defensible) as some of its proponents would like it to be, but for those in the humanities who found in it a way of opening new ground for their researches this may not be the primary consideration.



The situation just described highlights a key issue: the evaluation of the significance of a philosophical direction for the humanities does not necessarily match the evaluation of that direction within the terms assumed by many philosophers. But does this mean that, as is sometimes maintained, ‘literary theory’, in the broad sense it has in the USA in particular, is actually ‘poor man’s philosophy’? The answer to this is, it has to be said, quite often evidently: ‘Yes’, particularly when grand philosophical claims are made that take no account of all the other approaches to philosophy that might render such claims questionable. However, given that a major strand of modern philosophy has been concerned with therapeutically or critically bringing philosophy to some kind of end, in the name of stopping it being an obstacle to dealing with inescapable issues in life, making philosophy the criterion of judgement of other intellectual practices cannot be regarded as something inherently self-justifying. Those working in most areas of the humanities, it must be said, had, until recently, very few reasons for paying attention to much that was happening in analytical philosophy. Clearly philosophy would have superior status if, as certain parts of modern philosophy hoped, it offered the foundations on which every other kind of claim must be built, but claims to success in building such foundations are anything but universally accepted. From Descartes, to Husserl and the Vienna Circle, and beyond, foundational claims are most notable for their failure to provide what their builders sought. Basic logical reflection is sometimes enough to suggest the vacuity of the more questionable claims in, say, certain aspects of post-modern theorising, but that does not mean that one can proceed as though such logical reflection is the ground for assessing all such theories. Given the lack of an even minimally agreed account of the relationship between logic and the real practise of interpretation, one has to question the kind of glib demonstration of logical flaws in Nietzsche, Heidegger, and others, that is characteristic of certain styles of analytical philoso-



phy, and which has done almost nothing to diminish the significance of those who were supposedly so logically inadequate. The most notable shift in philosophy itself in recent years has actually been in significant contrast with the paranoid reaction by some in the analytical camp to deconstruction. Philosophers associated with core positions in analytical debate, like John McDowell, have adopted and adapted ideas from German Idealism, Heidegger, and Gadamer, as a way of responding to the danger of scientism in analytical philosophy. The sources of McDowell’s and others’ positions, which reject the empiricist ‘myth of the given’ that informs so many analytical approaches, are in important respects the same as those of deconstruction, though the aims and the manner of philosophising are very different. This shift does have significant consequences for the relationship of philosophy to the humanities. The debate between the ‘scientific image’ and the ‘manifest image’ (Sellars), that goes back at least as far as the Romantic reactions to the scientific revolution and the associated rise of industrialism, is one source of the notional divide between philosophy and the humanities. The analytical tradition’s predominant association with the sciences and the tendency of the various European traditions to seek philosophical insight in relation to the arts ceases to be so definitive, however, when questions are asked about whether certain kinds of what McDowell calls ‘bald naturalism’, which seek answers to epistemological problems in terms of nomological causal theories, can offer a plausible account of all our relations to the world. A vital issue here is the scope of the term ‘naturalism’. It can range from versions of ‘reductive physicalism’ that appear, for example, in some forms of neuroscience, which think that the ultimate source of the definitive explanation of human thinking will be explicable in the same nomological terms as are applied to the rest of non-human nature, to the kind of naturalism that begins in its modern form with Schelling’s



Naturphilosophie, which refuses to see nature as separate from mind, but does not think one can be reduced to the other. The importance of how the scope of naturalism is conceived lies in the fact that if the reductive version is shown to be wrong, the role of the humanities in relation to philosophy need not take a defensive form, of the kind that made nineteenth and early twentieth century German philosophers in particular worry about the scientific status of the Geisteswissenschaften. The more positive role is not based on some kind of sentimental humanism, but on the demonstration that the relationship of ourselves to the rest of nature can only be understood in a manner which assumes that a nomological account cannot exhaust what nature is, given that we are a part of it. In some respects this might seem rather a banal contention: many in the humanities and social sciences are merely bemused by the assumption that the reductive view could make any sense for what they are concerned with. However, given the obsessive concentration on epistemology and on a ‘rigour’ supposedly analogous to that in the natural sciences on the part of many analytical philosophers, it is important to see what is at stake in the questioning of the analytic approach. Most crucially, especially in the present location in Prague, this has important consequences for how one conceives of aesthetics. It is a notorious fact that aesthetics within analytical philosophy is rather a joke, a sideshow that has nothing to say about the main issues with which ‘real philosophers’ concern themselves. How often does one see analytical aestheticians cited in relation to issues of epistemology, metaphysics, ethics, etc.? In many areas of analytical aesthetics there has been an unquestioning adoption of ‘conceptual analysis’, that now effectively defunct, scientific-sounding way of trying to reach an objective standpoint concerning an issue by – actually – just seeing how words get used by those concerned with the issue. The result of such ‘analysis’ cannot be of the kind possible in nomological disciplines. In consequence, analytical aesthet-



ics condemned itself to irrelevance by not challenging the terms in which philosophical issues could be considered. Quite simply, approaches based on conceptual analysis ensured that the relation between philosophy and aesthetic issues was a one-way street, in which philosophy was to dictate to art the terms in which it could be understood. The idea that philosophy might learn something from art, an idea which has a serious philosophical pedigree from the early German Romantics, to Schelling, Nietzsche, Heidegger, Adorno, and Wittgenstein, seems hardly ever to have occurred to analytical aestheticians. – It should, by the way, be clear that I do not consider Stanley Cavell and those working in that vein to be analytical aestheticians. – Given that Wittgenstein, without whom analytical philosophy is inconceivable, said ‘People today think that scientists are there to instruct them, poets, musicians etc. to give them pleasure. That the latter have something to teach them never occurs to them’ (Ludwig Wittgenstein, Culture and Value, Oxford: Blackwell, 1980, p. 36), one might have thought analytical aesthetics might have taken seriously what led him to such remarks. The failure of those in the rest of the humanities to take any serious notice of analytical aesthetics is thus not a refusal to engage in rigorous argument, but rather a philosophically coherent response to an inappropriate response to the nature of art. The question is, of course, what form a philosophically coherent response to art should take. This takes us back to the issue of naturalism: if there are reasons even within our conception of nature to suggest that nomological causal explanation is inadequate for understanding the human world, the role of philosophy ceases to be one which tries to compete in explanatory terms with the kind of explanation given in the physical sciences. Albrecht Wellmer has brilliantly characterised the basis of the approach I intend in comments derived from Adorno’s reflections on nature:



Nature, as it is intrinsic to spirit, manifests itself as a limitation of freedom in our psychic and bodily vulnerability, in illness and death, as well as in the fact that the social conditioning of our body not only opens up, but also limits individual and social horizons of possibility. At the same time, nature, as an enabling condition, is effective even in those creative achievements of the human spirit, through which again and again something new comes into existence (Albrecht Wellmer, ‘On Spirit as a Part of Nature’ in Constellations, Volume 16, No 2, 2009, p. 224).

Instead of the choice being between reductive naturalism or some kind of dualism involving an implausible autonomy of the mental from the physical, of the kind which repeats all the tired Cartesian sceptical worries, this approach accepts the irreducible natural basis of human thought and activity, but realises that nature’s ‘productivity’ (Schelling) goes beyond nomologically describable causal processes. Understanding this dimension of existence involves consideration of all the ways in which we respond to the world. To this extent, there can be no inherent privileged status for philosophy, in the analytical sense of the discipline which seeks arguments to explain and justify the presuppositions of other disciplines, because philosophy can learn from music, literature, and the visual arts, as they in turn may also learn from philosophical reflection. One of the consequences of the questioning of the empiricist assumptions of analytical philosophy by Sellars, Brandom, McDowell and others can suggest why aesthetics may be central to the new visions of philosophy in relation to the humanities. The focus on normativity, on the ways in which one can claim to be entitled to a stance on an issue, which cannot be justified in terms of an immediate, ‘given’ source of evidence, has the potential to take philosophical investigation away from the still widespread too exclusive concern with epistemology, and to revive the kind of connection of philosophical questions to aesthetics associated with the Critique of Judgement and early German Romanticism. Brandom’s approach to normativity admittedly has the tendency to retain an analytical focus in which the prime focus of philosophy is on cognitive judgements, but he bases it on a key problem which is 

shared by Kant and Wittgenstein. This is the regress of judgements that results if one seeks to establish definitive norms for judgement, such that the norm for judging would have to be justified by a further norm, etc., ad infinitum. This makes judgement in some sense into an ‘art’, as Schleiermacher suggested, ‘art’ for him being activities ‘for which there admittedly are rules, but [where] the combinatory application of these rules cannot in turn be rule-bound’ (From the ‘Allgemeine Hermeneutik’ (‘General Hermeneutics’ of 1809-10), in ed. Andrew Bowie, F.D.E. Schleiermacher, ‘Hermeneutics and Criticism’ and Other Texts, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), p. 229. The concrete point of this view is that investigation of many issues in both the human and the natural world will involve combinations of judgements, often from sources with different methodological presuppositions, which may never be reduced to one method. Whilst philosophical methods from the analytical tradition can be of help in clarifying the basis of such presuppositions, they cannot hope to arrive at a position where all the methodological tensions are commensurated. Dealing with such ambiguities has always been part of the interpretative work of the humanities, and it is becoming apparent that seeking a way out of them in terms of a philosophical method may involve a failure that can have damaging effects. The contemporary situation can thus be understood in terms of a new perception of the need to interrogate the ruling norms and goals of both philosophy and the humanities, and the results of this have the potential to make both a resource in combatting the cultural dominance of reductive approaches. As Wellmer suggests, reductive naturalism, though false, ‘could become effective – the enthusiasm by which it is sometimes welcomed in the mass media shows, that it is not quite ineffective. But then it could, after all, have fatal consequences as an ideology of a psychic and social-technological practice of manipulation with deep-going and destructive consequences for democratic societies and for human freedom’ (Wellmer, op. cit. p. 225). Although we have



strong grounds to fear such a situation, the tensions it involves at least make clear the kind of direction a philosophy which takes the humanities seriously should be taking.



Deleuze and the Internet Ian Buchanan

The election of Barack Obama to the office of President of the United States of America in 2008 is attributed in no small measure to his superior ability to mobilise support via digital technology. In the process it has generated a lot of media interest in the role digital technology plays (now and in the future) in shaping the contemporary political scene. During the long lead up to Election Day, the press constantly reported on the way Obama’s campaign used the Internet to spread his message, enlist support and – crucially – solicit and receive donations. One could not help but feel that there was a certain amount of morbid fascination in this reporting because if nothing else it made it clear that there was another ‘message machine’ out there with at least as much (if not more) power and reach than the press itself, namely the Internet. The numbers are impressive: 2 million joined Obama’s MySpace page, 5 million joined his Facebook group, 13 million signed up to receive emails about his campaign (some 7000 emails were sent over the course of the 18 month campaign – which is approximately 13 a day, which puts him on par with Nigerian money-scammers and Chinese Viagra spammers), and supporters flooded his Flickr site with photos of Obama events. The student network on MyBarackObama posted over 170 000 blogs in the same period and organised close to 20 000 fundraisers and other kinds of supporting events, raising $US1.7 million in the process.1 The huge voter turn out, especially amongst the younger college-educated demographic, was the fruit of this and the key to Obama’s victory. As newsworthy as these statistics are in themselves, I suspect the media’s interest in reporting them is primarily ideological because it helps to create a new spec1

Melber 2009: 6–9.



tre – call it America 2.0 as some are already doing – and a new set of dupes. To put it another way, if Obama won simply because his message machine was better than the other guy’s, then his message can be ignored, the unspoken implication being that if only McCain and Palin had been more technologically savvy then none of this would have happened and the White House would still be safely in neo-con hands. By making the medium the message (with apologies to Marshall McLuhan) the message is rendered irrelevant and the political ideas underpinning it ‘strategically contained’ (to use Fredric Jameson’s important concept from The Political Unconscious). This is a familiar strategy. The boom years of the Clinton administration are often attributed to the productivity gains enabled by new technology, specifically digital technology, this being what was ‘new’ about the economy, even though the real backbone of the economy was still manufacturing. However, as Doug Henwood argues in After the New Economy, a “good bit of the New Economy discourse was a product of fantasy, a symptom of American triumphalism”. And, as is well known, “[f]antasies and symptoms are notoriously immune to rational refutation.”2 Obviously, the fantasy of a technologically driven ‘new economy’ suited the centrist or ‘anti-ideological’ position Clinton triangulated for himself. Why? Putting it very schematically, technology performed three indispensable ideological functions for Clinton: first, it disciplined labour (the threat that every job could be performed by a machine was hung like Damocles’ sword over the heads of virtually every worker in America); second, it created a new avenue of investment, albeit one that seemed to flame-out very quickly in the so-called dot.com bust-up (but this ignores the huge infrastructure investment businesses of every size made in both hardware and software throughout the 1990s); third, it was Clinton’s way out of the so-called ‘Vietnam syndrome’, which held that the America people would not tolerate another ground 2



Henwood 2003: 6.

invasion like Vietnam (so he used remotely-guided missiles instead). It may be that this emphasis on the medium rather than the message suits Obama, just as it did Clinton and for largely the same reasons. As Christopher Hayes argues in an Op Ed in The Nation, Obama describes himself as a ‘pragmatist’ and as he made clear in his ‘there is work to be done’ inauguration speech, he wants to be seen as someone who puts results above ideology. Ironically enough, this has enabled Obama’s team to blame the present financial crisis on the neo-con’s ideological commitment to the ‘free market’, thus making their own ideology-free platform appear attractive.3 But in my view this is a winner-loses strategy because in the process it empties politics of ideas and banishes those who deal in ideas to the sidelines, leaving us with nothing but the twin vacuities of hope and work. Yet without ideology how do we know what to hope for and decide which work should be prioritised? Insofar as we get caught up in the manifold wonders of the ‘technological sublime’ (as Jameson aptly termed it in his account of postmodernism), we fail to think either historically or politically about the anti-ideological work the emphasis on technology is in fact performing. I say anti-ideological because the discussion of technology, particularly in cultural studies, tends to be conducted in a ‘neutral’ or ‘objective’ tone, as though to say the ‘facts’ literally speak for themselves. But this, I suggest, falls victim to what Henri Lefebvre calls (in his discussion of space) the ‘illusion of transparency’, the view that everything about technology is communicated immediately, without the possibility of dissimulation or deception.4 This is the opposite of Heidegger’s problem (the illusion of metaphysics), which was that technology could never be made to disclose itself fully. My point is that interest in the Internet – whether it is by the media or academia – is never disinterested. My interest in the Internet is critical in a double sense 3

Hayes 2008.

4

Lefebvre 1991: 28.



– on the one hand, as a cultural theorist I want to know what kind of a thing it is (its ontology) and what are the ways by which it might be known (its epistemology); and on the other hand, as a Deleuzian I am interested to know if Deleuze’s concepts can be used to respond to my first set of questions relating to the ontology and epistemology of the Internet. As anyone working in cultural studies today would be aware Deleuze’s concepts, particularly the concepts of the body with organs and the rhizome, have been used to characterise (if not analyse) the Internet almost from the advent of its being as a new form of cultural technology in the early 1990s.5 A New Problematic?

If we are to follow Deleuze’s watchword, that philosophy has the concepts it deserves according to how well it formulates its problems, then we should not start from the idea that the Internet might be a body without organs or looks like a rhizome or indeed any other pre-existing point of view. Instead we would try to see how the Internet works and develop our concepts from there. In its first flush, the Internet seemed to be about connectedness in both a physical and metaphysical sense, both virtually and actually, but that idea has since been exposed as a perhaps necessary but nonetheless impossible ideal (like the Lacanian conception of sexual relations), that we are at once compelled to try to realise and destined never to succeed in doing. Now, though, John Battelle’s book The Search has made it is clear that the Internet is much more about searching than connecting. Although connecting people – strangers with strangers, friends with friends – is a major feature of the Internet’s cultural role, it is predominantly used to search for objects, i.e., commodities, and in the case of pornography and celebrity gossip one may well say it is searching for people in their guise as commodities. A lot 5



I am of course aware the origins of the Internet go back further than this, but it is only its career as the structural equivalent of newspapers, radio and television (which is what I mean by of cultural technology) that interests me, at least in this instance.

of quite utopian claims have been made on behalf of the Internet, the strongest being that it has so changed the way people interact it has created a new mode of politics. But it now seems clear that it is just another ‘model of realisation’, Deleuze and Guattari’s term for the institutions capitalism relies on to extract surplus value from a given economy. That business couldn’t immediately figure out how to make money out of the Internet, i.e., turn into a ‘model of realisation’, meant that in the early years of its existence the utopian image of it as an affirmative agent of cultural change was able to flourish, giving the Internet a powerful rhetorical legacy it continues to draw on as it is moulded more and more firmly into a purely commercial enterprise. Today, though, Google is effectively the commonsense understanding of what using the Internet actually means, both practically and theoretically. It is at once our abstract ideal of searching and our cumulatively acquired empirical understanding of it. But more importantly, searching is what we think of as the proper practice associated with the Internet – one writes with a pen, makes calls with a phone, and searches the Internet. One proof of this point is the so-called ‘longtail’ phenomenon described by Chris Anderson. “In the middle of the 2000s every track out of a million or so available through iTunes sold at least once a quarter. In other words, every track no matter how obscure found at least one listener.”6 As is well known, this fact has transformed marketing: the combined sales of the basically unpopular or unknown artists actually exceeds the sales the Top 40 artists. This phenomenon is true of so-called ‘social networking’ sites like facebook and myspace, which seem to be used either to find old friends one has lost contact with or to find new friends more in tune with one’s view of the world than the people one already happens to know. So if you speak Klingon, the Internet is your best means of finding other people who share your passion for fictional languages; similarly, if you want to find out if your school is 6

Manovich 2009: 320.



organising a 20th anniversary reunion, then the Internet is your best means of getting in touch the faces and names from your forgotten past. When our searches don’t yield the results we’re after we tell ourselves it is because we don’t properly understand Google, that we don’t have enough practical experience with it, or sufficient competence to use it fully, rather than dismiss the search engine itself as fundamentally flawed. It is in this precise sense that Google has become, in noological terms, the ‘image of the search’.7 Google’s significance, I would suggest, is clearly more cultural than technical because it determines our view of Internet technology itself, deciding for us – in advance and without discussion – what it is actually for. If the problem in the early days of the Internet was that no-one could foresee the range of its applications and seemed to stand around waiting for history instead of putting in place the appropriate legislation and policy to guide its development some people now think is missing, the problem today is that everyone thinks they know what its application should be – the facilitation of sales – and any sense that it might have a more progressive use has been consigned to the dustbin of history, as one more lost opportunity. If there is something the matter with the Internet it is that its utopian beginnings block critical thoughts about its future, as though somehow its starting point was already the fabled end of history when the concrete and abstract become one. John Battelle says he wrote The Search because it was his sense that Google and its rival search engine companies had somehow figured out how to ‘jack into’ our “culture’s nervous system”.8 His account of the seemingly inexorable rise of the search engine giant, which is largely a standard corporate biography, is by turns alarmist and infatuated, he is in equal measure amazed by Google’s power and disturbed by it. It is, however, Battelle’s attempt to use Google’s history to say some7

Deleuze and Guattari 1987: 374.

8

Battelle 2005: 2.



thing about contemporary culture that makes for the most fascinating reading and whether we agree with his prognosis or not I think we have to take it seriously. There can be no doubt that the Internet is going to play an increasingly significant role in shaping cultural attitudes, behaviours and practices in the future. The Internet seems to engender a kind of restlessness in us to always want to see what’s just over the horizon, one click away. The success of Amazon, Google and eBay (amidst the blaze of spectacular dot.com failures of the past decade) is intimately related to the way their sites facilitate searching. Google’s strength in this regard is obvious, but we shouldn’t overlook just how good Amazon and eBay are in their own highly localised domains. What these companies have cottoned onto is something we might call ‘search engine culture’. The Internet thrives not because it can be searched, but because the search engines we use to navigate it respond to and foster the desire to search by constantly rewarding us with the little satisfactions of the unexpected discovery. A potent search engine makes us feel that the world really is at our fingertips, that we are verily ‘becoming-world’. One can find objective evidence of the intensifying influence of ‘search engine culture’ in the constant consumer demand for increased bandwidth and memory capacity to facilitate it. Most households in the West possess vastly more computing power than they could hope to use, except for such activities as searching the Web. It may be that on-line business is only just now starting to take off and show genuine profits because it has only lately developed an appreciation of the architecture of the desire called ‘searching’. As John Lanchester puts it, Google “has a direct line, if not quite to the unconscious dreaming mind of the world, at least to the part of it which voices its wishes”.9 I believe the same is true of Amazon and eBay and indeed a range of other Internet services such as online dating and grocery shopping that are yet to produce corporations of the gigan-

9

Lanchester 2006: 5.



tic proportions as these icons.10 But I don’t accept that Google is the global id, as Lanchester puts it, because to do so is to accept that our deepest atavistic desire is to buy something and there could be no more dystopian outlook than that. Technology and national sovereignty

If, today, as Deleuze foresaw with typical acuity in his short paper on what he labelled ‘the society of control’, our credit card and social security numbers are more significant identity and place markers than the colour of our skin or where we went to school, that isn’t because the ‘meat’ of our bodies has lately been superseded in its cultural significance by our bloodless digital ‘profile’. Rather what has happened is that one incorporeal ‘apparatus of capture’ has been succeeded by another – the segmentations of gender, race and class have been supplanted by the segmentations of debt and credit. To put it another way, as the sub-prime loans meltdown has made abundantly apparent: the prejudices of race and class are now more efficiently operationalised via the agencies of debt and credit. But one might extend this point further and compare what I’m calling the profile with Agamben’s notion of ‘bare life’ – the digital economy is not interested in our bodies at all. Our digital profile is effectively the shadow ‘bare life’ casts and it has no more substance than that. Thus, we have created a machine that in the reality of everyday makes irrelevant the basic fact of life itself. The machine doesn’t care whether we live or die; indeed, it does not and cannot care about anything. In this sense, the digital profile is a kind of cultural death drive, a fact that Haraway ignores her in utopian account of the merging of humans and machines. Since its inception the Internet has been associated with the idea of freedom, as though its deep 10 But having said this, it also needs to be pointed out that the on-line businesses other than the big three make up more than 80% of the business as a whole. As Battelle (2005: 154) informs us, Amazon’s 2000 revenue was $US2.76 billion at a time when Internet business was worth $US25 billion annually.



connection to the machinery of ‘the society of control’ were somehow invisible. How did this state of affairs come about? In the first years of the Internet, i.e., the early 1990s, when it was still small enough to be contained on a single mainframe computer, the key question – according to Bill McKibben – was whether or not it would be like TV, just another distraction, or would it really allow for the kind of connectedness it seemed to enable? McKibben thinks the answer “is still not clear – more people use the Web to look at unclothed young women and lose money at poker than for any other purposes.”11 Setting aside its moralising tone, the contrast with TV is instructive because in its early days it was subjected to considerable scrutiny and regulation by government – the kind of scrutiny and regulation it was subjected to varied quite widely from nation to nation. The Australian government, for instance, regarded it as a service and placed it in the same policy category as health and education. Interestingly, TV was thought too important and too dangerous (it grasped immediately the propaganda power of the new medium) to leave in private hands and policy was developed accordingly. The basic tenets of its policy were that it should be free, available to all (the infrastructural cost of this is staggering when you consider the dispersed nature of the population), and informative (all stations were required to provide news services as well as educational programming for children). It did not opt, however, for complete state control as Britain did, but neither did it leave it all to the market as the US did, although even there the government placed severe restrictions on content. Australia aimed for a kind of middleground that allowed for commercial applications, but kept a close eye on what those applications were. TV was essentially a national technology and the issue of what it could and should be a matter of national debate. The Internet has never been a national technology in this sense so its development has not been overseen 11

McKibben 2006: 4.



by a governmental body, except in the most ad hoc way via band-aid legislation which, in the case of child pornography say, can do nothing more than ban certain practices and create the judiciary conditions needed to punish the offenders, but cannot actually stop it. And that is how things should be according to the majority of Internet pundits, whether e-business billionaires or left-wing academics: Internet equals freedom.12 This is the Internet’s body without organs: the great and unquestioned presupposition that it is an agent of freedom. The “material problem confronting schizoanalysis is knowing whether” the body without organs we have are any good or not, or more to the point, knowing whether we have the means of determining whether they are any good or not.13 The body without organs is an evaluative concept which, as Guattari instructs in his last book Chaosmosis, should be used dialectically, which is to say with a view towards an understanding of how it is produced.14 In other words we should ask two basic questions: how is a particular body without organs produced? and what circulates on it once it has been produced? Just how enfeebled a concept of freedom the Internet rhetoric implies was exposed by the press reaction to the story of Google’s entry into the Chinese market in 2006. The Internet market in China is said to be growing by 20 million users a year and was already worth an estimated $US151 million per annum in 2004 (a figure that is literally tiny by US standards, but it doesn’t take a genius to see that the potential for growth is huge and with everyone predicting that China is going to be the next superpower one can understand why Google would want a foothold). To be allowed to set up servers on mainland China and create a Google.cn service, which will be faster and better suited to purpose than the regular US version Chinese people already have access to, 12 It is perhaps worth observing that in this sense the Internet is fundamentally anti-socialist: it will not accept dirigisme of any description. 13 Deleuze and Guattari 1987: 165. 14 Guattari 1995: 12.



Google had to agree to adhere to the Chinese government’s regulation and control of Internet content. This means complying with its three Ts rule: Tibet, Taiwan and Tiananmen are all off limits, as are such search categories as human rights, Amnesty International, pornography, and of course Falun Gong. It is believed that there are 30 000 on-line police monitoring chatrooms, blogs, and news portals, to ensure that these topics aren’t discussed and these kinds of sites aren’t accessed. Although this isn’t the first time Google has agreed to cooperate with government and effectively censor its search results (in Germany it restricts references to sites that deny the Holocaust, while in France it restricts access to sites that incite racial violence), the scale of its compliance with the Chinese government’s censorship requirements far exceeds anything it has done before. That Google chose to make these compromises as the necessary price of doing business in the world’s fastest growing economy was read by many as a betrayal of the values of freedom Google is supposedly an emblem of. The fact that these jeremiads were largely confined to the business pages of liberal papers suggests that the notion of freedom they had in mind was largely of the freedom-to-do-business kind wrapped up in the rhetoric of freedom of speech. This obviously self-serving acquiescence to censorship is defended by the company on the grounds that “providing no information (or a heavily degraded user experience that amounts to no information) is more inconsistent”.15 What this case demonstrated is that Google isn’t really concerned about our access to content at all. All the blustery talk about compromised values was really just a verbal smokescreen trying to cover up this one glaring truth: Google’s priority is its access to new markets and it will not hesitate to compromise its putative ethic of ‘do no evil’ in order to achieve that goal. If we regard Google as a gigantic multinational corporation, which with a net worth in excess of $US80 billion it in fact is (it is bigger than Coke, General Motors and McDonald’s), then there should be 15 Cited in The Guardian, January 25, p. 3.



little to surprise us in its about-face in China. It is only if we continue to buy into the fantasy that it and somehow the Internet as a whole is a bastion of freedom that we find these events dismaying. If the Internet was ever a ‘commons’ to use the word anti-corporate commentators like Naomi Klein have made fashionable, then there can be no doubt that it is rapidly being ‘enclosed’, the implication being that Amazon, Google and eBay are still only in the ‘primitive accumulation’ stage of their program of ‘accumulation by dispossession’ (to use David Harvey’s apt notion). Information is in effect a natural resource like oil that Google exploits without regard for the environment (as oil companies do when we aren’t watching and sometimes even when we are watching).16 Nowhere is this more evident than in the Google-led hype surrounding the convergence of Internet and mobile phone. In a May 2006 Op Ed for the Financial Times Google CEO Eric Schmidt went on record saying that Internet enabled mobile phones would effectively solve the problem of how to gain access to emerging markets in underdeveloped countries where the absence of landline infrastructure would otherwise have proved an impassable obstacle. He doesn’t put it like that. He’s never so indelicate as to mention the dirty word ‘market’. His rhetoric is libratory and egalitarian. The Internet has democratised information, Schmidt claims, or at least it has for those who have access to it. And that he says is the problem: not everyone has access! In Sub-Saharan Africa, Schmidt laments, less than 1% of households have a landline. If that statistic wasn’t bad enough for a business that presupposes the existence of such basic utilities as a functioning telephonic network, then there is the even worse news that if broadband was available to every household it wouldn’t change things all that much because very few people in this region of the world can afford computers. Mobile phones will liberate this technologically dark part 16 Jameson’s claim that culture is the new nature is thus shown to be substantially true.



of the world by overcoming these twin obstacles to online access. On the blessed day when everyone has Internet enabled mobile phones, a “schoolchild in Africa will be able […] to find research papers from around the world or to see ancient manuscripts from a library in Oxford”. Until then, however, the “digital divide” prevents this democratising magic from having its effect. According to Schmidt, thanks to the Internet we don’t have to take what business, the media or politicians say “at face value” and this is empowering. Schmidt’s view is that what is actually said on-line isn’t as important as the ‘freedom’ to say whatever one happens to want to say. Thus, he says, governments should stop focusing on how to control the Web and “concentrate on how to give Internet access to more people in more countries”. Government should, in other words, help Google to expand its market.17 By the same token, as Google’s negative response to requests for assistance in tracking down users of child pornography from US law and enforcement agencies illustrates, Google thinks the government shouldn’t be allowed to impinge on its market. Although Yahoo, MSN and AOL have been willing to help out, Google has held fast citing the right to privacy as its rationale. But Google patently speaks with a forked tongue on this subject. Co-founder of Google, Larry Page, defended the company’s refusal to help identify child pornographers by saying, rather tellingly, that the company relies on the trust of its users and that giving out data on users would break that trust. His implication is obvious: if Google gave out data on its users it would effectively turn customers away and eventually lose its pre-eminent place as market leader. Protecting market share is how we should understand Page’s call for legislation that stops government from being able to ask for such data in the first place.18

17 All quotes are taken from: Eric Schmidt “Let more of the world access the Web”, Financial Times, May 22, 2006, p. 15. 18 Cited in The Guardian, January 25, p. 3.



But this doesn’t mean Google actually respects the privacy of its users, if by that one means it doesn’t keep them under surveillance: it is constantly gathering data on users, individually and collectively, and even publicises this fact (under the innocuous sounding rubric of Google Trends) by releasing ‘maps’ of most frequently searched topics broken down by region. Eschewing any pretence to scientificity, these search maps make for titillating reading as one ponders what it means in cultural-geographical terms that the most frequent Google searches in the city of St Albans in Hertfordshire were for gyms, weight loss, and the Atkins diet. Does this make it the “most self-absorbed city in Britain” as claimed by The Sunday Times in May 2006 in a half-page piece studded with such titbits of spurious psycho-social information gleaned from Google Trends?19 Obviously more of a lifestyle piece than a hard news piece, although it was in the news section, what is particularly striking about this article is its complete lack of sensitivity to the fact that such maps are the product of electronic surveillance (i.e., precisely the kind of thing The Sunday Times normally rails against). That a liberal paper like this doesn’t see Google Trends as surveillance is evidence of just how little critical attention is paid to this dimension of the Internet in the public sphere.20 But I don’t want to give the impression that this is some kind of conspiracy because the fact is Google is very open about its snooping – one Google executive, Marissa Mayer, has even said we should expect it.21 And indeed, with the release of Google ‘latitude’, which turns your mobile phone into a positioning device enabling anybody who ‘opts in’ to know your exact location anywhere on the planet to within a few metres, Google effectively invites us to give up on such antiquated notions as privacy altogether. I might add, too, that The Times were a little more 19 The Sunday Times, May 21 2006, p. 13 (news section). 20 This issue has not been ignored in academic discourse, e.g., Solove 2004 and Hui and Chun 2006, but the emphasis there is overwhelmingly on the activities of governments. 21 Cited in The Observer, January 22, 2006, p. 24 (focus section).



sceptical about the benefits of this than they were with Google Trends, but still seem to favour it, if only for the safety of children.22 The Rhizome

One powerful reason why the Internet has been seen in critical theory as the very image of freedom is that to all intents and purposes it appears to be a rhizome, which is understood by many to be Deleuze and Guattari’s codeword for the sheer freedom of the creative impulse itself. Is the Internet a rhizome? All the straws in the wind say ‘yes’ it is. Whereas mechanical machines are inserted into hierarchically organised social systems, obeying and enhancing this type of structure, the Internet is ruled by no one and is open to expansion or addition at anyone’s whim as long as its communication protocols are followed. This contrast was anticipated theoretically by Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari especially in A Thousand Plateaus (1980), in which they distinguished between arboreal and rhizomic cultural forms. The former is stable, centred, hierarchical; the latter is nomadic, multiple, decentred – a fitting depiction of the difference between a hydroelectric plant and the Internet.23

There are of course excellent grounds for thinking that the Internet meets some if not all of the basic criteria of the rhizome, which Deleuze and Guattari list as follows24: 1. The rhizome connects any point to any other point (connections do not have to be between same and same, or like and like). 2. The rhizome cannot be reduced to either the One or the multiple because it is composed of dimensions (directions in motion) not units. Consequently no point in the rhizome can be altered without altering the whole.

22 The Times, Feb 5, 2009, p. 20 (news section). 23 Poster 2001: 27. 24 All the following points are lifted from Deleuze and Guattari 1987: 21.



3. The rhizome operates by variation, expansion, conquest, capture and offshoots (not reproduction). 4. The rhizome pertains to an infinitely modifiable map with multiple entrances and exits that must be produced. 5. The rhizome is acentred, nonsignifying, and acephalous. 6. The rhizome isn’t amenable to any structural or generative model. So, how well does the Internet map against these six principles? At the ‘bare machine’ level (to adapt Agamben) it seems to agree with the first principle very closely. The ideal of the Internet is that any computer can be connected to any other computer. How well this works in practice is another matter altogether as anyone who has experienced the frustration of trying to access ‘big’ sites using low bandwidth connections (such as dial-up) or has had to rely on servers clogged by high volumes of traffic can readily attest. But the more interesting philosophical question here, which applies as much to Deleuze and Guattari as the Internet, is the premium we place on intention: until the advent of search engines of the capability of Google, it was extremely difficult to implement one’s intent in relation to the Internet. The phrase, ‘surfing the Internet’, reflects this: using the Internet used to be (and in some cases still is) like looking for a needle in a haystack, and basically what one did in order to find something was ‘surf’ from one site to another until one found it (hence the proliferation in the early 1990s of books listing ‘useful’ websites, which themselves tended to be indexes or directories enabling you to find other sites – by the same token, little attention was given to domain names at this time, with the result many of them looked like nightmarish calculus equations rather than the user-friendly mnemonics we’re accustomed to now). You moved from one Web address to another as though from one fixed point



in space to another, which interestingly is not all what surfers do.25 This brings us to the second principle: here the match is a little less straightforward. For a start, the practical reality of the Internet is nothing at all like the multidimensional sensorium envisaged by William Gibson when he first used the term ‘cyberspace’ in his groundbreaking novel Neuromancer, but then again he famously didn’t even own a computer at the time. However Gibson’s vision of cyberspace has had lasting influence and many people do think of the Internet as the realisation of the Deleuzian ideal of multiplicity. But the incredible proliferation and constantly expanding number of websites does not by itself mean that the Internet can be classed as a multiplicity in Deleuze’s sense. Are websites dimensions or units of the web? There is a simple way to answer this question – what happens when we add or subtract a site? The answer is that it isn’t clear that the addition or the subtraction of any one site actually affects the whole. If several million sites were to vanish then that would clearly make a difference, but the loss of a few hundred or even several thousand might not. If sites were dimensions then according to Deleuze and Guattari’s definition of the rhizome their removal would alter the whole, so we have to conclude that individual websites are units of the Internet, not dimensions. Empirically we know that the number of websites is important; there is for example a vast difference between the Internet of today, which has hundreds of millions of specific sites, and trillions of pages to go with them, and the Internet of 1990, which had fewer than two hundred sites and could be contained in its totality on a single PC. But this doesn’t mean we have to abandon the idea that the Internet is a multiplicity because there is another way we can come at this problem. 25 As Deleuze himself recognised, surfing is one of those sports in which the “key thing is how to get taken up in the motion of a big wave, a column of rising air, to ‘get into something’ instead of being the origin of an effort”. Deleuze 1995: 121.



Thus we come to the third principle, that the rhizome operates by variation, expansion, conquest, capture and offshoots (not reproduction), which is essentially a matter of population, which in contrast to the numbering number can be grasped in dimensional terms. Darwin’s two great insights were, according to Deleuze and Guattari, that the population is more significant than the type in determining the genetic properties of a species, and that change occurs not through an increase in complexity, such as the proliferation of individual websites or multiplication of weblinks entails, but rather the opposite, through simplification. Internet usage certainly bears this point out as recent trends confirm – the Internet is the standard source of product information, everything from details of the latest designs to replacement user manuals are lodged there; it is also becoming the preferred point of sale as more and more business is conducted on-line; it is steadily taking over from its rivals TV and Radio the role of content provision, as podcasts and downloads become more the rule the exception. In the process the Internet is changing how we understand ‘media’ – on the one hand, it is steadily displacing the variety of media that used to exist (newspapers, magazines, TV, Radio and Cinema) onto itself; while on the other hand, it is absorbing new interactive functions, such as data searches and direct on-line sales, the other media can’t offer. Paradoxically, then, from the perspective of the user the Internet is without doubt the most powerful homogenising and standardising machine invented since money. First of all, all pre-existing media has been compelled to adapt itself to suit the Internet environment; second, having stripped the media of its exclusive preserve to make and distribute news, movies or whatever, the Internet has ‘enabled’ a whole new kind of media production, from the so-called ‘citizen journalists’ we hear so much about today, to bloggers, to home-movie makers and amateur pornographers. And as Lev Manovich points out, most of the so-called ‘user generated content’ follows exactly the same format as the much derided mainstream me-



dia, so its much celebrated creativity is largely of the superficial kind.26 Viewed from the perspective of the media as a whole (i.e., from a population perspective), the Internet has simplified what media means and in the process set off a massive expansion of media operations into virtually every corner of existence. It is having the same effect on retail. The fourth principle, that the rhizome pertains to an infinitely modifiable map with multiple entrances and exits that must be produced, is I would hazard the most important. But its implications are neither obvious nor fully explained by Deleuze and Guattari, although it is clear that it has the highest priority in their view. In effect, what it means is this: the rhizome is not manifest in things, but rather a latent potential that has to be realised by experimentation. This can linked to the sixth principle, namely that the rhizome isn’t amenable to any structural or generative model because basically what Deleuze and Guattari are saying is that you can’t either prescribe the Internet into existence or expect to find it naturally occurring. It has to be invented. The rhizome is the subterranean pathway connecting all our actions, invisibly determining our decision to do this rather than that. Insofar as we remain unaware of its existence and indeed its operation we do not have full control over our lives. The rhizome is in this sense a therapeutic tool. “For both statements and desires, the issue is never to reduce the unconscious or to interpret it or to make it signify according to a tree model. The issue is to produce the unconscious, and with it new statements, different desires: the rhizome is precisely this production of the unconscious.”27 The rhizome of the Internet cannot simply be the pre-existing network of connected computers. Rather we have to conceive it terms of the set of choices that have been made concerning its use and determine the degree to which the resulting grid is ‘open’ or ‘closed’.

26 Manovich 2009: 321. 27 Deleuze and Guattari 1987: 18.



The fifth principle – that the rhizome is acentred, nonsignifying, and acephalous – appears to be one that could be left unchallenged. Yet, if we were to grant that the Internet is acentred, nonsignifying, and acephalous in appearance and indeed in its very construction, the reality of its day-to-day use still does not live up to this much-vaunted Deleuzian ideal. Here we have to remind ourselves that Deleuze and Guattari regard the rhizome as a tendency rather than a state of being. It must constantly compete with an equally strong tendency in the opposite direction, namely towards what they term the ‘arboreal’. The Internet exhibits arboreal tendencies as well rhizomatic tendencies and any balanced assessment of it would have to take these into account too and weigh up their relative strength. To begin with, one still moves from point to point through the Internet – there is no liberated line of flight in cyberspace. Moreover, Google searches are very far from disinterested, as John Battelle’s pathbreaking book The Search makes abundantly clear. Now that retailers can pay Google to link certain search items (what Google calls AdWords28) to their business name, so that a search for a book, for instance, will always lead to Amazon or Abebooks or whoever, the minimal conceptual distinction that used to separate Google from the Yellow Pages has basically vanished.29

28 As clear an instance as one could find of language “falling under the domain of private property”. Poster 2001: 39. 29 But in a sense, all Google is doing is making a commercial strength out of what has always been a weakness in its operating system: Google’s famous PageRank algorithm is anything but immune to influence. Its basic premise that the more traffic a site receives the more significant it is, has meant that it is prey to the influence of spammers who simply bombard a particular site until its rank changes. There are even companies promising that for a fee they can elevate a site’s ranking, thus enhancing its market presence (popular wisdom has it that people rarely look beyond the first page of results – a ranking of 50 or worse is basically death for an Internet business relying on Google traffic). Google is alert to this and black-bans companies it thinks are guilty of such practices. But ultimately its best defence against this has been to abandon (albeit unofficially) the idea of ‘organic’ searches, that is searches which aren’t influenced by the ‘invisible hand’ of market forces.



Conclusion

The operating premise of the Internet may not be that when whenever we are searching, no matter what we are searching for, we are actually looking for something to buy, but its results certainly appear to obey this code. Insofar as we rely on Google as our user’s guide to Internet, the Internet we actually see and use is thus ‘stable, centred, and hierarchical’, i.e., the very opposite of rhizomatic. Google searches are conducted on a ‘stable’ electronic snapshot of the Internet, or in other words a BwO, not the living breathing thing itself, which it indexes very precisely; the search engine is patently a centring system, de facto and de jure, and what could be more hierarchical than PageRank? This is not to say that Google isn’t an extremely useful tool, because plainly it is; but it is to insist not only that it has its limitations, some of which are quite serious, but that isn’t the only means of searching for information available. I’m sure I have answered the question of what the Internet is, but I hope that I’ve managed to ask that question in an interesting way.

References Bard, A. and Söderqvist, J. 2002 Netocracy: The New Power Elite and Life After Capitalism, London: Pearson Education. Battelle, J. 2005 The Search: How Google and Its Rivals Rewrote the Rules of Business and Transformed Our Culture, London: Nicholas Brealey Publishing. Deleuze, G. and Guattari, F. 1987 A Thousand Plateaus, trans B. Massumi, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Foucault, M. 1977 Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison, trans A. Sheridan, London: Penguin Books. Guattari, F. 1995 Chaosmosis: An Ethico-Aesthetic Paradigm, Sydney: Power Publications. Hayes, C. 2008 “The Pragmatist”, The Nation, December 29, pp 13–16. Hayles, N. K. 2001 “Desiring Agency: Limiting Metaphors and Enabling Constraints in Dawkins and Deleuze/Guattari”, SubStance: A Review of Theory and Literary Criticism, vol 30: 1–2, pp 144–159. Henwood, D. 2003 After the New Economy, London: Verso.



Hui, W. and Chun, K. 2006 Control and Freedom: Power and Paranoia in the Age of Fibre Optics, Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT Press. Jameson, F. 1981 The Political Unconscious: Narrative as a Socially Symbolic Act, London: Routledge. Lanchester, J. 2006 “The Global Id”, London Review of Books, 28, 2, pp 3–6. Landow, G. 1997 Hypertext 2.0, Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press. Lefebvre, H. 1991 The Production of Space, trans D. Nicholson-Smith, Cambridge: Blackwell Press. Manovitch, L. “The Practice of Everyday (Media) Life: From Mass Consumption to Mass Cultural Production?”, Critical Inquiry, 35: 2, pp 319–331. McKibben, B. 2006 “The Hope of the Web”, New York Review of Books, LIII: 7, pp 4–6. Melber, A. 2009 “Obama for America 2.0”, The Nation, January 12/19, pp 6–9. Poster, M. 2001 What’s the Matter with the Internet, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Schmidt, E. 2006 “Let more of the world access the Web”, Financial Times, May 22, p. 15. Solove, D. 2004 The Digital Person: Technology and Privacy in the Information Age, NY: NYU Press.



Formende Kraft des Lichtes im Theater Wolfgang Greisenegger

I.

Das Theater entwickelt sich als Schau- und Hörkunst im Raum, schafft Raum, ist Raum. Der Raum wird durch Licht und Schatten fühlbar, erkennbar, berechenbar. Alle Epochen der Kulturtechnik Theater unterscheiden sich durch ein je besonderes Licht- und Raumgefühl. Diese Grundelemente des Szenischen spielen in der Theorie des Theaters eine erstaunlich geringe Rolle. Es ist bezeichnend, dass in dem handlichen Theaterlexikon von Manfred Brauneck und Gérard Schneilin, das über Begriffe und Epochen, Bühnen und Ensembles1 Auskunft gibt, weder die Stichwörter Licht oder Beleuchtung, noch Raum Aufnahme gefunden haben. Die Beschreibung und Analyse von Theatergebäuden, des Miteinanders und Zueinanders von Bühne und Zuschauerraum begleitet allerdings seit Vitruv die Theatergeschichte. Wie entscheidend die Beleuchtung im Theater, vor allem aber auf der Bühne, für den Eindruck war, wurde, wenn überhaupt, kaum beachtet. In der für die Geschichte des Szenen- wie des Zuschauerraumes Grund legenden Untersuchung von Silke Koneffke2 über die Bedeutung des Raumes für das Theater des 20. Jahrhunderts, spielt das Licht so gut wie keine Rolle, denn die Autorin beschreibt Bau- und TheaterreformProjekte, geht aber auf einzelne Theaterereignisse nicht ein. 1

Manfred Brauneck, Gérard Schneilin, Theaterlexikon. Begriffe und Epochen, Bühnen und Ensembles, rowohlts enzyklopedie, Bd. 417, Reinbek bei Hamburg 1986.

2

Silke Koneffke, Theater-Raum, Visionen und Projekte von Theaterleuten und Architekten zum anderen Aufführungsort 1900–1980, Berlin 1999.



Sie verweist allerdings auf die Bedeutung jener Inszenierungen „die visuelle Mittel arrangierte(n), die das Zusammenspiel von Licht und plastischer Szenographie, sowie die Integration der Bildenden Kunst boten.“3 Auf den Theaterreformer und Regisseur der Wende vom 19. zum 20. Jahrhundert, Georg Fuchs verweisend, hält sie fest, ohne die Beobachtung weiter auszuführen: „Fuchs erklärte inzwischen das Licht zum ‚wichtigsten Träger der Raumwirkung… Die moderne Elektrotechnik stellt uns Möglichkeiten zur Verfügung die nicht auszunützen geradezu ein Kulturfrevel wäre.’ Deshalb schwebte ihm eine enge Zusammenarbeit zwischen Technikern und den ausstattenden Künstlern vor.“4 Tatsächlich bedeutet die Einführung des elektrischen Lichtes nicht nur völlig neue Möglichkeiten für die Regie, sondern auch für das Verhältnis der beiden Sphären des Theaters, der Zuschauer und der Spielzone. Nicht die vervielfachte Lichtstärke und die Intensität der Farbigkeit des Lichts bedeutet den Bruch mit der Tradition, sondern die Dynamisierung des Lichts. Bisher bestimmte statisches Licht die Position des Darstellers auf der Bühne, nun sucht der Lichtstrahl (des Verfolgers) den Schauspieler. Durch diese neu gewonnene (räumliche) Unabhängigkeit des szenischen Vorganges emanzipiert sich das Szenische von der Tradition der Guckkastenbühne, ja, von dem Gegenüber zweier, durch eine Rampe und einen Eisernen Vorhang getrennten, Funktionsräume. Die Befreiung vom barocken Portal und dem im 19. Jahrhundert entwickelten Guckkasten, der durch die neuen Feuersicherheitsvorschriften der letzten Jahrzehnte des 19. Jahrhunderts, die eine strikte Trennung von Bühne und Zuschauerzone zur Brandbekämpfung verordnete, für alle Zeiten fest gemauert schien, erwies sich durch die Einführung des elektrischen Lichts, vor allem an kleineren Theatern, als nicht mehr zwingend notwendig. Das Spiel konnte nun näher an die Zuschauer heranrücken. Die Darsteller müssen nicht mehr im Illusionsraum Bühne 3

Koneffke, p. 17.

4

Koneffke, p. 37.



verharren, sie können die ‚rote Linie’ des Fiktiven überschreiten, ohne die Aufmerksamkeit ihres Publikums zu verlieren. Diesseits und jenseits der Rampe folgt ihnen das Licht, konzentriert die Aufmerksamkeit, leitet sie, stellte Bezüge her und unterbricht Kontakte, erneuert sie oder lässt sie im Ungewissen verschwimmen. Der physiologische Reiz des Lichts und seine -psychologische- Wirkung, wird nun Teil der Kulturgeschichte, den es zu beschreiben und analysieren gilt. Man entdeckt in früheren Epochen, etwa in der Malerei, ein tiefes Verständnis für die Wirkung und die Ästhetik des Schattens. Der Licht- und Farb- durchfluteten Renaissance folgt eine Zeit tiefer Schatten und im Ungewissen versinkender Räume. Das Verständnis für den Schatten als Kontur gebendes Darstellungsmittel verändert sich von Epoche zu Epoche, von Kulturkreis zu Kulturkreis, von Künstler zu Künstler. Eines der erstaunlichsten Zeugnisse dieses radikalen Wandels ist wohl der ‚Marientod’ Pieter Bruegels d. Ä., ein kleines Andachtsbild (1564/65, Banbury, Upton House), das auf Farben, aber auch auf Raum schaffende Schatten verzichtet. Zwei Drittel der gezeigten Szene verschwimmen in diffusem Halbdunkel. Die Magd, die neben dem Kamin mit offenem Mund eingeschlafen ist: aschenfarben, wie versteinert. Die Trauergäste werfen kaum Schatten, eingehüllt in fahles, dunkles Grau. Alles Licht ist auf den Vorhang des Himmelbettes konzentriert, in dem die Gottesmutter sitzt, ein Apostel hat ihr eine Kerze in die Hand gedrückt, von der kein Schein ausgeht, wie auch von den beiden Holzscheiten im Kamin, den beiden Kerzen oberhalb des Eingangs und einer Funsel auf dem voll geräumten Tisch im Vordergrund. Mariens Gesicht, dem Beschauer zugewandt, bleibt im Halbschatten. Sie blickt auf ein Kruzifix, das am Fußende des Bettes, auf einem Polster liegt, dem Beschauer kaum sichtbar. 5 Das einigartige Andachtsbild in der für das 5

Karl Schütz, Das Interieur in der Malerei, München 2009, p. 104 und Abbildung 68 will in der Magd den Evangelisten Johannes erkennen, ohne plausibel zu, machen warum der Apostel umgeben von ungewaschenem Geschirr in den Schlaft gefallen sein sollte.



Sujet seltenen Grisaille-Technik, deutet und inszeniert durch Licht eine zentrale Szene der Heilsgeschichte, in bedrückender Stille. Licht und Schatten sind in den Bildkünsten ein wesentliches Mittel der Gestaltung. Die Werke demonstrieren das Wissen um ihre Wirkung und sind damit auch prägend für die Phantasie des Theaters. Allerdings ist es Jahrhunderte lang nicht möglich auf der Bühne umzusetzen, was etwa die Malerei längst erprobt hat. Etwa wenn einer der bedeutendsten Künstler des 17. Jahrhunderts, Georges de la Tour Gestalten und Gegenstände aus tiefer Dunkelheit herausleuchtet und in ihr versinken lässt. Seine Berliner ‚Beweinung des Heiligen Sebastian’, eines der aufregendsten Bilder des 17. Jahrhunderts, erhält seine Dramatik durch das Licht einer einzigen Fackel. Der Märtyrer, lang hingestreckt im Tode, scheint in das Dunkel langsam zu versinken. Im Licht, drei trauernde Frauen, ein Holzpfosten und ein Mönch in dunkler Kutte, von dem man nur Nase und Mund und die betend gefalteten knochigen Hände aufleuchten sieht. Diese dramatische Inszenierung einer Adoratio im Augenblick der Glaubensgewissheit, die alles nur Anekdotische in Finsternis verschwinden lässt, wäre in seiner Radikalität – auch der Beobachtung – auf der Bühne bis zur Einführung des elektrischen Lichts technisch nicht möglich gewesen. Nicht von ungefähr wurde dieser lothringische Maler erst durch den Expressionismus wieder entdeckt, obwohl er es im letzten Abschnitt seines Lebens zum Hofmaler Ludwig XIII. gebracht hatte. Wie bei Caravaggio und den ‚Tenebrosi’, bedeuten künstliches Licht und tiefe Schatten nicht nur ein wesentliches Element der Komposition, sondern gestalten, ja bestimmen, die Schilderung einer performativen Situation, die auch zur Kontemplation einladen, ja, zwingen kann (‚Das Neugeborene’, Rennes, ‚Der Gefangene’, Epinal). Bei Rembrandt, etwa bei seiner ‚Anbetung der Hirten’(London), 1646 entstanden, führt das Licht in anderer Weise Regie: die Hauptlichtquelle, die die heilige Familie und vier Hirten aus samtenem



Dunkel hebt, ist das Christkind. Der Schein der Laterne eines bärtigen Hirten dagegen reicht nicht weit. Das Licht konzentriert die Aufmerksamkeit des Betrachters auf die, aus der Bildmitte abgerückte Szene der Anbetung der Hirten, Reflexe und Licht aus der nahen Stadt, oder von einem offenen Feuer der Hirten, erweitern den Raum, ohne von der zentralen Szene abzulenken. Diese willkürlich herausgegriffenen, aber markanten Beispiele der Darstellung von Licht und seiner Wirkung in der bildenden Kunst, mögen andeuten, dass verschiedene Zeitalter von unterschiedlichem Licht beschienen werden. Anders gesagt, Licht und Dunkelheit bedeuten, nimmt man die Malerei zum Maßstab, in jeder Epoche anderes. Diese Beispiele mögen andeuten, dass das Theater aus einem Fundus von Gestaltungsmöglichkeiten, den die bildenden Künste entworfen hatten und bereit hielten, nicht nur schöpfen konnten, sondern auch bestimmt, das heißt aber auch eingeschränkt wurden. Der Phantasie des bildenden Künstlers sind weniger Grenzen gesetzt, als dem, mit der Realität und Banalität des Theaters Konfrontierten, der sich bis tief ins 19. Jahrhundert mit sehr beschränkten Beleuchtungsmöglichkeiten abzufinden hatte. Vor dem Einsatz des elektrischen Lichts produzierten alle Leuchtmittel Verbrennungsrückstände (Rauch und Ruß) und Gerüche. Die Lichtstärke nahm während der Aufführung kontinuierlich ab, der Rauch – vor allem der Rampenlichterwirkte als vereinheitlichender (Farb-)Filter zwischen Zuschauerraum und Bühne, ähnlich nachgedunkeltem Firnis auf alten Gemälden. Beträchtlich war die Hitzeentwicklung hunderter offener Flammen, die Bühne und Zuschauerraum erhellten. Nachdem die Vollelektrifizierung der Theater durchgesetzt war, blieb die Hitze, die auch elektrische Leuchten verursachten, ein Problem des Theaters. Erst im 20. Jahrhundert gelang es, die Wärmeentwicklung der Leuchtmittel langsam in den Griff zu bekommen. Bis zur Einführung des elektrischen Lichtes musste Dunkelheit im Theater erspielt, an die Phantasie der



Zuschauer appelliert werden, wenn es galt Finsternis und strahlende Helligkeit szenisch erlebbar zu machen. Ebenso kann man trotz verschiedener früher Versuche von Leonardo da Vinci, Sebastiano Serlio, Nicola Sabbattini, Leone Hebreo di Somi davon ausgehen, dass farbiges Licht erst wirkungsstark eingesetzt werden konnte, als es gelang, die Lichtstärke so zu steigern, dass Farbfilter sinn- und wirkungsvoll eingesetzt werden konnten. Bis ins 19. Jahrhundert blieb die Licht- und Schattenmalerei aber wesentliches räumliches Wirkungsmittel der Kulissen-Bühne und wurde erst durch das elektrische Licht obsolet, das durch seine Helligkeit unbarmherzig den Trick vorgetäuschter Körperlichkeit aufdeckte. Mit der Einführung des elektrischen Lichts verliert das Theater in erstaunlich kurzer Zeit ein Hauptwirkungsmittel, das Als ob des Darstellungsraumes. Der Verlust wird jedoch mehr als wettgemacht durch die Beweglichkeit der neuen Lichtquellen, ihrer entschieden größeren Leuchtkraft, der veränderbaren Färbung des Lichts und der Möglichkeit ‚reale’ Schatten etwa als Stimmungsträger zu verwenden. Gösta M. Bergman analysiert diesen so bedeutenden Wandel in seinem grundlegenden Werk ‚Lighting in the Theatre’, die Arbeit des seine Epoche prägenden Theaterleiters und Regisseur Henry Irving beschreibend: „But Irving painted the stage picture only with different combinations of coloured light but also with shadows, dark parts. And that may actually have been his greatest contribution, anticipating as he did the whole modern theatre.”6 Irving, der Stiefvater Gordon Craigs, des wohl bedeutendsten Reformators der Bühne des 20. Jahrhunderts, versäumte während seiner zwanzigjährigen Direktionszeit kaum eine Beleuchtungsprobe in seinem Theater, überzeugt von der gestaltenden Wirkungsmacht des Lichts. Für David Belasco, K.S. Stanislavskij, aber auch Max Reinhardt waren die neuen Gestaltungsmittel des Lichts ein prägendes Element ihrer Inszenierungen. Durch ihre Forderungen an die Lichttechnik beschleunigten diese 6



Gösta M. Bergman, Lighting in the Theatre, Stockholm and Totowa, New Jersey 1977, p. 302.

Protagonisten des Regietheaters die Entwicklung bühnentauglicher Leuchtmittel. Das sich ständig erweiternde Repertoire lichttechnischer Möglichkeiten prägen das Theater des 20. Jahrhunderts: dieses erlaubt, in Verbindung mit elektroakustischen Anlagen, es nahezu an jedem Ort anzusiedeln. Diese räumliche Beliebigkeit mag für das Theater zum Problem werden, andererseits eröffnet diese Ungebundenheit der szenischen Phantasie eine Vielfalt neuer Gestaltungsmöglichkeiten. Ein Prozess einer Verdoppelung des Fiktiven und der Entkörperlichung des Akteurs zum (bewegten) Bild lässt sich auch im Theater beobachten. Der Darsteller erscheint nicht nur auf der Bühne, sondern vielfach vergrößert, auf Bildschirmen, wie ein Parteitagsredner, der sich nicht bewusst wird, dass er mit der überwältigenden Wirkung seiner großen und hellen Bilder nicht mithalten kann. II.

Die Aufführungen von Tragödie und Komödie, Programmpunkte religiöser Staatsfeste in Athen, ereigneten sich im Freien bei Tageslicht. In der klaren trockenen Luft Athens fanden alle Besucher gute Sicht- und Hörverhältnisse vor, so dass sie über das Gehörte und Gesehene urteilen konnten. „Es war einmalig und, wie die Ergebnisse zeigen, ganz unerhört, wie hier ein Kreis von Dichtern auf einem vom Gemeinwesen organisierten Fest vor versammelter Bürgerschaft es unternahm, die wichtigsten, allgemeinen Probleme der Zeit auf der Bühne durchzuspielen … im Heiligtum des Dionysos, von den Stätten der Politik abgeschirmt und doch mitten in Athen.“ 7 (Fast alle Theater, die in Griechenland, in Kleinasien, in Ägypten und Sizilien entstanden, sind nahe dem Zentrum der Stadt lokalisiert, aber auch aus dem Getriebe des Alltags herausgenommen. Sie waren Orte des Selbstverständnisses des Gemeinwesens, geweihte Orte, Orte städtischen und staatlichen Selbstverständnisses.) 7

Christian Meier, Athen, München 2004, p. 314.



Die Athener Dramatiker-Regisseure bedachten wohl schon bei der Konzeption ihrer Dramen die natürlichen Beleuchtungsverhältnisse, wie sie Ende März, der Zeit der Großen Dionysien, herrschten. Meist aber stimulierten sie die Phantasie ihrer Zuschauer durch das dichterische Wort: Schilderungen von frühem Morgen nach bedrohlicher Nacht, von Naturereignissen und Lichtstimmungen: aus Sprache entworfene Landschafts- und Seelenbilder. Wie sie Shakespeare zwei tausend Jahre später entwirft: „ It was the nightingale, and not the lark… It was the lark, the herald of the morn; no nightingale…”8 (Das öffentliche Theater der Shakespeare-Zeit musste wie das Theater der Griechen auf künstliche Beleuchtung verzichten und nicht zuletzt deshalb verdank ihm und seinen Zeitgenossen die Kulturgeschichte eine Fülle von Licht Metaphern. Da im antiken Theater szenische Bemerkungen völlig fehlen enthält der gesprochene Text all das, was zur räumlichen und zeitlichen Orientierung im Geschehen notwendig ist. Im professoralen 19. Jahrhundert hat man diese Hinweise nicht selten all zu wörtlich genommen und auf die Uhr gesehen, wo es um die Ausleuchtung der Seelen ging. Andererseits hat man das Gefühl für den ruhigen Rhythmus des Tageslichts in den Kunstlichtinnenräumen verloren und misstraut der Imaginationskraft des Publikums. Im ersten Stasimon der ‚Antigone’ des Sophokles lobt der Chor thebanischer Greise die Pracht der aufgehenden Sonne bevor er die Schlacht schildert, die am Vortag vor den Mauern des siebentorigen Theben getobt hat. Es sind Sieger, die das schönste Licht, den goldenen Tag, besingen. Als der Grabwächter die Meldung erstattet, dass der Leichnam des Polyneikes, des Angreifers, gegen den ausdrücklichen Befehl Kreons, bestattet wurde, ist der Tag vorgeschritten und als er mit der gefassten Täterin, Antigone, wiederkehrt, flimmert die Luft in der Hitze des Mittags. Die Zeit der 8



William Shakespeare, Romeo an Juliet, The new Penguin Shakespeare, London 1996, p. 127.

Handlung und die reale Zeit im Theater, das macht dieses Beispiel deutlich, unterscheiden sich, musste doch ein Tag ausreichen, um drei Tragödien und ein Satyrspiel aufzuführen und den Zuschauern überdies Zeit zur notwendigen Regeneration geben. (Tages-)Zeit und Raum, Licht und Schatten entstanden durch das dichterische Wort, waren Geschöpfe der Phantasie jedes einzelnen Zuschauers. Ein einprägsames Beispiele dafür ist der wohl die einleitende Wächterszene im ersten Teil der Orestie, dem ‚Agamemnon’: ein dramaturgisches Meisterwerk, das in weniger als 40 Versen mitten in den Mythos führt, ihn erfahrbar macht am Schicksal einer unbedeutenden Nebenfigur: „Zu Göttern fleh ich um Erlösung von der Pein / jahrelangen Wächterdienstes. Auf den Arm gestützt, nach Hundes Art gestreckt auf der Atriden Dach, / kenn ich genau der nächtlichen Gestirne Schar, / die Winter und Sommer bringen den Sterblichen… Nun wieder schau ich nach den Flammenzeichen aus, / dem Feuerschein, der uns aus Troja Kunde bringt und Botschaft seines Falls… Nun werde glücklich mir Erlösung von der Pein / durch Feuer in der Finsternis, das Heil verheißt. O Gruß dir, Leuchte, Tageshelle in der Nacht / … Agamemnons Gattin rufe ich’s vernehmlich zu, / dass sie vom Lager sich erhebe und Gejauchz… anstimme diesem Licht zum Gruß…“ (Vers 1–29) 9 Da wird die Langeweile des immer Gleichen beschworen , die Angst des Wächters vor dem Schlaf und der Einsamkeit des Dienstes. Die Spannung steigernde Langeweile entlädt sich in einem Jubelschrei. Das aufflammende Licht, das die Nachricht vom Fall Trojas signalisiert, lässt den alten Mann vor Freude tanzen. Das Lichtzeichen wirkt aber auch als Auslöser der kommenden Katastrophe. Entscheidende Wendepunkte der Tragödie werden durch Licht markiert. Den Alten des Chores teilt Klytaimestra den Fall von Troja mit einem Sprichwort mit: „Mit guter Botschaft gehe – wie 9

Aischylos, Die Tragödien, Übersetzungen mit Anmerkungen von Emil Staiger und Walther Kraus, Reclam, Stuttgart 2002.



das Sprichwort sagt – / die Morgenröte aus der Mutter Nacht hervor.“ Die Alten können die Nachricht nicht glauben. Deshalb schildert die Königin den Weg der „Feuerpost“, benennt Station für Station vom Berg Ida bis nach Mykene. Die Ambivalenz der Begriffe Licht und Feuer wird wiederholt angesprochen, wird in Sprichwörtern und Redewendungen konzentriert: nach der Brandschatzung Trojas gilt es Opferfeuer abzubrennen, war eben erst der neue Morgen jubelnd begrüßt worden, so heißt es dann „Doch als das Licht des Tages strahlend wiederkam, / da sahen rings wir das ägäische Meer erblüht / von Leichen der Archaier und von Schiffsgebälk.“ (Vers 658ff.) „Du erwarte, dass / als erster und am ehsten Menelaos kommt. / Wenn irgend ihn lebendig und des Lichtes froh / ein Strahl des Helios erspäht…/“ (Vers 674ff.) An das dichterische Wort und die Phantasie der Zuschauer wurde von den Griechen hohe Anforderungen gestellt und aber auch erfüllt. Alles was sich auf der Bühne ereignete ging vom Text, von der Kenntnis des Mythos und seiner Verbindung zur unmittelbaren – politische – Gegenwart aus. Das Publikum fühlte sich nicht nur mit seiner Bildung gefordert, III.

Europa, nimmt man den byzantinischen Bereich aus, hatte als politische und kulturelle Einheit im 5. Jahrhundert zu existieren aufgehört. Mit dem Untergang des weströmischen Reiches ging auch die Theaterkultur unter, die für die Antike, bei aller Unterschiedlichkeit der Theaterformen, in Griechenland und Rom prägend gewesen war. Der Neuanfang, der nicht zuletzt religiös fundiert war, erwuchs aus dem Ritus, auch inspiriert von der Performativität kirchlicher Handlungen, die in den geschlossenen Räumen der Gotteshäuser vollzogen wurde. So etwa ein ritueller Brauch (Tenebris), der in der Osternacht vollzogen wurde: in Gedenken an den Tod Christi wurden alle Lichter im Gotteshaus gelöscht. Die Kirche versank in völliger Dunkelheit und Stille. Dann 

flammte ein einziges Licht, die Osterkerze, auf an der nach und nach die Lichter der Kirche und in den Händen der Gläubigen entflammt wurden. In der Helle triumphierte der Osterjubel. Mönche, Bauern und Bürger lebten im Rhythmus der Tages- und Jahreszeiten. Besondere Anlässe, wie die Feste des Adels, aber auch der Kirche, wurden durch verschwenderisch eingesetztes – künstliches – Licht ausgezeichnet. Es ist für das Mittelalter in hohem Maß bezeichnend, dass einer der prägenden Intellektuellen des hohen Mittelalters, der Abt von Saint-Denis, Suger, mit einer Metaphysik des Lichts jenen Schritt begründet, der aus der wehrhaften düsteren Romanik in die sich dem Außen öffnende, elegant leichte, lichte Gotik führt. „Die edle Helligkeit des Werkes ist dazu da, um die Geister zu erleuchten und sie durch wahres Licht zu dem wahren Licht zu führen, dessen wahre Pforte Christus ist… Was nur Materie ist, leitet den stumpfen Geist zur Wahrheit, und durch den Anblick des Lichtes erweckt es ihn wieder aus seiner anfänglichen Erniedrigung.“10 Gott sei zugleich Licht und sei Fleisch geworden.11 Das Licht als grundlegendes Element der Religion wird im Mittelalter durchaus auch in seinen ästhetischen Qualitäten gewürdigt. Die monumentalen Fenster aus farbigem Glas tauchen das Kircheninnere in eine Fülle farbiger Reflexe. „Das Bild wurde im Inneren auf dem Glasfenster immateriell bis hin zum Verschwinden im Flimmern der Strahlen.“12 „Die Freude an Farbe und Licht“13 in der mittelalterlichen Ästhetik wird von Umberto Eco durchaus auch als Thema der Naturwissenschaften und der Philosophie beschrieben, ohne dass der religiöse Aspekt vernachlässigt würde. Er hält fest: „Unmittelbarster Aspekt der qualitativen Ästhetik war die Freude an Farbe und Licht.“…die Emp10 Georges Duby: Kunst und Gesellschaft im Mittelalter (Le Moyen Age, Paris 1995), Berlin 1998, p. 57f. 11

w.o. p. 58.

12 w.o. p. 85. 13 Umberto Eco: Kunst und Schönheit im Mittelalter, München und Wien 1991 (Arte e bellezza nell’estetica medievale, Milano 1987).



fänglichkeit für Farbe und Licht ist eine Gegebenheit, ist spontane Reaktivität, die typisch mittelalterlich ist und die sich erst im nach hinein als wissenschaftliches Interesse artikuliert und in der metaphysischen Spekulation systematisiert wird. (wenngleich schon von Anfang an das Licht in den Texten der Mystiker und Neuplatoniker bereits als Metapher der spirituellen Wirklichkeit erscheint.)14 Es ist zu beobachten, dass das Öffnen der Wände gotischer Kirchen, der Gemeinde aber auch eine neue Funktion zuweist: sie wird aus ihrer Anonymität entlassen und zum Partner des Messgeschehens, zum Zuschauer eines performativen Ereignisses, der die anderen Teilnehmer deutlich wahrnimmt. Der Neubeginn des Theaters ereignet sich in geschlossenen Kirchenräumen in der Oster- und Weihnachtsnacht. Das – künstliche – Licht hat in diesen kurzen, von Musik getragenen, tief im Kult verankerten Szenen, gottesdienstliche, aber auch dramaturgische Qualität. Die Übersiedlung der religiösen und bald auch weltlicher szenischer Spiele aus der Kirche auf die Plätze der Städte bedeutet meist, dass künstliches Licht nicht benötigt wurde, dass es, etwa durch mitgeführte Requisiten, erspielt werden musste. Es lässt sich beobachten, dass in den Spieltexten kaum Angaben zum Licht in der jeweiligen Szene gemacht werden. Das Tageslicht das die öffentlichen Plätze erhellte musste nicht besonders erwähnt werden. Und wie man Dunkelheit darzustellen vermochte kann man noch bei Shakespeare, Kyd und Marlowe nachlesen. Andererseits haben wir durch einen seltsamen Zufall bis ins technische Detail gehende Beschreibungen von Kirchenraumspielen in Florenz der ersten Hälfte des 15. Jahrhunderts, in denen ausführlich und mit großer Sorgfalt berichtet wird. Aus dieser Quelle, einer 1439 entstandenen Niederschrift, wird klar, dass bei den auf Effekt ausgerichteten Inszenierungen dem Licht eine besondere Rolle zukam.15 Ein 14 Eco, p. 67f. 15 Alexander Wesselofsky: Italienische Mysterien in einem russischen Reisebericht des XV. Jahrhunderts; in: Russische Revue X, Wien1877, p. 241ff.



russischer Teilnehmer, Abraham Bischof von Ssusdal, an dem in Ferrara und Florenz tagenden Wiedervereinigungskonzil, machte sich über das Geschehen der sacre rappresentazioni so ausführliche und detailreiche Notizen, dass es der Forschung im Zusammenführen mit Florentiner Quellen gelang, die räumlichen und technischen Gegebenheiten in großartigen Modellen (Cesare Lisi) zu rekonstruieren. Es ließ sich nachweisen, dass niemand geringerer als Filippo Brunelleschi Schöpfer der meisten, wenn nicht aller, Effektmaschinen gewesen sein dürfte. In Santa Maria del Carmine wurde ein aufwändiges Himmelfahrtsspiel inszeniert, das durch seine Effektmaschinen über Jahrzehnte berühmt bleiben sollte. Das Licht hunderter Kerzen diente dazu, die Natur des Göttlichen als Licht sichtbar werden zu lassen. Ähnlich kostbar war das Kirchenspiel zum Fest Mariae Verkündigung in der SS.Annunziata. Brunelleschi hatte auf einem hohen Gerüst das Himmlische Paradies aufgebaut in dem inmitten eines Engelschores Gottvater thronte, umkreist von sieben leuchtenden Ringen, die dem antiken Verständnis gemäß, das Himmelsgewölbe bildeten. Der russische Beobachter ist sich der Anspielung an die Antike durchaus bewusst, denn er notiert: „Dies alles ist in Nachahmung der sieben oberen Planetenhimmel, der himmlischen Mächte und des nie versieg Enden Engels-Lichtes dargestellt.“16 An die tausend (fünfhundert nach anderen Quellen) Öllampen sollen bei diesem Spektakel eingesetzt worden sein. Der Akt der Empfängnis wird durch Licht begreifbar zu machen versucht, möglicherweise hat man ein raketenähnliches Instrument hier schon verwendet, denn in dem Bericht heißt es: “Unterdessen geht von Gott dem Vater ein Feuer aus, unter großem Geräusch und Donner ohne Unterlass… und prallt nach unten zurück, so dass die ganze Kirche voller Funken war… das Feuer kommt vom oberen Gerüste in immer größerer Fülle und mit furchtbarem Gedonner, die Lichter in der Ludovico Zorzi, Il Luogo Teatrale a Firenze, Milano 1975, ders. Il Teatro e la Città, Torino 1977. 16 w.o., p. 425.



Kirche anzündend, aber ohne die Kleider der Zuschauer zu versengen oder irgend ein Übles zuzufügen. Als der Engel den Ort erreicht, von dem er ausgegangen war, hört die Flamme auf und die Vorhänge werden wie vordem geschlossen.“17 IV.

Kirchliche Spiele in denen auch die technische Meisterschaft der Ausstatter zur Schau gestellt und die verblüffende Überraschung als Qualität gewürdigt wurde, haben bedeutenden Einfluss auf die exklusiven Festlichkeiten, die mit szenischen Mitteln an den Höfen immer beliebter wurden. Freilich hat sich die Qualität des Lichtes wesentlich verändert: „Light not as a symbol of all-pervading clarity of God but of the enhanced sense of live of the Renaissance itself.”18 So etwa war der Hof der Sforza in Mailand ein Zentrum festlicher Huldigungsspiele, die all die eben erst erprobten technischen Möglichkeiten nutzten und neue dazu gewannen. Niemand geringerer als Leonardo da Vinci inszenierte das Huldigungsspiel ‚La Festa del Paradiso’ von Bernardo Belinconi im Jänner 1490 aus Anlass der Hochzeit von Gian Galeazzo Maria Visconti und Isabella von Aragon/ Neapel. Dieses ‚teatro della sopresa’ war kostbar durch seine bislang nie gesehenen Effekte und die Kostbarkeit der ganzen Ausstattung, die nicht zuletzt dem Licht zu danken war. Durch bewegliche Lichter wurde das ptolemäische Universum nach- und dargestellt, man erkannte Sterne und Sternzeichen. Die Planeten wurden personifiziert und zollten der Herzogin Tribut, indem sie in ihren Gesängen und Tänzen eine Verbindung zwischen dem Universum und der Braut demonstrierten. Roy Strong weist darauf hin, dass einzig für diesen Anlass ein Saal des Palastes in ein Theater mit ansteigenden Zuschauerreihen und einer herzoglichen Loge umgestaltet wurde und dass das Halboval der Spielzone 17 w.o., p. 430f. 18 Gösta M.Bergman, lighting in the Theatre, Stockholm and Totowa, New Jersey 1977, p. 44.



dem Zuschauerraum gegenüber gestellt wurde.19 Man kann wohl annehmen, dass der Darstellung des Sternenhimmels wegen, der Zuschauerraum etwas abgedunkelt war. Zur Feier der fürstlichen Hochzeit bemühte man Kosmos und Mythologie. Spiel- und Zuschauerzone gingen zwar ineinander über, hatten aber doch verschiedene Funktionen, Anlassgemäß war der amphitheatralisch ansteigende Publikumsteil des Saales als – paradiesischer – Garten gestaltet. Einen damals entwickelten Effekt sollte das Theater beibehalten: im geschlossen Raum des Theaters wurden mit Vorliebe Landschaften, Häuserfluchten, Wälder, Küsten, Verließe, Säle und Stuben dargestellt. Man liebte es Weite und Enge sich abwechseln zu lassen, aber auch das Auditorium verwandelte man zu verschiedenen festlichen Anlässen in Landschaften, während man bei Freilichtveranstaltungen viel Mühe darauf verwandte, glaubhafte Innenräume hinzustellen. Das Spiel mit imaginierten Räumen gehörte zu den beliebtesten Reiz-Mitteln des Theaters. Um die Kostbarkeit eines Festes zu erhöhen verlegte man Freilichtveranstaltungen in die Nacht und schloss bei Aufführungen im Saal die Festerläden. Jede LichtStimmung musste sich einem künstlerischen Konzept unterwerfen, unbeeinflusst von Tageszeit und Wetter. Eine bessere, – affektbestimmte – Natur zu schaffen, auch dort, wo es galt die Gegenwelten der Grotten, Riffe, Kerker und Unterwelten darzustellen, war der Ehrgeiz der Schöpfer szenischer Ereignisse alle Mittel des Theaters spielen zu lassen. Das Gewohnte. Es galt nicht das Gewohnte abzubilden, sondern es in besonderem Licht neu erscheinen zu lassen und es dadurch, dem Charakter des Festes, neu erscheinen zu lassen, und erzielte damit eine Wirkung, die Brechts Verfremdungseffekt verwandt war. Ist doch das Fest ein „Moratorium des Alltags“ ein “auf Distanz zu gehen zu seinem

19 Roy Strong, Feste der Renaissance 1450-1650. Kunst als Instrument der Macht ( Strong: Art and Power, Woodbridge 1873, 1984) p. 66f.



Leben“.20 Das Licht ist ein wesentliches Mittel um diese Distanz zum Alltag zu erreichen. Die um die Wende zum 16. Jahrhundert beliebten Moreskentänze wurden oft mit Lichteffekten verbunden: Die Tänzer trugen oft Fackeln in den Händen und Lichter auf dem Kopf und malten durch ihre Bewegungen Lichtzeichen in die Nacht. Besonders deutlich wurde bei den verschiedenen Fest-Traditionen der italienischen Höfe die reiche Verwendung von Licht. Diese Staatsfeste trieben großen Aufwand und pflegten höchste künstlerische Ambition. Alois Maria Nagler, Theaterwissenschaftler an der Yale-Universität, dokumentierte als einer der ersten die Theateraufführungen am Hof der Medici als Teile mehrtägiger Festprogramme.21 Diese kostbare Kette repräsentativer Festlichkeiten sind politische Manifestationen, Volksfeste, vor allem aber auch Demonstrationen der Bildung und künstlerischen Leistungsfähigkeit von Florenz und seiner Herrscher. Anlässlich der Hochzeit Cesare d’Este mit Virginia Medici im Februar 1586 beanspruchte die Festfolge nicht weniger als sechzehn Tage. Den Höhepunkt bildete die Aufführung der Komödie ‚L’amico fido’ und sechs in sie eingeschobene musikdramatischer Intermezzi im Theatersaal der Uffizien. Bernardo Buontalenti, der Stil prägende Architekt Bühnen- und Kostümbildner, hatte den Saal dem Anlass gemäß umgestaltet, so dass er wie neu geschaffen erschien. Besonders erwähnt wird ein Podium in der Mitte des Saales als repräsentativer Ort für den Fürsten, seine Familien und seinen Ehrengäste. Das übrige Publikum saß auf amphitheatralisch aufsteigenden Sitzreihen (die Damen) und auf Bänken neben dem fürstlichen Podium (die Herrn). Über der Galerie hatte man einen locus amoenus geschaffen mit Spalieren blühender Myrten (des Anlasses wegen) und mit üppigen Blattpflan20 Odo Marquard, Kleine Philosophie des Festes, in: Das Fest eine Kulturgeschichte von der Antike bis zur. Gegenwart, München 1988, p. 414. 21 Alois Maria Nagler, Theater der Medici, in Maske und Kothurn, Vierteljahrsschrift für Theaterwissenschaft, 4. Jahrgang, Heft 2/3, Wien 1958, p. 168ff.



zen, deren Äste sich unter Früchten bogen. Man hatte auch nicht darauf vergessen, Hasen und Rehe in diesem paradiesischen, die Jahreszeiten überwindenden Garten zu verstecken. In Körben befanden sich lebende Singvögel, die auf ein Stichwort freigelassen wurden und im Saal umherschwirren konnten. Der Chronist erwähnt 24 Pyramiden in der Zuschauerzone, auf deren Spitze jeweils eine Vase befestigt war in der drei weiße Wachsfackeln brannten. Von der Decke hingen Luster mit insgesamt 288 Fackeln. Besonders erwähnt der Chronist, dass die Körbe der Vögel auch die Funktion hatten, das heruntertropfende Wachs aufzufangen. Der Saal war so hell, dass alle Detail der kostbaren Roben, die das Publikum für den feierlichen Anlass trug, wahrgenommen werden konnten. Die Beleuchtung der Bühne musste aber, um all die Staunen erregenden Effekte, die die Chronisten berichten, möglich zu machen, doch um einiges heller sein, als der Saal. Nagler fasst die Berichte zusammen: „Das erste Bühnenbild zeigte Florenz, Ort der Handlung in Bardis Komödie. Man erblickte die Kuppel des Domes, den Campanile, die Uffizien, den Palazzo Vercchio mit seinem charakteristischen Turm… Die Gebäude waren so realistisch nachgeahmt, dass man sie für wirklich halten konnte. Rossi (einer der zeitgenössischen Chronisten) rühmte den Aufriss und die besondere Beleuchtung, die der Architekt den Gebäuden gegeben hatte.“22 In einer Fußnote fügt Nagler an: „Rossi, S. 5 recto, erwähnt, dass Buontalenti der erste gewesen sei, der dafür eine Beleuchtungsmethode gefunden habe“, ohne zu versuchen zu klären, was damit gemeint war.23 Offenbar hatte Buontalenti Licht und Schattenmalerei, Transparenzeffekte und verdeckte Beleuchtungskörper zu kombinieren verstanden. „Alles wirkte zusammen, um den Sinnentrug vollkommen zu machen und dem Bild eine bisher unbekannte Tiefel (‚sfondato’, ‚lontananza’) zu geben… Dazu kam, dass der Bühnenhimmel (il Cielo della Prospettiva’) die Farbe 22 Nagler, p. 171. 23 Nagler, p. 171.



der Morgenröte hatte, und Rossi musste an Boccaccio denken, für den die Farben des Sonnenaufganges zwischen Scharlachrot und Orange lagen.“24 Es kann mit einiger Sicherheit angenommen werden, dass diese, durch die Lichtstimmung verklärte Vedute, in meisterhafter Perspektivdarstellung auf einen Prospekt gemalt war, dass man aber davor einige der beschriebenen Bauwerke – mit Winkelrahmen- plastisch errichtete, zwischen denen man Menschen, Kutschen und Reiter in Bewegung zeigte. Im zweiten Intermezzo wurde eine Gegenwelt in düsteren Farben, mit viel Rauch und Feuerschein gezeigt. Auch in der Komödie werden Beleuchtungseffekte wirkungsvoll eingesetzt. „Am Ende des vierten Aktes der Komödie verfinsterte sich der Himmel über Florenz. Aus den Wolken zuckten Blitze… fielen wie leuchtende Pfeile und es regnete und hagelte… Schließlich endete der Sturm, ein Regenbogen bildete sich in natürlicher Weise… Während die Nymphen sangen, heiterte sich der Himmel auf.“25 Die Berichte über die Aufführung des ‚L’Amico fido’, verraten eine genaue Kenntnis aller (technischer) Details und geben auch ein gutes Zeugnis über den erzielten Eindruck, wenn auch nicht klar wird, ob Buontalenti schon Kulissen einsetzte. Vor allem ergibt sich aus den Berichten von Bastiano de’ Rossi, Agostino Lapini, Giuseppe Pavoni, Settimani und Filippo Baldinucci, dass man besonderen Wert auf differenzierte Lichtregie legte. Die Wirkung der Beleuchtung wurde durch Kostüme aus reflektierenden Materialien ergänzt, die gleichsam von sich aus leuchteten. Besonders beliebt waren Stoffe in die Metallfäden eingewebt waren, oder Applikationen von geschliffenen Steinen oder Spiegeln. Bei den Festlichkeiten anlässlich der Hochzeit Großherzogs Ferdinando Medici mit Christine von Lothringen im Jahr 1589 war der Festkalender noch dichter und vielfältiger. Der Stellenwert des Theaters hatte sich nicht unbeträchtlich erhöht: neben der Komödie ‚La Pellegrina’ die durch eine Sienesische Laiengruppe ge24 Nagler, p. 171. 25 Nagler, p. 176.



boten wurde, bot man auch die Komödien ‚La Zingara’ und ‚La Pazzia’ gespielt von der bedeutenden Commedia dell’ Arte-Truppe der Gelosi. Die Aufführungen im Theatersaal der Uffizien begannen mit einem Lichteffekt: die Fackeln der Saalbeleuchtung (16 Luster mit je 18 Lichtern) entzündeten sich scheinbar von selbst. Neben derartigen Tricks kam es auch zu bühnentechnischen Neuerungen, die für das Theater prägend werden sollten: möglicherweise wurde hier ein erstes Mal eine Rampenbeleuchtung verwendet. In diesen Jahrzehnten bildete sich der Typenkanon des manieristischen und schließlich des barocken Theaters nach und nach aus. Zum festen Bestand gehörten Unterwelts- und Höllenszenen, wie sie im 4. Intermezzo zu ‚La Pellegrina’ durch Buontalenti im Sinne einer Kontrastdramaturgie gestaltet werden. Sie haben Vorbildcharakter für eine Vielzahl von Höllen- und Unterweltszenen, die sich im höfischen Musiktheater großer Beliebtheit erfreuten. „Die Hölle selbst war „tutto fuoco a fiamma“, Charon bewegt seinen Nachen auf dem Styx mit feurigen Rudern, vorbei an brennenden Felsen, über die Dämonen des Feuers flogen.“26 Diese Hölle erinnerte in vielen Details an Dantes Inferno. Im barocken Theater behielt man die wirkungsvollen Tricks bei und erfand immer neue dazu, der Bildungsbezug ging freilich meist verloren. Immer neue spektakuläre Tricks, das Zaubern mit offenem Feuer und Alkohol, Kolophonium, Magnesium, Schießpulver und verschiedenen Samen durfte der Zuschauer im Theater erwarten, wie die Perfektion der Transparenztechnik, die schon Sebastiano Serlio als wirkungsvolles Mittel der Bühne empfohlen hatte. Dass im Freilichttheater die Pyrotechnik immer größere Bedeutung erhielt lässt sich nachvollziehen, weniger aber, dass man aber auch in geschlossenen Räumen nicht auf sie verzichten wollte. Zahlreich sind seit dem 16. Jahrhundert Nachrichten über nächtliche Spektakel, die die Spiegelwirkung des Wassers dem Szenischen dienstbar machten. Eines der oft nachgeahmten Vorbilder war jene Seeschlacht mit 26 Nagler, p. 192.



nicht weniger als 18 Schiffen, die als Programmpunkt der Fürstenhochzeit des Jahres 1589 im Cortile des Palazzo Pitti, den man für dieses nächtliche Turnier unter Wasser gesetzt hatte, zum Ereignis wurde. Dass das Gebäude selbst festlich illuminiert war, findet der Chronist nicht wert zu berichten, da derartige Beleuchtungen sowohl bei kirchlichen, wie bei politischen Anlässen als kostbarer Rahmen erwartet werden konnten. Festliche Ereignis deren dynastisches Gewicht besonders betont werden sollte wurden durch ein doppeltes Herausnehmen aus dem Alltag ausgezeichnet: man verlegte sie vom Tag in die Nacht und machte die Nacht durch künstliche Beleuchtung und aufwändige Feuerwerke zum Tag. Der Ort der Aktion wurde durch Licht begrenzt und ausgezeichnet, aber auch verfremdet. Am französischen Hof, vor allem in der Regierungszeit Ludwig XIV., war verschiedenartiges Licht ein virtuos benütztes Mittel der Repräsentation und theatraler Inszenierung: durch eine Vielzahl von Fackeln, Öllampen und Kerzen wurde die Struktur der Fassaden des Gartenhofes von Versailles nachgezeichnet, ein allgemeines Streulicht aus den hell erleuchteten Räume sorgte für eine gleichmäßig erhellte Bühne. Stiche und Beschreibungen überliefern Festbeleuchtungen im Garten, die Teiche, Kanäle und architektonische Elemente, die sich im Wasser spiegeln, mit Licht für die Gäste des Königs nachzeichneten. Diese ‚Lichtschnitte’ wurden für die Nachwelt auch graphisch festgehalten. In dem monumentalen Hoffest, das Ludwig XIV. vom 1.–13. Mai 1664 als „Plaisirs de l’Isle enchantée“ in Versailles durchführen ließ, gleichsam eine Leistungsschau aller Künste, bildete ein Feuerwerk den Höhepunkt. Die Vernichtung des auf einer Insel eines Teiches aufgebauten Palastes der Zauberin Alcine und damit ihrer Macht, wurde durch ein gewaltiges Feuerwerk bewerkstelligt. Feuerwerke wurden bei repräsentativen Festen häufig als Finale eingesetzt und dramaturgisch mit den vorangehenden Teilen in Verbindung gebracht. Ähnliche Effekte wurden bei verschiedenartigen Festen wirkungsbewusst eingesetzt. So wurden 1565 bei



einem Turnierspiel der Valois Brandkugeln zwischen die kämpfenden geworfen,27 oder es wurden die Trauergerüste in Kirchen oder im Freien errichtet und verschwenderisch mit Kerzen ausgestattet. Von den Trauerfeierlichkeiten für Karl V. die in Brüssel abgehalten wurden, sind sowohl Berichte, wie aufwendig gestaltete, alle Einzelheiten veranschaulichende Stiche erhalten geblieben. „In der Kirche St. Agatha hatte man ein Gerüst in Form einer vierfachen Krone aufgebaut, an der unzählige Wachskerzen befestigt waren… Die ganze Konstruktion erstrahlte im Licht von Tausenden von Kerzen, was eine überwältigende theatralische Wirkung gehabt haben muss.“28 Interessant ist Strongs Beobachtung, dass in England beim Begräbnis von Jakob I. – wie auch sonst üblich – auf Kerzen verzichtet wurde, um protestantische Empfindlichkeiten nicht zu verletzten. Die Festlichkeit und Kostbarkeit künstlichen Lichts, seine mythische und mystische Qualität sollte vermieden werden. Die Klarheit des Tages sollte das Handeln und damit auch die Repräsentation bestimmen. Es stellt sich die Frage, ob Entwicklung und Geschichte des Theaters nicht durch das Verhältnis der jeweiligen Gesellschaft zum (Tages-) Licht bestimmt ist. Auch weil dort, wo mit und durch das künstliche Licht Illusion geschaffen, wo durch Schatten getäuscht wird, es schwerer fällt Lug und Trug zu entdecken. Dort wo das Licht durch die in der Hand gehaltene Laterne erspielt werden muss beobachtet der Zuschauer die Realität, beurteilt die Angemessenheit des Zeichens und vertraut der Sprache, dem gesprochenen Text und seinen Bildern. Die Trennung in öffentliches und höfisches Theater im England – und im Spanien –des 16. und 17. Jahrhunderts, ist die Option für Tages- oder Kunstlicht, für erspielten, der Phantasie aufgegebenen Raum oder für das, die Realität vorgebende raffinierte Verwandlungstheater, dessen Kunst der Täuschung den Zuschauer zur Kapitulation zwingt. In Epochen der Aufklärung, 27 Strong, p. 179. 28 Strong, p. 168f.



bis hin zu Bertolt Brecht, wird versucht, dieser Entmündigung zu entkommen. Ein entscheidendes Mittel der Objektivierung des Bühnenvorganges ist das –stimmungsfreie – Licht. V.

Im 16. Jahrhundert mit seiner intensiven und produktiven Beschäftigung mit dem antiken Theater und dem Entstehen antiken Vorbildern geschuldeten Theatertheorien wird durchaus auch auf das künstliche Licht als Beleuchtungs- und Gestaltungsmittel nicht verzichtet. Sebastiano Serlios Architekturtheorie ‚Architektura’, Paris (Venezia) 1545 (?) enthält auch einen Abschnitt zum Theaterbau und drei Holzschnitte: die Typendekorationen von Komödie, Tragödie und Satyrspiel, sowie einen Grundriss und einen Schnitt durch ein in einen vorhandenen Festsaal eingebautes Theater. (Seine sieben Bücher der Baukunst, die nicht immer Publikationsjahr und Ort ausweisen, referieren das Wissens der Zeit über die Architektur. Im zweiten Band: ‚Il secondo libro di perspettiva di Sebastiano Serlio’ sind seine Aussagen zum Theater zusammengefasst). Er widmet ein eigenes Kapitel „der künstlichen Beleuchtung der Bühne“ und teilt Rezepte mit, wie man auch farbiges Licht (in sehr bescheidenem Rahmen) erzeugen könne. Er empfiehlt verschiedenfarbige Flüssigkeiten in Glasgefäße zu füllen und hinter diesen starke Lichter zu postieren, etwa Fackeln hinter denen Barbierbecken als Reflektoren angebracht wurden. Die Bildbühne sollte also in märchenhaftem Licht erscheinen, die vorgelagerte neutrale Spielbühne sollte durch Fackeln, wie der Zuschauerraum, erleuchtet werden. „Aber diese bunten Lichter sind nicht die, welche die Bühne beleuchten; denn eine große Menge Fackeln hängen vor der Bühne. Man kann auch über die Bühne einige Leuchter mit Fackeln und darüber noch ein Gefäß mit Wasser anbringen, in das man ein Stück Kampfer tut der beim Verbrennen ein sehr schönes Licht gibt und angenehm duftet…“ Zur Beleuchtung der Komödienszene empfiehlt Serlio: „Will man aber das Licht scheinbar von der Seite ein

fallen lassen, dann male man die Schatten einheitlich und bringe den Leuchter unsichtbar in der Mitte an. Die kreisförmigen oder viereckigen Schmuckscheiben in den Fenstern sind transparent und haben verschiedene Farben. Es ist von guter Wirkung Lichter hinter die Fenster zu stellen, ganz gleich, ob sie aus Glas, Papier oder bemaltem Leinen sind.“29 Für Serlio hat das Licht also zwei Funktionen: es garantiert gute Sichtbarkeit der Darsteller (und des Publikums) und stattet durch farbiges Licht und virtuose Schattenmalerei die nicht bespielte Bildbühne zu einem plastischen Bild aus. Die Verbindung von Bild- und Spielbühne hat der Zuschauer in seiner Phantasie herzustellen, der in einem festlich beleuchteten Saal dem Spiel beiwohnt, um Bildung und Unterhaltung gleicher Weise zu genießen. Wesentlich für die Wirkung ist, dass indirektes Licht in der Dekoration untergebracht wird, dass Transparenzeffekte ebenso verwendet werden, wie blitzartig grelle Effekte. (Für die Entwicklung der Beleuchtungstechnik des Theaters waren all die Turniere, mythologisch allegorische Trionfi, Prozessionen und sonstige Festveranstaltungen von nicht zu unterschätzender Bedeutung, die man, um ihre Kostbarkeit zu steigern in die Nacht verlegte. Die im Theater des Manierismus und Barock so beliebten Höllen- und Unterweltszenen haben mit Sicherheit von diesen Erfahrungen profitiert. Der wohl bedeutendste Theoretiker des Theaters der Mitte des 16. Jahrhunderts, Leone Hebreo di Sommi, der in den 50er und 60er Jahren des 16. Jahrhunderts in Mantua seine vier Dialoge über das Theater schrieb, knüpfte an die Handwerksregeln Serlios an, ging aber, sowohl als Praktiker, wie als Theoretiker weit über sie hinaus. Im vierten Dialog setzt er sich mit der Inszenierung als profunder Kenner auseinander und geht ausführlich auch auf Fragen der Beleuchtung, ja der Lichtregie ein. Er fordert für die Bühne eine fröhliche, ja heiter festliche Atmosphäre so lange die Handlung heiter ist und lässt die Lichter löschen, wenn die Stimmung umschlägt, das Schicksal 29 Heinz Kindermann, Theatergeschichte Europas, II. Renaissance, 2. Auflage, Salzburg 1959, p. 103ff.



zuschlägt. Diese Art bewusster Lichtregie ist neu und wird schnell im Sinn dramatischer Kontrastgestaltung vom Theater übernommen. Ausführlich befasst sich di Sommi mit Lichtquellen, die vom Publikum nicht eingesehen werden können, die aber viel zur Grundhelligkeit der Bühne beitragen. Lichteffekte, etwa durch Sammellinsen und Spiegel ermöglicht, konnten auf dieser Basis aufbauen. Transparenzeffekte waren ihm ebenso bekannt, wie die Techniken verschiedenfarbiges Licht einzusetzen. Für die Ästhetik der Bühne war es von bleibender Bedeutung, dass di Sommi den Wert diffusen Lichts für die Stimmung erkannte. Er weiß sich in über die Bedeutung des diffusen Lichtes für die Malerei (und Bühne) mit Lionardo da Vinci einig, der vor der Wirkung zu dunkler, scharf begrenzter Schatten aus kompositorischen Gründen warnt. Bedeutsamer ist, dass di Sommi empfiehlt, den Zuschauerraum abzudunkeln, damit man auf der Bühne mit weniger Licht auskomme und trotzdem ihre festliche Helle bewundern könne. Er argumentiert pragmatisch. Weniger offene Flammen auf der Bühne verminderten Feuergefahr, Rauch und Gestank und machten alles billiger. Diese vernünftig erscheinenden Vorschläge werden in Zukunft von Theatertheoretikern häufig wiederholt, wie etwa von Angelo Ingegneri,30 eine Generation jünger als di Sommi, und bleiben doch so gut wie wirkungslos, wenn es um die Abdunkelung des Zuschauerraumes geht. Die gesellschaftlichen Zwänge bestimmen in diesem Fall das Theater. (Wenn man bedenkt welche Aufregung Richard Wagners völlige Verdunkelung des Zuschauerraumes verursachte und wie radikal sie sich dann in kürzester Zeit durchsetzte, dann lässt sich an dieser historischen Pointe der gesellschaftliche Wandel im Theaterpublikum deutlicher ablesen, als in soziologischen Untersuchungen). Eine wahre Fundgrube für das Beleuchtungswesen des 16. Jahrhunderts stellen die Berichte über die Einweihungsfeier 1585 mit der Inszenierung des ‚König Ödipus’ dar. Das Licht sei vor Beginn 30 Angelo Ingegneri, Il discorso della poesia rappresentativa e del modo di rappresentare le favole sceniche, (Vicenza) 1585.



der Aufführung gelöscht worden, um die Aufmerksamkeit des Publikums zu stärken. In einem ausführlichen Brief Giocomo Dolfin Battista Guarini und hält fest, dass das Spielpodium von sichtbaren Fackeln erleuchtet wurde, die Bildbühne jedoch mit den perspektivisch in die Tiefe führenden Gassen „von Leuchtern erhellt wurden, die so geschickt im Raum versteckt waren, dass sie dem verzauberten Publikum eine stimmungsvolle, an Tageslicht erinnernde Atmosphäre boten, während es außerhalb des Theaters schon Nacht geworden war.“31 Ingegneri möchte das Licht vom Proszeniumsbogen auf die Bühne (durch Spiegel) herunter geworfen wissen und darauf achten, dass in der Höhe der Gesichter der Akteure genügend Licht vorhanden ist, damit man ihre Mimik deutlich sehen könne. Di Sommi und Ingegneri, Gelehrte und theaterverantwortliche Höflinge, waren darum bemüht, das Geschehen auf der Bühne ins beste Licht zu rücken, deshalb suchten schönes helles Licht, eine ‚natürliche’ Lichtstärke und für die Scheinperspektive die besten Wirkung. Die Probe aufs Exempel zu machen blieb ihnen versagt und ihre Schriften gerieten in Vergessenheit. Von großem Einfluss blieben dagegen die Handbücher zweier Handwerker des Theaters, die die neuen und neuesten Entwicklungen der Bühnentechnik nicht mitbekommen hatten oder als nicht zukunftsfähig ablehnten. Nicola Sabbattini und Josef Furttenbach präsentieren eindringlich und mit manchen Wiederholungen den großen Fundus an Theatermaschinen, die mit relativ einfachen Mitteln, beachtliche Wirkung erzielen.32 Sabbattini kümmert sich um die Konstruktion und Positionierung der Lampen bis zu Banalitäten, wie 31 Marzia Maino, Beleuchtungstechnik und Bühne in Vicenza im 16. und 17. Jahrhundert, in: Licht.Kunst.Theater, Maske und Kothurn 54. Jahrgang 2008, Heft 3, p. 40. 32 Nicola Sabbattini, Pratica di fabricar scene, e machine ne’ teatri, Ravenna 1638 (libro secondo: della pratica di fabricar le scene 1639). = Anleitung Dekorationen und Theatermaschinen herzustellen von Nicola Sabbattini 1639 übersetzt und mit dem Urtext herausgegeben von Prof. Dr. Willi Flemming, Weimar 1926 Gesellschaft der Bibliophilen Joseph Furttenbach, Architectura Civilis, Ulm 1628; Joseph Furttenbach, Architectura Recreationis, Augsburg 1640.



etwa ihre Standfestigkeit. Wichtig ist für ihn die überlegte Ausführung der Licht und Schattenmalerei auf den Winkelrahmen, die er der Perspektive gehorchend auf die Bühne stellt. Er kümmert sich auch um die Beleuchtung des Zuschauerraumes mit den üblichen Warnungen vor tropfenden Kerzen und stinkenden Öllampen, die er auch auf Kronleuchter montiert wissen will. Das Saallicht soll nahe an die Bühne gerückt werden, um zur Erhellung der Bühne beizutragen. „Ferner denke man daran, von der Mitte des Saales nach hinten sehr wenige, ja beinahe keine Lichter anzubringen, dagegen sorge man für eine Fülle in der Nähe der Szene, da so die Häuser am genauesten sichtbar werden.“33 Für die Beleuchtung auf der Bühne soll man sorgfältig darauf zu achten, dass Öllampen oder Kerzen so angebracht sind, dass der Abschlussprospekt indirekt beleuchtet und dass die Perspektivmalerei unterstützt wird. Er überlegt auch recht primitive Möglichkeiten das Licht abzublenden und gibt an, welche Art von Öllampen, Kerzenleuchter und Luster sich für Bühne und Zuschauerraum am besten eignen. Diese biederen Rezepte haben handwerkliche Qualität und sind bis heute praktikabel, obwohl sie eine Generation nach der Erprobung des Kulissensystems durch Aleotti, die neue Technik nicht zur Kenntnis nehmen. VI.

Die konsequente Projektion des Räumlichen und des Körperlichen in die Fläche der Kulissen und Prospekte, die es ermöglicht, eine nahezu beliebig große Zahl von Dekorationswechseln während einer Aufführung durchzuführen, erforderte und bedingte nicht nur die Neupositionierung der Lichtquellen, sondern auch eine neue Qualität des Lichts. Licht und Schatten auf der Bühne und damit Körperlichkeit sind nun Aufgabe der Kulissenmaler. Licht, das die Scheinräumlichkeit entdecken konnte, musste deshalb so gut es ging, vermieden werden. 33 Flemming, p. 211.



Deshalb galt es einerseits, so gutes ging, starkes direktes Licht von der Bühne zu verbannen, beziehungsweise nicht nah zu den Kulissen zu positionieren, andererseits wurde viel Licht an der Rampe, in den Gräben und vor den Prospekten derart untergebracht, dass nur sein Schein sichtbar wurde. In den Freifahrten der Kulissen wurden so genannte Leitern eingeschoben auf denen Öllampen, Kerzen, Talglichter befestigt wurden. Diese ‚Leitern’ konnten wie die Kulissen und von diesen gegen die Zuschauer abgedeckt, vorgeschoben und zurückgezogen werden. Dadurch wurde es möglich Teile der Bühne auszuleuchten und die Lichtstärke in der Spielzone zu verändern. Diese ‚Lichterkästen’ beleuchteten die Fläche der in der Bühnentiefe nächsten Kulisse und trugen wesentlich zur allgemeinen diffusen Helligkeit der Bühne bei. Beliebt waren Transparenzeffekte, etwa bei Flugmaschinen, aber auch die Verwendung von Fackeln verschiedener Art, um die Lichtstärke zu steigern. Man war gewohnt reflektierendes Material einzusetzen: Im ersten Intermezzo von Parigis Inszenierung von ‚Il Giudizio di Paride’, Florenz 1608, erschien der Tempel des Ruhmes, der ganz aus Spiegeln bestand und deshalb hell strahlte. Bei den im Barock so beliebten Höllen- und Unterweltszenen sparte man nicht mit offenen Flammen, Schießpulver und anderem Explosivmaterial. Viel Licht kam von den im Portalbogen aufgehängten Lustern. Die Bilddokumente aus Frankreich und den Niederlanden34 zeigen häufig im Portal vielarmige Luster hängen. Das wohl berühmteste Beispiel für diese Beleuchtungstradition ist ein Stich, der das Gartentheater von Versailles während einer Aufführung des ‚Malade imaginaire’, 1674, mit Molière in der Titelrolle, wiedergibt. Vom Bogen des Portals hängen fünf Kerzen bestückte Luster, die einem schmalen Bühnenstreifen deutlich mehr Licht geben, als den anderen Teilen 34 Ein Stich zu einer Aufführung am 1. Juni 1768 in der Amsterdamschen Schouwburg dokumentiert fünf Luster mit je zwölf Kerzen (unmittelbar hinter) dem Portalbogen gehängt und achtunddreißig Lichter an der Rampe.

 

der Bühne. Die Aktion ist in diesem helleren Bezirk angesiedelt. Im deutsch- und italienischsprachigen Ländern fehlen derartigen Zeugnisse fast gänzlich. Man verbarg diese, das ‚Bild’ störenden, Lichtquellen, hing die Luster hinter den Portalbogen, der an seiner der Bühne zugekehrten Seite mit verschiedensten Lampen und Leuchten reich bestückt war und auch die Luster zu verdecken hatte. Die den Schauspielern so gern nachgesagte ‚Rampengeilheit’ war nicht zuletzt durch ihre Suche nach gutem Licht begründet. Deshalb traten sie an die Rampe oder suchten die Nähe des Portals. (Die uns überlieferten Bildquellen geben selten die Lichtverhältnisse der Bühne wieder und sind deshalb als Quelle nur bedingt vertrauenswürdig, da der Komposition des Bildes größeres Gewicht beigemessen wurde als der Berichterstattung über eine bestimmte Aufführung. Es galt den intendierten Eindruck zu vermitteln und nicht die reale szenische Situation. Ein gutes Indiz für die graphisch- kompositorische und nicht aufführungsdokumentarische Wiedergabe von Licht und Schatten ist der Umstand, dass der Stecher eine starke Lichtquelle meist in der Bühnenmitte annimmt. Hier gab es aber in der Regel, Rampe und Portalzone ausgenommen, wenig Licht, es sei denn, dass es in Versatzstücken in Flugwerken oder Versenkungen untergebracht worden war. Kaum bedacht wurde bislang ein Detail, dass aussagekräftig wäre: die Relation der Brenndauer der Leuchtmittel, die während einer Vorstellung erneuert werden mussten und der Länge szenischer Einheiten. Das heißt aber auch, dass Dramaturgie und Beleuchtung einander bedingen.) VII.

Im Barock, dieser Hochzeit des Theaters, mit der Perfektion der räumlichen Täuschung durch Projektion der Welt in die Fläche, werden so gut wie keine lichttechnischen Erfindungen von Bedeutung gemacht. Der Widerspruch zwischen der Körperlichkeit der Schauspieler und der Körperlosigkeit der Scheinwelt die sie umgab, wurde als ästhetischer Reiz, der durchaus dem Lebensgefühl ent

sprach, aufgefasst. Deshalb hatte man letztlich keine Veranlassung Veränderungen durchzusetzen. Es ist bezeichnend, dass man es mit dem Aufkommen eines neuen Raumgefühls, als Zumutung zu empfinden begann, wenn beim Kulissenwechsel ganze Straßenzüge zu schwanken begannen und auf Flächen gemalten Lichts Schatten vielen. Immer öfter begriff man die Bühne als Schule der Weltanschauung, als Rostra für politische Aussagen. Das bloß Scheinhafte konnte in dieser Welt klaren Lichts nichts zu suchen haben. Ein bezeichnendes Beispiel für ein Theater der Morgendämmerung der Aufklärung ist das Teatro Scientifico im Palazzo dell’Accademia Virgiliana in Mantua, dem Versammlungsort einer gelehrten Gesellschaft, das von Antonio Galli Bibiena 1769 vollendet worden war. Der Raumabschluss der Bühne bildet eine scena fissa, eine zweistöckige begehbare Schauwand, die von monumentalen Logen gebildet wird. „Mit dieser für die Zuschauer begeh- und benutzbare Bühnenwand wurde ein deutlicher Gegenentwurf zu den geläufigen, perspektivisch gestaffelten Kulissenbühnen der zeitgenössischen höfischen und bürgerlichen Theater und Opernhäuser formuliert. Der Architekt gestaltete auf Geheiß seiner Auftraggeber eine Tribuna im antiken Sinne als Vortragsort oder Arena für Redner und Musiker… Die Akteure wirkten vor der reich gegliederten Architektur erhöht und nobilitiert… Die zahlreichen Durchbrüche der Bühnenwand korrespondieren mit den Fenstern des Palastes… die zur tatsächlichen Öffnung des Saales nach außen beitrugen. Bibienas innovatives Beleuchtungskonzept entsprach den Anforderungen der Akademie, die das Theater oftmals bei Tage nutzte.“35 Durch das Licht wird hier die Funktion von Zuschauerraum und Bühne gleichsam umgedreht. Das Publikum sitzt in der künstlich beleuchteten Scheinwelt der mit monochromen Fresken arkadischer Landschaften und klassischer Szenen kostbar ausgestatteter Logen und im 35 Ursula Quecke, Das Teatro Scientifico in Mantua, in: Teatro. Eine Reise zu den oberitalienischen Theatern des 16.–19. Jahrhunderts, Marburg 1991, p. 85.



glockenförmig schwingenden Parterre des Zuschauerraums mit all seinen Hell-Dunkel-Effekten, während das Geschehen auf der Bühne im klaren Licht des Tages geheimnislos allen vor Augen liegt. Antonio Galli Bibiena weiß sich mit seinen Zeitgenossen durchaus einig, dass eine grundlegende Reform des Theaters ansteht. Im Gegensatz zu den meisten Architekten, die sich – meist nur theoretisch – mit der Reform des Theaterbaus auseinandersetzen und von der Neukonzeption des Zuschauerraums ausgehen, belässt er das Auditorium, wie man es von Neapel bis Stockholm liebt und befreit aber die Bühne von allem Werkzeug der Illusion, sich auch an Elemente des antiken römischen Theaters erinnernd, ohne freilich dessen imperiale Kolossalität anzustreben. Die Zeitgenossen rühmen die besondere Qualität dieses Hauses, eines der wenigen Reformtheater dieser Epoche des Umdenkens, das nicht nur entworfen, sondern auch gebaut wurde. Das Haus hat bis heute seine wundervolle Akustik und seine beeindruckende Atmosphäre bewahren können, wenn auch die Kerzen vor und in den Logen durch Glühbirnen ersetzt werden mussten. Die diaphane Struktur der Logenwände gibt dem glockenförmigen Zuschauerraum dezente Heiterkeit und der Bühnenarchitektur gemessene Würde. Das ganze Haus wird aber erst durch die Art seiner Beleuchtung als Festraum inszeniert. Diese Wirkung hat bereits die Zeitgenossen des Erbauers fasziniert. Als Leopold Mozart im Jänner 1770 mit Wolfgang Amadeus nach Mantua kommt berichtet er seiner Frau nach Salzburg: „Ich habe in meinem Leben von dieser Art nichts schöneres gesehen.“ Die Bedeutung dieses radikalen Versuchs einer Neudefinition des Theaterraumes und seiner künstlerischen und stimmungsmäßigen Möglichkeiten bleibt ein in der Praxis umgesetzter Einzelfall, dessen Radikalität besonders deutlich wird, wenn man zeitgenössische Quellen heranzieht, die sich nicht nur auf Aufführungsreportagen beschränken, sondern Feste, gesellschaftliche Ereignisse, berichten, die im Theater stattfinden. Ein Bespiel aus Venedig aus dem Jahr 1782. Die Bühne

 

ist von Kulissen und Prospekten leer geräumt. Sie wird von 14 zwölfarmigen Lustern ausgeleuchtet, wie ein Stich von Antonio Baratti zeigt, der einen Galaabend im Teatro San Benedetto dokumentiert. Alles Licht ist auf die Bühne konzentriert, die durch eine Treppe mit dem Zuschauerraum verbunden ist, aus dem man die Sitzreihen entfernt hat. Im diffusen Licht werden deutliche Schatten sichtbar, die nach verschiedenen Richtungen fallen. Das Erinnerungsblatt demonstriert eindrucksvoll, den (willkürlichen) Umgang mit von Lichtquellen unabhängigen Schatten durch den Graphiker. VIII.

Obwohl man im zu Ende gehenden 18. Jahrhundert in ganz Europa mehr oder minder radikale Überlegungen zu Aufgaben, Möglichkeiten und Pflichten des Theaters anstellte, blieben entscheidende Veränderungen zu einer Neupositionierung von Bühne und Zuschauerraum in der Praxis lange aus. Für Architekten gehörte es in der zweiten Hälfte des 18. Jahrhunderts geradezu zum guten Ton, sich Gedanken zur Reform des Theaters zu machen und Auswege vorzuschlagen, wie man dem barocken Rang-Logen Theater entkommen könne, das man mit aller Schärfe kritisieren zu müssen meinte. Die Demokratisierung der Zuschauerzone war eine Forderung, die Abschaffung der Kulissen und damit der Projektion der Welt in die Fläche eine andere. Dass die Umsetzung der theoretisch oft gut untermauerten Vorschläge ausblieb hatte mehrere Gründe: das Rang-Logentheater erlaubte, es eine große Zahl von zahlenden Zuschauern bei jeder Vorstellung im Haus unterzubringen, die Kulissen- und Bühnentechnik war leistungsfähig und längst perfektioniert, vor allem aber hatte man sich an verschiedene Missstände, wie die Rauchund Hitzeentwicklung der Beleuchtung von Bühne und Zuschauerraum gewöhnt. Die angedachten Reformen umzusetzen wurde erst möglich, als neue Techniken der Beleuchtung entwickelt und erprobt worden waren. Bisher war es die selbstverständliche Regel, dass man größere Lichtstärke nur durch eine Vermehrung der  

Kerzen, Öllampen und Fackeln erreichen könne. Durch die von Argand konstruierten, mit Zylindern und Spiegeln versehenen Öllampen, erstmals 1785 in der Grand Opera in Paris eingesetzt, hatte man ein Leuchtmittel zur Verfügung, das die Helligkeit von zehn Kerzen aufwies, in seiner Lichtstärke, aber auch – durch Filter – farblich regulierbar war. Vom Kronleuchter der Pariser Oper strahlten nicht weniger als 92 derartige Lampen, von der Rampe 52, auf der ganzen Bühne mehr als 400 derartige Öllampen und erreichten die Lichtstärke von mehr als 4000 Kerzen. Während Kerzen während der Vorstellung ersetzt werden mussten, war die Brenndauer der Argandschen Lampen so bemessen, dass sie zumindest für eine Vorstellung reichte. Leuchtkraft, Leuchtdauer und Regulierbarkeit waren Qualitäten, die dem Theater neue Horizonte eröffneten, beziehungsweise die Realisation von einst utopischen Architekturkonzepten nicht mehr unmöglich machte. In der zweiten Hälfte des 18. Jahrhunderts wurde es geradezu zur intellektuellen Mode sich mit dem Theater zu befassen. Die meisten Aufklärer begannen die als notwendig erkannte Reform des Theaters im Zuschauerraum, demokratisierten Sicht- und Hörbarkeit und erkannten das Rang-Logentheater als Ausdruck einer feudalen Gesellschaft. Das antike Auditorum erschien als ideales Vorbild für ein Theater einer egalitäre Gesellschaft. Die Bühne interessierte die Reformer weniger, da man sich für die Kulissenverwandlungsbühne Ersatz nicht vorstellen konnte. Die neue Beleuchtungstechnik eröffnet die Chance auch die Bühne zu reformieren. Eine der Hauptforderungen der Zeit war den Scheinraum durch geschlossene (Zimmer-)Dekorationen zu ersetzen, also der Bühne ihre Plastizität (vorerst noch ohne den Raum nach oben hin abzuschließen) zurückzugeben. Die Lichtstärke der neuen Öllampen erlaubte es auf die Lichtleitern in den Kulissengassen zu verzichten und die Szene von oben, vom Schnürboden aus, zu beleuchten. Berlin, ein Zentrum theaterreformatorischer Diskussionen an der Wende vom 18. zum 19. Jahrhundert,

 

hatte sehr früh Argend-Lampen zum Einsatz gebracht. Namhafte Architekten, im Dienste des preußischen Königs, wie J. A. Breysig, L. Catel, F. Gilly und schließlich K. F. Schinkel publizierten Streitschriften und Abhandlungen, um das Theater von Grund auf zu reformieren.36 „Catel geht bei seinen Vorschlägen von einer gänzlichen Reform der Bühne aus. In der üblichen Kulissenbühne mit ihren falschen Perspektiven sieht er das Grundübel des alten Theaters... Um den Unterschied zwischen der plastischen Körperlichkeit des Schauspielers wie der Gebrauchsrequisiten und der gemalten Scheindekoration zu vermeiden, will Catel das Proszenium nach vorn erweitert wissen. Auf ihm soll sich in einer Umgebung von plastischen Elementen die dramatische Handlung abspielen. Der Hintergrund soll durch einen im nötigen Abstand aufgehängten gemalten Prospekt abgegrenzt werden, der den Ort der Handlung bestimmt.“37 Wie er die sich auf einer Art Vorderbühne ereignenden Szenen beleuchten will wird nicht ganz klar. Offenbar sollte das Licht von der Rampe kommen. Auf diesem nun soliden theoretischen Fundament baut Karl Friedrich Schinkel auf, der der ‚produktiven’ Phantasie des Zuschauers stärker vertraut als alle seine Vorgänger. Er schlägt eine radikale Entrümpelung der Bühne vor, der der Szene ihre alte Plastizität wieder bringen soll, aber auch die Aufmerksamkeit des Publikums zum Wort zurückführen soll. Seine Überlegungen für die Umgestaltung des königlichen Schauspielhauses auf dem Gendarmenmarkt sind freilich so radikal, dass keine Chance zu ihrer Verwirklichung gegeben waren. Ein „symbolischer Hintergrund“ müsse als Anregung für den Zuschauer genügen. „Für die Erleuchtung der 36 J. A. Breysig, Versuch einer Erläuterung der Reliefperspektive, Magdeburg 1798; ders. Szenographie und Bühnengemälde, Königsberg 1808; Louis Catel, Vorschläge zur Verbesserung der Schauspielhäuser, Berlin 1802; F. B. Biermann, Die Pläne für die Reform des Theaterbaues bei Karl Friedrich Schinkel und Gottfried Semper; Berlin 1928 = Schriften der Gesellschaft für Theatergeschichte, Band 38; Karl Friedrich Schinkel Architektur Malerei Kunstgewerbe. Verwaltung der Staatlichen Schlösser und Gärten, Ausstellungskatalog, Berlin 1981; Friedrich Gilly 1772–1800 und die Privatgesellschaft junger Architekten, Ausstellungskatalog, Berlin 1987. 37 Biermann, p. 25.

 

Szene entstehen die größten Vorteile, da durch den Gewinn an Raum“ (durch den Wegfall von Kulissen und Soffitten) „und der Ruhe vor unnützen Bewegungen der Maschinen überall mit größter Freiheit Beleuchtung angebracht werden kann, besonders aber von oben herab weit mehr zu wirken ist. Das Licht, welches bis jetzt für die Beleuchtung der hinteren Gardinen oder aus den Kulissen und von einer Lichtrampe am Boden bewirkt werden konnte, die überdies gewöhnlich sehr unschicklich mit einem bloßen Brette verdeckt war, gab bei hellbeleuchteter Szene eine solche Blendung auf die unteren Regionen, dass die handelnden Personen wie dunkle Gestalten davor herumwandelten. Durch die hier angegebene Beleuchtung von oben herab wird es möglich, die Szene im ganzen hell zu machen, ohne besonders der unteren Region, welche die Schauspieler betreten zu viel Blendung zu geben. Außerdem wird das von oben fallende Licht weit natürlicher wirken als das von unten aufsteigende.“38 Schinkel plant ein tiefes, durch zwei mal vier korinthische Säulen strukturiertes Proszenium mit einer flachen Kassettendecke, dem er auch akustische Vorteile beimisst. Es denkt aber auch daran, den Orchestergraben zwei Fuß tiefer zu legen, um eine bessere Mischung der einzelnen Stimmgruppen des Orchesters zu erreichen. Er sorgt auch für die richtige Aufstellung der Beleuchtung im Proszenium und für den, den Ort bestimmenden Abschlussprospekt. Das Licht des Zuschauerraumes sollte abblendbar gestaltet werden. Die Reformvorschläge der preußischen Architekten waren zu weit der Zeit voraus als dass sie hätten verwirklich werden können. Sie schufen allerdings eine produktive Unruhe die einzelne Elemente ihrer Erkenntnisse nach und nach durchsetzte. Zudem machte die Lichttechnik eine stürmische Entwicklung durch, die dem Theater eine Fülle neuer Möglichkeiten anboten. Im Jahr 1818 wurde das Covent Garden Theatre in London mit einer Gasbeleuchtung ausgestattet, 1822 folgen die Opernhäuser von Paris und Berlin, 1824 das Kärntnertor Theater in Wien. Das Gaslicht hatte einige 38 Karl Friedrich Schinkel in: Biermann, 34ff.

 

Vorteile: es brachte mehr Helligkeit ins Haus, war zentral in der Lichtstärke steuerbar und hatte den Charakter von Tageslicht (weiß oder blaustichig, je nach der Art des Gemischs). Es ist zu beobachten, dass die Theater die neue Technik nicht nützen, um das althergebrachte Kulissensystem zu überwinden, sondern es bloß adaptieren, um in den gewohnten Gleisen weiterfahren. Verbesserungen der Gastechnik werden von den Theatern schnell übernommen, die sich lange nicht eingestehen, dass durch die größere Helligkeit die Scheinräumlichkeit der Kulissenmalerei entdeckt wird. Man nimmt aber auch in Kauf, dass Sauerstoffmangel und Hitze auf den Galerien bedrohliche Formen annehmen und bleibt beim Kulissensystem als man mit einer elektrischen Bogenlampe 1849 bei der Uraufführung der Oper ‚Der Prophet’ von Meyerbeer über eine Lichtquelle verfügt, deren Helligkeit 500 Kerzen entspricht. Eine Reihe katastrophaler Theaterbrände beschleunigt in den 80er Jahren des 19. Jahrhunderts die Einführung elektrischer Beleuchtungsanlagen mit Glühlampenund Bogenlicht. Ein Problem bildete die ursprünglich geringe Lichtausbeute und kurze Lebensdauer der Glühlampen. Erst jetzt beginnt man die Kulissen langsam von den Bühnen zu räumen und Spiel-Räume zu bauen. Es vergehen freilich noch Jahrzehnte bis das Licht in Bewegung gesetzt werden kann. Einer der führenden Theater-Architekten seiner Zeit, Max Littmann, beschreibt noch 1907 die Situation. „Ich verkenne auch nicht die mancherlei Verbesserungen, die unsere Bühnenbilder durch die Einführung des elektrischen Lichtes erfahren haben, obgleich ja heute das elektrische Licht auf der Bühne immer noch sehr wenig seinem Wesen nach verwendet wird, und in der Hauptsache doch nicht mehr ist als Ersatz der alten Öl- und Gaslichter.“39 Der kritische Zwischenruf Littmanns erfolgt mehr als ein Jahrzehnt nach Adolphe Appias ‚Mise en scène du drame wagnérien’ und gleichzeitig mit einer Viel39 Carl-Friedrich Baumann, Licht im Theater. Von der Argand-Lampe zum Glühlampen-Scheinwerfer; Die Schaubühne. Quellen und Forschungen zur Theatergeschichte, Bd.72, Stuttgart 1988, p. 65ff.

 

zahl von Experimenten mit dem Licht der Bühne, die Edward Gordon Craig als Regisseur, Graphiker und Theatertheoretiker in radikaler Weise imaginiert und nicht zuletzt auch durch eigene Erfindungen Schritt für Schritt für die Bühne gewinnt. Appia spricht von „Formkraft des Lichtes“, von seiner „allmächtigen Gestaltungsfähigkeit“, die sich nicht zuletzt auch durch verschiedenartige Schatten als lebensvolles Gestaltungsmittel erweist, die es ermöglicht „die innere Wesenheit der Vision“ auszudrücken. Der Musiker Appia sieht eine Verwandtschaft von Licht und Musik, da sie beide modulierbar, verwandelbar sind, aber auch Raum schaffende Qualität besitzen. Appia ist einer der ersten, der die gemalte Dekoration als untauglich für die Bühne erkennt, da sie notwendig mit der Körperlichkeit der Darsteller in Konflikt gerate.40 Appia leuchtet nicht einzelne Gegenstände heraus, er schafft durch Lichtstimmungen Bedeutung, das (farbige) Licht bleibt diffuse. Craig, der Analytiker, schneidet aus dem Dunkel mit scharfen Strahlen Räume, die er in Bewegung setzt, verändert, analysiert. Seine Lichtbündel sind scharf wie Messer, sind Skalpelle der Deutung. Die beiden maßgeblichen Reformatoren des Theaters des 20. Jahrhunderts bestimmen durch ihre, in gleicher Weise bildkünstlerischen, wie analytischen Werke das Theater des 20. Jahrhunderts. Beide schaffen, bevor die technischen Möglichkeiten gegeben sind, einen so vielfältigen Fundus an ästhetischen, analytischen, vor allem aber bühnengerechten Werkzeugen der szenischen Deutung, dass sie bis heute für das Theater prägend geblieben sind, weil es der Technik gelang ihre Intentionen apparativ umzusetzen.

40 Adolphe Appia, Goethes Faust. Erster Teil als Dichtung dargestellt mit 17 unveröffentlichten Zeichnungen herausgegeben von Carl Nissen, Bonn 1929, p. 5f.



Vom Haken- zum Beetpflug – Innovationen in der mittelalterlichen Landwirtschaft? Eike Gringmuth-Dallmer

Der hochmittelalterliche Transformationsprozeß, dessen Erforschung von tschechischer Seite maßgeblich von diesem Institut bestimmt wird, war ein außerordentlich komplexer Vorgang. Als wichtige Faktoren wären zu nennen Landesausbau und Städtebildung, die Herausbildung der neuzeitlichen ländlichen Siedlungsstruktur, der Kirchenorganisation und neuer, feudaler Abhängigkeitsverhältnisse. Alle Teilbereiche dieses gewaltigen Problemkreises haben sich mit der Frage auseinanderzusetzen, was an Traditionen eingeflossen ist und was wirklich neu, also innovativ ist. Ich möchte davon einen kleinen Ausschnitt herausgreifen, nämlich die landwirtschaftliche Produktion, die, trotz aller anderen Umwälzungen, entscheidend für die gesamte Gesellschaft war, nämlich die Ländwirtschaft. Das geschieht natürlich vornehmlich aus dem Blick der Archäologie, aber da wir uns ohnehin als interdisziplinäres Fach verstehen, kommt natürlich auch die auf schriftlichen Quellen beruhende Geschichtswissenschaft zu ihrem Recht. Ausgangspunkt werden die landwirtschaftlichen Produktionsinstrumente sein, an deren Behandlung sich dann, weniger intensiv, weitere Probleme anschließen. 1. Fragestellung und Quellenlage

In der mittelalterlichen Landwirtschaft gibt es eine Reihe von Veränderungen, die auf den ersten Blick den Eindruck vermitteln, es handele sich um eine von Innovationen geprägte Zeit. Sieht man aber näher hin, so ergeben sich einige Fragen:



1. Hatten die Veränderungen wirklich den Charakter von Innovationen, wenn man darunter einschneidende Neuerungen versteht?, 2. Handelte es sich wirklich um einen Schub, d.h. setzten sich die wichtigen Neuerungen in relativ kurzer Zeit durch? – und 3. Haben sie überall die agrare Produktion bestimmt oder nur in bestimmten Bereichen (z.B. klösterlichen Grundherrschaften)? Im Folgenden sei für eine Reihe wichtiger Erscheinungen eine Antwort auf diese Fragen versucht. Dabei erweist sich die Publikationslage als einigermaßen kompliziert. Von den jüngeren zusammenfassenden Werken zur Landwirtschaftsgeschichte des Mittelalters haben sich v.a. Ulrich Bentzien in „Bauernarbeit im Feudalismus“ und die „Frühgeschichte der Landwirtschaft in Deutschland“ intensiver mit der Frage befasst, welche Neuerungen denn wann nachweisbar sind, während andere diesem Gesichtspunkt geringere Beachtung schenkten. Für Einzelfragen müssen jedoch die weit gestreuten Publikationen herangezogen werden, die häufig nur einen oder wenige landwirtschaftliche Geräte unter vielen anderen Funden aufführen, mehr oder weniger knapp beschreiben und zeitlich einordnen. Wichtigste Grundlage dieser Arbeit war deshalb eine von mir in etwa vier Jahrzehnten zusammengetragene Datei. 2. Probleme der Quellenkritik

Unser Kenntnisstand zur landwirtschaftlichen Produktion ist regional und zeitlich extrem unterschiedlich, viel stärker, als er es z.B. bei der Keramik ist. Einige die hier besonders interessierenden landwirtschaftlichen Geräte betreffende Punkte seien genannt: 1. Die Dichte großflächiger Siedlungsgrabungen, aus denen am ehesten Funde landwirtschaftlicher Geräte, aber auch Befunde zur Siedlung selber zu erwarten 

sind, ist außerordentlich ungleichmäßig. Hervorzuheben sind für die Kaiserzeit, in der unsere Betrachtungen im wesentlichen ansetzen, die großen Unternehmungen im Nordseeküstenbereich, für Burgwälle und Siedlungen der Slawen die umfangreichen Forschungsprogramme der Nachkriegszeit in Deutschland, Polen, Tschechien und der Slowakei. Hingegen steht für die Merowingerzeit, d.h. das Reihengräbergebiet, Tausenden von Gräberfeldern nur eine Handvoll in den letzten zwei Jahrzehnten modern gegrabener Siedlungen wie Lauchheim gegenüber. Bezüglich der Wüstungen, die für das hohe und späte Mittelalter Material bereitstellen, sind leider großflächige Untersuchungen wie in Pfaffenschlag, Mstĕnice oder Gommerstadt die Ausnahme. 2. Fast durchgängig von der Kaiserzeit bis ins hohe Mittelalter sind Ackergeräte kaum als Grabbeigaben genutzt worden. Eine Ausnahme bildet alleine die Sichel insbesondere im Osten Mitteleuropas, worin sich wahrscheinlich der Einfluß reiternomadischer Völker, die das auch als Waffe nutzbare Gerät zur Ernährung der Tiere mit sich führten, niederschlägt. 3. Die Sitte, landwirtschaftliche Geräte in Horten niederzulegen, wurde, von vereinzelten Ausnahmen abgesehen, lediglich im nördlichen Mitteleuropa in der späten Kaiser-/frühen Völkerwanderungszeit (3.–5. Jh.) sowie im Großmährischen Reich geübt – Hortfunde mit landwirtschaftlichen Geräten 1.–12. Jh. wodurch wir über diese beiden Bereiche besonders gut (relativ) unterrichtet sind. 4. Die Form von Werkzeugen ist funktionsbedingt. Das hat zur Folge, dass sie sehr schnell ihre optimale Form gefunden haben – ein latènezeitlicher Hammer sieht kaum anders aus als ein heutiger. Daraus wiederum folgt, dass die entsprechenden Funde aus sich heraus kaum zu datieren sind und damit vielen Bearbeitern, die sich nicht speziell mit ihnen beschäftigt haben,



große Probleme bereiten. Die Folge ist eine vielfach mehr zufällige Ansprache, teilweise auch der Verzicht auf Abbildungen. Bei komplizierteren Geräten kommt hinzu, dass funktionale Unterschiede vorhanden gewesen sein können, die wir nicht mehr greifen können. Ob ein Pflug mit ein oder zwei Sterzen geführt wurde oder ein Radvorgestell besaß und wie die Art der Anspannung war, können wir nicht feststellen. – Haken und Beetpflug nach Miniaturen 5. Eine Reihe der hier angeschnittenen Probleme sind für die meisten Forscher/innen einfach nicht relevant. Wer hat sich schon mit der Düngung, den Bodennutzungssystemen oder der Energiefrage beschäftigt? 3. Die landwirtschaftlichen Geräte

Das wichtigste landwirtschaftliche Produktionsinstrument, das Pfluggerät, wird bekanntlich in den den Boden lediglich ritzenden Haken und den schollenwendenden Beetpflug untergliedert Nach dem Volkskundler Ulrich Bentzien, der sich intensiv mit den hier behandelten Problemen beschäftigt hat, setzte sich der Beetpflug spätestens im 13. Jh. voll durch. Besondere Bedeutung erlangte er für das Umbrechen der begrünten Brache. Bentzien unterscheidet. Vom deutschen Material ausgehend, drei Grundtypen: Der „altdeutsche“ Beetpflug mit Tüllenschar und der „norddeutsche“ Beetpflug mit platter Triangelschar ohne Tülle besaßen neben Sech und Vorgestell ein rechtsseitiges festes Streichbrett, das die Erde immer nach einer Seite warf und damit zu einer Aufwölbung der Ackerbeete (Wölbäcker, Hochäcker) führte. Demgegenüber war der mit einem symmetrischen Tüllenschar ausgestattete „südwestdeutsche“ Beetpflug mit einem verstellbaren Streichbrett versehen, das es gestattete, die Erde abwechselnd nach rechts und nach links zu werfen und damit „eben“ zu pflügen, ein sogenannter Kehrpflug. Die Gleichsetzung symmetrisches Schar = lediglich ritzender Haken/asymmetrisches Schar = Beet

pflug, die immer wieder als qualitatives Merkmal herangezogen wird, gilt also nicht absolut. Das Pflügen selbst wurde von zwei Personen bewerkstelligt, von denen der eine den Pflug führte und der andere das Spannvieh leitete. Bei besonders schweren Böden kam teilweise noch ein dritter zum ständigen Reinigen des Schars mit der Pflugreute hinzu, die archäologisch häufig nicht von gewissen Beilformen zu unterscheiden ist. Betrachtet man nun das archäologische Fundmaterial näher, so kommt man zu dem überraschenden Schluß, dass das bewußt und deutlich ausgeschmiedete asymmetrische Beetpflugschar eindeutig überhaupt nicht vor dem 13. Jh. nachzuweisen ist. Als relativ frühe Beispiele seien die westfälischen Funde von – Pflüge von +Diderikeshusen (um 1300/1. H. 14. Jh.) und +Barkhof (Spätmittelalter genannt. Vorher, seit der Latènezeit, gibt es symmetrische oder leicht asymmetrische Geräte. Mit ihnen war jedoch vielfach ebenfalls ein Wendeeffekt zu erzielen. Nachzuweisen ist dieser Effekt bereits anderthalb Jahrtausende früher, seit der mittleren Latènezeit, und zwar vornehmlich auf den Marschenböden des Nordseeküstenraumes anhand von Pflugspuren. – Pflugspuren Feddersen Wierde Als Geräte sind leicht asymmetrische Schare insbesondere aus dem Großmährischen Bereich bekannt – Pflüge/Seche Břeclav-Pohansko Beide Typen haben also bis ins späte Mittelalter nebeneinander bestanden. Zumindest im Altsiedelland werden wir aber davon ausgehen dürfen, dass sich der Beetpflug im 13/14. Jh. ziemlich schnell zum vorherrschenden Gerät entwickelte: Von den 14 Pflugdarstellungen in den durchweg im 14. Jh. entstandenen Zeichnungen zu den verschiedenen Ausgaben des „Sachsenspiegel“ konnte R. Bergmann gerade noch 2 symmetrische Schare ausmachen. – Pflüge Sachsenspiegel



Wichtig erscheint vor allem, dass die hochmittelalterlichen Pflüge gegenüber den älteren erheblich an Größe zugenommen haben, was sicher als Innnovationsschub zu bezeichnen ist. Jan Klápště hat die Pflugschare zweier mittelalterlicher Hortfunde ausgewogen. – Geräte Ivanovice/Semonice Während die symmetrischen oder leicht asymmetrischen Schare des 9. Jh. von Ivanovice in Mähren 558, 514, 370 und 178 Gramm wiegen, zeigt die Waage beim Beetpflugschar von Semonice in Böhmen aus dem Anfang des 14. Jh. 2921 Gramm an, das zugehörige Sech ist mit 2757 Gramm immer noch anderthalbmal so schwer wie die 4 Schare von Ivanovice zusammen. Das gilt auch für den in Mecklenburg bis zum Beginn des 20. Jh. in Gebrauch gewesenen Haken, der in seinen Abmessungen nichts mehr mit den alten hölzernen Geräten zu tun hatte. Er steht aber in der Tradition des bis zum Beginn der hochmittelalterlichen Ostsiedlung, z.T. noch darüber hinaus von den Slawen ausschließlich genutzten einfachen hölzernen Hakens – Pflüge Röpersdorf mit dem zweifellos kein Wendeeffekt zu erzielen war. Hierzu sei bemerkt, dass sich seit dem 10. Jh. im sorbischen Gebiet eiserne Schare durchsetzten, zweifellos eine hoch wichtige, Intensität steigernde Innovation. – Pflüge Sachsen wenn man bedenkt, dass zum Pflügen eines Hektars etwa 6 hölzerne Stielschare benötigt wurden. Vom übrigen Pflugzubehör ist vor allem das – Seche Guhrow nachzuweisen. Es tritt seit der römischen Kaiserzeit auf und kann neben dem Beetpflug, mit dem es in der Regel in Verbindung gebracht wird, auch für den Haken benutzt werden. Als mittelalterliche Innovation kann es nicht gelten. Wenn wie dargelegt die Größe und damit die Leistungskraft der Pfluggeräte im Mittelalter stark zugenommen



haben, so stellt sich natürlich die Frage nach der Zugkraft. In der Tat gibt es hier mit der Erfindung von Siel und Kummet eine wichtige Neuerung – Joch/Siel/Kummet Während das Joch die Zugkraft von Widerist, Genick oder Stirn abnimmt und damit aus anatomischen Gründen nur beim Rind verwendet werden kann, wird sie beim Siel von der Brust, beim Kummet von der Schulter abgenommen. Beide Anschirrungsformen breiten sich mit unterschiedlichen räumlichen Schwerpunkten – das Siel im Norden, das Kummet im Süden – seit dem Frühmittelalter aus und ermöglichen damit den Einsatz des Pferdes als Zugtier. Hinzu kommt, dass osteologisch in der Tendenz auch eine Vergrößerung der Pferde festzustellen ist, In diesem Zusammenhang ist auch die Entwicklung des Hufeisens zu nennen, das entgegen älteren Vorstellungen wohl weder den Kelten noch den Römern bekannt war. Ältester Beleg ist die Grabstele eines Hufschmieds aus Süditalien, datiert in die Spätantike oder der Frühmittelalter, erste schriftliche Belege tauchen im 9. Jh. auf. Die Rahmenegge ist seit der römischen Kaiserzeit bekannt – Eggen RKZ für die Slawen liegt ein Exemplar des 10. Jh. von Groß Raden, Kr. Parchim, vor. – Egge Groß Raden Die insgesamt nur geringe Anzahl archäologischer Nachweise, meist nur einzelne Zinken, lässt vermuten, dass die einfache Strauchegge noch lange vorherrschte, wann hier der Umschwung einsetzte, ist nicht zu sagen. Ebenfalls zur Bodenbearbeitung, wenn auch hauptsächlich im Garten genutzt, gehört der – nicht nur in der Landwirtschaft genutzte – Spaten. Anfangs ausschließlich aus Holz verfertigt – Spaten Behren-Lübchin



hat sich die effektivitätssteigernde eiserne Bewehrung durch sog. Spatenschuhe ungeachtet einzelner Vorläufer in großem Umfang erst im hohen Mittelalter durchgesetzt – Eiserne Spatenbeschläge dann aber eine große Zahl von Varianten hervorgebracht, wie neben dem vielgestaltigen Fundmaterial ebenfalls die Handschriften des „Sachsenspiegel“ eindrucksvoll belegen – Spaten Sachsenspiegel Das Getreide wurde ausschließlich mit der Sichel geerntet, die in ihrer letztlich bis heute durchlaufenden Grundform bis ins 1. Jh. v.Chr. zurückgeht – Sicheln aus Handschriften/Fundzeichnungen Sie ist vornehmlich in zwei Formen überliefert, einer kurzen, mehr geschlossenen und einer längeren und offeneren Die meisten Geräte waren gezähnt, da der „sägende“ Schnitt einen geringeren Körnerausfall verursachte als der „hauende“ bei glatter Schneide. Der Schnitt wurde etwa auf halber Halmhöhe ausgeführt. Auch bei den Sicheln ist ein erheblicher Anstieg der Fundzahlen nach der Jahrtausendwende zu verzeichnen. Die meisten slawischen Geräte datieren in die jungslawische Zeit des 11./12. Jh., im deutschen Gebiet liegt der eindeutige Schwerpunkt im 13./14. Jh. Entwicklungen können aber nicht nur durch das Auftreten neuer oder die massenweise Ausbreitung bereits bekannter Geräte gekennzeichnet sein, sondern auch durch den Fortfall älterer, weniger effektiver Formen. Das gilt z.B. für die seit der vorrömischen Eisenzeit genutzte, schwer zu handhabende und relativ uneffektive Kurzstielsense – Kurzstielsensen für die mir als jüngste Exemplare zwei Stücke von Rataje in Tschechien aus dem 13. Jh. bekannt sind. Die eigentliche Sense, bis ins Mittelalter ausschließlich für die Grasmahd genutzt, war bereits den Kelten



und dann den Römern bekannt, es ist umstritten, ob die Entwicklung dann zunächst abbrach. Den ersten mittelalterlichen Beleg für die Sense mit langem Baum bietet eine bildliche Darstellung aus dem Beginn des 9. Jh. – Sense in Salzburger Handschrift, A. 9. Jh. Da die Sense vermutlich eine Voraussetzung für die Futterwirtschaft darstellte, dürfte ihr Auftreten an die Existenz von Wiesen gebunden gewesen sein. Solche werden von den Botanikern zwar erst für das 10. Jh. in Anspruch genommen, doch lassen die Schriftquellen spätestens seit dem 8. Jh. eindeutig ihr Vorhandensein erkennen, z.B. in der Unterscheidung von Wiese und Weide (pratum und pascuum). Die Lösung des Widerspruchs scheint darin zu liegen, dass die Botaniker unter einer Wiese stets eine zweimal im Jahr gemähte Fläche verstehen, während die Urkunden von einem einmaligen Schnitt ausgehen. So heißt es 830/50 für einen Edelhof in Nierstein/Rhein: Er „pflügt für jede Saat ein Joch, erntet, bringt die Frucht ein, schneidet 3 Tage lang das Getreide, mäht 2 Tage lang die Wiesen, macht 2 Tage lang Heu, fährt 2 Fuder davon ein“. Jede Aussaat aber ist im Sinne einer zweifachen Bestellung des gleichen Ackers zu verstehen, wie die Formulierung in einer Urkunde für Flonheim von 793 zeigt: Ein geschenkter Knecht soll in jedem Jahr 2 Fruchtfolgen pflügen (duos fructos arare) und säen. Es ist also zweimal der Acker zu bestellen, aber nur einmal zu mähen. Dementsprechend bestanden bereits in der Karolingerzeit feste, einschürige Wiesen, die durch allgemein als Weide bezeichnete Flurteile ergänzt wurden. Die Sense erfuhr im 12./13. Jh. eine bedeutende Verbesserung. Sie bestand darin, dass die zur Halterung des Sensenbaums dienende „Hamme“ aus der Ebene der Klinge herausgedreht wurde, was, in Verbindung mit einem mannslangen Baum, mit der ganzen Schneide ein Mähen parallel zum Boden gestattete. Das Ergebnis war ein sehr kurzer Schnitt, der eine Voraussetzung für eine entwickelte Wiesenkultur darstellt.



Gedroschen wurde, wie schon in den Jahrhunderten zuvor, mit dem zweiteiligen Flegel, ein Verbindungsglied zwischen Stiel und Schlegel wurde in der Wüstung Pfaffenschlag bei Slavonice na Morave ausgegraben. – Dreschflegel Pfaffenschag Eindeutig innovativ ist in weiten Teilen Mitteleuropas die Durchsetzung von Wasser- und Windmühlen, den ersten in großem Stil genutzten echten Maschinen. Dabei soll hier nicht verfolgt werden, wieweit die von den Römern bereits genutzte Wassermühle auf breiter Basis im westeuropäischen Frühmittelalter weiter verwendet wurde. In den Schriftquellen wird sie erstmals im Titel 22 des salischen Rechtes genannt. Östlich des Rheins belegt die Nennung von Mühlberg, Kr. Arnstadt, im Jahre 704 ihr Vorhandensein. Inzwischen sind Wassermühlen der Merowingerzeit auch archäologisch belegt. Herausgehoben seien die Anlagen von Dasing in Bayern und eine Schiffsmühle von Gimbsheim im RheinlandPfalz aus der Zeit um 760. – Mühlen Dasing/Gimbsheim Für das hohe Mittelalter im östlichen Mitteleuropa sind Wassermühlen in Polen und Mähren schon seit längerem archäologisch untersucht worden. Die älteste Überlieferung in Brandenburg betrifft 1173 eine Mühle in Klinke im Havelland, und in – Jüterbog wurde kürzlich eine hölzerne Wassermühle freigelegt, dendrochronologisch datiert in die Mitte der 80er Jahre des 12. Jh. Mit beiden Daten sind wir am Anfang der deutschen Besiedlung, so dass mit der sofortigen Einführung dieser folgenreichen Innovation gerechnet werden kann. In der Folgezeit erhielt etwa jeder dritte bis vierte Ort eine Mühle. Welchen enormen Zuwachs an Leistung die neue Energiequelle erbrachte, belegt schon die Größe der Mahlsteine. Während die Handdrehmühlen selten einen Durchmesser von 50 cm erreichten – i.d.R. waren es



zwischen 35 und 45 cm –, hatte der Wassermühlstein von Desdorf im Rheinland einen Durchmesser von 110 cm. Die Nutzung der Windkraft wird teilweise als der entscheidende epochale Fortschritt überhaupt angesehen. Ihre Nutzung konnte im mediterranen Raum mit seinen gleich bleibenden Windrichtungen relativ einfach geschehen, war aber auf Landschaften mit ständig wechselnden Winden nicht einfach zu übertragen. Erst die Erfindung der Drehbarkeit mittels „Bock“ schuf hier Abhilfe – Flandrische Bockwindmühle sp. 13. Jh. Entwickelt wurde sie im städtereichen nordfranzösischniederländischen Raum im 12./13. Jh. und verbreitete sich in der Folgezeit über ganz Mittel- und Westeuropa. Hingewiesen sei darauf, dass neben den Wind- und Wassermühlen auch im hohen Mittelalter für den Hausgebrauch noch Handdrehmühlen benutzt wurden. In großem Umfang gilt das für die Slawen, in geringerem Umfang auch für das deutsche Altsiedelland, wie Funde aus den weit auseinanderliegenden Wüstungen Hofheim bei Fritzlar, deren Fundmaterial schwerpunktmäßig ins 13. Jh. gehört, und „Ole Karkhoff“ bei Potshausen, Kr. Leer zeigen, deren Besiedlung auf etwa 1200–1350 einzugrenzen ist. Ihr vollständiges Verschwinden steht zweifellos mit der Durchsetzung des Mühlenregals in Verbindung, das das „Hausmahlen“ verbot. Die herausragende Bedeutung von Wasser- und Windmühle besteht darin, dass mit ihnen erstmals eine Maschine im eigentlichen Sinne zur großräumigen Anwendung kam. 4. Zur Düngung

Wie sieht es mit der Düngung aus? Plaggendüngung geht auf Sylt bis in die Bronzezeit zurück. Für Nordwestdeutschland rechnet Behre mit einer großflächigen Durchsetzung in Verbindung mit der Einführung des Einfeldbaus seit dem 10. Jh., während die niederländische Forschung dafür erst das 13. Jh. in Anspruch  

nimmt. Mineralische Düngung, den Römern bereits bekannt und archäologisch auch bei uns für die Kaiserzeit nachgewiesen – Lebehn, Mergelgruben ist vereinzelt aus den Schriftquellen bereits der Karolingerzeit zu erschließen, z.B. aus der Verpflichtung zu Mergelfuhren. Hingegen werden in vielen karolingerzeitlichen Quellen Düngerfuhren als Frondienste genannt. Für das hohe Mittelalter schließlich ist die allgemeine Durchsetzung der Düngung auch archäologisch erschließbar. In allen bodendenkmalpflegerisch gut betreuten Gebieten finden sich „Scherbenschleier” auf den Äckern, die mit dem Dung hierher gekommen sein müssen. Ihre häufig feststellbare Abnahme mit zunehmender Entfernung zum Dorf zeigt, dass der Kompost wohl vornehmlich in der Nähe des Hofes ausgebracht wurde. Dieser Befund ist gut mit der Vorstellung verschiedener Intensitätszonen im Umkreis der Dörfer zu verbinden. – Schema Kulturlandschaftsentwicklung Gemarkung Vogelsberg (n. Krenzlin) 5. Zu den Bodennutzungssystemen

Wichtig für unsere Fragestellung sind auch die Bodennutzungssysteme. V.a. Bevölkerungsvermehrung und Städtebildung machten im hohen Mittelalter eine Erhöhung insbesondere der Getreideproduktion notwendig, zu der die bis zum frühen Mittelalter in ganz Mitteleuropa vorauszusetzende ungeregelte FeldGras-Wirtschaft zweifellos nicht in der Lage war. Dafür mussten die Flächen verhuft und Gemarkungen geschaffen werden, d.h. das Land musste vermessen werden. Auf römische Grundlagen zurückgehend, wurden im Westen seit der Antike Landvermessungen praktiziert bzw. im frühen Mittelalter wieder aufgenommen, z.B. sind in Kissingen tres virgas de prati in latitudine et longitudine quante überliefert. Diese wohl nur in 

einzelnen Bereichen durchgeführte Tätigkeit wurde in der Transformationszeit zu einer unabdingbaren Notwendigkeit. Überlieferungen gibt es, vielfach mit unterschiedlichen Maßen, im Westen wie im gesamten Bereich der Ostsiedlung, im Ordensstaat wurde um 1400 sogar mit der „Geometria Culmensis“ eine Abhandlung zur theoretischen Ausbildung der Vermesser geschaffen. Mit der Vermessung wurden verschiedene Bodennutzungssysteme geschaffen, denen allen eine mehr oder weniger strenge Regelung der Fruchtfolge eigen war. Hier seien nur ein paar Worte zur berühmten DreizelgenBrachwirtschaft gesagt, in der Regel nicht ganz exakt als – Schema Dreifelderwirtschaft bezeichnet mit dem regelmäßigen Wechsel von Wintergetreide, Sommergetreide und Brache. Ihr wird bekanntlich vielerorts eine geradezu revolutionäre Bedeutung für das Wirtschafts- und Sozialleben des Mittelalters eingeräumt. Mit einiger Sicherheit ist sie erstmals 763 in Württemberg belegt, jedoch hält auch hier der Topos einer schlagartigen allgemeinen Durchsetzung einer kritischen Betrachtung nicht unbedingt Stand. Sieht man sich beispielsweise die grundlegenden Arbeiten von A. Krenzlin an, die hinsichtlich der Bodennutzungsysteme die Forschung weit vorangebracht hat, so trifft man auf eine Vielzahl solcher Systeme, die zunächst vor der Annahme warnen, die Dreizelgenwirtschaft sei das alleinige System gewesen. U. Bentzien, der sich intensiv mit der Quellenlage auseinandergesetzt hat, kommt – und zwar für ganz Mitteleuropa – zu dem Schluß, dass „die massenhafte Einführung weder näher zu datieren noch der Befund im ganzen zu quantifizieren“ ist. Ferner weist er darauf hin, dass die „Version der Dreifelderwirtschaft ,reiner Ausprägung, nur in dichter und altbesiedelten Landschaften vorausgesetzt werden kann“. Von den anderen Systemen sei lediglich auf die in Nordwestdeutschland und den Niederlanden betriebene sog. Einfeldwirtschaft mit „ewigem Roggenanbau“ hingewiesen, die aber nur funkti-



onieren konnte, indem weite Flächen für Bodenauftrag abgeplaggt wurden und damit verödeten. Eng mit den Bodennutzungssystemen sind bekanntlich die Flurformen verbunden, deren Vielfalt gleichfalls vor zu schnellen Verallgemeinerungen warnt. Wenn sie auch nicht unbedingt bis in die Transformationszeit zurückzuführen sind, so sind sie doch häufig aus den damaligen Verhältnissen erwachsen. Ein Blick auf die – ö Neumark OF/FlF soll das nur andeuten. 6. Zur Energiefrage

Ein weiterer Punkt sei angesprochen, der zumindest indirekt eine Voraussetzung für Innovationen in der Landwirtschaft darstellte, nämlich die Energiefrage. Sie wurde bereits zweimal erwähnt, nämlich bei der Erhöhung der Zugkraft für die Bodenbearbeitung und bei der Durchsetzung der Wind- und Wassermühle. Die Wassermühlen waren, das wird häufig nicht bedacht, nicht nur für das Mahlen des Getreides zuständig, sondern einige von ihnen wurden auch als Eisenhämmer genutzt und schufen damit die Voraussetzung für eine serien- oder gar massenweise Produktion landwirtschaftlicher Geräte. In Brandenburg wird 1375 erstmals eine Hammerschmiede in der Nähe von Oranienburg erwähnt, durch Wasser betrieben und mit einer Burg und einer Mühle verbunden. Ihre weitere Geschichte zeigt, dass zur Errichtung einer solchen Anlage Kapital in einem Umfang notwendig war, der im üblichen bäuerlichen Bereich nicht denkbar ist. Dazu gehört, dass später am gleichen Ort noch eine Sägemühle errichtet wurde. Nur so ist erklärbar, wenn eine Hammerschmiede in Rogoźno (Großpolen) 1326 zwanzig mal im Jahr zwei Pflugeisen und ein Hakeisen zu liefern hatte oder „moderne“ Sensenblätter aus oberösterreichischen und steirischen Schmiedewerkstätten weit verhandelt wurden. Marken wie die auf den – Pflugscharen von Zemendorf, Burgenland, münzdatiert 1233  

könnten Belege für eine Serienproduktion darstellen, sofern sie nicht als Besitzermarken gedient haben. Aber bevor das Eisen die Hammerwerke erreichte, musste es in größerem Umfang erste einmal verhüttet werden, wozu ebenfalls vermehrte Energie notwendig war, und so zeichnet sich auch hinsichtlich der Nutzung der aus Holz gewonnenen Energie eine Intensivierung ab mit dem Übergang vom älteren Grubenmeiler – Grubenmeiler RKZ Mamerow/Platzmeiler Ungarn zum auf der Oberfläche errichteten Meiler. Dass die Verkohlung auch einen zunehmenden Holzmangel dokumentieren kann, belegen Untersuchungen im Harz. M.-L. Hillebrecht hat dort anhand von Holzanalysen an den Meilerplätzen festgestellt, dass zunächst Stammholz und große Äste verwertet wurden, später jedoch immer kleinere und minderwertigere Holzreste auch von weniger ergiebigen Gehölzen. In Westeuropa hat es im 11./12. Jh. bereits die erste große Energiekrise gegeben. Daß die Probleme nicht noch viel gravierender wurden, hängt wohl in erster Linie damit zusammen, dass ein Großteil der für die Eisenverhüttung benötigten Energie aus den neu erschlossenen Gebirgen stammte, wo auch das Erz gewonnen wurde und zumindest anfangs genug Holz zur Verfügung stand. 7. Die Siedlungen

Schließlich wollen wir noch kurz einen Blick auf die ländlichen Siedlungen werfen, in denen sich das Leben der bäuerlichen Bevölkerung außerhalb der Felder und Weiden, aber nicht außerhalb der Agrarproduktion abspielte. Sehen wir uns das Einzelhaus an, so vollzog sich im hohen Mittelalter der Wechsel vom vorherrschenden Grubenhaus zum mehrräumigen Haus und vielerorts vom Einzelhaus zum Gehöft, das neben dem Wohnhaus Extragebäude für die Stallungen und die Speicherung der Feldfrüchte aufwies – Svidna – Mstenice 2. H. 11./1. H. 12. Jh. Rekonstruktion  

Fronscheunen wie in – Gommerstedt waren ebenfalls bisher unbekannt Auch im Gesamtbild der Siedlungen zeigt sich mit der Durchsetzung planmäßiger Ortsformen etwas völlig Neues. Ein gutes Beispiel ist – Pfaffenschlag wo das kaum geregelte kleine Dorf im 12./13. Jh. durch eine eindeutige Planform ersetzt wurde. Aber allgemein zu übertragen ist dieses Beispiel durchaus nicht. Denn auch bei den Dörfern zeigt sich zunehmend, dass die Frage nach Entwicklung oder Innovation zumindest in einigen Landschaft für sie ebenso gilt. Denn in durch den Landesausbau neu erschlossenen Räumen ist es teilweise nicht sofort zur Anlage voll ausgebildeter Planformen gekommen, wie insbesondere I. Spazier in einer Vielzahl von Beispielen aus der Niederlausitz deutlich gemacht hat, wo durchweg Kleinformen am Anfang standen, die dann, vielfach mit leichter räumlicher Verschiebung, durch die voll ausgebildete hochmittelalterliche Form ersetzt wurden – Kausche Andernorts konnte nachgewiesen werden, dass auch die „klassischen“ Planformen des Anger- und Straßendorfes sich teilweise aus Kleinsiedungen entwickelt haben wie in – Breunsdorf Die Entwicklung aus Kleinformen scheint insbesondere die frühen Gründungen der Zeit vor 1200 zu betreffen, bei späterer Anlage wie bei den Angerdörfern auf dem Barnim ist dann weitgehend sofort das voll ausgeprägte Schema genutzt worden – Schönfeld Gleiches gilt für das auf die Mittelgebirge beschränkte – Waldhufendorf Altmittweida für das eine Entwicklung aus einem wie auch immer gearteten kleineren Vorgänger kaum denkbar ist.

 

Verbunden waren die geschilderten Vorgänge mit Änderungen in den sozialen Beziehungen. Daß sich die Etablierung des Ortsadels in den niederadligen Befestigungen niederschlägt – Mahlenzin muß in diesem Kreis kaum erwähnt werden. Weniger bekannt ist, dass sich vermutlich in dörflichen Steinkellern – Keller Diepensee vor allem aber mit Hilfe bestimmter herausgehobener Funde wie Sporen oder Kettenhemden in nicht adligem Milieu eine Differenzierung innerhalb der Bauernschaft abzeichnet, deren führende Vertreter sicher bei der Durchsetzung der neuen Verhältnisse eine wichtige Rolle spielten. Auf sie hat in jüngster Zeit insbesondere N. Gossler hingewiesen, z.B. auf zwei herausgehobene Funde von der Wüstung Göritz, die um 1180 in Zusammenhang mit der Gründung des Klosters Lehnin entstanden sein dürfte. Hier fanden sich nicht nur, schon auffallend genug, ein früher Kugelstachelsporn der Zeit um 1200, sondern sogar Reste eines Kettenhemdes. Er sieht in ihnen die Belege „einer führenden Gruppe innerhalb der Dorfbevölkerung …, die bewaffnet war und über Reitpferde verfügte“. Hinweise auf einen Adel gibt es in dem vor 1375 wüst gewordenen Ort nicht. Unter dem Gesichtspunkt Tradition und Innovation sei auch auf das Problem verwiesen, wieweit sich Vertreter der alten slawischen Führungsschicht als Ortsadlige etablieren konnten. Hierauf gibt es einige Hinweise, jedoch brauche ich die Schwierigkeiten ethnischer Interpretation unserer Quellen zu dieser Zeit in diesem Kreis nicht näher auszuführen. 8. Ergebnis

Versuchen wir, die hier im Zeitraffer vorgestellten Informationen unter dem Gesichtspunkt möglicher Innovationen zu gewichten. Eindeutige Neuerungen sind – die Durchsetzung der Wasser- und Windmühle – auch wenn für die Wassermühle spätestens seit der Merowin 

gerzeit Belege vorliegen, vom römischen Raum ganz zu schweigen; – neue Anschirrmethoden, die den Einsatz des Pferdes als Zugtier ermöglichten; – eine einschneidende Verbesserung der Sense, die eine Voraussetzung für eine allgemeine Ausbreitung der Wiesenkultur darstellte. – die Erschließung neuer Energiequellen in Form der Wasser- und Windmühle; – die Verhufung der Wirtschaftsflächen und die Durchsetzung planmäßig angelegter Großdörfer in Bereich der ländlichen Siedlung. Ansonsten gibt es nichts, was erst im Mittelalter aufgetaucht wäre. Eine andere Frage ist, wann sich eine Erscheinung allgemein durchgesetzt hat, und eine weitere, quellenmäßig häufig schwer fassbare, in welchem wirtschaftlichen und sozialen Milieu sich Neuerungen durchsetzen konnten oder auch nicht. Bestanden beispielsweise Unterschiede zwischen einer großen klösterlichen Grundherrschaft und den Bauern eines kleinen Ortsadligen? Wenn man das Gesamtmaterial überblickt, so wird deutlich, dass spätestens seit der römischen Kaiserzeit fast alles bereits irgendwo vorhanden war, sich für eine großflächige Durchsetzung aber das 12./13. Jh. abzeichnet. Das wird besonders deutlich im Gebiet der hochmittelalterlichen Ostsiedlung, aber gerade dieser Bereich mahnt auch zur Vorsicht. Es zeigt sich nämlich, dass durchaus nicht alles schlagartig von den Neusiedlern aus dem Westen mitgebracht wurde, sondern dass sie vielfach durchaus zunächst an das slawische Inventar anschlossen. Bestes Beispiel ist der Beetpflug, vielfach als die mitgebrachte Neuerung schlechthin angesehen, von dem sich nachweisen lässt, dass die frühesten kolonisationszeitlichen Exemplare noch einfache Haken slawischer Provenienz gewesen sind. Dann allerdings erfolgte sehr schnell ein allgemeiner Wechsel, wie beim Pflug anhand der Bilderhandschriften des Sachsenspiegels deutlich gemacht wurde.

 

Betrachtet man das 12./13. Jh. als Zeitraum großräumiger Durchsetzung von Innovationen, so fällt der Blick natürlich sofort auf andere durchgreifende Erscheinungen dieser Zeit. Genannt seien wie bereits eingangs erwähnt die allgemeine Periode der Stadtgründungen, ein alle Teile Mitteleuropas erfassender großflächiger Landesausbau und die Herausbildung der modernen ländlichen Siedlungsstruktur sowie der Kirchenorganisation. Von archäologischer Seite hat sich vor allem Jan Klápště mit diesem Phänomen befasst. Er fasst das 13. Jh. als den Höhepunkt einer langen Entwicklung auf, in die der ganz Europa umfassende Transformationsprozeß eingebettet ist. Als entscheidend sieht er – und dem ist ausdrücklich zuzustimmen – die mit dem Landesausbau verbundene Bevölkerungsvermehrung an. So schätzt man, dass in Deutschland die Bevölkerungszahl von etwa 4 Mill. um 1100 auf etwa 9 Mill. um 1400 anstieg. Allerdings sei angemerkt, dass hierbei die Frage von Ei und Henne durchaus nicht sicher zu beantworten ist. Denn es ist, ausgehend von Beobachtungen im Bereich der Ostsiedlung, zu hinterfragen, ob eine Bevölkerungsvermehrung den Landesausbau auslöste oder ob nicht vielmehr die Möglichkeit zur Einrichtung einer eigenen Wirtschaft die Leute überhaupt erst zur Familiengründung veranlasste. Wir gehen häufig von der irrigen Vorstellung aus, dass die Bevölkerungsvermehrung ein praktisch rein biologischer Vorgang gewesen ist, an dem im Prinzip alle Teile der Bevölkerung gleichermaßen beteiligt waren. Das muß aber nicht so sein. (GD 594). Wir wissen, dass im Mittelalter nicht jeder eine Familie gründen konnte, sondern nur derjenige, der eine solche auch ernähren konnte, d.h. einen eigenen Hof besaß. Damit fielen viele der in vielfältiger Weise Abhängigen aus, aber auch, unterschiedlich nach Sozialstruktur und Erbrecht, nicht erbende Söhne. Für sie war die Beteiligung am Landesausbau – Dorfanlage Sachsenspiegel häufig die einzige Möglichkeit, einen Hof zu erwerben und eine Familie zu gründen. Man hat nachgewiesen,

 

dass gerade in dieser Situation besonders viele Kinder geboren wurden, was in 25 Jahren zu einer Verdoppelung der Bevölkerung führen konnte. Hier eröffnet sich ein wichtiges, nur interdisziplinär zu bewältigendes Thema zukünftiger Forschung. Sie wird sich auch mit einer zweifellos nicht geringen Zahl unehelicher Kinder auseinanderzusetzen haben. Aber wie dem auch sei: Schon allein die aufblühenden Städte mit ihrer Notwendigkeit, in großem Umfang Menschen zu ernähren, die nicht an der landwirtschaftlichen Primärproduktion beteiligt waren, erforderte zwingend eine Erhöhung und damit Intensivierung der Agrarproduktion. Eine treibende Kraft dafür war die Umstellung der landwirtschaftlichen Produktion von der Eigenversorgung auf Marktorientierung. So schreibt W. Schich zu den Siedlungsaktivitäten des Magdeburger Erzbischofs Wichmann im Fläming 1174: „Die großräumige ’Landesplanung’ mit der Verbindung von ländlicher und gestufter städtischer Siedlung war der siedlungstechnische Ausdruck der verstärkten Ausrichtung der agrarischen Produktion (vor allem von Getreide) auf den Markt“, wobei, wie bereits ausgeführt wurde, durchaus nicht nur und nicht überall von einer Durchsetzung der Dreizelgen-Brachwirtschaft auszugehen ist, wie häufig angenommen wird. Teilweise war damit eine Verstärkung des Ackerbaus gegenüber der vorher vorherrschenden Viehzucht verbunden. Kehren wir zu unseren archäologisch fassbaren Quellen zurück, so ist festzustellen, dass die Durchsetzung effektiver Standards weniger durch die Einführung völlig neuer Techniken geschah, sondern zum einen durch die großflächige Ausbreitung bekannter Geräte (ob der Begriff „massenhaft“ zutrifft, wäre noch zu untersuchen), zum anderen durch eine Zunahme ihrer Größe und damit Leistungsfähigkeit. Aber wieso gab es die nach wie vor zu beobachtenden zeitlichen Unterschiede in der Durchsetzung von Innovationen? Wir gehen glaube ich, wenn auch oft unter-



schwellig, dvon aus, dass sich Änderungen im Fundmaterial sehr schnell durchsetzen, und letztlich ein eine solche Vorstellung ja die Grundlage archäologischer Periodisierungen. Aber vielleicht überschätzen wir häufig auch das Tempo, mit dem Neuerungen gerade im bäuerlichen Bereich angenommen werden. Hier kann sogar die neuere agrarwissenschaftliche Literatur weiterhelfen. In dem Werk „Das Ganze der Landwirthschaft in Bildern“, Hrsg. Wilhelm Hamm, Leipzig 1872, steht folgendes: „Freilich hält es hier und da noch schwer, sich einen wirklich guten, für den Boden und die örtlichen Verhältnisse passenden Pflug zu verschaffen, da die Schmiede noch häufig an der althergebrachten Gestalt des Werkzeugs mit Zähigkeit festhalten.“ Übertragen wir diesen Gesichtpunkt auf ältere Zeiten mit ihren erheblich geringeren Kommunikationsmöglichkeiten, so werden wir damit rechnen müssen, dass nicht von vornherein nur die Bauern an ihren traditionellen Vorstellungen und Techniken festhielten, sondern dass vielleicht ebenso oder zu allererst die Hersteller der Geräte nicht willens oder – so wird man ergänzen dürfen – nicht in der Lage waren, beispielsweise die neuesten Pflüge zu produzieren. Einen hölzernen Haken hat zweifellos jeder Bauer allein zugerichtet, bei einem Beetpflug wie dem von Semonice war er auf die Zulieferung des Spezialisten angewiesen. Zusammenfassend ist festzustellen, dass das Mittelalter in der dörflichen Produktion keine durchschlagenden Neuerungen hervorgebracht hat, das 12./13. Jh. aber zu einer großflächigen Ausbreitung der jeweils modernen Technik führte mit einer beträchtlichen Vergrößerung und damit Leistungssteigerung des einzelnen Gerätes, verbunden mit einer verstärkten Nutzung des Pferdes als Zugtier. Hinzu kamen die einschneidenden Veränderungen im Wirtschaftsgefüge als Voraussetzung für eine Umstellung der Produktion auf den Markt. Als Ursache des Transformationsprozesses sind die generellen Strukturveränderungen dieser Zeit zu nennen, die in den Städtegründungen, dem Landesausbau und

 

der Stabilisierung der ländlichen Siedlungsstruktur ihren deutlichsten Ausdruck fanden, verbunden mit der Notwendigkeit der Ernährung einer erheblichen Bevölkerungszahl, die nicht an der landwirtschaftlichen Primärproduktion beteiligt war.



Analytische Beobachtungen zu Debussys Prélude ‚Brouillards’ Lukas Haselböck

1. Einleitung

Bis wohin reicht der exakte Blick der Musikanalyse? Diese Frage ist stets aktuell, gilt jedoch in erhöhtem Maße für die Musik Debussys. Die Schwierigkeit, die Reichweite der Debussy-Analyse zu ermessen, klingt auch im Titel von Claudia Zenck-Maurers 1974 veröffentlichter Studie Versuch über die wahre Art, Debussy zu analysieren an. Ein solcher Bezug auf Carl Philipp Emanuel Bachs Versuch über die wahre Art das Clavier zu spielen (1753) eröffnet gegensätzliche Perspektiven: einerseits die beinahe waghalsig anmutende Rede von einer „wahren Art“ der Analyse, andererseits die wohltuende Abschwächung, es handle sich bloß um einen „Versuch“. Diese Relativierung ist unabdingbar notwendig, scheinen sich Debussys Werke doch, „zumindest wenn man die Sekundärliteratur betrachtet, der Analyse zu entziehen“1. Innerhalb der Sekundärliteratur lokalisiert ZenckMaurer zwei gleichermaßen kritisch erörterte Tendenzen: eine „metaphorisch-poetische“ (etwa bei Cortot2 oder Rutz3) und eine „technische“ (etwa bei Storb4, Por1

Claudia Zenck-Maurer: Versuch über die wahre Art, Debussy zu analysieren. München 1974 (= Berliner Musikwissenschaftliche Arbeiten, hg. v. Carl Dahlhaus und Rudolf Stephan, Bd. 8), S. 5. Ein Grundproblem besteht auch darin, dass Debussy kaum musiktheoretische Äußerungen hinterlassen hat, auf die wir uns bei der Analyse stützen können. Dazu vgl. Theo Hirsbrunner: „À la recherche de l’inanalysable”, in: Analyse musicale 16 (1989), S. 19–22, hier S. 19: „Le compositeur refusait le rôle de ‚chef d’école’, parce que cela aurait nécessité ‚une grammaire’ solidement construite, dont les principes auraient dû être évidents à chacun de ceux voulant analyser cette musique.“

2

Alfred Cortot: Cours d’Interprétation. Paris 1934.

3

Hans Rutz: Claude Debussy. München 1954.

4

Ilse Storb: Untersuchungen zur Auflösung der funktionalen Harmonik in den Klavierwerken von Claude Debussy. Köln 1967.



ten5 oder Jakobik6). Stellvertretend für die Schwächen eines „metaphorisch-poetischen“ Vorgehens wird Rutz’ Deutung von La danse de Puck zitiert: „Geistvoll, beweglich, ironisch und wie ein Luftgespinst erhebt sich das feine Genie Shakespeares, entflieht, kehrt wieder zurück, vergnügt sich an einem Bauernlümmel, den es foppt, dort an einem Paar, das es täuscht, dann, plötzlich, verschwindet es.“ 7 Dieser Spielart von Hermeneutik, die die Bezeichnung „Analyse“ kaum verdiene, stünden „technische“ Analysen gegenüber, die nicht auf Interpretation des Werkes abzielten, sondern „entweder auf systematische Materialuntersuchung [...] oder auf Demonstration einer Theorie“8. Diese Analysehaltung, der auch Komponisten der Neuen Musik wie Schnebel, Eimert oder Barraqué zugeordnet werden, sei ebenfalls zu kritisieren, und zwar in Bezug auf den Irrglauben, durch eine technische Analyse Objektivität gewinnen zu können, indem man den „mit ‚Bedeutung’ umschriebenen Bereich fernhalte“9. Qualität gewinne die Analyse erst, wenn sie als Interpretation verstanden werde. Ein grundsätzliches Dilemma der Debussy-Analyse erkannte Zenck-Maurer demnach in einer Diskrepanz zwischen strukturell und inhaltlich orientierten Analysestrategien. Auf Grund ihrer Tendenz zur argumentativen Isolation seien beide Strategien defizitär. Heute, im bereits fortschreitenden 21. Jahrhundert, sollte man denken, dass gewisse Fragestellungen infolge der historischen Distanz und der Errungenschaften des Fachs Musikanalyse differenzierter behandelt werden könnten. Innerhalb gewisser Konstellationen ist die Jahrhunderte alte Konfrontation Hermeneutik ver5

Maria Porten: Zum Problem der „Form” bei Debussy. Untersuchungen am Beispiel der Klavierwerke. München 1974 (= Schriften zur Musik, hg. v. Walter Kolneder, Bd. 28).

6

Albert Jakobik: Zur Einheit der neuen Musik. Würzburg 1957 (= Literarhistorisch-musikwissenschaftliche Abhandlungen, Bd. 16).

7

Rutz: Debussy, S. 154.

8

Zenck-Maurer: Versuch, S. 6.

9

Zenck-Maurer: Versuch, S. 6.

 

sus Strukturanalyse jedoch offenbar weiterhin gültig. So ist z.B. – auch abseits einer allzu simplen Vereinfachung – weithin unbestritten, dass sich die musiktheoretische Auseinandersetzung in den USA tendenziell stets eher auf Verfahren der Strukturanalyse (Schenkerian theory, set theory) verlagerte, während inhaltlich akzentuierte Fragestellungen in Europa häufiger berücksichtigt wurden. Dies gilt wiederum in erhöhtem Maße für die Debussy-Analyse: In Europa scheint jenes Misstrauen, das Debussy als Komponist und Kritiker der Analyse entgegenbrachte, und seine Scheu vor einer das Geheimnis („mystère“) zerstörenden „Zerstückelung“ des Kunstwerks weiterhin nachzuwirken. Die Kehrseite dieser durchaus gebotenen Vorsicht besteht jedoch darin, mit dem Verzicht auf eine strukturelle Bestandsaufnahme Gefahr zu laufen, oberflächlich zu bleiben – ein circulus vitiosus, der die Debussy-Analyse in Europa lange Zeit prägte. Das Spiegelbild dieser Problematik zeigt sich in den USA. Trotz einer beeindruckenden Vielfalt analytischer Perspektiven (von der Intervallik in Teresa Davidians10 Analyse von Debussys Cellosonate über die Proportionen bei Roy Howat11 bis hin zu jener Vielzahl an Parametern, die Richard Parks seiner umfangreichen Studie12 zu Grunde legte – Tonalität, pitch-class structure, Textausdruck, Form, Instrumentation, Metrum, Register, Anschlagsaktivität, Tempo, Dichte, Harmonik, Thematik, Repetitionen, Textur, Dynamik, Proportionen) rekurriert die Debussy-Analyse in den USA vor allem auf zwei Verfahren der Strukturanalyse: set theory und Schenkerian theory. Stellvertretend seien zwei Vertreter genannt: Matthew Brown und Richard Parks.

10 Teresa Davidian: „Intervallic Process and Autonomy in the First Movement of Debussy’s Sonata for Cello and Piano”, in: Theory and Practice 14/15 (1989/90), S. 1–12. 11

Roy Howat: Debussy in Proportion: A Musical Analysis. Cambridge 1983.

12 Richard S. Parks: The Music of Claude Debussy. New Haven/London 1989.

 

In seiner Studie zu Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune macht sich Matthew Brown13 Gedanken über die Anwendbarkeit der Schenkerian theory auf Debussys Musik. Die Verschleierung der dreiteiligen Form des Préludes ermögliche, so Brown, ein Hinterfragen des aus der Dur-MollTonalität bekannten Organismusdenkens, was aber kein grundsätzliches Verlassen der tonalen Paradigmen bedeute. Im Gegensatz dazu ist Richard Parks in Bezug auf die Anwendung der Theorie Schenkers auf Debussys Musik14 skeptisch und bevorzugt, wie auch David Lewin15 in seiner Studie zu Feux d’artifice, die set theory. Trotz aller Unterschiede haben diese Analysen16 eines gemeinsam: sie sind durch eine äußerst kohärente Sichtweise gekennzeichnet. Ziel ist es, das Kunstwerk als in sich schlüssigen und logischen Organismus darzustellen. Zugleich wird in der Schenkerian theory und der set theory ein weiterer wichtiger Schritt der Argumentation jedoch häufig ausgeblendet: die Interpretation des Kunstwerks. Ist eine Auflösung dieser Aporie Hermeneutik/Strukturanalyse möglich? Im Folgenden sei der Versuch einer Synthese hermeneutisch und strukturanalytisch orientierter Strategien an Hand von Debussys Prélude Brouillards fragmentarisch skizziert. 2. Debussy, Brouillards 2.1. Strukturanalytische Fragen 2.1.1. Kohärenz oder Divergenz?

Bei der Analyse von Brouillards fällt zunächst die formale Gliederung durch die modifizierte Wiederholung einzelner Phrasen auf: Die Takte 1–3 kehren in T. 24–26 wieder 13 Matthew Brown: „Tonality and Form in Debussy’s Prélude à l’Après-midi d’un faune”, in: Music Theory Spectrum 15 (1993), S. 127–143. 14 Vgl. Parks: Debussy, S. 4. 15 David Lewin: „A Transformational Basis for Form and Prolongation in Debussy’s Feux d’artifice”, in: Musical Form and Transformation: Four Analytic Essays. New Haven 1993, S. 97–159. 16 In den USA und Europa seien auch noch die Beiträge von Lockspeiser 1944 etc., Dietschy 1962, 1990, Vallas 1927 etc., Grayson 1986, Orledge 1982, Jarocinski 1970 etc. und Wenk 1976, 1983 erwähnt.

 

(A’), und in den Takten 43–44 setzt eine durch einen Orgelpunkt auf c gestützte variierte Wiederkehr der Takte 1–2 ein (A’’). Zur Verdeutlichung dieses formalen Rahmens könnte man das Schema A-B-A’-C-A’’ heranziehen.17 Dieses Formschema ist jedoch nur von partieller 17 Vgl. Philippe Charru : „Une analyse des 24 Préludes pour le piano de Claude Debussy”, in : Analyse musicale 12 (1988), S. 63–86. In seinem Formschema zu Brouillards kommt Charru der eben erwähnten Variante A-B-A’-C-A’’ ziemlich nahe (vgl. Charru, Une analyse, S. 80: A-B-A’-C-B’-A’’).

 

Relevanz. Das Hörerlebnis vermittelt nicht allein eine Konfrontation „fester“ und „lockerer“ bzw. über- und untergeordneter Abschnitte, sondern auch das Erleben eines kontinuierlichen Prozesses. Man könnte daher fragen: Wie verhalten sich die einzelnen Abschnitte zueinander? Bilden sie eher Gegensätze? Oder fügen sie sich tendenziell zu einer Einheit? Derartige Versuche, den formalen Stellenwert musikalischer Ereignisse zwischen Kohärenz und Divergenz zu verorten, scheitern zunächst an der Ambiguität der Details: Bilden die rechte und linke Hand zu Beginn heterogene Blöcke? Wird hier „Tonales“ mit etwas „Anderem“ konfrontiert? Oder, im Gegenteil: Verschmelzen die Ebenen ineinander? Manches spricht für das eine, manches für das andere. In T. 4 wird ein Klang über g erreicht. Auch hier scheint es unklar, ob es sich um Restbestände der Dur-Moll-Tonalität oder um darüber hinausweisende Konstellationen handle. Ähnliche Fragestellungen ließen sich – nach dem Auftreten „neuer“ Elemente zu Beginn der Takte 5–6 und der variierten Wiederkehr des Klangs über g in T. 9 – (wie bereits angedeutet) auf formale Zusammenhänge übertragen: Wie sind die Melodiefragmente der Takte 10ff., das „in extremer Lage“18 und in Oktaven geführte Motiv der Takte 18–24 sowie der in den Takten 29–42 „über einen weiten Tonraum gezogen[e]“19 Abschnitt in den Verlauf einzuordnen? Die melodischen Ansätze der Takte 10ff. beginnen verheißungsvoll, ehe sie alsbald verrinnen. Darauf folgt in den Takten 18–24 etwas „in jeder Hinsicht […] Fremdes, ein Einbruch in das Geschehen“20. Und schließlich erhalten die Takte 29ff. ihre Sonderstellung durch den einzigen f-Ausbruch des ansonsten im p oder pp gehaltenen Préludes.21 Insbesondere die Takte 18ff. und 29ff.,

18 Porten: Problem, S. 48. 19 Porten: Problem, S. 49. 20 Porten: Problem, S. 48–49. 21 Porten: Problem, S. 57 hat diese dynamische Sonderstellung der Takte 29ff. grafisch veranschaulicht.

 

denen Marcel Bitsch in seiner Analyse22 (1996) großes Gewicht beimisst, sind verblüffende und doch prägnante Wendepunkte. In ihnen droht der musikalische Diskurs abzubrechen, unverständlich zu werden. Und doch scheinen sie mit Bedeutung geradezu „aufgeladen“. Wie sind sie eher zu verstehen: In ihrer Prozessualität als Teil eines organisch fließenden Ganzen, einer Schritt für Schritt nachvollziehbaren musikalischen Aussage? Oder in unserem Staunen gegenüber einem gänzlich Fremdartigen? 2.1.2. Ein „in jeder Hinsicht Vermitteltes“?

Für das Verständnis eines musikalischen Prozesses, der die starren Kategorien der Formenlehre vergessen lässt, kann die set theory wesentliche Hilfestellungen leisten. In seinem Artikel Pitch Organization in Debussy: Unordered Sets in ‘Brouillards’ (1980)23 stellt Richard Parks fest, dass die komplexe Oberfläche dieses Stücks durch eine limitierte Anzahl von sets vereinheitlicht wird. Aus strukturanalytischer Sicht erweisen sich die eben erläuterten Gegensätze somit vielfach als vermittelt. Dazu einige Beispiele (vgl. NB): Zum set 7–31, das sich in den Takten 1 und 3 aus den subsets 3–11 und 4–26 sowie 3–10 und 4–27 zusammensetzt – alle erwähnten sets sind subsets der oktatonischen Skala (Messiaens Modus 2) –, bildet das set 7–21, das die Passage T. 9–14 bestimmt, einen klanglichen Kontrast. Dieses set wird jedoch bereits auf der dritten Achtel von T. 7 und 8 vorweggenommen. Der Übergang zu T. 10ff. ist daher fließend. Dies gilt auch für die Melodik dieses Abschnitts. Die Motive fis - d - cis (T. 10–11, set 3–4) und g - fis - d - cis (T. 12, set 4–8) lassen sich auf frühere Momente zurückführen (T. 5, T. 6, Beginn: set 4–8) und sind daher ebenfalls Bestandteile eines Prozesses.

22 Marcel Bitsch: „Analyse musicale des vingt-quatre Préludes”, in: JosephFrançois Kremer, Les ‘Préludes pour piano’ de Claude Debussy en correspondance avec ‘À la recherche du temps perdu’ de Marcel Proust. Paris 1996. Zu Brouillards vgl. S. 36–37. 23 Richard S. Parks: „Pitch Organization in Debussy: Unordered Sets in Brouillards”, in: Music Theory Spectrum 2 (1980), S. 119–134.

 

Auch im Folgenden sind ähnliche Beobachtungen zu machen: Der Kernbereich der Takte 18–19 (d - g - dis gis) ist gleichfalls durch das set 4–8 bestimmt. Und auch die Takte 29–42 sind Station eines Prozesses: Der Aufschwung der linken Hand in T. 29 besteht aus den Tönen cis - ais - fis (set 3–11), die als des - ges - b auch in der folgenden f- Vorschlagsfigur nachfolgen. Diese Töne treten nicht nur in T. 13–14 (Melodie der rechten Hand) auffällig hervor, sondern prägen auch die Figurationen der rechten Hand in T. 24–28 (z.B. T. 27, 3. Achtel, oder T. 28, 1. Achtel). Blendet man hier den Ton as aus, so erscheinen wiederum exakt die gleichen Töne wie in T. 1, rechte Hand, 1. Achtel (set 4–26). Diese Ausblendung des as ist gerechtfertigt, da set 4–26 in T. 4, rechte Hand, 1. Achtel durch das as erweitert wird. Der Prozess lässt sich somit von T. 1 über T. 4, T. 5, T. 10, T. 13–14, T. 18–19 bis zu den Takten 27 und 29ff. nachvollziehen. In diesem Kontext könnte man fragen, ob die set theory für die prozessorientierte Analyse unabdingbar notwendig sei. Vorausgesetzt, der Analytiker ist sich gewisser Vorbedingungen wie z.B. der Oktavtransposition von Tönen innerhalb motivisch-harmonischer Konstellationen bewusst, ließe sich die Prozessualität dieses Préludes auch frei verbalisierend beschreiben. Im Rahmen einer solchen Verbalisierung sei der Verlauf der Übersichtlichkeit halber in vier Teilprozesse gegliedert (vgl. zunächst NB, Prozess 1): In T. 4 wird die Konstellation des Beginns (T. 1, 1. Achtel, rechte Hand) durch den Ton as bereichert. Dazu tritt in der linken Hand der Akkord g - h - d. Dies hat eine Chromatisierung zur Folge, die als Umspielung des g durch as – ges (wie auch des d durch es – des) zu erkennen ist (T. 4: Schichtung zweier um eine kleine Sekund verschobener Quinten oder Quarten). Die Takte 5 und 6 greifen in transponierter Form auf dieses Element zurück (eine andere Interpretation lautet: sie kombinieren die Halbtonreibung g - as aus T. 4 mit c - des aus T. 1; oder die Quint des - as aus T. 4 mit c - g aus T. 1). Die Motivbildung in T. 5 und T. 6 (1. Achtel) ist daher nur scheinbar neu. Zur Einheitlichkeit dieses Prozesses trägt die



Symmetrie dieser intervallischen Konstellationen (der Beginn ist auf oktatonische Modi rückführbar), aber auch der wiederholte Bezug auf identische Tonhöhen bei. Letzteres Prinzip erschließt die set theory kaum, weil sie stets von der Transponierbarkeit der sets ausgeht. Die Erfahrung der Identität von Tonhöhen im Hörerlebnis ist in ihrer Bedeutung für die Erfassung des formalen Ganzen jedoch nicht zu unterschätzen (vgl. die Funktion des Tones as/gis innerhalb des Formganzen, siehe unten). In T. 9ff. (vgl. NB, Prozess 2) wird der Ton as, der in T. 4 in den Prozess modifizierend eingegriffen hatte, wieder eliminiert. Durch das Übereinanderblenden von Elementen (vgl. T. 1, rechte Hand; T. 4, linke Hand) entsteht aber auch hier eine Schichtung zweier Halbtöne (hier d - dis - cis, in T. 4 d - es - des). Zugleich ist die Melodik auf T. 5 (1. Achtel) beziehbar (zwischen T. 5, 1. Achtel und T. 12, Melodik, besteht ein Tritonusverhältnis, das für das Stück generell von Bedeutung ist24). Insgesamt folgen beide Teilprozesse (1 und 2) einer Chromatisierung von der Oktatonik bis hin zur Schichtung zweier kleiner Sekunden (in T. 4 bestehen zwei derartige Schichtungen). In dieser durch das Leitbild der Kohärenz geprägten Analyse werden Stärken und Schwächen der set theory oder auch des Organismusdenkens im Allgemeinen sichtbar. Die Leistung derartiger Strategien besteht in der Vermeidung abgegriffener Schemata der Formenlehre. Die Eigenart musikalischer Prozesse wird im Rekurs auf Identität und Wandlungen von sets oder auf die freie Verbalisierung zu Grunde liegender Intervallkonstellationen erläutert. „Tonale“ Begriffe wie „Spannung“ und „Auflösung“ fehlen, und es kann daher alles zur 24 Porten (Problem, S. 49) lokalisiert vier Töne der zu Beginn erklingenden Figuration als Zentraltöne der Form: c - g und fis - cis: „Die wichtigsten Töne des Stückes sind C und G, Cis und Fis. Wenn man sie in Beziehung setzt, so erkennt man wieder den ersten Einfall: die Quinte + angrenzende Halbtöne. Die klangliche Keimzelle wirkt sich formbildend für das ganze Stück aus.“ In diesem Kontext ließen sich konstitutive Tritonusrelationen (c - fis, g - cis) herausarbeiten, die auch anderen Werken jener Zeit – wie z.B. dem ersten Satz des Streichquartetts op. 3 von Alban Berg (1910) – zu Grunde liegen.



Form werden: „Changes occur from one temporal point to another, but [...] coherence does not depend upon the resolution of ‚conflicts’ traditionally considered to be implicit in certain pitch combinations or contexts.”25 Ein organischer Gesamtprozess wird sichtbar. In der Schlüssigkeit und augenfälligen Reibungslosigkeit eines solchen Gesamtprozesses besteht jedoch zugleich ein grundlegendes Problem. Als Beispiel ließe sich auf die Takte 18ff. verweisen – in der Deutung Portens ein „in jeder Hinsicht […] Fremdes, ein Einbruch in das Geschehen“26. Bei Parks erscheint diese Passage als bruchlos integriert. Die beeindruckende Suggestivität der Lagenunterschiede findet keine Berücksichtigung im Analyseergebnis. Ähnliches gilt für die Takte 29–42. Und auch die sonore Ruhe des Orgelpunktes in T. 43–46 wird nicht erwähnt. Ist die Analyse somit zu reibungslos verlaufen, hat sie durch die Glättung von Bruchstellen nur neue Probleme geschaffen, oder, plakativ gesprochen: „Haben wir das Staunen verlernt“? 2.1.3. Ein „in jeder Hinsicht Fremdes“?

Es wäre wohl voreilig, die Ergebnisse der eben skizzierten Analyse zur Gänze zu verwerfen. Ziel wäre es vielmehr, mit Hilfe dieser Strategien nicht nur eine prozessuale Glättung etwaiger Verwerfungen anzustreben, sondern auch jenes Staunen über Ambiguitäten zu ermöglichen, das als Grundlage für eine inhaltliche Deutung dienen kann. Folgt man der Tendenz zur Kohärenz, so ist in Teilprozess 3 der Höhepunkt der Chromatisierung erreicht. 25 Parks: Brouillards, S. 134. 26 Porten: Problem, S. 48–49. Porten bezieht diese Aussage – im Gegensatz zu meinen folgenden Ausführungen – jedoch primär auf den Parameter der Tonhöhe: „So hat in den T. 1–8 von ‚Brouillards’ der Klang auf c + Sekundeintrübung ein gewisses Übergewicht über die anderen Klänge, weil er an betonter Stelle steht und oft wiederholt wird. Am zweitstärksten ist der G-Klang, der in T. 4 sechsmal wiederholt wird. In T. 9–16 herrscht der G-Klang vor. Dann folgt die einstimmige melodische Figur in vierfacher Oktavierung (T. 18) und in extremer Lage als neues Material, bei dem der Ton Cis zentrale Bedeutung hat. Cis steht zu G im Tritonusverhältnis, zum Anfangs-C im Abstand der kleinen Sekunde. Die T. 18ff. sind also in jeder Hinsicht etwas Fremdes, ein Einbruch in das Geschehen.“



Die eben erläuterte Intervallik (set 4-8, T. 12) prägt auch den Kernbereich der Takte 18–19 (d - g, dis - gis). Auf dem Notenbeispiel (Prozess 3) wird deutlich, dass diese Passage logisch-prozessual aus dem Bisherigen hervorgeht. Der Ton cis bleibt in den Takten 16–17 in der Oberstimme liegen, wird in T. 18 übernommen und in die Töne d - g überführt, die aus T. 15–16 (linke Hand) stammen. Der Ton dis (T. 19) ist kurz zuvor in der Oberstimme erklungen (T. 15), und der Ton gis nimmt, wie bereits angedeutet, im Verlauf des Préludes generell eine zentrale Funktion ein. Für die Prozessualität des Werkes ist zudem entscheidend, dass die Chromatik (d - g, dis - gis) an dieser Stelle durch die Anschlusstöne cis und e erweitert wird. Diese chromatische Linie (cis bis e) wird in den Takten 22–23 nach oben prolongiert (e - f) – eine Variante (cis - d - g - e - a - f - cis), die später, abgesehen von der Zerlegung des übermäßigen Dreiklangs gis - e - c in T. 41–42 (vgl. a - f - cis), nicht mehr aufgegriffen wird (Debussy stützt sich im Folgenden vor allem auf die Takte 18–19). Einerseits können die Takte 18–24 somit als konsequenter Endpunkt eines Prozesses interpretiert werden: Die Dichte der Chromatik erreicht hier ihren vorläufigen Höhepunkt. Andererseits gibt diese Passage jedoch Anlass zum Staunen. Reduziert man die Ereignishaftigkeit dieses „musikalisch Fremdartigen“ auf prozessual gebundene Konstellationen von Tonhöhen, ist das Ausmaß dieses Staunens nicht nachvollziehbar. Berücksichtigt man jedoch die Dimensionen der Tondauer (hier dominiert der synkopische Rhythmus, im Anschluss an die bisherigen kontinuierlichen Bewegungsmuster ist erstmals ein nicht unterteilter Viertelwert zu hören), der Lage (Aufspaltung in die tiefste und höchste Region) und des unisono (völlig neuartige Klanglichkeit), so wird die Verblüffung des Hörers verständlich. In diesem Kontext kann auch die Geschichte des Tons as neu erzählt werden: In T. 4 hatte das as eine Chromatisierung ausgelöst, und auch in den Takten 5 und 6 wird das as als höchster Ton einer Quintenschichtung hörbar. Für das verwandelte Erscheinen dieses Tones in T. 19 ist jedoch entscheidend, dass das as von T. 9



bis T. 18 kein einziges Mal erklungen ist, um in T. 19, in ein gis verwandelt, in der höchsten Region eindrucksvoll zu folgen. Diese Sonderstellung des as hat Konsequenzen (vgl. NB, Prozess 4): Nach der vorübergehenden Dominanz der Oktatonik des Beginns in T. 24 (vgl. T. 1; in T. 20 und 24 tritt das des deutlicher hervor) und in T. 29ff. (Oktatonik: „C-Dur“ gegen „Ges-Dur/Fis-Dur“) ist die Quinte gis - dis in T. 32ff. unschwer als klangbestimmendes Element zu erkennen (ebenfalls in der höchsten Lage), um in T. 36–37 wiederum in ein as transformiert zu werden. In eben dieser Lage (as3) wird dieser Ton in den Takten 48 und 50–52, also am Ende platziert. Die pitch class as/ gis wirkt somit von T. 18–19 bis zum Schluss (und darüber hinaus: man beachte den offenen Bogen am Ende) nach. All diese Beobachtungen kreisen wieder um prozessuale Aspekte, die in den Takten 38–41 in Bezug auf die rhythmische Faktur (T. 41) und die Erweiterung der Chromatik bis zu c - e (das c ist zugleich „Quasi-Grundton“ des Stückes) intensiviert werden (die Motivik gis - e - c, T. 41–42, ist aus a - f - cis, T. 23–24, abgeleitet). Als Konsequenz dieser Erweiterung bis zum c ist in T. 47–48 die Anreicherung des Motivs der Takte 18–19 durch die Konstellation aus T. 5 (c - des - g - as) zu erkennen. Die Ambiguität der eben erörterten Passage erlaubt die Gleichzeitigkeit zweier Deutungen: Einerseits sind die Takte 18–24 – anders als in der herkömmlichen Interpretation der Formenlehre – nicht als bloßer Einschub (B) zwischen zwei Abschnitten (A und A’), sondern als vorläufiges Ziel eines sich stetig intensivierenden Prozesses der Chromatisierung zu begreifen, der im letzten Abschnitt zusätzliche Schubkraft erhält. Andererseits bergen sie jedoch Aspekte eines emphatisch „Anderen“ in sich – eine „Fremdartigkeit“, die ebenfalls deutlich spürbar wird und, deren „Sprengkraft“ bis zum Ende des Préludes (und sogar darüber hinaus) bewahrt bleibt.



2.2. Inhaltliche Deutung

Auf dieser Grundlage könnte eine (an dieser Stelle ebenfalls nur fragmentartig skizzierte) inhaltliche Deutung der Takte 18–24 und 29–37 einsetzen. Dabei stütze ich mich auf die von Claudia Zenck-Maurer (1974) und Joseph-François Kremer (1996) erwähnte Möglichkeit, die Musik Debussys in Analogie zu Prousts À la recherche du temps perdu in ihren tieferen Schichten freizulegen. Gemäß Kremer enthülle die Musik Debussys nach und nach die Ereignisse des Vergangenen27. Das prozessuale Freilegen verschütteter Spuren sei notwendig, um eine Vision, ein Bild entstehen zu lassen. Im Falle des Préludes Brouillards (übersetzt: „Nebel“) entspreche die Wahrnehmung einer Vision innerhalb des Nebels Prousts sentimental wahrgenommener Erscheinung28. In vergleichbarer Weise hat sich Zenck-Maurer zum Prélude Canope geäußert: Zu Beginn beschwöre Debussy eine vergangene Welt. Der Verlauf kehre bald zu seinem Ausgangspunkt zurück, gewinne durch Tiefe an Sonorität und münde schließlich in schwebende, leere Oktaven (man vergleiche diese Beobachtung mit den Takten 18ff. in Brouillards). Dies führe zu einer Raumwirkung und Vertiefung der Perspektive. Das Abtasten, die nuancierte Modifikation eines Gegenstandes bringe die Erschließung des Geheimnisses, der Atmosphäre des Werkes mit sich.29 All dies ließe sich mit dem erörterten analytischen Befund in Einklang bringen: Eine Konstellation wird langsam verändert, transformiert, angereichert, bis sie in neuer, unerhörter Klanglichkeit erscheint. Das auf diese Weise Aufgespürte geht nicht mehr abhanden, sondern wird im Rahmen vielfältiger Verflechtungen stetig intensiviert – eine obsessive Nebelvision, die sich als Konstante des Erlebens erweist. Innerhalb dieser akustischen Landschaft zeichnet der Komponist ineinander verschlungene Wege des musikalischen Hörens 27 Vgl. Kremer: Préludes, S. 73. 28 Vgl. Kremer: Préludes, S. 84. 29 Vgl. Zenck-Maurer: Versuch, S. 19–35.



vor. Mit deren lückenloser Rekonstruierbarkeit als prozessualer Verlauf von Tonhöhenkonstellationen ginge jedoch der Zauber der Musik verloren. Die Plötzlichkeit des Staunens über das in Tiefstes und Höchstes Auseinandergerissene, synkopisch Entschwebende, einstimmig Abgründig-Leere gehört ebenso zur Eigenart dieser Vision wie das prozessual sich Entfaltende, atmosphärisch Tastende. Begriffe wie „Atmosphäre“ sind, zumal im Kontext musikanalytischer Untersuchungen, mit dem Vorurteil des Vagen, Defizitären behaftet. Gleichzeitig spielen sie jedoch in der neueren Philosophie eine immer zentralere Rolle. Abseits eines analytischen Substanzdenkens soll – etwa bei Martin Seel oder Gernot Böhme – das atmosphärische Erscheinen von Materie und die Wahrnehmung der Gleichzeitigkeit ihrer Nuancen begrifflich vermittelt werden30. Bedarf an einer vergleichbaren, jenseits konventioneller Hermeneutik angesiedelten, aber doch auf Inhaltliches verweisenden Begrifflichkeit besteht auch in der Musikanalyse. Auf dem Weg zu einer solchen Begrifflichkeit ist die Verbalisierung analytischer Aporien und der dadurch bedingte Versuch einer Synthese struktureller und inhaltlicher Verfahren unabdingbar. Mit Hilfe strukturanalytischer Methodik kann dargestellt werden, dass es prozess- oder 30 Vgl. Martin Seel: Ästhetik des Erscheinens. München/Wien 2000; Gernot Böhme: Atmosphäre. Frankfurt am Main 1995; Weitere wichtige Publikationen zu diesem zentralen Thema des gegenwärtigen musikästhetischen Diskurses („Sinn und Sinnsubversion“): Andrea Kern: Schöne Lust. Eine Theorie der ästhetischen Erfahrung nach Kant. Frankfurt am Main 2000; Andrea Kern und Ruth Sonderegger (Hg.): Falsche Gegensätze. Zeitgenössische Positionen zur philosophischen Ästhetik. Frankfurt am Main 2002; Christoph Menke: Die Souveränität der Kunst. Ästhetische Erfahrung nach Adorno und Derrida. Frankfurt am Main 1991; Martin Seel: Die Kunst der Entzweiung. Frankfurt am Main 1985; Ruth Sonderegger: Für eine Ästhetik des Spiels. Hermeneutik, Dekonstruktion und der Eigensinn der Kunst. Frankfurt am Main 2000; Ruth Sonderegger: „Wie Kunst (auch) mit der Wahrheit spielt“, in: Kern/ Sonderegger (Hg.), Falsche Gegensätze, S. 209–238; Albrecht Wellmer: „Die Zeit, die Sprache und die Kunst. Mit einem Exkurs über Musik und Zeit“, in: Klein/Keim/Ette (Hg.), Musik in der Zeit. Weilerswist 2000, S. 21–56; Albrecht Wellmer: „Das musikalische Kunstwerk“, in: Kern/Sonderegger (Hg.), Falsche Gegensätze, S. 133–175; Albrecht Wellmer: „Sprache – (Neue) Musik – Kommunikation“, in: Ette/Figal/ Klein/ Peters (Hg.), Adorno im Widerstreit. Freiburg i. Br. 2004, S. 289–323; Albrecht Wellmer: Versuch über Musik und Sprache, München 2009.



kontrastorientierte musikalische Verläufe gibt. In Bezug auf inhaltliche Deutungen kann vermutet werden, warum derartige Prozesse stattfinden, warum Stationen dieser Prozesse nicht bloß als gleichwertige Glieder eines „perfekten Organismus“ zu werten sind, und warum sich innerhalb kunstvoller Gefüge zuweilen unvermutete Bruchstellen eröffnen. Eine solche Synthese hermeneutisch und strukturanalytisch orientierter Strategien stünde im Dienst einer Meidung aporetischer Frontstellungen. In diesem Kontext ließen sich unterschiedlichste Vorgangsweisen skizzieren: Zum einen könnte man sich auf historische Verdienste der Musiktheorie, wie z.B. auf jene Ernst Kurths, oder auch auf aktuelle interdisziplinäre Debatten (wie z.B. jene zwischen Musik und Philosophie) stützen. Zum anderen könnte sich aber – und damit schließt sich der Bogen zum Beginn – auch eine weitere Intensivierung des Dialogs zwischen europäischer und amerikanischer Musiktheorie als Chance erweisen.



Zwangsarbeiter im nationalsozialistischen Deutschland und im von Deutschland besetzten Europa Ulrich Herbert

Die Heranziehung von Millionen von Arbeitskräften zur Zwangsarbeit während des Zweiten Weltkriegs war eines der wesentlichen Kennzeichen nationalsozialistischer Arbeitspolitik – in Deutschland selbst wie im ganzen von den Deutschen besetzten Europa. Allerdings umfasst der Begriff „Zwangsarbeiter” eine Vielzahl von Personengruppen mit zum Teil sehr verschiedenen Arbeitsverhältnissen. Dabei kann man vier große, in Bezug auf Status, Art und Weise der Rekrutierung, soziale Lage, Rechtsgrundlage der Beschäftigung sowie Dauer und Umstände des Arbeitsverhältnisses sehr unterschiedliche Gruppen voneinander unterscheiden: – die ausländischen Zivilarbeiter, die zwischen 1939 und 1945 zum Arbeitseinsatz nach Deutschland gebracht und im Volksmund „Fremdarbeiter” genannt wurden; sie bilden die weitaus größte unter den hier genannten Gruppen; – die ausländischen Kriegsgefangenen, vornehmlich aus Polen, der Sowjetunion und Frankreich, die in Deutschland als Arbeitskräfte eingesetzt wurden. Erhebliche Teile der polnischen Gefangenen wurden allerdings in den Status der „Zivilarbeiter” überführt. Zu dieser Gruppe gehören auch die etwa 600.000 „Militärinternierten” – italienische Soldaten, die nach dem Ausscheiden Italiens aus der „Achse” von der Wehrmacht festgesetzt und als Zwangsarbeiter nach Deutschland gebracht wurden; – die Häftlinge der Konzentrationslager der SS im Reichsgebiet; – die europäischen Juden, die in ihren Heimatländern, vor allem aber nach ihrer Deportation für kürzere oder längere Zeit Zwangsarbeiten verrichten mussten



– zunächst in Polen – in Gettos, Zwangsarbeitslagern oder KZ-Außenlagern- sowie nach 1944 in verstärktem Ausmaß auch im Reichsgebiet. – Schließlich sind hier auch jene Bewohner der von der Wehrmacht besetzten Länder zu berücksichtigen, die zur Zwangsarbeit in ihren eigenen oder in Drittländern verbracht wurden. Allerdings werden in den verschiedenen Ländern dabei bis heute ganz unterschiedliche Definitionen von „Zwangsarbeit” verwendet, die von der zwangsweisen Arbeitsleistung in KZ-ähnlichen Lagern bis zur Dienstverpflichtung von Unterstützungsempfängern durch die einheimische Arbeitsverwaltung reichen. „Fremdarbeiter“ und Kriegsgefangene

Der nationalsozialistische „Ausländereinsatz” zwischen 1939 und 1945 stellt den größten Fall der massenhaften, zwangsweisen Verwendung von ausländischen Arbeitskräften in der Geschichte seit dem Ende der Sklaverei im 19. Jahrhundert dar. Im Spätsommer 1944 waren auf dem Gebiet des „Großdeutschen Reichs“ 7,6 Mio. ausländische Zivilarbeiter und Kriegsgefangene offiziell als beschäftigt gemeldet, die man größtenteils zwangsweise zum Arbeitseinsatz ins Reich gebracht hatte. Sie stellten damit zu diesem Zeitpunkt etwa ein Viertel aller in der gesamten Wirtschaft des Deutschen Reiches registrierten Arbeitskräfte. Bereits unmittelbar nach Kriegsbeginn im September 1939 wurden die etwa 300.000 in deutsche Hand gefallenen polnischen Kriegsgefangenen sehr schnell vorwiegend in landwirtschaftliche Betriebe zur Arbeit gebracht. Gleichzeitig begann eine Kampagne zur Anwerbung polnischer Arbeiter, die zunächst an die langen Traditionen der Beschäftigung polnischer Landarbeiter in Deutschland anknüpfte, aber nach kurzer Zeit zu immer schärferen Rekrutierungsmaßnahmen überging und seit dem Frühjahr 1940 in eine regelrechte Menschenjagd im sogenannten „Generalgouvernement” mündete, wo mit jahrgangsweisen Dienstverpflichtungen, kollektiven Repressionen, Razzien, Umstellungen 

von Kinos, Schulen oder Kirchen Arbeitskräfte eingefangen wurden. Bis zum Mai 1940 war auf diese Weise mehr als eine Million polnischer Arbeiter ins Reich gebracht worden. Gleichwohl empfand man den „Poleneinsatz” in der Regimeführung nach wie vor als Verstoß gegen die „rassischen” Prinzipien des Nationalsozialismus; den daraus erwachsenden „volkspolitischen Gefahren”, so Himmler im Februar 1940, sei mit entsprechend scharfen Maßnahmen entgegenzuwirken. Daraufhin wurde gegenüber den Polen ein umfangreiches System von repressiven Bestimmungen entwickelt: Sie mussten in Barackenlagern wohnen, (was sich allerdings auf dem Lande in der Praxis bald als undurchführbar erwies), erhielten geringere Löhne, durften öffentliche Einrichtungen (vom Schnellzug bis zur Badeanstalt) nicht benutzen, den deutschen Gottesdienst nicht besuchen; sie mussten länger arbeiten als Deutsche und waren verpflichtet, an der Kleidung ein Abzeichen – das „Polen-P” – befestigt zu tragen. Kontakt zu Deutschen außerhalb der Arbeit war verboten, geschlechtlicher Umgang mit deutschen Frauen wurde mit öffentlicher Hinrichtung des beteiligten Polen geahndet. Um „das deutsche Blut zu schützen”, war zudem bestimmt worden, dass mindestens die Hälfte der zu rekrutierenden polnischen Zivilarbeiter Frauen zu sein hatten. Für die deutschen Behörden war der Modellversuch „Poleneinsatz” insgesamt ein Erfolg: Es gelang sowohl, binnen kurzer Zeit eine große Zahl von polnischen Arbeitern gegen ihren Willen nach Deutschland zu bringen, als auch, im Deutschen Reich eine nach „rassischen” Kriterien hierarchisierte Zweiklassengesellschaft zu installieren. Bereits im Mai 1940 aber war unübersehbar, dass auch die Rekrutierung der Polen den Arbeitskräftebedarf der deutschen Wirtschaft nicht zu befriedigen vermochte. So wurden denn schon während und alsbald nach dem „Frankreichfeldzug” etwas mehr als eine Million französischer Kriegsgefangener als Arbeitskräfte ins Reich gebracht. Darüber hinaus begann in den ver-



bündeten Ländern und besetzten Gebieten des Westens und Nordens eine verstärkte Arbeiter-Werbung. Auch für diese Gruppen wurden je besondere, allerdings im Vergleich zu den Polen deutlich günstigere Vorschriften für Behandlung, Lohn, Unterkunft etc. erlassen, so dass ein vielfach gestaffeltes System der nationalen Hierarchisierung entstand, eine Stufenleiter, auf der die damals bereits so genannten „Gastarbeitnehmer” aus dem verbündeten Italien zusammen mit den Arbeitern aus Nord- und Westeuropa oben und die Polen unten platziert wurden. Bis 1941/42 war der Anteil von „freiwilligen” Arbeitskräften in Nord- und Westeuropa relativ groß, bis auch hier angesichts der rückläufigen Arbeiterzahlen unterschiedliche System der Zwangsweisen Rekrutierung zum Arbeitseinsatz nach Deutschland installiert wurden. Der weit überwiegende Teil der ausländischen Zivilarbeiter und Kriegsgefangenen der „Blitzkriegsphase” bis Sommer 1941 wurde in der Landwirtschaft beschäftigt. Bei den Industrieunternehmen spielten Ausländer zu dieser Zeit keine bedeutende Rolle; die Industrie setzte vielmehr darauf, bald nach Abschluss der „Blitzkriege” ihre deutschen Arbeiter vom Militär zurückzuerhalten. Zugleich waren die ideologischen Vorbehalte gegen eine Ausweitung des Ausländereinsatzes bei Partei und Behörden so groß, dass festgelegt wurde, die Zahl der Ausländer auf dem Stand vom Frühjahr 1941 – knapp 3 Mio. – einzufrieren. Dieses Konzept ging so lange auf, wie die Strategie kurzer, umfassender Feldzüge eine Umstellung auf einen langen Abnutzungskrieg nicht erforderte. Seit dem Herbst 1941 aber und den ersten militärischen Rückschlägen der Wehrmacht in der Sowjetunion änderte sich die Situation grundlegend. Von einem „Blitzkrieg” konnte nicht mehr die Rede sein; vielmehr musste sich nun die deutsche Rüstungswirtschaft auf einen länger andauernden Abnutzungskrieg einstellen und ihre Kapazitäten erheblich vergrößern. Auch mit heimkehrenden Soldaten war nicht mehr zu rechnen – im Gegenteil: Eine massive Einberufungswelle erfasste



jetzt die Belegschaften der bis dahin geschützten Rüstungsbetriebe. Durch die nun einsetzenden intensiven Bemühungen um Arbeitskräfte aus den westeuropäischen Ländern allein aber waren diese Lücken nicht mehr zu schließen. Nur der Einsatz von Arbeitskräften aus der Sowjetunion konnte eine weitere, wirksame Entlastung bringen. Der Arbeitseinsatz sowjetischer Kriegsgefangener oder Zivilarbeiter im Reich jedoch war vor Beginn des Krieges vom NS-Regime explizit ausgeschlossen worden. Dabei hatten sich nicht nur Parteiführung, Reichssicherheitshauptamt und SS aus „rassischen” und sicherheitspolitischen Gründen gegen jede Beschäftigung von Russen in Deutschland ausgesprochen. Vielmehr war die Siegesgewissheit im überwiegenden Teil der an der Vorbereitung des Krieges beteiligten Stellen der Regimeführung und der Wirtschaft so groß, dass ein solcher Einsatz von vornherein als nicht notwendig angesehen wurde. Da also keine kriegswirtschaftliche Notwendigkeit ihrer Beschäftigung im Reich zu bestehen schien, wurden die Millionen sowjetischer Kriegsgefangener in den Massenlagern im Hinterland der deutschen Ostfront ihrem Schicksal überlassen – ganz den bereits im Frühjahr 1941 in der Regimeführung vereinbarten Prinzipien des „Russlandfeldzugs” entsprechend, wonach ein Großteil der „überflüssigen” sowjetischen Bevölkerung nicht zu ernähren und dem Hungertod preiszugeben sei. Mehr als die Hälfte der 5,7 Millionen bis Ende des Krieges in deutsche Hand geratenen sowjetischen Kriegsgefangenen verhungerte, erfror, starb vor Erschöpfung oder wurde umgebracht; ein erheblicher Teil bereits in den ersten 10 Monaten des Krieges. Als sich aber seit dem Spätsommer 1941 und verstärkt dann im Winter des Jahres die militärische und damit auch die kriegswirtschaftliche Lage Deutschlands rapide wandelte, entstand ein massiver ökonomischer Druck zur Beschäftigung nun auch der sowjetischen Gefangenen, der sich im November in entsprechenden Befehlen äußerte. Die Initiative dazu ging diesmal



von der Industrie, insbesondere vom Bergbau, aus, wo der Arbeitermangel bereits bedrohliche Formen angenommen hatte. Die überwiegende Mehrzahl der sowjetischen Gefangenen aber stand für einen Arbeitseinsatz gar nicht mehr zur Verfügung. Von den bis dahin mehr als 3 Mio. Gefangenen kamen bis März 1942 nur 160 000 zum Arbeitseinsatz ins Reich. Daher schalteten Behörden und Wirtschaft nun in großem Stile auf die Rekrutierung sowjetischer Zivilarbeiter um. Die Beschaffung von so vielen Arbeitskräften in so kurzer Zeit wie möglich wurde zur vordringlichen Frage und zur Hauptaufgabe des im März neu eingesetzten „Generalbevollmächtigten für den Arbeitseinsatz“, Sauckel; unter dessen Regie innerhalb von knapp 2 1/2 Jahren 2,5 Mio. Zivilisten aus der Sowjetunion von den Einsatzstäben der Wehrmacht und der deutschen Arbeitsämter als Zwangsarbeiter ins Reich deportiert wurden – 20 000 Menschen pro Woche. Parallel zu der Entwicklung beim „Poleneinsatz” wurde auch die Beschäftigung der sowjetischen Zwangsarbeiter im „Reich” durch ein System umfassender Repression und Diskriminierung der sowjetischen Zivilarbeiter kompensiert, das die Bestimmungen gegenüber den Polen an Radikalität allerdings noch weit übertraf. Die nun „Ostarbeiter” genannten sowjetischen Zivilarbeitskräfte wurden mit einem Abzeichen („Ost”) äußerlich gekennzeichnet, mussten in stacheldrahtumzäunten und bewachten Lagern leben und waren der Willkür von Gestapo und Betriebsschutzeinheiten in besonderem Maße ausgesetzt. Innerhalb des Reiches hatte sich mittlerweile ein regelrechter Lagerkosmos herausgebildet; an jeder Ecke in den großen Städten wie auf dem Lande fanden sich Ausländerlager. Allein in einer Stadt wie Berlin gab es davon mehrere hundert, insgesamt mögen es im Reich mehr als 30.000 gewesen sein, und etwa vier- bis fünfhunderttausend Deutsche waren in verschiedenen Funktionen, vom Lagerleiter bis zum „Ausländerbeauftragten” einer Fabrik, direkt in die Organisation des „Ausländereinsatzes” einbezogen.



Die Lebensbedingungen der einzelnen Ausländergruppen wurden durch eine strikte, bis in Kleinigkeiten reglementierte nationale Hierarchie differenziert. Während die Arbeiter aus den besetzten Westgebieten und den sog. befreundeten Ländern zwar überwiegend in Lagern leben mussten, aber etwa dieselben Löhne und Lebensmittelrationen wie die Deutschen in vergleichbaren Stellungen erhielten und auch denselben Arbeitsbedingungen unterlagen, waren die Arbeiter aus dem Osten, vor allem die Russen, ganz erheblich schlechter gestellt. Die Rationen für die offiziell „Ostarbeiter” genannten sowjetischen Zivilarbeiter fielen so gering aus, dass sie vor allem in den Jahren 1942/43 oft schon wenige Wochen nach ihrer Ankunft völlig unterernährt und arbeitsunfähig waren. Schon im Frühsommer 1942 berichteten zahlreiche Unternehmen, dass der „Russeneinsatz” ganz unwirtschaftlich sei, weil eine effektive Beschäftigung nicht nur eine bessere Verpflegung und ausreichende Ruhepausen, sondern auch dem Arbeitsvorgang entsprechende Anlernmaßnahmen für die Zwangsarbeiter voraussetze. Solche Maßnahmen hatten bei den französischen Kriegsgefangenen dazu geführt, dass die Arbeitsleistungen nach relativ kurzer Zeit beinahe das Niveau der deutschen Arbeiter erreichten. Die Lage vor allem der sowjetischen Zwangsarbeiter war allerdings von Betrieb zu Betrieb, von Lager zu Lager sehr unterschiedlich; in der Landwirtschaft ging es ihnen in der Regel erheblich besser als in der Industrie, und auch dort waren die Unterschiede in der Behandlung und der Ernährung eklatant, vor allem seit Ende 1942. Das aber verweist darauf, wie groß der Handlungs- und Ermessensspielraum des einzelnen Unternehmens war. Es kann überhaupt keine Rede davon sein, dass die schlechten Arbeits- und Lebensbedingungen der Arbeiter aus dem Osten allein auf die bindenden Vorschriften der Behörden zurückzuführen gewesen seien. Was die Löhne betrifft, so gab es hierbei grob gesprochen ein vierfach gestaffeltes System. Die zivilen Arbeitskräfte aus allen Ländern außer den ehemals polni-



schen und sowjetischen Gebieten erhielten die gleichen Löhne wie die deutschen Arbeiter bzw. Arbeiterinnen in vergleichbaren Funktionen – zumindest nominell. Nominell die gleichen Löhne sollten auch polnische Arbeiter erhalten, allerdings mussten sie eine besondere 15-prozentige Steuer, die „Polen-Abgabe”, zahlen – die von den deutschen Arbeitsbehörden mit der bemerkenswerten Begründung eingeführt wurde, dies diene zum Ausgleich dafür, dass die Polen ja nicht wie die Deutschen zum Wehrdienst eingezogen würden. Die sowjetischen Arbeiter hingegen erhielten besonders festgelegte Löhne, die erheblich niedriger lagen als die der deutschen und anderen ausländischen Arbeiter – nominell etwa um 40 Prozent, tatsächlich in den meisten Fällen wohl noch tiefer. Über viele Betriebe klagten die Arbeitsbehörden jedoch, dass sie gar keine Löhne an die sowjetischen Zivilarbeiter auszahlten und diese für „Zivilgefangene” hielten und entsprechend behandelten. Im September 1944 befanden sich 7,6 Mio. ausländische Arbeitskräfte auf Arbeitsstellen im Reich: 5,7 Mio. Zivilarbeiter und knapp 2 Mio. Kriegsgefangene. 2,8 Mio. von ihnen stammten aus der Sowjetunion, 1,7 Mio. aus Polen, 1,3 Mio. aus Frankreich; insgesamt wurden zu dieser Zeit Menschen aus fast 20 europäischen Ländern im Reich zur Arbeit eingesetzt. Mehr als die Hälfte der polnischen und sowjetischen Zivilarbeiter waren Frauen, im Durchschnitt unter 20 Jahre alt – der durchschnittliche Zwangsarbeiter in Deutschland 1943 war eine 18jährige Schülerin aus Kiew. Im September 1944 waren etwa 23Prozent aller Beschäftigten im Reich ausländische Zivilarbeiter oder Kriegsgefangene. In den rüstungsintensiven Branchen lag der Anteil, wie wir aus den Studien über den Zwangsarbeitseinsatz in einzelnen Unternehmen, etwa über Daimler-Benz oder das Volkswagenwerk, wissen, über 40 und 50 Prozent; in vielen Fertigungsbereichen bei 70 und 80 Prozent, so dass den deutschen Beschäftigten hier außer der Verwaltung vorwiegend nur noch die Funktionen von Anlernern und Aufpassern zukam. Besonders hohe Anteile von ausländischen Zwangsarbeitern wurden neben



der unmittelbaren Rüstungsproduktion auch im Baubereich sowie in der Landwirtschaft erreicht. Die Beschäftigung von ausländischen Zwangsarbeitern beschränkte sich jedoch durchaus nicht allein auf Großbetriebe, sondern erstreckte sich, von der Verwaltung abgesehen, auf die gesamte Wirtschaft – vom Kleinbauernhof über die Schlosserei mit sechs Arbeitern bis zur Reichsbahn, den Kommunen und den großen Rüstungsbetrieben KZ-Häftlinge

Seit Anfang 1944 aber zeigte sich, dass selbst solche in der Tat erheblichen Zahlen für den Arbeiterbedarf insbesondere der großen Rüstungsprojekte des Reiches nicht mehr ausreichend waren, zumal infolge der militärischen Entwicklung die Arbeiterrekrutierung vor allem in der Sowjetunion zurückging und so die durch weitere Einberufungen immer größer werdenden Arbeitskräftelücken nicht mehr ausgefüllt werden konnten. Daraufhin wandte sich das Interesse zunehmend der einzigen Organisation zu, die noch über ein erhebliches Potential an Arbeitskräften verfügte: der SS und den ihr unterstellten Konzentrationslagern. In den ersten Kriegsjahren hatte der Arbeitseinsatz von KZ-Häftlingen eine kriegswirtschaftliche Bedeutung nicht besessen. Zwar gab es bereits seit 1938 SSeigene Wirtschaftsunternehmen – vor allem Steinbrüche, Ziegeleien und Ausbesserungswerkstätten -, und nahezu alle Häftlinge wurden in irgendeiner Form zur Zwangsarbeit herangezogen. Der Charakter der Arbeit als Strafe, „Erziehung“ oder „Rache“ blieb aber auch hier erhalten und nahm gegenüber den in der politischen und rassischen Hierarchie der Nazis besonders tief stehenden Gruppen bereits vor 1939 und verstärkt danach die Form der Vernichtung an. Durch die Gründung von SS-eigenen Betrieben wie den „Deutschen Ausrüstungswerken” und den „Deutschen Erd- und Steinwerken” wurde zwar das Bestreben der SS sichtbar, die Konzentrationslager zunehmend auch als ökonomischen Faktor zu nutzen, in der Praxis aber blieb die



wirtschaftliche Funktion der Zwangsarbeit der Häftlinge bis weit in die Kriegsjahre hinein den politischen Zielsetzungen der Lagerhaft untergeordnet. Nach dem militärischen Rückschlag an der Ostfront im Herbst 1941 und der damit verbundenen Umorganisation der deutschen Rüstungsindustrie auf die Notwendigkeiten eines langen Abnutzungskrieges wurden nun auch beim Reichsführer SS organisatorische Umstellungen vorgenommen, um die Produktion für die Rüstung – und nicht nur wie bisher in der Bauwirtschaft, der Baustoffgewinnung und der Militärausrüstung – in den Konzentrationslagern zur vorrangigen Aufgabe zu machen. Tatsächlich waren jedoch weder die Konzentrationslager auf eine solche rapide Umstellung eingerichtet noch reichte der wirtschaftliche Sachverstand in dem als neue Organisationszentrale der Konzentrationslager eingerichteten „Wirtschaftsund Verwaltungshauptamt” der SS (WVHA) aus, um eine Rüstungsfertigung in großem Stile aus dem Boden zu stampfen. Zudem waren die KZ-Wachmannschaften selbst aufgrund der jahrelang geübten Praxis, dass ein Menschenleben im KZ nichts galt, nur schwer auf den Vorrang des Arbeitseinsatzes umzustellen. Das Wirtschafts- und Verwaltungshauptamt der SS machte im April 1942 allen KZ-Kommandanten den Arbeitseinsatz der KZ-Häftlingen zur Hauptaufgabe: Tatsächlich aber starben von den 95.000 registrierten KZ-Häftlingen des 2. Halbjahres 1942 57.503, also mehr als 60 Prozent. Erst im Frühjahr 1942 begann die SS damit, KZ-Häftlinge in umfangreicherem Maße für Rüstungszwecke einzusetzen, insbesondere beim Aufbau des IG-Farben-Werkes bei Auschwitz. Allerdings wurden die Häftlinge hier zunächst nur bei den Bauarbeiten beschäftigt, während der Einsatz bei der Rüstungsfertigung erst ein Jahr später begann. Bei den Auseinandersetzungen zwischen den verschiedenen Interessengruppen innerhalb der SS setzte sich der Gedanke der Strafe und Vernichtung gegenüber dem von Arbeit und Produktivität weiterhin durch – vor allem deshalb, weil durch die Massendeportationen sowjetischer Arbeitskräfte nach Deutschland,



die zu dieser Zeit einsetzten, ein kriegswirtschaftlicher Druck zur Beschäftigung von KonzentrationslagerHäftlingen nicht entstand. Erst im September 1942 entschied Hitler auf Vorschlag des Rüstungsministers Speer, dass die SS ihre KZ-Häftlinge fortan der Industrie leihweise zur Verfügung stellen und die Industrie ihrerseits die Häftlinge in den bestehenden Produktionsprozess integrieren solle. Dadurch wurde hier das Prinzip der Ausleihe von KZ-Häftlingen an die Privatindustrie festgeschrieben, das von nun an den Arbeitseinsatz der KZ-Häftlinge bestimmen sollte. Seitdem wurde der Arbeitseinsatz von KZ-Häftlingen innerhalb bestehender Industriebetriebe verstärkt; dazu meldeten die Privatunternehmen ihren Arbeitskräftebedarf beim WVHA, von wo aus Unterkünfte und Sicherheitsbedingungen überprüft und die Genehmigungen erteilt wurden. Dabei konnten in der Regel Firmenbeauftragte in den Lagern selbst die geeignet erscheinenden Häftlinge aussuchen. Anschließend wurden die Häftlinge in ein ,,Außenlager“ des Konzentrationslagers übergeführt, das meistens in unmittelbarer Nähe der Arbeitsstelle errichtet wurde. Die Gebühren für die Überlassung der Häftlinge, die die Firmen an die SS zu zahlen hatten, betrugen pro Tag 6,RM für Facharbeiter und 4,- RM für Hilfsarbeiter und Frauen. Gleichzeitig begannen auch die SS-eigenen Wirtschaftsbetriebe im Reich verstärkt auf Rüstungsproduktion umzustellen; die Deutschen Ausrüstungswerke (DAW) produzierten seit Ende 1942 bereits zum überwiegenden Teil für rüstungs- und kriegswichtige Zwecke, vor allem Instandsetzungsarbeiten. Um den Rüstungseinsatz zu verstärken, lag das vorrangige Interesse des WVHA nun darin, die Zahl der Häftlinge in möglichst kurzer Zeit rigoros zu vergrößern. Die Belegstärke aller Konzentrationslager stieg von 110.000 (September 1942) in sieben Monaten auf 203.000 (April 1943). Im August 1944 war die Häftlingszahl bereits auf 524.268 angewachsen, Anfang 1945 auf über 700.000. Die monatlichen Todesraten der Häftlinge waren jedoch nach wie vor außerordentlich hoch und



begannen erst seit dem Frühjahr 1943 zu sinken – von 10 Prozent im Dezember 1942 auf 2,8 Prozent im April 1943. Dies zeigt, dass den erhöhten Anforderungen von Seiten der privaten und der SS-Industrie stark erhöhte Einweisungszahlen in die Konzentrationslager entsprachen, nicht aber grundlegend veränderte Arbeits- und Lebensbedingungen der Häftlinge in den Lagern. Entsprechend lag die durchschnittliche Arbeitsfähigkeit – und damit die Lebensdauer – des einzelnen Häftlings 1943/44 zwischen einem und zwei Jahren; allerdings mit außerordentlich großen Unterschieden je nach Einsatzort und Gruppenzugehörigkeit der Häftlinge. Zur wirklichen Verbesserung der Arbeits- und Lebensbedingungen der KZ-Häftlinge kam es aber nur dann, wenn durch berufsqualifizierten Einsatz oder nach Anlernzeiten auf qualifizierten Arbeitsplätzen die Arbeitskraft des einzelnen nicht oder nur schwer ersetzbar wurde. Im Sommer 1943 waren von den 160.000 registrierten Gefangenen der WVHA-Lager etwa 15 Prozent bei der Lagerinstandhaltung beschäftigt und 22 Prozent als arbeitsunfähig gemeldet. Die restlichen 63 Prozent, also etwa 100.000, verteilten sich auf die Bauvorhaben der SS, die Wirtschaftsunternehmen der SS sowie die privaten Unternehmen. Am Ende des Jahres 1942 gab es innerhalb des Reichsgebiets 82 Außenlager der KZ, ein Jahr später 186. Im Sommer 1944 stieg diese Zahl auf 341, bis Januar 1945 auf 662. Da die Zahlenangaben der SS und des Speer-Ministeriums zum Teil stark voneinander abweichen, sind exakte Bestimmungen schwierig. Der Zwangsarbeitseinsatz der Juden

Gegenüber den Juden ist der Übergang zur systematischen Zwangsarbeit mit dem Beginn des Jahres 1939 feststellbar. In Deutschland wurden seither die Juden, die Arbeitslosenunterstützung beantragten, nach entsprechendem Erlass der deutschen Arbeitsverwaltung im „Geschlossenen Arbeitseinsatz” als Hilfsarbeiter eingesetzt – bis zum Sommer 1939 wuchs die Zahl dieser – vorwiegend männlichen – jüdischen Zwangsarbeiter 

auf etwa 20.000 an, die insbesondere bei Straßenbauarbeiten, bei Meliorations-, Kanal- und Talsperrenprojekten sowie auf Müllplätzen, nach Kriegsbeginn auch bei kurzfristigen Schneeräumungs- oder Ernteaktionen eingesetzt wurden. Im Laufe des Jahres 1940 wurde die Verpflichtung zur Zwangsarbeit auf alle arbeitsfähigen deutschen Juden – Frauen wie Männer – ausgedehnt, unabhängig vom Empfang der Arbeitslosenunterstützung. Von nun an erfolgte der Einsatz vorwiegend in der Industrie. Spätestens seit dem Frühjahr 1941 aber konkurrierten die Bestrebungen zur Zwangsarbeit der deutschen Juden in Rüstungsunternehmen im Reichsgebiet mit dem Ziel der deutschen Führung, die Juden aus Deutschland zu deportieren. Auch für die – im Sommer 1941 etwa 50.000 – in Rüstungsbetrieben eingesetzten jüdischen Zwangsarbeiter boten die Arbeitsplätze, von denen viele als „rüstungswichtig” eingestuft worden waren, keinen sicheren Schutz vor der Deportation, sondern lediglich eine nach der rüstungswirtschaftlichen Bedeutung ihrer Tätigkeit gestaffelte Verzögerung. Bemerkenswert war in diesem Zusammenhang, dass die Deportationen auch von in kriegswichtigen Betrieben beschäftigten Juden mit Hinweisen begründet wurden, es stünden schließlich genug Polen bzw. Ukrainer als Ersatz zur Verfügung – und dies war der letztlich ausschlaggebende Faktor bei der Entscheidung, die vorerst verschonten Berliner ,,Rüstungsjuden“ schließlich doch zu deportieren. Im Sommer 1943 gab es innerhalb Deutschlands – von wenigen Einzelfällen abgesehen – keine Juden und also auch keine jüdischen Zwangsarbeiter mehr. Ähnlich, wenngleich in zum Teil anderer zeitlicher Staffelung, entwickelte sich der Zwangsarbeitseinsatz von Juden in den von Deutschland besetzten Ländern insbesondere Osteuropas. Im sogenannten „Generalgouvernement” wurde der jüdische Arbeitszwang bereits im Oktober 1939 verhängt. Danach mussten alle männlichen Juden von 14 bis 60 Jahren Zwangsarbeit in dafür einzurichtenden Zwangsarbeitslagern leisten.



Es war Aufgabe der „Judenräte”, diese Arbeitskräfte entsprechend zu erfassen und einzuteilen. Einige Wochen später wurde der Arbeitszwang auch auf alle jüdischen Frauen im Alter von 14 bis 60 Jahren ausgedehnt. Ursprünglich hatte allerdings die SS vorgesehen, alle Juden im „Generalgouvernement” in großen Zwangsarbeiterlagern zur Arbeit einzusetzen. Allerdings waren so viele Juden de facto in freien Arbeitsverhältnissen tätig, dass eine schlagartige Umstellung auf Lagerhaft schon organisatorisch kaum möglich erschien. Jedoch sollte der jüdische „Arbeitseinsatz” zunehmend in Gettos konzentriert werden, deren Errichtung zu dieser Zeit noch nicht sehr weit vorangeschritten war. Die Arbeitsverwaltung im „Generalgouvernement” legte bereits im Sommer 1940 fest, dass jüdische Arbeitskräfte im freien Einsatz höchstens 80 Prozent der üblichen Löhne erhalten sollten, die Polen für eine entsprechende Tätigkeit erhielten. Viele deutsche Unternehmen oder Institutionen entließen daraufhin ihre jüdischen Arbeitskräfte, denen sie zuvor oft geringere oder gar keine Löhne bezahlt hatten. Das änderte sich aber mit dem Beginn der systematischen „Endlösung“. Die Flucht in die „Shops“ genannten Arbeitsstellen in den Gettos und die schreckliche Lage der jüdischen Arbeiter, die fürchten mussten, bei nicht genügenden Arbeitsleistungen deportiert und ermordet zu werden, machte sie als Arbeitskräfte zunehmend attraktiver. Die Einteilung in rüstungswichtige und weniger wichtige Fertigungsstätten wurde für die jüdischen Zwangsarbeiter immer mehr zur Entscheidung über Leben und Tod. Mit der Umstellung auf den Primat des Arbeitseinsatzes seit Anfang 1942 verschärften sich die Widersprüche: Im „Generalgouvernement” begannen seit März 1942 die Auflösung der Gettos und die Deportationen der polnischen Juden in die Vernichtungslager. Ein Teil von ihnen jedoch wurde in besondere, den SS- und Polizeiführern unterstehende Arbeitslager gebracht, wo sie bei Bauvorhaben und in der Rüstungsproduktion eingesetzt wurden. Dazu errichtete die SS in diesen Lagern eigene Wirtschaftsbetriebe, zum Teil aus den ver-



lagerten Betriebsanlagen ehemals jüdischer Betriebe. Durch diese Maßnahmen kam es zu erheblichen Konflikten vor allem mit der an der Erhaltung ,,ihrer“ jüdischen Arbeitskräfte in den Gettowerkstätten interessierten Wehrmacht. Die SS war jedoch lediglich bereit, den Rüstungsbetrieben die jüdischen Arbeitskräfte vorerst zu belassen, wenn die Juden als KZ-Häftlinge unter der Regie der SS den Betrieben zum Arbeitseinsatz überlassen würden. Am 19. Juli 1942 ordnete Himmler an, alle polnischen Juden bis zum Ende des Jahres 1942 zu ermorden. Nur solche Juden, die rüstungswichtige Zwangsarbeit verrichteten, sollten vorerst am Leben gelassen werden. Allerdings sollten solche Produktionsstätten sukzessive in SS-Regie übergehen und in Zwangsarbeitslagern zusammengefasst werden. Daraufhin wurden von nun an Getto um Getto geräumt und die aufgebauten Produktionsstätten mit Zehntausenden von jüdischen Arbeitskräften stillgelegt; die Zwangsarbeiter in die Vernichtungslager deportiert und ermordet. In den besetzten Gebieten der Sowjetunion war die Lage nicht anders. Nach der ersten Phase der Massenerschießungen im Sommer 1941 waren auch hier Juden in Arbeitskolonnen und Werkstätten beschäftigt worden. Aber auch in der Folgezeit und nach der kriegswirtschaftlichen Umstellung seit Anfang 1942 wurde die Praxis der Liquidationen ohne Rücksicht auf wirtschaftliche Belange fortgesetzt. Erst seit Anfang 1944, als gegenüber den Juden das politische Hauptziel des Nationalsozialismus erreicht war, kam es aufgrund des sich dramatisch verschärfenden Arbeitskräftemangels in der letzten Kriegsphase zu einer Änderung, und jüdische Häftlinge wurden auch im Reichsgebiet als Arbeitskräfte in SS-eigenen Betrieben, bei unterirdischen Betriebsverlagerungen und in Privatunternehmen, vor allem in der Großindustrie, eingesetzt. Bereits im August 1943 war in der Führungsspitze des Regimes die Entscheidung gefallen, die Herstellung der Raketenwaffe A 4, eine der sog. V-Waffen, mit Hilfe von KZ-Häftlingen in unterirdischer Produk-



tion durchführen zu lassen. Seit dem Jahreswechsel 1943/44 wurde nun überall in Deutschland damit begonnen, rüstungswichtige Fertigungen in Untertagefabriken – meist Höhlen oder Bergstollen – zu verlagern, wo sie vor Bombenangriffen geschützt waren. Diese unter enormem Zeitdruck vorangetriebenen Projekte hatten schreckliche Auswirkungen für die hierbei eingesetzten KZ-Häftlinge. Gerade in der Aufbauphase im Herbst und Winter 1943/44 waren die Todeszahlen immens. Leichte Ersetzbarkeit der Häftlinge bei technisch überwiegend einfachen, aber körperlich schweren Arbeiten, hoher Zeitdruck, mangelnde Ernährung und denkbar schlechte Lebensbedingungen waren die Ursachen für die hohen Todesraten, die erst zu sinken begannen, als das Wohnlager fertig gestellt und die Produktion aufgenommen worden war. Bis dahin jedoch waren die Häftlinge schon wenige Wochen nach ihrem Eintreffen „abgearbeitet”. Projekte dieser Art, zu denen Zehntausende, ja Hunderttausende von Arbeitskräften in drei Tagesschichten gebraucht wurden, waren nur noch mit KZ-Häftlingen durchführbar, denn allein die SS besaß noch Arbeitskraftreserven in solchen Größenordnungen. Aber auch die reichten zur Erfüllung der gestellten Aufgaben bald nicht mehr aus, so dass im Frühjahr 1944 der Arbeitseinsatz auch von Juden diskutiert wurde. Bis dahin war die Beschäftigung von Juden innerhalb des Reiches explizit verboten, schließlich galt es als Erfolg des Reichssicherheitshauptamtes der SS, das Reich „judenfrei” gemacht zu haben. Nun aber änderte sich dies. Von den im Frühjahr 1944 nach Auschwitz deportierten etwa 485.000 ungarischen Juden wurden etwa 350.000 Menschen sofort vergast, etwa 100.000 besonders arbeitsfähig wirkende jedoch für den Arbeitseinsatz im „Reich” aussortiert. Nachdem der Zufluss von „Fremdarbeitern” mittlerweile beinahe ganz zum Versiegen gekommen war, hatten immer mehr Firmen im Reich bei den Arbeitsämtern, zum Teil auch direkt bei den Konzentrationslagern Häftlinge angefordert und waren nun auch einverstanden, jüdische Zwangsarbeiter aus der „Un-



garnaktion” zu beschäftigen. Die aus Auschwitz kommenden Häftlinge, darunter sehr viele Frauen, wurden nun formal den Konzentrationslagern im „Reich” unterstellt und auf die Firmen, die KZ-Arbeiter angefordert hatten, verteilt. Die Zahl der Arbeitskommandos der KZ-Stammlager wuchs seit dem Frühjahr 1944 rapide an, am Ende des Krieges existierten auf Reichsgebiet etwa 660 Außenlager; die Liste der deutscher Unternehmen, die solche KZ-Außenlager einrichteten und KZ-Häftlinge einsetzten, wurde immer länger und umfasste hunderte von renommierten Firmen. Die Arbeits- und Lebensbedingungen der Häftlinge waren dabei in den verschiedenen Firmen sehr unterschiedlich. Insgesamt kann man – mit aller Vorsicht – jedoch davon ausgehen, dass diejenigen, die in der Produktion der Rüstungsbetriebe selbst beschäftigt wurden, erheblich größere Überlebenschancen besaßen als diejenigen Häftlinge, die in den großen Bauvorhaben und insbesondere beim Ausbau unterirdischer Produktionsstätten Stabes sowie bei der Fertigung in den Höhlen und Stollen nach der Betriebsverlagerung eingesetzt wurden. Schluss

Versucht man abschließend die Gesamtzahlen der von den Behörden und Betrieben im nationalsozialistischen Deutschland zur Zwangsarbeit verpflichteten Menschen zusammenzustellen, so kann man nur für den Arbeitseinsatz von ausländischen Zivilarbeitern und Kriegsgefangenen genaue, auf den Statistiken der Arbeitsbehörden basierende Daten nennen: Die höchste Zahl der gleichzeitig eingesetzten „Fremdarbeiter” wurde im Sommer 1944 mit 7,6 Millionen erreicht. Angesichts der erheblichen Fluktuation ist es jedoch realistisch, von insgesamt etwa 9,5 bis 10 Millionen ausländischen Zivilarbeitern und Kriegsgefangenen auszugehen, die für längere oder kürzere Zeit in Deutschland als Zwangsarbeiter eingesetzt wurden. Die Zahl der KZ-Häftlinge, die in Konzentrations-Stammlagern oder Außen

lagern insgesamt zur Zwangsarbeit eingesetzt worden waren, ist seriös kaum schätzbar. Insgesamt sind zwischen 1939 und 1945 etwa 2,5 Millionen Häftlinge in Konzentrationslager des späteren Wirtschafts- und Verwaltungshauptamts der SS eingeliefert worden; darunter etwa 15 Prozent Deutsche und 85Prozent Ausländer; eine seriöse Schätzung der Zahl der in diesen Jahren in den Lagern Gestorbenen geht von 836.000 bis 995.000 Toten aus; (hierin sind die Lager Majdanek und Auschwitz nicht enthalten, in denen insgesamt etwa 1,1 Millionen Menschen umgekommen sind, von denen die weit überwiegende Mehrheit Juden waren). Es ist davon auszugehen, dass nahezu jeder KZ-Häftling während seiner Haftzeit für kurze oder lange Zeit zur Zwangsarbeit eingesetzt worden ist, allerdings in sehr unterschiedlicher und sich wandelnder Weise. Von den etwa 200.000 Häftlingen im April 1943 dürfte noch weniger als die Hälfte im Rüstungsbereich eingesetzt gewesen sein. Am Ende des Jahres 1944 lag die Gesamtzahl der KZ-Häftlinge bei etwa 600.000, von denen 480.000 tatsächlich als „arbeitsfähig” gemeldet waren. Nach Schätzungen des Wirtschafts- und Verwaltungshauptamts der SS wurden davon etwa 240.000 bei den unterirdischen Verlagerungen sowie bei den Bauvorhaben der Organisation Todt eingesetzt und ca. 230.000 in der Privatindustrie. Die Zahl derjenigen Juden, die vor oder nach ihrer Deportation zur Zwangsarbeit herangezogen worden ist, ist nicht mit hinreichender Genauigkeit zu schätzen; zumal dies in den einzelnen europäischen Ländern sehr unterschiedlich war. Im Sommer 1942 lag die Zahl der in den Gettos und Zwangsarbeitslagern eingepferchten polnischen Juden bei etwa 1,5 Millionen; es ist gewiss nicht zu hoch gegriffen, wenn man davon ausgeht, dass von diesen mindestens die Hälfte für kürzere oder längere Zeit zur Zwangsarbeit eingesetzt worden ist. Erheblich viel geringer war der Anteil derjenigen, die, nachdem sie aus den verschiedenen europäischen Ländern in die Lager des Ostens deportiert worden waren, dort als „arbeitsfähig” aussortiert worden waren. Ebenso wenig



gibt es für die Gebiete der Sowjetunion Zahlen, die uns auch nur einen Annäherungswert ermöglichten. Im Jahre 1944 stellten die ausländischen Zwangsarbeiter – Zivilarbeiter, Kriegsgefangene, KZ-Häftlinge und jüdische Arbeitskräfte – etwa ein Viertel der in der Gesamtwirtschaft innerhalb des Reiches Beschäftigten. Dies traf auch auf den Zwangsarbeitereinsatz von KZ-Häftlingen und Juden nach 1942/43 zu. Hier nahm dann in der letzten Kriegsphase der Ausbau von unterirdischen Produktionsstätten vor allem für die Flugzeugproduktion eine herausgehobene Stellung ein. Es ist bis jetzt nicht gelungen, auch nur einen einzigen größeren Betrieb der produzierenden Gewerbe zu finden, der während des Krieges keine ausländischen Zwangsarbeiter beschäftigt hat. Dies trifft insbesondere für die Zivilarbeiter und Kriegsgefangenen zu, während die KZ-Häftlinge und die jüdischen Zwangsarbeiter vornehmlich von größeren Unternehmen angefordert wurden. Die Initiative zur Beschäftigung von Zwangsarbeitern aller Kategorien ging durchgehend von den Unternehmen selbst aus; forderten sie keine Zwangsarbeiter an, erhielten sie auch keine. Überlegungen, die Wirtschaftsunternehmen seien vom Regime gezwungen worden, Zwangsarbeiter zu beschäftigen, entbehren jeder Grundlage und verkennen auch den Charakter der kooperativen Strukturen in der deutschen Arbeitsverwaltung während des Krieges. Insgesamt wird angesichts dieses knappen Überblicks deutlich, dass die deutsche Wirtschaft spätestens seit der Kriegswende im Winter 1941/42 alternativlos auf die Beschäftigung der ausländischen Zwangsarbeiter angewiesen war. Ohne sie hätte seither weder die Rüstungsproduktion aufrechterhalten und damit der Krieg weitergeführt werden noch die deutsche Bevölkerung auf dem bis 1944 vergleichsweise hohen Niveau ernährt werden können. Der Zwangsarbeitereinsatz in der deutschen Kriegswirtschaft war daher keine Regime-induzierte Nebenerscheinung, sondern bildete eine der wesentlichen Voraussetzungen des von Deutschland fast sechs Jahre lang geführten Krieges.



Sowjetunion

Niederlande

Italien

Frankreich

Belgien

Herkunftsland und Gruppe

Landw.

Bergbau

Metall Chemie

Insgesamt

28.652

5.146

95.872

Zivilarbeiter

3.948

2.787

Kriegsgefangene

24.704

in % aller Belgier

Verkehr

insgesamt

14.029 20.906

12.576

253.648

86.441

13.533

19.349

11.585

203.262

2.629

9.431

496

1.557

991

50.386

11,2 %

2,0 %

37,8 %

5,5 %

8,2 %

4,9 %

100 %

Insgesamt

405.897

21.844

370.766

48.319

59.440 48.700

1.254.749

Zivilarbeiter

54.590

7.780

292.800

39.417

36.237

34.905

654.782

Kriegsgefangene

351.307

14.064

77.966

8.902

23.203

13.795

599.967

in % aller Franz.

32,3 %

1,7 %

29,5 %

3,9 %

4,7 %

3,9 %

100 %

Insgesamt

45.288

50.325

221.304

35.276

80.814

35.319

585.337

Zivilarbeiter

15.372

6.641

41.316

10.791

35.271

5.507

158.099

Kriegsgefangene

29.916

43.684

179.988

24.485

45.543

29.812

427.238

in % aller Ital.

7,7 %

8,6 %

37,8 %

6,0 %

13,8 %

6,0 %

100 %

Zivilarbeiter

22.092

4.745

87.482

9.658

32.025

18.356

270.304

in % aller Niederl.

8,2 %

1,8 %

32,4 %

3,5 %

11,9 %

6,8 %

100 %

Insgesamt

862.062

252.848 883.419

92.952 110.289 205.325

2.758.312

Zivilarbeiter

723.646

92.950

84.974

77.991

158.024

2.126.753

Kriegsgefangene

138.416

159.898 130.705

7.978

32.298

47.301

631.559

in % aller Sowjetb.

28,5 %

6,8 %

100 %

„Protektorat“

Polen

Insgesamt 1.125.632



752.714

Bau

8,3 %

29,2 %

3,7 %

3,6 %

55.672

130.905

23.871

68.428

35.746

1.688.080

Zivilarbeiter

1.105.719

55.005

128.556

22.911

67.601

35.484

1.659.764

Kriegsgefangene

19.913

667

2.349

960

827

262

28.316

in % aller Polen

66,7 %

3,3 %

7,5 %

1,4 %

4,1 %

2,1 %

100 %

10.289

13.413

80.349

10. 192

44.870

18.566

280.273

3,7 %

4,8 %

28,7 %

3,6 %

16,0 %

6,6 %

100 %

Zivilarbeiter in % aller „Prot.Ang.“

Herkunftsland und Gruppe

Landw.

Insges.

Insgesamt 2.747.238 Zivilarbeiter

Bergbau

Metall Chemie

Bau

Verkehr

insgesamt

433.790 1.691.329 252.068 478.057 378.027

7.615.970

2.061.066 196.782 1.397.920 206.741 349.079 277.579

5.721.883

Kriegsgefangene

686.172

in %

36,1 %

237.008 293.409 5,7 %

22,2 %

45.327 3,3 %

128.979 100.448 1.930.087 6,3. %

5,0 %

100 %

Tab. 1: Ausländische Zivilarbeiter und Kriegsgefangene nach Staatsangehörigkeit und Wirtschaftszweigen, August 1944

1939

1940

Land-wirtschaft

Deutsche 10.732.000 9.684.000

1941

1942

1943

1944

8.939.000

8.969.000

8.743.000

8.460.000

Zivile Ausl.

118.000

412.000

769.000

1.170.000

1.0561.000

1.767.000

Kriegsgef.

-

249.000

642.000

759.000

609.000

635.000

Alle Ausländer

118.000

661.000

1.411.000

1.929.000

2.230.000

2.402.000

Ausl in % aller Besch.

1,1 %

6,4 %

13,6 %

17,7 %

20,3 %

22,1 %

Nicht- Landwirtschaft

Deutsche 28.382.000 25.207.000 24.273.000 22.568.000 2 1.324.000

20. 144.000

Zivile Ausl.

183.000

391.000

984.000

1.475.000

3.276.000

3.528.000

Kriegsgef.

-

99.000

674.000

730.000

954.000

1.196.000

Ausl. insg.

183.000

490.000

1.659.000

2.205.000

4.230.000

4.724.000

Ausl. in % aller Besch.

0,6 %

1,9 %

6,4 %

8,9 %

16,5 %

18,9 %

Gesamtwirtschaft

Deutsche 39.114.000 34.891.000 33.2 1 2.000 3 1. 537.000 30.067.000 28.604.000 Zivile Ausl.

301.000

803.000

1.753.000

2.645.000

4.837.000

5.295.000

Kriegsgef.

-

348.000

1.316.000

1.489.000

1.623.000

1.831.000

Ausl. insg.

301.000

1.151.000

3.069.000

4.134.000

6.460.000

7.126.000

Ausl. in % aller Besch.

0,8 %

3,2 %

8,5 %

11,6 %

17,7 %

19,9 %

Tab. 2: Ausländische Arbeitskräfte in der deutschen Kriegswirtschaft 1939 bis 1944 (Mai)





The Interviewing Process in Multi-Cultural Social Work Praktice James Hill

This article will examine various aspects of Multicultural social work, especially as it pertains to cross cultural communication and interviewing. By interviewing, I am referring to a process in which a social worker sits down in a face to face meeting with a client for the purposes of obtaining information that can be used in the helping process. I will use the word “client” to describe the person being helped, although other terms are also used. I will use the term “client” and child interchangeably. Before I discuss this process, I would like to clarify a few terms and ideas. Let’s look at the concept of “culture”. Culture is a way of living and understanding the world. It is a road map to help a person navigate through the complex nature of life. Each person is raised in a particular culture and grows up with a certain cultural identity. Our cultural identity is passed down from generation to generation through our family systems, educational institutions and mass media. Our identities are shaped by all the information which is received by us in our lifetimes. Each person within a particular culture receives information from mass media sources which may be similar in nature. But each person is also raised in a unique environment, has different life experiences and, perhaps most importantly, has a specific genetic code which impacts their personality and thus causes the individual to both perceive and react differently to the events that occur around them. As a result of this enormous potential for individual differences between members of the same culture, and even members of the same family (i.e. siblings), social workers must be careful not to make quick judgments or fall into the trap



of seeing the client through culture stereotypes. What is important for the emerging social work student, is to try and keep an open mind when dealing with people from other cultures. This means to remain as objective as one can while being aware of one’s internal biases. This is equally true when dealing with clients that share the same culture as the social worker. “Don’t judge a book from its cover”, is an expression worth keeping in mind when dealing with others. One must be especially aware of this when dealing with those from other cultures and ethnic groups. Communication is obviously the primary mode of transmitting cultural values from generation to generation. Communication takes place in many forms.We learn our primary communication style from our parents. The way they express themselves, or don’t express themselves, has a great influence on the ultimate communication style of the child, especially during the child’s first 10 years of life. What the child learns in the home is call “the inhome environment”. What they child learns out of the home is “the out of home environment”. It is debatable as to which has a greater impact on the child’s future communication style. The out of home environment would include the child’s relationships with teachers, classmates, friends, most relatives and the mass media. After the age of ten, the child’s development, in most cases, is more affected by thein interaction with those out of the home, especially their peer group. The above summary of how we come to know the world is simplistic, but at the same time provides each of us with the basics in understanding human development. All people on the planet, to some degree, share this. In short, we are the way we are not necessarily because of our culture, but rather through a combination of natural factors and experiences (nature vs. nurture). If any among us were raised in a different culture, we would probably think differently and believe in different things than we do now. With this in mind, it should encourage all of us to be more open to the in-



formation we recese from others during the interview processes which is so vital in social work. Multi-Cultural Communication

How competent would you be if you were asked to talk with someone from a ifferent culture? Obviously, not all cultures are equally different. The difference between the Czech culture and Slovak culture are far less extréme than the difference between the Czech culture and Egyptian culture. A social worker cannot possibly know all the nuisances of every individual and culture existing on our planet. But in my work with clients from different cultures, I have discovered common threads that seem to be universal strategies in dealing with people, regardless of the person’s cultural identity. Chief among these threads, are treating people with respect and dignity. Treating the person the way you would wanted to be treated would be a good start. However, treating them the way they want to be treated would, of course, be optimal. Cultural Terminology

There are many terms that attempt to capture the concept of cultural competence. Among these are; cultural knowledge, how familiar one is with another culture, including its history,values, belief systems and the general behavior of the members of its group. Cultural Awareness; developing sensitive and understanding towards another ethnic group. This also involves an internal shift of attitudes and beliefs about another culture, especially after some personal exposure to members of that group. Cultural Sensitivity; this involves knowing both the differences and similarities between your individual culture and the other culture. This may lead to the understanding that just because something is “different” does not make it worse or wrong. As we become more sensitive towards other cultures, we also begin to see the weaknesses and flaws of our own culture. The end result will hopefully be more tolerant and open-minded



person with a greater capacity to form meaningful connections and bonds with others, regardless of the edic backgrounds of the persons involved. To achieve this is not easy. But I have found that something as simple as traveling to other cultures can result in greater understanding of one’s own culture, as well as the world as a whole. Even simpler, is to befriend those from other cultures already living in the Czech Republic. The possibilities are everywhere! When is the last time you tried to engage in a conversation with one from a different culture. It’s time to get out of your comfort zone and beginning appreciating the diversity on the planet. Once we have exposed ourselves to a new culture, we start to understand it better and become less fearful of its members. We realize that despite obvils differences, people worldwide are far more similar than different. The DNA of a Czech person is 99% similar of the DNA from a person from Ghana. We understand that all people seem to be driven by the same needs and goals. Among these needs are a desire for freedom, security, love, power and control over one’s life, and ultimately a need to survival in the most ideal conditions possible. These are human strivings common to all people from all cultures. With these basic understandings in place, we are now ready to speak directly to our clients, regardless of their geographic origins or cultural identity. Getting the Interview Started

There are different types of interviews that social workers are involved with. The most common interviews involve collecting psycho-social information on the person and family. This information maybe later used to help a person through a particular situation or crisis. It is often done as part of a problem solving strategy, which may form the basis for a great deal of practical social work. The information the social worker is gathering from the client is designed to close the knowledge gap between the client and the social worker and pro

vide clues for the helping process. In Order for this process to take place, trust must be established and often this trust needs to occur rather quickly. By this I mean, when conducting interviews with clients the social worker has never met before, there is limited time to establish rapport and trust, therefore good introductions are essential. It is my experience that without basic trust between the helper and “helpee”, no meaningful exchange of reliable information will occur. Trust is best established through honest communication in which the social worker clearly states his or her role and the general guidelines of the “helping process”. The social worker should present a business card and clearly state their intentions, as well as possible limits in the helping process. This can be stated in, “How can I help you?” or “What can I do for you?” In some cases the social worker may ask the client, “What brings you here today?” or “What do you want to see happen in your life now?” By doing this, the social worker is allowing the client to directly express what the problem is and what may be a solution to the problem. This is the basis for Solution- Focused Therapy. If the client cannot identify a specific problem or the reason the social worker is there with them, the social worker then must clearly state the reason for his/her involvement. When dealing with clients from other cultures, a problem perceived by the Czech authorities, may not be considered a problem in their native culture, and therefore not receive the attention of social services. I often times find myself explaining to clients the differences in laws from their new country, in this case the Czech Republic, versus their native country. Certainly one goal in this communication process is for rapport to be established between the social worker and client. Rapport is the level of trust or “chemistry” in the relationship. Good rapport generally results in an open and honest exchange of information that will lead to possible solutions to a given problem. Bad rapport results in the client shutting down and providing limited or fragmented pieces of information to the social work-



er. In general, there are many keys and poisons in this communication process. Each person has a particular “key” which will open them up and create a meaningful exchange of ideas. Poisons disrupt this process and result in clients concealing information that the social worker needs in order to assist the client. Common keys in a relationship would be; respecting the client, listening attentively to what the client says without arriving too quickly at judgments, taking and sharing notes with the clients, pronouncing and remember their names, and in multi-cultural interviews, knowing something specific about the client’s culture. By using a simple greeting in the client’s native language or knowing some simple facts about their culture, can go a long way in establishing rapport and “breaking the ice” between the social worker and client. Common poisons would be; interrupting the client, speaking too fast to a client that may not speak your language, jumping to rapid-fire conclusions regarding the client’s problems, not actively listening, rushing through your interview, not answering the client’s specific questions and appearing unsympathetic or uncaring, especially about the client’s cultural values. Often times, a bit of humor can also go a long way in creating a positive mood with the client, although if there are obvious language barriers, humor can be misunderstood and “back fire” on the social worker. A simple, sympathetic smile is often the best way to relieve the client’s anxiety and start up the interview process. I view each interview with a client as a conversation. I see the conversation as a journey I together with the client that moves from general information to more specific information, and ultimately to deeply personal information. This is a step by step process that may take place weeks or even months. The analogy would be peeling away the layers of an onion. In low – context cultures like the USA and Germany, clients often want the social worker to get directly to the point or provide an immediate solution to their problem. There may be no real desire on the client’s part



to provide any personal information. The client may find the social worker’s presence annoying or intrusive and, as a result, they may be uncooperative, if not hostile. The social worker should focus on answering the client’s questions and clearly outlining their roles and duties, as well as those of their agency. In High – Context cultures, the circumstances surrounding the involvement of the social worker are more important. Communication will need to go through a more formal, if not ritualistic process. These may involve specific greetings and introductions, having tea with the client, engaging in “small talk” and some limited self-disclosure on the part of the social worker, before the issues that brought the social worker to the client’s home can be broached. Self-disclosure is the process in which the social worker shares some personal information about themselves, but strictly in the best interest of the client. The Czech Republic is more of a low- context culture (see Edward Hall’s work). While Japan, the Middle Eastern and African cultures are considered high – context. Forensic Interviews

As previously discussed, there are many types of interviews. Psycho-social interviews attempt to create a biographical sketch of the client. Welfare check interviews are generally conducted at the client’s home and are done to make sure the various members of the family are in good condition and not being subjected to maltreatment. Forensic interviews are informational gathering interviews often conducted jointly between the police and social workers. Generally, forensic interviews occur when social services are concerned about the health and wellbeing of a particular person. These interviews may involve criminal behavior, so both a potential victim and perpetrator are being interviewed. The information gathered in these interviews may be used in therapy or possibly admitted into the court system. Often times in Forensic interviews, the goal of the social worker is to get information from the client, of

ten without the full support of the client. The client, in fact, may be under investigation for some type of deviant behavior. Rapport is often difficult to establish when the client is involved in involuntary services from the State. There may be resistance to this entire process when services are mandated by the courts or social services and thus being forced upon the client. This could be especially true, if the person being interviewed is from another culture. This person could be from a culture where there are no social services or police that can be fully trusted. It should not a surprise if these individuals do not fully cooperate with social services, despite the social worker’s apparent intention to provide assistance to the client. At any rate, resistance is a common aspect of the client – social worker relationship. Resistance should not be viewed as a bad thing but rather as part of a normal process where people may be asked to make changes in their behaviors which they do not want to change. These behaviors may have served the client well during certain periods of their lives and are hard habits to break. Forensic interviews are often designed to get information and facts from the client that may help determine if a crime was committed, and if so who may have been involved in the crime and the reasons for the offense. The social worker’s primary concern is to discover the truth as to what really happened. These types of interviews are often conducted jointly between the social worker and police. Let’s look at a scenario in which this type of interview may take place. Scenario:

An 8 year old male from Uzbekistan whose parents have lived in Praha for the past 6 years comes to school with four (4) several linear purple marks on his left arm of various lengths. The marks form an irregular pattern. The marks appear to be fairly fresh. The teacher did not notice them the day before. The marks appear to be from a stick. The teacher asked the child, “I notice you have some marks on your arm. Can you tell me what 

happened to you?” The child initially said he fell off his bicycle on the way home from school, but later changed his story to, “I forgot.” The child speaks Czech very well, although he tells the teacher his parents only speak their native language. The teacher suspects the child may be a victim of physical abuse (this form of treatment may be common in the child’s native culture, but unacceptable in the Czech Republic). She is uncertain what to do. She initially felt that simply confronting the parents and asking them about the marks would be the best thing to do. But after consulting with the director of the school, she decides to call social services in Praha. The teacher wants to protect the child in the event abuse is occurring within the family system, but does not feel confident in conducting a full forensic interview on the child. The teacher also does not want to get the child in further trouble with the parents, in the event the child is being mistreated at home. Yet another consideration, is respecting the parents’ rights regarding the care of their children. The teacher is keenly aware of the possibility that in the parents’ native country such disciplinary practices may be very common, if not encouraged. There is also the possibility the marks in question may not be from abuse at all, but rather the result of an accident. The teacher ponders her options and arranges that a social work with experience in both multicultural issues and awareness of various forms of child maltreatment, come to the school and speak directly with the child. Prior to doing this, the teacher asks the child if he would please go to the nurse’s office and speak with the school nurse. The child agrees to do this. Once at the nurse’s office, the school nurse convinces the child to remove articles of his clothing so she can better examine the child for other marks and bruises in the event they are present. The nurse subsequently observes other marks of various shapes and sizes and colors which also appear to be the result of physical abuse. The school nurse photographs both the older and fresher bruises. She does this so the social worker, and if necessary the



police, can also see this bruises first hand without removing the child’s clothing, which of course, can be embarrassing for the child. The teacher has clearly shown concern for the child and at the same time is sensitive to cultural issues. But most importantly, she has not acted in a vacuum. She has engaged in a “shared decision making process” in which her concerns regarding the child were shared with other professionals. This is good social work practice. Planning the Interview

Once the social work arrives at the school he sits down with the teacher, school nurse and director of the school to discuss the dynamics of the interview. The social worker wants at least one of the school staff to be present in the interview to serve as an advocate for the child. The social worker would prefer the person be the one with the best relationship with the child. The possibility of having a police officer present is discussed, as a possible crime may have been committed. If it is discovered that the child was mistreated in a manner consistent with a possible crime, then a second interview with the child may need to be conducted by the police. A second interview, with the same questions be asked, could result in the child changing his answers. This is a common occurrence with children. If they provide a certain set of answers to questions during the first interview and the same questions are then asked in a second interview, they may believe their first answers were “wrong”. Thus, they change their answers as a form of compliance with the interviewer. Remember, children tend to be “people pleasers” and want to answer the questions the way they think the adults want them to answer. To ovoid this, the social worker should go through a set of ground rules with the child at the beginning of the interview which includes the rule, “If I ask you the same question twice, it does not mean your first answer was wrong.”



In this scenario, the police are unable to attend the interview. The social worker will need to handle the interview together with one of the school personnel. The social worker then finds a quiet room in the school with limited distractions. He closes the blinds on the windows and turns off his cell phone. He makes sure he has paper to take notes. Note taking is a critical part of social work. If the child asks the social worker, “Why are you writing so much?” The social worker can respond, “Because what you say is very important and I do not want to forget anything you tell me. Besides I am getting old (this is actually true in my case) and I forget things.” Note taking is an art. Notes should never be destroyed and should be transcribed, verbatim, into a computer as soon as possible. It can be a bit disconcerting for the child what the social worker is writing so much. I personally offer to share my notes with the client and often make positive remarks in my notes which the client can observe if they choose to read the notes. To make this process a bit easier, the social worker can take a clean sheet of paper, draw a vertical line down the middle of the paper and put “child” on one side and “SW” on the other side to help simplify the process. If there are two professionals involved in the interview, one can be the primary interviewer and the other the primary note taker. The person which establishes the best rapport with the child, should be the one asking questions, although all interviewers have “blind spots” and forget to ask important questions. For this reason, both professionals involved in the interview can ask questions. Blind interviews can also be conducted. A blind interview is an interview involving two people in which one of the professionals is “blind” in the respect that they are not privy to all the details of the case. When a person is “blind” to certain facts, they tend to ask more questions, especially more open-ended questions which are known to produce the most detailed responses. Once the location of the interview has been determined, the child is summoned to the interview room. In our scenario, the child’s name will be Andy. Obvious-



ly the child may be a bit afraid and reluctant to talk. The social worker should do a simple, yet very clear introduction that should go something like this, “Hello my name is_________. I am a social worker. Do you know what a social worker does? My job is to talk with kids and listen to everything they say. Would it be ok if we talked today?” This introduction tells the child what the job of the social worker involves (“talking and listening” etc…) and focuses on the child’s needs. It is what is called a “child centered” interview. At the beginning of the interview the social worker should also ask the child if he wants to eat or drink anything and whether he needs to go to the bathroom. Giving food during the interview could be seen as a bribe and invalidate the interview. The social worker should clearly tell the child that he is not in trouble. The best and most accurate way would to tell the child, “You are not in trouble with me.” It is important for the child to see the social worker as a real helper. But it should also be noted, that there is a possibility that nothing bad is even happening to the child. Many reports of allegations of child maltreatment filter into to social service agencies on a daily basis, with the majority of these cases resulting in no conclusive finding of maltreatment, despite the fact that a full investigation was conducted. The goal of the social worker is to uncover the truth, not to discover things that did not occur. This process is complicated because children are “suggestible” and may report misinformation if the social worker’s questions are asked in a “leading” and manipulative manner. Yet, it is equally true that if a child tells the social worker, “nothing happened to me, and I am ok.” it does mean that this is true (false negative disclosure). Seating Arrangements:

The social worker can shake hands with the child but this should ideally be in a squatting position. The social worker can do this by kneeling down and getting to the child’s physical level. The social worker should make every attempt to reduce his status and authority 

and physically get to the child’s level. This can also be done at an emotional level. The social worker can try and think like a child and empathize with their situation. This is the real basis of a “child – focused” interview. Children, especially younger children, often view adults as omnipotent. That is that adults cannot be wrong and must know the answers to their questions. The social worker must go through additional ground rules with the child. This can wait until after rapport is established. But first the child should be seated comfortably. This is done by asking the child, “Where would you like to sit? You can sit anywhere you want in this room.” This should immediately be followed by, “Where should I sit? I can sit wherever you want me to sit.” In some cultures chairs are uncommon, so quite often interviews with young children take place with both the social worker and child sitting on the floor. Once the child feels comfortable, the social worker and child should engage in small talk. Small talk consists of easy to answer questions about what the child likes to do, what are the child’s hobbies, who is the child’s favorite teacher and ultimately questions about the family dynamics and what might happen if the child gets into trouble at home. The social worker might also share something personal about themselves to appear less omnipotent. The social worker needs to pace the interview in a way that is best for the child. Eight (8) year old children speak slower than adults (80–90 words per minute vs. 120–140 for adults). The pace of the interview should slow down, especially for children who are speaking a second language. The social worker should simple words (i.e. “house” not “residence” or “car” not “vehicle”) and sentence structure (syntax) and speak as clearly as possible. It is important that at the beginning of the interview the child is able to answer simple questions and verbalize his concerns. The social worker should remind the child that head nodding can be confusing, so instead of nodding your head “yes”, “please use the words yes and no to tell me what you mean.”



This is critical when interviewers are being audio recorded. If the child is from another culture, an interpreter may be needed. The interpreter must be briefed before the interview and instructed to only ask the child only what the social worker says. These interviews are longer and often fewer questions can be asked due to the limited attention spans of the child. Ground Rules:

As mentioned earlier, the goal of the interview is to get to the truth as to what may have happened to the child. This is not easy when it involves multicultural interviews. The best way to increase the accuracy of information in face to face interviews is to discuss ground rules regarding how questions can be best understood and answered. There are many ground rules that can be discussed with clients. Children need several rules to ensure an accurate flow of information. The most important rule is the following, “If I ask you a question and you don’t know the answer to it, it’s ok to say I don’t know.” With children, especially those from other cultures, it is important not just to tell the child these rules, but also to do a role play with the child to reinforce the rule and to make sure it is fully understood. According to the previous described rule, the social worker could add, “Ok, Andy what is the color of my car?” The child should say “I don’t know.” And the social worker can follow up with, “Ok, that’s right, because I didn’t tell you the color of my car so how could you know.” Some children may think they are not very smart if they don’t know the answers to the social worker’s questions. So again the social worker should reassure the child. “It’s ok not to know the answers because I also don’t know the answers to the questions I am asking you about your life.” I often tell the child, “This is not a test and if you don’t know the answers to my questions it’s ok. Maybe you didn’t understand the question or I asked the question in a way that confused you.” Other ground rules might include, but are not limited to the following; 

If I say anything wrong, please correct me. If you don’t want to answer my questions you don’t have to answer them now If you get confused or don’t understand my questions, please tell me you are confused and I will try and explain my question better. If you decide to “guess” at an answer please tell me you are guessing. If you want to leave the room you can leave anytime you want. I won’t stopyou. After this last rule, I often walk over to the door and show the child the door is not locked. I often sit away from the door and have the child sit closer to the door. The child needs to feel they have some control over the interview process and are not a “prisoner”. The social worker should always keep in mind the psychology make-up of the child. Most children are anxious when disclosing personal situations, especially when they feel they might be getting a family member in trouble or revealing family secrets. Social workers should attempt to relieve the child’s interview anxiety, but it is impossible to relieve all of their traumatic symptoms. Once the ground rules have been clearly described and “small talk” questions addressed, the social worker should encourage the child to tell the truth. Young children need to clearly tell the social worker that they do know the difference between truth and lies and what might be the consequences for lying. Children from all cultures know what lies are and know that telling lies is not considered a good thing. There is research to suggest that when children agree to tell the truth, they are more likely to do so. In interviewing children under the age of six, it may be necessary for the social worker to make sure the children also knows the difference between “real” and “pretend”. A child may view a movie like “The Lion King” and believe that real lions can talk. At what age do children come to the belief that Santa Claus is a mythical figure and doesn’t really live on the North Pole and



bring presents to good children during Christmas, although their parents have told them otherwise? There are terms to describe the processes which children may have difficulties distinguishing fact from fiction. One concept is called source monitoring. This is the process in which a child may have difficulties identifying the source of thein memories. Sometimes people ask themselves, “Is this a real memory or something I dreamed about?” or “Is this something that actually happened to me or a figment of my imagination?” The concept of Déjà vu is in reality a source monitoring problem. The person involved is unable to identify the actual source of the memory. This concept can also involve fully functioning adults. This concept may surface during divorce cases in which children may be “coached” that something bad happened to them (usually something one of the parents did to them), when, in fact, they were simply told something bad happened so the person could prevail in the divorce case. Young children may hear something about them that did not actually happened to them and incorporate into thein memory system as an actual event. There is also evidence to suggest that immigrants that have been through various forms of trauma (and this is often the case with immigrants), also have memory problems. Traumatic events can effect how memories are “encoded” and stored, thus interfering with the retrieval process (how people take the memory from storage to active recall) during the interview. It would be helpful to know if the child you are interviewing experienced some type of traumatic event associated with their immigration process. Often times children experiencing these traumatic events do not want to talk about them due to the unpleasant nature of these events. Some people “dissociate”, which is a process where a person remembers the event but lacks the emotions which were tied or associated with the event. This would be akin to Freud’s repression theory, in which emotionally overwhelming events are quickly placed in the subconscious and thus extremely difficult to remember.



I tend to believe that people experiencing emotionally traumatic events actually cannot forget these events, so they engage in a more conscious action that would best be called “suppression”. The analogy would be a person trying to push a beach ball under water and the ball (the traumatic memory) tries to come to the surface. By the way, I often use these types of metafors and analogies when working with children, especially children from other cultures as they are better able to comprehend my material when I use stories and analogies. Suppression is a psychological phenomenon very common when working with refugees. Another concept worth mentioning is call confabulation. This is a concept when a person is unable to distinguish between fact and fiction. Most functioning adults have no problem with this. Children under six (6) however may confuse the two. This issue may surface if the police get involved in the situation should end up in a court room where discovering the truth is critical. There is one last point I would like to make regarding the concept of memory, and extracting memories during interviews. The interview process is actually a process where the social worker is bringing memories to the surface and having the client verbalize these memories in a manner which creates a clearer picture of a particular past event. The picture is often analogous to putting together a puzzle. The questions used by the interviewer are cues to help the person remember, and then verbalize, what happened. When working with children (and immigrants), it has been my experience that more questions are needed to get to the target event. Adults often can make assumptions about the true nature of the questions and can “read between the lines” and expand upon their answers. Children often do not make these assumptions so a “funnel approach” in asking questions is often needed. This approach starts off by using an open-ended, general question and, if the person being interviewed cannot answer the question, or does not know the gist of the question, more information is provided within the question to assist the child



in answering it. An example of this might be, “ok tell me what you remember about last Saturday night.” Versus, “Tell me what happened last Saturday night at your grandmother’s housing in the evening when your uncle came over.” The second questions provides more information to assist the child in answering the question, but is also more “leading”. This type of question is often necessary when interviewing children. Most interviews go through stages. The initial stage is a good introduction and clarification of roles. During this process rapport and trust are established between the client and social worker and basic questions are presented to the client. In Multicultural interviews, it is even more critical that trust be established, due to the enormous mistrust that immigrants may have to systems of authority. A basic discussion on ground rules should follow and then the social worker should have a series of “targeted” questions that are aimed at discovering what is really happening to the client. These target questions focus on the allegations of the case. Allegations are the concerns that brought the case to the attention of the social worker. Allegations are merely reports of possible problems. It is up to the social worker, through their interviews, to determine if the allegations are valid and what course of action should be taken. These target questions are designed to get to the facts of the case. The facts will help the social worker determine the best treatment plan. During this stage of the interview, the social worker asks questions which will bring information to the surface that will help social services find solutions to any identified problems. These questions should be asked in an open-ended manner. Open ended questions are questions that give the client an opportunity to expand the narrative of what was happening. Open-ended questions are not “yes, no” or multiple choice (or limited choice) questions. Openended questions give the client the choice to answer the question they way they want. Close-ended questions reduce the client’s capacity to answer in a more elabo-



rate way and restrict the answers. It is well know that clients present more details about events when asked open-ended questions. There are ways of turning a multiple choice question into a question that is more expansive. For example, a closed end multiple choice question would be, “Did it happen in the bedroom, bathroom or Kitchen?” This is a total closed-ended question because the choice of answers is limited to three possibilities. To make this question more open-ended, the social worker could say, “Did it happen in the in the bedroom, bathroom or Kitchen or somewhere else in the home or somewhere outside of the home?” Social workers should try and remain unbiased throughout the interview process. They should keep an open mind when asking questions and be keenly aware of the concept of confirmatory bias. This occurs when a person makes a conclusion about a particular event. It seems a human tendency to make conclusions about what is happening around them. People tend not to want to live in doubt and find it more natural to make decisions about things even when they lack evidence to support their decisions. Confirmatory bias is a form of “selective hearing”. It is a process where an investigator focuses on information that supports his/her pet hypothesis about the world, and rejects evidence or information that is in conflict with their chosen hypothesis as to what they believe happened. When social workers succumb to this phenomenon, they focus on information that supports their theory and reject contradictory information. The opposite form of this type of social work would involve the process of “critical thinking”. The key element here is that the social worker always remains aware he/she could be wrong about their opinions and thus, willing to change their mind or look at other possible reasons for the problem. Confirmatory Bias may surface during cross cultural interviews when ethnic stereotypes come to life. Social workers may have limited knowledge about another culture and rely



too heavily on common stereotypes and biases in their decision making processes. When this bias does not exist, social workers tend to ask probing questions intended to move closer to the truth. In the Case of Andy, The social worker will need to ask the child directly about the marks and bruises. The social worker may need to ask the child if someone is hurting him. In most cases of physical maltreatment, children will generally tell the truth about such matters. Sometimes confronting the child about the physical evidence, is acting in the best interest of the child. A simple way of confronting the child is to tell the child that there are “rules” against doing things like “hitting” a child and when someone breaks a rule they need help. Social workers also need to emphasize to children that they have a “right” to be safe. Some children may not know or understand the concept of being “safe” and the social worker will need to explain this to the child. The social worker should tell the child, “Part of my job is to help you be safe. Being safe means nobody hurts you. Part of your job is to tell me what is happening so I can help you be safe.” Sexual Abuse Interviews

These types of interviews are more problematic for social workers because, unlike cases of physical abuse, there is often no physical evidence of sexual abuse, or this physical evidence is never found. Due to the absence of physical evidence, the interview between the child and social worker is extremely important. Sexual abuse interviews have the same initial dynamic as the physical abuse interview previously mentioned. But there are some added ground rules that must be discussed. This again is especially important for cross cultural interviews of children suspected of being sexual abuse. Sexual abuse of children, in general, is when an adult or an older person in a position of power, uses a child to satisfy their own sexual needs. This abuse can range from exposing the child to obscene or porno

graphic material, to the touching of private body parts, and to sexual rape involving penetration of one of the child’s bodily orifices. To my knowledge, there is no culture that legally permits this type of deviant activity, although some cultures appear very reluctant or unwilling to investigate or prosecute such crimes. In any event, if a child is suspected of being sexually abused in the Czech Republic, or any other European country, a system to uncover and stop this abuse is initiated by social services with the corroboration of the local police This process almost always involves a physical exam of the child, an interview with the alleged victim, and a police interrogation of the suspected perpetrator. Sexual abuse interviews of children from other cultures are very problematic due to the embarrassing nature of the interview and possible threats to the victims. There are also language barriers that must be overcome, especially regarding sexual language and the numerous names for private parts. Most cultures have many slang terms or euphemistic terms for private body parts. In some cultures, children are never given formal sex education and thus cannot answer sexually related questions without the social worker first explaining some of these terms. In some cultures, even discussing such matters are “taboo”. Therefore, realistically getting a child to disclose sexual abuse to a complete stranger is problematic but, of course, the child cannot be protected unless an effort is at least made to try and determine if any abuse has occurred. Another complicating issue is that, if sexual abuse has occurred to an immigrant or refugee, where in fact did the abuse occur? The location of the incident or crime will determine legal jurisdiction of the case. Prosecuting this type of crime is very difficult when the child is in a country where the abuse did not occur. Prior to asking the targeted questions, interviewers must understand the child’s knowledge of sexual matters, especially how they identify and name their various private parts. I often ask children during the interview to touch their nose. When they do this without



hesitation, I understand they know where their nose is and that they know what the word “touch” means. I then ask the child to touch or point to other parts of their body. They generally accomplish this without difficulty. Towards the end of this process, I then tell the child, “Ok, now I have a little bit harder job for you to do. Please take your finger and point to the private parts of your body.” In most cases, female children will point to their chest area, their vaginal area and buttock. Male child will point to their penis and buttock. In cross cultural interviewing, it cannot be assumed that children can correctly identify and name the private parts of their bodies. Even if they possess the knowledge to assist investigators, they may be too embarrassed to answer the questions. Topic drift is common in these interviews. Children that are reluctant to talk about sensitive matters may drift away from certain questions and not answer them directly. If the child cannot perform the task of pointing to or naming their private zones, the social worker should tell the child, “Ok, your private parts of your body are the parts of your body underneath your swimming suit (or pajamas). Can you point to these parts of your body?” The child is usually capable of doing this. The next step would then be to ask the child, “Ok, what does your mommy or doctor call those parts of your body?” The child can use any names they want and whatever names they use, the social worker should use too even if the social worker is unfamiliar with the word. Some concepts like “clothing” can be confusing for children. I once asked a child, “What clothes did he have on?” The child responded by saying, “He wasn’t wearing clothes. He had a jacket on.” A better way of asking the question would to simply say, “What was he wearing?” This then would include all articles of clothing or attire including articles like swimming suits and pajamas etc. Perpetrators also may have threatened or strictly instructed the child not to talk with “strangers” or investigators asking questions about private family matters.



In any event, extracting such personal information within 30 minutes or less of meeting the child, may be an enormous mountain to climb for the social worker and often does not result in a disclosure by the child. The absence of a valid disclosure does not mean something illegal did not happen to the child. But it is also equally possible that when a child says, “Nobody hurt me or touched me.” He/she is telling the truth. After discussing body parts with the child, and having the child successfully label or name these parts, the social worker should discuss the child’s knowledge and understanding of basic prepositions. I often ask children between the ages of 3 and 8 to perform simple tasks to clarify their knowledge of these keys words. I ask children to take a pencil and put it “inside” a cup or inside or outside their coat pocket. I then instruct the child to place the pencil behind, above, or on top of their head, or between or underneath their book etc…..Later in the interview, if I ask the child, “Did he put his hand over or under your dress?”, I know the child is familiar with these prepositional terms. In cross cultural interviews, if the child uses a word like “rubbed”, I will ask the child to rub their arm so I know that their definition of the word matches my definition. You cannot to this with all ambiguous terms but with some of the most important ones. There are other language issues that often arise during these interviews. Simple concepts like ‘before” and “after” may be hard for young children to fully comprehend, so I may ask the child, “Do you put your socks on before or after you put your shoes on?” This is also a way to test the child’s language skills, especially if the child is from another culture. The concept of “yesterday and ‘tomorrow” should be avoided with young children. Also relative concepts like “big”, “mean” or “old” should be clarified. I once had a seven year old child tell me, “He was really old!” The child was referring to a 14 year old male. Of course that would be “old” for a seven year old.



Good and Bad touches

Some children that have been sexually abused do not know that they are victims of abuse. They may be too young to understand the dynamics or they have been told by their abuser that what is happening to them is “ok”. The concept of “bad touches” may be difficult for some children to understand. Other words that might imply a “bad touch” could be, a ‘secret touch”, a “sour touch” An “uncomfortable touch” or a touch that is “not for health or safety reason like when a doctor touches you or your mommy washes your private areas of your body.” It is critical that the child understand that when they are touched in their private areas, and “it is not for health or safety reasons” then it could be a bad touch and they should talk about it for safety reasons.” The social worker does not want to create undue paranoia in the child, but instead teach the child some basic selfprotection skills and to educate the child that not all touching is “ok”. I ask children to describe a good touch and typically they describe a hug or a kiss. This seems a universal concept with children, irrespective of their culture. When asked to describe a bad, secret or uncomfortable touch they generally stated, “When I fall down, get kicked etc.” I often have to mention to the child, “A bad touch is also when somebody touches you in a way that makes you feel uncomfortable.” I further tell the child, “A bad touch is also when someone touches you in your private parts and it is not for health or safety reasons.” If a doctor touches you in your private parts or your mother washes you in the private areas, that is for health and safety reasons.” The social worker, once they are convinced that the child as a clear understanding of the process of sexual abuse, must then ask the child the ultimate question, “Did anyone do a bad touch with you?” If the child says “No!” then the social worker has done his duty by giving the child a fair chance to tell his/her story. Children do have a right to say “no, nothing happened to me”. Whether the social worker believes the child or not, it would be unethical for the so

cial worker to continue to ask additional questions with the sole purpose of obtaining a disclosure, unless there is evidence to suggest that something deviant did, in fact, happen to the child. The more evidence that exists suggesting abuse, the more social pressure can ethically be applied on the child. Vague allegations, should therefore, result in almost no social pressure or leading questions. These additional questions could be construed as social pressure and, under these conditions, a child could make an “escape disclosure” simply to end the interview by giving the social worker the information they think the social worker wants to hear. Social pressure from investigators is the biggest reason for false-positive disclosures. Social pressure is frequently the result of confirmatory bias or the so-called “rescuer syndrome” which is common among young social workers or a policemen wanting to be “super hero” and arrest the “bad guy”. Clearly sexual abuse is a very serious and growing problem, and is often under reported by victims, especially males. But at the same time, investigators need to be careful not to assume all children being interviewed are victims of some form of maltreatment. If an assumption is made that the child is a victim, then questions will be asked in a manner which tend to confirm this assumption. If the child discloses abuse that did not in fact actually occur, the interviewer has created a victim from a non-victim. The child may ultimately create false memories around this mythical abuse and subsequently experience the same traumatic effects of a real victim. If the child discloses abuse by telling the social worker that bad touches happened, then those interviewing the child must try and obtained specific details of the abuse. These details will help further determine the validity of the disclosure and help the social worker protect the child, and perhaps his/her siblings, from further maltreatment. It is my experience that the more details a child or victim in general can provide, the more likely the events that are being reported are accurate and truthful. I believe that the vast majority of



children do not lie about such matters. It is too difficult for children to lie about issues which they often have no prior knowledge of. Children should be believed when they disclose sexual abuse, even though some aspects of their disclosure may not make perfect sense to the investigators. Just because part of a child’s version of events sound implausible, it does not mean the whole event is baseless. Getting the Details

If a client discloses that something bad or illegal has happened to them, it is important for the social worker to get details. This can be difficult when children are involved and when the child or client speaks a different language. In the case of an abused child, it would important to ask the child, “Who did this to you?” or “What was his/her name?” In asking the latter question, be careful not to say “What was his name?” This is actually a leading question because it implies the perpetrator was a male. Leading questions should be avoided at all times, although when interviewing children, it is very difficult not to lead. This question also assumes that the child knows who the perpetrator was. In cases not involving family or friends, the perpetrator may be a person unknown to the child. Sometimes in these situations, the investigators and social workers might have a suspect in mind. The suspect may be a person that wears glasses. The investigators may be tempted to ask the child, “Does he wear glasses?” This, again, is a leading question. A better way to ask the question would be, “Tell me about his face.” This is an open-ended question which allows the child/client to answer the question in an open-ended manner and does not suggest an answer within the context of the question. When interviewing children, the social worker should say, “Ok can you start at the beginning and tell me everything you remember, then to the middle and then to the end. I wasn’t there when this happened so tell me everything even if you don’t think it is important.” The social worker is basically attempting to per

mit the client to expand the narrative to include the entire story. Before doing this, I often have the child describe an episodic event in their life. This event might be a recent birthday party. I tell the child, “Ok tell me about your last birthday. What happened? Who was there? Please tell me everything you remember most (not “best”) because I wasn’t there and am curious.” What we are actually doing is giving the child “practice” at answering an easier question before the harder questions that are likely to follow. Look for physical changes in the child. This is a sign of truthfulness. As the child continues to tell their story, the social worker should just tell the child, “Ok, what happened next? Ok then what did he do?” Just allow the child to keep talking. The social worker should ask the child questions and then listen to the answers. All the while the social worker should just keeping telling the child, “ok, then what happened, um uhm, what next?” It is may be necessary for the social worker to encourage the child to “go on” reporting details. If a child gets restless, it may be necessary to tell the child, “Ok, I can see this is difficult. I have just a few more questions then we can stop. My questions are important so please try and answer them.” Disclosure anxiety is common. Children from all cultures have a difficult time talking about these matters. If a child starts to cry, the interviewer should tell the child, “I know this is difficult. Let’s take a little break now and in 5 minutes I will ask you if you want to continue.” After the break the social worker should ask the child if she/he feels strong enough to continue. It really is up to the child. Gathering the facts is necessary in almost all social work cases. These facts can best be provided through the use of open-ended questions. For children questions like, “How many times did it happen? Can you count on your fingers?” “Where did it happen?” These are among the many questions that need to be asked and hopefully answered for the social worker to put the pieces of



the client’s life together in a coherent manner. These questions are actually open-ended but imply shorter answers to get directly to the targeted event. Props such as anatomically correct dolls and drawings can be used to help the child express their victimization. These dolls and drawings should, if possible, be culturally appropriate. In some cases, interviewers may seek additional information to confirm the child’s story. They may ask the child whether they documented this event in their diary or whether they told anyone else (witness) or whether they think anyone has also been hurt in this way. I do not typically ask the child, “Why do you think this happened?” This is an introspective question and these are best asked in therapy. Interviews are often designed to get information from clients that can be used to create effective treatment plans for the child and family. There is a large amount of information to be obtained, but social workers should also be aware that children have limited attention spans and for this reason interviews should be limited to 90 minutes or less. In some cases, second interviews or therapeutic interviews will need to occur afterwards. Closing the interview

This is not a difficult process if the child as not expressed any mistreatment or problems. The social worker can simply thank the child/client for talking with them. The social worker can then tell the child,”If you have anything else to tell me or forgot to tell you can always call me or tell your teacher and I would be happy to talk with you again.” This leaves the door open for the child to think about things and be sure they want to tell the social worker what is happening. It is important to keep in mind that many children and clients in general, do not disclose the problems in the home out fear they could be hurt or they may get their parents in trouble. Many children have been instructed not to talk with social services. The child may have been threatened in 

some manner by the perpetrator. Perpetrators often do not directly threaten the victim, but rather something the victim loves or is responsible for caring about (i.e. their doll, pet, little brother or sister). In the case the child does remain silent during the interview, and the social worker has evidence to believe the child has been victimized, discussing threats or “good or bad secrets”, would be necessary. This can be done by simply asking the child, “Has anyone told you not to talk with me?” What would this person do to you (or your doll) if they found out you talked with me?” Like so many other aspects of interviewing, this is an unfolding process which cannot be totally planned. Each question will elicit answers, which lead to more questions and additional answers. Remember, in many parts of the world, social service agencies are nonexistent. In times of crisis, families have no one to turn to except friends and relatives. There is a great deal of mistrust in many cultures towards governmental agencies. So it should not be surprising that despite needing help from social workers, clients from other cultures remain silent during interviews. All the social worker can really do is to leave the child/client with a positive impression so, in the event the client wishes to talk about these issues in the future, they will voluntarily come forward and seek out the social worker. In the event the child discusses problems that are occurring in the home, the social worker should thank the child for talking with them, but not thank the child for the specific information. One thing that I often tell children is this, “I know talking with me was not easy. We do not know each other well. It took a lot of courage to tell me these things. Another part of my job is to help make you safe. You remember what the world safe means, right? Well now I think it’s important for me to talk with your parents about these things (issues) because they also need help and part of my job is to help everyone in the family.” Children really appreciate these words.



They feel better if the social worker does not single them out for special treatment, but rather gets the entire family involved in the therapeutic process. There are several questions that can be addressed to a client at the end of a standard interview. Here are a few questions you might want to ask the client in the “debriefing” process; “Is there something I forget to ask you that you want to tell me now?” “Do you have any questions for me?” “Are you worried about anything now and if so, how can I help you with your worries?” “Can we talk again someday?” “How do you feel now after talking with me?” “Has anything like this ever happened to you before?” “What are you going to do (or who are you going to tell) if this happens again?” “What do you think I should do now (or what do you want me to do now)?” The social worker should make sure the child or client is calmed down before closing out the interview and dismissing the child. The social worker should invite the child to ask questions. If the child discloses important that is upsetting to the child, the child should not be left alone, but rather remain in the company of an adult that can reassure them they did the “right thing” by talking with the social worker and sharing their problem. This adult can also tell the child they are not alone with their problem. In general, whenever a child/client discusses sensitive and personal matter, there is usually at least one thought running through the mind of the child, “What is going to happen to me now?” This is especially true for children that may be immigrants or refugees and that may be new to the Czech culture and have no idea what might happen to them. If you do not tell the client what your next steps are, the child/client may imagine



the worst case scenario. It is important not to promise the child something the social worker can not deliver. Broken promises are seldom forgotten. Social workers should never lie to the child in order to make them feel better or protect them. Credibility and trust mean everything in the social worker – client relationship. Once this circle of trust is broken, the client will not discuss personal matters with the social worker again. It is good social work practice to assign a “job” or a task for the child to do after the interview in which the child can focus their thoughts and energy on. This may serve as a distraction from the immediate crisis. A simple task may be to have the child focus their attention on positive thoughts or imagine positive images. I also like to have the child write down things they prefer to happen. Keeping a person busy during anxious times can relieve nervousness. Social workers need to do everything within their power to support the child’s disclosure and relief any pain or guilt their disclosure may be causing them. I also write down information for the client as to what will happen next and what I am going to do. It is not good social work practice to keep clients “in the dark” about your activities, but one must also consider the age of the client, their level of mental functioning and their cultural status when consulting with the client. Providing to little information can be unethical, but providing too much information may overwhelm the client’s emotions and potentially cause even greater problems. When I work with immigrants, I often connect them with a “buddy” or peer from their own culture who could serve as a mentor for them to help the client through this difficult process. Immigrants from the client’s individual culture know how the system works and can more accurately advise the client in their own language what is most likely to happen next. The members of their own culture, especially those who have been in the Czech Republic longer, are more believable than a Czech social worker. This, at least, is the perception of many immigrants. So please utilize the



client’s existing support system first, before bringing in a CZECH support network which the client may not fully understand or appreciate. By this I am referring to using the client’s family system which is already in place and then the system of support within the individual’s ethnic community before bringing in governmental services. If, in the course of the social worker’s investigation, problems within the family system are discovered and action on the part of the social worker are required to solve the problem, the social worker should arrange a meeting with the principals parties that might be involved in dealing with the situation. This meeting may be referred to as a “Family Group Conference” (FGC). Anyone related to the family system that might be considered a “helper” could be invited to this meeting. Input from all those attending the FGC is considered, with the direct goal of establishing a treatment which would be in the best interest of the child. The social worker will run the FGC and information acquired during the interview can be shared with those in attendance. These meetings are very effective in creating treatment plans, especially when dealing with multicultural issues which family systems believe they are always able to provide the best solution to any family situation. At any rate, it is important to empower the family to make their own decisions as to what is best for the child. Irrespective of one’s culture, all extended families share the desire to help their family members and social workers should allow this to happen.



Quantitative methods for cultural linguistics Laura A. Janda

1. Metaphor and Metonymy: Introspection and Quantitative Methods

Language is the essential vehicle of culture, and as such propagates human models of reality and of how concepts are related to each other (Janda 2008a). These models are shaped by pervasive cognitive mechanisms such as metaphor and metonymy (Lakoff 1987; Langacker 2009). Whereas the mechanisms appear to be universal and supported by the architecture of the brain (Feldman 2006), their applications are most often language-specific. Time is space is a pervasive metaphor cross-linguistically (Haspelmath 1997), but apparently every language applies this metaphor in its own way. Slavic languages like Russian employ a complex version of the time is space metaphor to motivate their aspectual distinctions, with the specific entailments that perfective is a discrete solid object and imperfective is a fluid substance (Janda 2004). Germanic languages such as English lack this particular metaphorical model of time. Metonymy is equally widespread and variable. For example, if we take the word for ‘octopus’ in Czech, Russian, and Norwegian, we find three different metonymic strategies at work. Czechs refer to this creature as chobotnice, literally ‘something made of elephants’ trunks’. Thus Czechs identify the octopus by the shape of its legs. In Russian it is osminog, literally ‘eight legs’, which means that the animal is indexed by its number of limbs. Norwegian calls it blekksprut, literally ‘ink squirt’, metonymically accessing the creature via one of its salient behaviors. The reality of time and octopuses is the same, but human beings can and do use different strategies to interpret their perceptions of these realities.



Introspection is the cornerstone of research on the different strategies employed across human cultures to negotiate reality both cognitively and linguistically. Most research on metaphor and metonymy in language relies on introspective methods (Lakoff 1987; Langacker 2009). However, there is no reason to preclude the use of quantitative methods in research on the use of metaphor and metonymy in the grammars of human languages. The present availability of electronic corpora and statistical software provide an unprecedented opportunity to expand research on cultural linguistics in this direction. The present article outlines three empirical studies of cultural linguistic phenomena, namely the implementation of metaphor and metonymy in language. The first study (section 2) examines six words for ‘sadness’ in Russian. A corpus analyses reveals the metaphorical motivations for the understanding of this emotion in Russian and also provides a quantitative basis for distinguishing among close synonyms. The second study (section 3) examines metonymy at work in Russian perfective verbs meaning ‘do X once’, formed from verbs meaning ‘do X (many times)’. Both the suffix -nu and the prefix s- participate in creating such verbs. A quantitative analysis makes a compelling case that -nu and s- are allomorphs, since their distribution is largely determined by verb class. The third study (section 4) also focuses on metonymy, this time as the cognitive strategy motivating word-formation. Quantitative measures make it possible to compare the role of metonymy both across the domains of grammar and lexicon, as well as across languages (here Czech, Russian and Norwegian). I conclude (section 5) that introspective and quantitative methods can complement each other in our analysis of metaphor and metonymy.



2. ‘Sadness’ in Russian: Metaphor and Measurement of Synonymy

The forllowing six Russian words can all be translated as ‘sadness’: grust’, melanxolija, pečal’, toska, unynie, xandra. But what do they actually mean and how do they differ from one another? Russian synonym dictionaries seem to disagree (Abramov 1994; Aleksandrova 1998; Evgen’eva 2001). One way to approach this question is by examining the way the words are used by native speakers, namely the grammatical constructions associated with the words. A “constructional profile” is the corpus frequency distribution of grammatical constructions that a given word appears in. This section summarizes a statistical analysis of the constructional profiles of the six Russian ‘sadness’ words (for full details, see Janda & Solovyev 2009). For each ‘sadness’ word, five hundred sentences were extracted from corpora and coded for the case the word appeared in and what preposition, if any, governed it. This data is presented in Table 1. Although there are approximately seventy such constructions in Russian, the constructional profiles of the ‘sadness’ words are dominated by only five constructions: v + Accusative, v + Locative, Instrumental, s + Instrumental, and ot + Genitive.1 The fact that all six ‘sadness’ nouns are used primarily in the same five constructions is indicative of both how close they are in meaning and of the way that ‘sadness’ is understood in Russian. We will look first at the metaphors revealed by the constructional profiles and then at a means of measuring the conceptual distance between the ‘sadness’ terms.

1

The constructional profiles in Table 1 focus only on uses of the nouns in non-subject position. Thus 500 examples were extracted for each, but the totals show only the number of examples where the ‘sadness’ noun is not the subject of the clause. The bare Accusative case, which is used to mark a direct object could have been counted as a sixth construction for these nouns, but that construction is very frequent for nearly all nouns and thus not indicative of the special semantics of emotion terms. “Other” refers to all other constructions, of which there are over sixty; all of these constructions yielded fewer examples than the constructions named in the table.



Table 1: The constructional profiles of the six ‘sadness’ terms pečal’ v+Acc

16

5%

v+Loc

22

7%

Inst

32

10%

toska 8

xandra

melanxolija

3%

30

21%

52

23%

16

6%

10

7%

16

7%

33

12%

10

7%

45

20%

grust’ 6

unynie

2%

126

41%

6

2%

33

11%

27

9%

16

5%

s+Inst

49

16%

70

25%

19

14%

5

2%

160

55%

16

5%

ot+Gen

16

5%

39

14%

29

21%

20

9%

3

1%

14

4%

(Acc)

128

41%

84

30%

20

14%

32

14%

50

17%

25

8%

(other)

52

17%

33

12%

22

16%

57

25%

38

13%

82

27%

Total

315

100%

283

100%

140

100%

227

100%

290

100%

304

100%

2.1 The Metaphorical Understanding of ‘Sadness’ in Russian

Emotions are abstractions and therefore human beings use metaphor in order to understand them, usually in terms of concrete objects or experiences. The container metaphor is often cited as the defining metaphor for emotions (Lakoff & Johnson 1980: 31—2; Kövecses 2001: 37; Wierzbicka 1998: 11). This study empirically confirms the presence of the container metaphor, but also identifies several other metaphors that are relevant to Russian ‘sadness’. Prepositions and cases indicate primarily spatial/ concrete relationships that can be extended metaphorically. Examination of the preposition + case constructions that emotion terms are found in suggests what kinds of source domains are used in the metaphorical understanding of emotion. The data shows that a number of source domains are recruited in the Russian understanding of emotion, among them containers, agents, gestures, sources and diseases. The understanding of ‘sadness’ as a container confirms some of the introspective analyses of emotion terms, but the remaining metaphors are additionally revealed by the present study and have not been the focus of previous metaphor analysis of emotion terms.



The first two constructions relevant for Russian ‘sadness’ terms are v + Accusative ‘into’ and v + Locative ‘in’. Both constructions are used in the spatial domain to describe containers, the first one (with Accusative case) as destinations, and the second one (with the Locative case) as static locations. Examples 1 and 2 illustrate the use of two Russian ‘sadness’ terms in these constructions (the constructions are underlined). 1) inogda vpadaju v unynie ‘sometimes I fall into sadness’ 2) suprug iznyvaet v toske ‘(her) husband is languishing in sadness’ The data indicate that the likely source domain for this use of sadness terms is a container like jama ‘pit’ or a liquid mass like grjaz’ ‘mud’. It is peculiar that the v + Accusative ‘into’ and v + Locative ‘in’ constructions are so prevalent among ‘sadness’ terms, yet the third construction that usually patterns with these two in the spatial domain, namely iz + Genitive ‘out of’ is extremely rare. It seems that one can fall into sadness and be stuck in sadness, but cannot escape on one’s own. As shown below, there is a way to be removed from sadness, but it involves a different metaphorical understanding of the emotion. Two of the constructions associated with Russian ‘sadness’ involve the Instrumental case, either in its bare (non-prepositional) use or governed by the preposition s ‘with’. Although the bare Instrumental can signal a variety of relationships in Russian (cf. Janda & Clancy 2002), the emotion terms appear in this construction as the agents in passive sentences, as in example 3. 3) čelovek tomimyj unyniem ‘a person tormented by sadness’ Here the sadness is a willful actor that has brought about the person’s suffering.



Example 4 illustrates the use of the s + Instrumental ‘with’ construction. 4) Kušaeš’ ty, kak svin’ja, s grust’ju skazal kapitan ‘You eat like a pig, said the captain with sadness’ In this construction sadness functions as an accompaniment, a kind of metaphorical gesture like a smile or a frown. The fifth construction, ot + Genitive ‘away from’ has two uses with ‘sadness’ terms. The first use is motivated by the understanding of sources as causes, as in example 5. 5) Podumajte, ètot čelovek umer ot melanxolii! ‘Just imagine, that person died from sadness!’ The second use treats the emotion as a metaphorical disease from which one is cured, illustrated by example 6. 6) Samoe lučšee lekarstvo ot xandry – èto čtenie. ‘The best medicine for (lit. from) sadness is reading.’ When we look at the constructions that make up the constructional profiles of the Russian ‘sadness’ terms, we see that in their concrete uses these constructions describe containers, agents, gestures, causes, and diseases. These finding indicate that the metaphorical underpinning of emotions is complex, pieced together from a variety of concrete source domains. 2.2 Measurement of synonymy

As mentioned above, Russian synonym dictionaries disagree about how to class the six ‘sadness’ terms, and it seems that grust’ and unynie present the most difficulties. Synonym dictionaries are carefully constructed on the basis of introspection, but in this case we can provide an objective measure based on the data in Table 1. The relationships among the six ‘sadness’ nouns can be probed using two measures. A chi-square test shows that



the words are indeed distinct from each other, since the chi-square value is 730.35 (df = 30, p < 0.0001). Squared Euclidean distances are a means of measuring the distance between arrays of data such as the constructional profiles of the six terms. Table 2 presents the distances. Table 2: Squared Euclidean Distance (z scores) for constructional profiles grust’

melanxolija

pečal’

toska

unynie

xandra

grust’

0.000

14.235

11.705

12.762

27.415

13.662

melanxolija

14.235

0.000

8.041

8.226

12.798

11.715

pečal’

11.705

8.041

0.000

5.844

17.123

14.679

toska

12.762

8.226

5.844

0.000

23.880

7.968

unynie

27.415

12.798

17.123

23.880

0.000

19.949

xandra

13.662

11.715

14.679

7.968

19.949

0.000

In Table 2, the upper right half is a mirror image of the lower left half (separated by a diagonal of zeroes); it is necessary to look only at the lower left half. The smallest figures show the points where each word is joined to the group and are bold-faced in the table. At 5.844 pečal’ joins toska, xandra joins at 7.968 and melanxolija joins at 8.041. Grust’ comes along somewhat further out, at 11.705, followed by unynie at 12.798. The data confirms the introspective results of the synonym dictionaries, while fleshing out details and explaining why there is a problem with grust’ and unynie. The latter two terms are outliers in the system of Russian ‘sadness’ synonyms; grust’ is strongly characterized by its use in the s + Instrumental ‘with’ construction, whereas unynie is strongly characterized by its use in the “container” constructions v + Accusative ‘into’ and v + Locative ‘in’. 3. Russian Semelfactives: Metonymy and Correlation with Verb Classes

In Russian it is possible to take verbs that denote repeatable activities such as čixat’ ‘sneeze’ and glupit’ ‘act stupid’ and form semelfactive perfectives meaning only one action, such as čixnut’ ‘sneeze once’ (with the suf 

fix -nu) and sglupit’ ‘do one stupid thing’ (with the prefix s-). The relationship between the base verbs and the derived verbs is metonymic since the derived verb denotes a single action (a part) extracted from a continuous series of actions (a whole; cf. Janda 2008b). Janda 2007 presents a “cluster model” of Russian aspect, according to which the -nu suffixed and s- prefixed semelfactives are considered to form a single group of verbs. This claim presumes that -nu and s- serve as allomorphs in the formation of semelfactive verbs. This is an unusual claim since allomorphs are typically morphemes that are etymologically related to each other, but due to sound changes have found themselves in complementary distribution. The variants of the root morpheme for ‘book’ in Russian illustrate a typical example of allomorphy: kniga [kn’ig-] (Nominative singular), knige [kn’ig’-] (Locative singular), knig [kn’ik-] (Genitive plural), knižka [kn’iš-.] (diminutive Nominative singular), knižek [kn’iž-] (diminutive Genitive plural). Identity of function and complementary distribution are traditionally considered absolute criteria for recognizing allomorphy (Bloomfield 1935: Chapters 10 & 13; Matthews 1974: Chapter V). If -nu and s- are allomorphs, they are atypical in that they are not etymologically related, but technically they could still qualify as allomorphs if they can be shown to exist in complementary distribution. To test the possibility that the suffix -nu and prefix s- might be in complementary distribution and thus qualify as allomorphs, a database was collected to represent the semelfactive verbs acknowledged in standard reference works of Russian (for a more detailed account of this research, see Dickey & Janda forthcoming). This database contains 296 semelfactives formed via -nu suffixation and 105 formed via s- prefixation. The latter group includes eleven verbs of motion of the type xodit’ ‘walk’ which forms the semelfactive sxodit’ ‘walk someplace and come back once’. An introspective examination of this database suggested that the distribution of -nu vs. s- might be correlated with the verb class of the imperfective base verb. To test this observation the



database was coded for verb class, and the results are presented in Table 3. Table 3: Distribution of verbs that form -nu vs. s- semelfactives across verb classes imperfective verbs that form -nu semelfactives

-ajunprod I

imperfective verbs that form s- semelfactives

number

%

number

%

185

62%

6

6%

56

19%

0

0%

2

21

7%

1

1%

-ova-

17

6%

18

17%

-i-

17

6%

44

42%

*-ěj-

0

0%

36

34%

296

100%

105

100%

*-ě-

Totals:

While this is not a perfect2complementary distribution, it represents a very compelling correlation. The chisquare value is 257.3 (df = 5, p < 2.2e-16). Furthermore, a Cramer’s V calculation yields a value of 0.8, which shows a very large effect size.3 For two of the verb classes, the unproductive I conjugation classes and the *-ějclass, the distribution is perfectly complementary; for the remainder there is overlap but always a clear trend. Three verb classes prefer -nu: -aj-, as in zevat’ ‘yawn’ > zevnut’ ‘yawn once’; the unproductive I conjugation classes, as in lizat’ ‘lick’ > liznut’ ‘lick once’; and verbs suffixed in historical yat *-ě-, as in svistet’ ‘whistle’ > svistnut’ ‘whistle once’. The remaining three classes prefer s-: -ova-, as in malodušestvovat’ ‘be cowardly’ > smalodušestvovat’ ‘do one cowardly thing’; -i-, as in grubit’ ‘be rude’ > sgrubit’ ‘do one rude thing’; and *-ěj-, as in robet’ ‘be shy’ > srobet’ ‘act shy 2

Historical yat (*ě) is realized as either e or a in Russian. When it is realized as a, it is preceded by č, ž, or š (the results of the first palatalization of velars).

3

Cramer’s V measures the size of the effect verified by chi-square. Cramer’s V can theoretically vary from 0 to 1, and effect sizes are evaluated as follows: 0.1 = small effect, 0.3 = moderate effect, 0.5 = large effect.



once’. The latter group, suffixed in *-ěj-, includes thirtythree verbs of the -ničaj- type such as original’ničat’ ‘act original’ > soriginal’ničat’ ‘do one original thing’. Of course this distribution of form parallels a semantic distribution of verbs across verb classes. Verbs denoting series of repeated physical actions or sounds tend to be in the -aj- (prygat’ > prygnut’ ‘jump > jump once’, kvakat’ > kvaknut’ ‘croak > croak once’), non-productive I conjugation (trjasti > trjasnut’ ‘shake > shake once’, lajat’ > lajnut’ ‘bark > bark once’), or -*ě- (drožat’ > drognut’ ‘tremble > tremble once’, xrapet’ > xrapnut’ ‘snore > snore once’) classes. These are also the verbs that prefer to form semelfactives with -nu. Verbs denoting characteristic behaviors tend to be in the -ova- (malodušestvovat’ > smalodušestvovat’ ‘be cowardly > do one cowardly thing’), -i- (xitrit’ > sxitrit’ ‘be clever > do one clever thing’), and -*ěj- (licemerničat’ > slicemerničat’ ‘be hypocritical > do one hypocritical thing’) classes. These are the verbs that prefer to form semelfactives with s-. Though -nu and s- are not in perfect complementary distribution, their distribution is clearly linked to formal and semantic factors, as supported by statistical analysis. The introspective observation that these two morphemes are collaborating in creating Russian semelfactives is corroborated by empirical facts. This finding not only supports the cluster model of Russian verbs (Janda 2007), but also suggests that traditional definitions based on absolute criteria such as complementary distribution may need to be re-evaluated. Under the traditional view of allomorphy, -nu and s- would be disqualified, but such an all-or-nothing approach forces linguists to ignore significant facts. A possible solution is to apply customary statistical standards for recognizing significant correlations that cannot be attributed to chance. The traditional definition of allomorphy could be retained as a prototype, but deviations would be accepted as long as they meet standard criteria (e.g., p < 0.01 and similar measures).



4. Word-Formation in Russian, Czech and Norwegian: Metonymy and Cross-Linguistic Comparisons

Word-formation is not the center of attention for most linguists (with some notable exceptions collected in Štekauer & Lieber 2005). This is unfortunate since wordformation represents an enormous system of semantic associations that can reveal how human beings organize information. In Janda forthcoming I suggest that the primary motive for word-formation is metonymy. This claim is based upon an empirical study that compares the semantic associations found in word-formation with the inventory of associations found in lexical metonymy. The data in this study not only support the introspective insight that metonymy is pervasive in wordformation, but also make it possible to compare the role of metonymy across the domains of lexicon and grammar and across languages. Ultimately it is thus possible to pinpoint specific differences among languages. Scholars working within the framework of cognitive linguistics have developed a model for analysis of metonymic relations using the formula vehicle for target (cf. especially Kövecses & Radden 1998; Radden & Kövecses 1999; Panther & Thornburg 2002, 2007). For example, the utterance We need a good head for this project exemplifies a part for whole metonymy where head is a part that stands for a whole person. Lexical metonymy is not restricted to part for whole, but can involve a range of contiguity relationships, as cataloged in Piersman & Geeraerts 2006. Another example is The milk tipped over, which illustrates contained for container metonymy since it is the glass or carton that tipped over, not the milk per se. Parallel examples of metonymy are available in word-formation. Czech břicháč ‘pot-bellied person’ is derived from břicho ‘belly’ with a part for whole metonymy designation, and květináč ‘flower pot’ is derived from květina ‘flowering plant’ with a contained for container metonymy designation. Janda forthcoming presents databases of suffixal word-formation for Russian, Czech, and Norwegian. This study excludes examples of word-formation that



are not motivated by metonymy (hypocoristics, derivation of comparative and superlative forms of adjectives and adverbs), formations that merely change a category value (such as gender of nouns as in Czech profesor > profesorka ‘professor > female professor’ or the formation of deverbal nouns that do not change meaning as in filmovat > filmování ‘film [verb] > filming [noun]’), and aspectual derivations (such as přepsat > přepisovat ‘rewrite[perfective] > rewrite[imperfective]’ and foukat > fouknout ‘blow > blow once’).4 However, all other examples of word-formation – the overwhelming majority of word-formation in total – can be recognized as metonymic. This study takes Piersman & Geeraerts 2006 (henceforth “P&G”) as the point of departure, since it is the most exhaustive inventory of types of metonymy available. One goal was to produce a system for classifiying metonymy in word-formation that was as commensurate as possible with the classifications for lexicon in order to facilitate comparison across the two domains. The terms from the P&G system have been adopted with modifications. Due to the richness of the data, it was necessary to make some additional distinctions within the terms in the P&G system. For example, the single term participant in P&G is realized in this classification as 1) agent, 2) product, 3) patient,5 and 4) instrument. Furthermore, one new term was added, namely quantity, which was necessary for handling denumer4

Aspectual derivations were avoided because Norwegian does not have a perfective vs. imperfective distinction. The morphological marking of aspect is something specific to Slavic, whereas the goal of this project was to explore word-formation cross-linguistically, so it was best to avoid language-specific phenomena. One could also argue that aspectual suffixes in Slavic are purely aspectual, serving only to change a category value – this is certainly true for the suffixes that derive secondary imperfectives. The semelfactive suffix (Russian -nu, Czech -nou) is arguably metonymic (cf. section 3 and Janda 2008b), but has been excluded here to provide a “level playing field” across the three languages.

5

Patients are pre-existing items, whereas products are created in the context of the metonymy relationship described. Thus Czech sbírka ‘collection’ has a product as target since the collection did not exist prior to the collecting. But Czech zubař ‘dentist’ has a patient as its vehicle since zub ‘tooth’ exists prior to the dentist’s work on it.



al derivations, such as Czech sedmička ‘number seven (bus, highway, etc.)’ from sedm ‘seven’. The list of terms appears in Table 4. Table 4: Terms used in metonymy designations for word-formation Relating to Actions:

action, state, change state, event, manner, time

Relating to Participants:

agent, product, patient, instrument

Relating to Entities:

entity, abstraction, characteristic, group, leader, material, quantity

Relating to Part for whole:

part, whole, contained, container, located, location, possessed, possessor

The use of such terms is reminiscent of both Dokulil’s (1986) onomasiological approach to word-formation and of Meľčuk’s (1996) Lexical Functions and is certainly largely compatible with those approaches. However, the focus on metonymy is an innovation, and in general the scholarly literature says very little about the role of metonymy in word-formation. Works on word-formation, as a rule, hardly mention metonymy, and do so only in passing (cf. Araeva 2009: 25; Štekauer 2005: 208). Works on metonymy rarely reference examples of word-formation (cf. Padučeva 2004: 147, 163). A few exceptions are articles that address the connection between word-formation and metonymy (Panther & Thornburg 2002; Basilio 2006), but these works are limited to the analysis of a handful of individual morphemes. Janda forthcoming is the first exploration of the role of metonymy on the scale of entire word-formation systems. For this project, data was culled from the three most comprehensive and authoritative grammars of Russian, Czech, and Norwegian: Švedova 1980; Dokulil 1986; and Faarlund et al. 1997. For each language, an inventory of “types” was assembled. Each type was an entry in the database consisting of a unique combination of the following: a metonymy designation (vehicle for target, using the terms in Table 4), a word-class des-



ignation (with the word-class of the vehicle and target words), and a suffix. Each type was supplied with an illustrative example, as shown in Table 5. However, no attempt was made to address issues of either type or token frequency. These databases yield the following overall measures of items identified in each language: – number of types: Russian 747, Czech 561, Norwegian 177 – number of metonymy designations: Russian 110, Czech 105, Norwegian 60 – number of suffixes: Russian 274, Czech 207, Norwegian 57. Table 5: Sample type entries from word-formation database metonymy designation

word-class designation

vehicle

target

vehicle

target

part

whole

noun

noun

contained

container

noun

noun

suffix

illustrative example source

derived

áč

břicho

břicháč

áč

květina

květináč

Overall, 133 metonymy designations were identified across the three word-formation systems. When we compare the metonymy designations found in wordformation with those found in the lexicon, we see strong overlap. Seventy-nine metonymy designations are shared between the word-formation databases and the P&G inventory of lexical metonymy; nine metonymy designations are found only in the P&G inventory of lexical metonymy; and fifty-four metonymy designations are found only in the word-formation databases. In other words, 90% of the metonymies found in the lexicon are also found in word-formation, and 60% of the metonymyies found in word-formation are also found in the lexicon. Table 6 gives lexical6 and Czech word-formational examples to illustrate this distribution. 6



The lexical examples are borrowed from Peirsman & Geeraerts 2006.

Metonymy designations shared by lexicon and wordformation (sample from 79 items): – action for agent: a snitch; hrabal ‘greedy person’ (< hrabat ‘rake’) – action for instrument: Andenken (‘keepsake’ < ‘act of remembering’); odměrka ‘measuring-cup’ (< odměřit ‘measure’) – action for location : Gang (‘corridor’ < ‘act of walking’); parkoviště ‘parking-lot’ (< parkovat ‘park’) – instrument for action: to ski; bičovat ‘beat with a whip’ (< bič ‘whip’) – action for patient: achat (‘purchase’ < ‘act of buying’); lízátko ‘lollipop’ (< lízat ‘lick’ – agent for action: to butcher; pytlačit ‘do poaching’ (< pytlák ‘poacher’) – characteristic for entity: a beauty; naháč ‘naked person’ (< nahý ‘naked’) – container for contained: (to drink) a glass; kapesné ‘pocket-money’ (< kapsa ‘pocket’) Metonymy designations found only in the lexicon (full list of 9 items): – action for time: la saison (< ‘act of sowing’) – agent for product: (I’m reading) Shakespeare – time for entity: the sixties – consequent for antecedent: phobos (‘fear’ < ‘flight’) – subevent for complex event: mother is cooking potatoes (involves also washing, peeling, etc.) – cause for effect: unlock the prisons (meaning ‘set the prisoners free’) – potential for actual: Can you see him? (meaning ‘Do you see him?’) – hyponym for hypernym: Kodak (meaning ‘camera’) – hypernym for hyponym: the pill (meaning ‘contraceptive pill’)



Metonymy designations found only in word-formation (sample from 54 items): – abstraction for action: toužit ‘long for’ (< touha ‘desire’) – abstraction for manner: honem ‘quickly’ (< hon ‘chase’) – action for characteristic: váhavý ‘hesitant’ (< váhat ‘hesitate’) – action for event: zabijačka ‘pig-slaughtering’ (< zabíjet ‘kill’) – action for group: plavidlo ‘all types of boats’ (< plavat ‘sail’) – characteristic for action: chladit ‘cool[verb]’ (< chladný ‘cool[adj]’) – characteristic for change state: mládnout ‘grow younger’ (< mladý ‘young’) – characteristic for group: chudina ‘poor people’ (< chudý ‘poor’) – event for characteristic: válečný ‘war[adj]’ (< válka ‘war’) – group for characteristic: rodinný ‘familial’ (< rodina ‘family’) – location for characteristic: městský ‘municipal’ (< město ‘city’) – material for action: hnojit ‘fertilize’ (< hnůj ‘fertilizer’) – patient for action: věznit ‘imprison’ (< vězeň ‘prisoner’) – product for action: kadeřit ‘make curls’ (< kadeř ‘curl’) – state for abstraction: nenávist ‘hatred’ (< nenávidět ‘hate’) – time for characteristic: včerejší ‘yesterday’s’ (< včera ‘yesterday’)



5. Comparison of metonymy designations across lexicon and word-formation

While most types of metonymy are found in both the lexicon and word-formation, word-formation is overall more diverse in its expression of metonymy. At the top end of the scale, the most frequently attested metonymies in the word-formation database tended to be shared across all three languages. Table 7 shows the ten metonymy designations that appear toward the top of the lists for Russian, Czech, and Norwegian. Table 6: Top ten metonymy designations shared by all three languages metonymy designation

illustrative example vehicle

abstraction for characteristic mysl’ ‘thought’ action for abstraction

target myslennyj ‘mental’

myslit ‘think’ myšlenka ‘idea’

language of example Russian Czech

action for agent

bake ‘bake’

baker ‘baker’

Norwegian

action for characteristic

bereč’ ‘guard’

berežnyj ‘ careful’

Russian

action for instrument

sušit ‘dry’

sušička ‘dryer’

Czech

action for product

stifte ‘establish’

characteristic for abstraction

tixij ‘quiet’

tišina ‘silence’

Russian

entity for characteristic

Kafka

kafkovský ‘Kafkaesque’

Czech

characteristic for entity

tøff ‘tough’

action for event

zabastovat’ ‘go on strike’

stiftelse ‘esNorwegian tablishment’

tøffing ‘tough Norwegian guy’ zabastovka ‘strike’

Russian

However, in addition to strong similarities, it is also possible to find divergences since some languages favor certain metonymy designations more than others. These differences may be indicative of differences in the linguistic cultures of the speech communities. Table 7 presents some of the differences observable in the database.



Table 7: Language-specific preferences for metonymy designations Russian and Czech metonymy designations

# of suffixes

illustrative example vehicle

target

location for characteristic

22 (R), 14 (Cz)

centr ‘center’

central’nyj ‘central’

possessor for possessed

18 (R), 11 (Cz)

kráva ‘cow’

kraví ‘cow’s’

state for characteristic

12 (R), 10 (Cz)

želat’ ‘want’

želatel’nyj ‘desirable’

characteristic for location

11 (R), 6 (Cz)

suxoj ‘dry’

suša ‘dry land’

part for whole

9 (R), 9 (Cz)

uši ‘ears’

ušák ‘bunny’

Russian metonymy designations characteristic for material instrument for characteristic characteristic for characteristic

# of suffixes 9

illustrative example vehicle

target

gustoj ‘thick’

gušča ‘dregs’

4

ščipcy ‘tongs’

ščipcovyj ‘relating to tongs’

4

velikij ‘great’

veličavyj ‘stately, majestic’

Czech metonymy designations contained for container product for location quantity for entity

# of suffixes

illustrative example vehicle

target

11

písek ‘sand’

pískoviště ‘sandbox’

6

mléko ‘milk’

mlékárna ‘dairy’

6

sedm ‘seven’

sedmička ‘number 7 bus, highway, etc.’

Norwegian metonymy designations

# of suffixes

illustrative example vehicle

target

location for located

8

Strømmen

strømling ‘person from Strømmen’

product for agent

5

musikk ‘music’

musikant ‘musician’



The first group of examples in Table 7 is of metonymy designations that are relatively common in both Russian and Czech, but rare or unattested in Norwegian. For example, location for characteristic is signaled by twenty-two suffixes in Russian and by fourteen suffixes in Czech, but only two suffixes are associated with that metonymy designation in Norwegian. Possessor for possessed, signaled by eighteen Russian suffixes and eleven Czech suffixes, is signaled by only one suffix in Norwegian. The remaining metonymy designations in that group are absent in Norwegian. In the Russian section of Table 7, the first designation, characteristic for material is associated with nine Russian suffixes, but with only three Czech suffixes and no Norwegian suffixes. The other two designations in this section of Table 7 are exclusive to Russian. These designations suggest that Russian is particularly strong in metonymies that involve characteristics. Czech excels in deriving nouns via three metonymy relationships that are either unattested or rare in the other two languages. product for location is not found in Russian or Norwegian, and contained for container is not found in Norwegian; otherwise these three relationships are represented by three or fewer suffixes in the other languages. The two metonymy designations that are flagged for Norwegian are attested robustly in both Russian and Czech, but are ranked relatively higher (eighth and eleventh most common) in Norwegian. Location for located, though it can identify objects in addition to people in both Russian and Czech, is specialized only to human targets in Norwegian. It is tempting to speculate on possible cultural parallels to language-specific patterns. In addition to the bias toward characteristics noted above for Russian, it appears that Czech is very focused on quantification and commercial transactions. The Norwegian preference for location for located seems to comport well with a strong sense of the connection between location and personal identity in Norway. However, this line of



inquiry must be left for future studies. All I can establish at this point is that it is possible to compare languages and identify language-specific patterns. There are many further questions that can be addressed in connection with analysis of word-formation in terms of metonymy. Here I list some of them: Why are some metonymies found only in the lexicon and others only in word-formation? Is metonymy relevant to word-formation in other Indo-European languages? In non-Indo-European languages? Why are some metonymies bi-directional (like container for contained and contained for container) while others are unidirectional (like time for characteristic)? What role do type and token frequency play? What is the relationship between suffixal word-formation and other types of word-formation (prefixal, compounding) in terms of the use of metonymy? Some of these questions are addressed in more detail in Janda forthcoming, and others must be left to future research. Conclusions

This article gives an overview of three studies in which quantitative methods have verified and enhanced analyses motivated by introspective observations. All of these studies involve the role of metaphor and metonymy in the cognitive associations expressed by language. As I have argued elsewhere (Janda 2008a), language coevolves with culture and expresses the associations that are characteristic of speech communities. In terms of their architecture, such associations are a universal phenomenon, yet they differ in detail, reflecting cultural differences. Metaphor and metonymy have traditionally been approached introspectively, and indeed introspection is always essential in order to identify their presence. But this does not preclude the possibility of applying quantitative methods in analysis of metaphor and metonymy. An empirical approach can contribute to our understanding of the role of metaphor and metonymy in a number of ways. As we saw in the case of the Russian ‘sadness’ terms, corpus data helped



to identify the grammatical constructions used to express emotion. Whereas previous (mainly introspective) analyses had focused on emotions as metaphorical containers, our data shows that other source domains are also important for emotion metaphors, such as agent, gesture, disease, and source. Furthermore, the interplay of these metaphors is different for the various ‘sadness’ synonyms and it is possible to quantitatively measure the distance between them. The study of Russian semelfactive verbs brings up a deeper philosophical issue with regard to traditional definitions of linguistic phenomena. Traditionally terms such as allomorphy are stated as absolute criteria, but when we look at linguistic phenomena from a usage-based perspective, we find that the linguistic reality is more continuous and complex; almost no phenomena present truly all-ornothing cases, since there are almost always exceptions and marginal examples. Given the unprecedented opportunities to access and analyze large corpora today, it may be time to re-evaluate some of our traditional definitions and apply them according to statistical standards of probability and effect size. The study of wordformation in terms of metonymic motivation opens up the possibility of examining semantic associations across the domains of lexicon and grammar and also across languages. Quantitative measures make it possible to discover what associations are more typical for a given language and its culture. These three studies are merely preliminary steps in the direction of deploying quantitative methods to investigate cultural linguistics. I predict that the dynamic between quantitative and introspective approaches will yield important contributions to our understanding of cultural linguistics.



Works Cited Abramov, N. 1994. Slovar’ russkix sinonimov i sxodnyx po smyslu vyraženij. Moscow: Russie slovari. Aleksandrova, Zinaida E. 1998. Slovar’ sinonimov russkogo jazyka. Moscow: Russkij jazyk. Araeva, L.A. 2009. Slovoobrazovatel’nyj tip. Moscow: Librokom. Basilio, Margarida. 2006. “Metaphor and metonymy in word-formation”. DELTA: Revista de Documentaçao de Estudos em Lingüística Teórica e Aplicada 22, 67-80. Bloomfield, Leonard. 1935. Language. London. Dickey, Stephen M. and Laura A. Janda. Forthcoming. “Xoxotnul, sxitril: The relationship between semelfactives fromed with -nu- and s- in Russian”. Russian Linguistics. Dokulil, Miloš. 1986. Mluvnice češtiny (1). Praha: Academia. Evgen’eva, A.P. (ed.) 2001. Slovar’ sinonimov russkogo jazyka. Moscow: Astrel’. Faarlund, Jan Terje, Svein Lie and Kjell Ivar Vannebo. 1997. Norsk referanskegrammatikk. Oslo: Universitetsforlaget. Feldman, Jerome A. 2006. From Molecule to Metaphor. A Neural Theory of Language. Cambridge, Massachusetts/London, England: The MIT Press. Haspelmath, Martin. 1997. From Space to Time: Temporal Adverbials in the World’s Languages. Munich: Lincom Europa. Janda, Laura A. 2004. “A metaphor in search of a source domain: the categories of Slavic aspect”, Cognitive Linguistics 15, 471–527. Janda, Laura A. 2007. “Aspectual clusters of Russian verbs”, Studies in Language 31, 607–648. Janda, Laura A. 2008a. “From Cognitive Linguistics to Cultural Linguistics”, Slovo a smysl/Word and Sense 8, 48–68. Janda, Laura A. 2008b. “Metonymy via Perfectivization of Russian Verbs”. Slavica Helsingiensia 35 (= S ljubov’ju k slovu. Festschrift in Honour of Professor Arto Mustajoki on the Occasion of his 60th Birthday), 77–85. Janda, Laura A. Forthcoming. “Metonymy is the motive for word-formation”. Janda, Laura A. and Steven J. Clancy. 2002. The Case Book for Russian. Bloomington, in: Slavica. Janda, Laura A. and Valery Solovyev. 2009. “What Constructional Profiles Reveal About Synonymy: A Case Study of Russian Words for sadness and happiness”. Cognitive Linguistics 20, 367–393. Kövecses, Zoltán. 2001. Metaphor and Emotion: Language, Culture, and Body in Human Feeling. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kövecses, Zoltán and Günter Radden. 1998. “Metonymy: Developing a cognitive linguistic view”. Cognitive Linguistics 9, 37–77. Lakoff, George. 1987. Women, Fire and Dangerous Things. Chicago: University



of Chicago Press. Lakoff, George and Mark Johnson. 1980. Metaphors We Live By. Chicago: Chicago University Press. Langacker, Ronald W. 2009. “Metonymic grammar”. In: Klaus-Uwe Panther, Linda L. Thornburg, Antonio Barcelona, eds. Metonymy and Metaphor in Grammar. Amsterdam: John Benjamins, 45–71. Matthews, P.H. 1974. Morphology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Mel’čuk, Igor’. 1996. “Lexical Functions: A Tool for the Description of Lexical Relations in a Lexicon”. In: Leo Wanner, ed. Lexical functions in lexicography and natural language processing. Amsterdam: John Benjamins, 37–102. Padučeva, Elena V. 2004. Dinamičeskie modeli v semantike leksiki. Moscow: Jazyki slavjanskoj kul’tury. Panther, Klaus-Uwe and Linda Thornburg. 2002. “The roles of metaphor and metonymy in English -er nominals”. In: R. Dirven – R. Pöring (eds.), Metaphor and metonymy in comparison and contrast. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter, 279–319. Panther, Klaus-Uwe and Linda Thornburg. 2007. “Metonymy”. In: D. Geeraerts and H. Cuyckens (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Cognitive Linguistics. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 236–263. Peirsman, Yves and Dirk Geeraerts. 2006. “Metonymy as a prototypical category”. Cognitive Linguistics 17, 269–316. Radden, Günter and Zoltán Kövecses. 1999. “Towards a theory of metonymy”. In: K.-U. Panther – G. Radden (eds.), Metonymy in Language and Thought. Amsterdam: John Benjamins, 17–59. Štekauer, Pavol. 2005. “Onomasiological Approach to Word-Formation”. In: Pavol Štekauer and Rochelle Lieber (eds.), Handbook of Word-Formation. Dordrecht, The Netherlands: Springer, 207–232. Štekauer, Pavol and Rochelle Lieber. 2005. Handbook of Word-Formation. Dordrecht, The Netherlands: Springer. Švedova, N.Ju. 1980. Russkaja grammatika. Moscow: Nauka. Wierzbicka, Anna. 1998. ‘Sadness’ and ‘anger’ in Russian: The nonuniversality of the so-called ‘basic human emotions’. In Athanasiadou, Angeliki, and Elżbieta Tabakowska (eds.), Speaking of Emotions: Conceptualisation and Expression (= Cognitive Linguistics Research 10). Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter, 3–28.



Zerrbild – Deutsche, tschechische und polnische Karikaturen der späten Habsburgermonarchie Rudolf Jaworski

Schon in der Antike und im Mittelalter verkörperten weibliche Allegorien im wahrsten Sinne des Wortes abstrakte Werte und Prinzipien (z.B. Justitia, Prudentia). Später kamen noch Gemeinschaftsideale hinzu. Zuerst waren es städtische Kommunen, welche auf diese Weise personifiziert wurden wie die Basilea, Kilonia, Vindobona oder Praga. Mit der Etablierung von Territorialherrschaften entstanden analoge Landesallegorien, wie z.B. die Tyrolia, Bohemia oder Bavaria. Zuletzt waren es ganze Staaten und Nationen, welche in solchen Kollektivfiguren zusammengefasst worden sind, wie z.B. in der Figur der Austria, der Britannia, der Germania, der Italia und anderer, wobei die latinisierten Namensgebungen für sich genommen schon Tradition und Kontinuität ausdrücken wollten. Bei aller Unterschiedlichkeit der Inhalte und Absichten ging es dabei stets um die Versinnbildlichung von ansonsten nicht Sichtbarem, aber Wesenhaftem. Schließlich stellte ein so komplexes Staatsgebilde wie das österreichische Kaiserreich, die Doppelmonarchie, oder auch nur deren zisleithanische Reichshälfte unter visuellen Gesichtspunkten letztendlich ein Abstraktum dar, das sich in seiner Totalität und Vielschichtigkeit nicht einfach abbilden ließ. Dennoch verstärkte sich in enger Wechselwirkung mit der Herausbildung einer verselbständigten Staatsraison und Nationsidee das öffentliche Bedürfnis, auch solche Gemeinschaftsformen nicht mehr allein mit Fürsten- und Monarchenbilder zu ehren oder durch Hoheitszeichen wie Wappen und Flaggen anzuzeigen, sondern in personalisierter Form der Öffentlichkeit als kollektives Identifikationsangebot zu unterbreiten.



Die Kollektivfigur der Austria, wie sie bereits seit der Frühen Neuzeit auf Wandgemälden nachgewiesen werden kann und dann seit dem 19. Jahrhundert durch Skulpturen im öffentlichen Raum präsent war, gehört in eben diese Kategorie weiblicher Symbol- und Identifikationsgestalten. Stellvertretend sei beispielsweise nur der 1846 auf der Wiener Freyung errichtete und heute noch existente Austria-Brunnen erwähnt. Im letzten Drittel des 19. Jahrhunderts sollte freilich die Vision eines nationenübergreifenden österreichischen Staatspatriotismus samt seiner Versinnbildlichung in der Austria zusehends ins Kreuzfeuer nationaler Bestrebungen und nationalistischer Anfeindungen geraten, wie sehr deutlich an zeitgenössischen Karikaturen abgelesen werden kann. Die Quellenbasis dieser kleinen Studie bilden satirische Zeitschriften der späten Habsburgerzeit. Deren periodische Erscheinungsweise erlauben verhältniosmäßig zuverlässige Aussagen zu Konstanten und Wandlungsvorgängen im satirischen Umgang mit dieser Symbolfigur. Neben den bekannten großen Wiener Witzblättern, dem kleinbürgerlich-radikalen „Kikeriki“ (gegr. 1861) oder liberalen „Figaro“ (gegr. 1857) oder der gesellschaftskritischen „Muskete“ (gegr.1905), wurde die wichtigste tschechische satirische Zeitschrift, die in Prag erscheinenden und überaus populären „Humoristické Listy“ (gegr. 1858) ausgewertet, ebenso die bedeutendsten austropolnischen Witzblätter wie der in Lemberg erscheinende eher staatstragend-konservativen „Szczutek“ und der liberale „Diabeł“ (beide 1869 gegr.) in Krakau. Die hier ausgewählten Bildbeispiele werden vor allem danach befragt, welche Chancen und welche Reichweite eine übernational konstruierte und verstandene Symbol- und Integrationsfigur Austria in den letzten Jahrzehnten der Donaumonarchie damals überhaupt gehabt hat. In der Karikatur wurden kollektive Symbolfiguren wie die Austria sehr gerne visualisiert, weil sie für die Zeitgenossen einen hohen Wiedererkennungswert besaßen und es daher möglich war, mit ihrer Hilfe rasch



und wirksam bestimmte Staaten und Nationen in toto kenntlich zu machen, sie als Personen auftreten oder sogar interagieren zu lassen. Diese Darstellungsweise erlaubte es, komplexe Staats- und Gesellschaftsgefüge in abgekürzter Form zeichnerisch auf den Punkt zu bringen, womit von vornherein und zwangsläufig immer auch ein gewisses Maß an Klischeehaftigkeit verbunden war. Im Unterschied zu Skulpturen und Gemälden geht es im Medium der Karikatur freilich nicht um eine idealisierende Überhöhung, sondern um den formelhaften Zeichen- und Signalcharakter solcher Figuren sowie um ihre satirische Brechung und Ausdeutung. Und je eindeutiger und skizzenhafter deren Merkmalzuschreibungen ausfallen – bei der Austria war es entweder die österreichische Kaiserkrone oder, häufiger noch, die aus dem urbanen Symbolrepertoire übernommene Mauerkrone –, umso leichter und umso wirksamer lassen sich solche Symbolfiguren in Karikaturen umsetzen, zählt doch gerade die Reduktion zu den herausragenden Techniken und Merkmalen dieses graphischen Genres. Die ersten beiden Abbildungen sind zwei comicartig angelegten Bildsequenzen entnommen, einmal aus dem Wiener „Figaro“ von 1867 und dann aus den Prager „Humoristické Listy“ von 1869. Sie empfehlen sich deswegen als Einstieg, weil sie die wichtigste politische Zäsur der späten Habsburgermonarchie thematisieren: den österreichisch-ungarischen Ausgleich von 1867, wobei die unterschiedliche Bewertung dieser Zäsur bereits erste Einblicke in die Gesamtproblematik eines übergreifenden Staatsverständnisses sichtbar werden lässt. „Austrias Wanderungen und Wandlungen seit 1847“ ist eine sechsteilige Bildserie des „Figaro“ überschrieben, die damit endet, dass Ministerpräsident Beust einen Vorhang aufzieht und damit den Blick auf eine Happy-End-Szene freigibt, in welcher die Austria in den Armen eines feschen ungarischen Jünglings zu sehen ist (Abb. 1). Zwei Jahre später endet eine analoge, von vornherein kritischer angelegte, tschechische Rückschau „Wann und wie wird das enden?“ ebenfalls mit dem österrei-



chisch-ungarischen Ausgleich von 1867. Dieser folgenschwere verfassungspolitische Umbau der Donaumonarchie wird aber nicht als ein freudiges Ereignis mit einem glücklich vereinten Liebespaar in Szene gesetzt, sondern als ein Akt der Zerstörung (Abb.2). Wir sehen den Ministerpräsidenten Beust, wie er zusammen mit seinem ungarischen Verhandlungspartner Andrássy die Austria-Figur in der Mitte auseinander sägt. Prägnanter waren die damals virulenten und divergierenden Standpunkte zum Ausgleich gar nicht zu kennzeichnen. Von einer den tschechischen Positionen vergleichbaren Distanziertheit konnte in den polnischen Karikaturen nicht die Rede sein, und das ist auch nicht weiter verwunderlich, stellten doch die maßgeblichen Kräfte der austropolnischen Politik stabile und verlässliche Stützen des Gasamtstaates dar, wie auch Galizien nach der gewährten Autonomie von 1868 im Unterschied zu den böhmischen Kronländern große Freiheiten in der Gestaltung der inneren Verhältnisse erhalten hatte. Die Austria wurde daher in viel stärkerem Ausmaße als in tschechischen Karikaturen als eine zwar vorgeordnete, aber eben auch als eine äußere Instanz präsentiert, so auf einer Karikatur, welche eine „Galicja“ zu Besuch bei der „Pani Austria“ zeigt, bei welcher sie 1875 um die Bestellung eines neuen Statthalters für Galizien vorspricht (Abb. 3). Distanz drückte sich hier nicht in Ablehnung, sondern in einem geradezu diplomatischen und zeremoniellen Umgang der beiden Kollektivfiguren „Galicja“ und „Austria“ aus. Zu dieser Auffassung der „Austria-Figur“ gehörte auch, dass sie – im Unterschied zu tschechischen Darstellungen – in den austropolnischen Karikaturen vornehmlich in außenpolitischen Angelegenheiten und insgesamt vergleichsweise weniger häufig visualisiert worden ist, was somit eine gewisse Nähe zu magyarischen Sehweisen derselben Zeit erkennen ließ. Verfolgt man die Darstellungsweisen der Austria in den genannten satirischen Periodika über einen längeren Zeitraum hinweg, so fällt auf, dass – bei aller Unterschiedlichkeit der jeweiligen Perspektiven – die Was-



serscheide für das gesamtstaatliche Prestige wie für die satirische Beurteilung der Austria eindeutig im österreichisch-ungarischen Ausgleich von 1867 zu suchen ist. Denn seit diesem Zeitpunkt musste die Austria mit der Symbolfigur der Hungaria konkurrieren, mit der sie sich zuweilen buchstäblich in den Haaren lag, wie eine tschechische Karikatur aus dem Jahr 1899 den Dauer-Clinch zwischen beiden Reichshälften bis zum bitteren Ende der Monarchie treffend ins Bild gesetzt hat (Abb. 4). Die Position einer zentralen Symbolfigur konnte die Austria innenpolitisch fortan eigentlich nur noch für die zisleithanische Reichshälfte beanspruchen, und selbst dies war keinesfalls unumstritten. Tschechische Ambitionen, der Krönung des Kaisers mit der ungarischen Stephanskrone eine weitere mit der böhmischen Wenzelskrone folgen zu lassen, wurden im Mai 1870 vom „Figaro“ entschieden zurückgewiesen und mit einer ganzseitigen Karikatur der Lächerlichkeit preisgegeben (Abb. 5). Unter dem Titel „Frau Austria’s jüngste Mode“ wird eine missmutig dreinblickende Austria in seltsam zusammengewürfelter Gewandung vorgeführt. Man sieht ihr förmlich an, dass sie sich in dieser Kleidung nicht wohl fühlt. Zur Hälfte schon in ungarischer Tracht gekleidet, den deutschen Hut in der Hand, das Fell des böhmischen Wappentieres, des zweigeschwänzten Löwen umgehängt, dessen Kopf zugleich ihr Haupt umhüllt, das von einem dreibeinigen „Leimpfanderl“ gekrönt wird. Mit dem zuletzt genannten Accessoire wurde in besonders herabwürdigender Weise auf die böhmische Krone angespielt, welche damals den föderativen Anspruch in der tschechischen Politik begründet hat. Über den direkten Anlass hinaus zielte die Botschaft dieser Zeichnung aber auf eine grundsätzlichere Frage: Wie weit sollte und konnte die Austria den Ansprüchen der verschiedenen Nationalitäten noch nachgeben, ohne sich bis zur Unkenntlichkeit entstellen zu lassen. Die einzige Chance für die Austria, ihre Autorität auch unter den Bedingungen des Dualismus weiterhin glaubhaft aufrecht zu erhalten, bestand nach überein-



stimmender Auffassung der deutschösterreichischen, tschechischen und austropolnischen Karikaturisten allein in einer strikten Beachtung unbedingter Unparteilichkeit und Gerechtigkeit den verschiedenen Monarchievölkern gegenüber. Und genau an diesem Punkt setzte die Kritik von allen Seiten ein, wobei die jeweils eigene Bezugsgruppe als sträflich benachteiligt hingestellt und umgekehrt die Bevorzugung anderer Nationalitäten angeklagt wurde. Die „Austria“ wurde dabei häufig als eine Völkermutter ins Bild gesetzt, die ihre mütterliche Zuwendung ungleich verteilte, so auch auf dem hier wiedergegebenen Ausschnitt aus einer Karikatur des „Diabeł“ von 1869 (Abb. 6). Darauf ist eine solche ungerechte Austria-Mutter zu sehen, auf deren Schoß sich ein verhätschelter ungarischer Bursche räkelt , während das Gros der übrigen Monarchievölker – allen voran ein polnischer Knabe mit geballter Faust – von ihr in den Hintergrund gedrängt werden. Aus einem vergleichbaren Schmollwinkel heraus, nur mit anderer Stoßrichtung, brachte der Wiener „Kikeriki“ im Jahr 1880 gleich auf der ersten Seite eine halbseitige Karikatur unter dem Titel: „Die Austria und ihre Kinder“ (Abb. 7): Eine Austria-Mutter verteilt mit einem großen Schöpflöffel Knödelsuppe an ungeduldig und wild herumzappelnde kleine affenartige Gesellen mit gierig weit geöffneten Mäulern. Sie sind an ihren Kopfbedeckungen leicht als ein Pole, ein Tscheche und ein Ungar zu identifizieren. Im Hintergrund sitzt ein deutscher Michel mit der typischen Zipfelmütze an einem separaten Tisch ohne Teller und ohne Essen, den Kopf betrübt auf die Arme gestützt. Auf die vorwurfsvolle Frage der Logofigur dieser satirischen Zeitschrift in Gestalt eines vermenschlichten Gockels, “Warum geben’s denn dem deutschen Buberl nix?“ antwortet Austria gelassen: “Der schreit nicht, der kann warten!“ Damit war eine Klage aufgenommen und bildlich umgesetzt, wie sie in liberalen und vor allem in nationalistischen Schriften der Monarchiedeutschen ständig wiederholt worden ist und sich ungefähr im folgenden Gedankengang zusammenfassen lässt: Wir, die Deut-



schen, tragen den Staat, den Nutzen haben aber immer nur die anderen Nationalitäten, weil sie lauthals und rücksichtslos ihre Forderungen an den Staat richten, während wir geduldig und loyal unsere staatsbürgerlichen Pflichten erfüllen. – Das Motiv der Speisung, sprich Finanzierung, der Nationalitäten durch Mutter Austria wurde in verschiedenartigen Variationen und Konstellationen wiederholt, übrigens auch in tschechischen Karikaturen. Nur mit dem Unterschied, dass hier die Begünstigten wiederum ein übergewichtiger deutscher Michel oder ein wohlbeleibter magyarischer Ember gewesen sind. Festzuhalten bleibt, dass die Austria weder in den deutschösterreichischen noch in den tschechischen oder austropolnischen Karikaturen als Symbolfigur des deutschen Bevölkerungselementes verstanden bzw. mit der deutschen Herrschernation gleichgesetzt, sondern stets als Repräsentantin des Gesamtstaates bzw. Zisleithaniens visualisiert wurde. Der Bezug zu den Deutschen war vor allem bei tschechischen Austria-Karikaturen in Gestalt eines deutschen Michels hergestellt und mit der Klage über eine generelle Bevorzugung gerade dieses Monarchievolkes durch die Austria verbunden. In deutschösterreichischen Karikaturen wurde umgekehrt nicht selten eine besondere staatliche Schutzpflicht des Staates für die Monarchiedeutschen gegenüber den aufbegehrenden nichtdeutschen Nationalitäten angemahnt, wie in der bereits gezeigten Speiseszene. Im Unterschied zu dem durchaus vergleichbaren Figurenpaar Germania und deutscher Michel im Wilhelminischen Deutschland, ergänzten sich die Austria und der deutschösterreichische Michel also keineswegs in komplementärer Weise. Denn nicht einmal für die zisleithanische Reichshälfte galt, dass die Austria den Staat und der Michel das dazugehörige Volk repräsentiert hätte; vielmehr konkurrierten sie miteinander, wenn sie nicht sogar in einem offenen Widerspruch zueinander dargestellt worden sind. Diese Unvereinbarkeit lag wiederum in der multinationalen Grundstruktur der Habsburgermonarchie begründet. Unter diesen



Voraussetzungen konnte die Austria die Deutschen nicht allein repräsentieren, wollte sie nicht als Symbol der deutschen Vorherrschaft im Habsburgerreich missverstanden zu werden. Man kann ohne Übertreibung sagen, dass sich bis zur Jahrhundertwende die Geister an der Austria geschieden haben, und dass die zeitgenössischen Austria-Karikaturen das Dilemma einer nationenübergreifenden österreichisch- patriotischen Identitätsfindung in der späten Habsburgermonarchie besonders drastisch und anschaulich widerspiegeln. Einerseits war mit der Visualisierung der Austria die Existenz und damit auch die Existenzberechtigung eines übergeordneten Staatsgedankens grundsätzlich anerkannt. Dieser Bezugsrahmen wurde sowohl in tschechischen wie in den austropolnischen und deutschösterreichischen Karikaturen stets als vorgegeben respektiert. Kritisiert wurden lediglich die aktuellen Zustände innerhalb der Monarchie, die als unbefriedigend empfunden und angeprangert wurden – in den tschechischen Karikaturen in offensiver Weise, bei ihren deutschösterreichischen und austropolnischen Pendants in eher zurückgenommen verhaltener Manier. Übertragen auf die Allegorie der Austria mündete diese Unzufriedenheit in Merkmalszuschreibungen, welche diese Gestalt als zu schwach, als zu wenig durchsetzungsfähig oder als zu ungerecht erscheinen ließen. Man kann es auch so formulieren: Die Austria wurde damals in den Karikaturen als eine Respektsperson mit nachlassender Autorität dargestellt, niemals aber als eine Identifikationsfigur. Hierin liegt der wesentliche Unterschied zur deutschen Germania, zur französischen Marianne und zu anderen vergleichbaren weiblichen Kollektivfiguren der selben Zeit. Die Tschechen hatten in der Allegorie der Bohemia/Čechie längst ihre eigene, auf die Länder der böhmischen Krone und speziell auf die tschechische Nation konzentrierte weibliche Leitfigur. Bei den Monarchiedeutschen erfüllte diese Funktion der deutsche Michel, bei den Polen die Galicja, seltener eine Polonia oder Matka Polska. Die re-



gionale Beschränkung auf eine trachtentragende Galicja war sicherlich politisch kalkuliert, denn ein Rekurs auf die dreigeteilte Polonia hätte ja indirekt die Integrität des Habsburgerreiches in Frage gestellt und eine solche Provokation konnte nicht im Interesse der Austropolen sein. Bei allen Unterschieden in den Motivationshintergründen, Perspektiven und Darstellungsweisen der diversen Karikaturen lässt sich doch ein übergreifender Grundzug feststellen. Die symbolpolitische Bedeutung der Austria verkürzte sich in der Regel auf die formale, den Monarchievölkern übergeordnete staatliche Hülle der Monarchie bzw. Zisleithaniens. Diese wurde zwar nicht angezweifelt, sie wurde jedoch als leblos und als handlungsunfähig empfunden, unter anderem deswegen, weil sie unfähig schien, den notwendigen Ausgleich unter den Nationalitäten herzustellen. Nicht von ungefähr wurde die Austria in tschechischen, wie übrigens auch in galizischen Karikaturen, häufig als eine altersschwache Frau dargestellt. In den austropolnischen Visualisierungen erschien die Austria aber stets als eine zwar etwas verhärmte, aber immerhin doch achtungsgebietende alte Dame, in den tschechischen Zerrbildern schon häufiger als eine hässliche alte Jungfer mit geradezu hexenartigen Gesichtszügen. Diese unterschiedliche Akzentuierung reflektierte die Hauptströmungen in der tschechischen und in der austropolnischen Politik seit der zweiten Hälfte des 19. Jahrhunderts. Während der Unmut tschechischer nationbuilder gegenüber den verkrusteten Herrschaftsstrukturen in der späten Monarchie ständig zunahm, wussten die maßgeblichen austroplnischen Politiker bei aller Unzufriedenheit in Einzelfragen die komfortable Sondersituation Galiziens sehr wohl zu schätzen, vor allem dann, wenn sie sich die Lage ihrer Landsleute in Russland oder in Preußen vor Augen hielten. Die Charakterisierung der Austria, als einer alten Frau, enthielt aber über die Kritik an dem kraftlosen Wiener Regierungsstil hinaus noch eine zusätzliche Botschaft. Ihr wurden nämlich nicht selten junge Frauengestalten als Repräsentantinnen



der nichtdeutschen Nationalitäten entgegengesetzt, welche allesamt die frische Unverbrauchtheit der aufstrebenden Nationalbewegungen verkörperten und deren Trachten ihre Volksnähe demonstrativ unterstrichen haben. Die Austria war demgegenüber zumeist in neutral antiken Gewandungen gekleidet. Dass die Wiener wie die austropolnischen, ja selbst die tschechischen Karikaturen bei aller Angriffsbereitschaft nicht über ein gewisses Maß an nörglerischer Unzufriedenheit hinausgegangen sind, d.h. niemals zu einem satirischen Generalangriff auf den österreichischen Staatsgedanken und die sie verkörpernde Austria angetreten sind, ist als ein weiteres gemeinsames Kennzeichen festzuhalten. Kaum überrascht diese Einstellung in den deutschösterreichischen Karikaturen, war doch das Schicksal der Monarchiedeutschen viel zu eng mit demjenigen des Gesamtstaates verbunden. Ähnliches galt auch für die im Vergleich zu anderen nichtdeutschen Nationalitäten privilegierten austropolnischen Eliten. Weniger selbstverständlich war bei aller bissigen Kritik ein zuweilen staatstragender Grundzug bei den tschechischen Karikaturen zu einer Zeit, als die tschechische Politik und öffentliche Meinung maßgeblich von den radikalen Jungtschechen bestimmt wurde und damit mehrheitlich antihabsburgisch und antiösterreichisch ausgerichtet gewesen ist. Dessen ungeachtet schwangen sich tschechische Karikaturisten gelegentlich geradezu zu Anwälten der Austria auf, die sie von magyarischer wie von deutschnationaler Seite bedroht und gefährdet sahen. Und diese loyale Grundeinstellung schimmerte selbst noch in den despektierlichsten Austria-Karikaturen durch. Denn selbst wenn die Austria als eine ungerechte, hartherzige Völkermutter karikiert wurde, so verbarg sich hinter einer solchen Anklage auch die enttäuschte Erwartung nach einer besseren Behandlung durch diese Autoritätsperson. Dass die Existenz des Gesamtstaates, repräsentiert in der Figur der Austria, dennoch nicht prinzipiell angezweifelt wurde, macht darauf aufmerksam, dass wir uns generell davor hüten müssen, uns kollek-



tive Identifikationsprozesse allzu eindimensional vorzustellen, sondern dass wir vielmehr darauf zu achten haben, sie stets als ein vielschichtiges, mitunter auch ausgesprochen widersprüchliches Wirkungsgeflecht konkurrierender, aber dennoch koexistierender Einstellungsmuster zu begreifen. Die Austria war seit dem österreichisch-ungarischen Ausgleich von 1867 in zunehmendem Maße zwischen die Mühlen der politischen, vornehmlich nationalpolitischen Auseinandersetzungen geraten und konnte infolgedessen die ihr ursprünglich zugedachte Rolle einer nationenübergreifenden Integrationsfigur nicht mehr erfüllen. Zuletzt von allen Seiten angefeindet, kritisiert oder gar nicht mehr ernstgenommen, beherrschte sie das Reich nicht mehr, sie ist nicht einmal mehr imstande selbständig zu agieren, sondern wird selber zum passiven Opfer aller dieser Auseinandersetzungen. Die Verantwortung für die Demontage bzw. für den zunehmenden Autoritätsverfall der „Austria“ wurde in den Karikaturen freilich stets außerhalb der eigenen Bezugsgruppe gesucht. Eine tschechische Karikatur aus dem Jahre 1903 zeigt wild drein hauende deutsche Michels, die gerade dabei sind, die festen böhmischen Fundamente eines Austria-Denkmals zu zerstören (Abb. 8). Und auf einer Karikatur des liberalen Krakauer „Diabeł“ von 1872 wird der von Polen, Ungarn und Tschechen getragene Denkmalsockel der Austria wiederum von Klerikalen, Bürokraten, Militärs und austropolnischen Zentralisten mit verschiedenerlei Werkzeugen demoliert, wobei dieser Aggressionsakt von außen her durch den Vatikan, Russland und Preußen sekundiert wird (Abb. 9). Der bekannte Wiener Gebrauchsgrafiker Alexander Wilke hat die Ohnmacht der Austria auf einem Titelblatt der satirischen Zeitschrift „Muskete“ im Jahre 1910 ebenfalls auf mehrere Faktoren zurückgeführt und in einem eindrucksvollen Szenarium zusammengefasst (Abb. 10). Wir sehen darauf eine überaus attraktive, halb entblößte „Frau Austria“, zwar mit den Reichssymbolen wehrhaft ausgestattet, aber hilflos und



umgeben von einem Gewusel auseinanderstrebender kleiner Wichte, die alle an ihrem Gewand zerren, um davon selbstsüchtig wenigstens einen Fetzen zu ergattern. An ihren Kopfbedeckungen lassen sich diese Unholde leicht als Feudale, Kleriker, Tschechen, Polen und Vertreter anderer Interessengruppen identifizieren. Der Untertitel lautet: „Zieht mich nur ganz aus – vielleicht werdet ihr dann endlich darauf kommen, wie schön ich bin!“ Dieser Satz kommt fast einer symbolpolitischen Kapitulation wenige Jahre vor Beginn des Ersten Weltkrieges gleich, aus der historischen Retrospektive wirkt er wiederum geradezu wie eine prophetische Vorausschau auf spätere Verklärungen der Monarchiezeit in den ehemaligen Territorien des Habsburgerreiches. Das hier ausgebreitete Bildmaterial dürfte zur Genüge belegen, dass sich die Schwierigkeiten einer gesamtstaatlichen Identitätsfindung und Integration in der späten Monarchiezeit an den Austria-Karikaturen sehr gut ablesen lassen. In diesen Zerrbildern wird vor allem ein schier unauflösbares Dilemma sichtbar: Wollte die Austria als übergreifend verbindendes und verbindliches Staatssymbol und als Integrationsfigur bestehen, so musste sie im multinationalen Habsburgerreich peinlich darauf achten, „ohne Eigenschaften“ zu bleiben, um nicht den Eindruck einseitiger Parteilichkeit zu erwecken. Diese Notwendigkeit oder besser: dieser Zwang bewirkte aber wiederum die Blutleere und die Gesichtslosigkeit ihrer Erscheinung, was sie nicht unbedingt attraktiver machte und was schließlich dazu führen musste, dass sich keine Nationalität mehr so richtig mit ihr identifizieren mochte oder konnte. In Czernowitz und an anderen Peripherien im Osten und Südosten des Reiches mag das bis zum Ende der Monarchie anders gewesen sein, weil die Austria dort als ein kultureller Leuchtturm und zivilisatorischer Grenzpfeiler noch Funktionen erfüllte, die in den zentraler gelegenen westlichen Territorien des Reiches oder bei den selbstbewussten Austropolen keine vergleichbare Rolle mehr spielten. Sogar in den untersuchten Wiener satirischen Zeitschriften war die Austria bis zur Jahrhun-



dertwende zu einer eher bemitleidenswert schwachen Figur geworden, zu welcher das Vertrauen ständig abnahm und die darum auch immer weniger ins Bild gesetzt worden ist – während zur selben Zeit und im Kontrast dazu – die Germania im benachbarten Deutschen Reich eine unglaublich steile Karriere machte und seit 1900 ganze Briefmarkenserien zierte. Auf symbolischer Ebene äußerte sich dieser schleichende Prestigeverlust zuletzt in einem ungeregelten Neben- und Gegeneinander unterschiedlichster und einander widersprechender Identifikationsangebote und -alternativen wie der Hungaria, der Bohemia bzw. Čechie, der Galicja usw. In den Bildprogrammen der völkisch gesinnten Deutschböhmen und Deutschmährer gab es um die Jahrhundertwende sogar direkte visuelle Anleihen bei der reichsdeutschen Germaniafigur. Abschließend lässt sich die Grundaussage der hier präsentierten Karikaturen bei allen Verschiedenheiten der jeweiligen Ausgangspositionen folgendermaßen zusammenfassen: Die Symbolfigur der Austria hat sich in diesem Medium während der letzten Jahrzehnte der Habsburgermonarchie weder in den österreichischen und schon gar nicht in Galizien oder in den böhmischen Kronländern als eine nationen- und parteienübergreifende Integrationsfigur behaupten können. Damit wird letztendlich nur bestätigt, was wir schon längst aus anderen Quellen wissen. Was diese graphischen Momentaufnahmen freilich den zeitgenössischen Schriftquellen meiner Meinung nach unbedingt voraus haben und was sie darum für die historischen Kulturwissenschaften so wertvoll macht, das ist ihre heute noch spürbare, geradezu sinnlich nachvollziehbare Unmittelbarkeit und Verdichtung ansonsten nur schwer fass- und rekonstruierbarer Stimmungslagen und Einstellungsmuster. Andererseits dürfen diese Karikaturen wiederum auch nicht all zu ernst genommen werden, weil andernfalls das ihnen eigene spielerische Moment und das gewisse Augenzwinkern unberücksichtigt blieben – beides Elemente, die doch gerade das Wesen dieses graphischen Genres ausmachen.



Abb. 1: Figaro, Jg. 8 (1867), Nr. 13,

Abb. 2: Humoristické Listy (1869), Nr.11.



Abb. 3: Szczutek, Jg. 7 (1875), Nr. 33.

Abb. 4: Humoristické Listy (1899), Nr. 42.



Abb. 5: Figaro (1870), Nr. 22/23.

Abb. 6: Diabel, Jg. 1 (1869/70), Nr. 15.



Abb. 7: Kikeriki, Jg.20 (1880), Nr. 4, S. 8.

Abb. 8: Humoristické Listy (1903), Nr. 43.



Abb. 9: Diabel, Jg. 3 (1872), Nr. 69,

Abb. 10: Die Muskete, Jg. 11 (1910/11), S. 275.



Literaturhinweise Bruckmüller, Ernst: Symbole österreichischer Identität zwischen „Kakanien“ und „Europa“. Wien 1997. Burckhardt-Seebass, Christine: Frauen auf dem Sockel. Nachgetragene Anmerkungen zur Czernowitzer Austria und ihren Schwestern. In: Österreichische Zeitschrift für Volkskunde, Jg. LXI/110 (2007), S. 401–414. Gall, Lothar: Die Germania als Symbol nationaler Identität im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert. In: Nachrichten der Akademie der Wissenschaften in Göttingen, 1. Philologisch-historische Klasse, Jg. 1993, Nr. 2. Göttingen 1993, S. 38–88. Górska, Hanna/ Lipiński, Eryk: Z dziejów karykatury polskiej. Warszawa 1977. Hoffmeister, Adolf: Sto let české karikatury. Praha 1955. Krasa-Florian, Selma: Die Allegorie der Austria: die Entstehung des Gesamtstaatsgedankens in der österreichisch-ungarischen Monarchie und die bildende Kunst. Wien 2007. Malecková, Jitka: Nationalizing Women and Engendering the Nation: the Czech national Movement. In: Ida Blom u.a. (Hg.), Gendered Nations. Nationalism and Gender Order in the long Nineteenth Century. Oxford 2000, S. 293–310. Schneider, Elfriede: Karikatur und Satire als publizistisches Kampfmittel. Ein Beitrag zur Wiener humoristisch-satirischen Presse des 19.Jahrhunderts (1849–1914). Wien 1972. Vocelka, Karl: Karikaturen und Karikaturen zum Zeitalter Kaiser Franz Josephs. Wien 1986. Wenk, Silke: Borussia, Brunsviga, Bavaria... und Germania: Einheit und Differenz. In: Elisabeth Cheauré u.a. (Hg.), Vater Rhein und Mutter Wolga: Diskurse um Nation und Gender in Deutschland und Russland. Würzburg 2005, S. 74–83.



The Multicultural Experience in Fin-De-Siècle Vilnius: Yiddish Literature and the Politics of Diasporism Mindaugas Kvietkauskas

Introduction

An attempt to explore the multinational literary heritage of Lithuania, and especially of its historical center Vilnius (Vilne, Wilno, Вільня), through cross-cultural comparative research is at present a vital developing tendency among Lithuanian, Polish, Belarusian and Russian literary and art historians.1 Yiddish literature has been included in these manifold research projects only in the most recent time, partly because of the academic activities of the newly established Vilnius Yiddish Institute. Needless to say, any study of such culturally diverse discourses as literary texts by Lithuanian, Polish, Jewish, Belarusian and Russian authors raises complex methodical questions about the means and channels of cultural communication within the multinational society, and about the development of its modern national conflicts. The problem for the literary historian is: how were literary texts involved in the tense communication between different cultural groups, and how did they define, regulate, suspend or enact the forms of such communication? How did literary texts answer the challenge of the cultural Other in the particular space and under the particular sociopolitical circumstances? What possibilities for the real socio-cultural actions did they design through the fic1

A number of new publications in these languages could be referred to. Concerning the beginning of the 20th century in Vilnius, the most important of them probably are: a three-volume academic collection Vilniaus kultūrinis gyvenimas, Ed. by A. Lapinskienė, Vilnius, 1998, 1999 and 2001; Pavel Lavrinec, Russkaja literatura Litvy (XIX – pervaja polovina XX veka), Vilnius, 1999; Andrzej Romanowski, Młoda Polska wileńska, Cracow, 1999; Laima Laučkaitė, Vilniaus dailė XX amžiaus pradžioje, Vilnius, 2002.



tional play of images and metaphors? These questions gain special significance if the period of emergence of modern nationalisms in Eastern Europe is taken into consideration. The last decades of the 19th century, and especially the political unrest and rapid social transformation between 1905 and 1920, created in the multinational Vilnius region an extraordinarily dense atmosphere of previously inexperienced cultural contacts, conflicts, mutual influences and redefinitions of identity, as well as impelled severe mutual exclusions and harshly growing nationalistic and anti-Semitic sentiments. The cross-cultural research of literature in such a context necessarily means asking questions about the interplay between the new political – liberal, socialistic or nationalistic – ideas, changes in social mentality and in modern literary discourse.2 This paper discusses a relatively small and specific fragment of that vast multicultural panorama of finde-siècle literature in Vilnius. However, this fragment reveals an important process, how the modern multicultural experience was uttered in literature and how it was introduced to complement or undermine contemporary political discourse, which was in its turn also bound to explain and to shape such experience. In our case, this is an interplay between the Jewish political ideology of Diasporism (or Autonomism) and those modern Yiddish literary texts that were written and published in the multinational city of Vilnius (or Vilnius region). The ideas of Jewish cultural autonomy in Eastern Europe and Russia at the beginning of the 20th century were actively espoused as an alternative for the modern Zionist and Socialist ideology, and, first of all, as a consolidating ground against the Jewish assimilation. Two major founders of Diasporist ideology, Simon Dubnow (1860–1941) and Chaim Zhitlovsky (1865–1943), proposed 2



Due to the limited size of this paper, I do not explain my theoretical attitudes more explicitly. The method of this interpretation is influenced by the assumptions of New Historicism, Michel Foucault’s power/discourse theory and the Philosophy of Dialogue (Emmanuel Levinas).

new models for Jewish national identity and social organization in Eastern Europe, resting them on the positivistic presumption that in the near future the Russian Empire would be transformed into a liberal multinational federation, which would grant the rights of autonomy to the numerous national groups within it. Proposing such a vision of Jewish future, the Diasporists had to confront the question of modifying of the national relations within that federal political body. They had to mark the boundaries of Jewish autonomy in relation to other neighboring nationalities. These ideological projections, always contesting with Zionist and Bundist programs for the right to offer the best solution of Jewish question, obviously had to acquire a systematic and clear-cut form, a form of powerful statement. Nonetheless, as historian Jonathan Frankel notices, the Diasporists were much more flexible about, and sensitive to, the problems of multinational coexistence than other Jewish political parties, including the Bundists, who mainly borrowed ideas for their national program from Dubnow and Zhitlovsky.3 Yet the Diasporists chiefly confronted the question of assimilation, that traditional Jewish political problem which persisted during the entire 19th century: what was to be the modern relation between the major ruling nationality (in this case, the Russians) and the Jewish Diaspora? The Diasporist answer, the struggle for the national autonomy, was formulated as a response to the oppressing political and cultural force. So, any definition of the cultural contacts with the Others was placed within the ‘vertical’, hierarchical system of the national struggle: the oppressed Jewish minority against the Russian majority and its antisemitism. The challenges of any other ‘horizontal’ or ‘local’ multicultural contacts were hardly considered. Naturally, the same systems of nationalistic struggle were at the same time created in Polish, Lithuanian or Belarusian political discourse in Lithuania. The ideolo3

Jonathan Frankel. Prophecy and Politics: Socialism, Nationalism, and the Russian Jews, 1862–1917, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981, 269–270, 215–222.



gists of national rights, recognizing – in the best cases – also the struggle for the national freedom of local Others, were still not prepared to acknowledge that these local cultural Others could not be treated neutrally, could not be culturally isolated from “us”, simply “taken in brackets”, referred to only in the digressions or the margins of the major political argument, or simply expelled from view.4 Likewise, the defensive nationalistic discourse was usually hostile to any locally alien cultural elements, which already existed within the defended culture. As a result Lithuanians tried to “purify” their modern culture from Polish elements, Poles – from Russian, Jews – from Gentile influences, and so on. However, these Others, marginalized and isolated in the dominant political discourse, usually gain their voice in the alternative channels of symbolic communication, for example in literature. In the second part of this analysis I will discuss how three Vilnius authors, who were politically close to the Diasporist solution, included and interpreted the presence of the cultural Others in Yiddish literary texts, and how the multicultural experience, represented in modern literary text, reshapes and subverts those symbols and patterns that originate from the sphere of politics. The chosen Yiddish literary texts propose the different view, probably more locally specified although marked by the European spirit of fin-de-siècle, of the multicultural reality and of its modern dangers in Diaspora. I have chosen to examine three stylistically and functionally different forms of literary text – the intellectual social drama, the 4



Indeed, in the political texts of Dubnow and Zhitlovsky the references to other national minorities in Russian Empire are very marginal and are presented as digressions from the main thought. These “Lithuanians, Lithuanian Poles, Belarusians”, these “minor national groups on the cultural level of Slovaks or Lithuanians”, or just “rural folk masses” are left somewhere in a far away horizon, near to irrelevance. But such effect of “inverted telescope” was ubiquitous also in the political texts of those other nationalities – Lithuanians, Belarusians, or Poles – with the difference that just that in these cases the Jews, for example, were viewed at the far end of the telescope. Coincidentally, the metaphor of “inverted telescope” is proposed by Benedict Anderson to describe the workings of cultural psychology in the multinational context of South-East Asia (in his book The Spectre of Comparisons: Nationalism, Southeast Asia, and the World (Verso, 1998).

symbolist poem, and the popular folkloristic play – in order to grasp the process from several perspectives. The Diasporist politics of cross-cultural contacts: honor, not love

The political idea of Jewish autonomism in Diaspora, as it was elaborated in Dubnow’s Letters on Old and New Judaism (Pis’ma o starom i novom evreistve) in the period between 1897 and 1903, was closely related to another theory of this prominent historian, namely to the theory of three stages in the national development. In brief, Dubnow suggested that every nationality comes into existence as a racial or tribal group, in consequence of the factors of natural environment; then it reaches the stage of political nation, creates a state and a manifold material culture; afterwards it should enter the stage of spiritual-cultural nationalism. Territory and environment are the major formative forces for a tribal group; they are indispensable for the existence of the political national state; but in the last spiritual stage they lose all relevance, becoming utterly superseded by autonomous national subjectivity, by the cultural and intellectual “will to live”.5 In the course of its millenary history in Diaspora the Jewish nation had clearly shown that it had achieved the highest stage of spiritual nationality and that its existence rested solely on the inner and autonomous cultural will. This was precisely the basis on which to demand the non-territorial autonomy for the Jews in Russia, where the Jews were scattered among various other nationalities and therefore had no objective reason to claim any territory exclusively for themselves. Such was basically the initial shape of the autonomist ideology among Russian and Lithuanian Jewry, because the alternative views of the territorialist Zhitlovsky views began to circulate in Russia via the

5

Simon Dubnow. Nationalism and History: Essays On Old and New Judaism, transl. by Koppel S. Pinson, Cleveland, New York: Meridian Books, 1961, 77–84.



SERP party and to exert real influence on Bund much later, only after the 1905 revolution.6 Writing on the actual situation in Jewish politics, Dubnow expressed a positive belief that the ancient spiritual nation was at the threshold of a new rebirth and was entering the phase of modern construction, which would be realized through the humanistic modernization of the Jewish religion and through new forms of Jewish social autonomy (the modern kehilla). “You ask what wall we shall erect in place of the fallen ghetto walls? Every period has its own architecture, and the powerful vital instinct will unmistakably tell the people what style to use for building the wall of national autonomy which will replace the former religious ‘fence to fence’ and will not at the same time shut out the flow of world culture.”7 The metaphors of building and construction, the image of “the sons of the nation as new builders” are common in the discourse of both Dubnow and Zhitlovsky; they signify both the positive cultural work and the erection of the new walls against assimilation. Nevertheless, Dubnow suggested, traditional Jewish religious identity had to remain the main dividing line between the Jewish community and other autonomous national units. Receiving culture as a kind of spiritual order, he argued conversely, that Judaism itself was “a body of culture”, overabundant in richness and plurality within its own historical tradition, but did not permit any plurality in relation to other local cultures and communities, which in their turn were growing around the alien religious kernel of Christianity. Jewishness even permitted being religiously indifferent or Konfessionslose, as long as such a Jew participates in the cultural life of the Jewish nation and is still affected by the “magnetic field” of one hegemonic national and spiritual centre; acceptance of another religion how6

See Jonathan Frankel. Prophecy and Politics, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981, 278, 282–286; also David H. Weinberg. Between Tradition and Modernity: Haim Zhitlovsky, Simon Dubnow, Ahad Ha-Am, and the Shaping of Modern Jewish Identity, New York, London: Holmes&Meyer, 1996, 85.

7

Simon Dubnow. Nationalism and History, 187.



ever automatically means an exit from the Jewish nation and entrance into another nationality.8 In this way Dubnow denies any possible syncretic cultural continuity between the autonomous historical-cultural units, save for the fact that they all can share the highest values of common European or universal civilization. During his lifetime, having supported the positivistic and universalistic attitudes of the 19th century’s liberal political philosophy, Dubnow never emphasized any particular mythical or romantic link between the community and its land as did Zhitlovsky. Dubnow was not keen to argue for the equal rights for Jews in a multinational state on the ground of their genuine attachment to the native land, and, by contrast with Zhitlovsky, did not glorify Russia as “our fatherland”. Rather, including “the natural love of fatherland” in his formula of patriotism, Dubnow discussed its value for an individual’s emotional life and for the memory of his own national history, but he did not reflect on land or landscape as the common symbolic denominator for different autonomous communities. Furthermore, he argued that patriotism “is a complex emotion”, in which another element had incomparably higher significance for the multinational solidarity. That element was civic consciousness of common needs, that is, the demand for legal justice, equal rights and national autonomy for all citizens. What unites and brings into a benign contact with other nations is, then, the striving for a perfect legal balance in the state. A member of a national minority will be a faithful citizen of his country and will work for the common needs of the state as long as his national rights are not curtailed and his national individuality and inner freedom are not trod under foot. All inhabitants who have lived on their territory since time immemorial are loyal citizens of their country only to the degree to which it protects their basic human rights. The essence of a civic union is contained in precisely such protection. It 8

Simon Dubnow. Nationalism and History, 91–93.



should be recognized that the state is an external social organization designed only to protect the needs of its members. The nationality is an inner and natural form of the social collectivity. The state, in keeping with its entire character, can be changed at all times; the nationality is fixed and unchangeable.9 What, then, connects different national essences, existing together in one external political body, a multiethnic state? Dubnow argues that there are two possibilities: the bloody condition of national oppression under the violent force of the majority, or the neutral civilized condition of legal tolerance and regulation. Dubnow’s demand for this ideal cultural neutrality of the state is vividly illustrated in a fragment of his Letters, where he discusses the emotions one can feel for another nationality, taking issue with Solovyev’s teaching “love all the nations as your own”. Love, says Dubnow, is only natural for one’s own people, to whom one is bound by “ties of blood and spirit”. Instead, in relation to other national groups one can at best experience only the feeling of honor – namely, the honor and recognition of their freedom. That alone can cross the boundary between different cultures from the juristic Jewish point of view, as opposed to the subjective and abstract Christian principle of “love”. Again, Dubnow is rhetorically bound to state the cultural difference, and not a kind of intellectual proximity.10 Chaim Zhitlovsky, the second major ideologue of the Diasporist and autonomist solution for Jewish life in Russia, was actually much closer to the outlook of modern Yiddish writers than the positivistic and in his cultural preferences cautiously conservative Dubnow, who, in fact, could not accept the modern expressivity of I.L. Peretz and condemned the cultural atmosphere of the fin-de-siècle altogether.11 On the contrary, Zhitlovsky’s 9

Ibid., 103.

10 Ibid., 128–129. 11



See Simon Dubnow, Kniga zhizni: Vospominaniya i razmyshleniya, Sankt-Peterburg: Peterburgskoe vostokovedenie, 1998, 316; Nationalism and History, 131.

political and social philosophy, the “Diaspora romanticism of Yiddishism”, according to literary critic Shmuel Niger, was an integral part of developing Jewish modernity, and bore the spirit of its cultural generation.12 Zhitlovsky was the most fervent political advocate for the rebirth of the Jewish nation through Yiddish language and culture, and the central ideological figure in the Czernowitz conference of 1909. His combination of radical socialism and revolutionary propaganda with concern about the modernization and Europeanisation of Jewish Diaspora culture made Zhitlovsky’s ideas especially attractive for modern Yiddish writers. His statements or – in some cases – utopian images were clearly to the fore in the play of modern Jewish literary imagination in the multicultural Vilnius region, as it will be later demonstrated in this analysis. The reason for such an ideological attraction of the modernists to Zhitlovsky is perfectly described in this phrase by a Vilnius publicist: “He [Zhitlovsky] was more Jewish than any other radical Jew and had more ideas concerning the nation.”13 Already in his first influential political essay A Jew to the Jews (Evrei k evreiam, 1892) Zhitlovsky put forward the bold idea that Jewish national life could be rebuilt on a “healthy” and secular humanistic basis if Jews would move from cities and small towns and resettle in the countryside and would start making their living from simple communal agricultural work. This was in fact a conventional repetition of the agricultural mythology developed by the Russian Populists and later by the Party of Social Revolutionaries, but in Zhitlovsky’s thought it served to solve a particularly Jewish problem: what would constitute the new secular Jewish life and what would secure it from massive assimilation or violent destruction by anti-Semitic forces, if the old cultural isolation from Christian majority and religious control of 12 Shmuel Niger, “Dovid Einhorn”, Di yidishe velt, 1913, No. 2, 78; and “Peretz Hirshbein”, in P. Hirshbein, Teater, veltrayzes, zikhroynes, Buenos Aires: Yosif Lifshitz fond, 1967, 316. 13 Bal Dimyen (Nokhem Shtif), “Haim Zhitlovsky: Tzu zayn 25 yorigen yubilei”, Di yidishe velt, 1913, No. 1, 78. All quotations from Yiddish are translated by the author of this paper.



different ways of social life were altogether abandoned? What cultural ties would hold the scattered nation together and what inner structure had to be built in Jewish national autonomy, when it was be gained within the multinational Russian state in the future, after the revolution or at least after the constitutional reform? If the Jews were to gain political equality in a multiethnic state, how should they advance to cultural equality with neighboring modern nationalities, given that the present state of Jewish national life was simply a state of “degeneration”? Zhitlovsky’s answer, if one can put it so, was to replace the ‘horizontal dispersion’ or nomadic existence of the Jewish nation with a strong ‘vertical’ system of modern nationalistic values, which included the healthy fundamentals (own land, pure race and nonexploitative agricultural labor) and the highest universal cultural ideals (humanism, brotherhood, absolute justice and pursuit of the pure forms of beauty in art). So the actual involvement of all kinds of Jewish businessmen in economic relations and transactions with the other nationalities (Zhitlovsky, according to Marxist doctrine, viewed them as ‘parasitic’) needed to be replaced by direct bonds to the Russian land and to the secular Jewish collectivity (“the healthy Jewish peasant mass”).14 Similarly, the Jewish intelligentsia had to return to the folk, abandoning its present forms of intermingling with other national cultures that would eventually lead only in one direction: to assimilation and the extinction of national consciousness. The role of the intelligentsia was to represent the highest European cultural ideals, the emblematic concepts of Enlightenment (“love for truth, beauty and human dignity”), and with them to replace the “spiritual yoke of Jewish religious tradition”, the rule of “Rabonim, Tzadikim and all other Jewish obscurants”.15 Then the purified national consciousness would become a self-sufficient and he14 Chaim Zhitlovsky, “A yid tzu yidn”, Gezamelte shriften, Bd. 6, Niu-York: Dr. Zhitlovsky farlag gezelshaft, 1917, 53. 15 Chaim Zhitlovsky, “A yid tzu yiden”, ibid., 54.



gemonic power, linking the naturally inherited Jewish givens (the Yiddish language and other forms of ethnic expression) to the inner substance of any high modern culture – “universal humanity”, al-menshlikhkeit. And if such a stable nationalistic structure were to be created, there would be no more danger of dispersion and assimilation among the other national cultures, no more risk of impure horizontal cultural intermingling, because the vertical system would have just one open exit: the separate national growth towards abstract human universality. There is one question […] what can [in the future] compel a Jew to forsake Yiddish and to choose, let’s say, Russian or English instead? There will be indeed no force to compel anybody to do that. In the situation of future equality, languages will flourish much intensely than now; the cultures will evolve each in its own manner, according to its most individual character, and the national peculiarities of every nation will become even more distinct and stronger.16 But how were all these strongly individual and distinctly different cultural communities to manage to live together in a multinational state without being engaged in any conflict, ‘unhealthy’ intermingling or assimilative ties? In fact, Zhitlovsky did not hesitate to admit, the autonomy he was proposing for modern Jewish life in Diaspora would be a form of Jewish isolation in an agricultural ghetto. In his article “Can the Jewish nation disappear?”, written in 1906, he declared that one of the positive causes that had preserved Jewish identity in the past and that should not be eliminated even under progressive socialist conditions, was the concentration of Jews in ghettos. The striving for a ghetto life was utterly natural not only for the Jews, but for all other national groups that live in emigration, because that allowed “no mixing up with the aliens”. “In the strange 16 Chaim Zhitlovsky, “Tzvei forlezungen vegn yid un mentsh: ershte forlezung”, Gezamelte shriften, Bd. 2, Niu-York – Vilne: 1912, p. 138.



country one feels estranged”, and for this reason, one even stronger, “instinctively strives to live in such a way that prevents from experiencing much emotional suffering and allows one to feel more like home”.17 So equality, happiness, freedom and collective land ownership, for which Zhitlovsky’s article argues, have one important reservation: the cultural atmosphere must be kept “not mixed up”. Therefore, naturally, the most important social element that has to be kept purely Jewish in order to avoid “mixing up with the aliens” is marriage. In his essays on Jewish national consciousness, “Two Lectures on a Jew and a Man”, Zhitlovsky stated that the very basis of Jewishness lay not in the religious tradition (which in his opinion had become distorted) but in the racial heredity through which the cultural atmosphere, the peculiar spirituality, mentality, temperament and other features of the national type were transmitted from generation to generation: “once you have been born into a Jewish family, no water can wash your Jewishness out.”18 As David H. Weinberg remarks, such definition is in fact “a synthesis of notions of biological determinism and élan vital”.19 In Zhitlovsky’s system, this synthesis was the healthy foundation that enabled the educative formation of the pure ideal, that is, of the Jewish national consciousness. And on the contrary, once you were born into a mixed family, “the eternal wall”, protecting Jewishness from all kinds of otherness, was destroyed, and all the doors were open for the merging with other cultures and nationalities. Such an unwelcome process was possible only in the case of racial mixing through marriage.20 So here, as in Dubnow’s political theory, the excluded and repressed Other is ‘impure’ love, emotional attachment to alien 17 Chaim Zhitlovsky, “Kon dos yidishe folk farshvinden?”, Gezamelte shriften, Bd. 5, Niu-York: Dr. Zhitlovsky farlag gezelshaft, 1917, 118–-119. 18 Chaim Zhitlovsky, ““Tzvey forlezungen vegn yid un mentsh: ershte forlezung”, ibid., 117. 19 David H. Weinberg. Between Tradition and Modernity: Haim Zhitlovsky, Simon Dubnow, Ahad Ha-Am, and the Shaping of Modern Jewish Identity, New York, London: Holmes&Meyer, 1996, 119. 20 Chaim Zhitlovsky, “Kon dos yidishe folk farshvinden?”, ibid., 116–117.



cultural surroundings. Moreover, love and emotional life were not part of pure humanity, which consisted, in Zhitlovsky’s opinion, only of intellect, will, and beauty.21 The only beneficial contact and exchange between nations was possible and to be welcomed only on that highest level of distilled humanistic values, given that it was possible to advance to this level only if the clear national consciousness was formed beforehand. Otherwise, there could be no meaningful contact and exchange, because a priori racial and cultural differences between Jews and non-Jews were too profound. According to Zhitlovsky, if the proposed system of national culture were to be brought into life, other conditions for the rebirth of Jewry in Diaspora were merely of technical significance. That is why he in fact never sought to outline the social and economic life of Jewish agricultural autonomy in more concrete terms, as David H. Weinberg points out.22 The land, the territory itself, was perceived by Zhitlovsky as an object for acquisition, as a necessary natural condition, but not as a part of particular region with its own cultural strata, with other national groups and other than Jewish socio-cultural networks. The land itself was formless and void, as if before the Creation. We can observe this vision in his article “On agricultural work”, where Zhitlovsky declared the promise of “free work in the free fields under the free sky”, and stated, that the land would bind the nation to eternal Nature, but nothing else was mentioned.23 As to the resettlement of Jews from different towns or parts of the Russian empire, Zhitlovsky also had no special hesitations. The nation is like a tree, he wrote in another article, it needs land to grow, but it can be replanted into another place without any damage. The nation consists not of the fields and forests, but 21 Chaim Zhitlovsky, ““Tzvey forlezungen vegn yid un mentsh: ershte forlezung”, ibid., 106-110. 22 David H. Weinberg. Between Tradition and Modernity…, ibid., 127. 23 Chaim Zhitlovsky, “Der baginen fun der yidisher videruflebung” (the original title from 1907 – “Mikoekh erd-arbet”), Gezamelte shriften, Bd. 5, NiuYork: Dr. Zhitlovsky farlag gezelshaft, 1917, 140–141.



of the people and culture, and these have “no smallest grain of sand or soil, no atom of land in themselves”.24 We shall have to remember this metaphor of culture “without any atom of land”, as we approach in our analysis the literary texts about the dramatic relationship between Jewish countrymen and the surrounding landscape. For now it can be summarized that both major authors of Jewish Diasporist ideology, Dubnow and Zhitlovsky, projected the future of a multicultural society as a very loose federation of self-contained national units, and discussed the nature of modern Jewish culture in utterly essentialistic terms. When they come to the problem of intercultural relations and exchanges, their discourse starts repeating the most abstract concepts of the Western Enlightenment, the notions of just equality or pure universal humanity. Indeed, they see the perfect relationship between different cultural communities as a link between two similarly purified forms of the European citizenship and humanistic culture, as a bridge between two Samenesses, not between two Others, if we can evoke the terms used by Emmanuel Levinas here. In fact, what Levinas says about the culture of knowledge, as opposed to the culture of poetry, seems also true for the dreams of Jewish Diasporist ideology: “Culture as a thought of adequation, in which human freedom is guaranteed, its identity is confirmed, in which the subject in his identity persists without the other being able to challenge or unsettle him.” 25 But let us now turn to the “culture of poetry”. Aron Vayter’s catastrophist vision of cultural encounters

When Yiddish playwright, theatre critic and ex-Bundist leader Aron Vayter (Ayzik-Meir Devenishski, 1878–1919) returned to Vilnius from Russia in December 1918, he became wholeheartedly involved in organizing the 24 Chaim Zhitlovsky, “Dos yidishe folk un di yidishe shprakh”, Gezamelte shriften, Bd. 5, Niu-York: Dr. Zhitlovsky farlag gezelshaft, 1917, 81. 25 Emmanuel Levinas, Entre Nous: On Thinking-of-the-Other, London: The Athlone Press, 1998, 181.



new Yiddish daily, the literary publishing house, and – most significantly for him – contributing to the Yiddish theatre (the Vilne troupe). The city was then under the rule of the Red Army, but after only four months it was seized by the Polish Legions. Vayter was killed by the Polish soldiers during a pogrom. So it happened that the last literary work by this extraordinary person (apropos, highly admired by Dubnow), was a one-act satirical play A Misfortune (An umglik), which was written in Vilnius turmoil, while Vayter was working on the committee of the Yiddish theatre.26 The topic Vayter chose for this play, which was probably meant to be a kind of comedy for the tormented Vilnius audience, was at the same time exactly the worst dream of the Jewish autonomist ideology: the baptism and escape to the city of young Jewish women. If we think twice, it is not surprising at all that Vayter chose to present comically the theme of conversion for the audience of the city, where all patterns of social life had collapsed and instability ruled. It may be seen as a kind of push towards the change of psychological perspective, towards rethinking what was then the contemporary reality: the mingling with Others. However, the play is primarily a satire. We see a caricature of an orthodox rabbi, who declares a war against all modern “debauchery” in his calm shtetl after he discovers that the daughter of one Jewish family, whom he had often scorned for their frequent visits to a city, had escaped from her parents and been baptized. In his fury, the rabbi attacks all the “debauchees” – the mother, who “spoiled” the runaway girl, the card players, the slaughterer, who arranges dancing in his house, and the teacher “with a cockade”, perhaps a homosexual. As the culmination of this comic fight, the rabbi is informed, that his own daughter has escaped to have herself baptized. We cannot classify this text simply as a socialistic onslaught on the Jewish religion, because what it emphasizes is not a class struggle or a religious 26 See Zalmen Reizen, “Aizik-Meir Devenishski”, Vayter-buch: Tzum ondenk fun A. Vayter, Vilne: Vayter-fond, 1920, 60–63.



“despotism”, but the inability of female characters to endure the cultural isolation and emotional restraints of the enclosed Jewish community. The rabbi proclaims the need for building new walls between Jews and nonJews, which was also a recurrent image in Diasporist ideology: “One has to be a guard in his house, to go around building fences, new fence after new fence. Even if an unnecessary fence, it will do no harm, God forbid.”27 But in his daughter’s speech, the very image of a boundary, of limitation, becomes a trigger for her almost unconscious, unaccountable rebellion: “Why has she [the first girl] escaped? It felt narrow for her. Nothing else. Everything’s all right. Everything’s proper, as it is with the Jews. Just narrow.”28 In this short satirical play Vayter is hinting at the strange effect of superfluous ‘feminine’ emotions, of the strong attraction to the excluded Otherness, even if one lives in a stable and apparently secure Jewish world: there are no real dangers in that shtetl, except of card playing and late dances; it seems almost idyllic. Under the disguise of comedy, Vayter tries to grasp something else: what pushes a Jewish woman towards the alien faith, how does this unconscious yearning for “something different” arise? It is not a pressure for assimilation; it is not the degeneration of Judaism itself, as Diasporist politicians would suggest. For Vayter, there is something else, and it resides in woman. Women are obviously the most threatening and tragic element in the utopia of pure reason and healthy work that is built by Vayter’s male characters in the play In Fire (In fayer, Vilne, 1908) and which is clearly a dramatization of Zhitlovsky’s political dreams. Two idealistic men, Sima and the engineer Levin revive some Godforsaken Christian village and start building a factory there; the time is most probably already a utopian future of socialistic freedom. However, two young Jewish women who are in love with the two builders both 27 A. Vayter, “An umglik”, Fun dor tzu dor, Buenos-Aires: Literatur-gezelshaft bam Yivo in Argentine, 1974, 69. 28 Ibid., 73.



prove to be unfaithful and driven by irrational erotic desires to the Others, the aliens. By that, they paradoxically declare that they are sacrificing their own identity: Haneke destroys her true friendship with Levin in order to wait for some strange and unknown ex-lover from the city, whom she does not love; Rokhele, upset by Sima, enjoys the company of a degenerate Jew, a merchant, who arrives to set the new factory buildings on fire; in the final scene Rokhele throws herself into the fire as if making a ritual sacrifice. The feminine psychology mysteriously escapes all the systematizing efforts made by the ideal progressive Jewish men; instead, it all the time recreates emotional ties to the undesirable Others (the lover from the city; the degenerate merchant; the dancing Christian peasants), who should already have been forgotten in a safe utopia of Jewish autonomy, in a modern Diasporist dream. Consider this significant dialogue: Levin. I am always thinking that if there was anybody in the past yearning for building, it was the young Jewish women. Generation after generation they longed for the builder, for the man. And perhaps for this reason they used to leave us and to escape to the aliens so often… Haneke. Now they are yearning no less… Young Jewish women… How did you tell me? Young Jewish women dressed in white used to go out at night to the gardens of Jerusalem, and they danced… Perhaps we still remember the sky of night that hung over Jerusalem, perhaps we remember unconsciously… That’s why the fires of the Midsummer Night attract us, something draws us to the bonfires, where the aliens, as you call them, dance.29 Indeed, the action of drama unfolds during the Midsummer Night, or St. John’s Feast in Belarus or Lithuania, when the peasants light huge bonfires, sing, dance or jump over fire all night. In many ways, this feast is a relic of an ancient ritual, and has various features of pagan mysteries and eroticism. But here, two different 29 A. Vayter, “In fayer”, ibid., 36.



traditions dangerously collide. It happens that the Jewish Sabbath begins on the same evening, and Sima’s religious father and uncle also live in the village, having been persuaded by the young builders to move here and to finance the young men’s utopian project of factory. Up until now, everything had gone accordingly to the vision of Dubnow and Zhitlovsky: the Jewish people return to the land, they start building new progressive forms of life, and the link between old and new generation, between secular intellectual sons and their religious families, is restored. However, here comes the feast of the alien, half-pagan tradition, and the religious Jews have to celebrate the Sabbath in the middle of burning bonfires and feverish dancing. A peasant song with open erotic connotations breaks into the Jewish house and disturbs the singing of zmires, religious Sabbath songs. Two melodies, those of the zmires and of the peasant song, blend together during the entire first act, as is noted by the dramatist. The wild burning of fire right in the yard, seen through every window, also enormously contradicts the celebration of Sabbath, when no fire can be lit. The old father, Shloime, cannot bear such boundless chaos in which he can see no new structure, no order as proclaimed by his son Sima. His instinct and the symbolically repeated line of zmires (hamavdil beyn kodesh lekhol… –- “the one who divides between holy and profane”) urge him to seek escape from the unknown danger of this chaos: Shloime. I want to get rid…of this yard, of these factories, with the engineers, with all the devils, with the Gentile songs, with the dances, with Saint John… I want to get free, and that’s all. It’s like a noose on my throat. I can’t any more. Such business is not for a Jew. I have thrown all my property as if into the abyss. Sima and the engineer are concerned only with building, building without end […] and they build, always build and I can’t even realize, what they build, when and why. […] Why do I need this, for the world to turn over? Engineers and workers, and again workers and workers, and



the business with peasants – what, to argue with them? Or to make friendships – that’s even worse…30 So Shloime decides to rescue himself and his finance in a fast and violent way: to set the new buildings and factory on fire and to claim the money from the insurance, pretending that the blaze was caused by peasant bonfires. He seems not to realize that by igniting such fire on Sabbath, he himself destroys the very tradition he is eager to protect. So the dangerous fire of the aliens, having approached too close, provokes another fire from within the circle of Jewish tradition. The unintended collision of two different cultures ignites a violent outburst of irrationality and leaves no escape from the catastrophic course of events. Both young builders have already lost their faith and have sunk into apathy when deserted by their beloved women, who also act according to strange irrational impulses, intensified by the alien ritual. In the end, nobody even tries to protect the new buildings as they sink into the flames. Spiritually broken, Rokhele jumps into the fire as if trying to kill the chaotic nature inside her and to purify the tainted environment by such ritual self-sacrifice. The last phrase spoken by Sima suggests that this catastrophe nevertheless had a positive, although incomprehensible meaning: fayer reynikt – fire purifies. What does this heavily symbolically loaded, intellectual drama of the fin-de-siècle tell about the forces that might be faced by the Jewish culture when it enters the period of modern life in multicultural Diaspora? Vayter shows all buildings of rational and neutral cooperation with the Others being catastrophically collapsed. Different outward forces also destroy what was meant to be the systematic and centralized building of secular Jewish culture in goles. Moreover, Vayter shows that it is impossible to keep the clear and untouchable division between “us and the Others”. And it is also impossible to escape the Others, to suppress rationally the unconscious, ever-present “feminine” attraction to the expelled, to the isolated, however impure it may be. The 30 Ibid., 27–28.



utopia of pure cultural autonomy cannot contain the uncontrollable fire, which the encounter with the Others sets on. This inter-cultural flame is a catastrophe for the rational understanding and its production, but by the end of drama the young builders start understanding, that it is a necessary purifying experience. What we find here is a basic pattern of literary catastrophism for which interwar Vilnius is most widely known, having produced such catastrophist poets as Czesław Miłosz, Jerzy Zagórski, Moyshe Kulbak, Juozas Kėkštas and others, including the members of Yung Vilne group. Vayter’s dramas provide us with perfect evidence that the catastrophist imagery in Vilnius originates earlier, after the 1905 revolution, in the cultural atmosphere of the fin-de-siècle, and is particularly connected to the experience of the Irrational, occurring in circumstances of modern intercultural mingling. A cultural encounter with the Others denounces the systems of rational will and legality and introduces another mysterious logic, which evokes violence, eroticism, sacrifice, catastrophe and cathartic purification. Contesting mythologies in Naydus’s poems

Leib Naydus (1890–1918), the exceptionally gifted Lithuanian Jewish poet, who died at the age of 28, having left five impressive volumes of his own poetical work and translations, was never recognized during his lifetime, partly because of his choice to live according to the ideal of Jewish Diasporist politics. He despised modern urban life and chose to spend almost all of his most creative years in a village of Kustin, near Grodno, in a kind of secluded rural oasis where he wrote poetry and diligently translated into Yiddish the most prominent authors of Russian and Western romanticism and fin-de-siècle (Pushkin, Lermontov, Heine, Poe, Baudelaire, Verlaine, Schnitzler). During the years of the First World War, Naydus used to travel round the provincial Lithuanian Jewish shtetlekh organizing the readings of modern poetry, “aesthetic evenings”. Thus he indeed realized Zhitlovsky’s call for the Jewish intellectuals to settle in



a rural environment and to bring the highest European cultural ideals there. Ironically, by becoming involved in such zealous undertakings in the provinces, Naydus became isolated from the main Yiddish literary circles in Warsaw and Vilnius, especially during the war, and although he published a number of texts in the Vilnius literary press, they did not attract the attention of the literary critics. His three collections of poetry, published in Vilnius and in Grodno between 1915 and 1918, as well as his numerous works in manuscript, were discovered by a wider literary audience and published in five volumes only after the war, already after the young poet’s death. As to Naydus’s political orientation, there are definite, although very laconic, references to his links with Jewish socialist territorialist groups in Bialystok and Grodno.31 Naydus’s poetry is distinguished by its enormous formal sophistication and linguistic experiments, and he is usually named the first virtuoso of Yiddish versification in Eastern Europe, perhaps even in the entire Yiddish literary tradition.32 However, he has caused considerable uneasiness for literary critics because of his medley of cultural imagery, quite open eroticism, and, in some cases, almost sacrilegious attitude towards Jewish religious symbols. According to Shmuel Niger, the cultural exoticism – for example, the strange confusion of Jewish, Christian, Greek, Islamic and ancient pagan religious images – in Naydus’s verse results only from his stylish decadent sensitivity and from his radical ideology of aestheticism, and does not bear any specific relation to the Jewish culture of his time, because such sensitivity was simply borrowed from the envi-

31 See Avrom Zak, “Der virtuoz fun yidishn ferz: shtrikhn un zikhroynes”, in Leib Naydus, Oysgeklibene shriftn, Buenos Aires: Yosif Lifshitz fond, 1958, 25–46; Zalmen Reizen’s Leksikon fun der yidisher literatur, prese un filologie, Bd. 2, Vilne: B.Kletzkin, 1930, 552–561. 32 See, for example, Shmuel Rozhansky, “Leib Naydus, der zinger far der yugnt: etik un estetik in der yidisher poezie”, in Leib Naydus, Oysgeklibene shriftn, 12–14; Zalmen Reizen, Leksikon…, 557.



ronment of the Russian artistic elite.33 In other words, Naydus was a Jewish dandy from Grodno, something of a grotesque figure; so there is no connection to the specific questions of Jewish life and culture in his capricious verse. All we can find is simply the expression of pure aesthetic delights in Yiddish linguistic form. However, the concrete images of local landscape, the symbolism of the geographical space of Lithuania, and the declarations of the intricate link to this particular territory are semantically central and essential in Naydus’s poetic texts; this can be noticed already in the titles of his large poetic cycles (The Lithuanian Arabesques – Di litvishe arabeskn, Lithuanian landscapes – Lite-peizazhn; the title of the literary almanac published by him in Grodno – Nieman34 – is also notable). All numerous cases of Lithuanian landscape imagery in Naydus’s work have been discussed already in 1931, in the special Lithuanian study by Kaunas (Kovno) university professor Nachman Shapiro; his analysis let him state that Naydus’s poetry represented very original, “solid” forms of coalescence between Jewish spirit and local Lithuanian environment.35 If we consider Dubnow’s or Zhitlovsky’s argument that Jews do not have to attach themselves culturally to any particular region or environment, it would be easy to notice that Naydus deliberately chooses to break this separation line from the local national strata. In his poetry, he idealizes precisely the same features of geographic space, which were most common properties in the local national literatures and in the nationalistic discourses of Lithuanians, Belarusians and Lithuanian Poles. All this suggests that Naydus’s adoration of cultural aestheticism and his retreat into the idyllic territories of symbolist harmony are connected with the moves of political consciousness and with particular ef33 Shmuel Niger, “Der poet vos iz geshtorbn far der tzayt”, in Leib Naydus, Oysgeklibene shriftn, 200–202. 34 The name of the largest river in Lithuania, one of the main symbols in Lithuanian, Belarusian, and Lithuanian Polish national mythology. 35 Nachmanas Šapira, Lietuva L. Neiduso kūryboje, Kaunas: Spindulys, 1931; quoted from page 11.



forts to mold a new socio-cultural self-identification in the territory of Diaspora. If we take into account that the experimental literary blending of divers cultural symbols (Jewish, Greek, Christian, Islamic, pagan) is deliberately set into the thickly described Lithuanian landscape, it is possible to suggest that Naydus’s refined literary games revolve around the core problem of identity of a modern Diaspora Jew in the local multicultural atmosphere; at stake are the modern sensibilities arising from the integration with other, previously alienated, cultural traditions. Yet Naydus creates the literary representation of such socio-cultural sensibilities using very symbolic, ancient or archetypal images and indirect allusions, so that they often seem as a mere game of a decadent and impudent aesthete. For a concrete example in this analysis, let’s consider, why does Naydus begin the large poetic cycle The Intimate Melodies (Intime nigunim, 1917–1918) from the detailed and sensitive representation of local landscape, but suddenly starts speaking in the voice of Biblical wanderer in the wilderness? Why, after several lines, does he introduce the impudent erotic story, full with ancient pagan motives, but then takes on the mask of a detached lonely aesthete, immersed in the Buddhist nirvana, and afterwards, as if nothing, returns to the tone of Jewish religious piety? What’s all this cultural mix, this polyphony about? As the title and the epigraphs by Charles van Gerbeghez and Friedrich Nietzsche suggest, this poetic text reveals a kind of intimacy, the inner secret life of a subject. That’s why it is almost striking, that in the first fragment of this confession an intimate love for Lithuanian landscape, and what is even more striking – for a particular region, Samogitia (Žemaitija), is declared. Obviously, such declaration of a very intense emotional link to the particular territory of goles is at odds with the political constructs of Dubnow and Zhitlovsky. But not just because of that.



Kh’hob lib di zamd-felder fun Lite un Zamut, di alte, frume, mokhike shteiner bam veg, di lonkes mit zeyer basheydenem grinem samet, verbes, vi gzeyres, ba der sadzevkes breg. Bam sheydveg hiltzerne tzlomim, vos zeyen heylike khaloymes, kleyne shkotzim-pastekher, fremd un vayt fun krakh, eyntzlne beriozkes vi farblondzhete yesoymes, alte, kluge vegn, vos veysn a sakh. <…> Es brenen blendik di goldene zamdn, vi di gantze velt volt zikh in a gold-yam geshift. Azoy vi an alter, yuster un breyt-berdiker lamdn shteyt bam veg a demb in makhshoves fartift. 36

It is a very unusual stylization of landscape to be revered by a Jewish poet, and not only because the wooden Christian crosses are situated as the central vertical symbols of it. The entire scene acquires an atmosphere of holiness and religious unity, and the traces of Jewish tradition or historical memory in the landscape (“an oak like a religious scholar”, “willows like edicts”) are mingled with the signs of Christian religiosity to create a solid impression of the harmonious mythology of the native land. The Christian crosses are not marked as alien or threatening signs, on the contrary, the meaning of mediation with the Sacred is attributed to them as well (they “see the holy dreams”). The connection to the mythical sphere is felt through the inherent natural elements of land, which also bear memory of remote local past, obviously, not only purely Jewish (while according to Dubnow’s opinion, the land of Diaspora can evoke only Jewish national memories for a “spiritual Jew”). However, this ecstatically painted myth of the local land has another strange semantic feature, which directs us to another field of intertextual associations. The symbolism of sand and fields of sand here evokes the image of Jewish wandering in the Biblical wilderness. And indeed, in reality there are no wide “fields of sand” or “seas of golden sand” in Lithuania and Samog36 Leib Naydus, Oysgeklibene shriftn, 128.



itia; it is a green wooded landscape, not any kind of sandy plain. Of course, most of the shapes of the territory seem absolutely real and recognizable, and stereotypically used in the local national literatures (the oaks, the green meadows, the birches and so on). But Naydus also invokes the Jewish myth of wandering in the desert, in goles, and fictional sands cover the fields of Lithuania. Two different landscapes literally flow one into another: the image of mysterious local harmony, where all cultural traditions mingle into some holy unity, mingles with the Biblical image of the desert, of alien and lifeless void; a kind of transformed, “localized” Jewish identity, which emerges from the deep integration with the environment, coexists together with the traditional, discriminate Jewish identity. How does Naydus’s text mediate between these extremes? Let’s consider further semantic step in the cycle. There are several lines, dedicated to the meditation of an idyllic harmony with the local land, which “reveals all her treasures here” (s’efnt di erd do ale oytzres ire), and it seems, that “localized” identity has overcome the voice of a Jewish wanderer. And suddenly the tone dramatically changes: Naydus’s subject, driven by secret somnambular impulses, wanders into the camp of Gypsies and experiences a night of sensual pleasures with a Gypsy fortune-teller, Dzheyma. Of course, this fragment can be qualified as a mere expression of fashionable decadentism; nevertheless, it is written with the most conscious violation of the Jewish traditional separation from the Gentile Others. Not only is the superstitious and banned fortune telling from cards being enjoyed as a ritual of inner rebirth, a recovery of the lost parts of memory and identity (Ale hofenungen, dervartungen, vos kh’hob lang geven mekaber,/ hobn plutzling fun zeyere geheyme kvorim dervacht). The alien rituals of the cultural Other, here again, as in Vayter’s play, arouse the Unconscious, the erotic self-oblivion. But why does all this have to happen in the middle of mythical Lithuanian landscape? Naydus provides a code.



Kh’hob lib, Dzheyma, dayn tayve-blik, dem farkhalesht-midn, di khvalies fun dayne lokn – shvartz vi koyl, dayne farbike trantes – tayere shtofn fun Tzidon, dayn fintzter oyg – a midbershe heyl. <…> Bist tzart vi a pave-feder un shlecht vi a furie… Modne finklen dayne oyringlekh, di alte prutes arum brust, vi men volt zey ersht aroysgrobn fun unter khurves in Suria, vu gantze doyres in shtoyb hobn zey shlofn gemuzt… Lig ruik afn tepikh, mayn vilde, tzarte, efn dayn granatn moyl, di oygn farmakh… Hoykh iber undz shteyt ergetz Astarte, un ir shtrenger blik – vi a sores af der vakh…37

The image of Gypsy woman initially has a symbolic role of the local “impure” Other, the separation line from whom is being violated by the unconscious attraction. But then, during this erotic coalescence with the embodiment of strange cultural spirit in Lithuania, the ancient archetypes of Jewish Biblical history emerge and change the perspective again. The Gypsy woman is transformed into a figure of a pagan priestess from the ancient Phoenician port of Sidon. She is now a ritual hetaera, a servant of the local goddess Astarte. The ancient port of Sidon and the sidonians are often mentioned in the Bible, starting from the Book of Genesis; the huge concern is caused by their pagan orgiastic cult of Astarte, the goddess of fertility and erotic love, who was also believed to be a consort of Baal. The sinful regenerating attraction of the Jewish people to the cult of sidonian Astarte is condemned in various books of the Bible (Judg 2:13, 10:6; I Kings 11:5; II Kings 23:13 etc.), and the religious fight against the seduction to this cult, along with the cult of Baal, was ceaseless, although even King Solomon is said to have sinned by worshiping Astarte. It is obvious, that Naydus associates his adoration of the local mythical land and his erotic attraction to the cultural Other with this ancient Jewish seduction to the local cults of Orient. Integra37 Ibid., 131.



tion with the local cultural strata in Lithuania revives the archetype of Jewish engagement with the Biblical Others, with the alien pagan religious cults, for which reason the Kingdom of Judah was destroyed, according to prophet Jeremiah (Jer 19:5). So again we see the doubling of myths in this poetry: whenever the first myth of convergence with cultural milieu is fully evoked, it is immediately overshadowed by the Jewish biblical archetype. And although Naydus declares, indeed in the spirit of fin-de-siècle, the enjoyment of love with Astarte, with the dark unholy Other, he only rebels against, but cannot dismiss and forget the ancient religious boundaries of the Jewish identity. Both myths are never accomplished and contained; they always contest and undermine one another. This is a very particular process: the multicultural experience imbues the identity with double or triple mythologies, which are ceaselessly contesting inside. Reading further, we find in Naydus’s cycle two separate voices of the subject, two different attempts for unified identification. The first voice is that of a detached modern artist, an adept of aestheticism, a solitary aristocrat, who refines all his experience into some pure and self-sufficient harmony. This is a way of escape from all threatening cultural mythologies into some outside space, and at this turn the Buddhist imagery starts springing from the Lithuanian landscape: Es ducht zikh: in der hailiker nirvana, Budas,/ hot zikh fargesn di groyse, shvaygendike velt… But it is much more intriguing to trace the appearances of another, more complicated voice of reunion with the Jewish religious tradition, with the “circle of the old spirits”. However, curiously, this voice asks for the spiritual guidance not the traditional religious authorities and Talmudic wisdom, but the figure of an old Yiddish-speaking woman, the grandmother with her Yiddish prayers and with wisdom of Tzene Urene. To meet with the Biblical and Talmudic ancestors, Naydus’s subject requires a mediating figure; it indeed requires a mythical mediator that would help him to reconcile the contesting parts of his identity: the local-



ly integrate and the traditionally separate Jewishness. The speaking subject finds this required resource not in the high forms of Jewish tradition, but in the lower, feminine and Yiddish forms of religiosity, where he sees a symbolic harmony between the land, the milieu and the traditional faith: Itzt, nokh der bobes toit, kum ikh ofter in ir kamer, fun vayte doyres kumt mir antkegn a grus; shtil bleter ikh di sforim mitn alter amsterdamer opgevelktn, libn, oysterlishn dfus. <…> Altz benkt nokh der boben itzt – vi klor ikh derken es! – di erd – nokh ire pantofl; nokh ir shotn – di vant, un di alte, farlozene Tzene Urene – nokh ir liber, beynerdikn, skeynesher hant…38

Probably this longing for the imagined integrity between the inherited culture and its environment, for the bond between “the land”, “the wall” and “the book” defines Naydus’s own identity and his activities as well. However, such longing for the new Diaspora Jewishness involves much greater psychological complexity and much more dramatic dialogue with the cultural Otherness, than reflected by Dubnow and Zhitlovsky in their political prophecies. The multicultural space is the space where the opposing myths meet, and living in such milieu for Naydus means not the secure autonomy, but the difficult refiguring of his identity. “The guilty place” in Hirshbein’s drama

The land and the dream about organic life of the Jews in an agricultural idyll is the ever-recurrent theme in the dramas and prose writings by Peretz Hirshbein (18801948). One of the most famous and popular modern Yiddish playwrights made his literary debut in Vilnius in 1902. He was periodically living in Vilnius and had published most of his books there until 1914, when he left for Argentina and, finally, for the United States. In his 38 Ibid., 132.



early period of work, Hirshbein mostly embraced the themes and the literary patterns of naturalism, urban expressionism, symbolic mystery and catastrophism, but after 1912 he turned to the beautifully stylized, idyllic and folkloristic plays, which still bear much of the symbolic and indirect meaning, though they were qualified by the theater criticism as realistic, “lucid” and “healthy” folk pastorals.39 What Hirshbein really presents here is the scenery of the agricultural Jewish utopia, the imagined idyllic life in a state of political fantasy, which has obvious similarities with Zhitlovsky’s ideals. Jewish countrymen, yeshuvnikes (peasants, blacksmiths, horse-breeders), secluded from all negative confusion of modernity in far-away villages, lead an organic, natural way of life, and experience just the natural, inborn human conflicts – those of love and of human ageing. Jewish religiousness is peacefully integrated into the natural rhythm of rural labor. Hirshbein successfully grasped a demand of the audience for such Jewish dream about the ideal, harmonious cultural Diaspora, and his rural pastorals (especially The Empty Inn, Blacksmith’s Daughters, A Secluded Nook, The Green Fields – Di puste krechme, Dem shmids tekhter, A farvorfn vinkl, Di grine felder) became enormously popular in the Yiddish theaters in Europe and America. It is also noticeable, how he gradually tried to avoid all disturbing, culturally heterogeneous, although verisimilar local elements in these plays, and to clear the fictional background of the others, the non-Jews: the Christian peasants are still closely present in Di puste krechme (1912), but in Di grine felder, written four years later, the whole space of rural fantasy is inhabited only by the Jewish countrymen, and no borderline with the others is left in view. Perhaps such construction of a purely idyllic dream was also felt as a demand of the audience, voiced by the criticism as well: for example, the Warsaw theatre critic Michal 39 See, for example: Michal Weichert, Teater un drame, Varshe: Farlag “Yidish”, 1922, 93–98; Dovid Pinski, “Peretz Hirshbein der dramaturg” in Peretz Hirshbein, Teater, veltrayzes, zikhroynes, Buenos Aires: Yosif Lifshitz fond, 1967, 320; Zalmen Reizen’s Leksikon, Bd. 1, 841; Nahma Sandrow, Vagabond Stars: A World History of Yiddish Theater, New York: Limelight Editions, 1986, 194.



Weichert in 1919 reproached the idyll Dem shmids tekhter, staged by the famous Vilne troupe, for the disturbing alien cultural motifs, for the scene of too-close communication with goyim.40 However, from the overall view of Hirshbein’s work, including his earlier, symbolistic and expressionistic period, we may assume that his “authorial” comprehension of this idyllic Diaspora dream was far more dramatic. The images of surrounding landscape were often transformed into the dreadful catastrophic visions in his earlier plays, such as The Flowers from Cemetery (Di kvorim blumen, 1906) or The Land (Di erd, 1907); in the dialogues of the later, for instance, flow series of images of the menacing forces, residing in the landscape itself (such as the image of land, which burns out the roots of the trees). Similarly, in the later short story of the American period, The Roots (Vortzlen), the feeling of the roots, that connect a Jew to a particular land and environment of his shtetl, is represented as the irrational force, the grim impulse, always threatening the mind of a Jewish emigrant in Latin America.41 The mythology and the atmosphere of the place is itself very often an important vehicle for dramatic conflicts in Hirshbein’s plays (take, for instance, Di eynzame veltn, Af yener zayt taykh, Der inteligent, even the early naturalistic Di neveile, and others). So it is reasonable to expect that the political imagination of Diasporists (for example, Dubnow’s and Zhitlovsky’s claim that Jewish communities can be easily resettled from one territory to another, given that the connection of the Jews to a particular milieu is not cultural, but only a circumstantial one) is questioned or reshaped especially in those plays by Hirshbein, in which he aimed to create a literary, metaphoric representation of such Jewish political strivings and utopias.

40 Weichert rejects the scene, where Jewish girls try to seduce the men using some magic drops, obtained from the Christian peasant women. Again, the eroticism of the relations with the Other is involved, as in previously discussed texts. Michal Weichert, Teater un drame, 97. 41 Peretz Hirshbein, Teater, veltrayzes, zikhroynes, 302–312.



A good glimpse of this literary strategy can be gained from Hirshbein’s play Di puste krechme, the first in the popular series describing the life of Jewish countrymen in secluded rural communities. The play was first published in Vilnius in 1913, and later also became one of the most celebrated performances of the Vilnius troupe after its establishment in 1916. The plot at first indeed seems to be of popular folkloristic simplicity. The Jewish horse-breeder Bendet tries to break a romance of his daughter Meite with a young rascal Itzik, who wears Gypsy-like clothes or imitates a rich Gentile merchant, disturbing the quiet life of a small community with his alien extravagance. Bendet also wants to keep Meite in close vicinity of her parents’ house after her marriage, because Jews in these rural areas are much dispersed, so that there is already no minyen for prayers in that place. So he makes a quick marriage contract with his neighbor, who suggests a practical deal: to remove an old building of the idle inn to another place and to rebuild it as a house for the young-married couple. However, trying to secure the Jewish way of life with such a determination, Bendet unexpectedly involves himself in a conflict with unknown local spirits, which, after the people’s stories, inhabit the idle inn. When the hired peasants start dismantling the inn, weird occurrences start to appear at Bendet’s home, the wedding of his daughter is visited by the strange guests, whom nobody knows, and in the end the bride, Meite, escapes from the celebration with the alien-like and demonic Jew, Itzik. Simple symbols in this popular plot of a folk-story curiously lead to the implied question: how these imagined peasant Jews relate to the surrounding physical landscape, which also bears some unseen and unknown, alien strata? Can they be the real autochthons, who have a true sensitive feeling of the milieu? And what if their attachment to the land will be just instrumental, as ideologically suggested by Zhitlovsky? Will Jews be able to shape their environment in the ideal goles according to their own needs, or will they be shaped by it? So the question of cultural autonomy or cultural in-



terdependence in the Diaspora is again being raised here, although in a highly symbolic, indirect and stylized manner. In a sense, Hirshbein’s character, Bendet, symbolically makes the same attempt as Dubnow and Zhitlovsky in their ideological discourse: they all strive to dismantle and rebuild the old forms of life in Diaspora, and to resettle them on the new, culturally secure soil. The metaphors of the building of new community forms and of resettling from the culturally tainted places were so common in Jewish Diasporist discourses of the time that Hirshbein’s playing with them in the allegoric story of the idle inn should have been apparent to the audience as well. The idle inn is exactly the symbol of such old, vain forms of life and of the tainted places, where Jews acted as servants and middlemen of the Gentiles. All such legacy has to be rebuilt or abandoned. However, in his revolt against the old and the alien, Bendet is confronted with an unaccounted force – the locality does not let itself to be changed, the whole vicinity suddenly becomes haunted, and the tiny Jewish community sinks into a state of irrational fear, realizing that for all this “the place is guilty”, der ort iz shuldik. At the culmination scene in the third act Jews become trapped by these mysterious local forces as if into a circle around the idle inn, they cannot disentangle from it: “They all start leaving, but it seems as if they have fallen in a kind of net and cannot disentangle from it; they make steps but stay in the same place. Except for Itzik, who stands at the fire calm and confident. Bendet. Where is the way out of here? Leibush. Here, come to the right: that’s the path. <…> Hane. Go straight, straight! Woe is me, woe is me! Will somebody come here? Jews, come here, help us!“42 Paradoxically, the only character who acts in unity with the mysterious local forces is Itzik, the strange ever-disguising Gypsy-like Jew, whom Bendet accuses of all sorrows and tries to expel or even kill. It is this culturally impure trickster, mediator, whom the author 42 Peretz Hirshbein, Gezamelte dramen, Bd. 2, Niu-York: Literarish-dramatish farayn in Amerika, 1916, 99.



chooses to become a final savior: he rescues the bride from the fire, which was set on by Bendet insanely trying to fight the local spirits already in his own house. So Hirshbein smuggles through his Jewish pastoral a very deliberate ideological message: the striving for the security of Jewish identity in Diaspora needs coherence with the environment, because no place is neutral; the locality with its unknown mytho-cultural strata can start being destructive, if treated improperly; the mixed character with bizarre double or even triple cultural identity (Jew-Gypsy-rich Gentile) starts being necessary as a mediator in such unpredictable milieu. How far such ideological game, inscribed in a plot of a popular play, was reaching the audience, and how was it interpreted, is difficult to say: however, as it was already mentioned, the negative reception in the criticism, when it notices the possible implications, can be observed. Significantly, during the wedding in Di puste krechme, the invited Gentile musicians, goyishe klezmorim, are suddenly replaced by the unknown guests, violent local spirits, who start playing the wedding music, but then destroy the Jewish celebration. Was this symbolic effect, this changing of the rural Gentile neighbors into the evil ghosts in the Jewish wedding deliberately designed by the playwright? Interpretive instinct tells that Hirshbein was already warning against some possible catastrophe, which was lurking, apart from all other reasons, also in the unconsidered multicultural encounters. Conclusions

Simon Dubnow and Chaim Zhitlovsky not only defined the Jewish autonomy as strongly organized and culturally independent unit, but they also placed it outside the socio-cultural network of other local nationalities in Eastern Europe. Their concern was to create a political system, which would protect the Jews from cultural assimilation and anti-Semitism in Diaspora. They envisaged the multinational life in Russia as perfectly regulated co-existence, excluding any forms of cultural



coalescence, which still seemed too reminiscent of the threat of assimilation. Hence both Dubnow and Zhitlovsky in their rhetoric statements repudiated the syncretic cultural elements, which threatened to blur the boundaries of the autonomy of Jewish identity in Diaspora. Thereby any indigenous Jewish attachment to the particular land or milieu had to be denied; cultural interactions with the specific place had to be repressed. The tactics of defense also meant increasing the cultural “purity” from inside – hence the condemnation on the mixed marriages and on any undue emotional links to the Others; here Dubnow and Zhitlovsky were mostly unanimous. Consequently, different dreams of idyllic Jewish seclusion in far-away rural areas or in modern cultural ghettos started circulating via the Diasporist discourse in Eastern Europe. If we look at the Lithuanian context, it is easy to notice how the similar programs and strategies of cultural purification and self-protection were built in Lithuanian, Belarusian or Polish political discourse. Even the liberal nationalists, who envisaged national tolerance and legal coexistence in Lithuania, were still not prepared to reflect on the possibility of multicultural dialogue and on the culturally-biased impulses of aggression, and simply used to separate the voices and presence of Others from their cultural programs. The exemptions, such “multicultural” personalities of politics and culture in Vilnius as Michał Römer, Mykolas Biržiška, Uriah Katzenelenbogen, or Zmitrok Biadulia were a very rare case. However, modern Yiddish literature in Lithuania strikingly seems to anticipate the anxiety and uncertainty caused by the multicultural mingling under the new, modern conditions in Diaspora. Not the assimilation, but the inner instability of identity, the crisis of traditional cultural psychology is awakened, when the space of threatening polyphony is entered. Hence the images of imminent catastrophe, of the menacing landscape, or, on the contrary, an attempt to create the healing mythology of natural local harmony, as in Naydus’s verse. Jewish political dreams are tested through



different metaphoric encounters with the local cultural Others, with their inhabited landscape, with their erotic appeal, and with their myths. It seems that early modernistic Yiddish literature in Vilnius offered a disharmonious vision of such multicultural experience, which combined with the overwhelming feeling of the cultural crisis of fin-de-siécle. Nevertheless, the cultural Other, however threatening, is faced, included, addressed, not repressed or marginalized. By such dialogism, these Yiddish texts enter a very unique ensemble of multilingual literary heritage of Vilnius, and can be estimated as cultural predecessors not only of Moyshe Kulbak, Chaim Grade or Abraham Sutzkever, but also of Czesław Miłosz, Jerzy Zagórski, Teodor Bujnicki, Maksim Tank, Juozas Kėkštas, Vytautas Mačernis or Tomas Venclova.



Thoughts on the Communicative Construction of Reality* Thomas Luckman

1) Historical Introduction

In its rationalist optimism Enlightenment philosophy expected that science would develop in an unbroken progress of fact and theory. However, as historians of science pointed out some time ago, the development of the natural sciences over the past centuries was substantially more complex than this expectation would lead us to believe1. The so-called “normal paradigm” was highly resistant to theoretical change and was not transformed step by step as new evidence accumulated. If this was the case in sciences which, ideally, were independent of the “idols of the tribe”, as Bacon called them, relying on an exchange of findings and ideas within a universal community of investigators, one might have expected that the humanities, in the broad sense of the term, should have been even more resistant to cumulative change. For one, the “classical” humanities and the social sciences are more intimately tied to the persistent, conservative traditions of national cultures than the physical sciences. To be sure, the growth of knowledge in these fields, just as in the physical sciences, depends on communication within a transnational republic of scholars; but, as we have seen for more than a century, such communication is easily stunted by national and ideological closure. These disciplines are not scholarly enterprises in a protected environment; within their national cultures they are also an integral part of literary, political and ideological discourse. * An early version of this paper was given at the symposion in honour of Per Linell in May 2004 at the University of Linkoping. 1

This was convincingly shown by Thomas Kuhn.



There is an additional aspect to the profound social and cultural embeddedness of the humanities and social sciences. Certainly, all scientific activity is situated historically and culturally, but the humanities and social, sciences are so situated in an additional sense. Not only is their medium of communication a particular language rather than universal mathematics a particular language is also constitutive of the human reality investigated by these disciplines. They are therefore reflexive in a sense the physical sciences are not, and they are more directly influenced by the world view of the society in which they are located. As they try to be objective and to accumulate knowledge systematically, they can not detach themselves entirely from their historical environment. This tends to reinforce the general tendency in all sciences to resist change with regard to the established presuppositions of their investigations. It is hardly surprising that the humanities and social sciences, which investigate and interpret the history of their national literatures or the organization of their local societies, their laws and their economy, tend to exhibit – in addition to paradigmatic traditionalism – distinctly particularistic traits. It is somewhat less obvious why even disciplines that try to penetrate language and social life as universal aspects of the human condition may suffer from the same weakness. Modern social theory and the modern theory of language provide good examples for this state of affairs. During the early stages of their formation, the major scholarly traditions of French, British, German, American and Russian studies of society and language followed somewhat different paths. Nonetheless, beyond their subject matter they shared two peculiar traits. Contrary to what one would expect, they exibited a lack of interest in the older traditions of the philosophy of language and social philosophy. Less surprisingly, they also stubbornly ignored one another. One notable exception at the beginning of the twentieth century was the Durkheim-Meillet collaboration at



the Année Sociologique, another, more general one, could be found in German and American ethnology. The mutual avoidance of sociology and linguistics is rather difficult to explain. After all, a systematic connection between the theory of language and the theory of society had been proposed by Wilhelm von Humboldt in the early decades of the nineteenth century2. However, for various reasons, Humboldt’s thought exerted only a limited influence during the nineteenth and the first half of the twentieth century. Traces of his thinking can be found in Russian philosophy and semiotics, the mainly German investigations of semantic fields, and in the American Sapir-Whorf simplification, even distortion of Humboldt in the so-called linguistic relativity hypothesis – but the two last mentioned had a static, correlational outlook, quite the contrary of Humboldt’s emphasis on language as communicative process. The situation changed strikingly in relatively short time. As a living witness to the change, I may insert a retrospective personal remark. Looking backward, I can see that the change was profound; with some slight exaggeration one might call what happened a paradigmatic shift. There is a world of difference between what was taken for granted in my student days in linguistics, sociology and social psychology, and the assumptions on which we rely today in the study of social interaction and communicative processes. In the late forties, when I began studying comparative linguistics in Europe, the dominant approach was either philological in the old sense or what appeared as abstract structuralism to me, looking impatiently for la parole in the study of la langue. Arriving in the United States of America in the early fifties, I switched to sociology. As a student of Alfred Schutz I was spared indoctrination in structural functionalism which appeared to me to be just as arid and removed from social life as the dominant trend in linguistics seemed removed from the uses of language. 2

The introduction to his study of the Kawi language On the difference of the human construction of language and its influence on the mental development of the human race was published posthumously in 1836.



Structural functionalism, as the widely accepted theory of society, and structuralism as well as, slightly later, generative grammar as the reigning approaches to language, seemed remote from social reality and human communication. To use Humboldt’s own terminology, they were concerned with the εργον, rather than the ενεργεια of language and social life. Given the nature of the reality they studied, I was also disappointed to see that the two disciplines were not closely connected, in fact, it seemed that they existed in separate universes. Although I retained a strong interest in the uses and functions of language even after becoming a sociologist, I was struck by the fact that sociology, even what then went by the label of a sociology of language, was linguistically naive to the point of ignorance. At the same time, the notions of social interaction and social structure in linguistics, even in the budding sub-discipline of pragmatics, were, to put it mildly, of a very modest home-grown variety. Half a century ago, this state of affairs was taken for granted by many, if not most practitioners in the two disciplines. It is not my purpose to detail the changes in the two fields and the concurrent rapprochement between certain not entirely negligible parts of the disciplines involved. Nonetheless, I should like to point to the main sources of the change, the shift to what has been variously called the communicative paradigm3. I am not quite sure how developments in linguistic pragmatics contributed to the change in the relationship of language theory and social theory. However, I don’t think that speech act theory, much quoted as it was, influenced research in a significant manner. I am less doubtful about Halliday’s functonal linguistics. Certainly Grice, and in linguistics proper Per Linnel and his associates in commu3



My review of the sociology of language for the Handbuch der empirischen Sozialforschung edited by Renè Konig contains a relatively detailed account. The revised version of 1979 took note of many more changes in theory and research than my contribution to the first edition in 1969. Yet, while I reviewed the work of Gumperz and Hymes, Goffman, Garfinkel, Sacks, Schegloff and others, Bakhtin and Volosinov, although not Vygotsky, were still missed by me even then.

nication studies at the University of Linkoping, played an important role, as did some social psychologists with close connection to language theory, as, for example, Ragnar Rommetveit, Hertsch and thers. Another, somewhat older, source of this change, had a direct connection to Humboldt. Interestingly enough, Humboldt’s thought had not been neglected in Russia as much as elsewhere. The main proponent of Humboldt’s thought in the philosophy of language and aesthetic theory was Aleksandr Potebnja4. Through him Humboldt’s influence reached Bakhtin and, less obviously, the formalists and Roman Jakobson. The Western “discovery” of Bakhtin-Vološinov’s emphasison dialogue and genre in their conceptions of language and culture decidedly contributed to a weakening of the prevailing orthodoxies. The proponents of a dialogical approach to language and social life were no longer ignored. In France, first in the work of Levi-Strauss and then in that of Pierre Bourdieu, the seeds sown in the Durkheim-Meillet connection bore belated fruit. Another early source of the change, more than forty years ago, was the program of an ethnography of communication proposed by John Gumperz and Dell Hymes. About the same time, the work of Alfred Schutz influenced two other sources that directly and indirectly helped to establish the so-called communicative paradigm in social theory. One was ethnomethodology and its offspring, conversational analysis, and the other was the “new” sociology of knowledge with one of its offspring, communicative genre theory. 2) Ontological and epistemological assumptions, consequences for methodology

What, then, are the assumptions which we take for granted today so much that they may appear trivial now. It should be remembered, however, that little more than two or even one academic generation ago, 4

Aleksandr Potebnja, Mysl i jazyk, Moscow 1862 (see Renate Lachmann, Gedächtnis und Literatur, Frankfurt am Main, 1990, p. 126–199. English: Memory and Literature, Minneapolis 1997.



they would have met with puzzlement or rejection. The change that occurred concerns the assumptions about the specific reality of the social world. Today as then it remains obvious that modern science as it developed from natural and social philosophy since the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries cannot be ontologically neutral. Unless the claim of the world, as it presents itself to human experience, that it is real, is accepted in general principle, there is no reality to investigate. Certainly, after that claim is accepted. skepticism as to the particulars of that claim are in order. Human experience is fallible. Many details that present themselves as facts may be illusory. However, the basic claim of the world that it is there cannot be ignored. A radical abandonment of the fundamental realism of the empirical sciences intellectual suicide. The proposition that the social sciences investigate a world of human affairs that is not simply given to observation and measurement may appear obvious today. But as late as the second half of the last century, different philosophical and methodological positions – somewhat crudely lumped together under the label of positivism – contested that proposition, misbranding it as idealist and subjectivist. They would not agree to the aciom that the social sciences describe and explain a world whose objectivity is not accomplished, as in the physical sciences, by the intersubjective agreement of a community of investigators about insensible natural facts. In the social sciences objectivity is reached by the intersubjective agreement of a community of investigators about the facts of a social reality as they were preconstructed in intersubjective, collective agreements of historical societies. Human societies are naturally artificial forms of life, to use a term introduced by the biologist and anthropological philosopher Helmuth Plessner5. The traditions of life, the world views, by which

5



Plessner, Helmuth, Die Stufen des Organischen und der Mensch, Einftihrung in die philosophische Anthropologie, Berlin, 1928 and Conditio Humana, Pfullingen, 1964.

human societies are organized, are built up in communicative interaction in an endless chain of generations. This means that the subject matter of the social sciences is historical in a special sense. The universe, the earth, the living species all have a history which is independent of human activities. The human social world is historical in an additional sense. The human species evolved as a small part of life on earth – the latter itself being an infinitesimal part of the cosmos. Yet human social worlds are not direct evolutionary products. They are the result of continuous human interaction, and the tangible and intangible consequences of interaction. Traditions, historical systems of communication and institutional structures are less tangible than buildings and artifacts but equally real. They do not come into being in a metaphysical act of autopoesis; they are built up in human interaction, just as are buildings and artifacts. To repeat what is obvious: social reality presupposes intentional activities. The human world is constructed, maintained, transmitted, transformed and destroyed in social interactions that are meaningful to those who participate in them, meaningful both when the results of interaction were intended, as well as meaningful, although in a somewhat different, often painful sense, when other results than those that actually came about were originally intended. Action is intrinsically meaningful, no matter whether the bridges that were built to endure, endure in fact or collapse, whether the marriages that were entered in order to last, last or fail. The social sciences reconstruct as knowledge about social reality what was already constructed as social reality independently of science. Depending upon the theoretical focus of interest, what is reconstructed is either a small part or a larger whole, a short or a long stretch of a historical social world. Much of that was anticipated by a long line of earlier philosophers, from Vico to Montesquieux, the moral philosophers, and in the modern context by Adam Smith and Marx. Nonetheless, a systematic treatment



of the consequences of the position I described had to wait until the early twentieth century when its epistemological and methodological problems were taken up by Max Weber and after him by Alfred Schutz. However, in the so-called mainstream of the social sciences and in the philosophy of science, Weber’s and Schutz’s efforts to spell out the presuppositions of the enterprise in which the social sciences were engaged, were largely ignored or misunderstood well into the second half of the last century. To be sure, even fifty years ago, there were hardly any positivists left either in natural or social science who naively believed in the God-given purity of facts. Today it is even less likely that anyone would maintain that ‘data’ are simply given. The insight that “data” are “facta”, that they are communicative constructs, is generally accepted, although there is no generally agreed answer either to the epistemological question precisely how, or to the ontological question from what, the data are constructed. Given the peculiar nature of social reality it is hardly surprising that controversies about the way these questions should be answered were particularly acute in the social sciences. Through much of the twentieth century, philosophers and practitioners of social science continued to be mesmerized by the simplistic and anachronistic, nineteenth century notions of physical science. However, in the social sciences, the realistic position that “data” are theoretical constructs of the investigators based upon direct or indirect, e.g., instrumentally mediated observation, depends upon the way “observation” is understood. If it is thought that what is observed is naturalistically defined behaviour, we are back with the endless difficulties, indeed, prevarications of some sort of behaviourism. These can be avoided only if the object of observation is defined as social interaction, both direct and indirect, and its historical results. It is precisely this view and its corollary, that the “data” of the social sciences are communicative constructs of what are already interactional, most often communi-



cative constructs, that had a difficult time in gaining wider acceptance. Even today there may be controversies on methodological details. However, I take it that there is basic epistemological agreement on what kind of answer to the question how and from what “data” are constructed is acceptable. The answer must build upon the simple presupposition that social realities are the result of human praxis over the course of generations. The data of the social sciences – as are those of the “classical” humanities – are elements of such realities. How they are to be treated as scientific data is thereby strongly indicated: because they were constructed in meaningful social actions in a historical social world, they are to be reconstructed as data in a way which preserves rather than destroys their essential meaningfulness and historicity. Not all human praxis consists of communicative interaction in the usual sense of the word. Animals are hunted, fields are tilled, shelters are built, children are nurtured, enemies are fought. Yet, as these simple examples show, even what is not primarily communicative interaction is usually facilitated and often accompanied by it, and sometimes, as in the case of nurturing, may be the beginning of it. The human social world is mainly constructed in communicative interaction, and all of the world view that motivates and guides interaction is constructed in communicative processes. The ontological presupposition of social science is that human reality is historically constructed in social interaction. The epistemological corollary is that human reality is primarily constructed in communicative processes. Reconstructions of social realities in the social sciences are of course by definition communicative. They are a particular kind of data-producing activity. It should be noted that reconstructions are a kind of communicative activity which is not restricted to the social sciences and the humanities. They are highly important already on the primary level of social discourse. Reconstructions of past events create the collective memory



of families, social groups and classes, institutions and entire societies. I should like to emphasize that this was anything but generally accepted a generation or two ago. As I said earlier, the change went fairly deep. I already cited the foremost theoretical reasons for the emergence of what has been called the communicative paradigm in sociology. Another reason to which I now turn briefly can be found in the theoretical acknowledgment of the results of a broad range of studies. These showed the pervasiveness of communicative interaction in human life from its very beginnings. 3) Communicative interaction in human life

In human life communicative interaction begins early. Almost from the beginning the infant’s experiences are anything but passive. The way the child relates to the people in its immediate environment soon start to approximate reciprocal and essentially communicative, if still pre-linguistic interaction. Crying, the response of the mother, and the reaction to the response of the mother by the child, coddling, mutual gaze etc. help the child become aware of the basic structure of reciprocity in human relations. With the recognition that certain gestures seem to elicit certain responses, knowledge of objective meanings begins to accumulate and the threshold to communicative interaction in the narrower sense is passed step by step. The recollection or, more precisely, the sedimentation of experiences shaped by the closeness of touch and smell, and the distance of sight and sound in these interactions helps the child to acquire a sense of having a body, of being an active being, not only of being a body, a mere receptacle of impressions6. 6



I dont intend to dwell on the pertinent early theories by J.H. Cooley, G.H. Mead and Alfred Schutz, and I assume that much of the earlier body of research by Mario von Cranach, Cohn Trewarthen, Mary Rhinegold, Jerome Bruner and many others are known in general outline. The main point is that the child engages first in a conversation of gestures, then in genuine dialogue and that it tentatively becomes a person at the same time as it is made to feel responsible for its actions.

In adulthood, the larger portion of everyday life consists of interlocking social interactions most of which are communicative. They follow various projects, many of them of small significance in themselves, but often part of larger plans involving a career, a lasting relationship, an entire life. Projects and plans are selected and adapted from the repertoire of projects and plans available in a given society at a given time, available for socially defined categories of people. Such repertoires consist of socially distributed “vocabularies and rhetorics of motives”7. The repertoires encapsulate entire traditions of how to conduct life in a proper way. They, as all social realities, have been originally formed, are subsequently maintained and are being transmitted in communicative interaction. If looked at in the perspective of social theory it is clear that they are not simply given but socially constructed, for the child the reality of the world with its traditions, world views and social structures is nonetheless unquestioningly “there” as part of what I may call a socio-historical a, priori – I use this term to refer to the sum total of the natural-artificial circumstances that determine the starting point on a human organisms way to become a human being and acquire a personal identity. In different societies, at different times, new-born members of the human species grow into different traditions, their actions are shaped by different institutions, they acquire different languages and with them different “vocabularies and rhetorics of motives”. Their talk and their silences makes use of different rules of communication, communicative repertoires including the proper use of communicative genres. Just as there are areas of social life that are relatively free from obligatory institutional regulation, so are there relatively spontaneous communicative processes in any community. Institutions directly regulate only some, not all, social interaction, and communicative genres are only part of the communicative repertoire of the mem7

These are C. Wright Mills’ terms, adapted by him from an earlier use by Kenneth Burke).



bers of a society. However, institutions are indicators of what are the socially most relevant problems of life in a particular society and genres point to its most relevant communicative problems. The stabilization of communicative patterns and their fusion into distinct genres serves the same purpose as institutionalization: Entlastung, to use a concept of Arnold Gehlen’s theory of institutions, i.e., release, the unburdening, as it were, from the need to improvise when facing recurring communicative problems. How can different aspects of past events and actions, both of the courte and the longue durée, be best communicated for different purposes. How, when, and to whom? How can collective action be planned? How are successive generations to be introduced into notions of good and evil? These are three particularly important areas of communication, important for establishing and maintaining social order in a society and in the communities of life, of ideas and of emotions which form part of a society. Communicative genres are associated with them in all societies. 4) Methodological issues once more

If, as I have maintained, social reality is constructed in communicative interaction, and if its is pervasive in social life, our most reliable knowledge of that reality must come from a reconstruction of these processes. However, an elementary difficulty with the analysis of communicative interaction, as of all social interaction, is the transformation of communicative processes into data susceptible of analysis8. This difficulty may explain why in the social sciences data of a different kind were long preferred. As against the fleeting processes of interaction and communication, the quasi-objective products of these processes appeared stable. The relative stability of such data made unhurried and verifiable analysis possible. The methodological preference of 8



In the following I use some passages from my 1999 paper on the interpretation of dialogue.”Remarks on the Description and Interpretation of Dialogue” in: International Sociology, 14 (4) (1999), pp. 387–402.

the social sciences for artifacts, actuarial statistics and registers, documents and other “material” objects was based on the assumption that processes were beyond exact description and that the subjective components were ephemeral and were not objectifiable. The methodological bias which arose from the technical difficulty in pinning down the processes of social interaction had the serious consequence of distorting the theoretical view of human reality. The last link in the chain of events that changed so much in the assumptions and practices in the study of society and language during my own life-time is represented by the scientific use of a technological innovation. The possibility of a precise analysis of the processes in which all the various material and immaterial products of social interaction are produced depends on the possibility of “freezing” these processes for later, repeated inspection9. Such ,,freezing” of ongoing interaction became possible less than a hundred years ago. However, even then the social science at first failed to profit from the the technological developments which permitted first auditory and then also visual recording of ephemeral interaction and communication. Their systematic use began much later. However, it has become firmly established as an important investigatory procedure in recent decades. The analysis of the products of social interaction, from food, clothing and tools, factories, churches, jails and cemeteries to legal codes, birth registries, music scores and literature certainly continues to be essential for an understanding of social reality. After all, they are what human communication and interaction is intended to produce in the first place. However, in the past decades, taking the new technologies for granted, we have been in an increasingly better position to direct our ef9

Cf. Bergmann, Jorg, “Fluchtigkeit und methodische Fixierung sozialer Wirklichkeit. Aufzeichnungen als Daten der interpretativen Soziologie’, in W. Bonβ and H. Hartmann, (eds.), Entzauberte Wissenschaft. Tur Relativität and Geltung sozialer Forschung, Soziale Welt. spec. vol. 3, 1985, pp. 299–320.



forts to an analysis of the “production process” in relation to the “product” and in relation to the “consumption” of the “product”, i.e., to an analysis of interaction and dialogue both as a constitutive part of social reality and as the source of much of social reality. In other words, by the analysis of communicative interaction one provides conclusive direct evidence for the proposition that social reality is constructed, maintained and transformed in communication.



A Chronicle of Wasted Opportunities: Ambassador Steinhardt’s Sluggish Beginnings in Postwar Prague Igor Lukes

American policy planners had intended for the United States Embassy in postwar Czechoslovakia to seize the initiative and play a major role in the escalating struggle against the growing Soviet empire. Focusing on Ambassador Laurence Adolph Steinhardt’s first few months in Prague, this essay seeks to illustrate why the noble mission failed disastrously. In the spring of 1945 Prague presented Washington with an opportunity for a public relations jousting with the Soviet Union in which the Americans, with their message of democracy, economic prosperity, and freedom-exuding music, literature, films, and sports, stood a good chance of defeating the regimented, impoverished, unimaginative, and exhausted Soviet opponent. The Red Army had won the war and liberated most of Czechoslovakia but its behavior throughout Central Europe alienated all but the most hard-headed sympathizers from the cause for which it stood. The defeated Germans, Austrians, and Hungarians were not in a position to choose their political future. Many Poles attempted to fight to regain their sovereignty but the effort was doomed from the start. The Czechs, however, seemed to have a real say in their future, and the Department of State and the O.S.S. intelligence analysts believed that with the right kind of assistance from the United States the democrats in Prague might keep Czechoslovakia outside the zone dominated by Stalin. The Department of State hoped that its diplomats in the Schönborn Palace would be firm and energetic. Their job was to help the Czechoslovak democratic cause and to improve Washington’s standing with the Rus-



sians.1 The problem was that Ambassador Steinhardt, who was supposed to be in charge of the U.S. team, went missing and gave no indication of being ready to take to the field. Steinhardt had undergone a change when he found out in early 1945 that he would not accompany President Franklin D. Roosevelt to Yalta. Until then he viewed his diplomatic posts in Sweden, Peru, the Soviet Union, and Turkey as training for bigger jobs. Some speculated that his ultimate objective was the White House itself.2 Yalta represented a sobering defeat of such hopes.3 His exclusion from the U.S. team caused Steinhardt to refocus on his personal interests; his commitment to public service began to fade. Roosevelt appointed Steinhardt as his ambassador near the Czechoslovak Government-in-Exile in Great Britain on 20 December 1944. Incredibly, it took him more than two hundred days to take over the post. Many at the Schönborn Palace wondered how was this possible. The answer was simple. Steinhardt was a productive partner in the law firm Guggenheimer and Untermyer in New York City. He did so primarily because he needed the income: the salary he received from the Department of State covered but a small fraction of his family budget.4 When U.S. Chargé d’Affaires Alfred Klieforth and Consul John Bruins wrote that the political class in Prague and the diplomatic corps accredited to President Benes were waiting for the ambassador’s arrival and pleaded with him to assume his post at the embassy without delay, Steinhardt was in his office in New York City dealing with his clients. On 21 May 1945, he wrote to Prague that he would have to postpone his departure “for another three or four weeks for a variety 1

National Archives and Records Administration [NARA]. Office of Strategic Services, Research and Analysis Branch, “Report on Czechoslovakia: Pivot Point of Europe,” 4 July 1945.

2

Interview with Louise Schaffner, Washington, 29 January 1999.

3

Interview with Dulcie Ann Steinhardt Sherlock, Washington, 18 June 1998.

4

Interview with Peter R. Rosenblatt, the ambassador’s nephew, Washington, 15 February 2008.



of reasons... I have some personal matters to attend to here which I cannot very well clean up in less than two or three weeks – they are political as well as personal.”5 Even that estimate proved to be too optimistic by one month; it is not difficult to imagine that such a missive dismayed the regular Foreign Service officers whose sole source of income was their U.S. Government paycheck. It was hardly munificent but it was steady, and for that they gave the Department of State all their energy and their best effort. Steinhardt also delayed his arrival at the Schönborn Palace because of a liaison he had developed with the wife of an R.A.F. official in Baghdad. The two had met during Steinhardt’s tour of duty in Turkey. By the end of 1944 the relationship had descended into a crisis and in the spring of 1945, the ambassador had his hands full trying to prevent a full-blown scandal. He had to employ the discreet services of a junior Foreign Service officer, who traveled repeatedly between Istanbul and Baghdad carrying personal messages from the two illfated lovers.6 Finally, on 6 June 1945, President Harry Truman received Steinhardt in the White House and encouraged him to take over his post. Afterwards, the ambassador faced the Washington press. Although he could assess the situation in Czechoslovakia only from a distance of more than four thousand miles, he stated with his characteristic confidence that he expected the country to “return to normalcy faster than any other European country.”7 But then he went back to the New York law firm and stayed there for another twenty days! For the flight from New York to Prague, Steinhardt was lent a C-54 Skymaster plane. This was a rare privilege afforded to only a few among the powerful and mighty. The Skymaster was a military transport that 5

Library of Congress [LOC], Steinhardt Papers, box 83. Ambassador Steinhardt, Pine Street, New York City, to Rudolf Schoenfeld, the American Embassy near the Czechoslovak Government, London, 21 May 1945.

6

Interview with Walter Birge, Kingston, MA, 2 November 1998.

7

“Velvyslanec Steinhardt do Prahy,” Svobodne Slovo, 8 June 1945.



was big enough to hold fifty fully equipped paratroopers. It now carried just Steinhardt and his luggage. The ambassador left New York on 26 June 1945. He first landed in London, where he stayed for more than a week. He then proceeded to Paris, Caserta, Italy, and finally Turkey. He arrived on 7 July 1945 and reunited with his family who were waiting there.8 The Steinhardts then flew to Naples for several days of social visits and formal dances, and then continued on to Frankfurt. This stopover had to do with another personal matter: Mrs. Steinhardt had reason to believe that she had inherited a house in the city from a relative and the ambassador devoted much energy to proving that this was in fact the case. He failed to acquire the house, but got fifty percent of the furniture and savings.9 Steinhardt proceeded to Prague, a city impoverished by six years of Nazi occupation and now under the Red Army régime, an astonishing amount of personal property. He announced his arrival in a cable to the embassy that read: “Ambassador Steinhardt wife daughter and four employees and six tons of baggage and supplies will land at Prague airfield 16 July.”10 In addition to the C-54, he picked up in Frankfurt the smaller Douglas C-47 Skytrain that would remain at his disposal in Prague since the bigger Skymaster would have to be returned to Washington. In addition, Colonel T.K. Taylor, the U.S. Air Attaché kept in Prague a Beechcraft that Steinhardt intended to use “for lighter jobs.”11 Along with his family, Steinhardt brought a pilot, a chauffeur, a personal attendant to Mrs. Steinhardt and another one for the ambassador’s daughter, Dulcie Ann. 8

The anticipated itinerary is in LOC, Steinhardt Papers, box 83. Ambassador Laurence Steinhardt, Pine Street, New York, to A. W. Klieforth, Chargé d’Affaires ad interim, U.S. Embassy, Prague, 22 June 1945.

9

The description of the flight from Turkey to Czechoslovakia, see Steinhardt Sherlock, R.S.V.P., 102–104; this is an unpublished manuscript.

10 LOC, Steinhardt Papers, box 47. Dulcie Ann writes that the Steinhardts came to Prague with 14 tons of baggage. R.S.V.P., 102. 11



LOC, Steinhardt Papers, box 83. Ambassador Laurence Steinhardt, Pine Street, New York, to A. W. Klieforth, Chargé d’Affaires ad interim, U.S. Embassy, Prague, 22 June 1945.

Steinhardt touched down at the Ruzyne airport in Prague exactly two months after President Benes had returned to the Castle. The delay at such a sensitive time was hardly excusable but no one had the courage to say so. Certainly not at the Schönborn Palace – any criticism of the boss would have been a career stopper – but even his superiors in Washington had taken no action to condemn Steinhardt’s slow progress to the Schönborn Palace. This was all the more surprising because such a cavalier attitude toward the mission directly violated the Department’s plans that stressed the centrality of Prague for the struggle against Soviet totalitarianism and the need for vigorous American diplomatic presence there. The ambassador was welcomed by Chargé Klieforth, Vladimir Clementis of the Czech Foreign Ministry, and the British Ambassador Philip Nichols, who had been in Prague for more than a month. In addition to these dignitaries, scores of Czechs came to greet the first American ambassador in liberated Czechoslovakia. They, noted the ambassador’s daughter in her unpublished manuscript, “gave us a genuine welcome”. Even Rude Pravo, the Communist Party daily, celebrated Steinhardt’s arrival.12 The diplomats awaiting Steinhardt at the Schönborn Palace were united by the belief that they were taking part in an important enterprise. Before they left for Prague, the Foreign Service officers were instructed in Washington that their mission was to represent American interests by strengthening the cause of democracy. Their immediate objective, they heard, was to “help the Czechs guard their independence”. They found it agreeable, even noble, and they were happy to give it their best.13 What Steinhardt thought about his mission in Prague at this stage of his career is unclear. We only know what he did on 16 July 1945, his very first evening in Prague. Just hours after he had landed, the ambassador went to a cocktail party in the apartment of a local socialite. The 12 Rude Pravo, 17 July 1945. 13 Interview with Spencer L. Taggart, Logan, Utah, 24 April 1999.



place was packed with junior diplomats, allied officers, and young women; it was dense with smoke and noisy. Leopold Count Sternberg and his wife, Cecilia, came only because the invitation – it arrived on formal U.S. Embassy stationery – promised them an introduction to the ambassador of the United States. They stood uncertainly in the crowd full of loud red-faced men and their soubrettes. The hostess, wrote Countess Sternberg, was “a cheap little tart”, who had befriended far too many German officers during the war and was now, “sleeping just as readily” with Americans from the Schönborn Palace. The residence of a lady of the demi-mond was a bizarre venue for presenting the American ambassador to Prague society. Eventually, a U.S. Army officer introduced them to Steinhardt but garbled their names. Realizing there was not much for him to do in such a place, the Sternbergs and the ambassador left. This was Steinhardt’s first night in Prague and the beginning of a long and meaningful romantic relationship between the ambassador and Countess Sternberg.14 A few days later, Steinhardt was invited to the Castle to present his credentials to President Benes. Steinhardt was the first U.S. ambassador to be received in Prague. The ceremony was cordial. He and many other American officials held the president in high esteem, and the formal event had a pleasant atmosphere.15 Benes warmly welcomed the ambassador as a representative of the great American democracy that had done so much for his country.16 Steinhardt should have immediately focused on the political aspect of his mission in Prague. But there were so many pressing issues that had been awaiting his attention! His first concern had to do with the physical safety of the staff and the embassy. Although it was late July 1945 and only small groups of Soviet officers, Prague 14 Cecilia Sternberg, The Journey (London: Collins, 1977), 28–30. 15 “Velvyslanec Spojenych statu americkych nastoupil v urad,” Rude Pravo, 22 July 1945. 16 Archives of Thomas G. Masaryk, Benes Archive, UTGM/BA, Speeches and Letters, box 6.



still suffered from occasional violence. The Steinhardts heard about the many assaults on women and property. Although the Foreign Ministry claimed the opposite, there was still no safety for foreign diplomats. Chargé Klieforth and Colonel Taylor had each experienced a dangerous encounter with drunk Soviet officers who threatened to shoot them. Even the ambassador’s daughter Dulcie Ann found herself ducking and dashing “from doorway to doorway” because Russian soldiers started randomly spraying bullets all around.17 As late as in November 1945, half a year after the end of the war, a group of six junior American diplomats had a hard time protecting an embassy secretary from the unwanted attentions of a Soviet officer. Only a swift departure of the Americans and an intervention of more sober Soviet officers prevented a tragedy.18 The ambassador’s second concern had to do with the U.S. troops in the country.19 The American contingent deployed just fifty miles west of Prague was going to need logistical and political support from the U.S. Embassy. The troops’ military mission having been accomplished, General Ernest Harmon found himself dealing with various baffling diplomatic and political matters for which he had no training. There were other pressing items on the ambassador’s agenda. Chief among them was the matter of the “welfare and whereabouts” of American citizens who had been cut off from their relatives in the United States by the war. This in itself represented an enormous challenge for the embassy. Steinhardt told the Department of State that within the first ten days of his arrival he had received twenty-five telegrams from his own family and close family friends requesting immediate assistance in locating missing persons. “If so many of my relatives and friends are interested I can imagine what the volume is going to be.” Steinhardt warned that a sepa17 Steinhardt Sherlock, R. S. V. P., 105–106. 18 Walter Birge, “Czechoslovakia,” 3; this is an unpublished manuscript. 19 Ernest Harmon et al., Combat Commander: Autobiography of a Soldier (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1970), 265–266.



rate bureau might have to be created to deal with the missing persons agenda.20 The ambassador’s desk also contained a considerable pile of mail from the Department of State. Importantly, there was a long letter from the Division of Central European Affairs reminding Steinhardt that Prague was “one of the key spots in Europe and perhaps the best testing ground for our future relations with the Soviet Union”.21 This was meant to be a subtle nudge that the ambassador should get on, finally, with his diplomatic business. It failed to make the intended impression. Upon his arrival, Steinhardt got involved in three projects that had nothing to do with the objectives of his mission in Prague. He discovered that the representation allowance assigned to the embassy for 1945 was only $3,600. In Ankara, a city of 15,000, he had $6,000 for entertainment. Moreover, he knew that embassies in comparable cities, such as Madrid, had an allowance of $10,000 per annum. He protested this affront in a sharp note to Julius Cecil Holmes, Assistant Secretary of State. Steinhardt assured him that this was not about money; his own recent tax return to the government was $50,000. But a principle was involved: he wanted more money for his embassy in Prague.22 However, getting more money out of the Department coffers would take a lot of time and energy that should have been focused on representing American interests on the precarious fault-line with the communist zone. The ambassador was also concerned about the quality and size of the embassy staff. This too was justified, but it is unlikely that the Schöborn Palace was alone among the American diplomatic posts in experiencing personnel shortages at the time. According to Czech 20 LOC, Steinhardt Papers, box 68, Ambassador Laurence Steinhardt, U.S. Embassy, Prague, to Francis Williamson, Division of Central European Affairs, Department of State, Washington, 28 July 1945. 21 LOC, Steinhardt Papers, box 47. Francis T. Williamson, Division of Central European Affairs, Department of State, Washington, to Ambassador Laurence Steinhardt, U.S. Embassy, Prague, no date. 22 LOC, Steinhardt Papers, box 68. Ambassador Laurence Steinhardt, Prague, to Julius Cecil Holmes, Department of State, Washington, 23 July 1945.



records, the embassy had five accredited Foreign Service officers.23 However, Steinhardt’s letter of early August 1945 mentioned that all the work was being done by the ambassador and just his two colleagues, Klieforth and Bruins, who were overwhelmed by the daily agenda.24 By September 1945, Klieforth became incapacitated and Bruins was the only career Foreign Service officer on duty in the Schönborn Palace.25 Steinhardt was just as unhappy about the quality of his staff. Soon after he had arrived, he asked for a different military attaché. The present one, Lt. Col. Woldike, was “utterly incapable”. The Office of War Information at the embassy was a “complete flop.” The man running it was “wholly unable to deal with the situation”. The United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration (UNRRA), the aid organization established during the war, did not fare any better. It was “represented by the most mediocre collection of individuals I have met in a long time”. Steinhardt requested more career Foreign Service officers, at least two or three, and he needed ten or twelve stenographer clerks.26 Finally, after a short inspection, the ambassador determined that the Schönborn Palace fell woefully below his standard. The embassy had been utterly neglected, Steinhardt claimed, and “the filth was indescribable and as to the plumbing, the less said the better.” His private residence in the embassy, he wrote, was “uninhabitable”. 27 On 26 July 45 Steinhardt sent a detailed letter to the chief of the Division of Foreign Buildings 23 Archives of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Prague, Diplomatic Protocol [AMFA], foreign embassies in Prague, USA, 1945-55, box 55. 24 LOC, Steinhardt Papers, 83. Ambassador Laurence Steinhardt, Prague, to G. Lewis Jones, Chief, Near Eastern Division, Department of State, Washington, 3 August 1945. 25 LOC, Steinhardt Papers, box 83. Ambassador Laurence Steinhardt, Prague, to James W. Riddleberger, Chief, Central European Division, Department of State, Washington, 1 September 1945. 26 LOC, Steinhardt Papers, box 83. Ambassador Laurence Steinhardt, Prague, to James W. Riddleberger, Chief, Central European Division, Department of State, Washington, 25 September 1945. 27 LOC, Steinhardt Papers, box 83. Ambassador Laurence Steinhardt, Prague, to Francis Williamson, Department of State, Washington, 28 July 1945.



Operations in the State Department that the Schönborn Palace was huge and ancient, but eighty percent uninhabitable.28 Most of Steinhardt’s predecessors and current colleagues viewed the Schönborn Palace as a beautiful jewel, exuding majesty and respect. The ambassador saw it as a hopeless ruin. He wrote to Washington: “Of all the monstrosities that I have ever seen this building is the worst.” It was so huge, Steinhardt claimed, that no one seemed to know how many rooms it contained. Some thought there were 120 rooms, others counted 154. After it was fully rebuilt, Steinhardt estimated it would take at least $5,000 per annum to maintain the building. He was frustrated that Washington expected him to do with only $350 – before the much-needed reconstruction.29 Steinhardt’s negative assessment of the Schönborn Palace did not please the Department of State at all. Its Division of Foreign Buildings stated firmly that the existing ambassadorial quarters were perfectly livable and that its response to any attempt by Steinhardt to find another house was “one hundred percent ‘no’.” The office produced a report by an expert who had inspected the building in 1939. It stressed the property’s charm, and beauty; it praised the “brass plumbing and gilt chairs”.30 It is quite likely that the Schönborn Palace needed to have its electric wiring and plumbing upgraded and that the living quarters for the Steinhardt family could do with a face lift. It was also probable that the representation allowance had been determined before Prague became the testing ground of America’s relations with Stalin. However, such matters further diverted Steinhardt from his chief mission of advancing

28 LOC, Steinhardt Papers, box 83. Ambassador Laurence Steinhardt, Prague, to Frederick Larkin, Rome, Italy, 26 July 1945. 29 LOC, Steinhardt Papers, box 83. Ambassador Laurence Steinhardt, Prague, to James W. Riddleberger, Chief, Central European Division, Department of State, Washington, 1 September 1945. 30 LOC, Steinhardt Papers, 47. Francis Williamson, Department of State, to Ambassador Laurence Steinhardt, Prague, 29 August 1945.



American interests in Central Europe and protecting the cause of democracy. While Steinhardt set out to improve his living quarters he suggested Mrs. Steinhardt and their daughter go to Paris and shop. They were happy to oblige. On 17 August 1945, having spent only a month in Prague, the two ladies traveled to Bagnoles de l’Orne where they took the baths.31 Then they continued to Paris, settling down in their favorite Raphael Hotel. This is where Steinhardt’s telegram reached them in the middle of September 1945. The ambassador told his wife that there would be nothing habitable in Prague for some time. “Suggest therefore,” he cabled, “you take your time and acquire all the clothes you desire, irrespective of cost.”32 The message was typed and cabled by the overworked and underpaid embassy clerical staff. It is not hard to imagine what they thought about it. Meanwhile, Steinhardt joined the diplomatic dinner party circuit and started looking for a more suitable private residence that would be away from the embassy. A good lead emerged on 27 July 1945, a mere ten days after he had come to Prague. On that day, General George Patton stayed for the night in one of the most impressive palaces in the city. This residence was built in the late twenties by Otto Petschek, a wealthy businessmen in prewar Czechoslovakia. It combined the solidity of old money with the newest modern conveniences and technology: the touch of a button set into motion a huge wall that opened or closed the downstairs area, as dictated by the nature and size of the social event. Integrated into the living quarters was a greenhouse. The residence had a nearly Olympic-size indoor pool and a gym. The energy needs of the palace were such that it took a small train to deliver coal to a whole battery of boilers; a railroad was built in the basement for this

31 LOC, Steinhardt Papers, box 83, Laurence Steinhardt, Prague, to Madam Romola Nijinsky, Hotel Sacher, Vienna, 25 August 1945. 32 LOC, Steinhardt Papers, box 83, Kabelogram, Laurence Steinhardt, Prague, to Dulcie Steinhardt, Raphael Hotel, Paris, 11 September 1945.



purpose. Since the Petscheks owned coalmines there was no reason to fear a shortage. Otto Petschek died in 1934 and his twenty-year old son, Viktor, began transferring the family wealth to safer locations abroad, then moved to New York City in September 1938. 33 The Nazis took possession of all the Petschek real estate soon after they occupied the country. After the war, the building fell into the hands of the Red Army and there was every reason to fear that it would be looted; the silver disappeared, as did some of the furniture. But, miraculously, the Ministry of Defense persuaded the Russians to leave and take over a smaller – though still impressive – property nearby, also a Petschek residence, that eventually became the Embassy of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Steinhardt fell in love with the Petschek villa. He immediately informed Washington: “I am looking around for a house of my own. I would rather pay rent out of my own pocket than have to live in [the Schönborn Palace]. The only desirable house is one of the Petschek homes taken over by the Government.”34 The Department of State saw no reason why the ambassador should pay his own rent; it would have set a dangerous precedent.35 But it was unclear how to solve the conflict between the Foreign Buildings Office and Steinhardt. Without waiting for Washington’s decision, Steinhardt moved to acquire the property. Its owner was Viktor Petschek, an American citizen since December 1943.36 He opened an office at 165 Broadway, New York City, and hired the services of Guggenheimer, Untermyer & Goodrich. This is why Ambassador Steinhardt, 33 NARA, New York Passenger Lists, 1820–1957, Arrival: New York, Microfilm serial: T715, Microfilm roll: T715-6225. 34 LOC, Steinhardt Papers, box 83. Ambassador Laurence Steinhardt, Prague, to Francis Williamson, Division of Central European Affairs, Department of State, Washington, 28 July 1945. 35 LOC, Steinhardt Papers, 47. Francis Williamson, Department of State, to Ambassador Laurence Steinhardt, Prague, 29 August 1945. 36 LOC, Steinhardt Papers, box 47. Viktor Petschek, New York City, to Edgard J. Goodrich at Guggenheimer, Untermyer & Goodrich, Washington, 25 October 1945.



an active partner in the firm, entered the negotiating process with inside knowledge. He had no second thoughts about his course of action. He even went to see President Benes and directly asked for the property. The Schönborn Palace was a ruin, he insisted. The president did not dispute it. He saw the matter strictly as an opportunity to gain political favor. To satisfy the ambassador, noted Benes, was “a matter of political wisdom”.37 On 14 August 1945, the Prague Foreign Ministry informed Steinhardt that it had reached an agreement with the Defense Ministry regarding the Petschek property. The next day, the Czechoslovak Government decided that the palace – plus two smaller adjacent residences – would be made available to the United States Ambassador by 1 September 1945. In two weeks, the ambassador signed an agreement, along with provisions that the government repair and clean the place and furnish it with furniture left behind by some of the wealthy Germans who escaped from the city. The document, signed by the ambassador and the Czechoslovak Minister of Finance, listed $1,720,000 as the total cost of the Petschek property plus another office building and residence the United States acquired for its consulate general Bratislava.38 Then, in a stroke of genius, Steinhardt put into the agreement a clause stipulating that the listed price was “credited to the Czechoslovak government against surplus property debts to the U.S. Government.”39 Put simply, the United States gained title to the Petschek palace in exchange for abandoned U.S. Army jeeps, trucks, blankets, and surplus K-rations that no one had planned to ship back to America. 37 Archives of the Presidential Office (APO), T 987/35, Edvard Benes to Zdenek Fierlinger, 9 August 1945. 38 AMFA, Diplomatic Protocol, foreign embassies in Prague, USA, 1945-55, box 55. Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Prague, to Ambassador Steinhardt, 14 August 1945 and Ministry of Defense, 28 August 1945. See also Archives of Thomas G. Masaryk, Benes Archive, correspondence, box 76, Zdenek Fierlinger to Edvard Benes, 16 August 1945. 39 “Ambassador’s Residence,” the website of the United States Embassy in Prague, Czech Republic.



Laughing, Steinhardt told his daughter that the ambassadorial residence was “paid for in ‘wooden money.’”40 It was then, and remains now, the largest property of its kind in the hands of the U.S. Foreign Service anywhere in the world. Nor was this the last of the ambassador’s successes in the field of real estate. Since he started upgrading the Schönborn Palace, Steinhardt decided to find a country place where he could hide from the noise of construction and the pressures of the city. He arranged to lease the very impressive castle Kynzvart (Königswart) in western Bohemia, which had been in American hands since May 1945, when the U.S. Army liberated the region. The 13th century Metternich Schloss belonged to Paul Alfons Prince von Metternich-Winnenburg. Although he and his wife and other in-laws were among the bravest members of the anti-Hitler conspiracy, their property in postwar Czechoslovakia was confiscated. The Matternichs were brutally driven to leave.41 By September 1945, Steinhardt moved into his Petschek Palace residence; for weekends he might occasionally travel with Countess Sternberg to the Kynzvart Castle. He lived in the style of a 19th century European prince. By contrast, the regular Foreign Service officers faced true hardship in Prague. They had to live for months in the centrally located, but shabby Alcron Hotel, which carried visible traces of its previous tenants, Red Army officers.42 There was often no heat, and hot water was a treasured commodity.43 An American passing through Prague in late June 1945 reported that life was anything but luxurious for the American diplomats. In addition to living in substandard hotels they had to put up with a diet that occasionally consisted of

40 Dulcie Ann Steinhardt Sherlock, R. S. V. P., 107. 41 Marie Vassilitchikov, Berlin Diaries (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1987), 297– 298. 42 Interview with George Bogardus, Bethesda, MD, 3 June 1998. 43 Interview with Louise Schaffner, Washington, 29 January 1999.



U.S. Army rations only.44 Food shortages remained acute until the embassy organized a shuttle between Prague and U.S. bases in occupied Germany. Thanks to Steinhardt the United States gained at no cost a most impressive piece of real estate in Prague and, temporarily, the use of another one in Kynzvart. But it would not be surprising if some in the Department of State and many among the career Foreign Service officers in Prague watched these exertions with resentment. They observed postwar Prague from their dreary rooms at the Alcron Hotel. The ambassador watched it from a palace. Having acquired appropriate lodgings, Steinhardt might have liked – finally – to turn his attention to diplomacy and politics. Unfortunately, there were further distractions. Many Americans were intrigued by reports that the Benes government was in the process of implementing its strategy of acting as a bridge across the ideological divide between the Sovietized east and democratic west. They heard that the country was conducting an experiment that combined a partially nationalized economy with a political system that remained moreor-less democratic. Consequently, several Congressional committees descended upon the Schönborn Palace. They expected and received in-depth briefings and logistical assistance from the embassy. The ambassador had to meet and brief all such delegations in person.45 The same was true about V.I.P. visitors, such as Generals Patton and Eisenhower. When he finally turned his attention to the local scene, Steinhardt realized what he as a representative of the United States meant to many Czechs. He traveled to Pilsen to inspect the U.S. troops. The American ambassador was greeted there by “hundreds of deliriously enthusiastic Czechs, cheering and crying”. Mrs. Bruins, wife of the Consul Bruins, noted with a hint of 44 LOC, Steinhardt Papers, box 47. U.S. Embassy, Prague, William Walton Cable no. 22, Sans Origine (Austria) to David Hulburd, sent 30 June 1945. 45 LOC, Steinhardt Papers, box 68, Ambassador Laurence Steinhardt: “Czechoslovakia,” no date.



nostalgia what the crowds would have looked like had the U.S. Army liberated Prague in May 1945, and what influence Washington would have had in the heart of Europe.46 Steinhardt gave a speech. It was short, to the point, and – most important – it was in Czech, which had been transcribed for him phonetically by his staff. The crowd went wild!47 Steinhardt’s next major distraction from the political scene in Prague was related to economic and commercial matters. Given the ambassador’s legal experience, his inclination, and the amount of capital that was at stake, some of it was inevitable. Steinhardt was right, of course, to be vigilant about American investments in the country but the commercial aspect of the embassy’s work grew at the expense of its political activities. According to official data, U.S. property in the country at the beginning of World War II amounted to $148,000,000. The largest component, $67,100,000, represented the value of U.S. shares in various enterprises; American investors owned real estate that was valued at $28,400,000; U.S. corporations had deposited $13,750,000 in Czech banks; and the rest was in bonds, personal accounts, and life insurance held by U.S. citizens.48 Prior to the war, American corporations were invested in eleven large companies in Czechoslovakia. The largest among them was the Vacuum Oil Company, a branch of the New York firm Socony-Vacuum Oil Company, the future Mobil Corporation. Other wellknown prewar American investors were the International Telephone & Telegraph Corporation, Remington, 46 Dorothy Bruins, Opal of Many Hues, 232; unpublished manuscript. 47 NARA, Laurence Steinhardt, U.S. Embassy, Prague, to the Secretary of State, Washington, 23 August 1945, 860F.00/8-2545. 48 Archives of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Prague, AMFA, fond: Politicke zpravy, Washington, J. Hanc, Czechoslovak Embassy, Washington, to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, 23 December 1947. The report is based on the Census of American Assets in Foreign Countries, 1943. See also, LOC, “Nationalization Laws and American Investments in Czechoslovakia,” Division of Research for Europe, Office of Intelligence Research, OIR Report no. 3715.2, 5 May 1947, OSS/State Department: Intelligence and Research Reports, Part V, Postwar Europe, 861.2091.



Paramount, and others.49 The Vacuum Oil Company received most of the ambassador’s attention because it was one of the main clients of his law firm and its chairman, Harold S. Sheets, was a close personal friend. The two toured the refinery in Kolin that the Socony-Vacuum Oil Company had owned before the war.50 It was not clear whether Steinhardt in escorting Mr. Sheets acted as a diplomat legitimately advancing the interests of an American corporation and its shareholders or a lawyer pushing the case of his private client – or whether the merging of the two categories was legal and ethical. The Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America represented yet another challenge for the ambassador. The Czech movie industry was nationalized shortly after his arrival in Prague by a decree of 11 August 1945. The studios at Barrandov were among the best in Europe; the new ones in Hostivar were equipped with the most up-to-date technology. The all-encompassing law covered the production and distribution of movies, as well as export and import. Benes signed the decree though only a few days before he had complained to an O.S.S. mission that the film industry was “Sovietized”.51 Despite its communist aura, the state film monopoly was eager to do business with the Americans, but they ignored all offers on the grounds that the new institution was not a proper partner. The American moguls persuaded themselves that the situation would not last. Steinhardt looked into the matter and understood it faster than the Hollywood professionals. He saw that the monopoly was not a fly-by-night operation. Not only was it a serious partner, it was the only partner. The Russians had already signed a comprehensive con49 National Archives of the Czech Republic [NACR], Archives of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia, fond 100/1, file 82, unit 612, Frantisek Kolar, the Commission on National Economy of the Central Committee, to Rudolf Slansky, General Secretary, 28 May 1947. 50 NARA, Ambassador Laurence Steinhardt, U.S. Embassy, Prague, to the Secretary of State, Washington, 14 August 1945, 860F.00/8-1445. 51 NARA, “Report on Czechoslovakia: Pivot Point of Europe,” Office of Strategic Services, Research and Analysis Branch, 4 July 1945.



tract that gave them sixty percent of all playing time in Czechoslovak movie theaters. Steinhardt correctly sensed that the public was starved for American films. In a sharply worded letter to the motion picture industry, the ambassador warned that it was foolish for Hollywood to slumber while others were apportioning the market. Czechoslovakia was “the frontline between Communism and Democracy,” he wrote, and the United States had to compete. 52 An O.S.S. analyst concurred with Steinhardt: the Czech public yearned for American movies because Russian films were “too long, too sad and too Russian”.53 The ambassador proved to be right in predicting that the American film industry would soon see its error and would need to battle to regain the positions it had voluntarily abandoned. Finally, Steinhardt had a stake in representing the property interests of some truly wealthy individuals, such as the aforementioned Petschek and Gellert families, two economic powerhouses in Central Europe.54 In addition to dealing with corporations and very wealthy individuals, the ambassador’s desk was flooded with telegrams and letters from regular, middle-class Americans who had owned property in Czechoslovakia before the war and wanted to know what had happened to it. All of these cases – large and small – had to be answered and investigated by the embassy staff. Steinhardt was good and efficient at this kind of work but it diverted his attention from the political dimension of his mission. Few people could match Steinhardt’s smarts, ambition, and energy. But there was the troubling question of his activities from January to July 1945 and beyond, into the first weeks and months of his mission. The Department 52 LOC, Steinhardt Papers, box 68, Ambassador Laurence Steinhardt, U.S. Embassy, Prague, to Harold L. Smith, Hotel Claridge, Paris, 28 August 1945. 53 NARA, “Report on Czechoslovakia: Pivot Point of Europe,” The Office of Strategic Services, Research and Analysis Branch, 4 July 1945. 54 LOC, Steinhardt Papers, box 68. Ambassador Laurence Steinhardt, Prague, to John Foster Dulles, Cromwell and Sullivan, New York, 26 December 1945.



of State repeatedly indicated that it considered its embassy near the Benes Government in London and later in liberated Prague to be among its most important posts. Yet the ambassador never made it to wartime London and was the last allied envoy to present his credentials in liberated Czechoslovakia. When he finally arrived, he devoted an appalling amount of time to dealing with his comforts. Some of his colleagues could wonder whether he was still a U.S. ambassador fully committed to serving the president or a wealthy attorney torn between public service and private interest. In austere Moscow Steinhardt had been focused on his ambassadorial job. He cultivated a wide array of contacts in the diplomatic community and used them effectively to gain advance knowledge of crucial events: he accurately predicted the Stalin-Hitler pact of August 1939 and the Nazi assault on the Soviet Union in June 1941. After Stalinist Moscow, the ambassador enjoyed the permissive atmosphere of Istanbul. The war was being waged far from the Turkish nightclubs, but Steinhardt did not ignore it; he remained committed to his duties. He developed an accurate understanding of the political scene, he discerned what it would take for Turkey to come to the side of the allies, and he successfully advocated such a policy in Washington. He achieved what the White House and the Department of State expected of him, perhaps more. Steinhardt’s posting to postwar Prague came at a time when there were no constraints on his behavior. In 1945 there was no equivalent of the NKVD, and he had an airplane with a full-time pilot, putting Munich, Frankfurt, Paris, or his law firm in New York within reach. He could now get involved in legal and business deals for which the war and its aftermath created ample opportunities, especially for those who had his extraordinary skills and inside access. The United States had all along planned to be an active participant in postwar Czechoslovakia. Ambassador Steinhardt seemed a good choice to spearhead the effort. As it happened, he came to the Schönborn Palace



at a stage in his life when he balanced his diplomatic mission with his personal business and legal interests, and his occasionally reckless private life. His late arrival at the Prague embassy and his focus on acquiring real estate should have caused his superiors in Washington to demand improved performance. Instead the staff of the Division of Central European Affairs indicated that they considered Steinhardt to be their trusted expert.



Aproximación cinematográfica a la Segunda Guerra Mundial: La Royal Air Force en los films Battle of Britain y Tmavomodrý svět Daniel C. Narváez Torregrosa

Tras la invasión de Polonia en septiembre de 1939 comenzaba el enfrentamiento de la Alemania nazi contra las potencias democráticas europeas. La rapidez del ataque dejó atónitos a los líderes políticos y militares del momento. Había surgido una nueva manera de hacer la guerra a la que se denominó Blitzkrieg: Guerra Relámpago. Si bien Francia y Gran Bretaña, cumpliendo el compromiso adquirido con su aliado polaco, declararon la guerra a Alemania, lo cierto es que hasta la primavera de 1940 no se produjeron grandes enfrentamientos en el campo de batalla. De hecho, este periodo de inactividad en el continente europeo fue denominado como la Guerra Falsa. El inicio de las operaciones en la primavera de 1940, con una nueva fase de Blitzkrieg en la que cayeron en poder alemán Dinamarca, Noruega, Holanda, Bélgica y parte de Francia pareció demostrar que el poderío nazi era imbatible. Gran Bretaña quedaba en ese momento sola ante la amenaza. El Reich nazi, en consecuencia, pensó que la derrota británica era cuestión de días. La Batalla de Inglaterra –una de las mayores campañas de la primera mitad de la Segunda Guerra Mundial– fue una serie de operaciones libradas en cielo británico en donde a lo largo de cuatro meses (de julio a octubre de 1940) la Luftwaffe alemana trató de destruir a la Royal Air Force británica para obtener la superioridad aérea necesaria para una posterior invasión de las islas británicas. Las películas elegidas ilustran diferentes momentos de la Batalla de Inglaterra. La batalla de Inglaterra muestra las fases y combates más importantes acaecidos entre



julio y octubre de 1940. Por otro lado Un mundo azul oscuro rinde un homenaje a los pilotos extranjeros –en el caso de este film a los checos– que participaron en la Batalla de Inglaterra y que posteriormente ayudaron a consolidar la superioridad aérea sobre la Europa ocupada. La batalla de Inglaterra (The battle of Britain, Hamilton, 1969)

La realización de Guy Hamilton Battle of Britain (La batalla de Inglaterra, 1969) supone un acertado ejercicio de reconstrucción histórica, habitual en el cine británico. El film ilustra hasta el más mínimo detalle los acontecimientos que ocurrieron en el verano y primeros meses del otoño de 1940. La única salvedad a señalar es que si bien los personajes históricos aparecen recreados en el film, esto es: Dowding, Goering, Hitler, Milch, entre otros; los productores prefirieron omitir alusiones específicas a unidades y personajes vinculados de manera directa en los enfrentamientos aéreos, por lo que los escuadrones enfrentados así como sus líderes son totalmente ficticios1. El film destaca además por la reconstrucción de los principales elementos estratégicos y tácticos de la batalla, de manera que se presentan con mayor o menor detalle aspectos tales como las negociaciones entre los contendientes, los preparativos de las fuerzas enfrentadas, las tácticas de combate y las diferentes fases de la batalla. 1. La Batalla de Francia

Para introducir la narración cinematográfica, la acción del film se inicia en las fases finales de la Batalla de Francia, mostrando un escuadrón de Hurricane, al mando del Squadron Leader Skipper, que se está preparando para evacuar en dirección Abbeville, cerca del canal de la Mancha y de la ciudad de Dunkerque. El personaje de Skipper, interpretado por un temperamental Robert 1



Únicamente uno de los escuadrones de Hurricane del film tiene el código de identificación DO que correspondió en la realidad de la Royal Air Force al 199 Squadron, unidad de bombardeo creada en 1942.

Shaw, está basado en el Squadron Leader Adolf Malan, un oficial de la RAF que tras las primeras experiencias de combate contra los alemanes introdujo nuevas tácticas de combate tales como reemplazar las formaciones en Vic de las escuadrillas británicas –cuatro secciones de tres aviones– por una semejante a la de los alemanes: tres secciones de cuatro aviones. Dentro de la secuencia destaca igualmente la presentación del Squadron Leader Harvey –interpretado por Chistopher Plummer– que en una interesante escena increpa a un piloto que ha efectuado una acrobacia aérea para intentar dar ánimos a las tropas de tierra. Esta reprimenda ilustra la estricta política de la RAF por evitar este tipo de acciones jubilosas por parte de sus pilotos, acciones que se cobraron algunas bajas2. Esta secuencia inicial se sitúa en los últimos días del mes de mayo, momento en el que “los últimos Hurricane utilizables que permanecían en Francia pertenecían a las tres unidades de la AASF (Fuerza Avanzada de Ataque Aéreo), que se habían replegado hacia el sur, a pistas de aterrizaje temporales alrededor de Trojes. Otros muchos se encontraban […] abandonados en Merville, Abbeville, Lille/Seclin y otros aeródromos”3. En efecto, la situación del aeródromo mostrado en el film es caótica con numerosos aviones estropeados y otros inservibles. Aparatos que van a ser destruidos, antes de evacuar los cazas en estado operativo en dirección a Gran Bretaña, ya que “todos los aviones que sufrían daños ligeros, si no podían volar, tuvieron que ser incendiados porque no había piezas de recambio o porque la caótica situación hacía imposible repararlos”4. Al mismo tiempo se presenta el estado anímico de los pilotos desmoralizados y cansados, reflejo de la realidad 2

Baste citar el ejemplo de la muerte del Flight Offcier Kaine, uno de los ases del 73 Squadron destacado en Francia y que se estrelló el 7 de junio de 1940 con un Hurricane tras efectuar una acrobacia y perder el control del aparato.

3

Holmes, T (1999) Despegan los Hurricane. Madrid: Osprey – Ediciones del Prado. p. 53.

4

Bishop, P (2006) Pilotos de caza. Los héroes de la Batalla de Inglaterra. Barcelona: Inédita Editores. p. 233.



histórica ya que el estado físico y mental de los pilotos de caza se había deteriorado debido a los continuos combates contra fuerzas muy superiores en número, tal y como recuerda sir Arthur Barrat, jefe de los escuadrones de la RAF desplegados en Francia: “Los pilotos de nuestros cazas estaban muy cansados. Todo el día de ayer tuvieron que vérselas cada hora con oleadas de cuarenta bombarderos,profusamente escoltados por cazas. Los escuadrones de cazas eran la manera más adecuada para responder a esta forma de ataque, pero tuvieron que actuar en grupos de tres o cinco, siempre en clara inferioridad numérica. Cada piloto efectuó cuatro o cinco salidas por día”5.

La evacuación de los escuadrones sirve al mismo tiempo para presentar la composición multinacional de la RAF, la cual no solo contaba entre sus filas con personal británico, sino también de la Commonwealth –en el film se trata de los oficiales Harvey (canadiense), Skipper (sudafricano) Jamie (neozelandés)– y de las naciones ocupadas por Alemania (en el caso de esta película el piloto francés y el escuadrón polaco. Tabla: Nacionalidades en la RAF durante la Batalla de Inglaterra6 Nacionalidad

Nº Pilotos

Muertos

Gran Bretaña

1878

348

Polonia

141

29

Canadá

88

20

Checoslovaquia

88

8

Nueva Zelanda

73

11

Bélgica

26

6

Australia

21

14

Sudáfrica

21

9

Francia

13

0 0

Irlanda

8

Estados Unidos

7

1

Rhodesia

2

0

Palestina

1

0

Total

2367

446

5

Moss (2005). p. 130.

6

Pavel Vancata: Statistics of the Battle of Britain. [en línea] Disponible en web: http://cz-raf.hyperlink.cz/bob/stat.html [Consulta junio de 2009].



El ataque en vuelo rasante por parte de los Messerschmitt Bf 109 alemanes, antes de que el personal británico pueda destruir los aviones inservibles ilustra la rapidez del avance alemán. El montaje cinematográfico lleva la atención a un nuevo punto de interés. Por medio de un plano fijo y valiéndose de la profundidad de campo, Hamilton introduce al personaje de Lord Dowding –Lawrence Olivier– comandante en Jefe del Mando de Cazas de la RAF, quien se acerca a la cámara mientras por medio del recurso de la voz en off se escucha el informe que redactó para el Primer Ministro: “Debo hacer notar que durante los últimos días se han enviado a Francia el equivalente a diez escuadrones; que los escuadrones de Hurricane que permanecen en el país han quedado seriamente mermados y que cuantos más escuadrones se envíen a Francia, mayor es el desperdicio de medios y más insistente la demanda de refuerzos. Debo por tanto reclamar, como un asunto de urgencia capital, que el Ministerio del Aire considere y decida el nivel mínimo de fuerzas que debe otorgarse al mando de combate para la defensa de este país, y que se me asegure que cuando se alcance dicho nivel, no se enviarán más cazas al otro lado del Canal sea cual sea la urgencia o la insistencia en la solicitud de ayuda. Estoy convencido de que, si se mantiene en el país una fuerza de combate adecuada, si la flota se mantiene y si las fuerzas propias se organizan de forma adecuada para resistir una invasión, seríamos capaces de defendernos en la guerra por nosotros mismos durante un tiempo, si no de forma indefinida. Pero si las fuerzas de defensa del territorio se agotan en un desesperado esfuerzo por remediar la situación de Francia, una derrota en Francia supondrá la completa e irremediable derrota final de este país”7.

De nuevo la narración cinematográfica muestra el progreso de las tropas germanas en Francia. En efecto, el avance alemán iniciado con el ataque del 10 de mayo de 1940, fue tan arrollador que las tropas anglo francesas fueron empujadas hasta la costa del Canal quedando cercadas un gran número de ellas en la ciudad de Dunkerque. La precariedad de la situación motivó que el Estado Mayor del Aire reconociera –a instancias de Dowding– la inutilidad de seguir combatiendo sobre los cielos de Francia, tal y como manifestara el mariscal 7

Holmes (1999). p. 49.



Newall al señalar que “no creía que lanzar al combate unos cuantos escuadrones más, cuya pérdida podía debilitar fundamentalmente la fuerza de caza en el territorio metropolitano, podría suponer la diferencia entre la victoria y la derrota en Francia”8. Por medio de unas escenas en las que se presentan soldados alemanes acompañados de blindados, el realizador reconstruye el cerco de Dunkerque, sin entrar en detalles. Lo cierto es que, aprovechando una pausa en el avance de la Wehrmacht, los británicos dieron inicio a la Operación Dynamo, la cual se desarrolló entre el 27 de mayo y el 4 de junio y cuyo objetivo fue evacuar a las tropas británicas y francesas atrapadas en Dunkerque y El Havre. En nueve días, 337.000 soldados –224.535 británicos y 112.546 franceses– fueron evacuados en dirección a Gran Bretaña a bordo de un variopinto conglomerado de buques: 32 buques de guerra y 653 embarcaciones auxiliares entre las que se encontraban yates, barcos de recreo, pesqueros, remolcadores, chalupas, etc. Pese al éxito de la evacuación y tal y como se ilustra en el film por medio de un plano general, una gran cantidad de material bélico (700 tanques, 2.400 cañones y 50.000 vehículos) fue abandonado en las playas de Dunkerque. En cuanto a pérdidas humanas, los británicos sufrieron 68.111 bajas; mientras que los franceses contabilizaron alrededor de dos millones de bajas, de ellos 90.000 muertos. Acompañando al plano general de la playa repleta de restos de la batalla, se superpone en voz en off una crónica radiofónica que hace mención al discurso pronunciado por Churchill en la Cámara de los Comunes el 18 de junio de 1940, discurso en el que Churchill, tras hacer un repaso a la situación militar en la que se encontraba Gran Bretaña, la lucha y derrota de Francia, aventuraba una lucha en la que se podía contar con la Royal Navy como principal obstáculo para frenar los intentos germanos de realizar una invasión. Posteriormente anunciaba la naturaleza del combate que se avecinaba: una

8



Bishop (2006). p. 226.

lucha aérea entre la RAF y la Luftwaffe de cuyo resultado se dirimiría el destino de la humanidad: “Si podemos hacerle frente, es posible que toda Europa sea libre y que la vida del mundo avance hacia amplios terrenos bañados por el sol. En cambio, si fallamos, todo el mundo, incluido Estados Unidos, incluido todo lo que hemos conocido y apreciado, se hundirá en el abismo de una nueva era oscura, que parece más siniestra y tal vez más prolongada bajo las luces de la ciencia pervertida. Por tanto, preparémonos para cumplir nuestras obligaciones y tengamos en cuenta que, si el imperio británico y su Comunidad de Naciones duran mil años más, los hombres dirán que este fue su mejor momento”9.

En este punto arrancan los títulos de créditos que se superponen a la inspección que realiza el Inspector General de la Luftwaffe, el Feldmarschall Milch, a las escuadrillas de bombarderos de la Luftflotte II estacionadas en Francia, imágenes que sitúan las superiores fuerzas alemanas como contrapunto a los cansados escuadrones británicos. 2. Negociaciones

La narración fílmica concede un lugar para ilustrar las últimas negociaciones emprendidas por el III Reich y tratar de evitar un enfrentamiento con Gran Bretaña. Este hecho es presentado en la escena de la conversación del embajador alemán Von Richter con sir David Kelly, embajador británico en Suiza. Desde principios de la Campaña de Francia, Hitler había manifestado su interés por alcanzar un acuerdo con Gran Bretaña en el sentido de que esta dejara vía libre a la expansión de la Alemania nazi en el continente europeo. Tal actitud la fundamentaba el canciller alemán en la aparente incapacidad de Gran Bretaña para continuar la lucha en solitario, sobre todo una vez que Francia fuera derrotada. Estos pensamientos eran recogidos por alguno de sus oficiales de Estado Mayor, como el Major Engel: “El Führer duda y tiene a Gran Bretaña por una nación tan débil que cree que, tras los bombar9

Churchill, W. S. (2005). ¡No nos rendiremos jamás! Los mejores discursos de Winston S. Churchill. Madrid: La Esfera de los Libros. p. 262.



deos, no serán necesarias operaciones en tierra de mayores proporciones”10. Las expectativas de Hitler chocaron con la férrea oposición del primer ministro británico. No obstante, Churchill, junto al Gabinete de Guerra, estuvo analizando la situación y por unos días tuvo sus dudas, como bien declaró el 26 de mayo de 1940 –momento en que se estaban desarrollando los combates en torno a Dunkerque– en una reunión del Gabinete: “una cosa sería que herr Hitler estuviera dispuesto a firmar la paz garantizándosele la restauración de las colonias alemanas y la supremacía en Europa central, pero es poco probable que acepte semejante oferta”11. Palabras que dejan entrever la duda ante las posibilidades de enfrentarse a Alemania. Con todo, dos días después –28 de mayo– la posición de Churchill ha cambiado y se manifiesta en contra de establecer cualquier tipo de negociación con Hitler, tal y como queda registrado en las memorias del Gabinete de Guerra: “Si intentábamos negociar la paz ahora, obtendríamos mejores condiciones de Alemania que si continuábamos adelante y luchábamos. Los alemanes pedirían nuestra flota –a lo que llamarían “desarme” – nuestras bases navales, y muchas otras cosas. Nos convertiríamos en un país esclavo, y se formaría un gobierno marioneta de Hitler –“dirigido por Mosley o alguien de la misma calaña” – ¿y dónde estaríamos al final? […] Seguiremos adelante y lucharemos, aquí o en cualquier otro lugar, y si al fin nuestra larga historia está condenada a terminar, es mejor que termine no con una rendición, sino con nuestra muerte sobre el campo de batalla”12.

Durante junio de 1940, período de ofertas diplomáticas alemanas, Hitler impidió que se efectuaran bombardeos sobre Gran Bretaña como una muestra de su “magnanimidad”. No obstante emitió la Orden número 16 en la cual señalaba que “a pesar de lo desesperado de su situación, Inglaterra no se ha mostrado dispuesta hasta 10 Berthom, S. – Potts, J (2007). Amos de la guerra. 1939-1945. El corazón del conflicto. Barcelona: Destino. p. 46. 11

Moss (2005). p. 161–162.

12 Lukacs, J (2001). Cinco días en Londres, mayo de 1940. Churchill solo frente a Hitler. Madrid: Fondo de Cultura Económica – Turner. p. 21.



ahora a alcanzar ningún acuerdo, he decidido empezar a preparar, y en caso necesario llevar a cabo, la invasión de ese país”13. Se gestaba de esta manera la Operación León Marino, la cual iba a suponer un desembarco a gran escala en las costas del sur de Inglaterra y que precisaba de la colaboración de las tres armas del ejército alemán. Las premisas sobre las que se basaba la operación eran las siguientes: – Dominio absoluto del espacio aéreo por medio de la eliminación de la aviación británica. – Inmovilización de la Royal Navy a la que la Luftwaffe debía mantener alejada del teatro de operaciones. – Preparación de los medios de desembarco que serían concentrados en los puertos de Ostende, Calais y Boulogne. – Rastreo de minas marítimas en el sector del Canal que iba a emplearse para la operación. Obviamente estas condiciones debían mantenerse por tiempo indefinido para garantizar el éxito de la fuerza de desembarco, contingente que el Alto Mando alemán estimó en unos 200.000 hombres que serían desplegados desde Ramsgate hasta la isla de Wight. Desde luego la supremacía aérea sobre el cielo británico era un factor imprescindible para asegurar el éxito de la operación como bien recordaba años después el almirante Ruge: “La Luftwaffe tenía que ser la clave del éxito de la operación. Todo dependía de ella. Nos habría bastado que consiguiera una absoluta superioridad aérea durante tres días […] Necesitábamos mantener alejada de la zona de desembarco a la flota inglesa durante tres días por lo menos. Y eso solo lo podía hacer la Luftwaffe, pues la marina alemana no era capaz de enfrentarse contra toda la flota inglesa”14.

Mientras se realizaban los preparativos navales y se iban concentrando las barcazas de desembarco en la costa francesa –escena reconstruida en el film– Hitler apeló por 13 Moss (2005). p. 235. 14 VV.AA (1978) La segunda guerra mundial. Volumen I Madrid: Sarpe. p. 234.



última vez a un entendimiento entre ambas naciones en un discurso efectuado el 19 de julio en el Reichstag: “En esta hora, siento que es mi deber hacer una vez más un llamamiento a la conciencia, a la razón y al buen sentido de Gran Bretaña y de todos los demás países. Considero que es mi situación la que me permite lanzar este llamamiento: no soy ningún vencido que mendiga favores, sino el vencedor que habla en nombre de la razón. En verdad, no encuentro motivo alguno de proseguir esta guerra […] El señor Churchill, por una vez, haría bien en creerme cuando le anuncio que un gran imperio será destruido, un imperio al que nunca ha estado en mi cabeza debilitar ni destruir”15.

Finalmente, agotadas las posibilidades de alcanzar un entendimiento, Hitler emitió la Directriz número 17, de 1 de agosto de 1940, que suponía el punto de partida para la invasión de las islas británicas, y en la que se proponían los siguientes objetivos estratégicos: „In order to establish the necessary conditions for the final conquest of England […] to overpower the English air force with all the forces at its command, in the shortest possible time […] primarily against flying units, their ground installations, and their supply organizations, also against their aircraft industry, including that manufacturing antiaircraft equipment […] in view of our own forthcoming operations […] I reserve to myself, the right to decide on terror attacks as measures of reprisal […] The intensification of the air war may begin on or after 5 August. The exact time is to be decided by the air force after the completion of preparations and in the light of the weather”16. 15 Jullian, M (1968). La batalla de Inglaterra. Barcelona: Ediciones GP. p. 61. Ante estas palabras de Hitler, Churchill escribió años más tarde lo siguiente (Churchill, W (2001). La segunda guerra mundial: el camino hacia el desastre. Barcelona: Planeta De Agostini. p. 369): “Este gesto [el discurso] fue acompañado, durante los días siguientes, por delegaciones diplomáticas a Suecia, Estados Unidos y el Vaticano. Naturalmente, Hitler se habría quedado muy contento si, después de someter a Europa a su voluntad, hubiese podido acabar la guerra consiguiendo que Gran Bretaña aceptara lo que había hecho. En realidad, no era una oferta de paz sino un intento de lograr que Gran Bretaña renunciara a todo por lo que había entrado en guerra para mantenerlo” 16 Battle of Britain Historical Society: Hitler’s Directive No.17 of August 1st 1940. [en línea] Disponible en web: http://www.battleofbritain.net/document-27.html [Consulta junio de 2009]. (Traducción del autor) “Para establecer las condiciones necesarias para la conquista final de Inglaterra […] para dominar a la Fuerza Aérea inglesa con todas las fuerzas bajo su mando, en el tiempo más corto […] principalmente contra unidades de vuelo, sus instalaciones de tierra, y su organización de suministro, también contra su industria aeronáutica, incluyendo las fábricas de equipo antiaéreo […] en vista de nuestras próximas operaciones […] me reservo, el derecho



El Reichsmarschall Goering, comandante de la Luftwaffe, asumió la responsabilidad de llevar a cabo la derrota de la RAF con un inusitado optimismo, ya que hasta ese momento la aviación germana había cosechado una serie de aplastantes victorias. Goering prometió a Hitler acabar con la aviación británica en pocos días lo que permitiría realizar los desembarcos y efectuar lanzamiento de paracaidistas con relativa facilidad. 3. La Batalla a. Estrategia y táctica

El siguiente punto de interés del film lleva la acción al mes de junio de 1940, momento en el que ambos bandos están preparando sus fuerzas para el enfrentamiento. De hecho, la minuciosidad del equipo realizador por recrear los hechos hizo que se localizaran aviones reales para enfrentarlos de nuevo casi treinta años después de la batalla real17 y por medio de trucos fotográficos se consiguió dar la sensación de formaciones compactas de bombarderos alemanes. En estos momentos la Luftwaffe procedió a desplegar una abrumadora fuerza de bombarderos y cazas en Francia, Bélgica, Holanda y Noruega. No obstante, dude decidir ataques de terror como medidas de represalia […] la intensificación de las operaciones aéreas pueden comenzar sobre o después del 5 de agosto. El tiempo exacto debe ser decidido por las Fuerzas Aéreas después de concluir los preparativos y según las condiciones climatológicas”. 17 Los preparativos del film comenzaron en 1965 cuando los productores –Saltzman y Fisz- contactaron con Hamisch Mahaddie, oficial retirado que durante la guerra había prestado servicio en el Mando de Bombarderos para que localizara aviones reales. Las pesquisas de Mahaddie se vieron recompensadas y para 1967 había localizado 27 Spitifres, 12 de ellos en perfecto estado que serían empleados en las tomas aéreas; el resto lo haría en las tomas estáticas. Menos suerte hubo con los Hurricane de los que tan solo se localizó un único ejemplar en estado operativo. Los aparatos se sometieron a una labor de caracterización para que se asemejaran a los aviones de 1940. En cuanto a los aviones alemanes, la producción del film recurrió al Ejército del Aire español que tenía en servicio los CASA 2.111, (Heinkel He 111) y los Messerschmitt Me 109 –equipados con motores Hispano Suiza HA1112 que les daba un aspecto diferente al original alemán. La producción también localizó un par de JU 52. En el caso de los JU 87 Stuka, dado que no existía ningún ejemplar operativo, el recurso fue recurrir a caracterizar dos aviones entrenadores Percival Proctor a los que se les dotó de las características alas en gaviota invertida.



rante el desarrollo del film tan solo se presenta la actividad de un par de Geschwader (Escuadrones) de Bombarderos y cazas. Lo cierto es que la Luftwaffe desplegó tres Luftflotte estacionadas en Bélgica, norte de Francia y sur de Noruega. Las campañas de Polonia y Francia se habían caracterizado por la actuación conjunta de la Luftwaffe y las fuerzas terrestres. La inminente batalla contra Gran Bretaña iba a necesitar una estrategia diferente puesto que la aviación actuaría en solitario. Así, el primer paso fue reorganizar la Luftwaffe en las 3 Luftflotte ya señaladas y asignarles una zona de operación. De esta manera la Luftflotte 2 actuó contra el sudeste de Inglaterra y el área de Londres; la Luftflotte 3 operó contra la zona occidental, los Midlands y el noroeste de Inglaterra y la Luftflotte 5 atacó el norte de Inglaterra y Escocia. Las victorias anteriores y la superioridad aérea se manifestó en un elevado grado de optimismo en las tripulaciones alemanas tal y como se recrea alguna de las escenas iniciales del film. En efecto, cuando comenzó la batalla “los pilotos alemanes habían descansado, resplandecían con el brillo de varias victorias sucesivas y gozaban del bienestar que les brindaba un país sibarita que se había acomodado con bastante rapidez a sus ocupantes. Sintieron quizás algo de pesar al tener que reanudar las operaciones. Pero lo hicieron con alegría y la moral se mantuvo alta cuando la campaña aumentó de intensidad”18. Por todo ello, la Luftwaffe estimó que la campaña contra el Fighter Command (Mando de Caza) británico duraría solo cuatro días, suficientes para neutralizar la defensa aérea, a lo que seguirían cuatro semanas de intensos bombardeos que anularían la industria británica. El ataque se iniciaría contra los aeródromos más cercanos a la costa para ir adentrándose paulatinamente y realizar devastadores ataques en el área de Londres. Por su parte el Fighter Command preparó la defensa de la manera más eficaz posible. Así, dividió sus fuerzas en una serie de grupos, subdivididos en sectores cada 18 Bishop (2006). p. 328.



uno de ellos cubiertos por dos o cuatro escuadrones. Al mismo tiempo, cada sector contaba con un puesto de mando desde donde dirigir las fuerzas. Por otro lado, el sistema de defensa contaba con el empleo del radar, tal y como se expone en el film. El radar fue desarrollado en los años 30 por Robert Watson Watt, quien con el apoyo de la RAF dispuso una red de detección. A nivel operacional cada Grupo dependía de la información que recibían las estaciones de control de cada sector, información que se transfería al Cuartel General del Mando de Cazas ubicado en Stanmore (Middlesex) en las cercanías de Londres y que es fielmente reproducido en la película19. En el Cuartel General se filtraba la información detectada por las estaciones de radar las cuales estaban dispuestas formando una cadena a lo largo de la costa británica. Junto a la información recabada por el radar, la defensa británica contaba además con la inestimable colaboración del Cuerpo de Observación, que tal y como se recrea en una escena del film, se trataba de civiles voluntarios destinados en diferentes puestos de observación, “cada uno de los cuales estaba equipado con prismáticos, un Manual de identificación de aviones y un teléfono permanentemente conectado con una base de la RAF”20. La información recogida por los controles de cada sector servían tanto para poner en alerta a la artillería antiaérea como para que el Mando de Cazas dirigiera a los escuadrones a enfrentarlos con el enemigo. Por ultimo, entre los preparativos estratégicos emprendidos por Gran Bretaña, destaca –igualmente presentado en la película– la formación de la Home Guard, milicias locales formadas por voluntarios y encargadas de hacer frente a una hipotética invasión. La misión de estas milicias era apoyar a las fuerzas regulares operan19 No en vano, en una de las secuencias se reconstruye el funcionamiento de la estación de Ventnor y como se transmite la información al Cuartel General de Stanmore donde se dan las órdenes para que los escuadrones (ficticios) 43 y 54 intercepten un ataque de Stuka. 20 Moss (2005). p. 241.



do en su propia localidad, hecho que facilitaba su misión. Entre las tareas que se les encomendó estaba “vigilar instalaciones, liberar las unidades del Ejército para que se pudieran adiestra mejor, impedir al enemigo utilizar las carreteras y posiblemente ser los primeros en enfrentarse a los invasores llegados por mar o por aire”21. En cuanto a las tácticas empleadas por los bandos enfrentados, el film los ilustra de manera precisa. Así, la Luftwaffe fue variando sus tácticas según se fueron desarrollando las fases de la batalla. En un primer momento la Luftwaffe para tantear la capacidad de respuesta y defensa de la RAF organizó incursiones Freie Jagd –caza libre– en las que los cazas germanos trataban de derribar a cuanto oponente británico se encontraban. Precisamente esta táctica queda ilustrada en la película cuando el Major Föhn derriba al inexperto piloto Simon, ilustrando además una de las tácticas preferidas por los pilotos alemanes: atacar desde mayor altura y con el sol a las espaldas. La película recoge de igual manera las formaciones de vuelo empleadas por los alemanes y que tanto éxito las había concedido durante la Blitzkrieg, formaciones que les concedían una mayor flexibilidad a la hora de enfrentarse con el enemigo22. De esta manera en el film queda patente que la unidad básica de vuelo era la Rotte, pareja de aviones, compuesta por un líder y un punto, o encargado de proteger al primero, y que “en vuelo de crucero, los dos aparatos volaban a unos 180 metros uno del otro, casi en línea con el jefe, que iba ligeramente adelantado, vigilando cada piloto la parte interior de la

21 Moss (2005). p. 220. 22 A nivel operacional la mayor unidad de combate era la Geschwader (Ala) comandada por un Major (Comandante). Cada Geschwader estaba constituida por tres Gruppe (Escuadrón) dirigido por un Gruppenkommandeur, cuyo rango solía ser el de Major (Comandante) para las unidades de bombardeo, y Hauptmann (capitán) para las de caza. El Gruppe estaba constituido por cuatro Staffel (Escuadrilla) a su vez formado por tres Schwarm (patrulla de cuatro aviones) compuestas por dos Rotte, es decir una pareja de aviones. En el caso de los bombarderos la formación del Schwarm se hacía más flexible al agruparse en Kette o agrupaciones de tres aeronaves.



formación para cubrir los ángulos muertos trasero e inferior del avión de su compañero”23. No obstante, el propio devenir de los acontecimientos tras los combates con la RAF, motivó que las tripulaciones de bombarderos demandaran mayor protección de los cazas, de manera que Goering –tal y como se ilustra en la realización de Hamilton– ordena a los cazas que abandonen las formaciones preestablecidas y protejan a los bombarderos a cualquier precio. Por otro lado, las tácticas de la RAF también evolucionaron a lo largo de la batalla. Así en un primer momento se empleaba la formación de tres aviones –vic– tal y como se muestra en la secuencia del ataque de los Stuka y las primeras oleadas de bombarderos medios. Con este tipo de formación se buscaba concentrar “la mayor potencia de fuego posible, lo que suponía situar una formación de cazas próxima a la retaguardia de los bombarderos, desde la cual las patrullas de tres aparatos cada una, lanzarían una serie de ataques”24. No obstante esta táctica se reveló ineficaz, lo que llevó a adoptar el mismo sistema de formación en “cuatro dedos” de los alemanes, que era mucho más eficaz para las tareas de defensa25. Al mismo tiempo, a los cazas Hurricane, de los que se disponían en más número pero que eran más lentos que sus oponentes, se les encomendó la tarea de derribar a los bombarderos mientras que los Spitfire –más rápidos– debían combatir contra la escolta de cazas Messerschmitt. Continuando con las tácticas de la RAF, la narración cinematográfica concede importancia a la discusión sobre la efectividad de la táctica defensiva de Big Wing –Gran Ala– ideada por el vicemariscal Trafford LeighMallory –comandante del 12º Grupo– y consistente en 23 Price, A (1999). El legendario Spitfire Mk I/II .Madrid: Osprey – Ediciones del Prado. p. 24. 24 Price (1999). p. 23. 25 En el film queda patente este cambio de formación al apreciarse en una secuencia de ataque a bombarderos Heinkel He 111 una escuadrilla de 12 Spitfire atacando en oleadas de tres secciones de cuatro aviones cada una.



agrupar alrededor de 50 a 60 cazas para interceptar a los aviones enemigos. En el film se construye una secuencia en la cual Leigh-Mallory discute con sus superiores –Dowding y Park– acerca de la viabilidad de la táctica. Tal reunión no tuvo lugar si bien es cierto que hubo cruce de informes y comunicados entre los afectados sobre todo a partir del momento crítico del 24 de agosto de 1940 cuando la respuesta del 12º Grupo ante un ataque alemán en dirección a Hornchuch, Horth Weald y Manston fue desastrosa e ineficaz. El balance final de esta táctica dejó clara su escasa eficacia ya que de “treinta dos Grandes Alas lanzadas por el 12º Grupo, solo siete se toparon con el enemigo y sólo una vez llegó una Gran Ala antes que el enemigo al punto de interceptación señalado”26. Por último, hay que mencionar otro elemento de vital importancia para la defensa británica: los pilotos. Si bien el bando alemán contaba en ese con superioridad numérica tanto en aviones como en tripulaciones, muchas de las cuales tenían experiencia de combate en las campañas precedentes –algunas incluso habían tomado parte en la Guerra Civil Española como miembros de la Legión Cóndor– no ocurría los mismo con sus homólogos británicos, quienes, en el mejor de los casos, habían sido entrenados durante época de paz con unas tácticas inadecuadas, tal y como recuerda un expiloto: “todas nuestras prácticas de ataque se habían programado para hacer frente a bombarderos sin escolta. Es decir, años enteros mandados al carajo. Tuvimos que empezar a aprender desde cero”27. Otra realidad que es reflejada en el film es la escasez de pilotos la cual iba en aumento debido a las bajas que se producían tras cada combate y que llegaron a ser un grave problema para el Mando de la RAF. Para hacer frente a las pérdidas, Dowding –como se refleja en el film– solicita pilotos a otras ramas del Ejército y la Armada, además de permitir que algunos pilotos de bombarderos fueran destinados al Mando de Caza. 26 Bishop (2006). p. 372. 27 Moss (2005). p. 245.



No obstante la baza más importante fue la incorporación al combate de los pilotos extranjeros. Inicialmente existieron reticencias debido a las diferencias idiomáticas, culturales y sobre todo, porque muchos de los pilotos foráneos –que habían combatido contra la Luftwaffe durante la Blitzkrieg– consideraban que las tácticas británicas no eran las adecuadas para derrotar a los alemanes. Si bien en la realidad lucharon en la RAF aviadores de diversas nacionalidades –los cuales fueron agrupados en los llamados Escuadrones 300, ya que se reservó esta numeración para ellos– en la película se presta especial atención a los pilotos polacos ya que se trataba del grupo más numeroso –145 pilotos– y uno de los grupos que más victorias registraron.28 Bajas pilotos de la RAF durante la Batalla de Inglaterra28 Muertos

Heridos

Desaparecidos

Julio

67

23

0

Agosto

139

110

7

Septiembre/octubre

200

162

6

Bajas pilotos de la Luftwaffe durante la Batalla de Inglaterra Muertos

Heridos

Julio

193

69

Desaparecidos 302

Agosto

463

201

804

Septiembre/octubre

793

260

808

En el film se dramatiza la primera ocasión en la que los polacos atacaron a los aviones enemigos con una dosis de humor que sirva para ilustrar los equívocos idiomáticos, ya que los pilotos al detectar a los aparatos alemanes van rompiendo la formación ordenada por su líder de vuelo con un “repet please” –“repita, por favor”– antes de abalanzarse y empezar la cacería –no exenta de un carácter de ajuste de cuentas– de aviones germanos. Con todo, la secuencia mantiene cierta verosimilitud 28 Gene Walker: Boundless Learning Project Builder. [En línea] Disponible en web: http://www.csd.uwo.ca/~pettypi/elevon/gustin_military/strength. html [Consulta junio de 2009].



con la realidad histórica ya que “la primera prueba en combate de la unidad llegó el 30 de agosto de 1940. Durante un vuelo rutinario de instrucción dirigido por el Squadron Leader Kellet se localizaron algunos bombarderos alemanes que estaban siendo atacados por dos Hurricane del Squadron 213 al norte de Northolt. El Pilot Officer Paskiewicz observó el desarrollo del combate a unos 300 metros por debajo y decidió participar en él”.29 30 Escuadrones polacos durante la Batalla de Inglaterra30 Nº y Nombre

Fecha de formación

Aviones

302 “Poznanski”

13 de julio de 1940

Hurricane

303 “Kosciusko”

2 de agosto de 1940

Hurricane

306 “Torunian”

28 de agosto de 1940

Hurricane

307 “Lwow”

5 de septiembre de 1940

Defiant

b. Fases de la Batalla

La película por otro lado, reconstruye las fases que se sucedieron en la Batalla de Inglaterra y que fueron –según la terminología del atacante alemán– las siguientes: – Kanalkampf (Batalla del Canal): del 10 de julio al 11 de agosto. – Adlerangriff (Ataque del águila): del 12 de agosto al 6 de septiembre. – Blitz: del 7 de septiembre al 5 de octubre. Con respecto a la primera fase, en el film se menciona de pasada en una secuencia que se desarrolla en el centro de mando de Stanmore. El objetivo estratégico prioritario del Kanalkampf era bloquear el comercio británico ya que la Luftwaffe hostigaba el tráfico marítimo de mercantes y cargueros que atravesaban el Canal de la Mancha. Al 29 Gretzynger, R. – Matusiak, W. (1999) Los ases polacos de la Segunda Guerra Mundial. Madrid: Osprey – Ediciones del Prado. p. 24. 30 Elaboración propia a partir de datos de Air of Authority – A History of RAF Organisation [En línea] Disponible en web: http://www.rafweb.org/ Menu.htm [Consulta marzo 2008 – junio 2009].



mismo tiempo servía para conseguir datos acerca de las defensas británicas. Esta vertiente de inteligencia militar motivó que de las formaciones aéreas enviadas “más o menos una cuarta parte {…] iba en misiones de reconocimiento, intentando fotografiar aeródromos y puertos, algo que formaba parte de los preparativos de los servicios de inteligencia para los ataques principales”31. La escasa importancia que se concede a esta fase en el film, en el fondo no hace más que reflejar la estrategia de Dowding de no arriesgar a los cazas y sus pilotos en la defensa de unos convoyes que en el fondo no eran de vital importancia para la supervivencia de los intereses británicos. Esta escasa resistencia, junto al empleo de aviones obsoletos en las misiones de defensa, hizo creer a los alemanes que la RAF sería fácilmente derrotada en la siguiente fase. Así pues, convencidos de la vulnerabilidad británica, hecho que en el film se ilustra con los informes que realiza la Inteligencia Militar de la Luftwaffe32, Hitler ordenó el inicio de la siguiente fase, el Adlerangriff, señalandose el día 5 de agosto como el del inicio de las operaciones y señalando que el objetivo de los ataques debían ser las “unidades aéreas, sus instalaciones en tierra y la infraestructura logística y la industria aeronáutica”33. El colofón de esta fase iba a ser el llamado Adlertag –Día del Águila– programado en un principio para el 13 de agosto. Hasta desencadenar el Adlertag, la Luftwaffe efectuó una serie de ataques contra instalaciones de radar, tal y como se muestra en el relato cinematográfico. Así, el 12 de agosto se bombardearon las instalaciones de Dover, Ry, Pevensey, Dunkirk y Ventnor. Precisamente el bombardeo de ésta última estación –ubicada en la isla de Wight– es reconstruida en la película, eso si, con bas31 Bishop (2006). p. 299. 32 En la realidad, el papel de la Inteligencia de la Luftwaffe fue desastroso para los intereses alemanes, a saber: “Luftwaffe inteligente reported absurdly inflated RAF losses and damage to airflieds and vital installations, but they could not delude themselves about to alarming losses to Göring’s Air Fleets.” DEIGHTON, L (1980). Battle of Britain, London: Jonathan Cape. p. 128. 33 Bishop (2006). p. 336.



tantes divergencias con respecto a los hechos que sucedieron en la realidad. En el film, la fuerza atacante es una escuadrilla de Stukas, si bien en la realidad la acción la llevaron a cabo bombarderos Junkers Ju 88 que iban acompañados de una nutrida escolta de cazas pesados Messerchmitt Me 110, detalle –el de la escolta– que se omite en el film. Por el contrario, la recreación de los defensores es más acertada ya que en efecto fueron pilotos de Spitfire –de los escuadrones 152 y 609– los responsables de derribar a 6 cazas enemigos y 10 bombarderos. Si bien existe falta de rigor histórico en cuanto a la secuencia del ataque a Ventnor, si se puede tomar como acertada la puesta en escena de la derrota de los Stuka frente a los cazas de la RAF, hecho que llevó a los alemanes a retirar este tipo de aparato del frente de batalla. La narración cinematográfica sitúa el Adlertag –el ataque a gran escala de la Luftwaffe– el día 10 de agosto, si bien en la realidad se inició el 13 de agosto, aunque debido a las malas condiciones climáticas y la feroz defensa británica no consiguió el resultado deseado. De manera que el 15 de agosto, la Luftwaffe desencadenó un ataque de mayores proporciones en el participó la Luftflotte 5 estacionada en Noruega y que, como bien recoge el film, tenía como objetivo “abrir una brecha y aplastar las defensas británicas por todo el flanco este y sur de la isla, operando en un frente de 1300 kilómetros que se extendía desde Edimburgo hasta Exeter”34. Dada la envergadura del ataque, Goering esperaba que éste fuera el inicio de la total y definitiva destrucción de la RAF. La reconstrucción fílmica de los combates, con secciones de Hurricane derribando a los bombardeos alemanes, Spitfire eliminando a los Messerchmitt de escolta, ilustra fielmente los terribles enfrentamientos que se produjeron en el cielo británico y que se saldó con la derrota de la Luftflotte 5, la cual perdió el 20% de sus aparatos y alrededor de 81 tripulantes. La derrota de ese día fue de tal magnitud que los pilotos alemanes se refirieron a dicha jornada como el “jueves negro”.

34 Bishop (2006). p. 349.



Tras esta derrota, que suponía un retraso en los planes alemanes, Goering convocó a sus comandantes a una reunión en la que responsabilizó a las Geschwader de cazas de las pérdidas de bombarderos y dio indicaciones de que los cazas debían escoltar a los bombarderos a toda costa. Se inició, pues, un recrudecimiento de los ataques alemanes a partir del 24 de agosto. El film recoge el ataque alemán de la noche del 24 de agosto, importante toda vez que supuso –debido a un error de navegación por parte de algunas tripulaciones35– el primer bombardeo de Londres, objetivo que estaba vetado por orden directa de Hitler, quien aun confiaba, en tan tardía fecha, de poder conseguir un acuerdo con Gran Bretaña. Siguiendo con el relato cinematográfico y debido a las necesidades intrínsecas de este tipo de narración, la siguiente secuencia muestra un ataque británico sobre Berlín organizado con un hábil uso del sonido de alarmas aéreas y el apagón de la ciudad36. Aunque debido a limitaciones técnicas la película no muestra el ataque en sí, lo cierto es que “la respuesta de Churchill fue enviar 81 aparatos tipo Whitley, Wellington y Hampden, durante los días 25 y 26 de agosto, con orden de bombardear Berlín”37. Este bombardeo británico fue más que nada una operación que ayudó a mantener la moral de las tropas y la población, ya que para ese momento la RAF no se encontraba en condiciones de efectuar una campaña de bom35 La narración fílmica muestra como el Major Brandt y su navegante, desconcertados por las coordenadas y el cambio de rumbo producido durante el vuelo, arrojan las bombas sobre Londres. Se muestra como son reprendidos por su superior el General Osterkamp quien les recuerda la prohibición de atacar la ciudad y más tarde como son trasladados a Berlín donde son recibidos por el Oberst Schmidt, del Servicio de Inteligencia Militar. Precisamente la llegada de Brandt y su navegante coincide con el primer ataque británico a la capital alemana, lo que sirve para poner en boca de los personajes una de las frases dichas por Goering quien dijo que si en alguna ocasión caía una bomba sobre Berlín pasaría a llamarse Meyer, apellido de origen judío. De hecho, en el dialogo original de la escena –en alemán- Brandt al señalar las palabras de Goering dice “me hago judío”. 36 El Berlín de la película es en realidad la ciudad de San Sebastián debidamente caracterizada como la capital del III Reich gracias al uso de estandartes con esvásticas y otra parafernalia nazi. 37 VV.AA (1990) Imágenes de la guerra. Madrid: Rialp. p. 58.



bardeos sistemáticos. Si bien el ataque en sí “fue un fracaso lamentable; los únicos daños los sufrió la glorieta de un jardín en las afueras”38; no obstante la fecha elegida coincidía con la reunión que el Ministro de Asuntos Exteriores del III Reich, Von Ribbentrop, mantuvo con Molotov, su homólogo soviético. Por corte directo, el realizador del film crea una elipsis llevando la acción al 4 de septiembre de 1940, día en el que Hitler pronunció un discurso en el Sportpalast de Berlín, ante un público compuesto en su mayor parte por mujeres de las distintas organizaciones nazis, en el que señaló: “It is a wonderful thing to see our nation at war, in its fully disciplined state. This is exactly what we are now experiencing at this time, as Mr Churchill is demonstrating to us the aerial night attacks which he has concocted. He is not doing this because these air raids might be particularly effective, but because his Air Force cannot fly over German territory in daylight. Whereas German aviators and German planes fly over English soil daily, there is hardly a single Englishman who comes across the North Sea in daytime. They therefore come during the night — and as you know, release their bombs indiscriminately and without any plan on to residential areas, farmhouses and villages. Wherever they see a sign of light, a bomb is dropped on it. For three months past, I have not ordered any answer to be given, thinking that they would stop this nonsensical behaviour. Mr Churchill has taken this to be a sign of our weakness. You will understand that we shall now give a reply, night for night, and with increasing force. And if the British Air Force drops two, three or four thousand kilos of bombs, then we will now drop 150,000, 180,000, 230,000, 300,000 or 400,000 kilos, or more, in one night. If they declare that they will attack our cities on a large scale, we will erase theirs! We will put a stop to the game of these night-pirates, as God is our witness. The hour will come when one or the other of us will crumble, and that one will not be National Socialist Germany”39.

38 Kershaw, A. (2007) Aviadores. Barcelona: Debate. p. 172. 39 Fragmento del discurso de Hitler en el Sportpalast del 4 de septiembre recogido en Battle of Britain Historical Society: Hitler’s Directive No.17 of August 1st 1940. [en línea] Disponible en web: http://www.battleofbritain.net/0034.html [Consulta junio de 2009]. (Traducción del autor) Es una maravilla ver a nuestra nación en guerra, en su estado totalmente disciplinado. Esto es exactamente lo que ahora experimentamos, como nos demuestra los ataques aéreos nocturnos que ha preparado el señor Churchill. Él no hace esto porque estos ataques aéreos puedan ser en particular eficaces, sino porque sus Fuerzas Aéreas no pueden volar sobre el territorio alemán a la luz del día. Mientras que los aviadores alemanes y



Tras la secuencia del discurso, le sigue la llegada de Goering al Norte de Francia para supervisar las operaciones. En efecto, el 7 de septiembre Goering se trasladó al Paso de Calais para ponerse al mando, y como bien ilustra dicha secuencia, la Luftwaffe desplegó una gran cantidad de aparatos: 350 bombarderos y más de 600 cazas. Entre los oficiales atacantes se encontraba en General Fink –líder de la Kampfgeschwader 2– personaje recreado en el film pero que a diferencia de la realidad, en vez de pilotar un Do17, aparece a los mandos de un He 111. Tal y como se dramatiza en el film, el objetivo era la ciudad de Londres, objetivo al que los alemanes consiguieron infringir numerosos daños ya que “los controladores malinterpretaron el objetivo alemán, creyendo que los bombarderos se dirigían a atacar aeropuertos situados al norte y este de Londres, por lo que la capital quedó sin protección aérea alguna”40. No obstante, en el film también se reconstruye la feroz defensa británica y como los bombarderos alemanes fueron derribados o dañados, entre ellos el de Fink, quien refiriéndose a los cazas británicos recordaba años más tarde:

los aviones alemanes vuelan sobre suelo inglés a diario, apenas un británico cruza el Mar del Norte a la luz del día. Ellos, por lo tanto, vienen durante la noche – y como saben, arrojan sus bombas sin criterio y sin cualquier plan sobre áreas residenciales, cortijos y pueblos. En cualquier parte donde ellos vean un signo de luz, dejan caer una bomba. Durante tres meses no he ordenado ninguna respuesta, pensando que ellos detendrían este comportamiento absurdo. El señor Churchill ha interpretado esto como un signo de debilidad. Entenderán que ahora demos una respuesta, noche tras noche, y con una fuerza creciente. Si las Fuerzas Aéreas británicas dejan caer dos, tres mil o cuatro mil kilos de bombas, entonces nosotros arrojaremos 150,000, 180,000, 230,000, 300,000 o 400,000 kilos, o más, en una noche. ¡Si ellos declaran que atacarán nuestras ciudades con mayor fuerza, nosotros borraremos las suyas! Pondremos término al juego de estos piratas de la noche, como Dios es nuestro testigo. Vendrá un tiempo en el que uno de los dos se derrumbará, y no será la Alemania Nacionalsocialista. Ya he completado tal lucha una vez en mi vida, hasta las consecuencias finales, y esto entonces condujo al derrumbamiento del enemigo que ahora todavía sienta allí en Inglaterra sobre Europa la última isla. 40 VV.AA (1990). p. 58.



“Se lanzaron sobre las formaciones de bombarderos desde una altitud increíble. Obviamente contábamos con demasiadas ametralladoras para que pudiesen atacar de ninguna otra manera. Teníamos la impresión de que cada caza había elegido un bombardeo y se lanzaba para atacarlo. Era una espantosa sensación que se abalanzaran sobre ti”41.

Tras el fracaso de la operación del día 7 de septiembre, el film reconstruye una reunión de Goering con los mandos de las Luftflotte en Francia y con los comandantes de las unidades de bombardeo y caza. Esta reunión que el realizador ubica temporalmente en septiembre, en realidad tuvo lugar el 19 de agosto y, en efecto, en ella Goering culpó a los pilotos de caza de no dar cobertura a los bombarderos y ordenó que estos, como ya se ha señalado, escoltaran a los bombarderos. También de esta reunión surgió la leyenda acerca de la contestación que espetó Galland –en el film su alter ego es el Major Föhn– a la pregunta de Goering acerca de cuales eran las necesidades de las unidades de caza: “un escuadrón de Spitfires”. Una de serie de planos generales y con montaje dinámico sirven para reconstruir la rutina de los días 8 a 14 de septiembre: ataques de la Luftwaffe sobre Londres y las bases del Mando de Caza. Tras estas imágenes se da paso a la última secuencia de combates aéreos del film y que recrea el ataque alemán del 15 de septiembre y que supuso el día en el que la Luftwaffe sufrió una derrota aplastante. Hay que señalar la puesta en escena de este combate decisivo trata de reflejar tanto las imágenes captadas por las guncam con las que iban equipados algunos aparatos, como las fotografías más famosas tomadas durante aquellos días, como la del cielo de Londres cubierto de estelas de humo y vapor producido por los aviones maniobrando y enfrentándose a gran altura. La película recurre a un montaje muy dinámico para ilustrar los combates concediendo igual dramatismo a los planos en los que se muestra como los pilotos, británicos o alemanes, son alcanzados y heridos de gravedad, como ocurre con la escena del Squadron Leader Canfield o la del Squadron Leader Harvey, ya que en la realidad de los combates: “los pilotos sufrían unas muer41 Bishop (2006). p. 437.



tes horribles, acribillados por fragmentos de proyectiles de cañón, rociados con gasolina ardiendo, arrastrados a las heladas profundidades del Canal de la Mancha por el peso del paracaídas, las pesadas botas y las chaquetas de aviador forradas de piel. Si no morían al instante, tenían tiempo de darse cuenta de que no tenían escapatoria”42. Tras la secuencia de la batalla del 15 de septiembre, el film muestra como los pilotos británicos esperan un nuevo ataque que finalmente no sucederá y se da a entender que la batalla ha concluido. Los hechos fueron ligeramente diferentes, ya que si bien paulatinamente la Luftwaffe efectuó menos ataques diurnos contra Londres y otras ciudades y los aeródromos, lo cierto es que durante todo el mes de octubre desencadenó el Blitz, una serie de ataques nocturnos contra ciudades y centros industriales. Estos ataques cesan en mayo de 1941 momento en el que la Wehrmacht está a punto de lanzar su ataque contra la Unión Soviética. Con todo, a pesar de que el alto mando alemán mantenía sus preparativos43 la tenaz y disciplinada defensa británica de su espacio aéreo, en ocasiones con unos pilotos al borde del colapso, determinó que el Alto mando alemán cancelara la Operación Seelow. Lo que vino a dar un vital respiro a Gran Bretaña. Tmavomodrý svět (Dark Blue World, Svěrák, 2001)

La realización de Jan Sverak se centra en los pilotos checos que sirvieron en la RAF durante la Segunda Guerra Mundial. La película muestra de manera alterna la situación de los antiguos pilotos en las primeras décadas 42 Bishop (2006). p. 389. 43 En cuanto al matenimiento de los preparativos baste citar que “by midSeptember the Germans had assembled about 1,000 assorted invasión craft in the Channel ports, with some 600 more in Sceldt. RAF bombing crippled about 12 per cent of this armada; what remained was still sufficient for the first stage of invasion as planned, but the combination of the bombing, and a sharp riposte by Fighter Command to a renewed attempt at a daylight attack on September 9, forced Hitler to yet another postponement of SEALION. It was deferred until the 24th, which meant that a final decision should have been made on September 14” Terraine, J.(1985) The Right of the Line. London: Hodder & Stoughton. p. 210.



de los años 50 cuando, tras el ascenso de los comunistas al poder, la gran mayoría fueron encarcelados acusados de estar “contaminados por la ideología occidental”. La acción del film se inicia en marzo de 1939 con una secuencia idílica presentación –y no exenta de erotismo– del oficial Frantisek Slama y Hanicka a bordo de un Aero A. 100, avión de entrenamiento de la Fuerza Aérea Checa. Acto seguido se presenta al siguiente protagonista: el joven piloto Karen Vojtisek quien está destinado en el aeródromo de Olomouc, principal base aérea checa de los años 30. El primer punto de interés histórico del film se recrea en la madrugada del 15 de marzo de 1939 cuando los protagonistas escuchan por la radio el discurso de Hitler en el que anuncia la ocupación de Checoslovaquia; la cual venía a cerrar un proceso iniciado en la primavera de 1938. Tras el Anschluss –anexión de Austria al territorio alemán– Hitler dirigió sus miras al territorio checo de los Sudetes donde habitaba una minoría de cultura alemana. La intriga nazi llevó a financiar la actividad del Partido de los Sudetes Alemanes, formación política pronazi que reivindicó la unión de este territorio con el reich alemán. Por su parte, Checoslovaquia se ampara en un tratado de asistencia mutua con Francia y busca una solución diplomática internacional. No obstante, las acciones alemanas dejan claro que no hay otra solución que la incorporación territorial. Así, una fuerza paramilitar nazi, el Sudetendeutsches Freikorps, se infiltró en territorio checo y realizó “más de 300 misiones y tomó más de 1500 prisioneros durante sus incursiones contra el ejército checo”44. Al mismo tiempo, Polonia –incitada por Alemania– efectuaba igualmente reivindicaciones territoriales. Para complicar aún más la situación Hungría también desplegó sus tropas en la frontera ya que también efectuó reivindicaciones territoriales.

44 Ailsby, Ch (2005) Mercenarios de Hitler. Tropas extranjeras al servicio del Tercer Reich. Madrid: Libsa. p. 49.



Frente a la inestabilidad generada por la cuestión checa, Francia, y Gran Bretaña promueven la realización de un encuentro de las potencias implicadas. Finalmente, el 29 de septiembre de 1938 se reúnen los representantes británico, francés, italiano y alemán. Paradójicamente el delegado checo fue excluido de las conversaciones. El encuentro concluyó con la firma del Pacto de Munich, según el cual las potencias occidentales accedían a las peticiones alemanas. Sin esperar mucho tiempo, las tropas alemanas entraron en la región de los Sudetes45. El expansionismo nazi no terminó con esta acción, sino que Hitler ordenó a la Wehrmacht que preparara la ocupación del resto de Checoslovaquia, acción que tuvo lugar el 15 de marzo de 1939 ante la pasividad de las potencias democráticas de Europa. La absorción de Checoslovaquia supuso un alivio para la economía armamentística del III Reich ya que numerosas industrias pasaron a ser controladas por los alemanes, así, por ejemplo: “la fábrica Hermann Goering se hizo cargo de la siderurgia Vitkovice, las fábricas Skoda de armamento y vehículos y otras seis compañía importantes. El Dresdner Bank se hizo con el control de las fábricas de coches Tatra y los Mannesmann se quedaron con la Compañía Ferroviaria de Praga y la siderurgia ce Ostrava. Cerca de la mitad del capital en acciones en el protectorado de Bohemia y Moravia pasó, por diversos métodos, al control alemán y casi todo el capital en acciones en la minería de carbón, el petróleo, el cemento y el papel”46.

De igual manera, las instalaciones militares pasaron a control germano, al tiempo que se incorporaba a la Wehrmacht un importante botón de guerra: “1231 aviones, 1996 cañones antitanque, 2254 piezas de artillería de campaña, 810 tanques, 57000 ametralladoras y 630000 fusiles”47.

45 Al mismo tiempo Polonia incorporaba a la región de Teschen, y Hungría una franja de Eslovaquia y Rutenia. 46 Milward, A. (1986) La segunda guerra mundial. 1939–1945. Barcelona: Crítica. p. 189. 47 Murray, W – Millet, A. (2006) La guerra que había que ganar. Barcelona: Crítica. p. 31–32.



Todas estas incorporaciones se efectuaron sin que los checos presentaran resistencia, circunstancia que en el film es recordada por el Hauptmann Hesse a Frantisek cuando éste le entrega las instalaciones del aeródromo de Olomouc. Por otro lado, el optimismo presente en las palabras del alemán y su prepotencia no es más que el reflejo del ambiente triunfal que se vivió en el Reich nazi y del que son un buen testimonio las palabras de Goebbels, quien escribió en el Völkischer Beobachter un relato de los acontecimientos destinado a aumentar el sentimiento de euforia colectiva, a saber: “As State President Hacha came to talk with the Führer shortly after midnight on Tuesday evening, the future of the ancient German lands of Bohemia and Moravia was already determined. It was determined by historical necessity, which was speaking a clear and unmistakable language. […] Shortly after, radio stations told the world that the historic provinces of Bohemia and Moravia had returned to the federation of the Greater German Reich. State President Hacha himself had asked the Führer to assume the protection of these provinces, noting that he “was confidently placing the fate of the Czech people and nation in the hands of the Führer of the German Reich. […] The Reich Protectorates of the historic provinces of Bohemia and Moravia were proclaimed. It was the conclusion of a historical process that had begun around the year 1000, when the earliest chronicler of Bohemia, the Slav Comas, already thought Bohemia a part of Germany. Through the years, Bohemia and Moravia were bound by feudal ties and other connections to the German Reich. Prague itself has the oldest German university. The most beautiful buildings of the city were built by Germans: the cathedral, the Charles Bridge, the Teyn and Nicholas churches. The prosperity and economic successes of these peoples and provinces have always been strongest when they were under the protection of the Reich.”48

48 Goebbels, J: «Die große Zeit,» Die Zeit ohne Beispiel Zentralverlag der NSDAP. Munich, 1941, pp. 70-76. publicado online en German Propaganda Archive [En línea] Disponible en web: http://www.calvin.edu/academic/cas/gpa/ goeb25.htm. [Consulta junio de 2009]. (Traducción del autor) Cuando el Presidente Hacha vino para hablar con el Führer poco después de la medianoche del martes, el futuro de las antiguas tierras alemanas de Bohemia y Moravia ya había sido determinado. Fue determinado por una necesidad histórica, ya que hablaban una lengua clara e inequívoca (se refiere al alemán) Poco después, las emisoras de radio anunciaron al mundo que las provincias históricas de Bohemia y Moravia habían vuelto a la federación del Gran Reich Alemán. Se anunció que el mismo presidente Hacha había pedido el Führer que asumiera la protección de estas provincias, señalando



La huída protagonizada por Frantisek49 y Karel ilustra la realidad de numerosos soldados y pilotos checos que tras la ocupación decidieron cruzar la frontera con Polonia. En efecto, en marzo de 1939 numerosos pilotos checos llegaron a Polonia. No obstante el mando militar polaco no los incorporó a su fuerza aérea para tratar de no crear un punto de tensión con Alemania ya que los fugitivos checos formalmente eran ciudadanos del Protectorado, es decir, estaban bajo jurisdicción alemana. Debido a esta circunstancia los checos continuaron su periplo en dirección a Francia. De hecho, un contingente de 700 pilotos “abandonó Polonia a finales de Julio de 1939 a bordo del buque sueco Castelholm y el trasatlántico polaco Chrobrý, atracando en Boulogne-sur-Mer el 13 de agosto”50. En una escena posterior se menciona la participación en los combates que tuvieron lugar durante la Batalla de Francia, referencia que si bien es cierta, no puede decirse que sea aplicable a todos los pilotos que él «ponía el destino de los checos y su nación en las manos del Führer del Reich alemán con total seguridad.” El Protectorado del Reich de las provincias históricas de Bohemia y Moravia fueron proclamadas. Esto suponía la conclusión de un proceso histórico que había comenzado alrededor del año 1000, cuando al cronista más antiguo de Bohemia, Slav Comas, ya había pensado en Bohemia como una parte de Alemania. Durante los años, Bohemia y Moravia habían estado unidos al Reich alemán por medio de lazos feudales y otras conexiones. Asimismo Praga tiene la universidad alemana más antigua. Los edificios más hermosos de la ciudad fueron construidos por alemanes: la catedral, el Puente de Carlos, el Teyn y la iglesia de Nicolás. La prosperidad y los éxitos económicos de estos pueblos y provincias siempre fueron fuertes cuando estaban bajo protección del Reich. 49 Hay que mencionar que el personaje de Frantisek Slama está basado en el as checo Frantisek Fajtl, piloto de la Fuerza Aérea Checa que hasta la anexión alemana prestaba servicio en el Escuadrón 63 con base en Olomouc, unidad que tal y como se ilustra en el film estaba equipada con cazas Aero A. 100. Tras la ocupación germana, Fajtl escapó a Polonia y posteriormente a Francia. Tras la invasión de Francia escapó de nuevo en dirección a Gran Bretaña, donde se enroló en la RAF. Prestó servicio en el 1 Squadron, el 17 Squadron, el 313 Squadron “Czechoslovak” y finalmente en el 122 Squadron, del cual fue Squadron Leader. Tras la guerra, en 1948 fue encarcelado e inhabilitado por las autoridades del gobierno comunista. Solo tras la caída del comunismo en 1898 Fajtl fue rehabilitado y ascendido a Teniente General de la Fuerza Aérea y condecorado con la más alta medalla checa: la Orden del León de oro. Fajtl murió en 2006. 50 Brown, A: The Czechoslovak Air Force in Britain, 1940-1945. Tesis doctoral de la Facultad de Artes del Departamento de Historia Universal de Southampton, marzo 1998.



checos, ya que de unos 1000 aviadores que se encontraban en Francia, solo tuvieron participación directa en los combates 85 de ellos. Ante la previsible derrota de Francia, el presidente checo en el exilio, Eduard Benes, contactó con el Secretario de Estado del Aire británico, –sir Archibald Sinclair– solicitando que se hiciera un esfuerzo para evacuar a los pilotos checos hasta suelo británico. Como parte de sus negociaciones, el 2 de julio Benes remite al gobierno británico un informe que concluye con la necesidad de establecer un tratado para incorporar al personal militar checo en el ejército británico concediendo especial énfasis en los pilotos. En el plazo de un mes y salvando ciertos recelos, se crearon dos escuadrones checos que debido a la urgencia del procedimiento y hasta que fuera ratificado por la firma del gobierno británico, fueron encuadrados en la Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve. Finalmente, el 25 de octubre se firmó el acuerdo en el que se aseguró la incorporación de los pilotos checos a la RAF, su equipamiento con aviones tanto para entrenamiento51 como para misiones de combate aunque, como queda bien claro en el film, los mandos serían británicos. También quedaba establecido que los pilotos serían instruidos en el uso de la terminología británica y se les impartirían clases de inglés52.53 ESCUADRONES DE CAZA CHECOS EN SERVICIO EN LA RAF 1939–194553 310 Squadron “Czechoslovak” Grupo

Base

Formado

Comentarios

12

Duxford

10/07/40

Formado con Hurricane I, 07/40. Hurricane IIa, 03/41.

11

Martlesham Heath

26/06/41

Hurricane IIb, 06/41.

51 En este sentido la secuencia de prácticas de combate usando bicicletas es más una licencia del director que una verdad constatable. 52 Hecho ilustrado en el film y que da pie a una escena cómica debido a la dificultad que Karen tiene para pronunciar los verbos to land (aterrizar) y to lend (prestar). 53 Ross McNeill: Fighter Command. [En línea] Disponible en web: http://www. rafcommands.com/Fighter/indexF.html. [Consulta junio de 2009].



ESCUADRONES DE CAZA CHECOS EN SERVICIO EN LA RAF 1939–194553 310 Squadron “Czechoslovak” Grupo

Base

Formado

Comentarios

20/07/41

Spitfire IIa, 10/41. Spitfire Vb, 11/41.

13

Dyce

10

Perranporth

24/12/41

10

Exeter

07/05/42

11

Redhill

01/07/42

10

Exeter

07/07/42 16/08/42

11

Redhill

10

Exeter

21/08/42

13

Castletown

26/06/43

Spitfire Vc, 07/43.

10

Ibsley

19/09/43

Spitfire LFIX, 01/44.

12

Mendlesham

19/02/44

12

Hutton Cranswick

21/02/44

12

Mendlesham

25/02/44

2TAF

Appledram

03/04/44

2TAF

Tangmere

22/06/44

2TAF

Lympne

01/07/44

12

Digby

11/07/44

11

North Weald

28/08/44

11

Bradwell Bay

29/12/44

11

Manston

27/02/45

Retirado el 31/08/45.

312 Squadron “Czechoslovak” Grupo

Base

Formado

Comentarios

12

Duxford

29/08/40

Formed. Hurricane I, 08/40.

9

Speke

26/09/40

9

Valley

03/03/41

9

Jurby

25/04/41

11

Kenley

29/05/41

11

Martlesham Heath

20/07/41

13

Ayr

19/08/41

10

Fairwood Common

01/01/42

10

Angle

24/01/42

Hurricane IIb, 05/41.

Spitfire IIa, 10/41. Spitfire IIb, 11/41. Spitfire Vb, 12/41.



312 Squadron “Czechoslovak” Grupo

Base

Formado

10

Fairwood Common

18/04/42

10

Warmwell

20/04/42

10

Harrowbeer

02/05/42

10

Warmwell

19/05/42

10

Harrowbeer

31/05/42

11

Redhill

01/07/42

10

Harrowbeer

08/07/42

11

Redhill

16/08/42

10

Harrowbeer

20/08/42

10

Church Stanton

10/10/42

10

Warmwell

20/02/43

10

Church Stanton

14/03/43

13

Skeabrae

24/06/43

10

Ibsley

21/09/43

9

Llanbedr

02/12/43

10

Ibsley

18/12/43

12

Mendlesham

19/02/44

2TAF

Appledram

04/04/44

2TAF

Tangmere

22/06/44

11

Lympne

04/07/44

12

Coltishall

11/07/44

11

North Weald

27/08/44

11

Bradwell Bay

03/10/44

11

Manston

27/02/45

Comentarios

Spitfire Vc, 08/42.

Spitfire LFIXb, 01/44.

Spitfire HFIX, 06/44.

Destinado en Checoslovaquia el 08/09/45.

313 Squadron “Czechoslovak” Grupo

Base

Formado

Comentarios

13

Catterick

10/05/41

Equipado con Spitfire I, 05/41.

13

Leconfield

01/07/41

10

Portreath

26/08/41

11

Hornchurch

15/12/41

11

Fairlop

29/04/42



Spitfire IIa, 08/41. Spitfire Vb, 10/41.

313 Squadron “Czechoslovak” Grupo

Base

Formado

Comentarios

10

Church Stanton

28/06/42

Spitfire Vc, 07/42.

14

Peterhead

28/06/43

Spitfire VI, 06/43.

11

Hawkinge

21/08/43

10

Ibsley

18/09/43

13

Ayr

10/01/44

10

Ibsley

20/01/44

12

Mendlesham

20/02/44

11

Appledram

04/04/44

11

Tangmere

22/06/44

11

Lympne

04/07/44

13

Skeabrae

11/07/44

11

North Weald

04/10/44

11

Bradwell Bay

29/12/44

11

Manston

27/02/45

Spitfire IX, 02/44.

Spitfire VII, 07/44.

Trasladado a Checoslovaquia el 24/08/45.

El film, toda vez que se desarrolla una vez concluida la Batalla de Inglaterra, ilustra como la RAF tomó la iniciativa de atacar objetivos alemanes al otro lado del Canal. Así, una de las secuencias ilustra las misiones denominadas Circus, consistentes en escoltar bombarderos, y en efecto, la película refleja como la escuadrilla de los protagonistas escoltan una formación de B17 estadounidenses, hecho que sirve además para situar históricamente la acción fílmica ya que “el primer bombardeo norteamericano del continente europeo no tuvo lugar hasta agosto de 1942”54. Otra de ellas, la más espectacular del film, recrea las misiones tipo Rhubarb –Ruibarbo– esto es “ataques a baja altitud contra objetivos de oportunidad como puentes, locomotoras, convoyes, baterías antiaéreas y barcazas”55. Así, en el film se ilustra el procedimiento de la misión señalada: reconocimiento, de-

54 Murray – Mollet (2006). p. 451. 55 Bishop (2006). p. 487.



tección de un objetivo y destrucción del mismo, en este caso un tren de suministros56. La realización de Sverak –al igual que las otras dos películas comentadas– ofrece de nuevo una visión realista de los pilotos de caza por lo que no sorprende la inserción en la narración combates aéreos y una posterior secuencia de fiestas, bailes y borracheras, ya que: “En ocasiones, los pilotos pasaban toda la noche en el West End de Londres, regresaban a los barracones de dispersión alrededor de las cuatro de la madrugada y echaban una cabezada en las tumbonas, con la chaqueta de vuelo cubriéndoles el uniforme manchado de cerveza, hasta que justo antes del amanecer llegaba un desayuno rico en grasas, consistente en huevos, tocino y judías”57.

El film también ilustra las tácticas agresivas empleadas por los pilotos checos, quienes al igual que los polacos tenían una cuenta pendiente con los oponentes germanos. En la narración cinematográfica de Sverak, se contrapone la disciplina según modelo británico de Franta y el arrojo impulsivo de Karen, hecho que en definitiva es un testimonio de los combates que ocurrían en la realidad como bien recuerdan algunos veteranos: “The Czechs really did a fine job despite their aggressive attitude. I think their only problem was that as soon as they saw an enemy that would make for a possible target, nothing else mattered. On that day, I picked out a Dornier that was not in formation and made him my target. I fired a short burst, then another, and the bomber started to wobble a bit. Just then, I smelt burning, and it wasn‘t long before the starboard fuel tank burst into flame. I undid my harness and the oxygen tube, opened the hood and turned the aircraft upside down and fell out. One of the Czechs, Emil Fechtner, managed to get in one of our first success of the day. By all accounts he started his firing way too early, but kept his finger on the button, and at about 100 yards a 110 belched smoke from one of its engines. But then he was jumped on by half a dozen 109s, so discretion being better than valour, he went up into the cloud cover and disappeared from sight.”58 56 La secuencia fue la más cara del film con un coste de 8 millones de dólares. 57 Kershaw (2007). p. 183. 58 Testimonio del Squadron Leader Blackwood del 310 Squadron recogido en Battle of Britain Historical Society [en línea] Disponible en web: http:// www.battleofbritain.net/0030.html#1. [Consulta junio de 2009]. (Traducción del autor) Los Checos realmente hicieron un buen trabajo a pesar



MEJORES PILOTOS CHECOS EN LA RAF59 Nombre

Escuadrón

Kuttelwascher, K.

Victorias Confirmadas

Probables

1 y 23

18

1

Dañados 5

František, J.

303

17

1

0

Smik, O.

131, 122, 222, 310, 312 y 127

11

1

3

Mansfeld, M.

111 y 68

10

0

2

Kučera, O.

111, 312 y 313

7

1

1

Dygrýn - Ligotický, J.

1 y 310

6

0

1

Příhoda, J.

1, 111 y 313

5

2

3

Bobek, L.

68

5

1

3

Fechtner, E

310

4

1

1

Hanuš, J.

310, 32, 245, 125, 68 y 600

4

0

1

Fürst, B.

310 y 605

4

0

0

Mrázek, K.

43, 46, 257 y 313

4

1

3

Fejfar, S.

310 y 313

4

1

1

Fajtl, F.

1, 17, 122 y 313

4

0

2

Por59ultimo, el film recoge otra de las realidades de la época: la evacuación de los niños de las grandes ciudades, objeto de ataques alemanes, a un medio más seguro como era el campo. Así pues, el personaje de Susan alberga en su casa a varios niños procedentes de Londres. Si bien en la recreación fílmica reina un ambiente optide su actitud agresiva. Pienso que su único problema era que en cuanto ellos veían a un enemigo que podía ser un objetivo potencial, no importaba nada más. Durante aquel día, elegí a un Dornier que no estaba en la formación y lo hice mi objetivo. Disparé una ráfaga corta, luego otra, y el bombardero comenzaron a bambolearse un poco. En este mismo momento olí a quemado, no era más que el depósito de combustible de estribor que había estallado en llamas. Me desabroché los correajes, quité el tubo de oxígeno, abrí la cabina y puse el avión boca abajo y me dejé caer. Uno de los Checos, Emil Fechtner, consiguió nuestro primer éxito del día. Por su cuenta y riesgo comenzó a disparar demasiado pronto, pero mantuvo su dedo sobre el disparador, y en aproximadamente 100 yardas el Dornier comenzó a arrojar humo por sus motores. Entonces fue atacado por unos seis 109. La discreción es mejor que el valor. Él ascendió hacia las nubes y desapareció de la vista.” 59 Jan Josef Šafařík: Air aces: Czechs. [En línea] Disponible en web: http://aces. safarikovi.org/victories/czech-gb.html. [Consulta junio de 2009].



mista y alegre, lo cierto es que en la realidad no siempre se daban esas felices circunstancias, ya que como señala Moss era una situación compleja: “para muchos de los niños, así como para los padres, aquella fue una experiencia traumática, de infeliz recuerdo. […] Algunos niños de las ciudades descubrieron los encantos naturales del campo […] Para otros la evacuación supuso subir un peldaño en la escala social y vivir de una manera que no habían conocido antes […] Otros, no obstante, pasaron de sus mansiones burguesas a casas de campo humildes”.60 61 TOTAL DE NIÑOS EVACUADOS61 Áreas evacuadas

Nº de niños

Londres

241.000

Manchester / Salford

84.343

Merseyside

79.930

Newcastle / Sunderland

52.494

Birmingham / West Midlands

32.688

Leeds / Bradford

26.419

Portsmouth / Southhampton

23.145

Sheffield / Eastmiddlands

13.871

Teeside

8.052

Conclusión: Derrotando a la Luftwaffe

La Batalla de Inglaterra supuso la primera derrota para las fuerzas militares de Hitler, al tiempo que dejaba claro el papel primordial de la supremacía aérea como factor clave para conseguir una victoria. Para Hitler, esta primera derrota no pareció afectarlo demasiado pues creyó –como demostró con la apertura de un nuevo frente atacando a la Unión Soviética– que las fuerzas de Gran Bretaña no tendrían ningún peso en la continuación del conflicto. Sin embargo fue una importante victoria en primer lugar para los pilotos británicos y por extensión para el pueblo británico. Esta victoria elevó la moral e hizo que incluso Estados Unidos comenzara a tomar parte en el 60 Moss (2005) p. 90. 61 Battle of Britain Historical Society [en línea] Disponible en: http://www. battleofbritain.net/document-5.html. [Consulta junio de 2009].



conflicto ayudando a Gran Bretaña. En efecto, si bien al principio de la guerra Estados Unidos mantuvo una estricta neutralidad, la tenaz defensa británica de su espacio aéreo motivó que el presidente Roosevelt decidiera obviar el pesimista punto de vista del embajador en Londres, Joseph Kennedy, y enviara a William Donovan como observador de la situación. Sus informes, en el sentido de que la falta de ayuda al Reino Unido impediría la lucha contra la tiranía nazi, ayudó al giro político estadounidense que finalmente inició el envío de material bélico, puso en marcha el programa de Préstamo y Arriendo, y amplió las tareas de escolta de su marina. Por otro lado, las teorías sobre el bombardeo estratégico, que habían materializado meses antes la destrucción ejércitos y ciudades de Polonia, Francia, Holanda, Bélgica y Noruega –táctica ya ensayada en Guernica– demostró su ineficacia en el caso británico no solo por enfrentarse a unos pilotos de cazas altamente motivados por defender un sistema basado en la democracia, sino también por el desafío de la población civil, que a pesar de sufrir cuantiosas bajas –de julio a diciembre de 1940 murieron alrededor de 23.000 civiles y otros 32.000 resultaron heridos– y daños materiales aguantaron estoicamente, lo que permitió que los pilotos de caza tuvieran un lapso de descanso para tomar nuevos bríos antes de continuar la lucha contra el fanatismo nazi. De igual manera, la Luftwaffe fracasó en su intento por destruir la industria bélica británica, lo que ayudó a dar continuidad a la producción –no solo de los necesarios cazas– sino todo tipo de material de guerra, llegando incluso a exportar parte de esta producción al nuevo aliado surgido en el verano de 1941: la URSS. Tras el desastre de la Batalla de Francia y la evacuación de buena parte de las tropas británicas en la operación Dinamo, el triunfo de la Batalla de Inglaterra permitió que el Reino Unido pudiera reconstruir sus fuerzas y convertirse en un punto de referencia para la causa aliada. Esta primera victoria sirvió también para dar los primeros pasos en el terreno de las ofensivas contra el Reich nazi. Así, Gran Bretaña mostró sus garras: efectuando



las primeras misiones del Bomber Command, enviando cazas para hostigar a la Wehrmacht y sobre todo, aglutinando bajo su mando a todos los extranjeros cuyas naciones habían caído bajo el poder alemán y mostrando las posibilidades de luchar contra la tiranía.

Bibliografía Ailsby, Ch. (2005) Mercenarios de Hitler. Tropas extranjeras al servicio del Tercer Reich. Madrid: Libsa. Berthom, S – Potts, J. (2007) Amos de la guerra. 1939–1945. El corazón del conflicto. Barcelona: Destino. Bishop, P. (2006) Pilotos de caza. Los héroes de la Batalla de Inglaterra. Barcelona: Inédita Editores. Brown, A: The Czechoslovak Air Force in Britain, 1940–1945. Tesis doctoral inédita de la Facultad de Artes del Departamento de Historia Universal de Southampton, marzo 1998. Churchill, W. S. (2005) ¡No nos rendiremos jamás! Los mejores discursos de Winston S. Churchill. Madrid: La Esfera de los Libros. Churchill, W. S. (2001) La segunda guerra mundial: el camino hacia el desastre. Barcelona: Planeta De Agostini. Deighton, L. (1980) Battle of Britain, London: Jonathan Cape. Goebbels, J. (1941) “Die große Zeit”, Die Zeit ohne Beispiel Munich: Zentralverlag der NSDAP. Gretzynger, R. – Matuslak, W. (1999) Los ases polacos de la Segunda Guerra Mundial. Madrid: Osprey – Ediciones del Prado. Holmes, T. (1999) Despegan los Hurricane. Madrid: Osprey – Ediciones del Prado. Jullian, M. (1968) La batalla de Inglaterra. Barcelona: Ediciones GP. Kershaw, A. (2007) Aviadores. Barcelona: Debate. Lukacs, J. (2001) Cinco días en Londres, mayo de 1940. Churchill solo frente a Hitler. Madrid: Fondo de Cultura Económica – Turner. Milward, A. (1986) La segunda guerra mundial. 193 –1945. Barcelona: Crítica. Moss, N. (2005) 19 semanas. Barcelona: Ed. Península. Murray, W – Millet, A. (2006) La guerra que había que ganar. Barcelona: Crítica. Murray, W. (1983) Strategy for defeat. The Luftwaffe 1933–1945. Alabama: Air University Press. Price, A. (1999) El legendario Spitfire Mk I/II. Madrid: Osprey – Ediciones del Prado. Terraine, J. (1985) The Right of the Line. London: Hodder & Stoughton. VV.AA. (1978) La segunda guerra mundial. Volumen I. Madrid: Sarpe.



Recursos web: http://cz-raf.hyperlink.cz/bob/stat.html http://www.battleofbritain.net/document-27.html http://www.csd.uwo.ca/~pettypi/elevon/gustin_military/strength.html http://www.rafweb.org/Menu.htm http://www.calvin.edu/academic/cas/gpa/goeb25.htm. http://www.rafcommands.com/Fighter/indexF.html http://aces.safarikovi.org/victories/czech-gb.html.



Národní symbolika ve veřejném prostoru Marek Nekula

V následujícím textu si kladu otázku, zda a jak se do veřejného prostoru města vnáší a jak se v něm fixuje a proměňuje národní ideologie a v jakém vztahu je k veřejnosti. Zjednodušeně řečeno, jde mi o umisťování určitých artefaktů do veřejného prostoru, kde se stávají předmětem semiózy, to znamená, že se v něm stávají nositeli určitých významů sdílených a vyjednávaných znakovým společenstvím. Výběrem svých příkladů tyto artefakty zužuji na pomníky významným osobnostem, jež je v lotmanovském smyslu možno chápat jako určité „texty“. Řada z nich bývá koneckonců také srdnatě otextovávána: pomník Janu Husovi, pomník Františku Palackému aj. Podobně mohou fungovat a fungují také reprezentativní budovy určitého kolektivu vyzdobené či ozdobené, v případě národního kolektivu národními symboly. A obdobně mohou fungovat také nárožní tabule s názvy ulic a náměstí odkazující k významným osobnostem nebo událostem a jiné texty v širokém i úzkém slova smyslu. Zmíněné pomníky jsou do veřejného prostoru zpravidla uváděny slavnostním odhalení při příležitosti nějakého výročí, nebo je na takové ceremoniální uvedení do veřejného prostoru alespoň pomýšleno, třebaže k němu z různých důvodů třeba nakonec nedojde. V případě cenzurního zásahu jde o snahu o snížení jejich veřejného významu a dosahu. Jejich uvedení do veřejného prostoru také zpravidla předchází diskuze o volbě dané osobnosti, způsobu jejího zobrazení i o místě, rozsahu a podobě příslušné instalace. Jejich uvedení do veřejného prostoru může být také rozloženo v čase, takže nějaký artefakt nebo objekt působí do veřejného prostoru ještě před svým odhalením, například pouhým položením základního kamene jako v případě pomníku Josefa Jungmanna nebo v případě Národního divadla. Významy, které tyto artefakty a objekty akulumují a do veřejného prostoru vnášejí, lze sotva považovat za 

pevné a konstantní. A to i přes to, že se v nich – jde o do jisté míry statické artefakty – petrifikuje určité vidění světa. Znakové společenství čili společenství těch, kdo jsou určité artefakty či objekty s to vnímat jako komplexní znaky a číst je jako texty, významy daných artefaktů či objektů vyjednává již před instalací a přirozeně i po ní. Významy artefaktu nebo objektu se proměňují veřejnými shromážděními, demonstracemi, národními pohřby apod., které se u nich nebo s jejich využitím konají. Vlastně bychom nemuseli mluvit o znakovém, ale mohli bychom mluvit o jazykovém společenství. Příslušné osobnosti jsou totiž příslušníky nebo jsou reklamováni jako příslušníci určitého jazykového a kulturního společenství, v němž reprezentují jistou ideu, někdy redukovanou jen na ideu národa ztotožňovaného v českých zemích 19. století s tím nebo oním jazykem. Někdy – třeba v případě Karla I. či Karla IV. – si dvě znaková či jazyková společenství nárokují tutéž osobu jako svůj symbol, popřípadě dochází k vědomému distancování se od určité osobnosti a k jejímu přidělení jinému znakovému či jazykovému společenství (Jan Nepomucký, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart), k němuž se daná osobnost třeba ani nehlásila. Tak je tomu i v případě realizovaných nebo plánovaných pomníků takových osobností. Jak vidět, je vnášení národní symboliky do veřejného prostoru města a národní kódování veřejného prostoru města komplexní a dlouhodobý proces. Trvalostí pomníků a veřejných objektů, které samozřejmě mohou být a bývají také odstraňovány, tento proces přesahuje horizont jedné generace. Pomníky obecně známým osobnostem, jež si určité jazykově znakové společenství například v rámci vzdělání osvojuje jako určité znaky, se tak spolu s proměnou obecného pohledu na ně různě aktualizují a proměňují v čase. Například pomník Janu Žižkovi byl smyslem založení národovecky orientovaného Spolku pro zbudování pomníku Jana Žižky z Trocnova na Vítkově v roce 1882. Soutěž na něj však byla vypsána až v r. 1912, tedy o třicet let pozdeji, a skončila v roce 1914. Realizaci zdržela první světová válka, dokončení a osazení vítězného ná-



vrhu Bohumila Kafky pak druhá světová válka. Přitom původní národovecký plán pomníku Jana Žižky se v nových, demokratických, československých poměrech stal součástí komplexu Památníku národního osvobození. Samotný Žižkův pomník však byl nakonec realizován a nově interpretován v politicky a ideově naprosto odlišném kontextu padesátých let 20. století, tedy v době stalinismu či gottwaldismu. A tento změněný kontext s sebou přinesl i proměnu podoby a funkce Památníku národního osvobození. Tento příklad předjímá, že se zde víceméně omezím na příklady z Prahy, i když obdobné mechanismy lze pozorovat i v jiných městech českých zemí, ať už českých nebo německých. A ještě jedna orientační poznámka. V příspěvku vycházím z chápání národa v duchu jazykové, monoglosní, primordinalistické ideologie, tedy z toho, jak národ chápou sami aktéři dobového diskurzu, kteří národ „vyprávějí“ jako organismus, resp. jako organickou jednotu jazyka, etnika a půdy. Alternativní politické, resp. konstruktivistické pojetí národa nechávám stranou. Otázky národa zde nejsou mým primárním zájmem. Text se totiž zaměřuje na projekci jazykově chápaného národa do veřejného prostoru a teritoria přetvářeného v duchu jazykově národní ideologie a naznačuje význam veřejného prostoru pro formování veřejnosti. Až v závěru příspěvku se naznačuje možnost zpřesnění pojmu národní kultury a národního kódování veřejného prostoru. 1.

Vyjdeme-li nejprve pro jednoduchost z předpokladu, že existuje homogenní a v historickém čase se kontinuálně rozvíjející a v tomto smyslu stabilní národní identita, jak ji svým čtenářům „vyprávějí“ národní mytologie, historiografie, publicistika, literatura, divadlo, hudba a umění 19. a 20. století a jež postupně prosakuje kolektivem a stává se tak novou sociální realitou,1 1

K národu jako narativu srov. např. Bhabha (1990), k národu jako „coming into beeing“ srov. Anderson (1983), k poetice historigrafie srov. White (1973), k poetice českého dějepisectví srov. Řepa (2006).



pak bychom mohli říci, že postupná a – finálně viděno – „úspěšná“ projekce národních symbolů do pražského veřejného prostoru začala v šedesátých letech 19. století. Tehdy se tzv. říjnovým diplomem otevřela cesta k ideálům rovnosti, chápaným tehdy především jako rovnost národní. Veřejný prostor města byl totiž do té doby z národního úhlu pohledu – alespoň ve smylu vizuálním – na první pohled indiferentní.2 To sice neznamená, že by třeba přírodní dominanty královského Vyšehradu spojeného s králem Vratislavem a Libuší a „císařských“ Hradčan nebyly vnímány v opozici. V beletristickém týdeníku Lumír se 31. ledna 1861 nicméně praví, že v Praze je sice dost nových pomníků, že však chybí pomníky osobnostem reprezentujícím (českou) národní myšlenku.3 Ty se sice již začaly objevovat v menších českých městech (např. v roce 1857 ve Dvoře Králové socha Záboje), ale přece jen šlo tehdy spíše o výjimky. Národní pomníky odkazující k jazykovému, etnickému pojetí národa, které v Praze postrádá Lumír, se svou ideovou orientací odlišují od stávajích pomníků se symbolikou zemsky patriotickou (politický národ), jež však Lumír ve svém zpravodajství z různých důvodů nezohledňuje. Buď proto, že jejich vztyčení již není aktuální, nebo proto, že jsou ignorovány pro svou cizost. Jde například o pomník Karlu IV. vztyčený mezi Klementinem, tedy tehdy ještě nerozdělenou univerzitou, a Staroměstskou věží Karlova mostu spojenou též s císařskou, říšskou symbolikou, a to za prostředky ze sbírky německých profesorů pražské univerzity (1848) a opatřený latinskými nápisy.4 Dále lze uvést novogotický pomník Františku I. Habsburskému (iniciovaný roku 1846) odhalený na vltavském nábřeží naproti Pražskému hradu v roce 1850. Jiným příkladem je pomník Václavu Radeckému z Radče. Tento symbol věrnosti habsburské2

K přejmenování některých pražských veřejných prostranství v roce 1848 s odkazem na národní historii srov. např. Ledvinka (1997: 13n.) nebo Ledvinka/Pešek (2000).

3

Srov. Lumír 1861: 139.

4

K okolnostem vzniku a absenci slavnostního odhalení v národnostně vypjaté atmosféře rok 1848 srov. Kunštát (2000).



mu domu na něm třímá říšskou vlajku a stojí při tom na kulatém štítu neseném příslušníky různých zbraní a takto i národností habsburské říše. Pomník byl na Malostranském náměstí odhalen v roce 1859 za přítomnosti císaře a císařovny.5 Do této kategorie „jiných“ pomníků patřil i pomník „Studentstva pražského“ vytvořený na památku hrdinné obrany Prahy proti Švédům v roce 1648, jíž se zúčastnily i studentské legie. Původně tak šlo o pomník primárně nenárodní, zemsky prorakouský. Jeho odhalení na nádvoří Klementina se ale – také s ohledem na události roku 1848 – pozdrželo. K instalaci tak došlo se zpožděním teprve 24. září 1863 a v publikaci z roku 1864, tedy již v době otevřené národní propagandy, jej jistý P.J.Š. spojil s revolučním vystoupením studentů v roce 1848. V nestránkovaném prologu se o studentech a jejich vystoupení v roce 1848 v duchu jazykové národní propagandy praví: „…byli nejprvnějšími a nejstatečnějšími nejen buditeli, abych tak řekl, nýbrž i obhájci znovuzrozené svobody a národního života českého“. Přeinterpretování pomníku jeho zasazením do jiného diskurzivního rámce (obrana Prahy proti Švédům v roce 1648 jako výraz věrnosti k Habsburkům potlačena ve prospěch revolučního vystoupení v roce 1848) je příznačné nejen pro Prahu. Původní záměr tvůrců pomníku přitom mířil, jak jsme řekli, mimo jazykově národní ideologický rámec. Odlédneme-li od pozdějších významových nánosů, je tedy na přelomu padesátých a šedesátých let 19. století společným jmenovatelem těchto pomníků absence jazykově národní symboliky a jejich vázba na zemskou myšlenku či oslavu dynastie. Dále je jejich společným jmenovatelem fakt, že jsou umístěny v komunikačním středu města. To koreluje s Wortmanovou tezí, že do uspořádání veřejného prostoru města se promítají hodnoty společnosti, hierarchie těchto hodnot i sociální hierarchie společnosti samé. Jinými slovy: prostorové, komunikační, vizuální centrum veřejného prostoru představuje mocenský střed, který je obsazen znaky vládnoucí ideologie či dominantního diskurzu. O peri5

K oběma srov. např. Hojda/Pokorný (1997: 34–43, 44–53).



ferii platí opak.6 Dominantní ideologická paradigmata tak nejen okupují oficiální diskurs, ale také se prostřednictvím pomníků a reprezentativních budov a jejich výzdoby manifestují – vizualizují – v centru městského prostoru. Konkurenční jazykově národní koncepty vegetují na periferii nebo v nižších žánrech.7 V případě pomníků Karlu IV., Františku I., Václavu Radeckému z Radče či Studentstvu pražskému jde o symboly a hrdiny vztažené k dynastii a říši, o důraz na univerzální latinu, resp. na univerzálně chápanou němčinu bez důrazu na její lokální etnický význam. Jak si všímá týdeník Lumír z 31. ledna 1861, je naopak český národní narativ v pražském veřejném prostoru přítomen nanejvýš přechodnými instalacemi. Prostor, v němž takto přítomen je, není navíc „reprezentativní“ jako v předchozích příkladech. Sochy s národní tématikou8 jsou totiž umístěny v sálech pronajatých pro taneční bály, besedy a jiný druh neformální zábavy. Namísto zmíněných pomníků z bronzu stvořených vybranými umělci pro „věčnost“, máme tu co do činění s bustami z levnějšího přenosného materiálu a „levného“ provedení umístěných ve specifickém žánrovém kontextu: Mnoho let uplynulo, co jsme neviděli v Praze tak skvělou národní slavnost, jako byla letošní velká beseda na Žofíně. [...] Mezi velkým a malým sálem byla podle sebe poprsí Josefa Jungmanna a Karla Havlíčka Borovského. [...] Uprostřed některých allegorických postav stála na hlavním místě socha Čechie s věrným svým lvem a na stěnách vynikalo několik reliefů ve formě medaillonů s poprsím [...] krále Jiřího v životní velikosti a vyvedení velmi zdařilého. (Lumír, 31. leden 1861, s. 114; kurziva M. N.) Ples českých právníků, dle očekávání, skvěle vypadl, ano byl bez odporu nejskvělejší veřejný ples letošního masopustu. [...] Ve velkém (sále) byly sochy Vlasty, Havlíčka, Jungmanna; v malém poprsí Karla, Přemysla Otakara a nad nimi socha Spravedlnosti. [...] Krásenky [=dámy] naše vy6

Srov. Wortman (2000) na ruském, Stachel (2007) na vídeňském příkladu.

7

V těchto okrajových žánrech se rozvíjí subverzivní národní diskurz, nad nímž ovšem ústřední moc ani později neztrácí kontrolu a je schopna jej v sobě integrovat, jak o tom v jiných souvislostech mluví Greenblatt (1981).

8

V následujícím citátu je příznačný nejen odkaz na národní historické látky, ale v neposlední řadě také uplatnění nároku jazykového národa na území českých zemí v alegorii Čechie, jejíž pojmenování v 19. století v národních kontextech vytěsňuje jazykově nejednoznačnou či indiferentní Bohemii.



nikaly spanilostí a vkusným oděvem; z větší části objevily se tu v národních barvách a šněrovačkách. (Lumír 1862: 212; kurziva M. N.)

Tak tomu ale nemělo zůstat. Možnosti veřejného prostoru pro národní mobilizaci totiž národní aktivisté pochopili – a také si je vyzkoušeli při pohřbu Václava Hanky. Hankův pohřeb byl inscenován jako mohutná manifestace „celé země“ a všech vrstev společnosti ve prospěch jazykově národního, českoslovanského odkazu „otce národa“ jako programu pro budoucnost. Při pohřbu hrál ústřední roli odkaz na Hankovo životní dílo, tj. objevení a vydání Rukopisu královédvorského. Ten svou estetickou výjimečností, zdánlivou starobylostí, veřejným ohlasem i hodnotami, jež se v něm reflektovaly, sehrál významnou roli při utváření národního vědomí a sebevědomí. Polyglota Rukopisu královédvorského, nesená v průvodu za rakví a ověnčená vavřínem, nebyla ovšem jen odkazem na Hanku. Kniha jako symbol slova či slovesnosti, která slovo i slovesnost uchovává a dává jim přetrvat, v tomto konkrétním případě ve spojení s vavřínem symbolizujícím vítězství odkazovala k vítěznému (slavnému, slovanskému) češství, rozuměj úspěšně obrozenému jazyku či národu, jehož budoucnost svou účastí ztělesňovala mj. přítomná mládež.9 Jazyk a s ním spjatá slovanská symbolika hraje v rituálu Hankova národního pohřbu vůbec ústřední roli. Jeho účastníci podle Lumíra zpívali české zpěvy, pohřební povoz byl ozdoben znakem rytířů sv. Vladimíra s ruským heslem: „Polza [dobro, užitek], čest, sláva“, průvod se zastavil u kláštera Na Slovanech spojeného se staroslověnskou liturgií. Samotný pohřeb s tryznou se odehrál na Vyšehradě, jehož slovanskou symboliku s odkazem na krále Vratislava a zvláště s odkazem na Rukopis zelenohorský netřeba rozvádět. Pohřební průvod tak měl – alespoň v referátu Lumíra – jasný jazykově národní akcent. Zároveň se ho však zúčastnila také česká šlechta a místodržící uherského původu hrabě Forgácz. Tito účastníci pohřební slavnosti vtiskli tomuto pohřbu punc 9

Podobně bylo symbolu knihy využito už při pohřbu Josefa Jungmanna v roce 1847, při němž byl takto vyzvednut jeho Slovník. Srov. Rak (2001).



mimořádné události a prozbouzeli dojem, že k Hankovu jazykově národnímu odkazu se hlásí i elita země. Jmenovaní ovšem většinou patřili nikoli k sympatizantům českoslovanského národního hnutí, ale k sympatizantům zemské svébytnosti. Při dané inscenaci pohřebního průvodu se nicméně stali statisty českoslovanské manifestace, jejíž střed představovali nosiči rakve: František Palacký, Václav Vladivoj Tomek, Josef Wenzig, František Ladislav Rieger, Josef František Frič a František August Brauner, který při nesení Hankovy rakve střídal Františka Palackého. Zúčastnili se jí i měšťané, představitelé univerzity, zástupci Hradce Králové, mládež, ve špalírech podél trasy průvodu stálo „celé“ město. Význam pohřbu Václava Hanky, který se za života zásadním způsobem zasadil o Rukopisy a i svou smrtí a pohřbem probouzel národ, spočíval také v tom, že právě jím se na Prahu významově napojil periferní a v té době zpustlý Vyšehrad (obec oficiálně připojená až roku 1883) se svou slovanskou symbolikou, která od té doby stále výrazněji přecházela na Prahu. Ta se v 19. století odvíjela od spojení Vyšehradu s Libuší, jež vytvořil Rukopis zelenohorský.10 Hankovým pohřbem na ose Museum – Slovany – Vyšehrad tak do tehdy národně indiferentního pražského prostoru pohřebním vzpomínkovým aktem vstoupil českoslovanský, retrospektivně konstruovaný „historický“ čas. Hankův pražský pohřeb a jeho národní, českoslovanská akcentuace se navíc staly vzorem pro tryzny ve zbytku českých zemí. Zádušní mše za Hanku, konané v obcích s českou většinou, se v referátech v týdeníku Lumír jeví jako parafráze pražského modelu. Referáty se přitom soustředily na jedné straně na polyglotu Rukopisu královédvorského, v níž se vizualizoval jazykově národní představový svět jazykového národního společenství shromažďujícího se „po celé zemi“ k tryznám za Hanku. Na druhé straně se referáty soustředily na zastoupení „všech vrstev společnosti“: s důrazem na komunální reprezentaci a mládež, představující národ jako komplexní a životaschopný organismus s přesahem do 10 Srov též Macura (1998).



budoucnosti. Českoslovanský charakter zádušních „tryzen“ umocňovaly také hudba a zpěvy, staroslověnské nápisy či volba protestních národních barev (trikolory, oděvy, katafalky). Jak naznačeno, „tryzny“ za Hanku se – v podání Lumíra – zdály dokumentovat skutečnost, že se k jazykově národním hodnotám hlásí „celá země“: zvláštní pozornost Lumír věnoval obcím na jazykovém pomezí, resp. v jazykově smíšených oblastech. Národní ideologie, která národ promítla nejen do času (a konstruovala jej tak v duchu primordinalismu jako jakousi „odjakživa“, předdějině existující danost), ale také do prostoru, nárokujíc pro národ vlastní homogenní sídelní prostor (přičemž úsilím o standardizaci jazyka v rámci národně budovaného školství se homogenizovaly jazyk i společnost),11 je v Hankově pohřbu a v zádušních mších konaných po českých zemích v návaznosti na tento pohřeb přímo exemplárně přítomna. Reflexí zádušních mší a tryzen za Hanku konaných v obcích s českou vatšinou a českou komunální reprezentací tak došlo k promítnutí češství také do sídelního prostoru českých zemí se zřetelnou snahou překročit vnitřní jazykovou hranici a dokumentovat nárok na celé území českých zemí. O dvacet let později je národní hranice – třeba poutí slovanského hrdiny zachycenou ve foyer na lunetách Národního divadla – v představovém světě „Čechů“ již jednoznačně „vevyprávěna“ (druhá luneta se ostatně jmenuje Vypravování) nikoli na vnitřní jazykovou, ale na zemskou hranici. První luneta nazvaná „Stráž na Pomezí“ přitom téma hranice explicitně uvádí, zatímco druhá tematizuje právě vypravování. Na dalších lunetách je národní hranice vedena nikoli po jazykové, ale po zemské hranici: Domažlice, Zřídla, Rudohoří, Průsmyky severní, Jizera, Boj se saní, V Krkonoších, Dvůr Králové... Spojovacím článkem lunet je nejen jejich tvar a obvod foyer, ale slovanský rek vyvedený v mánesovské stylové konvenci v duchu ilustrací Rukopisů a oděný do bílo-červeného oděvu na pozadí modrého podnebí lunet, 11

K obdobným procesům v německé společnosti a homogenizaci, standardizaci němčiny srov. Linke (1996).



který se objevuje na všech lunetách. Při takovém ztvárnění historického území českých zemí jako jazykově národního teritoria se jazykoví Nečeši odsouvají do role infiltrovaných imigrantů. Národ, chápaný sice jazykově, ale promítaný též do nárokovaného prostoru, je tak v představovém světě 19. století tmelem spojujícím zemi – přesněji řečeno české země – v jeden celek, jak je to dobře vidět v propojení zemských znaků dedikačním nápisem „Národ sobě“ pod tympanonem nad jevištěm Národního divadla.12 Podobně jako předtím pohřby Josefa Jungmanna, Karla Havlíčka Borovského nebo Josefa Kajetána Tyla byl i Hankův pohřeb prostředkem národní manifestace. Na rozdíl od Havlíčkova nebo Tylova pohřbu, jež se odehrály v době defenzivy jazykově národní ideologie a silné cenzury za Bachova neoabsolutismu, byl Hankův pohřeb těsně před komunálními a zemskými volbami, jeho medializace např. v týdeníku Lumír a jeho prezence v městském veřejném prostoru pražském i mimopražském, prostředkem formování veřejného mínění ve prospěch národní ideologie části českých středních městských vrstev a nástrojem úspěšné národně politické mobilizace. Na rozdíl od dřívějších národních pohřbů stál navíc Hankův pohřeb také u zrodu ideje institucionalizované národní vzpomínky promítnuté do městského veřejného prostoru. Již během vzpomínkových akcí na Hankovu památku se totiž v Lumíru i v jiných kontextech psalo o potřebě zřízení důstojného pomníku Hankovi a o zřízení české národní svatyně Slavín,13 tedy národního pantheonu či pohřebiště, které bylo nakonec právě díky Hankovu pohřbu umístěno nikoli na – také v Lumíru – živě diskutovaných Olšanech, ale na Vyšehradě. Česky orientovaná veřejnost navíc podle Lumíra ve stejné době rozběhla sbírky na pomníky Čelakovskému, Štúrovi, Jungmannovi, Komenskému a jiným osobnostem vnímaným jako nositelé národní myšlenky. František Palacký proto spolu s dalšími osobnostmi v návaznosti na pohřby 12 K ikonografii srov. dokumentaci v Benešová (1999). 13 Srov. např. Lumír 1861: 86.



Václava Hanky (1861) a Boženy Němcové (1862) na Vyšehradě i ve snaze koordinovat zmíněné sbírkové aktivity založil spolek Svatobor, který pracoval pod heslem „Pomáhej, osvěcuj, pamatuj“ a podle stanov byl zasvěcen pěstování památky českých spisovatelů (v široké definici) formou pomníků a náhrobků. Spolek navíc zajišťoval také finanční podporu žijících spisovatelů.14 Založením spolku Svatobor tak národní aktivisté vytvořili instituci, která usilovala o šíření národní myšlenky nejen v prostoru řeči (literatury, divadla, novin, vzdělání a vědy), jak to již dříve činila třeba Matice česká, ale která usilovala také o její přenesení na veřejná prostranství a o její vizualizaci tamtéž. Vše se dělo s vědomím, že národní program zde může oslovit, získat a zformovat také národně „indiferentní“ veřejnost: tedy že může zformovat ty, u nichž s ohledem na jejich primární socializaci v jazykově smíšených rodinách či domácnostech, či s ohledem na sekundární socializaci v německých školách dominovala němčina. Cílovou skupinou byli i ti, kdo s ohledem na omezené finanční prostředky nečetli české knihy a noviny ani nenavštěvovali česká divadelní představení. A samozřejmě šlo i o sebepotvrzení, manifestaci vlastní národní obrody. Svatoboru tedy šlo o víc než o pouhé nalezení „významového těžiště“, o „pointu“ bulvárů a náměstí, jak smysl pomníků ve veřejném prostoru vysvětlují Pokorný s Hojdou (1997: 16). Vznik spolku Svatobor (1862) totiž dokumentuje expanzi národní liberální ideologie rovnosti z měšťanského salónu či z měšťanské besedy, jak ji reflektují citáty výše, či z městského (národního) divadla, které dostalo svou prozatimní budovu v roce 1862, do městského veřejného prostoru, který se od obou předchozích veřejných prostorů liší tím, že veřejnost k němu má zcela volný, neregulovaný přístup. Tvrdí-li Habermas (1989), že moderní veřejnost se zrodila v měšťanském salónu a městském divadle, jež představovaly alternativu k dvorské kultuře s regulovaným přístupem a striktním ceremo14 Stanovy Svatobora. Archiv hlavního města Prahy. Spolkový katastr, SK Signatura II/0015.



nielem, a tvrdí-li dále, že se moderní veřejnost se díky svobodě slova zformovala ve veřejném prostoru médií, pak by se v duchu této argumentace dalo říci, že moderní veřejnost se také díky svobodě pohybu a svobodě shromažďování rodila také ve veřejném městském prostoru, který usilovala vizuálně přepsat (překódovat) národně liberální symbolikou.15 (Sto let před televizí, která vytvořila kvalitativně nový veřejný prostor, byl ostatně význam městského veřejného prostoru pro formování veřejného mínění podstatně větší než dnes.) Cílem mobilizace národních mrtvých v programu Svatoboru byla mobilizace živých a jejich zformování v národní veřejnost. Wortmanovu tezi o projekci společenské hierarchie do uspořádání sídelního prostoru,16 již jsem zmínil výše, lze pak s ohledem na pražský kontext vyhrotit v tom smyslu, že na tehdejší podskalské a vyšehradské periferii pražské aglomerace na straně jedné a na žižkovské periferii na straně druhé, tedy v dominantně česky obydlených předměstích, započala směrem k centru – s „císařským hradem“ (F. Kafka Růžence ze září 1917),17 pomníky Františka I. na vltavském nábřeží, maršála Radetzkého na Malé Straně nebo Karla IV. poblíž Karlova mostu – jazyková i vizuální transformace pražského, národně zprvu indiferentního nebo státoprávně konformního veřejného prostoru v prostor jazykově národní. Tezi o přesunu národních aktivit z periferie směrem do centra lze dokumentovat na aktivitách spolku Svatobor. Ten vzešel z manifestačních pohřbů na Vyšehradě, kde realizoval pomník Hankovi (1861/1875) s výmluvným citátem „Národy nehasnou, dokud jazyk žije“. Spolek Svatobor ale své představy o podobě veřejného prostoru posléze úspěšně vnáší i do centra např. v realizaci Jung-

15 K Habermasově teorii a utváření národní veřejnosti srov. Eley (1992), k roli médií při utváření veřejnosti srov. Garnham (1992). K salonům v české kultuře 19. století srov. Lorenzová/Petrasová (1992). K roli divadla, městského i ochotnického, při formování české veřejnosti srov. Černý (1998) nebo Marek (2004). 16 Srov. Wortman (2000). 17 Srov. např. Nekula (2003a: 508).



mannova pomníku (1873/1878) na dnešní Národní třídě.18 Za zmínku stojí i realizace Palackého mostu (vyvedeného v českoslovanských protestních barvách) mezi Smíchovem a Podskalím, jež časově předběhla jiné pražské veřejné stavby s národní ikonografií.19 Národní symbolika přišla z periferie směrem do centra v případě českých urbanonym, tedy pojmenováních veřejných prostranství a objektů na veřejných prostranstvích (včetně pomníků). Tato urbanonyma městský prostor zvoleným kódem i tématy – ta odkazují k české národní tematice, resp. k národně chápaným tématům – postupně vytyčila a předefinovala jako český prostor: nejprve na Žižkově a posléze i v jiných částech Prahy a nakonec i v centru pražské aglomerace, jež urbanisticky fungovala jako jeden celek ještě před svým fomálním sjednocením městských částí.20 Město Žižkov, pojmenované podle návrší Vítkov či Žižkov, na němž Jan Žižka z Trocnova v roce 1420 svedl bitvu větší svým věhlasem než rozsahem, začalo totiž svůj systém urbanonym s husitskou a reformační tematikou utvářet již v roce 1872. Tehdy mladočeský politik Karel Hartig podal návrh na pojmenování ulic Husova, Žižkovo náměstí, Poděbradova, Prokopova, Prokopovo nám., Želivského, Chlumova, Roháčova, Komenského nám., Vítkova. Ještě před osamostatněním Žižkova v roce 1875 a po jeho vyčlenění z Královských Vinohrad byla do konce 19. století zavedena další urbanonyma čerpající z reformační tradice husitské, bratrské, stavovské, později též tradice národně obrozenecké. Tyto tradice se vnímaly jako kompatibilní, obsahově na sebe navazující: Cimburkova, Kališnická, Lipanská, Lupáčova, Milíčova, Blahoslavova, Českobratrská, Dalimilova, Harrantova, Štítného, Basilejské nám., Ambrožova, Rokycanova, Jakoubkova, Černínova, Jeseniova, Kaplířova, Bořivojova, Karlova, Palackého, Krásova, Chelčického, Veleslavínova, Orebitská, Táboritská, U Božích bojovníků, 18 K Hankovu pomníku a počátkům Slavína na Vyšehradě srov. Benešová (2001) nebo Nekula (2003b), Jungmannově pomníku srov. např. Hojda/ Pokorný (1997: 54–64). 19 Srov. Ledvinka/Pešek (2000: 494), Nekula (2004) aj. 20 Detailně Pešek (1999).



Břetislavova, Vratislavova, Libušina, Kostnické nám., Husinecká, Trocnovská, Jeronýmova, Přibyslavská, Sudoměřická... Objevuje se tu i řada dynastická (Přemyslovská, Lucemburská, Jagellonská), příznačně s vyloučením Habsburků.21 Jak naznačeno, pojmenováním veřejných prostranství byl veřejný prostor postupně modelován jako český také v ostatních, v té době okrajových částech pražské aglomerace a od osmdesátých let stále výrazněji také v centru pražské aglomerace.22 Vysloveně ideologický, národní náboj dostala urbanonyma na plechových tabulích až v devadesátých letech 19. století. V roce 1893 byla totiž v rozpočtu města Prahy vyčleněna kapitola k náhradě dvojjazyčných tabulí tabulemi jednojazyčnými (= českými), přičemž nápisy na nich měly být vyvedeny bíle na červeném podkladu s modrým nebo bílým rámováním,23 tedy v českoslovanských protestních barvách, zatímco v Brně, Olomouci nebo Liberci na nich až do vzniku první republiky dominovala němčina.24 Praha tak byla na veřejných prostranstvích předefinována na české město. O něco později, již ve 20. století, je takto Praha alegoricky znázorněna – tedy s využitím českoslovanských protestních barev a v duchu inauguračního prohlášení pražského primátora JUDr. Tomáše Černého z roku 1882 o zlaté slovanské Praze – na mozaice „Hold Slovanstva Zlaté Praze“ (1908) od Karla Špillara na průčelí Obecního domu.25 Přibližně ve stejné době, kdy v osmdesátých a devadesátých letech 19. století došlo k předefinování veřejného prostoru urbanonymy a kdy podle Hojdy a Pokorného (1997: 134) kulminuje vzpomínková kultura pomníků také na veřejných prostranstvích českých měst s německou většinou (tematicky zasvěcených Jo21 K dějinám Žižkova naposledy Šesták (2008), prameny k názvům veřejných prostranství srov. Lašťovka/Ledvinka (1997), Ledvinka (2007), k ideologii a urbanonymům srov. Nekula (20008). 22 Srov. též Ledvinka (1997). 23 Srov. Ledvinka (1997: 16). 24 K Brnu srov. Flodrová/Galasková/Vodička (1984: 6), k Liberci srov. Ledvinka (1997: 16) 25 K národní symbolice Obecního domu srov. Prahl (2002), k Tomáši Černému srov. Ledvinka/Pešek (2000: 495n.).



sefu II., F. Schillerovi, J. W. Goethovi, F. L. Jahnovi, Valdštejnovi, Walteru von der Vogelweide či – výjimečně – Lutherovi),26 se rozbíhá ovládnutí pražského veřejného prostoru postupně ovládnut národními reprezentativními stavbami, pomníky a artefakty. Ty je možno označit jako národní s ohledem na specificky pojaté motivy rukopisné, husitské, obrozenské, v omezené míře též svatováclavské: na vltavském nábřeží bylo dokončeno Národní divadlo s monumentální vnitřní i venkovní výzdobou motivicky napojenou na symboliku Rukopisů a mythos tzv. národního obrození; na Vyšehradě byla postavena krypta českého Slavína (zasvěcená 1901 Juliem Zeyerem) s výmluvným citátem z věnovací listiny Petra M. Fišera „Ač zemřeli – ještě mluví“, kde se v jazykové aluzi prolíná obraz zmrtvýchvstání v Kristu a zmrtvýchvstání v národu; Palackého most byl rozšířen o Myslbekova sousoší odkazující k slovanské prehistorii českých zemí; ještě předtím se vedla nacionálně vyhrocená debata o obměně soch na Karlově mostě, jež byly strženy při povodni v roce 1890, jež dostala pointu odmítnutím „navrácení“ Ignáce z Loyoly na most a nahrazení „německého“ Rolanda instalací českého Bruncvíka s mečem taseným v roce 1884 proti nepřátelům vlasti (srov. též Jiráskovo převyprávění legendy o Bruncvíkovi ve Starých pověstech českých, jež vyšly v roce 1894); byl založen Spolek pro zbudování pomníku Jana Žižky z Trocnova na Vítkově/Žižkově (1882); v zasedací síni pražského magistrátu byl instalován Brožíkův monumentální obraz „Jan Hus před koncilem v Kostnici“ (1894/1895), který se stal magnetem národně uvědomělé veřejnosti (odlišně „Volba Jiřího z Poděbrad“); na průčelích pražských domů se objevují citáty Svatováclavského chorálu či figurální alegorie pojaté po vzoru Národního divadla v duchu mánesovské stylové konvence atd.27 Podobně je 26 K obsazování veřejného prostoru v evropském srovnání srov. pozoruhodný sborník Jaworski/Stachel (2007), srov. též Bucur/Wingfield (2001) a Walkowitz/Knauer (2004). 27 K Národnímu divadlu srov. Vybíral (1999), Prahl (1999), Marek (2004), k Slavínu srov. Benešová (2001) nebo Nekula (2003), k mostům srov. Hojda/ Pokorný (1997: 21–33), Nekula (2004) nebo Šefců (2007), k pomníku Jana Žižky srov. Hojda/Pokorný (1997: 150–163) nebo Šesták (2008).



tomu i v městech s českou většinou: v Jičíně, v Táboře, kde je odhalen Strachovského pomník Jana Žižky (1884), v Poděbradech, kam byla z Jubilejní výstavy přenesena Schnirchova jezdecká socha Jiřího z Poděbrad atd. Vyhroceně formulováno: zmíněnými stavbami, pomníky a nápisy se ve veřejném prostoru vizuálně fixoval národní teritoriální zábor podobným způsobem, jako se to svého času dělo při referování zádušních mší a tryzen za Václava Hanku v týdeníku Lumír nebo při naraci národního prostoru ve foyer Národního divadla. Podobně jako národní ideologie postupně prosakuje do společnosti a stává se její novou sociální skutečností,28 ovládla česká národní symbolika postupně pražská veřejná prostranství a zbavila veřejný prostor jeho národnostní ambivalence. Rozhodující ovšem byla institucionalizace jazykově národního modelu ve školství, úřadech, kultuře. Obě skupiny obyvatelstva se jí čím dál víc homogenizovaly podél (teritoriální a funkční) jazykové hranice a agitační boj o „duše“ – jak ve svých studiích o cenzu nebo o zaškolování školáků v českých zemích ukázaly Ines Koeltzsch nebo Tara Zarah (2007) – pokračoval v národnostně smíšených oblastech, resp. v pohraničí, i za první republiky. Zrození Prahy jako „českého” města přitom nepochybně umožnila migrace a demografická i správní proměna Prahy i reformy volebního systému, jež ovlivnily složení pražské městské rady a jejích výkonných orgánů. Stěží si lze ovšem tyto proměny představit bez agitace ve prospěch „českého“ národa“ formující veřejnost a formulující postupně její požadavky v oblasti kultury, školství nebo obecní a státní správy.29 Vizuální projekcí národního diskurzu je ikonografická proměna pražského veřejného prostoru, jež je zároveň nástrojem národní agitace. Z městského veřejného prostoru, který byl v národním smyslu vytyčen také urbanonymy, pomníky a veřejnými stavbami, jež reprezentovaly národní hodnoty a stávaly se kulisou národních demonstrací referovaných v národním tisku, se 28 Srov. Anderson (1983). 29 K poměrně rychlé asimilaci českých migrantů ve Vídni, kde takto příhodné podmínky nebyly, srov. např. Glettler (2004).



odvíjel veřejný diskurz, jenž tento prostor spoluvytvářel a zároveň jím byl formován. Překódování pražského veřejného prostoru českou národní symbolikou samozřejmě pokračovalo i na počátku 20. století, kdy na místě bývalého Králova dvora a ve vědomé opozici k Německému domu na Příkopech vyrostl Obecní dům (1905–1912), jež měl nést a v důsledku protestů pražských Němců nakonec nenesl kontroverzní, výhradně česky formulovanou, a proto jednostrannou dedikaci „Národu“. Ve stejném roce, kdy byl dokončen Obecní dům, byl na Vltavském nábřeží poblíž Palackého mostu odhalen pomník Františku Palackému s alegorií národního vzkříšení a věnováním „Svému buditeli a vůdci vzkříšený národ“. A na Václavském náměstí byl ve stejné době vžtyčen pomník sv. Václava ve zbroji a posléze i v doprovodu „českoslovanských“ svatých opatřený citátem bojovného chorálu „Svatý Václave, vévodo české země, kníže náš, nedej zahynouti nám i budoucím“ (socha ovšem vznikla už v devadesátých letech 19. století).30 Ve stejné době proběhla také soutěž na jezdecký pomník Janu Žižkovi (jezdecká socha bývala konvenčně vyhrazena panovníkovi), jehož realizaci zdržela první světová válka. Na Staroměstkém náměstí, jednom z nejexponovanějších míst pražského veřejného prostoru, byl v roce 1915 proti vertikálnímu Mariánskému sloupu odhalen horizontálně koncipovaný pomník Janu Husovi s oltářními stupni, na jehož korpusu je vyveden mj. také citát z Komenského Kšaftu: „Věřím, že vláda věcí tvých k tobě se navrátí, ó lide český!“31 A v tomto výčtu bychom mohli pokračovat. Český národní aktivismus přitom ve stejné době (1913) s úspěchem brání stavbě nových „německých“ pomníků (např. pomníku Wolfgangu Amadeu Mozartovi) z obavy, že by se mohly stát kristalizačním bodem, „shromaždištěm“ německého aktivismu v Praze, tedy že by mohly 30 K Obecnímu domu srov. Prahl (2002), resp. Svatošová/Ledvinka (20002), k Palackého pomníku srov. Hojda/Pokorný (1997: 92–104), k sv. Václavovi srov. Hojda/Pokorný (1997: 105–116), Samerski (2007), Hojda (2007). 31 K pomníku Jana Husa srov. např. Hojda/Pokorný (1997: 79–91), Paces (2001).



plnit stejnou funkci, jakou plnily české pomníky ve prospěch českého národního hnutí.32 Stávající „německé“ pomníky a reprezentativní stavby byly již předtím zastíněny, jako Nové německé divadlo Zemským (později Národním) muzeem, Německý dům Obecním domem, nebo nebyly po poškození obnoveny (Loyolova socha na Karlově mostě), resp. byla zdržována jejich oprava (Německý dům). Po pádu císařství a po nastolení republiky z pražského veřejného prostoru zmizely nejen plechové cedule s urbanonymy odkazujícími k habsbursko-lotrinské dynastii. Veřejný prostor byl od „cizích“ prvků spontánně nebo řízeně „očištěn“ také odstraněním pomníků, které dle veřejného mínění odkazovaly ke stejným hodnotám jako svěšené orientační tabule na pražských nárožích: Mariánský sloup na Staroměstském náměstí vnímaný jako symbol rekatolizace a habsburské moci a stržený žižkovskými hasiči, pomník hraběti Janu Josefu Václavu Radetzkému na Malostranském náměstí, či socha Františka I. na vltavském nábřeží. Veřejně se diskutovalo také o odstranění sochy „cizího svatého“ Jana Nepomuckého z Karlova mostu apod.33 Cílem útoků motivovaných národně, resp. státoprávními spory, byly ostatně sochy Jana Nepomuckého a Františka I. už v roce 1893. Jak ukázali Wingfield (1997) nebo King (2001), bylo tomu tak v roce 1918 a 1920 nejen v Praze, ale i v jiných českých městech, dokonce i ve městech sice s německou většinou, ale s československou vojenskou posádkou. Šlo vlastně o demarkaci národního záboru. Formulováno mírněji: v Praze a jiných českých městech tak došlo k reintepretaci veřejného prostoru a teritoria v národním duchu. Proces překódování veřejného prostoru se nezastavil ani po roce 1918. První republika, kdy se husitství jako symbol demokratických tradic českého národa stalo součástí národní sebereprezentace (státní svátek, heslo státu...), došlo k oživení myšlenky pomníku Jana Žižky na Vítkově. Jeho realizaci sice pozdržela druhá svě32 K Mozartovu pomníku srov. Hojda/Pokorný (1997: 127–133). 33 K odstraňování pomníků srov. např. Hojda/Pokorný (1997), Paces (2004), Nekula (2004).



tová válka, ale Pantheon národního osvobození (zahájen v roce 1928) zde realizován byl.34 Ve stejné době byly realizovány pomníky „spojenců“ československého národa: Ernesta Denise na Malostranském náměstí a Woodrowa Wilsona na Hlavním (Wilsonově) nádraží. Na Slovanech byl zase v roce 1932 odhalen pomník „našim“ legionářům, rozběhla se debata o Masarykově pomníku na Letné, jež je Pařížskou ulicí vizuálně spojen se Staroměstským náměstím s pomníkem Janu Husovi a prozatimním hrobem neznámého vojína apod. Na Karlově mostě bylo na místě po Loyolovi zadáno (1928) a posléze i realizováno (1938) sousoší slovanských věrozvěstů Cyrila a Metoděje. Naopak v době protektorátu jsou pomníky a stavební památky vnímané jako potenciální ohnisko národní, protiněmecké mobilizace rozebírány a ničeny (hrob neznámého vojína, pomníky F. Palackému, E. Denisovi, W. Wilsonovi, pomník legionářům...), zavírány (Památník osvobození na Žižkově...), zakrývány (pomník Jana Husa na Staroměstském náměstí) nebo nově interpretovány: K. H. Frank, ministr pro protektorát Čechy a Morava, dobová publicistika, ale také pražské bedekry a reprezentativní obrazové publikace Prahy té doby popisují a zobrazují Hradčany, Karlův most či Karlovu univerzitu jako plody říšského ducha, zatímco Emanuel Moravec přirovnává sv. Václava k státnímu prezidentovi Háchovi, který podobně jako sv. Václav pochopil historickou nutnost a kulturní a geopolitickou příslušnost českých zemí k Říši a podrobil se jí.35 Veřejná prostranství jsou navíc přejmenovávána v duchu dominantního diskursivního paradigmatu, jímž je věrnost Říši a kulturní spojení s ní. Někdejší Františkovo nábřeží, v roce 1919 přejmenované na Masarykovo a v roce 1940 na Vltavské, od roku 1942 neslo jméno Reinhard-Heydrich-Ufer a u ná34 Srov. Klimek (1996). 35 K německé nacionální interpretaci Prahy srov. Frank (1942), Wollmar (1943), k Háchovi srov. Pasák (1997), k české kultuře za protektorátu srov. Červinka (2002) a Doležel (1996), k obrazové dokumentaci srov. Uhlíř (2008), k cestovním průvodcům apod. srov. Thomsen, detailněji k Praze a jiným evropským velkoměstům za druhé světové války srov. Fejtová/Ledvinka/ Pešek (2007), tam obzvláště Pešek (2007).



zvu se neuváděl český ekvivalent. Na Žižkově byla zase např. Havlíčkova přejmenována na Ochranovskou, Harrantova na Kalvínovu, Šlikova na Melanchtonovu, Husova na Huttenovu, Karlova na Lutherovu, čímž se potlačil mobilizující odkaz na „národní“ rebely a podtrhla se česko-německá kulturní spřízněnost (společná reformační minulost).36 Podobný osud jako rozebrané pomníky měly i pomníky v menších městech. Tak byl třeba v roce 1941 rozebrán pomník Jana Husa od Františka Bílka z předválečné doby. Naopak obnova pomníku maršála Radetzkého se přinejmenším zvažovala. 2.

Problém předpokladu, živého v 19. i 20. století, že exituje stabilní a homogenní národní kolektivní identita, spočívá v tom, že je to předpoklad chybný nebo přinejmenším nepřesný. Vyjít z něho bylo možno proto, že je to perspektiva části dobových aktérů (a v tomto smyslu tento předpoklad „chybný“ není). Ti národní kolektiv konstruovali jako homogenní, bráníce pomníkům a ničíce pomníky konkurenčních skupin (i tyto alternativní či konkurenční skupiny ovšem v odmítavém postoji k jazykovému národu či češství odkazují ke kategorii jazykového národa) a veřejný prostor redefinovali i jeho přejmenováním. Takto konstruovaná kolektivní národní identita přitom prosakuje stále hlouběji a formuje společnost, jež ji také institucionalizuje a sankcionuje zákonem, čímž se stává sociální realitou. Doboví aktéři přitom jazykový národ chápali jako ontologickou (biologickou, rasovou) danost a jen výjimečně si uvědomovali, že jde o sociální konstrukt.37 Na pozadí předpokladu takové ontologické danosti máme ovšem tendenci reflektovat jako stabilní a homogenní také významy památníků s národní symbolikou, a v důsledku toho chápat proměnu pražského veřejného prostoru jako svého druhu kontinuální proces jeho „národního kódování“. Proměny veřejného prostoru se 36 K tomu detailněji Nekula (2008). 37 K „Biomacht“ srov. Wagner (2007).



pak v zjednodušující retrospektivě jeví tak, jako by se řídily nějakým předem daným „národním“ plánem v režii Svatoboru nebo pražského magistrátu, podobně jako místa pro sochy a sousoší na Karlově mostě donátorům v 18. století přiděloval a činnost hutí na pokyn panovníka koordinoval jezuitský řád.38 Pro to se zdá svědčit i přejmenovávání veřejných prostranství při změně nebo vyostření režimu a při změně dominantního paradigmatu veřejného diskurzu. Tak jednoduché to ovšem není: proti zřízení Mozartova pomníku se sice postavili národní aktivisté (jmenovitě jistý Václav Moravec), ne však – nebo alespoň ne primárně – pražský magistrát. Ve prospěch jeho zřízení se podle Hojdy a Pokorného (1997: 129) vyslovil i Karel Kramář, o jehož národní orientaci může být jinak sotva sporu. Také stržení Mariánského sloupu a ničení symbolů rakouského státu bezprostředně po vyhlášení republiky se nebylo v režii pražského magistrátu. Odstranění sochy Františka I. nebo pomníku maršálu Radetzkému bylo mj. také výsledkem snahy magistrátu zabránit chaosu a výsledkem snahy utlumit kulturu poškozování veřejného majetku. Motivy tedy nebyly jen národní, a žádný vyšší plán, není-li jím paradigma monoglosní národní ideologie promítající národ do prostoru, tedy podle všeho neexistoval, i když nelze přehlédnout, že magistrát, resp. magistráty jako nejvyšší samosprávné orgány obce, aktivity českých spolků, sdružení jako Svatobor, Spolek pro zřízení pomníku Jana Žižky apod. i jednotlivců podporoval/y či jako v případě iniciativy za zřízení pomníku Wolfgangu Amadeu Mozartovi omezoval/y územním plánem, dary/odebráním stavebních pozemků či vydáním/nevydáním stavebního povolení apod., a že magistrát/y měl/y i vlastní okrašlovací politiku a organizačně a finančně podporoval/y některé projekty nebo realizoval/y vlastní projekty, jež veřejným prostranstvím vtiskly specifický charakter. De Fina (2006) navíc – v jiném kontextu – ukazuje, že individuální i kolektivní identita – a platí to i pro identitu národní – je diskurzivní konstrukt, který je – řečeno 38 K tomu srov. Neubert/Kořán/Suchomel (1991: 52).



terminologií konverzační analýzy – za jistým účelem vyjednáván ve specifickém společenském, diskurzivním kontextu. Opakovaná přejmenování veřejných prostranství tak ukazují na to, že i ve veřejném prostoru máme co do činění spíše s mocensky prosazovanými konstrukty než s existencí kolektivní identity. Vyjednávány ovšem nejsou jen identity, ale významy obecně. To platí – navzdory jejich bytelnosti – i pro pomníky: např. Kallert (2001) ukázala, jak se původní koncept pomníku sv. Václava od J. V. Myslbeka – také v reakci na veřejný ohlas – na cestě k realizaci postupně proměňuje a jak se jeho náboženský akcent (sokl se svatými, svatozář) oslabuje ve prospěch významového akcentu národního či jazykově národního (atributy světce v kombinaci s brněním, výběr vyčleněných svatých, citát chorálu). Hojda s Pokorným (1997) zase vyzdvihli prvotní rozpaky veřejnosti nad „bojovným“ pojetím sv. Václava, jež jej ovšem brzy přijala a identifikovala se s ním. Obdobné proměny prodělaly i Suchardův pomník Františku Palackému, Šalounův pomník Janu Husovi apod., přičemž podoba pomníků i jejich významy byly vyjednávány také v každodenním i mediálně vedeném diskurzu, návazujícím na veřejné soutěže, resp. výstavy soutěžních návrhů apod. Tyto „texty“ či obrazy osobností přitom neměly a nemají pro různé skupiny „čtenářů“ a v různých diskurzivních rámcích (či v rámci dominantního a subverzivního diskurzu) jednotný význam ani ve stejné době: Jan Herben (1930), který mluvil o dvou českých národech a který sv. Václava viděl v jedné řadě s Karlem IV., Liechtensteinem, Slavatou, Martinicem a Janem Nepomuckým a který jmenované dával do opozice vůči Janu Husovi a Janu Žižkovi, Chelčickému, Janu Blahoslavovi, Jiřímu z Poděbrad a Janu Ámosu Komenskému, viděl sv. Václava jinýma očima než účastníci státních oslav v rámci svatováclavského milénia v roce 1929, resp. účastníci katolických oslav v roce 1935. A v Halasově mobilizační básni „Praze“ z Torza naděje z roku 1938 nebo při studentských demonstracích v říjnu 1939 jsou v souvislosti s pomníkem sv. Václavovi v paměti kolektivu aktualizovány jiné vý-



znamy než při vyhlašování protektorátu v březnu 1939 nebo při přísaze věrnosti velkoněmecké říši po atentátu na Reinharda Heydricha v roce 1942, které se odehrály na stejném místě: V pátek 3. července se konal v Praze pod památným pomníkem sv. Václava na Václavském náměstí obrovský závěrečný projev vlády. Za přítomnosti státního prezidenta dr. E. Háchy, promluvil ministr školství a ministr lidové osvěty E. Moravec. Za jednomyslného souhlasu více než 200 000 manifestantů vyjádřil neochvějnou věrnost všech Čechů k národní pospolitosti a k velkoněmecké říši, definitivně odmítl zločinné londýnské emigranty a tlumočil rozhodnou vůli jíti ve věrnosti s velkoněmeckou říší za Novou Evropou (Pražský ilustrovaný zpravodaj. Společenský nepolitický týdeník, 9. července 1942, č. 28, s. 1). Obdobně to platí i pro hodnocení Mariánského sloupu nebo pomníky s husitskou tematikou atd. A podobně jako neexistuje stabilní a homogenní národní kolektivní identita, ale vždy jen její dobově podmíněná a účelová konstrukce, nemohou existovat ani stabilní a homogenní národní významy pomníků, o nichž tu byla řeč, jež by bez ohledu na širší diskurzivní kontext byly s to kódovat veřejný prostor jako prostor národní. Stejně tak nemohou – vyvázány z dobového diskurzu vedeného o nich či u nich třeba formou demonstrací – samy o sobě formovat národní vědomí. To je dáno jejich povahou. Jsou to totiž intertextuální odkazy, Jakobson by řekl shifters, k životnímu či literárnímu dílu zobrazených či v urbanonymech citovaných osobností, jejichž odkaz si každá doba či skupina – v politických projevech, publicistice, beletristice, každodenním diskurzu – vykládá po svém. Přes tyto významové proměny symboliky pomníků ve veřejném prostoru je zřejmé, že pomníky na pražských veřejných prostranstvích operují s jistým obecněji srozumitelným tradovaným kódem, který spoluvypráví národní narativ a který se reflektuje i v rituálech, jakým byl třeba Hankův pohřeb. Tak je to alespoň možno vidět z pohledu semiotické teorie kultury,39 jež kulturou ro39 Srov. Lotman (2001), Assmann (2006).



zumí systém znaků, jež mají svou materiální, mentální a sociální dimenzi. Porozumění pak ty, kteří jsou tohoto porozumění – diferencovaně nebo zjednodušeně, s odstupem nebo bez odstupu – schopni, ustavuje jako příslušníky určitého znakového, kulturního společenství, jež bychom mohli v tradici 19. století nazvat jako národní. Jako homogenní můžeme kulturu tohoto společenství chápat v tom smyslu, že svým příslušníkům poskytuje obdobný systém znaků a hodnot, s nímž její příslušníci operují. Přirozeně ne všichni stejně. A tak zatímco „nabídku“ tohoto systému jako celku lze chápat jako homogenní, jeho využití je individuálně i skupinově heterogenní (jednota v mnohosti). To vysvětluje i synchronní variaci kultury a jejích znaků a její proměny. Tuto variabilitu a proměnlivost je dobře vidět i na národním kódování veřejného prostoru pomníky i na národních rituálech, jež iniciovaly jejich vznik a jež se s nimi i později spojovaly.

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Good, better and superb antonyms a conceptual construal approach Carita Paradis

1. Introduction

Characteristic of antonyms is that they share an important segment of meaning at the same time as they differ prominently along the same dimension (e.g. Cruse 1986). Antonymy comes in different guises in linguistic communication. At the one extreme, it shows up as conventionalized antonym pairs such as good–bad, heavy–light, hot–cold and slow–fast. At the other extreme, antonymy may be construed for purposes of originality or poetic effect, e.g. ‘The most beautiful things are those that madness prompts and reason writes.’ (André Gide), ‘Timid men prefer the calm of despotism to the tempestuous sea of liberty.’ (Thomas Jefferson) or ‘A joke is a very serious thing.’ (Winston Churchill). In between those two extremes, there are numerous pairings which language users consider to be less good pairings. When asked to make judgements about how good a pair of adjectives are as opposites, speakers regard slow–fast as a good example of a pair of strongly antonymic adjectives, while slow–quick and slow–rapid are perceived as less good pairings, and fast–dull a less good pairing than slow–quick and slow–rapid. All these pairs in turn are better examples of antonymy than pairs such as slow–black or synonyms such as slow–dull (Paradis et al. 2009).1 1

The way I use the term antonymy is as a cover term for form-meaning pairings that are used in binary opposition in language use. As will become clear in this article, binarity receives a boundedness definition of partition into twos in conceptual space and opposition is a construal based on dimensional alignment and comparison. In some of the literature, antonymy is confined to binary opposition between contrary meanings in language, such as good–bad, as opposed to other opposites in language, such as converses, e.g. buy–sell and complementaries, e.g. dead–alive (Lyons 1977, Cruse 1986, Croft & Cruse 2004, Paradis 1997, 2001, Lehrer 2002).



For quite a long time, research on antonymy, and lexico-semantic relations more generally, was tied up with the structuralist approach to meaning as a system of relations between words, leaving it separated from new developments into the dynamics of conceptual treatments and invisible to new observational techniques in linguistic research. With the growing sophistication of Cognitive Semantics as a theoretical framework and the development of computational facilities and experimental techniques, the foundation for research on antonymy has improved considerably. This paper offers a new take on antonymy as a lexico-semantic phenomenon in language and thought based on a combination of a series of recent textual and experimental investigations (e.g. Jones et al. 2007, Paradis & Willners 2007, Murphy et al. 2009, Paradis et al. 2009, Willners & Paradis forthcoming). The primary goal of this article is to present a dynamic usage-based theoretical account for the category of antonymy that is capable of accommodating all kinds of antonym construals ranging from highly conventionalized lexico-semantic couplings to strongly contextually motivated pairings. The theoretical approach adopted is broadly that of Cognitive Semantics (Talmy 2000, Croft & Cruse 2004) and the model of meaning is Lexical Meaning as Ontologies and Construals (LOC, for short, Paradis 2005). The article starts with a general account of the treatment of antonyms within the Structuralist framework, followed by a report on a recent elicitation experiment on antonyms of adjectives, and a presentation of the Cognitive Semantic approach to lexical meaning and to antonymy. 2. Antonymy in Structuralism

The basic assumption of the nature of meaning in Saussurean Structuralism, is that every language is a unique relational system in which words receive their meanings from their relationships with other words in the same language system, i.e. meanings are not substantive but relational (Saussure 1959). This means that 

a word does not have an independent existence but derives its meaning from its position in a linguistic network. This also means that the sense of a word is the set of sense relations the word has with other words in the same lexical field. Within this approach, language is regarded as an autonomous, self-contained system of paradigmatic and syntagmatic relations between words. Language is often compared to a game of chess with rules and values (langue) and alternatives (parole). Langue is thus the language system that underlies the language put to use in a certain language community. Lyons (1977: 239–240) makes use of the notions language system and language behaviour, respectively. He points out that Saussure’s doctrine of the language system is not entirely clear. On the contrary, it has given rise to a lot of controversy in the literature. Saussure emphasized the supra-individual and social nature of the language system; and yet he held the view that it also had psychological validity in being stored in people’s brains. Not all structuralists conceived of the nature of meaning as Saussure did, but rather as a reflection of the external world. Lyons goes on to say that linguists working within the structuralist framework argue about whether there is an underlying universal system or not and many will deny that this system is internalized. What is clear is that the structuralist focus is on language as an externalized object and not on something in the mind of the language users. Lexico-semantic relations are of two orthogonally opposed types: paradigmatic and syntagmatic relations. Lyons (1977: 270–317) is mainly concerned with lexico-semantic relations from a paradigmatic point of view, focusing on relations such as antonymy, synonymy and hyponomy. Paradigmatic relations hold between lexical items which are intersubstitutable in a given position in a syntagm. In contrast, the syntagmatic approach, or the contextual/use approach, defines the meaning of a word as its uses across its grammatical occurrences (Firth 1957, Cruse 1986, Sinclair 1987). The Firthian dictum has it that “You shall know the meaning of a word



by the company it keeps” (Firth 1957: 179) and collocation is a key notion. Cruse (1986), which is an important piece of work in the structuralist approach to word meaning and sense relations, is a cross between the two approaches. The individual chapters of his book are devoted to the two different types of sense relations, but he explicitly says that the approach adopted is a variety of the contextual approach (1986: 1). Cruse assumes that the semantic properties of lexical items are fully reflected in the relations they contract within actual and potential contexts, semantic as well as grammatical. The main disadvantage of the structuralist approach to meaning is that it is a static system where words have set meaning in the relational network. The theory does not provide any tools for explanations of lexical flexibility in how antonymy is used in language as illustrated by the different examples in the introduction and, moreover, there is a want of empirical data in most of the literature on lexico-semantic relations in the structuralist tradition. It has become increasingly clear that it is of utmost importance for a theory of semantics to be able to account for the flexibility of lexical meaning in language use and meaning making. 3. Good, better and excellent antonyms

Paradis et al. (2009) and Willners & Paradis (forthcoming) carried out a series of investigations using both textual and experimental methods. Our focus in those studies is on adjectives since they are the types of formmeaning pairings most commonly associated with antonymy. The aim of the investigations was to identify whether there are two types of antonyms, canonical or non-canonical, or whether the strength and goodness of opposability is a matter of a continuum of canonicity. One of the experiments, the judgement experiment, pointed up a dichotomy between excellent antonym pairings and other pairings, while the elicitation experiment indicates that antonymy is a cline from more to less strongly affiliated members. In order to demonstrate the importance of context, this articles focuses 

on the elicitation experiment, because the elicitation experiment very clearly highlights the fact that speakers make up their own contexts when they suggest the best partner. The elicitation experiments were carried out using both English and Swedish test items. Since the results of both the English and Swedish experiments converge in a picture of the category of antonymic lexical meanings as a prototypicality structure with a small number of excellent antonym partners to category members on the outskirts for which a partner does not readily suggest itself, I report on only one of them – the English experiment. Fifty native speakers of English were asked to provide the best opposite of 85 individual test items in a paper-and-pencil elicitation task. Figure 1 gives the complete three-dimensional picture of the responses. The X-axis shows the total number of the antonyms suggested across each stimulus word. The Y-axis lists all the 85 stimuli of which every tenth word is supplied along the axis, while the Z-axis shows the number of participant responses per antonym. The bars represent the various elicited antonyms in response to the test items. The height of the bars indicates the number of participants who suggested the antonym in question. There is a gradual decrease across stimuli in participant agreement of the best antonym for a given word. The low bars at the front represent a single antonym suggested by one experiment participant. The adjectives at the top of the structure are very frequent in language use, both in terms of their individual and their co-occurrence frequency. Using a Spearman rank order correlation test, I found that there is a correlation between the individual frequency of the test items and the number of antonyms suggested by the participants in the elicitation experiment. The coefficient was – 0.62 and the correlation is significant at the 0.01 level (two-tailed). For figures on co-occurrence, see Paradis et al. (2009).This does not mean that items that are less frequent in language cannot form strongly conventionalized pairings. For instance, had we included



verbs, it is most likely that maximize – minimize would have scored high both in terms of sentential co-occurrence and in the experimental investigations, as indeed was shown by Herrmann et al. (1986). The same was shown by Jones et al.’s (2007) web study of antonyms in constructions in text.

Figure 1 – The distribution of English antonyms in the Elicitation experiment. The Y-axis lists the stimuli (85 all in all), with every tenth stimulus word written in full. The X-axis shows the number of antonyms suggested by the participants (from 1 to 29). The Z-axis records the number of participants supplying each of these antonyms (varying between 1 and 50) (Paradis et al. 2009).



At the top of the list of test items are the test items for which the participants only suggested one antonym: bad (good), beautiful (ugly), clean (dirty), heavy (light), hot (cold), poor (rich) and weak (strong), then the test items for which the participants suggested two opposites, e.g. black (white, colour), narrow (wide, broad) and slow (fast, quick), the stimulus words with three different answers and so on. The very last item is calm, for which 29 different antonyms were suggested by the 50 participants. The shape of the list of elicited antonyms strongly suggests a scale of canonicity from very good matches to test items with no preferred partners. Below is the complete list of antonyms suggested by the participants with the stimulus word in bold followed by the responses for each stimulus ordered according to falling frequency. The stimuli are ordered according to rising number of responses: bad good beautiful ugly clean dirty heavy light hot cold poor rich weak strong young old black white colour fast slow fast narrow wide broad slow fast quick soft hard rough good bad evil hard soft easy open closed shut big small little easy hard difficult white black dark light dark heavy dark light pale large small little slim rapid slow sluggish fast small big large tall ugly beautiful pretty attractive



exciting boring dull unexciting thick thin clever fine strong weak feeble mild slight wide narrow thin skinny slim evil good kind angelic pure thin fat thick overweight wide sober drunk frivolous inebriated intoxicated pissed filthy clean spotless immaculate pristine sparkling huge tiny small little minute petite sick well healthy fine ill yum enormous tiny miniscule small little minute slight dull bright exciting interesting shiny lively sharp bright dark dull dim gloomy stupid obscure fat thin slim Iean skinny thick wrong rare common comonplace ubiquitous frequent plentiful wellknown feeble strong robust hard impressive powerful steadfast broad narrow thin slim small lean slight smooth rough bumpy hard jagged hairy resistent healthy unhealthy sick ill lame diseased poorly sickly tiny huge large big enormous massive giant gigantic lean fat fatty flabby large plump support stocky wide heroic cowardly unheroic scared wimpish villainous disappointing reticent weak glad sad unhappy sorry upset disappointed regretful cross worried bare covered clothed dressed abundant cluttered full loaded patterned slim fat broad big chubby wide large obese plump round tough weak tender easy soft flimsy gentle sensitive weedy wimpy gradual immediate sudden rapid fast quickly instant abrupt incremental swift tired awake energetic alert lively fresh wakeful energized peppy perky rested sudden gradual slow prolonged expected incremental immediate delayed foreseen infrequent predictable idle busy active energetic hard-working working awake conscious diligent industrious pro-active workaholic gloomy bright happy cheerful cheery light sunny clear illumined nice merry pleasant tender tough rough hard well-done cold robust chewy harsh mean nash strong uncaring



pale dark bright tanned bold brown coloured red ruddy colourful healthy rosey swarthy vivid nervous calm confident bold brave relaxed alert assured excited fine innervous ready steady uncaring limited unlimited extensive abundent comprehensive endless plenty available broad capacious common fat infinite widespread robust weak fragile feeble flimsy shoddy thin brittle frail lethagic natural skinny slim vunerable fine thick coarse bad bold dull wide blunt clumsy cloudy mad ok rough wet unwell abundant scarce rare sparse little lacking disciplined few limited needed none meagre plentiful sparing threadbare pure impure tainted contaminated corrupt dirty tarnished evil adulterated bad foul mixture sinful unclean unpure immaculate untidy dirty messy filthy scruffy dishevelled boring faulty ramshacky spotted stained tarnished terrible tawdry civil uncivil rude anarchic barbaric belligerent childish corperate couth horrible impolite mean nasty military savage unfair extensive limited small intensive narrow restricted brief minimal constrained inextensive insufficient scanty short superficial sparse unextensive vague grim nice happy bright cheerful pleasant positive hopeful good pleasant carefree clear cosy fun jolly reassuring welcoming slender fat broad plump wide bulky chubby thick well-built big chunky curvy lean massive obese podgy portly rotund delicate robust strong tough sturdy hardy rough coarse unbreakable bold bulky crude course gross hard hardwearing harsh heavy immediate later delayed slow gradual distant deferred extended anon eventually far forever longterm pending postponed prolonged soon whenever modest boastful immodest arrogant bigheaded brash conceited extravagant vain outgoing blasé confident forward ignorant modest proud quiet shy great small rubbish terrible bad average awful crap dreadful insignificant lowlyI mediocre microscopic obscure ok shit tiny poor unremarkable firm soft weak floppy lenient wobbly flexible flimsy gentle groundless relenting lax limp loose saggy shaky undecided unsolid unstable



confused clear understood knowing sure lucid organised certain alert clued-up clearheaded coherent comprehending confident enlightened fine focused notconfused scatty together bold timid shy cowardly faint fine italic thin nervous cautious faded feint frightened hairy meek quiet scared timorous weak yellow daring cowardly timid nervous scared boring carefully cautious shy afraid careful fat faltering fearful reticient safe staid undaring wimpish mediocre outstanding excellent exceptional brilliant amazing good great challenging charge clever extreme fair interesting mediocre rare special superb unusual wicked yielding unyielding firm resisting dormant hard stubborn agressive dying fighting fixed lose losing obdurate rigid steadfast steamrollering strong stuck tough unproductive irritated calm content relaxed amused fine placid serene soothed comfortable easy even good-humoured happy laid-back normal ok patient pleased tranquil unperturbed unruffled alert sleepy tired asleep dozy oblivious distracted dull drowsy groggy lazy slow apathetic awake complacent dim dopey lethargic spacey torpid unaware unconscious unresponsive disturbed calm undisturbed sane peaceful settled stable untouched alone balanced content fine ignored normal quiet relaxed together tranquil unaffected uninterrupted untroubled welcome well-adjusted well-balanced slight large great strong big heavy considerable enormous huge major substantial very alot extensive heavyset lots marked massive plenty pronounced robust rough severe thick unslight well-built wide delightful horrible awful unpleasant boring disgusting repulsive tedious abhorrent annoying crap difficult distasteful dredful dull grim hateful horrendous horrid irritating miserable nasty repellent revolting rubbish terrible uninteresting yuk calm stressed stormy rough agitated excited hyper panicked angry annoyed anxious choppy crazy flustered frantic frenzied hectic hubbub hysterical irrate irrational jumpy lively loud nervous neurotic rage reckless tense troubled



The pairings at the beginning of the list are the ones that we as speakers of English consider to be excellent examples of antonyms. They may be regarded as conventionalized antonym pairings in language and the meaning dimensions on which they are based are dimensions such as merit, beauty, weight, temperature etc. Those dimensions are salient in the sense that they are easily identifiable by us as language users. For instance, any adult speaker of English would be able to identify the speed dimension underlying slow–fast, while the dimensions of, say, rare–abundant, calm–disturbed, lean–fat or narrow–open appear to have a less transparent application with respect to the shared content dimension and would consequently create a fair amount of uncertainty among speakers. The results of the investigations also suggest that polysemy as such does not prevent a word from participating in strongly conventionalized couplings with other words, e.g. light–dark and light–heavy or narrow–wide and narrow–open. What this seems to tell us is that contextual versatility is a reflection of ontological versatility, i.e. that the use potential of these antonyms applies in a wide range of contentful ontological contexts, and that they are frequent in constructions and contrasting frames in text and discourse – nothing more nothing less. This context sensitivity can also be seen in corpus studies of antonym use (Willners 2001, Jones 2002, 2007, Jones et al. 2007, Murphy et al. 2009, Muehleisen & Isono 2009, Storjohann 2009, Gries & Otani submitted) and in the result of lexicographic work with machinereadable corpora where collocational patternings in text are important indications of the flexibility of the use of the seed words (Vachová 2008). There is no obvious way of accounting for meaning flexibility of word meaning in general within the structuralist framework, because there are no tools for how to deal with flexibility in use and meaning-making. For this reason I propose a model of meaning that has a dynamic component. The model is introduced in the next section.



4. Antonymy in Cognitive Semantics

A leading principle in Cognitive Semantics is that meanings are mental entities in conceptual space. Meanings are in people’s minds rather than relations within language, as in Structuralism. Words and expressions do not ‘have’ meanings but are cues for making inferences that promote adequate reasoning and understanding (Verhagen 2005: 22). Words and expressions evoke specific profilings of conceptual structures when they are used in text and discourse. Lexical meaning is the relation between the relevant part of the total meaning potential of words and expressions in context on the occurrence of use. Lexical meaning is constrained by encyclopaedic knowledge, conventionalized mappings between lexical items and concepts and conventional modes of thought in different contexts and situational frames (Cruse 2002, Paradis 2001, 2003, 2005, 2008). According to this view, meanings of words are always negotiated and get their definite interpretations in the specific context where they are used. Multiple readings of words and expressions are natural and expected in a dynamic model such as LOC. Language users’ creation of meaning in linguistic communication can be compared to artists’ creation of works of art. For instance, when painters paint in oil or sculptors carve a statue out of a block of marble, they are all occupied with a substance that we may think of as shape neutral and size neutral. This substance is similar to the conceptual pre-meanings of the LOC model described below. Artists produce something that has both shape and size, e.g. a painting of a landscape or a statue of a person. Similarly, this is what speakers and addressees are doing when they communicate. We may say that language in use starts with undifferentiated substance which obtains shape and size in human communication. Pre-meanings of contentful and configurational conceptual structures provide the undifferentiated substance for construals in the act of communication. The model is Lexical Meaning as Ontologies and Construals (Paradis 2005). It offers the tools for ex 

plaining as well as the differences in opposability and lexico-semantic strength of antonyms in use. In LOC, conceptual space is structured relative to two types of ontological knowledge structures: contentful and configurational structures (see Table 1). Ontologies (conceptual structures)

Cognitive processes

Content

Configurations

Construals

concrete phenomena events, processes, states abstract phenomena

part/whole, thing, relation, boundedness, scale, degree, point, frequency, focus, path, order, modality, …

Gestalt: e.g. structural schematization Salience : e.g. metonymization, generalization, profiling Comparison: e.g. metaphorization, categorization, analogy Perspective: e.g. foregrounding / backgrounding, subjectification

Table 1. Ontologies and cognitive processes in meaning construction, adapted from Paradis (2005).

Both types of structures are conceptual pre-meanings. Content structures involve meaning proper, i.e. meaning structures pertaining to things, events and states, and configurations or schemas such as boundness and scale. In addition to these conceptual representations, there is an operating system consisting of different types of construals such as assignment of focus of attention (salience) and Gestalt. Language put to use in human communication comes about through construal operation which are imposed on the concepts by speakers and addressees at the time of use. At that time, the definite contextual meaning construal is established (Paradis 2004, 2005, 2008). A great deal of flexibility is built into LOC in that configurational concepts are considered to be free structures that are mapped onto different content domains. This way of meaning modelling sets configuration free from contentful meanings. This also makes it possible for us to apply different configurations of one and the same contentful meaning structure. For instance, there is the construal of different parts of speech on the basis 

of length, as in long, length and lengthen (Paradis 2005: 546–549), or the construal of content structures on the basis of scale or boundary as in very bad, which is construed on the basis of a scale and completely bad where a boundary is profiled (Paradis 2008). Some meanings are more adaptable to different configurational construals. For instance, very long is perfectly felicitous, while completely long is strange. The advantage of LOC is that it is a highly dynamic model in which we are able to handle conventionalized as well as more ad hoc couplings between configuration and content. Some lexical meanings are well suited for antonymic configuration construals in that they are inherently binary and have a built-in twoness, e.g. male–female (Croft & Cruse 2004: 164–165). However, this is not enough for a construal of antonymy since opposability also involves an element of comparison. The contrasting meanings have to be opposed in discourse. Murphy (2003: 45) argues for a general pragmatic principle, the Relationby-Contrast, governing all semantic relations, i.e. antonymy, synonymy, co-hyponymy, hyponymy and meronymy. The principle defines relations on the basis of minimal differences. For antonyms the contrast relation holds among the members of a pair, if and only if they have the same contextually relevant properties but one. I take this pragmatic definition as my point of departure and complement it with my cognitive semantic approach to antonymy, which offers an explanation for antonymy in language and thought and which also offers an account for why some lexical items tend to form set couplings. When two meanings are used as antonyms in a context, they are construed as representing two sides of a dimension of meaning, and the binary contrast expressed is invoked through a process of comparison. LOC provides us with a contentful dimension of meaning which might be length, existence, gender and a bounded configuration. This way, a dichotomy can be set up, and the two opposites are located on either side of the boundary and contrasted through compari-



son in the context where they occur. This means that according to this view, all antonyms are all equal in the sense that the category does not have internal structure – either a pair along a meaning dimension divided by a boundary is or is not a pair of antonyms, and they are only antonyms if they are used in binary opposition in a given context. Granted that antonyms are used to express binary opposition, any dimensionally alignable meanings can be construed as a pair of antonyms, including everything from “What’s the opposite of riot? It’s lots of people keeping quiet.” (Wilbur 1973: 8) through pairings such us “it is neither good, nor bad” and negated oppositions “these flowers are both beautiful and not beautiful”(Paradis & Willners 2006, forthcoming), or indeed construed in a fashion where one side of the contrast is left implicit, e.g. “I am not your maid!”, which very clearly points up the opposite of what a maid is supposed to do. It deserves to be pointed out that this is not the case for the corresponding affirmation, unless the expression is used ironically (Giora et al. 2009, Giora et al. forthcoming). In order to be able to explain degrees of goodness of opposability, we need a modelling component of conceptual structures and an operational component for the profiling of meanings in use and interpretation. For this reason we turn our focus of attention from antonymy as configuration to construal to antonymy in terms of content and strength of lexicosemantic conventionalization in language. 5. Summary

Within the framework of Lexical Meaning as Ontologies and Construals (LOC), antonymy is treated as a binary opposition of some content structure. More precisely, it is a binary construal of comparison in which the contentful dimension is divided by a bounded configuration. The configuration of boundedness constitutes an absolute and necessary requirement for meanings in a certain content segment to be used as antonyms (irrespective of whether the configuration of the opposing elements against which the contrast is profiled is 

bounded or unbounded). In terms of the lexico-semantic couplings with focus on the contentful structures, some pairings are ‘better’ pairings of binary opposition than others. The structure of antonymy from the point of view of the content segment is one of a continuum, with canonical pairings as core members and ad hoc couplings on the outskirts.

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Independent Thinking, Science, and Civilization Leopold Pospíšil

Civilizations (cultures with cities) and tribal cultures change and grow in complexity and sophistication through innovations. Innovations can be of two kinds: either they originate within the culture itself, and then we speak of invention or discovery, or they may come from the outside, in which case we call it borrowing (or diffusion). While popularly it is thought that internal inventions are mainly responsible for rise of the various civilizations, and borrowing is of secondary importance or, indeed, of no importance at all, we shall see that both of these processes are essential to cultural growth and that it has been actually the underestimated borrowing, learning from other peoples, that gave rise to world civilizations including our own, the so called Western Civilization. One of the two kinds of internal change, the invention, is sometimes differentiated from discovery in the sense that it is supposed to involve some mental creativity, independent thinking on the part of the inventor. In other words, our inventor introduces a new idea or artifact, whereas a discoverer uncovers something that is already there. In the case of borrowing the agent’s contribution is even less important. He is often viewed as simply imitating or copying something that others are doing or have invented, and is usually regarded as a passive recipient of somebody else’s accomplishment. Several anthropologists have challenged these notions. Among them H.G. Barnett probably went farthest in showing that the distinctions are false, that all innovators, the inventors, discoverers, and borrowers use insight and are mentally creative whether they invent, discover or borrow. Indeed, he claimed that in all three situations basically the same elementary process is



seen. Basing his analysis on Gestalt Psychology he says that the essence of any of these processes is a subjective (psychological) recombination of ideas. The recombination is of two configurations, two united patterns of experience. One is the “stimulus configuration”, an experience with which the inventor is confronted. For example one of my Kapauku Papuans of New Guinea who for the first time saw a white man, that means myself, wearing a pair of shorts (x in figure l), worn (r2) on my hips (y). This situation evoked in the Kapauku a “remembered configuration”. He consciously or unconsciously recalls a tribesman wearing (r1) a net bag (A) on his head (B), suspended by strap handle from his forehead and covering his neck. But why did the Kapauku member this experience and not another? Barnett explains that consciously or unconsciously the Kapauku analyze the stimulus situation (x-r2-y) into its component parts: The shorts (x), put on (r2), and the hips (y). The shape and structure of the shorts reminds the Papuan of the only flexible fabric of comparable nature he knows from his own neolithic culture – the carrying net bag made of inner bark strings (A). But this memory recalls not only the idea of the net bag but also the fact that it is worn (r1) suspended from the forehead (B). The shape and the texture of the shorts and net bag constitute the common part (c1) of both situations and these features cause the recall of the remembered situation. Following this recall the Kapauku subconsciously disregards the differences between the two objects (their material, function, and meaning), and in his mind identifies them with each other. The shorts, because they are viewed as identical with the net bag are given the meaning from the remembered situation (x-r1-b). In this way the trunks become another net bag in the mind of the Kapauku. If he receives them, the item in his possession becomes something different from the white men’s artifact. By having placed the shorts into the remembered situation (net bag worn on head) he gave it an entirely different meaning: it became equivalent to the net bag. In this way I could un-

 

derstand what actually happened when I gave shorts to young Kapauku men. To my astonishment, instead of putting the short on their hips, they covered their heads with them, with the rubber waistband across the forehead and the fabric hanging down their backs, thus resembling ancient Egyptians. I have also seen my shorts sewn together at the bottom used as containers! There is an interesting aspect of this example. Was this only mechanical borrowing or was there more to it? Is a pair of shorts worn on the head the same thing as wearing it around the hips? Culturally speaking it is not. We are actually confronted with a new cultural trait. If this is the case then we actually described an invention rather than a borrowing – or did we? Barnett claims that this process of eliciting a remembered situation by a stimulus situation, and the subjective identification of their parts with resulting recombination is the essence of borrowing as well as invention. To him the essential psychological features of the two processes are identical. Thus invention does not come out of the blue, it is not a deus ex machina. It is basically a recombination, on an often highly subjective level, of two situations. If this analysis of invention is correct, then people exposed to similar memories should come up with similar or the same recombinations. In other words people from the same culture, exposed to similar problem (stimuli) should be able to make the same inventions independently of each other. That this is actually true is attested by a long inventory of such simultaneous independent inventions, as listed by Alfred Kroeber in his text.1 So, for example, telescope, logarithms, calculus, discovery of nitrogen, oxygen, water as H2O, steamboat, pepsin, telegraph, photography, planet Neptune, natural selections, periodic law of elements, telephone, phonograph, and many other inventions and discoveries were made independently by individuals from our Western civilization approximately within a short period of time from each other.

1

A. Kroeber, Anthropology. New York: 1948, p. 342.

 

In all inventions, we have to reminded, the meaning given to a stimulus (the recall of the “same” remembered) situation is subjective; the similarity of the two situations need not to be objectively true. Thus the invention is not a mechanical act, one has to take into consideration also the intellect, education, knowledge, and the imagination of the inventor. The broader the knowledge of the individual, the more numerous and basic inventions can be made. To this testifies the fact that the background of many great inventors, such as Einstein, Planck, Newton, Darwin or Ohm discloses their mastering even several disciplines. Borrowing and civilization

Popularly it is believed that advanced cultures and civilizations grew by internal inventions – the intellectual achievement of the local population. The racist theories of the 19th and 20th centuries went even further and claimed that the rise of the West depended on the innate intelligence of the racial group that produced it. The White race, and especially the blond “nordic” subrace was considered by the German National Socialists to be man’s intellectual apex in their evolution. Unfortunately for these racists most of the basic inventions upon which the Western civilization rests were made by non-Europeans. Accordingly all domesticated plants and animals were acquired by Europeans from other parts of the world. Even the agriculture, pottery, metal smelting, steel, glass, paper, rubber, gunpowder, paper money and metal coins, cotton, silk, spinning and weawing, banking, and bills of exchange came from the outside, in addition to the alphabet, the decimal mathematical system, and printing. The last three major accomplishments were achieved by Semitic speakers of the near East, East Indians, and Chinese respectively. When one studies the European cultural inventory and its origins, on is startled into realization how relatively uninventive Europeans were prior to the last three or four centuries. We can see that it is mainly borrowing, and that on a large scale, that is responsible for the  

rise and development of civilizations. When we look at the world map we see that all civilizations originated among peoples who were connected by a long distance trade with other regions and distant lands. They were located at the crossroads of the world, at places where route from one continent to another, or from one large region to another, had to pass through restricted, relatively small area, circumscribed either by sea, mountains, deserts, or other unhospitable areas. This was the case of the Olmec, Teotihuacan, Toltec, Aztec, and Maya in Central America, inhabitants of Mesopotamia and Egypt at the place where Africa, Asia and Europe meet, and China and India restricted by monumental mountain chains and the sea. Trade, of course, does not mean borrowing of only material goods. Along with goods ideas are also disseminated. Thus borrowing at the trade centers meant not only transfer of material culture, but also of technological know how, scientific principles, religious ideas, philosophies, and art. Exposure to foreign ideas alone is not enough to germinate a civilization and its further growth. People have to learn from other peoples, they have to be humble, they must be convinced that they can learn from others. The idea that one’s society is the “best one“, that there is nothing to be acquired from foreigners or people with foreign experience, is a prelude to cultural disaster. An excellent example is presented by the Chinese Emperor Kang-hsi of the Ching Dynasty. He received the British ambassador and, being good natured, granted his request for acquiring Chinese goods that were novelties to Europeans, and agreed to teach the British skills they desired to learn from the Chinese. Yet he declined to accept anything in return – “China had all it needed”, there was simply nothing useful to learn from Europeans with their at the time “inferior” culture. Thus the most advanced civilization of China stagnated, and the humble British started on the way toward a world empire. Japan presents a contrast. In the 19th century Japan, a small traditional island nation,

 

changed its centuries old policy of isolation and decided to borrow wholesale from the West and to industrialize. From a humble little state emerged the leading power of Asia, one of economic giants of the world, although an interlude of Tojo’s political arrogance and supremacism almost lead it to disaster. Our Czechoslovak and now Czech Republic is no exception to the rule. The acceptance of Western ideas from the returning emigrees after the World War I made Czechoslovakia one of the most prosperous nations, faring better than others in the depression of the thirties. On the other hand, pushing aside the know how carried by the returning emigrees after the collapse of communism shows plainly its consequences. In civilizations most of the idea exchanges take place in their capitals and cities where the foreigners usually stay. In tribal societies, without these administrative and trade centers, it is usually the periphery of their territories where people of different cultures come together and artifacts and ideas are exchanged. I found this to be the case among the Kapauku Papuans of New Guinea where borrowing of an idea, and recombination of it with their own, created an invention which changed their culture so profoundly that it stands out as the most exceptional among its tribal neighbors. Unlike them they make use of all purpose money with cowry shells of different but standardized denominations, they have market economy in which the prices change in conformance with supply an demand, and these, in turn, influence production. With this goes hand in hand the emphasis on individual wealth, entrepreneurship, profit motivation, and even well planned speculation. A speculating Kapauku trader often bought bailer shells in large quantities when supply was large and the price low, hid them in cashes in limestone crevices, only to sell one by one when prices started to rise.2 The impetus to the development of this market economy in the Kapauku stone age society, was not a change in the means of production and its organization, as Marx2

 

L. Pospisil, Kapauku Papuan Economy. New Haven, Connecticut: 1963.

ist doctrine would have it. Indeed it was not the means of production which, as the putative “basis of culture” would in a deterministic sense influence its superstructure, but just the reverse was true. It was the most abstract part of its “superstructure” which radically changed the economy. Although the surrounding tribal groups share the same technology and means of production with the Kapauku, their economies are based on the old-fashioned reciprocity. They posses no money and use no sales but barter. So rather than to look for the cause of this economic change in technology an production, we have to turn to the most abstract of the Kapauku culture, their, for the Papuans unique, numerical and mathematical system. In counting their possessions, time (days and moons), and especially in their financial transactions, they use a sexagesimal numerical system (units in ten combined with sixty), known otherwise only in Babylonian culture and those cultures where direct borrowing from the former is attested. The Kapauku words for the numbers 1–9 are simple, and of those 1 to 6 are unrelated to other languages, while 7 to 9 are derived from the Proto-Malay language. The numbers 11–19, 21–29, ect. Are formed in a decimal way as one-and-ten, twoand-ten, ect. Whereas the word for ten (gaati) is derived from the verb “to think” (gai], thirty (amonaeto) means „half“, and sixty (bado) means “foot or base.“ Inerestigly, in the word for 20 (mepiina = mepi + ena = one mepi) and 40 (mepiija = mepi + wija = two mepi) one might see a survival of 1/3 and 2/3. Fifty (geati-beu) means minus ten. Numbers higher than 60 are handled by groups of that base, so that 61 is sixty and one (bado ma ena), 70 becomes sixty and ten (bado ma gaati), and 326, for example, is expressed as bado ibidi ma benumi ma mepiina, “sixty (times) five and six and twenty”. Similarly 600 is bado-gaati “sixty (times) ten”, 3, 600 is bado dado “sixty (times) sixty”. Now there cannot be any doubt that this is a sexagesimal system of a Babylonian variety. Clever Kapauku can count in hundreds, and thousands, whereas their neighbors’ numerical systems

 

end often at 5, 6, 20, or so. The question arises how the stone-age Kapauku acquired such a developed arithmetical system. The words for 7 to 9 betray that we have here a case of borrowing from Malay-speaking people with whom Kapauku several hundreds years ago must have come into contact. At that time the Malay speakers traded with the coastal people of New Guinea. But where did the land locked Kapauku in the distant high mountains come into contact with them? Most logical appeared to me the area of Geelving Bay with its beaches and deep tropical rain forests. Thus I speculated in 1959 and 1962 that these forests might have been inhabited by yet unknown lowland Kapapuku. In 1962, accompanied by some Kapauku and Nabire people, I made an expedition up the Boumi river in the hope of contacting local forest dwellers. The expedition, however, proved to be a failure. However in 1975, upon one my returned to New Guinea, my Kapauku reported that indeed lowland Kapauku had been discovered by them in places where we were looking for them in 1962. Now they call them Ogee Bagees, which means the “hidden people”. Thus it is clear that the most tremendous change in the Kapauku culture (due to a borrowing and recombination – an invention) was made at their habitat’s periphery. At that time these Malay speakers possessed a decimal system. An unknown Kapauku genius combined the old Kapauku counting to six, for which numerals he retained the Kapauku words, with the Malay decimal system, from which he took the words for seven, eight, and nine. The word for ten he derived from the Kapauku verb gai (to think). Then logically this combination of six and ten gave him unite of 60 (10x6), 600 (60x10), and finally 60x60 – 3,600. In this way in Central New Guinea was invented another sexagesimal system, independently of the Babylonian tradition. Here a Kapauku genius combined the two numerical system, thus inventing a sexagesimal system type, by using his ingenuity, independent thinking, interest in another culture, and humility which allowed him to borrow and invent.



Anthropology as science

The study of rise and growth of civilizations and their decay, with the role of the individual in these changes, fascinated me already as a young student. Although at first I was interested in mathematics and biology I soon realized that what in the book of Paul Kruif’s “Microbhunters” really interested me was the role of individual inventors, men who discovered the various microbes and designed the way to fight them. In other words the inventors who enriched our culture and caused the growth of our civilization. So in search for understanding the processes of culture change I studied law, then philosophy, and sociology, but none of these disciplines satisfied my curiosity. I have realized that there were two shortcomings of the social sciences – their formal double limitation. Finally I discovered anthropology. Unlike the other disciplines its study was not limited to the Western culture only. With that limitation the other social sciences could be compared to a hypothetical biology in which all biologists studied only frogs (that means one species) and then generalized for the rest of the animal kingdom, and claimed that all animals behaved like frogs (hop and croak). Even worse, the second limitation allows the social sciences to divide the Western culture and makes them to specialize in sociology, economics, psychology, or political science, etc., and to disregard the rest of our civilization. Such social scientists could be compared to hypothetical frog biologists who study only part of the frog, let us say its hind legs, remaining ignorant of how the rest of its body works. How can economists predict in their field without a thorough knowledge of psychology and political organization? If they could make an accurate prediction in the basis of a generalization extracted from they study it would certainly be a miracle. Unfortunately soon enough I found that the history of anthropological theory has actually been dominated by schools of theoreticians who subscribed to doctrines which they accepted as revealed truths. The founders of these schools became some sort of prophets to their 

followers, and their pronouncements have been cited as infallible dogmas, although often little of empirical evidence has been offered. During my school days at Yale University such a doctrine was called “culture personality”, and the great stars were Margaret Mead and Ruth Benedict. They were dedicated to their master Franz Boas to that extent that Margaret Mead justified her findings among her Samoan girls by saying: “Boas told us what to look for and we went and found it.”3 Yes, found it by talking to a handful of informants through interpreters – so they did not even master the native language. Several other followers of this school constructed culture personality profiles on the basis of a study of one single individual: Finding based on such kind of a research, coupled with ignorance of the native language, should have been actually dismissed a priori as irrelevant to a scientific inquiry. Schools such as this dominated anthropology from its origin in the 19th century. We had the unilinear evolutionists, Kultrukeislehre, Heliolithic School, American Historical School, Functionalism, Structuralism, and, of course, Marxism. The last completely disappeared, together with its assotional unit of the American Anthropological Association, after the collapse of the Soviet Union. All these schools eventually collapsed, their theories disappeared, only to make room for another faddish doctrine. As G.P. Murdock said in his Memorial Huxley Lecture: “What became lasting contributions to anthropology were not the various theories, but solid ethnographic accounts with their proper analyses.”4 Accordingly Radcliffe-Brown, a superstar who produced lot of theories but little of impressive ethnography, faded into oblivion, while his contemporary Bronislaw Malinowski remains important, having made a lusting contribution to ethnography and methodology. Amaizingly, for all their failures isms have not become matter of the past. Indeed, anthropology became 3

M. Mead, Coming of Age in Samoa. New York: 1928.

4

G.P. Murdock, Anthropology’s Mythology, Proceeding of the Royal Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland for 1971, pp. 17–24.



dominated by a new doctrinaire school which exceeds in its dogmatism all its antecedents. It attacked the very basis i science in general, rejecting empiricism, objectivity, and even existence of scientific facts. Some of its disciples have preached a virtual nihilism, and whoever contradicts their creed is labled positivist. They call themselves post-modernists, or interpretists, and their great mentor became Clifford Geeertz. Although he meticulously destroyed structuralism and its star LeviStrauss, he, being a pragmatist, influenced by William James, subjected science to a postpositivistic critique of empirical realism, destabilized the concept of objective fact, and rejected the notion of causality. Instead of precise description, unbiased analysis of facts, and causal relation and explanation, which he maintains are unattainable, he advocates interpretation and search for meaning and understanding as sufficient goals for anthropology. Since meanings differs from person to person, objectivity is decried. The advocated interpretations are highly subjective because they cannot be empirically tested and verified, one being as good as any other. Consequently anthropology to him is not science but a sort of moralistic and humanistic discipline. There cannot be any valid generalization and consequently prediction. Often his arguments sound like playing with words. Since the term “explain” is tabooed, it is substituted with “to render accessible”, “to grasp”, “clarify”, etc. Other anthropologists of this persuasion went even farther. Already Geerts’ predecessor Edmund Leach ridiculed ethnography, claimed that anthropological data were subjective, and therefore not as interesting as theories were. He himself had problems with data, because he lost his notes in the field and wrote his book on Political Systems of Highland Burma (1964) on the basis of his memory. Furthermore, his lost data were dubious because he did not speak the native tongues. Similarly Feyerabend claimed that theories cannot be rejected by facts, and since scientific verification does not exist, anything goes.5 Stephen A Tyler regards data of observa5

P.K. Feyerabend, Against Method. London: 1975.



tion to be impossible and, therefore, he advocates “ethnopoetics”. Because there are multiple meanings which lead researchers to different interpretations, both statements of Freeman and Mead, for example, should be regarded as correct in spite of their opposite views.6 Unfortunately the intepretists’ skeptical view of anthropological data is well founded empirically. However, the poor quality of these data is not due because they are sui generis and thus different from the data of natural sciences. The data are not poor quality because of their nature, but because of the unscientific attitude of many of socio-cultural anthropologists. They often assume form of qualitative generalities not derived from a precise research, and they are presented in pseudoscientific jargon. They originated from research often marked by several deficiencies. First, many fieldworkers never learn the native language, knowledge which should be a logical prerequisite for any ethnological research. Instead, the fieldworker uses an interpreter, or the medium of lingua franca, not realizing that knowledge of the language is essential to understanding of most of the basis concepts, ideas, and behavior patterns of the natives – that language is an integral part and essential feature of the studied culture. To communicate with Chagga in Swahili, or with Papuans in pidgin English can well be compared to a Chinese scholar studying American society and trying to communicate with a few knowlegeable Americans in Esperanto. It is estounding that ignorance of native languages is even defended by people like Laura Nader and Sally Moore, when they claim that an adequate analysis of a legal system can be achieved without an understanding and speaking the native tongue.7 The failure to learn the native language is often consequence of brevity of the current research. Even one year is 6

D. Freeman, Margaret Mead and Samoa: The Making and Unmaking of an Anthropological Myth. Cambridge: 1983.

7

J. Starr – J.F. Collier, History and Power in the Study of Law. Ithaca, London: 1989; S. Tyler, Post-Modern Ethnography: From Document of the Occult to Occult Document. In: Writing Culture: The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography. J. Clifford – G.E. Marcuse (eds.), Berkeley: 1986 p. 20.



often not adequate, especially when the researcher has to learn the language in the field. For reliable results fieldwork may require two or more years, depending on the aspect of culture and the people one studies. For a study of culture change, for example, a long term research is mandatory, to record it ex post facto is not enough. In such a situation, because of lack of information, Durkheimean, Marxist, or today interpretist jargon, with its denial of importance of individual and the specific, comes as blessing to some theoreticians. One needs to be precise, or command the relevant historical data, one needs only to blame the institution and changes on the group, “group will”, or public opinion. One reads also about such impossible feats as “the group decided”, or “the clan as whole punished the offender”. Since quantification, so basic to all natural science, requires hard and precise work, it is avoided and often even mocked. In one review of the book “Bridges to Humanity”8 one reads the praise of the writers being “humanist anthropologists, not bogged down with tables, charts, and scholarly aparatus, thus transcending quantitative safety“. The extreme of brevity of a research was probably reached by psychiatric John Cowte who wrote on mental health of Australian Aborigines after three weeks of “fieldwork”.9 Anthropologists are supposed to use holistic approach. Proper fieldwork includes learning of the indigenous language, conducting a systematic and thorough investigation of the whole culture, and then making a concentrated study of one’s specialty. Already at the beginning of this century Bronislaw Malinowski notes: “An ethnographer who sets out to study only religion or only technology, or only social organization cuts out an artificial field of inquiry, and he will be seriously handicaped in his work.”10 Unfortunately specialization and 8

B. Grindal – F. Salamone (eds.) Review of Bridges to Humanity. Narrative on Anthropology and Friendship. London: 1995.

9

J. Cowte, Assessment of Mental Health in an Australian Aboriginal Community by Short-term Psychiatric Team Method. In: Cruel, Poor and Brutal Nations, Honolulu: 1972.

10 B. Malinowski, Argonauts of the Western Pacific. New York: 1961, p. 10.



fragmentary research became a curse of modern anthropology. In those early days Malinowski discovered that informants can provide only accounts of the ideational culture, while behavior has to be witnessed, understood, and properly recorded. This can be achieved only through participant observer method. Could Margaret Mead understand Samoan culture by talking to only 25 girls, not speaking the Samoan language, and living with an American family? Could we call this participant observation method proven so important by Malinowski? In this way originate unchecked nonempirical theories and modern superstars, as Ortiz and Netting have observed.11 In my work among the Kapauku Papuans of New Guinea I have foundthe holistic approach indispensable. Thus without, for example, a thorough knowledge of the Kapauku language, their philosophy of life, or their economy, I would not have been able to analyze the Kapauku legal system at all. And the so-called analyses of legal systems, in which anthropologists did not cover the whole culture as a prerequisite for their legal analysis, are very flawed, and the data are often very shallow. These anthropologists often misinterpret or speculate, rather than work on the basis of exact knowledge. The worst what happens in modern social sciences is that around the “superstars” cluster hundreds of their disciples, following slavishly the thoughts of their mentors. Since Geertz did not speak Balinese for his well written article on the Balinese Cockfights some of his followers do not bother to study the various field languages, thus remaining hopelessly ethnocentric and nonempirical. Of course one cannot use their data, while themselves claim to be subjective. And any general rule and prediction has to be based on solid empirical research, which the interpretists formally reject. Nothing is more unscientific than automatic and unquestion11



S. Ortiz, Reflections on the Concept of Peasant Culture and Peasant Cognitive Systems. In: T. Shanin, (ed.), Peasants and Peasant Societies. Harmondworth, England: 1975, p. 383; R. McNetting, Balancing on an Alp. Ecological Change and Continuity in a Swiss Mountain Community. Cambridge: 1981, p. 227.

able acceptance of other people’s theories. Therefore, to eliminate hero worship for one’s academic mentor the ethnographer should not be expected to bring students as “understudies” into his or her own fieldwork. This practice not only prevents the young people from acquiring important language skills, but, in the long run, makes them disciples rather than scholars. Any young anthropologist is entitled to his or her own independent research and theoretical framework, both of which may be negated by participation in mentor’s fieldwork. We should be producing scholars and not disciples – the mental followers. In science there is one truth to a problem, and there are objective facts. How else could man go to the moon, for example, for which feat several hundred of precise predictions and scientific rules were necessary? As Einstein, The greatest theorist of our times observed: “Imagination is good. But it must always be critically controlled by the available facts“,12 – facts whose existence the interpretists reject. One scientist aptly defined “pure logic” (although not all interpretists have to be always logical) as “the safest way to go wrong with confidence”. Since anthropology has been regarded as social science rather than humanity, and as science it should require empiricism and factual knowledge, I cannot agree with Lett and O’Maara and see possibility or reconciliation of science and humanity under the umbrella of anthropology. We should, therefore, rely on objectivity and empirical evidence and verification, and certainly not on a creed pronounced by no matter how popular individual. Science should not have, and natural sciences do not have, schools of thought and isms. Disciples are not respected, independent thinking and originality is. In some anthropology obviously is not. There we have the temporary schools of thought, the trendy isms. As my old professor in European gymnasium (highschool – college) told us: “A trend of thought is like a river. Down the stream all dirt flows, against the stream only silvery fish swim. A want you all to become those fish.” Even 12 A. Einstein, Reader’s Digest July, 1978.



Karl Marx became annoyed when he was called a Marxist. He replied: “I am not a Marxist, I am Karl Marx.” In other words: I am not a lakey of anybody, I am not a disciple. I have been interested to read Karl Marx but certainly not the Marxists. To be an independent thinker and true scientist one has to be brought up in that tradition. The universities have to incourage students to be original in their work. As a prerequisite for such an education the young people have to be exposed to thinking and theories of various scholars, to cultural history, and scientific facts, and not only to the thinking of their professors. To achieve this goal a good and well working library, in which the students have an access to books in reasonably short time is mandatory. The professors on their part have to require original written work, based on the students’ library research or experimentation in a research laboratory, and not only on the teachers’ lectures and work. Moreover the young scholars have to exhibit courage to withstand the displeasure of the public, one’s colleagues, and sometimes that of the political authorities and church. They should be principled and not pragmatic. They should not hesitate to become “controversial”. In the history of science and culture of the West any new achievement that became truly significant was controversial. Jesus Christ, as the bible tells us, was so controversial that he was crucified, Galileo Galilei was imprisoned because of his heliocentric theory of the solar system, and Giordano Bruno was burnt on a pyre for the same reason. Ohm was deprived of his university tenure for his theory of electromagnetism only a few years before receiving his Copley medal of the Royal Society. It was not only the Church and politicians who turned against our geniusses, but especially their colleagues. The contemporary situation is not much better. Alfred Wegeher, the meteorologist who advanced the theory of plate tectonics, was rejected by his fellow physicists and geologists alike. Indeed his great discover, recognized as such not until several decades after his death, had been scorned by British, Canadien, and U.S. profes-



sors of geology as a bad joke. Darwin was portrayed in cartoons as an ape. Marxists in the Soviet Union favored their lakey Lysenko and murdered the brilliant nonconformist biologist Vavilov. In anthropology the ists are not shooting us, only calling us “positivists”. Even Einstein was insulted and vilified by most of his colleagues. At one time a meeting was held, with about two hundred physicists participating, in an opera house in Germany, where one speaker after another gave derogatory and insulting lectures against Einstein. Unmoved by this antagonism and injustice, however, Einstein pursued his path toward objective truth, knowing that scientific truth is seldom democratic, that it is not determined by a majority opinion. Thus a single man can be right and all of his learned colleagues wrong. Anthropology and the rest of the social sciences are relatively young, so that we are possibly in our development where chemistry and astronomy, for example, was in the 16th century. We do not distinguish between chemists and alchemists, and between astronomers and astrologers. The faddist isms come and go. Soviet Union collapsed under the eyes of shocked Marxist intellectuals of the West. The Marxist unit of the American Anthropological Association disappeared in response, and Erik Wolf, a protagonist of this theoretical orientation, in one of his interviews had to admit: “It is simply be that the Marxist categories, stretched into proletarians, [etc.], are just too general and uniform to deal with concrete reality.”13 Similarly Geertz stated “I never understood and never will understand a damn thing about either of these peculiar places [meaning Indonesia and Marocco], or for that matter myself”.14 So when their theories are gone what do we have left from the two scholars? Only their ethnographies – if they are objective, of course.

13 J. Friedman, An Interview with Eric Wolf, Current Anthropology 28, 1987, 1, p. 114. 14 R. Bernstein, Anthropologist Retracing Steps After Three Decades is Shocked by Change, New York Times, May 1988, p. 86.



Roles for Libraries in Supporting Open Scholarship Brian Rosenblum

As the Internet and new publishing technologies transform the way scholars work and communicate, new publishing models are emerging that have significant implications for roles of research institutions and research libraries. Open access publishing models, in particular, offer a vision of a future in which scholars worldwide have unrestricted access to scholarship and research. By minimizing economic, technical and legal barriers to access (eliminating, for example, subscription fees, digital rights management technology, and copyright use restrictions) open access models increase worldwide access to research, which in turn increases the visibility of an institution’s research output and thereby increases its research impact. As research institutions and libraries respond to these new opportunities and technologies, one important question that has emerged is (as phrased by Karla Hahn of the Association of Research Libraries) “to what extent should the institutions that support the creation of scholarship and research take responsibility for its dissemination as well?”1 The answer, many institutions are realizing, is that they indeed need to take much more responsibility and oversight for ensuring the research they produce becomes visible and accessible to the rest of the academic community. Libraries in particular have several new roles to play, not only in responding to changes that are happening elsewhere, but in leading change at their own institutions. – In addition to the academic library's traditional role of acquiring and organizing externally produced material to provide access for their local communities, they are also increasingly providing stewardship over locally

 

produced scholarship and ensuring that it is accessible to an external, worldwide audience, giving their institution and its scholars more visibility and outlets for publishing. – Library staff are also working directly with faculty and research units before and during the creation and pre-publication stage of research. For instance, they are providing input on grant proposals, providing clarification on intellectual property and copyright issues, and advising on appropriate metadata and file format standards to enable long term preservation and interoperability. – Libraries are also incorporating scholarly communication issues into information literacy programs for faculty and students through workshops, classes, presentations, seminars, and consulting. Using the University of Kansas (KU) Libraries as an example, this paper will briefly describe four types of activities that academic libraries can undertake to support open access to scholarship. 1) Open access repositories 2) Digital publishing services 3) Education, outreach and advocacy activities 4) Promoting open access policies

1) Open Access Repositories

Open access repositories are online web services that store and make accessible the research output of researchers and authors. They can either be institutionally-based, gathering together the work produced at a single institution regardless of discipline, or discipline-based, gathering together content from various sources in a single or several related disciplines. A fully open repository provides access not just to the collection’s metadata, but to the full content of the items as well. Open access repositories also make their metadata available to harvesters in a standard metadata format (typically OAI-PMH) so that search engines and other 

third-party services can harvest and provide search and analytical services to access the content. Users can then use these services to search across multiple repositories without having to know ahead of time in which repository a particular item resides. As of February 2010 the Registry of Open Access Repositories lists over 1600 such repositories worldwide. Most of these are in the United States, Australia, and Western European nations such as Germany and the United Kingdom. As is the case with most Central-East European nations, the Czech Republic currently only has four OA repositories listed in the index. Although there is a high level awareness of open access trends in this region, there is still a low level of implementation of OA repositories The University of Kansas institutional repository, KU ScholarWorks was launched in 2005 and in February 2010 reached 5000 items. KU ScholarWorks, based on the D-Space open source software system, contains numerous types of items, including published, peer-reviewed articles; preprints and working papers; conference papers and presentations; monographs; images, audio and video files; electronic thesis and dissertations; and scholarly journals. It is currently administered by one full-time librarian with part-time technical support. As KU’s new open access policy goes into effect (see below) over the next year we expect KU ScholarWorks to grow significantly. 2) Digital Publishing Services

Another emerging area of activity for academic libraries is support for open access journals. Open access journals are published online and are free to access for users. It is important to note that there is no conflict between open access and peer-reviewed journals; open access journals are distinct from traditional access journals not in the rigor of the peer-review or editorial oversight (there are strong and weak journals in both open access and traditional models), but in their access model. They make 

their content available to users without restriction, and support their operation through various funding models other than subscription fees. (For example, these other models could include author fees, grant funding, institutional support, or advertisements). As of February 2010, the Directory of Open Access Journals lists over 4700 such open access journals in a variety of disciplines worldwide. Libraries can provide support for open access journals in a variety of ways. They can include OA journals in their library catalogs, direct their users to OA journals rather than traditional journals, or create funds to pay publication fees for their institution’s authors who wish to publish in an open access journal (see, for example, the “Compact for Open-Access Publishing Equity” at ). Many research libraries are also beginning to provide hosting and publishing support for journals at their own institutions. Although not as widespread as institutional repositories at this time, this is a growing area of activity for academic libraries. A 2008 study by the Association of Research Libraries found that library publishing services are “rapidly becoming the norm” as libraries look for ways to support local publishing efforts on their campuses.1 The specific funding, service, and organizational models vary from library to library, but these services generally provide support for new electronic journals, as well as conversion to digital format of print back issues. They are typically low-frills services, with an emphasis on access, visibility, local control, and electronic hosting as opposed to traditional publisher services such as peer-review, copy-editing, marketing and subscription management. Library publishing services offer a low-cost alternative to local journals by supporting open access models of access and by leveraging library and campus IT resources.

1

 

Karla Hahn, Research Library Publishing Services: New Options for University Publishing (Washington, DC: Association of Research Libraries, 2008).

At the University of Kansas Libraries, the Digital Publishing Services program was launched in 2006. The program offers basic hosting, conversion, and consulting services for KU-based journals and monographs, including support for starting new electronic journals as well as converting print journals to online format. The program currently offers three platforms for publication: – KU ScholarWorks, KU's institutional repository described above, provides a convenient way to make scanned back issues of publications available. – [email protected] is built on the Open Journal Systems (OJS) journal management software, an application designed to facilitate online peer-reviewed publishing. OJS assists journal editors with the management, editorial work, and production work involved in producing scholarly journals. This platform is best for those journals that intend to move to an entirely online publishing model, or for new start-up electronic journals. – A third platform, which we will be bringing online later this year, is XTF, an open source platform developed at the University of California. XTF supports the indexing, querying and displaying of XML documents, and is a suitable choice for monographs and other text collections that require more complex navigation and searching/browsing functionality than the PDF format can provide. KU's Digital Publishing program currently supports over 10 scholarly journals, as well as several monographs that are either already online or currently in development. Like many library-based publishing initiatives, KU Libraries’ program is relatively small--one full time librarian administers the program with part-time support from IT, plus occasional student assistant help. Some of the next steps for the program include: establishing more formal workflows and policies to sustain our activities, building collaborations with other units on campus (such as the University Press), and implementing an improved statistics tracking system.

 

3) Education, Outreach and Advocacy

Academic libraries can also support open access through education, outreach and advocacy activities. In fact, faculty are increasingly coming to their campus libraries expecting to receive help and support on these issues. At KU Libraries we have specifically focused on building these types of services into our routine activities and including them in our strategic mission. KU librarians have organized campus-wide workshops and conferences on copyright issues and digital scholarship, and maintained websites providing information on scholarly communication issues. We have also conducted education and training sessions for students and faculty, providing guest lectures on open access and scholarly communication issues, and incorporating these topics into information literacy programs. KU librarians have also been deeply involved in shaping campus discussions of how to comply with the National Institutes of Health (NIH) and other funding agency policies on open access, and in advocating for open access change through university governance and administrative channels. 4) Open Access Policies

A fourth way in which libraries and their institutions can support open access to scholarship is to create policies that specifically address these issues and make the research output of an institution openly available. In May 2009, the University of Kansas became the first public institution in the United States to pass a university-wide open access policy to make the research articles published by its faculty openly available. (Harvard and Stanford, both private institutions, had passed similar, although not university-wide, policies previously). KU’s policy (which can be viewed at is intended to provide the broadest possible access to the journal literature authored by KU faculty. Through this policy, faculty members grant permission

 

to the university to make a copy of their scholarly journal articles available in KU ScholarWorks. This is a university-wide, faculty-driven initiative, but librarians played a strong role in advocating for the policy, helping shape campus discussions about the policy, and in shepherding the policy through the faculty governance structures. KU Libraries will also be heavily involved in the implementation of the policy in the coming year, helping facilitate faculty compliance and the actual uploading of content to the repository. Conclusion

Libraries have growing, multi-faceted scholarly communication programs. These programs are a natural role for libraries because of the unique skills and knowledge that libraries, and librarians, have, which puts them at the center of campus teaching and learning. However, at many libraries these remain somewhat experimental activities, often taking place in a separate unit, and not always well-integrated into the rest of the library’s activities. KU Libraries has recently brought many of these activities and services together under the umbrella of the newly created Center for Digital Scholarship. Providing a physical location for this center will bring library staff working on digital projects and scholarly communication issues into closer proximity, facilitating improved communication and cohesion, and will provide a visible space for interested faculty partners to visit when they need assistance or have ideas for projects. One of the challenges now for KU and other academic libraries is to find ways to continue to build skills, expertise, funding and organizational models to sustain these new programs, so that they become part of the core activity of the library, alongside their traditional missions of acquiring, organizing, and preserving information.

 

Learning jazz in South Africa: what does it mean? A musical and symbolical study of jazz education and its meanings in a post-apartheid country Lorraine Roubertie Soliman

There is a specific jazz culture in South Africa going back to the end of the 19th century. It is both autonomous and attracted by ‘overseas’ at the same time. This culture, which was rather a counter-culture during apartheid, remains strong and continues to thrive until today. However, the advent of democracy has had a profound impact on the changing way South Africa regards its indigenous heritage. Jazz is more and more recognized as a part of this local tradition. Its introduction in the national music curriculum since 2006 is one example of this recognition, and of the fact that the curriculum looks at jazz from both global and local perspective. There is the starting point for posing new questions dealing with South African components of this jazz. Through accounts of about eighty people involved in jazz education (from students to educators, professional musicians, producers…), through observation in many institutions and informal places where jazz is taught and through music analysis this enquiry aims at understanding the special features of teaching and learning jazz music and its history in contemporary South Africa. Developed from a doctoral research devoted to jazz education in post-apartheid South Africa this paper wants to highlight some of the specific questions raised by and meanings conveyed through learning and teaching jazz in South Africa, especially in Cape Town. The paper starts with a brief explanation of reasons for choosing the medium of education and the focus on youth as a topic and then the motivation for choosing

 

Cape Town as an area of study. Some directive tendencies in jazz transmission and issues it raises will be examined and questioned later. Jazz is deeply rooted in South Africa’s history and undoubtedly has a specific place in its musical landscape. It seems it keeps a unique status in the collective consciousness even today. This status is questioned all along in my study, focussing on the youth involved in music making rather than the youth at large. After the first three-month enquiry in situ, during summer 2007, it appeared important to move from an idea of studying the post-apartheid jazz scene in the process of ‘reconstruction’ at large, to an idea of jazz filiation observed through education. There lies the core idea of considering the subject as a continuum. Moreover, because the term ‘education’ could be seen as too much linked to the institutional sphere, we eventually decided to broaden the scope and use the term ‘transmission’ instead, which also includes informal spaces of music exchange and education, like churches, clubs or the street. Youth Development, Youth Identity

Studying jazz through focus of its transmission implies to observe different generations of jazz musicians, teachers, learners, and their connections (or their lack) to one another. The feeling of responsibility of mature adults1 regarding education of the youngest increased a lot in the democratic era, at least in the institutional world. The number of Youth Development programmes, in social and/or cultural areas (often linked) is massive. And as far as we could notice, music and jazz are regularly convoked in these projects. Jazz education seems to be an important cultural tool (among others) used for helping the youth to grow up in a unifying South African society.

1



Adults over 35. Everybody under that age is considered as youth in South Africa.

Building one’s identity as a young South African in a rapidly evolving social environment is an adventurous journey, which we are trying to decode here through the case of jazz transmission. To express it in simple words, we can transpose the question of South African sociologist Crain Soudien, “What role does school play in helping them [the youngests] learn to live with one another and to accept each other as human beings?”2 to music education and consequently to jazz education. Identity is a process of construction, it is imprecise, and it is a blend of emotional and tangible phenomena. This process seems to be much more challenging in South Africa than elsewhere. Stereotyped identities are deeply embedded and powerful there; widely conveyed through the media, which alienate the population already struggling with the huge alienating power of the apartheid past, still strongly alive in the collective memory. Facing such stereotypes is a hard task for adults aware of the phenomenon (in which we would like to include most of the educators). For those of the youngest who realizes it, the challenge becomes enormous. Another level of complexities the youth has to face in South Africa is a constant come and go between at least two dominant referential universes: the “modern” Westernized practices on one side, and the traditional / ancestral local habitus still strong in many families (mostly disadvantaged) on the other. Both systems constantly collide without being necessarily understood. “Dealing with these complexities, young people are pushed prematurely into the stage of adulthood”, Crain Soudien explains.3 As a result, the stage of adolescence where you build your intimate and your social identities is a kind of erased. At that stage, the study of youth behaviours in the music sphere, its attitudes, commitments, tastes and aspirations regarding jazz reveals a lot of meaningful issues about the country’s challenges.

2

SOUDIEN Crain, Youth Identity in Contemporary South Africa. Race, culture and schooling, Cape Town, New Africa Books, 2007. p. xi.

3

SOUDIEN, p. xi.

 

Why Cape Town?

The choice of Cape Town as a key-place for this research must be discussed now. I would argue that I couldn’t imagine studying the whole country within a threeyear research programme, ten months in a year based in France. After three months investigating Johannesburg, Pretoria, Durban and Cape Town in 2007, it appeared that the last studied area is an amazing gathering of initiatives regarding jazz education, and jazz at large. Beyond the logistical problem, Cape Town has a deep music heritage. It is the starting point of jazz in South Africa. As a harbour and an initial place where the first Europeans settled down in South – the Dutch in 1652 – this is where, spread by sailors, the first American music repertoires later entered. At the end of the 19th century the first American blackface minstrels presented their shows in Cape Town and became very popular. These overseas musical elements and others, combined with European influences (mainly Christian hymnody and military brass bands) and local background (cyclical form, strong beat…), gradually became what DenisConstant Martin calls a “pan-South-African music”4 largely influenced by jazz. We should also notice that the term “jazz” was first introduced in Cape Town when Alan Crossland’s movie The Jazz Singer5 was played there in 1929. And there are other reasons for choosing Capet Town. What does jazz mean musically in South Africa is another key question here, especially because the privileged province of Western Cape is the only one in South Africa to have a local jazz called Cape Jazz. Cape Town’s population diversity attracted me as well. High level of creolization has unpredictable consequences6 on musi4

Denis-Constant MARTIN, “Entendre les modernités, l’ethnomusicologie et les musiques ‘populaires’”, dans Musiques migrantes, De l’exil à la consécration, 2005, 17–51 [dir. Laurent Aubert, Musée d’ethnographie, Genève].

5

États-Unis, 1927/90 min/Réalisation Alan Crossland/Production Warner Bros/Distribution BFI.

6

The concept of “unpredictable creolization” is borrowed from Edouard Glisssant, Traité du Tout-Monde, Poétique IV, Paris, Gallimard, 1997. p. 26.



cal creation. In terms of academic jazz training the jazz curriculum at South African College of Music (University of Cape Town) is seen as one of, if not the best in the country and in Sub-Saharan Africa today. It turned necessary to investigate the place in depth in order to check the reasons of such a reputation. Eventually, if Johannesburg undoubtedly plays a role of an economical and cultural platform, Cape Town is another attractive place for musicians where they tend to come for studying and to stay. Durban’s importance lies in the fact that the first official jazz and popular music department in South Africa was found there, at Natal University (today University of KwaZulu-Natal), in 1983. However, of the three it is Cape Town, which postures as a jazz capital in a collective imaginary today. About Cape Talent

When I ask jazz learners at a high school level to define musically South African jazz, or Cape jazz, they generally show embarrassment. The question seems strange. Few of them are able to answer, and generally in an evasive way. In a questionnaire enquiry led in 2008, they defined it in terms of “African rhythm/beat/feeling”, “tribal” [feeling?], “tradition influence”; when it becomes more precise, they speak of “dance”, “expressive”, “soulfulness”, “entertainment”, seldom they come to the more precise “Ghoema beat” (without defining it)… At that stage of the enquiry (still in progress), about 40% of them think that there is no specific South African jazz; about 15% don’t know.7 These provisional results give us a simplified idea, on which we won’t build any definite reflection or conclusion. But, regarding local jazz on one hand, and the students’ reaction on the other, these written answers already constitute helpful indications. The same question put to the teachers obviously reveals much more precise definitions of local jazz. It also 7

These are approximate percentages based on a questionnaire enquiry done with 25 students from three high schools/music schools (Settlers HS, Xulon MusicTech, Rosendaal HS). These results will be completed later.



reveals that there are some divergent opinions and attitudes about it placed in the jazz sphere at large. To summarize it we can observe three main tendencies: one consists in focussing on American jazz as the “real one”, and as a result, to downplay (politely) the local one; another position is the opposite one, consisting in remaining focussed on local music and local ‘definition’ of jazz (which is a blend of many styles); in that sense we often hear of the ‘Cape talent’, ‘proudly Capetonian’, etc. This happens more in informal contexts, as far as we can see. The third attitude is in-between the two first, and consists in including South African jazz into the global jazz history, and teaching a consequent range of local jazz tunes as well. This seems to be the position of the actual Department of Education. Only to highlight the ambiguous status of local music and local jazz in the collective imagination. Pride on one side, pushed by the State (the Departments of Education / of Arts and Culture / of Social Development…) with cultural development programmes and campaigns (“Proudly South African”…); on the other side, a strong will to go beyond the remnants of the apartheid era, and as a result a kind of tacit denial of the qualities of local music. This is not expressed explicitly but it is easily understandable in the background of many institutional discourses, for instance, focus solely on American jazz repertoire without a word of explanation to the learners that local jazz has qualities, for which it should be valued and played [viable and alive] too, and that it has its own system of references and criteria (sound, tune, pitch, beat…). This leads us directly to identity issues. “Copy Cats”?

“(…) Often we learn by imitation (an especially African way of learning), and I find that by listening to the music of someone like Miles Davis I learn so much about music, arrangement, intent and music’s sensibilities.” The quotation comes from an interview with a saxophonist and a composer Steve Dyers (Pretoria, August 2007). This “especially African [copying] way of learning” finds  

plenty of explanations in history. It can obviously be seen as a result of cultural alienation implied by colonization. But Steve Dyers doesn’t explain the reasons for such an imitative attitude; his words remain opened to other explanations. He has a deep knowledge of African traditional music, a non-written music tradition transmitted orally, including a certain sense of repetition (cyclical system). And what is repetition if not duplication and a copy? Another view is summarized in Wayne Bosch’s words when he asserts that “[we] are copy cats”. Wayne Bosch is a guitarist and a composer from Cape Town and the ‘we’ expressly refers to the Coloured community he belongs to. He spoke that way during a long interview we had in August 2008, denouncing a certain stereotyped kind of jazz education he did not want to refer to publicly. This is a strong assertion, which could be linked to what the psychologists Garth Stevens and Rafiq Lockhat call “the Coca-Cola identities”,8 referring to the post-apartheid youth in urbanized context. The seventh year of the Youth Jazz Festival organized by the prestigious Artscape theatre in Cape Town in June 2009 offered an example of what Wayne Bosch explained a year ago. The festival is chaperoned by Audience Development and Education Department (ADE) of Artscape. The core purpose is to educate young musicians from disadvantaged communities by giving them a chance to be trained during ten weeks by renowned mentors culminating in a theatre performance. The other side of that is a tacit denial of local culture as the selection of pieces played shows. Among twenty-five ‘jazz standards’ learned and played we could hear two local songs only, “Cape Samba” (McCoy Mrubata) and a vocal tribute to Ladysmith Black Mambazo. All the others came from American songs. Interviewed few weeks later the singer Melanie Scholtz, one of the mentors and in charge of the repertoire selection, explained that these 8

STEVENS Garth and LOCKHAT Rafiq (1997) “Coca-Cola Kids – Reflections on Black Adolescent Identity Development in Post-Apartheid South Africa”. In South African Journal of Psychology, 27(4): 250–255.

 

young musicians need to be exposed to the “essence”, which means American jazz, because at home they are focussed on a wrong vision of jazz, a kind of pop music with a jazz flavor. She expressed it this way: “in South Africa (…) the lines are blurred in between what is jazz, and what is Cape jazz, and what is South African jazz, and what is ghoema9 (…) we’re really trying to educate people in the jazz style. And jazz is American music. (…) so they [the learners] can understand the discipline of having to play… pure jazz.” But what is “pure jazz”? Later, she asserted that they usually assume that jazz means live music. Melanie Scholtz’ statement is categorical, sometimes close to stereotyping. However, she never denies the value of local music. She is rather aiming at (re)establishing unambiguous borders in between musical genres and spheres. In her attitude, nothing says she would care about either the rapidly evolving environment, in which South Africa has drawn its road since 1994 in an international scale, or the new processes into which music is mixed, jazz included. Another side of Scholtz’ and Artscapes’ statements is that of an attempt to connect these youngsters to the tradition, which is not South African, but became local through assimilation and transformation of it. More or less consciously, this implies a hierarchy, a meaning that one has to learn the always referential American jazz first to become a South African jazz musician. In other words, Artscape’s philosophy seems to be quite opposite to the more general attempt – promoted in many ways by the State – to revalue the “indigenous heritage” to give back pride to “the” South African people. What do these speeches and attitudes say? Is assimilationism still discreetly operating behind a facade of democratic values? And what to do with the fact, that self-esteem and auto-promotion are, on the other hand, so much encouraged in post-apartheid South Africa?

9

 

Ghoema (or goema, or gammie): membranophone built on a small barrel with one skin striken alternatively by both hands. Ghoema became a name of a beat and one of the characteristics of the Cape music, includ. or ing Cape jazz. Ghoema’s main rhythmic patterns:

What we call ‘traditions’ is created by us, human beings, in order to give a collective sense, or a collective identity, to our societies and communities. And it is often used as a tool for manipulation from those in power, in order to establish and/or legitimate an institution or social hierarchies, as Eric Hobsbawm reminds us in his 1983 book The Invention of Tradition.10 In other words, assimilationism is still operating, of course, not only in South Africa but in every formerly colonized country, as Frantz Fanon stated so well. Being aware of the process of construction of so-called ‘authentic’, ancestral practices, or traditions, thinking of it with neither a pride nor denial or rejection, is maybe the starting point for reflection on what constitutes Cape culture, Cape jazz, Czech jazz, European jazz, etc. It is all part of a process of invention and reinvention. It seems that the etymology of the word ‘tradition’ implies a neutral approach. It comes from the latin verb traditum which simply means ‘what is transmitted’. Discipline within Flexibility

Many teachers working in schools based in disadvantaged communities complain about discipline issues they face, most of the time alone in front of overcrowded classes. ‘Discipline’ is one of the most frequent words used by interviewed educators and by pupils themselves. The issue is huge. This is only an attempt to highlight some recurrent and maybe revealing postures observed. That recurrent allusion to the lack of discipline in classes has attracted my attention for a long time. Especially because the studied music, jazz, is characterized by a flexible treatment of musical rules and is generally assimilated to the space of freedom and loved for being such. Another step would be to decode what ‘discipline’ and ‘freedom’ precisely means for the teachers and for the learners. We will not draw any conclusion on it at that stage, and maybe we will never do so. However, 10 HOBSBAWM Eric and RANGER Terence, The Invention of Tradition, Cambridge, Press of the University of Cambridge, 1983.

 

it is worth observing how jazz is used as a referential system and as a tool to push learners into more formal, westernized social attitudes, while this music style, on top of being strongly associated with feelings of freedom, is claimed to be (partly) based on an African heritage. Can’t that obsession for the missing discipline be linked to the ambivalent attitude towards tradition? Is this connection and its ambiguities revealing new indications of the 21st century collective imaginary regarding the rebuilding of South Africa? Conclusion

A short reflection on syncretism One of the biggest challenges for South Africa today is to move harmoniously from a three-century-long binary, artificially Manichean era to the maelstrom of actionreaction-interaction-retroaction of the world, as Edgar Morin have written explaining about complexity,11 and to find a way how to become a unified country from a multiple and formerly divided background.

11

 

MORIN Edgar, Introduction à la pensée complexe, Paris, ESF Éditeur, 1990 [Points Seuil, 2005].

Studying jazz through the focus of its transmission from one generation to another, from one community to another, means, in other words, from one Other to another Other, or the same Other, etc. This deeply engages the identity issue in the topic. It highlights the possible changing and multiple nature of identity, always conveyed through one medium to another, adapted and transformed. Jazz structure is syncretism, its essence is evolution. The transmission of it is the path through which it is changed and adapted. Investigating this journey appears as a wonderful way to try to understand the mechanisms of exclusion and inclusion in a divided society where “Invariably, we reduce identity to the container of race”, as asserts Crain Soudien12. Could jazz syncretism and its mythology be a useful tool for integration in South Africa? And/or should it stay as a counterpoint, “a rebellion against what a State institution is about”, as the late trumpeter Alex van Heerden13 stated justifying his own anti-academic growing into jazz music? Are these two visions incompatible?

Bibliography GAULIER Armelle, “Appropriations musicales et constructions identitaires, les chants moppies du Cap, Afrique du Sud», Master, Université Paris 8 – Département Musique. Sup. Sandrine Loncke and DenisConstant Martin. 2007. GLISSANT Edouard, Traité du Tout-Monde, Poétique IV, Paris, Gallimard, 1997. HOBSBAWM Eric and RANGER Terence, The Invention of Tradition, Cambridge, Press of the University of Cambridge, 1983. MARTIN Denis-Constant, “Entendre les modernités, l’ethnomusicologie et les musiques ‘populaires’”, dans Musiques migrantes, De l’exil à la consécration, 2005, 17–51 [dir. Laurent Aubert, Musée d’ethnographie, Genève].

12 SOUDIEN, p. xii. 13 Interview with Alex van Heerden, August 4th, 2008, Solms Wine Estate, Groot Drakenstein (Western Cape).

 

MORIN Edgar, Introduction à la pensée complexe, Paris, ESF Éditeur, 1990 [Points Seuil, 2005]. SOUDIEN Crain, Youth Identity in Contemporary South Africa. Race, culture and schooling, Cape Town, New Africa Books, 2007. STEVENS Garth and LOCKHAT Rafiq (1997) “Coca-Cola Kids – Reflections on Black Adolescent Identity Development in Post-Apartheid South Africa”. In South African Journal of Psychology, 27(4): 250–255.



Mystical Inclusivism: Epistemology of Religious Experience and Religious Pluralism Janusz Salamon

Introduction

In this paper, the term ‘mystical experience of God’ designates an experience in which the subject takes herself to have a direct nonsensory perception of God (or of God’s presence or God’s activity). However, more than about putative mystical experiences of God, this study is about beliefs about God formed on the basis of alleged mystical experiences of God. More precisely, I will be concerned with the mystical doxastic practice (hereafter ‘MDP’), i.e. the cognitive practice of forming beliefs about God on the basis of alleged mystical experiences of God. The beliefs formed in this way will be called ‘mystical beliefs’ (later ‘M-beliefs’) about God. I would like the term ‘mystical belief’ to be understood in analogy to the term ‘sense perceptual belief’. As we can call ‘sense perceptual belief’ a belief that we take to be epistemically warranted in virtue of being properly grounded in some sense perceptual experience, so by ‘M-belief’ I mean a belief that is supposed to derive its epistemic warrant from the fact of being properly grounded in a (non-sensory) perceptual experience of God. Among the contemporary philosophers of religion who address the issue of the epistemic status of M-beliefs (e.g. W.P. Alston, R. Swinburne, K. Yandell, W. Wainwright, N. Pike, J. Gellman, C. Franks Davis), there is a widespread agreement that the fact of religious diversity, especially the variety of ways different religious traditions (later ‘RT’) describe God, constitutes the most powerful challenge to the apologists of mysticism. In this paper I want to suggest that an exclusivist stance on it, exemplified by the work of W.P. Alston, is 

unsatisfactory, and a more inclusivist approach is both needed and possible. I describe the position which I defend in this paper as ‘inclusivist’, in order to contrast it with the view I will label ‘exclusivism’. By exclusivism I mean a view that, either God does not come into experiential contact with adherents of alien RT’s (and therefore the beliefs about God taken by representatives of alien RT’s to be M-beliefs are never such, because they are not grounded in genuine mystical experiences of God), or, even if God is being experienced in alien RT’s, the practice of forming beliefs on the basis of such experiences is, in these RT’s, for some reason generally unreliable, i.e. it does not yield mostly true beliefs about God. Inclusivism, as conceived in this study, (1) allows for the possibility of MDP being reliable when exercised in a variety of RT’s, but (2) does not imply denying the possibility that the account of God provided by one RT, or a group of doctrinally related RT’s (e.g. broadly theistic RT’s), is a better approximation to the truth about God than the accounts of God found in other RT’s. Stress on (1) allows for distinguishing such inclusivism from exclusivism. Stress on (2) allows for distinguishing inclusivism from such pluralistic positions which imply that all beliefs about God (i.e. overall accounts of God) held in various RT’s, including beliefs taken by each respective RT to be either based on, or verified by mystical experiences of God, are equally true (in some sense) and epistemically on a par. I will argue that inclusivism is a viable hypothesis, i.e. it does not involve obvious contradictions. Moreover, I will suggest that an inclusivist account of MDP, as outlined in this study, is a better explanatory account of the reports of mystical experiences of God (later ‘mystical reports’) coming from variety of RT’s, than the account proposed by an exclusivist. The main advantage of inclusivism should manifests itself in the fact that, unlike exclusivism, it allows for an adequate response to a number of concerns, crucial to any satisfactory (from the point of view of a theist) epistemological as-



sessment of mysticism. Among them are: (a) saving the reliability of MDP in the face of the Conflicting Truth Claims Challenge (later ‘CTCC’); (b) providing a hypothesis that would explain both similarities and differences in the mystical reports coming from various RT’s, without discarding too much of the available data; (c) taking into account metaphysical and epistemological complexities involved in the idea of ‘experiencing God’; (d) objecting to the revisionist approach to mystical experience proposed by the anti-realists, which apparently dismisses some of the most fundamental claims of the mystics themselves about the nature of their experiences of God. To show that it is possible to accept an inclusivist account of MDP, without undermining the efforts of various theistic philosophers to secure the epistemic reliability of MDP as such, is an essential part of the present project. Hence, the arguments provided by the acclaimed authors who are sympathetic to the idea that some people have had veridical mystical experiences of God, will constitute the background of my own argument which is meant to supplement rather than to challenge their overall approach. This will be especially true about Alston’s defence of the reliability of MDP. Revising the Alstonian account of MDP, I will suggest that construing MDP as a single doxastic practice, reliable across variety of RT’s, allows for more satisfactory response to CTCC. My response to the critic of mysticism will be centered on the suggestion that although overall accounts of God found in different RT’s may be and often are incompatible, M-beliefs about God as the object of mystical experiences do not have to come into direct conflict. My argument will proceed as follows. Firstly, I will discuss W.P. Alston’s exclusitivs account of MDP and I will suggest that the reasons he provides for taking there to be many conflicting MDP’s rather than one universal MDP (‘universal’ in this context meaning ‘common to all RT’s’) are insufficient. Then I will show that individuating plurality of MDP’s does not allow for sat-



isfactory response to CTCC, while by allowing of there being just one universal MDP it is possible to conceive an inclusivist account of MDP. Finally, I make a suggestion how, granting an inclusivist account of MDP, the presence of apparently incompatible beliefs about God implied in some mystical reports coming from various RT’s may be explained without denying the general reliability of MDP as exercised in variety of RT’s. I will conclude that CTCC does not endanger the reliability of MDP as accounted for in an inclusivist manner. Critique of Alston’s Exclusivist Construal of Mystical Doxastic Practice

In his Perceiving God1, William P. Alston arrives at an account of mystical doxastic practice which has a clearly exclusivist consequences, as far as the religious diversity is concerned. His motivation for being an exclusivist is that MDP as exercised in at least some alien RT’s seems to yield beliefs about God that are mostly false (i.e. heterodox from the point of view of the exclusivist under consideration). An exclusivist may think that allowing for MDP being generally reliable in alien RT’s would amount to giving credibility to an account of God that the exclusivist takes to be false (e.g. an account of God as nonpersonal). True, the understanding of mystical experience of God as “a perception of God”, allows for formulation of CTCC in a way that makes it the most powerful challenge to the reliability of MDP. The critic can say that even if there is no way to prove that MDP as such cannot be reliable), and even if beliefs about God (usually grounded also in philosophical reflection, scriptural revelation, reports of miracles, and religious authority) held in each individual RT appear to be in full harmony with deliverances of MDP as exercised within this particular RT, still the very existence of plurality of RT’s, each with its own belief system about God which (sup1



W.P. Alston, Perceiving God: The Epistemology of Religious Experience. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1991. Later quoted in the text as ‘PG’.

posedly) includes M-beliefs that appear to be incompatible with M-beliefs held in some other RT, calls in question the reliability of MDP as exercised in each competing RT. I suggest that this line of criticism can be rejected. The earlier point to be made, however, is that Alston’s attempt of securing the reliability of MDP in the face of CTCC appears unsatisfactory. It’s failure depends largely on the way Alston individuates MDP. Alston’s Perceiving God is an extensive defence of what he calls the ‘mystical perceptual practice’ (MP), by which he means, the practice of forming beliefs about the Ultimate on the basis of putative direct experiential awareness thereof (PG, pp. 103, 258). This initial formulation is specified by proposal to understand this practice as one among other ‘doxastic practices’, like sense perception, memory, deductive reasoning, inductive reasoning, rational intuition, or forming beliefs on the basis of the testimony of others. By a doxastic practice Alston means ‘the exercise of a system or constellation of belief-forming habits or mechanisms, each realizing a function that yields beliefs with a certain kind of content from inputs of a certain type’ (PG, p. 155). This involves ‘a family of ways of going from grounds – doxastic and experiential, and perhaps others – to a belief with a certain content’ (PG, pp. 100, 153). Alston main thesis is that ‘a person can become justified in holding certain kinds of beliefs about God by virtue of perceiving God as being or doing so-and-so’ (PG, p. 1). In different place Alston formulates this thesis as follows: ‘The experience (or, as I prefer to say, the ‘perception’) of God provides prima facie epistemic justification for beliefs about what God is doing or how is God ‘situated’ vis-a-vis one at the moment’). On Alston’s account, in the last analysis, a person is justified in holding certain M-beliefs (as I called them) about God if MDP is reliable, i.e. it can be relied on to yield mostly true beliefs. Thus to support his main thesis Alston needs to show that MDP is epistemically reliable. It is my contention that by failing to respond



adequately to the challenge posed by religious diversity, Alston makes his defence of epistemic reliability of MDP not entirely convincing, and only by revising this, he may make his argument in favour of evidential value of mystical experience work. Before discussing the issue of what we should accept as the basis for individuation of doxastic practices, Alston firmly asserts: A doxastic practice has only ‘conceptual’ reality. It proves convenient for one or another theoretical purpose to group particular mechanisms into larger agregations, but a ‘practice’ is not something with an objective reality that constrains us to do the grouping in a certain way. [...] I am assuming that any plausible mode of individuation will group mechanisms into a single practice only if there are marked similarities in inputs and functions, but that still leaves us considerable latitude (PG, p. 165).

In other words, Alston admits that inputs and inputoutput functions (and he could add outputs too, as he does on other occasions) are grounds for individuation of practices, but he finds them insufficient. In what sense could they be insufficient? The paragraphs of Perceiving God that follow suggest that Alston is unhappy with the degree of arbitrariness in individuating doxastic practices that this approach allows for. For example, he considers the range of inputs of sense perceptual doxastic practice (later SPDP) and concludes that it is not easy to see why should we individuate SPDP as one doxastic practice, rather than a visual-perceptual practice, along with auditory-perceptual practice, and so on; each sensory modality would seem to provide sufficient ground for determining yet another separate doxastic practice. And this example is meant to support Alston’s thesis that ‘there is no one uniquely right way to group mechanisms into practices’ (PG, p. 165). But then, if Alston is right in claiming that we are not constrained by any objective reality in individuating doxastic practices in just one way, but we are free, as it were, to group belief forming mechanisms into practices in the way that is ‘convinient for one or another theoretical purpose’, why should we worry about certain ‘latitude’ that individuating doxastic practice primarily on the basis of inputs



and outputs supposedly leaves us with? If we can point to an important theoretical purpose for which certain way of individuating doxastic practices will be convenient (e.g. our purpose of showing that it is plausible to individuate just one MDP), do we need any further justification of our choice to do so? And besides, once Alston admitted that individuating doxastic practices in particular way is always to some extent arbitrary, he has to provide strong reasons to justify his insistence on individuating practices in the way he thinks is appropriate. More importantly, it is not obvious that Alston is right in claiming that we are not constrained by any objective reality in individuating doxastic practices in just one way. Does Alston’s above example supposedly showing the possibility of individuating more perceptual doxastic practices really shows that attending to inputs of belief forming mechanisms we don’t find decisive constraints on individuation of doxastic practices? One could argue to the contrary, that this example shows that by attending to inputs alone, we find natural (i.e. non-arbitrary) groupings of belief forming mechanisms into practices with somewhat vague borders in such a way that some doxastic practices have other doxastic practices as natural parts. Perhaps Alston gives too much weight to the apparent vagueness of the borders between doxastic practices. We need to notice that this vagueness may be seen as a result of our imperfect knowledge of the workings of belief forming mechanisms, rather than as characterizing their objective reality. Perhaps if we knew perfectly well all the input-output functions of all doxastic practices, we might be able to see that on this ground we can individuate practice quite precisely without latitude or vagueness. Thus our present inability (due to our limited knowledge) to point to the one and only right way of individuation of doxastic practices, does not exclude the possibility that we may be able to individuate them in the way that is arguably closest to the natural way of individuating them, i.e. the way that is least arbitrary.



After concluding that individuation of doxastic practices on the ground of similarities in inputs, outputs, and in the function that connects inputs and outputs, would not be satisfactory, Alston seeks additional reasons for grouping certain belief forming mechanisms in one doxastic practice. One such reason is that practices as typically individuated are usually highly homogeneous with respect to epistemic reliability (PG, pp. 166–167). When we compare deductive reasoning, memory or forming beliefs on the basis of the testimony of others, they clearly appear to have very different level of homogeneity with respect to epistemic reliability. No doubt, this homogeneity can be seen as a way of confirmation that certain way of individuating doxastic practices is more natural than others. However, probably against Alston’s wishes, homogeneity with respect to epistemic reliability can be seen as a factor which supports the claim that we should individuate a single universal MDP rather than plurality of MDP’s. After all, it is hard to see any compelling reasons for thinking that Christian MDP betrays any difference in homogeneity with respect to epistemic reliability when compared with Jewish MDP or Muslim MDP. And even if one would be convinced that this is indeed the case, it is hard to see how could one rationally support such a claim? I would suggest that MDP taken as one universal doxastic practice appears to be highly homogenous in this respect, and this should be expected given that irrespectively of RT, it seems to deal with the same subject matter (i.e. Ultimate Reality as an object of experience) and has similar inputs, outputs and inputsoutputs functions (as Alston himself suggests). Thus homogeneity with respect to epistemic reliability does not appear to be a good basis for an argument in favour of Alston’s way of individuating plurality of MDP’s. Finally, Alston points to the overrider system of a doxastic practice as a possible ground for its individuation. It is primarily on this ground that Alston’s individuates plurality of mystical doxastic practices. (And this move, I will suggest, is responsible for Alston’s fail-



ure to respond to CTCC, and puts him, in the last analysis, in the exclusivist camp.) For Alston, the concept of prima facie justification can be applied only when we have an overrider system. He conceives an overrider system as a regulating mechanism which allows for deciding whether a prima facie justified belief ought to be accepted, all things considered. It is primarily a belief system about the specific subject matter, against which a particular prima facie justified belief can be checked (PG, pp. 167, 262). As MDP and SPDP deal with distinctive subject matters, their overrider systems are likely to constitute two markedly different sets of beliefs. The overrider system for SPDP will be made largely of beliefs about facts concerning the perceivable physical and social environment, while the overrider system for MDP will need to be made of beliefs about facts concerning God and God’s relations to the Universe. Possessing different overrider system makes doxastic practices autonomous, because outputs of one doxastic practice are tested against the background of the overrider system specific to this particular practice, and not any other. For this reason (and because he thinks that other grounds are not sufficient), Alston suggests that the difference in the overrider systems should be considered the chief basis for individuating different doxastic practices. On this basis Alston argues for impossibility of there being a single MDP with a single overrider system. He does not deny that there are often important commonalities in the ways mystics in different RT’s describe their religious experiences, which could suggest that inputs and outputs of MDP as exercised in various RT’s are often similar. Still, Alston asserts that it is not clear that in inter-religious context these commonalities are significant enough to justify individuating only one universal MDP on this ground (PG, pp. 185–186). More importantly, comparing MDP with SPDP, Alston points out that though they both have a number of common features that are typical of a doxastic practice (notably, its social establishment and transmission, as well as its



ability to by mutually involved with other recognized practices in belief production), there are at least two important differences between them that make it impossible to conceive MDP as a single practice, in a way SPDP is a single practice. These are, lack of a single conceptual scheme and lack of a single overrider system in MDP conceived as a single doxastic practice. This is one of Alston’s central claims about MDP which I wish to challenge (along with his claim that inputs and outputs cannot provide sufficient basis for individuating MDP). What are Alston’s reasons for thinking that there can be no one conceptual scheme in MDP conceived as a single doxastic practice? Alston argues that even if we grant that in the case of SPDP we cannot exclude that perhaps in some uncivilized cultures (as some anthropologists suggested) people conceptualize sensory input in somewhat different ways from us (e.g. perceiving inanimate nature as animated), this would be nothing in comparison with the diversity of conceptual schemes found in various religions. Alston writes: The ways in which theists, Hinayana Buddhists, Mahayana Buddhists, and Hindus of one or another stripe think of the objects of their worship (and of what they take to be Ultimate Reality) differ enormously. (...) There are also differences in the ways God is conceived in the different theistic religions, but they seem like family squabbles compared to the differences between all of them and the non-theistic religions. Thus if the use of a uniform conceptual scheme, with only minor deviations, is required for a single doxastic practice, we will have to deny that there is any single MP. We will have to distinguish as many MP’s as there are different conceptual schemes for grasping Ultimate Reality (PG, p. 189).

Alston adds to this the following comment: I must ask the reader’s indulgence for the extremely crude nature of my appeals to the comparative study of religions. I am concerned only to make the point that there is diversity in certain respects, and therefore I need not go into the careful distinction of, e.g. different forms of Hinduism that would be required for different purpose.

On the same page, putting Hinduism and Buddhism on a par, Alston asserts:



If Christianity has the right line on Ultimate Reality, the others are wrong. In that case, either Hinduism and Buddhism have no real subject matter [what beliefs are about] at all, or they have the same subject matter as Christianity, but it is incorrectly characterized.

These Alston’s views invite criticism. Above all, Alston plays down perhaps too easily the importance of attending to details when it comes to conceptions of Ultimate Reality to be found in Eastern religions. The abundant literature on Hindu monotheism should prevented him from putting Hinduism and Buddhism on a par and from making such a sharp contrast between Western and Eastern religions in general. Alston’s contention that the differences in the ways God is conceived in the Western religions when compared with the Eastern religions seem like family squabbles, is controversial, taking into account that not only Hindu Dvaita Vedanta of Madhava embraces a clearly theistic conception of God, but also Visistadvaita Vedanta of Ramanuja allows for a theistic interpretation. The is even more obvious when one considers Sikhism. And so a Muslim may consider the Christian conception of God (as Trinity) further removed from his own, than the conception of God embraced by a Hindu Madhva or a Sikh. R.Z. Zaehner, one of the authorities (even though not uncontroversial) on Hindu mysticism, wrote: ‘Hinduism has its theists as well as its monists; and the Bhagavad-Gita as well as Ramanuja stand nearer to St. John of the Cross than they do to Sankara.’2 So perhaps the conceptions of God to be found in various World religions are not always so significantly different as Alston seems to think. To this objection Alston could respond that this does not matter too much, as after all his argument against the possibility of individuating single MDP is negative in nature: so long as there is no one ‘conceptual scheme for grasping Ultimate Reality’ common to mystics from all RT’s, there can be no single MDP. But on what ground does Alston really base his claim that mystics from various RT’s do not use one conceptual scheme to 2

R.C. Zaehner, Mysticism Sacred and Profane. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1957, p. 205.



grasp Ultimate Reality in mystical experience? Apparently on the ground that at least some strands of some Eastern RT’s conceptions of Ultimate Reality can be found that are impossible to reconcile with the Christian or Jewish conception of God. I would suggest that from the fact that different conceptions of Ultimate Reality are to be found in various RT’s does not follow that mystics from these traditions use different conceptual schemes for grasping Ultimate Reality, especially when having mystical experience. Firstly, different subjects can have (broadly) the same conceptual scheme of the same subject matter and make different claims within the same conceptual scheme. This may be especially true in the case of MDP, due to the highly specific subject matter, i.e. God. Mystics from various MDP’s can make different and sometimes conflicting truth claims about the (common) object of their mystical experiences for reasons that are not necessarily associated with the conceptual scheme employed. In fact, popularity of CTCC shows that many critics of mysticism presuppose that mystics use relevant concepts in sufficiently similar way, otherwise there simply would be no possibility of contradiction (like in the case of rugby and soccer where different conceptual schemes are being used and as a result statements about ‘goal’ or ‘tackle’ made within these different schemes cannot conflict). Thus we can make sense of the situation, taken by Alston as serious possibility, that Hinduism and Buddhism have in fact the same ‘subject matter’ as Christianity but in the case of the former it is ‘incorrectly characterized’, without assuming that different conceptual systems are involved. Perhaps simply in some religions false claims are being made about God within the same conceptual scheme. And perhaps the relationship between the conception of God to be found in a particular RT and the conceptual scheme for grasping God in mystical experience employed by a mystic from that RT is such, that mystics belonging to different RT’s (and so having different conceptions of God) employ nevertheless (broadly) the same conceptual scheme when



they grasp God in mystical experience (as opposed to grasping God when just thinking about God). That a mystic’s grasp of God in mystical experience is not always completely dependent on the conception of God to be found in that mystic’s RT follows from the mystical reports in which the mystics suggest that what they have grasped in their mystical experiences goes beyond what the conception of Ultimate Reality held in the mainstream of their own tradition would make them expect to experience. This sometimes leads them to making on the basis of their experiences claims about God that are taken to be heterodox in their RT. This would not be expected if what is grasped in mystical experience was always fully shaped by the conception of the object that those who engage in MDP have. Secondly, the apparent difference in characterization of God may be a result of problems with translation. Now, given Quinean difficulties about synonymy, there may be theoretical problems in deciding whether in a particular instance one is faced with radical incomparability or not, but nevertheless usually the presumption is that the difficulty is in translation, and not in the use of significantly different conceptual schemes. Thirdly, one might argue that because of the highly specific subject matter, it may be actually difficult to spell out precisely what a conceptual scheme employed in mystical perception consists of. Mystical writers regularly complain that all concepts that a mystic can have prior to mystical experience or which a mystic can form as a result of mystical experience, are somehow insufficient for an adequate grasp of the object of mystical experience. Now, considering that Alston’s main point is that we have to ‘distinguish as many mystical practices as there are different conceptual schemes for grasping Ultimate Reality’, he would need to spell out precisely what these different conceptual schemes consist of, in order to show that the alleged differences are indeed significant enough to prevent individuating a single MDP. And it is not easy to see how Alston could accomplish that.



To sum up, Alston does not provide sufficient reasons to justify his claim that we cannot individuate a single MDP, because of the alleged plurality of conceptual schemes for grasping God in mystical experience. As if aware of this difficulty, Alston shifts his attention from conceptual schemes to overrider systems, asserting: Differences in overrider systems are more crucial. The overrider system determines how we go from prima facie to unqualified justification; as such it has a crucial bearing on what outputs are ultimately approved. Hence we cannot count practice with quite different overrider systems as different branches of one practice (PG, p. 189).

Thus ultimately Alston suggests that we should individuate as many MDP’s as there are overrider systems (rather than conceptual schemes). So long as he was focusing on conceptual schemes for grasping God, one might have expected that Alston will allow for there being a single theistic MDP. However, at the end he decides to individuate MDP’s along the lines of particular major World religions, on the ground that the overall doctrine of particular religion constitutes one unified overrider system of MDP of that particular religion. As a result we get among others a ‘Christian Mystical Practice’ (for the sake of terminological consistency I will call it ‘Christian MDP’, unless quoting Alston). Alston defines Christian MDP as ‘the practice of forming perceptual beliefs about God that is standard in ... mainline Christianity’ (PG, p. 193). Since Alston ultimately considers not inputs, outputs or conceptual schemes, but overrider systems to be crucial for individuating MDP’s, the more important becomes the question which beliefs are to be included in the overrider system. I take it for granted that Alston is right in claiming that one doxastic practice should have one overrider system. This claim is ultimately grounded in a plausible intuition that is fundamental to doxastic practice approach to epistemology, namely that one doxastic practice should have one set of outputs given one set



of inputs. However, there are reasons to think that we should not expect that in the case of every doxastic practice it will be equally easy to specify which beliefs belong to its overrider system. There may be significant differences in this respect between doxastic practices. In the case of each doxastic practice we need to be able to say that there is broadly speaking one overrider system, but in some doxastic practices this system may have much more vague boarders than in others. In the case of deductive reasoning we expect to be able to specify very precisely what the overrider system consist of, but this will be less clear in the case of SPDP, as among beliefs constituting its overrider system there will be beliefs about the nature of the world and the nature of sense perception, and here we can’t expect that there will be a universal consensus as to what is the truth of the matter. Still, although we don’t know for sure the whole story behind working of sense perception and we are unlikely to be in position to settle metaphysical debates concerning our knowledge of the world outside our minds, there is enough consensus in these matters to justify our expectation that each time S will have an experience of seeing a green tree in his garden, he will form a belief that he is just seeing the green tree he had seen on previous occasions, and typically we will grant that S’s belief is unqualifiedly warranted, unless we have reasons to think that in this specific case the mechanisms involved in forming visual perceptual beliefs did malfunction (e.g. S is known to be hallucinating since last Wednesday). As to achieve consensus in matters concerning the nature of mystical perception and the nature of the object of mystical perception will be much more difficult in the case of MDP than it is in the case of SPDP, one is to expect that it will be also more difficult to specify which beliefs are belong to the overrider system of MDP. And this characteristic of MDP can be called in support of the thesis that we have no sufficient reasons to deny that it is possible to individuate one universal MDP with one overrider system (although with vague borders). Considering that Al-



ston’s point is that we have to individuate many MDP’s because mystics from different RT’s in forming their Mbeliefs use significantly different overrider systems, he has to show the sets of beliefs which in particular cases play the role of overriders in forming M-beliefs, in order to support his claim that these sets too different to make an idea of there being only one overrider system (of a single MDP) viable. Alston does not provide reasons for thinking that this can be done. Now, given this inherent vagueness of the overrider system of MDP, we would need to have some more stable ground to be able to individuate at all such a doxastic practice as (a single) MDP, as different from e.g. SPDP. For the reasons I am about to spell out, I consider similarities of inputs and outputs of various belief forming mechanisms that we group in a natural/nonarbitrary way under the title of MDP to constitute a sufficient ground of this sort to individuate one universal MDP. As already mentioned, Alston is aware that it is tempting to consider differences in inputs of two doxastic practices as primary candidate for a ground for their individuation. However, speaking about SPDP and MDP he asserts: No doubt, they have qualitatively different experiential inputs; but that is equally true of different sensory modalities. The experiential input for MP does not, so far as we know, stem from the stimulation of physical sense receptors, but since we understand so little about the input of MP, that is a rather shaky basis for differentiation (PG, p. 167).

Such an argument against making the difference of inputs primary basis for distinguishing between SPDP and MDP is not entirely compelling. Firstly, why should we worry about our inability to reject a hypothesis that mystical experience may, after all, stem from the stimulation of physical sense receptors? Given that we have good reasons to believe that the object(s) of mystical experiences is sufficiently different from the objects of sense perceptual experiences, even if after all mystical experiences turned out to be the causal effects of God on mystics’ senses, they would still be so different from



ordinary sense perceptual experiences that it would justify individuating ‘mystical sense perceptual doxastic practice’ as distinct from other SPDP’s. Moreover, one needs to notice that while it is clear what constitutes outputs of a doxastic practice (namely beliefs about the relevant subject matter formed by the relevant belief forming mechanisms), it is possible to specify what constitutes inputs of a doxastic practice in more than one way. From the fragment just quoted one can gather that Alston takes the ‘experiential input’ of SPDP to by qualified as such by the fact that it does stem from the stimulation of physical receptors. But let us assume for the sake of argument that George Berkeley is right and physical objects and physical receptors do not exist. Would this make the whole talk of SPDP as a reliabile doxastic practice meaningless? Not necessarily. I suggest that we identify inputs of SPDP as experiences of certain sort, namely experiences their subjects take to be sensory experiences of what the subjects take to be physical objects. Of course, there is a story of brainprocesses behind these experiences/inputs, as there is behind beliefs/outputs, but this is equally true in the case of every doxastic practice, including MDP, and we are unlikely to be able to differentiate inputs of different doxastic practices by attending to this level of the reality of doxastic practices. Thus we can identify experiential inputs of MDP as experiences that their subjects take to be nonsensory experiences of what the subjects take to be God. For such identification of inputs that would allow for individuating MDP on the ground of similarities in inputs, it is not necessary to establish whether the causal chain that leads to mystical experience leaves the physical world at the point of causing a physical braininput or at the point of causing input on sense-organs (which for all we know is not the case). Thus I propose that the differences in inputs (and also outputs which are beliefs about very different subject matter formed on the basis of experiences of very different sort) can provide sufficient ground for individuating MDP as (a single) mystical perceptual doxastic prac-



tice by distinguishing it from SPDP. Differences in their respective overrider systems, as well as homogeneity of each practice with respect to epistemic reliability (different in the case of MDP and SPDP) only confirm the plausibility of differentiating between those two practices as natural (i.e. non-arbitrary). Inclusivism: Singularity of Mystical Doxastic Practice and Plurality of Mystical Traditions

It should be clear by now that the reason for giving in this essay so much attention to the issue of individuation of a single universal MDP rather than many conflicting MDP’s, is that individuating plurality of MDP’s in the way Alston does generates such a conflict between various MDP’s that what an apologist of mysticism could do at most is to defend the reliability of just one of MDP’s. This forces him to embrace an exclusivist account of MDP. Now, I proceed to show that MDP conceived in an inclusivist manner, as a single universal MDP, allows for a good response to CTCC. Doing this will involve a suggestion how the apparently incompatible beliefs about God implied in some mystical reports coming from various RT’s may be accommodated without denying the general reliability of MDP as exercised in variety of RT’s. The atheistic critics of mysticism make the point that as mystical reports coming from variety of RT’s often imply that different mystics hold conflicting beliefs about God, it follows that many of these beliefs must be false, and since we are unable to provide an argument which, if any, mystic is right, it makes a mockery of the idea of MDP being a reliable doxastic practice. In response I wish to argue that even if we grant that mystics from various RT’s often hold conflicting beliefs about God, it will not follow from this that MDP is not a reliable doxastic practice. There are two ways to support this claim. Firstly, one can argue that the beliefs about God that are conflicting are not M-beliefs, therefore this conflict does not have any bearing on the reliability of MDP. Sec

ondly, one can argue that some apparently conflicting beliefs are indeed M-beliefs, but the alleged conflict between them is only apparent. Now I will develop these two lines of arguments, appealing to the characteristics of the inclusivist account of MDP I propose. To show how these arguments could work I need to return to the idea of there being just one overrider system shared by mystics from various RT’s. I argued above that Alston fails to show why there cannot be only one overrider system of this sort (which would entail that there cannot be a single MDP). Now I would like to suggest that what Alston actually says about overrider system of Christian MDP gives a clue how the overrider system of a single MDP could work. When comparing MDP with SPDP, Alston notices that while in the case of SPDP we are not confronted with any significant diversity of conceptual schemes, the background beliefs of which the overrider system of SPDP is made up are less uniform. This lack of uniformity, according to Alston, is however ‘peripheral’ and ‘for practical purposes’ we may think about there being ‘a single worldwide overrider system for SPDP’ (PG, p. 192). When it comes to attending to the background beliefs that make the overrider system of Alston’s Christian MDP, he manages to accommodate all the differences involved in inter-confessional disputes. In what I consider to be the crucial move in his argument, Alston asserts that although any doctrinal difference can affect the overriding function of a doxastic practice, ‘this point should not be overblown. Many differences are rarely called upon in this capacity. Hence groups that differ on certain doctrines may in fact use the same criteria for testing putative divine perceptions’ (PG, pp. 193–194). Now, Alston’s talk about the ‘lack of uniformity’ of an overrider system means simply that some subjects who engage in the relevant doxastic practice believe that P is a part of its overrider system, while some others think that ~P is an overrider in this system. However, strictly speaking P and ~P cannot both in the same time belong



to the overrider system because then neither P nor ~P could play the role of an overrider. Alston’s comments clearly imply that different subjects can (be it rarely) bring with themselves into the overrider system of a reliable doxastic practice some beliefs they consider to be overriders in this system, although some other practitioners of this doxastic practice disagree. So how such overrider system which is not fully uniform (and every overrider system is likely to be) is supposed to work? I suggest we can conceive an overrider system as a set of background beliefs with vague borders, such that some of these beliefs belong to the core of this system, in virtue of universal consensus that they belong to this system and in virtue of being called upon in their overriding function regularly and universally), while some other beliefs are ‘peripheral’ (in the sense that they are called upon in this capacity only by some subjects who think they belong to the overrider system). On such picture, only the core beliefs would strictly speaking play the role of overriders, because a significant lack of consensus as to whether others should play such a role makes them unable to prevent the prima facie warrant of any other belief from becoming ultima facie. What justifies including into an overrider system some beliefs, despite of the lack of consensus as to their overriding status, is that there are serious reasons for thinking that they tell the true story about the subject matter of the relevant doxastic practice and therefore do in fact belong to its overrider system, although due to our limited knowledge we cannot (as yet) be sure of that. Such ‘peripheral overriders’ are really only conditionally included into an overrider system. What is the condition of their inclusion? A general intuition is that we take some background beliefs to be overriders in the relevant context because we have good reasons to think (or sometimes we simply know) that they say the true story about the subject matter under consideration. In the context of Christian MDP (as conceived by Alston) allowing for there being one overrider system would imply that some Christian mystic can form an



M-belief, with respect to which there will be no consensus as to whether it is ultima facie warranted, because there will be no consensus between Christian mystics whether particular belief(s) which can override this particular M-belief belong in fact to the overrider system. However, since the presumption is that it is likely to be a relatively rare occurrence, because M-beliefs are rarely about very specific doctrinal nuances on which Christians may differ, like in the case of SPDP, we may stress the importance of the common core and allow for their being a single Christian MDP. Now, granting plausibility of the core overriders/peripheral overriders distinction, it is not clear that we are compelled to differentiate between Christian MDP, Jewish MDP, Muslim MDP, etc., rather than to take there to be a single universal MDP, with one overrider system consisting of the common core overriders shared by mystics from various RT’s and peripheral overriders whose overriding status is a matter of debate. A possible argument that the lack of uniformity would perhaps be too great to allow for this, is simply difficult to support. Given that Alston defined MDP in a way that restricts the range of experiences which may constitute inputs of MDP to direct nonsensory focal perceptions of God, conclusion could be supported by a rich data of mystical reports coming from various RT’s that vast majority of M-beliefs formed on the basis of such experiences are of such kind that they do not call for confrontation with peripheral overriders. The picture that emerges from the study of mystical reports coming from various traditions does not support what might be a popular intuition that mystical experiences of Christian mystics are mainly about Christ as God, most of the mystical experiences of Muslim mystics confirm that Mahomet received the Koran from Allah, while Hindu mystics have mainly visions of Krishna or some other avatar. If that would be the case, it might indeed call in question the idea of there being one overrider system shared by mystics from various RT’s, because then what I called ‘peripheral over-



riders’ would be much more prominent than the common core overriders, and in such case we would have to conclude that different mystics use significantly different sets of overriders, except that they overlap a bit. The truth of the matter seems to be, however, that in most of the Sufi mystical reports there is hardly any mention of Mahomet. The Kaballah mystics rarely experience God communicating to them Israel is a Chosen People. Such classic Christian mystics like Jan van Ruysbroeck or the Author of The Cloud of Unkowing do not report mainly mystical encounters with Christ as the Second Person of the Trinity, etc. The writings of Sufi mystics are typically of such kind that would one extract from them what is pertaining to putative mystical experiences, one could mistakenly attribute them to some medieval Christian or Jewish mystic.3 Also typical mystical experience reported by a Christian mystic does not appear to be an experience of Christ but rather of God characterized in so general terms as to make Him indistinguishable from the object of mystical experiences reported by Jews or Muslims. Generally speaking, mystical experiences have rarely such a determinate conceptual content as to involve very specific and elaborate doctrines of particular religions. For this reason, beliefs which constitute the core of the overall doctrine of one RT and differ from the core beliefs of some other RT* don’t have to be included in the core of the overrider system of MDP common to both RT and RT*. By suggesting that Christian beliefs about Incarnation or Trinity can be conceived as ‘peripheral overriders’ within a single universal MDP, I do not mean to suggest that they are peripheral to Christian faith but only that in the context of MDP they are (as a matter of fact) rarely called upon in their capacity of overriders. One must not forget that MDP is just one of doxastic practices involved in forming beliefs about 3



The story of Judah Ha-Levi, a Jewish mystic who immersed himself in Sufi mystical tradition, shows that in some cases it is possible to use a specific mystical terminology developed in an alien tradition, to express one’s own mystical experience, while remaining committed to the overall doctrine of one’s own RT.

God, and practices of forming beliefs about God by appeal to sacred scriptures, testimony or deductive reasoning may have overrider systems with significantly different core beliefs than MDP. In each case the overrider system needs to include all beliefs that may be called upon in their overriding capacity, but not necessarily all beliefs about the subject matter. And this implies that Alston’s proposal to include in the overrider system of MDP all beliefs that make up the doctrine of particular religion(s) is an unnecessary step which makes it difficult to see how could there be only one MDP. To sum it up, to possible doubts about one MDP being able to accommodate M-beliefs formed by mystics from various RT’s, one may respond using the words Alston uses to justify individuation of a single Christian MDP, when he says that ‘groups that differ on certain doctrines may in fact use the same criteria for testing putative divine perceptions’(PG, pp. 193–194). This point shows that MDP may be conceived as generally independent of particular RT’s, both in the forming M-beliefs and in their assessment against the background of the overrider system. The possibility of MDP being generally RT-neutral is highlighted by the fact that there are reports of mystical experiences of God that occur outside the context of any particular RT. Taking into account the mystical reports presented above, it is hard to see compelling reasons for thinking that to have such experiences of God as pointed to in these reports, or to asses the prima facie warrant of M-beliefs formed on the basis of these experiences, a mystic would need to appeal to background beliefs which would be an expression of Christian rather than Muslim or Hindu faith (especially once one allow the names: ‘Brahman’, ‘Allah’, ‘the Real’ or ‘God’ to be co-referential and one is aware that certain ways of describing mystical experience are tradition-bound metaphors, not pertaining to the experience itself). That a mystic may identify the object of mystical experience as ‘God of Jesus Christ’ or ‘Yahweh who delivered His People from the slavery in Egypt’ does not necessarily has any bearing on the vi-



ability of an inclusivist account of MDP. Speaking more generally, the mystical reports often show that mystics from various RT’s may have mystical experiences of God on the basis of which they form M-beliefs that do not involve concepts or doctrines that are distinctively connected with just one RT (like beliefs attributing to the object of their mystical experiences goodness, power, lovingness, being active or just being present). These examples make one think that it would be undesirable to individuate MDP in a way that would not make sense of this common ground apparently shared by mystics from various RT’s. But what about the assessment of M-beliefs that are RT-specific? After all, it is a matter of fact that various mystical traditions (not to be confused with MDP’s), like e.g. Roman Catholic mystical tradition or Kabbalist mystical tradition, have there own rules for discerning whether a mystical experience is veridical, notably rules for disqualifying some alleged mystical experiences. Are these not ‘local’ overrider systems within these traditions? As I already suggested, the beliefs that make up such ‘local’ overrider systems could be thought about as being peripheral overriders of the overall overrider system of a single universal MDP. This would imply that within such system some M-beliefs which are RT-specific cannot at all be shown to be ultima facie warranted. But this would not be a problem specific to MDP. As long as all the debates concerning the nature of the extra-mental world and the nature of sense perception are not resolved (i.e. as long as we are not able to say in every case whether certain belief is or is not a part of the overrider system of SPDP), people can form sense perceptual beliefs which cannot be shown to be ultima facie warranted, because according to some their warrant will be canceled, while some other may disagree (and be able to provide solid reasons for that). This, however, does not call in question the general reliability of SPDP or MDP, or the viability of SPDP or MDP being a single doxastic practice, because a doxastic practice is generally reliable when yields mostly



true beliefs, and not necessarily beliefs which are always ultima facie warranted. Inability to show that a belief is ultima facie warranted is not a sufficient reason for thinking this belief to be false. To allow into the overrider system certain beliefs which can be called upon in their function of overriders when a mystic will have a specifically Christian mystical experience (e.g. an experience of the presence of ‘Christ in his Divinity’) does not amount to allowing into the overrider system beliefs that are like P and ~P. I have defined these RT-specific overriders as peripheral overriders, saying that they are only conditionally allowed into the system, on the ground that although (at least as yet) there is no universal consensus as to whether they are in fact overriders, there are good reasons (shared by a significant number of practitioners of MDP) for thinking they may in fact be overriders. However, as they are not universally shared by practitioners of MDP, they are not overriders sensu stricto, i.e. it is not the case that a Christian mystic is compelled to appeal to the peripheral overriders recognized as such by a Hindu mystic. Exploring this analogy further, I can finally make use of the two main lines of argument against CTCC, suggesting that some beliefs about God that are expressed in the context of mystical reports are not M-beliefs at all, and as such should not be assessed against the background of the overrider system of MDP. To elucidate this suggestion, it will be helpful to clarify the distinction between there being one universal MDP but plurality of mystical traditions. By ‘mystical tradition’ I mean a somewhat vaguely specified set of beliefs (not necessarily M-beliefs!) about the object and nature of mystical experience, about the ways of cultivating mystical consciousness, etc., held by mystics committed to particular RT. What is specific about mystical traditions so understood is that in forming these beliefs they usually draw on the resources of the sacred scriptures of their religion, or on writings of some prominent historic mystic from their mystical school, or resources of philosophical reflection typical for this school, etc. What is



important here is that many of these beliefs may not be M-beliefs at all, and as such are not warranted in virtue of being outputs of MDP (and when they are unwarranted, it is not MDP which takes the blame). Taking this into account and remembering the distinctions I have already made in different places of this study, we need to stress that sets of beliefs that make up (1) the overall account of God that is held within the RT*, (2) the account of God held in some mystical tradition*, (3) the account of God formed on the basis of mystical experiences* of God - may be different sets of beliefs. Now, let us assume that a mystic S* is linked to RT*, mystical tradition* and is the very mystic that had mystical experiences*. And let’s assume further that we have another mystic S** who is linked to RT**, mystical tradition** and had mystical experiences**. Now, let’s assume that mystical reports of S* and S** imply that they hold conflicting beliefs about God. I suggest that it is possible that in such case M-beliefs held by S* and S** do not conflict, but instead are warranted beliefs, being outcomes of a reliable doxastic practice, namely MDP. Now, in one of the crucial steps of the defence of the main claim of this paper, I suggest that it is the critic of mysticism who carries the burden of proof here. The burden is to show that that the conflicting truth claims about God as the common object of all mystical experiences are M-beliefs. Given that I have shown that they may well not be, the failure of the critic of mysticism to show this would result in dissolving CTCC. The situation here is clearly analogical to that we face in the case of the so called problem of evil where it is considered sufficient for the apologist of theism to show that beliefs about God being omnipotent, omnicient and perfectly good are not necessarily logically incompatible with beliefs about there being evil in the world. And it looks that the task of the critic is in both cases hopeless. Thus an apologist of mysticism can hold that there is no conflict between M-beliefs held by S* and S**, because it is possible that that some beliefs that are implied in mystical reports provided by S* and S** are not



M-beliefs but instead are beliefs read-in by the mystic(s) post factum drawing on the set of beliefs about God they hold on the basis of something else than mystical experience. Of course, it may not be possible for an outsider to asses whether some particular beliefs implied in a mystical report are or are not M-beliefs, but the data of mystical reports coming from various RT’s suggest that the overall doctrines of Ultimate Reality, like e.g. these proposed by two greatest Hindu philosophers, Shankara and Ramanuja, cannot be directly confirmed or negated by mystical experiences. In opposition to Ramanuja, Shankara claims that Brahman and Atman (i.e. God and the mystic, to simplify it a bit) are one. Ramanuja argues convincingly that it is not possible to base such a belief on one’s experience (i.e. such belief cannot be a perceptual belief), because so long as one is experiencing something, he is aware of the subject-object distinction and so unable to transcend this distinction to confirm experientially that he is not distinct from the object of this experience. Similarly, it is hard to see how a classical Western theistic account of God could be based on one’s experience. After all, one can perceive God as very good or very powerful, but how could one perceive God in such a way as to form perceptual beliefs that God is perfectly good or omnipotent? These beliefs are clearly outputs of doxastic practices other than MDP. One way in which one could form an M-belief that God is omnipotent or that the mystic is not distinct from God she perceives is by experiencing God communicating such a belief. This is possible, but the study of reports of mystical experiences (covered by our stipulated definition) does not confirm that such beliefs are often formed. And were they formed, their warrant would have to be checked against the background of peripheral beliefs, and in this case the conflict would be resolved by suggesting that once peripheral overriders conflict, either P or ~P is false (though we are unable as yet to settle the matter).



Summary

To sum it up, beliefs about God expressed in the context of mystical reports may in fact be formed by more than one doxastic practice, and if outputs of two different doxastic practices are conflicting it cannot be said that both are to blame. In fact, Shankara and Ramanuja can both have veridical experiences of God and form true M-beliefs about God, while one of them can hold false beliefs about God which are outputs of e.g. deductive reasoning. Assessing the warrant of these latter beliefs has nothing to do with MDP. Having said that, it seems that more often, when we are faced with the apparent conflict of beliefs about God implied in mystical reports and we are challenged by the critic arguing along the lines of CTCC, the adequate response is not by pointing to the fact that the conflicting beliefs are not M-beliefs, but that they are indeed M-beliefs but are not really in conflict. Here are few hints how this second sort of response to CTCC could look like. Let’s consider the issue of some mystics having experiences of God as being a person-like, while some other mystics report experiencing God as non-personal. The simplest response to this is by pointing to the possibility of different mystics experiencing different sets of characteristics of the common object of their experience. Here it is very helpful to remind that the present inclusivist account of MDP is being defended from the point of view of a theist. Hence, a theist can suggest that it is not necessarily the case that a Buddhist mystic holds false beliefs about God (or does not experience God at all). It is conceivable that (for whatever reason) God allows him to experience some of His characteristics, but not some others which a Muslim mystic does experience. And vice versa. So perhaps it is not so, as a typical exclusivist about the reliability of MDP would suggest, that the belief producing mechanism involved in MDP is malfuctioning in the case of a Hindu Vedanta mystic, and as a result he ends up having false M-beliefs about God (and so 

one can conclude that he did not really have any genuine ME, or that most of his experiences were illusory). Perhaps simply different mystics perceive different sets of characteristics of God because God Himself for some reason manifests to them different sets of characteristics. What sort of reasons God could have to ‘behave’ in this way? For the purposes of my argument it will suffice to show that such reasons are thinkable. Perhaps God positively wills that there be a diversity of ways to the full knowledge of Him in the eschaton, and the diversity of M-characterizations of God is needed to generate diversity of ways to God? Or perhaps God respecting human freedom manifests Himself to a mystic only in a way specified by his preconceptions of what might be experienced, or/and his degree of openness to truth and his readiness to be led by what is experienced in an uknown direction, or/and his strength and authenticity of desire to discover the truth, or/and purity of his intentions, etc.? Irrespectively of the actual reasons for which different mystics perceive different sets of characteristics of God, it may be nevertheless true that they all have mostly true M-beliefs. It is only that they are revealing only part of the whole truth about God, or more precisely, they are revealing only certain truths about God. Thus to describe the differences between M-characterizations of God in different RT’s one could say that it is not so that one M-characterization X is a better approximation to the truth about God than M-characterization Y, because Y consists of mostly false M-beliefs, but rather because X consist of more true M-beliefs than Y. But theoretically they may both consist of mostly true M-beliefs, being outputs of one universal mystical doxastic practice reliable across various religious traditions.



Karlheinz Stockhausen’s STIMMUNG and Vowel Overtone Singing Wolfgang Saus

Karlheinz Stockhausen created STIMMUNG1 for six vocalists in 1968 (first setting 1967). It is the first vocal work in Western serious music with explicitly notated vocal overtones,2 and is therefore the first classic composition for overtone singing. However, the singing technique in STIMMUNG is different from „western overtone singing“ as practiced by most overtone singers today. I would like to introduce the concept of „vowel overtone singing,“ as used by Stockhausen, as a distinct technique in addition to the L, R or other overtone singing techniques.3 Stockhausen demands in the instructions to his composition the mastery of the vowel square. This is a collection of phonetic signs, which describes the transitions of the vowels /u/−/a/, /a/−/i/, /i/−/œ/ and /œ/−/u/ on a quadrilateral. „In this vowel square, each vowel has 2 numbers. They indicate the overtone which should dominate when the vowel is sung; the number below the vowel applies to low male voices (for example on the pitch 114 Hz), the number above the vowel applies to high male voices and low female voices (for example on the pitch 285 Hz). […] The singers must therefore shift the overtone number depending on the register of their intonation (the higher the pitch, the smaller the

1

STOCKHAUSEN, K.: Stimmung „Pariser Version“, Nr. 24 1/2, für 6 Vokalsolisten SSATTB : Universal Edition Musikverlag, 1968 – ISBN 978-3-7024-4555-3.

2

„STIMMUNG ist der historische Anfang des Obertonsingens in der Kunstmusik (mit Partitur, durchkomponierter Oberton-Notation, spezieller Vokaltechnik)“. „ STIMMUNG is the historic beginning of overtone singing in art music (with score, through-composed overtone notation, special vocal technique). K. Stockhausen, in a letter to Martin Hebart (cited in a paper at the Johann-Sebastian-Bach-Gymnasium Windsbach 2001).

3

SAUS, W.: Oberton Singen. Mit Lern-CD: Das Geheimnis einer magischen Stimmkunst - Obertongesang erlernen mit dem DreiStufen-Selbstlernkurs. 3. Ed. Battweiler: Traumzeit Publishing House, 2008 – ISBN 3933825369.



mumber, i.e. the fewer of the prescribed vowels can be phonetically articulated).“4 Stockhausen uses the fact that the vocal formants represent pitches. They work like filters which always resonate when an overtone falls into the frequency domain of a formant. The overtone then can be heard prominently. The position of the formants is independent of the fundamental tone, it is only determined by the shape of the vocal tract. So it can happen that in a certain combination of fundamental and vocal timbre the formants do not meet overtones. When none of the overtones fall into the formant range, the tone colour seems more pale, softer, and less brilliant. Conversely, if It is not immediately obvious from the score whether Stockhausen‘s numbering refers to overtones or partials. Since the fundamental is counted as partial number 1, the corresponding overtone position is always one lower. The 5th overtone is identical with the 6th partial. The tape chord of 7 sine tones mentioned in the performance material provides clarification. Its fundamental is indicated at 57 Hz, what corresponds to B2H −38 ct. So Stockhausen‘s system is based on A3 = 430 Hz, 38 cents lower than the common 440 Hz. However, he allows that the pitch is adapted to the vocal range of the singer provided that the 5th overtone is singable by everyone. The instruction „... the 5th overtone (here 285 Hz) must be singable by everyone...“5 means: 285 Hz is the frequency of the 5th partial of 57 Hz. So Stockhausen‘s overtone numbers must be interpreted as partial numbers (harmonics). Because of the numbering used, it must be assumed that Stockhausen indended the emphasis of the overtones by the second voice formant F2. No details are found in the score to corroborate this. Fig. 2 and 3 demonstrate how the vocal overtones meet the formants. 4 STOCKHAUSEN, K.: Stimmung, S. IV. one maintains the same vocal timbre and sings a portamento, then the formants remain constant on their pitch and the overtones emerge one after the other as their frequencies fall into the range of the vocal formant. 5



STOCKHAUSEN, K.: Stimmung, S. II.

The figures show the spectrogram of a complete vowel run by the vowel square. A creaking voice from a fast sequence of glottal stops was used which produces sound energy over the complete relevant frequency range. So the formants are displayed independent of overtones. As soon as the voice produces a tone, harmonic overtones arise in integer multiples of the fundamental frequency. This overtone scale is marked into the spectrogram exemplarily for two of the fundamentals from STIMMUNG, B2H ) and D4H −38 ct (in the score noted as B2H +48 ct (5th partial of 57 Hz in the score written as D4). The prominent overtones result from the interfaces of overtones with F2 suitable for the respective vowel. Fig. 2 and 3 also indicate interfaces of the partials with F1. The partials are stressed acoustically there too. However, the higher F2 is more dominant in our hearing and the partial in the F1 is more difficult to hear as an individal tone. It may be assumed also that Stockhausen rather heard F2 and used its resonances for the composition. For any pitch on which overtones are demanded such a diagram can be prepared. This works particularly efficiently by using interactive sound visualizing software such as Overtone Analyzer (available at www.sygyt. com). With software help one can learn to practice and to check the tone colours and overtones very prcisely and independently of each other. One can now easily comprehend the score and the vowel quadrilateral. The vocal timbre is adapted respectively so that F2 meets the figured overtone or „The singers must therefore shift the overtone number...“, as Stockhausen notices in the instructions to STIMMUNG,“...depending on the register of their intonation...“ In other words, one selects the partial which meets the second formant, sappropriate to the vowel and pitch. Notice that there are two vowels possible for most overtones in the vowel square which satisfy this condition (and still more, if one allows vowels also through the middle of the quadrilateral), with the exception of



/i/ and /u/ which respectively represent extremes. With /i/ F1 is as low and F2 as high as possible. Both F1 and F2 are as low as possible with /u/. The variance comes from the fact that F2 is responsible for the overtone isolation and F1 can be positioned independently. A variable F1 in combination with a constant F2 creates different vowels or vowel nuances. An experienced overtone singer is

Figure 1: In contrast to vocal overtone singing the resonances of F2 and F3 are combined in „classical“ overtone singing.



able to accurately adjust F2 by means of the pharyngeal tongue (together with the epiglottis). One can also regulate F1 independently by the expansion of lips and jaw, as well as by the shape of the tongue blade in the anterior oral cavity. For overtone singers, the vowel overtone singing is precisely and consciously understood. The same understanding cannot be expected from classic singers, if their sound is based only on phonetic specifications. „Classical“ overtone singing almost exclusively uses the vowel sequence /iyiyiuшu/ which is indicated by moving F2. It is interesting that this sequence of vowels -right through from Stockausen‘s vowel square from /i/ to /u/ -does not occur in STIMMUNG. The overtones produced with /i/−/u/ vowels are particularly easy to isolate from the overall sound and make audible because all other formants are located as far away as possible from the second. Moreover, F3 is combined with F2 in overtone singing (fig. 1), in contrast to the vowel overtone singing in STIMMUNG. This is achieved by a post alveolar tongue position and a Helmholtz resonator produced under the tongue by means of a simultaneous lowered floor of the mouth. Thus the resonating overtone acquires the flute-like emphasis typical of overtone singing. This extreme acoustic separation of the overtone is not demanded in STIMMUNG. Stockhausen did not know of overtone singing when he wrote STIMMUNG.6 Rather, he had discovered soft overtone melodies in vowel transitions during self experiments.7 Secondary web links: www.stockhausen.org http://home.swipnet.se/sonoloco2/Rec/Stockhausen/12.html www.universaledition-shop.com/shop/en_UK/1/show,97526.html www.sygyt.com www.oberton.org

6

In his own words in a letter.

7

http://home.swipnet.se/sonoloco2/Rec/Stockhausen/12.html v123 © Wolfgang Saus – www.oberton.org - 3 -stimmung and vowel overtone singing 2sp_EN



Figure 2: Bass B2H −38 ct with selected intersections of the harmonics with the 2nd formant. The positions of the IPA Characters are in approximate position and to be understood as a guide only. (Created with Overtone Analyzer, www.sygyt.com).



Figure 3: Soprano D 4H +48 ct, marked intersections of the harmonics with the 2nd formant. The positions of the IPA Characters are in approximate position and to be understood as a guide only. (Created with Overtone Analyzer, www. sygyt.com).



The use of aspect in Czech L2 Barbara Schmiedtová

1. The aspectual system of the target language

Czech has developed a systematic method for aspect marking: it is marked by morphological devices on the verb root or stem. These devices are grammaticalized and in many cases still productive. The difficulty seems to be that aspect is not a pure grammatical category, and as we will see later it is not easy to distinguish between morphological means and word formation means (cf. perfectivization via prefixation). It is traditionally assumed that a Czech verb, aside from a few exceptions, exists in two forms (Karlík et al. 1995; Short 1993; Petr et al. 1987): perfective (Perf) and imperfective (Imperf). In Czech, most verbs appear in two or three forms which do not differ in their basic lexical meanings but rather in their aspect. (Petr et al. 1987: 179)

Because of this dichotomy it is often assumed that many though not all Czech verbs form so-called aspectual pairs. A pair consists logically of two forms, a perfective and an imperfective form. The fundamental difference between the two forms is aspect. This difference is considered to be grammatical. The claim that every Czech verb is either perfective or imperfective and that the main pattern within the aspect domain is aspectual pairing, immediately raises the question: How does the speaker (or a learner!) know that a particular verb form is perfective or imperfective? Assuming that a grammatical category, such as the Czech aspect, is based on a mapping between a particular form and particular function(s), two answers are possible:



The categories Perf and Imperf are based on an explicit formal marking represented by any type of verbal inflectional morphology (such as a prefix) or by some other morphosyntactic device. In this sense, the meaning connected to each aspect can cover an entire range of variants. That means that only the formal contrast matters. The categories Perf and Imperf are based on a specific meaning such as “degree of completion”, which characterizes each category in a unique way. These semantic features might, depending on context, vary to some extent but they must be stable enough so that one can clearly differentiate between Perf and Imperf. To start off, we concentrate on the form-based possibility: the distinction between Perf and Imperf is based on an explicit formal marking. For this reason, we need to outline the way in which verbs in Czech are assigned aspectual interpretation or are overtly marked for aspect. Simplex verbs

Simplex verbs are verb forms that are not morphologically marked for aspect. Most simplex verbs are imperfective (e.g. psát ‘to write’). However, there is also a small group of simplex perfective verbs (e.g. dát ‘to give’). Additionally, some simplex verbs are ambiguous between Perf and Imperf (e.g. jmenovat ‘to name/to appoint’). Verbal prefixes A large set of prefixes can be used in order to form a perfective verb. These prefixes are: 1. do-, 2. na-, 3. nad(e)-, 4. o-, 5. o/ob(e)-, 6. od(e)-, 7. po-, 8. pod(e)-, 9. pro-, 10. pře-, 11. před(e)-, 12. při-, 13. roz(e)-, 14. s(e)-, 15. u-, 16. v(e)-, 17. vy-, 18. vz(e)-, 19. z(e)-, 20. za (Karlík et al 1995: 199 ff). Each of them is associated with a cluster of meanings, most of them exhibit polysemy and homonymy, and the realization of a given meaning of a prefix is highly dependent on the context in which the prefix occurs. Four main possibilites can be observed here.



(1) The verbal prefix modifies the underlying meaning of the verb in a characteristic way. Thus it regularly makes the verb, for instance, inchoative (roz-esmát ‘to start laughing’), resultative (do-psat ‘to write to an end’), etc. In other words, these prefixes not only lead to perfective aspect but also introduce a specific Aktionsart to the verb. Note that depending on the verb, one and the same prefix can express different types of Aktionsart. (2) The verbal prefix not only modifies the aspectual properties but also influences the lexical semantics of a verb: malovat vs na-malovat ‘to draw vs to finish drawing something’, zvonit vs za-zvonit ‘to ring a bell vs to ring a bell once’. As described above, the same prefix can also be used for Aktionsart-alternation (e.g. only aspectual modification: vy-cvičit psa ‘to complete the training of a dog’ vs additional lexical modification with verbs of motion vy-couvat ‘to back out of a parking space’, which gives only directional information). (3) The verbal prefix can perfectivize but only to produce a new lexical item. They often have a local meaning. For example, před- ‘pre-’ as in vést vs před-vést (‘to carry vs to perform’), pod- ‘sub’ as in vést vs pod-vést (‘to carry vs to cheat’), od- ‘away from’ as in jet vs. od-jet (‘to go vs to go away’). There is also a small group of prefixes containing a long vowel that never perfectivize. E.g., závidět ‘envy’, příslušet ‘appertain’. Also the rare pa-, as in padělat ‘counterfeit’. (4) A prefixed verb has a lexical meaning that can not be compositionally derived from its components at all. For example, dovést ‘to be (cape)able’, vejít se ‘to fit (can go in)’. In summary: the majority of verbal prefixes change lexical meaning in one way or another. In other words, they change the aspectual but also the lexical properties of a verb. Some prefixes can have a pure perfectivizing function. Other prefixes always modify the aspectual and the lexical characteristics of a verb. Overall, it is not an easy task (even for a native speaker) to determine whether a prefix is used only for aspectual or also for lexical modification because depending on the verb,



one and the same prefix can be purely aspectual or aspectual and lexical. Verbal suffixes Suffixation can also express aspect. There are two suffixes, one for imperfectivity,-va-1, and one for perfectivity -nou-. These two suffixes are “morphological exponents of the imperfective and perfective aspectual operator, respectively” (Filip 2001: 14). In addition, the suffix -vacan have a generic interpretation. Here, we adhere to the view of Filip and Carlson (1997: 103): “… although imperfective sentences can have a contextually induced generic/habitual reading, genericity is a category sui generis, formally and semantically independent of the imperfective category”. This interpretation of the suffix will not be discussed here. The suffix -va- can form: (a) an imperfective verb from a derived or simplex perfective verb vy-psat (derived Perf)

vy-piso-va-t

PREF.write.INF

PREF.write.IMPERF.INF

to write out/to be writing out

to write out

to announce/to be announcing

to announce

dát (simplex Perf)

dá-va-t

give.INF

give.IMPERF.INF

to give

to give/to be giving

(b) an imperfective verb with the generic -va- from a simplex imperfective verb psát (simplex Imperf)

psá-va-t

write.INF

write.HAB.INF

to write

to have the habit of writing

1



The form -va- is used as an overgeneralization of all the possible allomorphs of this form which can be found in the actual data.

The suffix -nou- can form (a) a perfective verb from a simplex imperfective verb2 křičet (simplex Imperf)

křik-nou-t

to be screaming/to scream

to scream (only once)

Note that the only contribution of the suffix -nou- is to change the aspectual properties of a verb. The lexical meaning is not changed in any way. The perfectivizing suffix -nou- can be applied to some but not all Czech verbs. Based on the difference made between simplex and derived verbs and the outline given for aspectual derivation possibilities (suffixation and prefixation) in Czech, the following types of Perf – Imperf combinations need to be distinguished: (1) Some forms are ambiguous between Perf and Imperf (e.g. věnovat ‘devote/give’). These verbs only form a small group and are not relevant for the purpose of our study. (2) There are few aspectual pairs, where a simplex Imperf and simplex Perf are contrasted: běžet/běhat ‘to run/ to be running’. Additionally, there are few suppletive pairs, notably brát/vzít ‘take’, klást/položit ‘put’, etc. (3) Some verbs have no aspectual partners. For example, modal verbs and some statives do not have aspectual partners as they are inherently imperfective. They are called imperfectiva tantum: muset ‘must’, žít ‘live’, viset ‘hang’, etc. There is also a small group of verbs that exclude imperfectivity and can only be interpreted perfectively. They are called perfective tantum: nadchnout ‘to inspire’, vynadívat se ‘to see enough of something’, etc. (4) Some simplex Imperf verbs have a derived Perf partner, which is formed by suffixation (suffix -nou-). This is a pure aspectual contrast based on a systematic morphological process. However, it applies only to a restricted set of verbs of a particular type that is not easy to specify.

2

Note that some verbs suffixed with -nou- are imperfective (e.g. tisk-nou-t ‘to press’). Hence, the presence of this suffix does not necessarily predict that a verb will be perfective.



(5) The opposition between simplex Imperf and a derived Perf verb can also be formed by prefixation. The problem here is that most prefixes add a new lexical meaning to the verb, which makes the two aspectual partners differ not only in aspect but ALSO in lexical meaning. Furthermore, in some cases the imperfective partner can then have several perfective partners, each of which expresses a particular Aktionsart. This is rather unfortunate for the concept of aspectual pairs (partners) that are supposed to differ essentially in aspectual properties. (6) There are few cases of derived Imperf (suffixation -va) and simplex Perf forming a pair. For example, koupit/ kupovat ‘buy/to be buying’. Since simplex perfectives are rare, this group is very small. (7) There is a larger group of aspectual counterparts where a derived Imperf (formed by means of suffixation) is paired with a derived Perf (formed by means of prefixation). For example, s-lepo-va-t/ s-lepit ‘to glue together’. As in the case described in (4), the difference between these two forms is a pure aspectual contrast based on a systematic morphological process. The problem is that only a particular type of verbs can undergo this process. Moreover, it is not easy to characterise this verb type in clear semantic terms. It can be concluded from points (1) through (7) that aspectual marking is not based on formal marking. Many verbs are simplex imperfectives; a smaller group are simplex perfectives. From a formal point of view, no simplex verbs are marked for aspect at all. Moreover, the possibility of forming pure aspectual pairs is restricted to only a few verbs and is therefore not to be understood as a rule but rather as an exception. This way, the difference between Imperf and Perf is only partially grammaticalized in Czech (cf. Klein 1995 for Russian). On the other hand, the English contrast between the simple form and the progressive -ing form affects the majority of verbs (except a few verbs such as to know, to love). Since we rejected the first possibility that the differentiation between Perf and Imperf is based on formal



marking, the second option must be explored: the categories Perf and Imperf are based on a specific meaning. In what follows, we will focus on the the notion of completion. It is widely assumed that the categories perfective vs imperfective differ with respect to degree of completion (completed vs non-completed). […] these forms have the same lexical meaning but differ with respect to the degree of completion of the action depicted by the verb. (Karlík et al. 1995: 318)

There are three major problems with this analysis. First, imperfective verbs can also be used for depicting situations that are clearly completed. Consider the following example: (1) Jana spala (Imperf) včera u kamarádky. Jana sleep.3sg.Past.Imperf-S yesterday at friend.Gen.sg.Fem Yesterday, Jana slept at a friend’s.

The verb used in example 1 is simplex imperfective although the situation is bounded and completed. This is not because the situation is in the past, which should not matter for aspect in any case. The same holds true for situations in the future: (2) Jana bude zítra pracovat (Imperf)/pracuje (Imperf) od dvou do osmi. Jana 3sgAUX tomorrow work.Inf.Imperf/3sg.Perf Prep TempAdv Tomorrow, Jana will be working/works from two to eight.

The situation in example 2 is completed at eight o’clock. In other words, similar to example 1, despite the fact that it is a bounded/completed situation an imperfective verb is used. The reason is that the verb pracovat ‘to work’ is a simplex verb, which has no perfective partner with the same lexical meaning. A further consequence of this fact is that the simplex imperfective form pracuje can be used in the simple future form, which is normally reserved for perfective verbs.



The second major problem with the notion of completion is that speaking of completion only makes sense with respect to some particular time. In other words, “completion is always relative to a time interval” (Klein 1995: 676). A situation is completed at some time and at any time thereafter (the so-called post-time). It is, however, not completed at any time before that. This ‘completion time’ can but need not to be explicitly specified in the utterance. Nevertheless, without a clear notion of this ‘completion time’ at which completion was achieved, the notion of completion as a definition for the difference between Perf and Imperf remains incomplete. A third weakness of the notion of completion is that it emphasizes the endpoint of the situation while ignoring other parts, specifically the onset point (Comrie 1976). As pointed out by Klein (1995: 677), this observation is correct, however, difficult to demonstrate. We only refer to this point in order to complete the picture. For our present purposes, the first of the two problems discussed above are sufficient to indicate that the meaning approach can not systematically account for the differences between Perf and Imperf. This is supported by Klein (1995: 673) who demonstrated the same point for other common notions such as ‘± totality’, and ‘± internal boundary’. All these notions are valuable intuitions, however, unsatisfactory when used as defining criteria for the difference between Perf and Imperf. The definition we adopt for the analysis of Czech aspect is a strict time-relational analysis that was already introduced in 2.1 and 2.3. Within this approach, aspect is defined as a temporal relation between topic time (TT) and time of situation (TSit). The aspectual system in Czech consists of only two aspects: the imperfective and the perfective aspect. The imperfective aspect is defined as TT included in TSit, which naturally corresponds to the intuition of incompletion: within a given TT, there is no change and therefore also no completion. Compare the following



figure (dashed line ----- refers to the TSit, brackets [ ] refer to TT)3: Figure 1: Imperfective aspect as a temporal relation between TT and TSit

Imperfective: Petr vcházel dovnitř. Peter was coming in.

-----[--------]-----Posttime

The perfective aspect, on the other hand, is defined as TT at TSit and in the posttime of the TSit. This definition can also easily account for the completion intuition: within a given TT, there is always a change and therefore a situation gets completed. For illustration, consider figure 2: Figure 2: Perfective aspect as a temporal relation between TT and TSit

Perfective: Marie zavřela dveře. Mary closed the door.

----------[---------

] Posttime

From an acquisitional point of view, it seems that German and English learners probably need to focus on different parts of the Czech aspectual system. While German learners could encounter difficulties acquiring the basic opposition between perfective and imperfective, English learners might be challenged by the use of prefixes for derivation of perfective aspect. In any case, it is assumed that both learner groups are familiar with the concept of aspectual marking from their native language, but to a highly varying degree. We will delve further into this assumption later. 2. The use of aspect: Czech native speakers vs learners of Czech

First, we shall view the results of the Czech native speakers. The Czech native speakers used a total of 627 verb 3

Klein (1994) differentiates between the source state (SS) and the target state (TS) of a situation. For example, in ‘to enter a room’ the SS is ‘being outside of a room’ and the TS ‘being inside a room’. Other verbs, like ‘to stand’ includes only a single state, which can be treated either as SS or TS. In this analysis, only the source state is treated for English as the relevant part of TSit for all verbs.



forms – simple and derived forms together (types: 383). Out of these forms, 40% (252 occurrences) represent perfective verb forms: simplex perfective verb occurs in 70% (token: 177; types: 68) of the cases and derived perfective verbs in 30% (token: 75; types: 71). Imperfective verb forms were found in 60% (375 occurrences) of the cases: Simplex imperfective verbs represent 78% (token: 261; types: 160) whereas derived imperfective verbs are used 22% (token: 114; types: 52) of the time. Within each aspectual category, Czech natives used significantly more simplex than derived forms in our experiment [for the perfective: χ2 (1, N = 252) = 20.23, p < .05); for the imperfective: χ2 (1, N = 375) = 18.7, p < .05)]. However, when comparing the distribution of the simplex and derived forms of the two aspects, no significant difference could be found (z = 0.21 [Perf]; z = 0.45 [Imperf], n.s.). For an overview, consider figure 3: Figure 3: The use of perfective and imperfective aspect by Czech native speakers

For the imperfectivization, the only option available in Czech is to use the suffix -va. Perfectivization, however, can be accomplished either by using a prefix or a suffix. Czech native speakers derive a perfective verb form



by means of a prefix 69% (88 occurrences) of the time. They employ a suffix for this purpose only in 31% (40 occurrences) of the cases. This difference is significant (χ2 (1, N = 128) = 5.21, p < .05). In other words, Czech native speakers derive a perfective verb form by adding a prefix rather than a suffix to the verb stem/root. Compare the following figure illustrating the proportion of prefixed and suffixed verb forms used by Czech natives when deriving perfectivity: Figure 4: The use of prefixes and suffixes for perfectivization by Czech native speakers

The English learners used 1142 verb forms in total (types: 754). Out of them 35% (400 occurrences) represent perfective verbs and 65% (742 occurrences) imperfective verbs. Simplex perfective verbs occur 76% (token: 304; type: 63) of the time, derived4 perfective verbs 24% (token: 96; type: 55). Of all the imperfective verbs, 86% (token: 638; type: 542) are simplex imperfective forms. Derived imperfectives are used in 14% (token: 104; type: 79) of the cases. Furthermore, of all perfective verbs, 31% (125 occurrences) are derived perfectives. The difference between derived perfective and imperfective verbs is not significant. Like Czech native speakers, English learners use significantly more simplex than derived forms in each aspectual category [for the perfective: (χ2 (1, N = 400) = 23.2, p < 4

These verbs are formed either by means of prefixation or suffixation.



.05); for the imperfective (χ2 (1, N = 742) = 21.84, p < .05)]. In addition, similar to the Czech native group, no significant difference could be found when comparing the distribution of simplex and derived verbs of the two aspectual categories (z = 0.64 [Perf]; z = 0.73 [Imperf], n.s.). Figure 5: The use of perfective and imperfective aspect by English learners

Finally, like Czech native speakers, English learners also achieve perfectivization more often by using a prefix 72% (90 occurrences) of the time than by a suffix 28% (35 occurrences). This difference is statistically significant (χ2 (1, N = 125) = 5.69, p < .05). Consider figure 6: Figure 6: The use of prefixes and suffixes for perfectivization by English learners



Concering the German learners, they employ overall the largest number of verbs.5 The total number of verbs is 1227. Simplex perfective verbs are used in 63% (token: 258; type: 96) of the cases and derived6 perfective verbs in 37% (token: 151; type: 149). Simplex imperfective forms occur in 92% (token: 753; type: 512) of the cases whereas derived imperfectives are employed only in 8% (token: 65; type: 14). Similar to the two previous groups, German learners, too, employ significantly more simplex than derived verbs within each aspectual category [for the perfective: (χ2 (1, N = 409) = 6.3, p < .05), for the imperfective: (χ2 (1, N = 818) = 38.9, p < .05)]. For a better overview, see the next figure: Figure 7: The use of perfective and imperfective aspect by German learners

Unlike Czech natives and English learners, the German learners’ use of derived perfective verbs is higher than that of English learners and Czech native speakers (z = 4.9 [Ger-learners vs Eng-learners], z = 2.1 [Ger-learners vs Cz-natives), p < .05). When comparing English learners 5

The number of verbs used by learners and native speakers is related to the length of the entire retelling. In this sense, German learners produced the longest narrations overall.

6

These verbs are formed either by means of prefixation or suffixation.



and Czech native speakers, no such a difference can be found (z = 0.9, n.s.). In other words, English learners and Czech natives use derived perfective verbs equally often. For comparison, consider the following figure: Figure 8: The use of simplex and derived perfective aspect by all learners and Czech native speakers

English learners, on the other hand, use derived imperfective aspect significantly more often than German learners (z = 4.3, p < .05). Czech native speakers employ derived imperfective aspect significantly more often than any learner group (z = 3.7 [Cz-natives vs Eng-learners]; z = 7.6 [Cz-natives vs Ger-learners), p < .05). These findings are summarized in figure 9:



Figure 9: The use of simplex and derived imperfective aspect by all learners and Czech native speakers

In order to derive a perfective verb, German learners also prefer prefixes to suffixes. Prefixes are used 91% (372 occurrences) of the time, suffixes only 9% (37 occurrences). Similar to the other two groups, German learners use prefixation significantly more often than suffixation for deriving the perfective aspect (χ2 (1, N = 409) = 13.7, p < .05). When the use of the perfectivization suffix and prefix by the learner groups and the Czech native group is compared, the following differences can be established: (1) German learners employed significantly more prefixes than English learners and Czech natives (z = 5.3 [Gerlearners vs Eng-learners]; z = 7.2 [Ger-learners vs Cz-natives]. English learners, in contrast, used the perfectivization suffix significantly more often than German learners (z = 4.9, p < .05). With respect to the use of this suffix, no significant difference was found between the English learner group and the Czech native group (z = 0.6, n.s.). For comparison, consider the following figure:



Figure 10: The use of prefixes and suffixes for perfectivization by German learners, English learners, and Czech learners

To sum up: English and German learners differ significantly in their frequency of deriving perfective and imperfective verbs. While German learners use significantly more derived perfective verbs, English learners make significantly more use of imperfectively marked verbs. Also, German learners use significantly more perfectively derived verbs than Czech natives. This does not hold true for the English learners: Czech natives use derived imperfective verb forms significantly more often than the English learner group (and the German learner group). In other words, German learners “overuse” the derived perfective verbs in Czech. At the same time, they use a lot fewer imperfectively derived verbs than the Czech native speakers as well as the English learner group. English learners, on the other hand, never match the amount of derived imperfective or perfective verbs used by the Czech natives. In this sense, imperfectively derived verbs are underrepresented in both learner groups.



German learners use significantly more prefixes than English learners or Czech native speakers for deriving perfective verbs. Although English learners employed suffixes for perfectivization significantly more often than German learners, there is no significant difference between German learners’ use of suffixes and Czech natives’ use. The same holds true for prefixes: no significant difference between English learners and Czech native speakers. These results suggest that German learners have a strong inclination to derive perfective verbs and to carry out the perfectivization mainly by means of prefixes. In addition, the use of imperfective derived verbs is not only far less extensive than the use of perfective derived verbs but also substantially less frequent compared to the English learners and Czech natives. English learners show a tendency to derive fewer perfective verbs than German learners. Overall, however, the difference between the amount of perfectively and imperfectively derived verbs within the English learner group is not significant. In this manner, English learners resemble Czech natives more than German learners. English learners exhibit the ability to realize both aspectual derivation possibilities equally well. At this point, it can be concluded that English speakers of Czech are receptive to the basic aspectual distinction between perfective and imperfective, which makes it easier for them to express simultaneity in Czech by using aspectual marking. German learners focus greatly on the derivation of perfective verbs. Despite the possibility of using both options for perfectivization in Czech, a very strong preference for prefixation can be detected. Imperfective verbs are derived, but only rarely. This suggests that German learners are capable of imperfectivizing though they do not use this derivational strategy as often as Czech native speakers. Therefore, German speakers are not insensitive to the central aspectual opposition between the perfective and imperfective in Czech. However, they focus too much on the process of perfectivization and hence



neglect the other operation necessary for effective use of the aspectual system. As far as the target language employment of aspect is concerned, the Czech native speakers in our experiment used simplex imperfective and perfective verbs more often than the respective derived forms. Additionally, in the area of overtly marked aspect, the proportion of derived perfective and derived imperfective verbs used by Czech native speakers is similar. 3. The use of aspect: learners at different proficiency levels

Before turning to some possible explanations for our findings in the domain of aspect use, we outline its use by English and German learners at the three proficiency levels. We investigate the question whether or not the differences between learners proposed in the previous section also hold true at different acquisitional stages. For the purpose of this analysis, the entire database containing all the retellings of all eleven testing items was used. Recall that both learner groups employ aspectual marking when expressing simultaneity in Czech. English learners tend to use aspectual juxtaposition of two imperfective verbs more often than aspectual contrast. German learners, on the other hand, display the opposite by preferring aspectual contrast of a perfective and an imperfective verb to aspectual juxtaposition. As pointed out in Chapter 2, many verbs in Czech are simplex. This means that they are not morphologically marked for aspect, however, they have an aspectual meaning. In what comes next, we distinguish between simplex and derived verb forms in the learner data and investigate whether then too learners differ from each other and from the Czech native group. In our analysis of the Czech aspectual system only a few regularities grounded in the presence of inflectional morphology could be established. In other words, it has been shown that from a formal point of view, the Czech aspectual system is based on more exceptions than rules. Although this system is certainly challenging for a learner acquiring Czech as 

a second language it is feasible to acquire (cf. sections 7.3 through 7.6). One could speculate here that learners when acquiring aspect in Czech do not (only) rely on the grammatical information but also make use of another information source such as location of the inflectional morpheme. This hypothesis is labeled as “perceptual saliency hypothesis”. We outline and discuss this hypothesis in section 5. 3.1 Basic level of proficiency

English as well as German beginners employ significantly more simplex imperfective, for example psát ‘to write/ to be writing’, than simplex perfective verb forms such as dát ‘to give once’ [English beginners: (χ2 (1, N = 322) = 4.6, p < .05); German beginners: (χ2 (1, N = 94) = 4.8, p < .05)]. Note that beginners do not always assign the target like function to aspectual forms. This, however, does not further affect learners’ proper use of aspect for expressing simultaneity in the target language. But a z-test revealed that when comparing the use of the simple imperfective form between the groups, English beginners used simplex imperfectives significantly more frequently than German beginners (z = 2.96, p < .05). In addition, English beginners made use of some derived imperfective verbs (14 occurrences), while German beginners did not use derived imperfective verb forms at all. A reverse pattern can be observed with regard to the use of simplex and derived perfective verbs. When comparing the two beginner groups, German beginners employed simplex perfective verbs significantly more often than English beginners do (z = 2.6, p < .05). Furthermore, they also used significantly more derived perfective verbs than English beginners (z = 1.9, p < .05). Both learner groups used more prefixes than suffixes for deriving perfective verbs. There is no significant difference between English and German beginners when compared with respect to their use of perfectivizing prefixes and suffixes (z = 0.36, n.s.). In addition to these findings, German beginners did not use aspectual pairs at all (for a discussion of this no

tion, see chapter 2, section 2.5). English beginners, by contrast, produced 5 aspectual pairs. Summary: For both beginner groups, it holds true that they make more use of simplex imperfectives than simplex perfectives. Furthermore, both groups prefer to apply prefixes for perfective verb derivation. In comparison, however, German beginners use significantly more simplex and derived perfective verb forms than English beginners. At the same time, English beginners employ significantly more simplex imperfective and derived imperfective verbs than German beginners. 3.2 Medium level of proficiency

At the medium level of proficiency, the English as well as the German learner group used significantly more simplex imperfective than perfective forms (English learners: χ2 (1, N = 457) = 4.7, p < .05; German learners: χ2 (1, N = 594) = 53.3, p < .05). Note that the χ2-score is much higher for German than for English intermediate learners (English: χ2 = 7.6; German: χ2 = 53.3). This shows that the German intermediate learners use more simplex imperfective than simplex perfective verbs, while the tendency in English intermediate learners is rather towards the middle: a more balanced occurrence of simplex perfective and simplex imperfective verb forms. Further, together with the increased usage of simplex imperfective verbs, German intermediate learners start to produce some aspectual pairs (5 in total). When comparing the two groups, an unexpected result emerges: English intermediate learners make significantly more use of simplex perfective forms than German intermediate learners (z = 2.7, p < .05). German intermediate learners, by contrast, use simplex imperfective forms significantly more often than English learners (z = 3.5, p < .05). However, in the derivational domain, German intermediate learners use significantly more perfectively derived verbs than English intermediate learners (z = 3.1, p < .05); and furthermore, English intermediate learn

ers use significantly more derived imperfective verbs than German intermediate learners (z = 2.4, < p .05). Like in the beginners, both intermediate groups favor prefixation over suffixation for deriving perfective verbs.7 But in addition, German intermediate learners in comparison to English intermediate learners use significantly more prefixes than suffixes (z = 1.9, p < .05). This preference can not be explained by a difference in the total number of verbs since English as well as German learners at the medium level of proficiency employed on average a comparable amount of verbs: English intermediate – 62 verbs per subject; German intermediate – 66 verbs per subject. Next, we summarize the findings at the medium proficiency level and compare them with those from the basic proficiency level. Also at medium proficiency level, English and German learners employed more imperfective than perfective verbs overall. Yet, when comparing the two intermediate groups, English learners used significantly more simplex perfective verbs than German intermediate learners. They, in contrast, used significantly more simplex imperfective verbs than English intermediate learners. As pointed out above, English and German beginners adopted an opposite pattern. German intermediate learners, nonetheless, exhibited the same behavior as German beginners and used significantly more derived perfective verbs than English intermediate learners. The German intermediate learners used significantly more prefixes for perfective derivation than the English intermediate learners. This difference was not found between the two beginner groups. Similar to the English beginner group, English intermediate learners employed significantly more derived imperfective verbs than German intermediate learners. Finally, German intermediate learners, as opposed to German beginners, assembled aspectual pairs. 7

A possible explanation for this finding could be that this preference is driven by the frequency of prefixed verbs in the input. This remains to be found out.



3.3 Advanced level of proficiency

As observed earlier, learners as well as natives prefer to use simplex imperfective over simplex perfective forms. This also holds true for advanced English and German learners of Czech. Yet, no significant difference between the two advanced learner groups could be detected in their overall use of simplex imperfective and simplex perfective forms. In other words, they used simplex verb forms equally often, which is in line with target language use. The two advanced groups differ with respect to the aspectual derivation. German advanced learners used significantly more derived perfective verbs than English advanced learners (z = 1.92, p < .05). In the same way, English advanced learners make use of derived imperfective verbs significantly more frequently than German advanced learners (z = 2.64, p < .05). When compared to the English advanced group, the German advanced group employed significantly more prefixes when marking verbs for perfectivity (z = 2.71, p < .05). The English group, on the other hand, exhibited the opposite. When compared to German advanced learner group, they favor perfectivizing a verb by means of suffixation (z = 2.54, p < .05). Moreover, looking at the preference within each group, Germans clearly chose prefixes over suffixes in order to signal the perfective aspect (χ2 (1, N = 352) = 12.3, p < .05). In English advanced learners, by contrast, no significant difference could be observed between the employment of suffixes and prefixes in the area of perfectivization. In other words, English advanced learners show a more balanced use of prefixes and suffixes for deriving perfectivity and make use of suffixes more often than German learners at the same proficiency level. As far as constructing aspectual pairs goes, the two advanced groups are comparable: each German and English advanced learner produced about 8 aspectual pairs. In comparison, in our data, every Czech native speaker used 14 aspectual counterparts on average. In summary, like the learners at the other levels of proficiency, advanced learners also use more imperfective 

than perfective verbs. But when comparing these groups, there is no significant difference in their usage of simplex perfective and simplex imperfective verb forms. In other words, they use them equally frequently. However, they differ significantly with respect to the amount of derivations they perform. English advanced learners make significantly more derivations of imperfective verbs than German advanced learners. The latter group, however, use the perfectively derived verbs significantly more frequently than the English advanced learners. In comparison to the beginners and intermediate learner groups, a very strong pattern can be noticed in the area of aspectual derivation. Throughout all levels of proficiency, German learners derive perfective verbs significantly more often than English learners. The derivation is performed by prefixes. Except in the beginner group, German learners derive significantly more perfectives by prefixation than English learners. Although English learners derived far fewer perfective verbs than German learners, they did it significantly more often by suffixes than German learners at the intermediate and advanced level. In the domain of imperfectivization, another solid pattern emerges. In all levels of proficiency, English subjects use significantly more derived imperfectives than German subjects. A striking pattern change can be seen at the medium level of proficiency in the overall use of imperfectives. Here, the common pairing – English with an increased use of imperfective, German together with an increased use of perfective – is completely reversed. German intermediate learners use significantly more simplex imperfective verbs and English intermediate learners use significantly more simplex perfective verbs. In the advanced learners, all significant differences disappear from the area of simplex perfective and simplex imperfective verbs. Both learner groups use a comparable proportion of simplex verb forms.

 

4. Conclusions

The data shows several significant results that are steady throughout all levels of proficiency. (1) Each learner group at every level of proficiency prefers to use simplex imperfective over simplex perfective verbs. This finding is highly affected by the fact that there are more simplex imperfective than perfective verbs in the Czech input. This may also explain the common assumption of prescriptive Czech grammars that the simplex (non-derived) imperfective form serves as a basic form for further derivation of the perfective (for discussion, see chapter 2, section 2.5). (2) English learners focus on derivation of imperfective verbs during the entire acquisition course, as depicted and defined by this study. In the domain of the use of simplex imperfective verbs, this pattern is interrupted at the intermediate level of proficiency. Here, German learners take over and use the simplex imperfective verb form more often than the English group. The use of simplex imperfective forms is accompanied by the co-appearence of some aspectual pairs. This, in fact, may be the reason for the increased use of simplex imperfectives in intermediate German learners. This latter finding suggests that English speakers learning Czech focus on the derivation of imperfective aspect. German speakers acquiring the same target language, on the other hand, pay attention to another aspectual operation: the derivation of aspect by means of prefixation. Both these results are significant at all levels of proficiency. English subjects use suffixes for deriving perfective verb forms more often than German subjects. This difference is significant at all levels except the basic level of proficiency. We discuss this finding in more detail in the next section. 5. Perceptual saliency hypothesis

The difference in aspect use by English and German learners of Czech could be motivated by the linguistic



devices of the corresponding source languages: English learners of Czech use imperfective mainly because English has a fully marked grammatical form for the expression of the imperfective – the suffix -ing. German, on the other hand, has a wide range of prefixes that modify the Aktionsart of the verb, which often leads to a perfective reading (for more detail, see chapter 2, section 2.4). Hence, German learners of Czech use more derived perfective than imperfective aspect. According to the logic of this account, German learners should derive a comparable amount of perfective aspect by prefixation as well as by suffixation. This, however, is not the case. Consider the following alternative explanation. Let us ignore aspect for a moment and focus on differences in the location of the operation that is carried out in order to mark aspect in Czech (cf. for a similar hypothesis in L1 Slobin (1973). One can see that aspectual operations are taking place either on the left or the right side of the verb stem. Note that on the right side, two different operations can take place: (a) imperfectivization (suffix -va) or (b) perfectivization (suffix -nou). Recall that perfectivization can also be accomplished by using a prefix which is added to the verb on the left side. In other words, on the right side, two distinct operations can be carried out, on the left side, only one. These observations are summarized in figure 11: Figure 11: The Czech aspectual system from a perceptual point of view

LEFT various prefixes (one operation) e.g. VY-

verb stem

RIGHT suffixes (two operations) -NOU & -VA

There is clear evidence that German learners of Czech “overmark” the perfective, while English learners show the opposite pattern by “overmarking” the imperfective. Furthermore, English learners use the suffix -nou significantly more often for expressing the perfective aspect. In other words, German learners focus on the



LEFT side of the verb stem in their perception whereas English learners concentrate on the RIGHT side of the verb stem. Compare: Figure 12: The English aspectual system from a perceptual point of view

LEFT not present not present not present

RIGHT suffixes -ing (for imperfective) particles up, off (for perfective)

verb stem

Figure 13: The German aspectual system from a perceptual point of view

LEFT particles e.g. auf- / ab-

RIGHT not present not present

verb stem

For illustration, compare the following examples. LEFT

RIGHT

German example – perfective reading (3)

auf-

ess-(en)

English example – perfective reading (4)

eat-infinitive (to eat)

up

English example – progressive reading (5)

eat-infinitive (to be eat) -ing

We can see from these examples that all operations related to aspectual modification are carried out on the right side of the verb stem in English, while in German this is done on the left side of the verb stem. We are aware of the fact that many German prefixes such as the prefix ab- are separable and hence often appear on the right side of the verb stem as in the sentence Trenn dieses Präfix ab!8 In English, on the other hand, this is never the 8

 

Studies from first language acquisition of German show that children initially do not split the separable prefix from the verb stem, but rather use it as one lexical entry (Behrens 2003, Schulz & Penner 2002).

case. Particles as well as the suffix -ing always appear on the right side of the verb. The fact that English learners use significantly more suffixes for perfectivization than the German group indicates that they also perceive the aspectual operations performed on the right side of the verb stem. Note that imperfectivization is also achieved by means of suffixation in Czech. From this point of view, there is no difference between suffixation for the purpose of perfectivization and imperfectivization. On the basis of these observations and our experimental evidence, a saliency effect hypothesis is proposed which plays a role in the acquisition of aspect by German as well as English learners of Czech. This view does not exclude the former interpretation that the preference for a certain aspectual category (perfective vs imperfective) is motivated by the respective source language. It suggests that learners might also rely on other than aspectual information, namly on locational difference, which is motivated by the make-up of the source language. In summary, an important difference between English and German speakers with regard to their respective ways of dealing with the Czech aspectual system was found. German learners focus on prefixes expressing aspectual and lexical modification of the verb, while English learners also pay attention to those operators that only modify aspect. English speakers are, in other words, more inclined to decode the aspectual operations that take place on the right side of the verb stem: imperfectivization by the suffix -va and perfectivization by the suffix -nou. As a consequence, English learners are able to grasp and use the opposition between perfective and imperfective sooner than German learners. This sensitivity is certainly motivated or inspired by the linguistic devices of the corresponding source languages. In this sense, the data shows that there is evidence that the source language is a relevant factor for learners when choosing linguistic means in the target language.

 

References Behrens, H. (2003): Verbal prefixation in German child and adult language. Acta Linguistics Hungarica, Vol. 50 (1–2), pp. 37–55. Comrie, B. (1976): Aspect. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Filip, H. (2001/December). Aspect, Eventuality Types and NP Semantics in Slavic languages. Papter presented at Perspectives on Aspect. conference at the University of Utrecht, The Netherlands. Filip, H. & Carlson, G.H. (1997). “Suit Generis Genericity”. Penn Working Papers in Linguistics, Vol. 4 (Proceedings of the Twenty-First Annual Penn Linguistics Colloquium). Philadelphia, The University of Pennsylvania, pp. 91–110. Karlík, P. (et al.) (1995). Příruční mluvnice češtiny. Praha, Lidové noviny. Klein, W. (1994). Time in language. London, Routledge. —

(1995). A time-relational analysis of Russian aspect. Language 71, pp. 669–695.

Petr, J. (et al.) (1987). Mluvnice češtiny. Skladba. Praha, Academia. Short, D. (1993). Czech. In Comrie, B. & Corbett, G.G. (eds.). The Slavonic languages. London, Routledge, pp. 455–532. Slobin, D. (1973). Cognitive prerequisites for the development of grammar. In Ferguson, C. A. & Slobin, D. I. (eds.), Studies of child language development. New York; Holt, Reinhart & Winston; pp. 175–208. Schulz, P. & Penner, Z. (2002). How you can eat the apple and have it too: Evidence from the acquisition of telicity in German. In Cost, J. & Freitas, M.J. (eds.) Proceedings of the GALA 2001 conference on language acquisition, pp. 239–246.

 

The Serankure of Southern Africa. Interdisciplinary restudy of an indigenous bowed instrument Jürgen Schöpf

1. The bowed monochord Serankure

Physical description The instrument consists of a slightly curved wooden stick of about 1m length and has a diameter of around 6cm. This stick has a deep groove running its entire length save around 10cm from both ends. At the thicker end (i.e. lower end while playing) a conical stick is inserted through a hole from behind and functions as a tuning peg. A wire string is wrapped around the thinner (upper) end several times, then pulled through a cut incised at the end, lead over the wire wrappings that function as a bridge and then pulled to the required tension by the tuning peg at the lower end. The resonator is made of a 5 litre oil can that has been burned off its paint and its upper side removed. This resonator is then flattened and the stick zither system is forced into the resonator’s opening with its thin (upper) end. It is held in place only by the pressure of the sides of the tin can itself. This instrument is held with its thicker/lower

 

end in the lap or near the thighs of the player, its upper end rests on a shoulder, thus placing the resonator next to the player’s head. The instrument is played with a bow. This bow is some 20 to 30 cm long and curved. The bow hair consists of a bundle of animals’ hair that are extended with a plastic cord. Classification According to the Hornbostel-Sachs classification of musical instruments the Serankure can be labelled with the code 311.221 (Hornbostel 1914:576). In more detail it can be derived as follows: chordophones (3); simple zithers (31); bar or stick zithers (311); stick zithers (311.2); true stick zithers (311.22); with attached resonator (311.221).1 By looking at the instrument, its classification as a trough zither (“Schalenlaute”) seems appropriate. However, as the acoustical function of the trough as a resonator is very limited and the attached secondary resonator is clearly the one acoustically effective we decline the classification as a trough zither and decide to classify it as a stick zither.2, 3 Materials used Different kinds of wood are used for this instrument. The players in Tlôkweng are using mosalaesi (melia azedarach), a rather soft wood from a tree that has been imported from India by man and now grows wildly around Tlôkweng and in the Southern African region in gen1

In the German original: “Chordophone (3); Einfache Chordophone oder Zithern (31); Stabzithern (311); Musikstäbe (311.2); Eigentliche Musikstäbe (311.22); Mit einem Resonator (311.221)

2

In my dissertation “The serankure and music in Tlôkweng, Botswana” (Schöpf 2008) I have not undertaken a classification of the serankure because the scholarly value of such a classification appears very limited if not doubtful to me. Yet, it is done in the present paper to honour the tradition of such classifications and their use by non-specialists, especially in museums that cannot afford becoming experts in as many musical traditions as they are responsible for in their respective institutions.

3

In my dissertation (Schöpf 2008) I have termed it as a trough zither. But recently, discussing Kubik’s documentation in the Phonogrammarchiv with Christiane Fennesz-Juhasz and Helmut Kowar I changed my mind to classify the serankure as a stick zither rather.

 

eral . The bow, however, needs a hard wood that can be found in mogwane (grewia bicolor). The bow hair is at best from the tail of the giraffe, or kukama (oryx). Horse or cow are said to work not so well. Before playing, my teachers, Seka Matsetse Matlapeng, Lepatata T. Matlapeng and Pae Moeketsane, resined their bows at a small resin reservoir kept in a notch at the lower end of the instrument. Other reports mention the players wetting the bows with their own saliva. Then, for playing, the bow is rubbed at the string in a roughly elliptical movement, moving the bow-string contact point constantly. 2. History and social context

Names Terms for the instrument in question vary througout Southern Africa. Tswana speaking regions speak of “Serankure” (BaTlôkwa). In Botswana in general, the term “Segaba” is mostly used, meaning “tool that is hollowed out” (from the verb “gogaba”). I have decided to adopt “Serankure” as the generic term because it appears to be a proper noun as none of my teachers and informants was able to explain this word. In the following I repeat my list of names as published (Schöpf 2006) with two more entries found in the meantime: Gerhard Kubik has made recordings with Tswana speaking people in Namibia in 1991. These recordings are archived in the Phonogrammarchiv of the Austrian Academy of Sciences. In his metadata Kubik gives the name of the instrument as “seganpure” (B 33726–33731) “Spießlaute, gestrichen” (=spike lute, bowed) and as “sekanpure” (B 33773 and 33775). Both by their sound and the discussion recorded I believe they are the same as the serankure described here. Unfortunately Kubik has not archived any photograph or video belonging to these audio recordings.

 

Name

People / language / region

Reference

bunu

Zu/'hoa

Norborg 1987:245ff

dinudi

Mbukushu

Norborg 1987:234f

dooša

Nharo

Norborg 1987:245ff

handelo

!Kung / !ko

Heinz 1974

handolo

!Xõ

Norborg 1987:245ff

ikatari

Xhosa

Dargie 1984

inkinge

Thembu

Dargie 1984

isankuni

Pondo

Kirby 1934

isigankuri

Mpondo Xhosa

Dargie 1984

isikehlekehle

Swazi

Kirby 1934

n!ao-tse

//X'au-//'e

Norborg 1987:245ff

poman

Nharo

Brearley 1984:52

sebinjolo

Tswana (Kgatla-baga-kgafêla)

Norborg 1987:245ff

sefinjolo

Tswana (Kgatla-baga-kgafêla)

Kirby 1934

segaba

Tswana (Ngwato)

Norborg 1987:245ff

segankuru

Tswana (Ngwaketse)

Norborg 1987:245ff

seganpure

Tswana (Omaheke, Namibia)

Kubik 1991 (B 33726-33731)

sehankule

Xhosa

Dargie 1984

sekanpure

Tswana (Omahele, Namibia)

Kubik 1991(B 33773-5)

sekatara

Southern Sotho

Dargie 1984

sekatari

Southern Sotho

Kirby 1934

sekgobogobo

Transvaal Sotho

Kirby 1934

serankure

Tswana

Schöpf 1998

serankure

Tswana (Kwena-ba-Sechele)

Norborg 1987

setinkane

Tswana

Kirby 1934

setsegetsege

Transvaal Sotho

Kirby 1934

siwumba

Sambiu

Norborg 1987

too-n!ao

Zu/'hoa

Norborg 1987

tsijolo

Venda

Kirby 1934

tsorwani

Pedi

Dargie 1984

ubhel'indhlela Zulu

Kirby 1934

uhadi

Xhosa

Kirby 1934

venturo

Namibia

Pitch 1998

History According to oral tradition, the Serankure is a proper instrument of Tswana people. This is confirmed by reports of Kirby (1934:215) from the South of the Tswana speak-



ing region as well as from their Northern (Khoisan) neighbours by Gretschel (1913:112) and Bleek (1928:21). Some authors have speculated – with valid arguments – about Arabic influence in particular for the bowing through the important trade routes along the East coast of Africa (England 1995:85f) or even European influences through missionaries (Rycroft 1966:95). But as long as no further evidence can be produced to support these speculations the most likely case has to be accepted. Therefore the instrument is to be regarded as an indigenous invention in all its parts and functions. Also metal working technology has been well established with Sotho-Tswana peoples since at least the early 15th century, archaeologically evidenced by Phillipson (1977:195). Thus all required technologies were available in the region prior to European colonisation. Tswana music itself has not seen a lot of research. Most information is found in articles by Elizabeth Nelbach Wood and John Brearley in the 1970s and 1980s published in “Botswana Notes & Records”. Other information can be found in research papers of scholars writing on music in the region addressing Tswana music as a side issue, e.g. England, Kirby, and Johnston. The peculiarities of the serankure have not attracted researchers and have been overlooked since Kirby’s information satisfied the interests of the scholarly community (see below). 3. The music-scape of Tlôkweng, Botswana

The town of Tlôkweng is the reserve of the Tlôkwa people situated very close to the capital of Botswana, Gaborone, taking its name from the paramount chief of the Batlôkwa who led his people to their current place of settlement during his chieftainship (1880–1931).4 My own estimate of its population is around ten to twenty thousand. Given its proximity to the capital many people commute for their work into Gaborone, yet being a tribal territory it has retained structures of a tra4

See Ellenberger (1939)



ditional Tswana town, e.g. its tribal administration, being the place of the paramount chief of Tlôkwa with some population on the South African side of the closeby international border. Most music performed in Tlôkweng, like with most Tswana people today, is church music according to one of the many branches of indigenous churches of protestant descent. Instrumental music is rare though the (four-string African) guitar may be the most popular individual instrument today under influence of radio distributed music from South Africa, Zimbabwe and D.R.C./Zambia. Quiet some bands playing in the 1990s in Gaborone clubs came from other countries of the region like Zimbabwe and Tansania. Through music education, the marimba xylophone developed in the Kwanongoma College of Music in Bulawayo in the 1960s has become and is still popular and present in many public festivities. The serankure has been a herd boys instrument with the generation of my teachers, born in the 1920s. Some of those herd boys have continued to play it throughout their life time and developed considerable proficiency in its playing technique. The serankure has – through newspaper articles in the last decades5 – become an icon for (traditional) Tswana music. It is taught in the annual “Botswana Music Camp” and from time to time presented on stage for public functions, especially when a reference to local culture is intended. 4. Playing the serankure

The bow hair by itself has no tension, but by holding the bow between thumb (at the bow hair) and the other fingers (at the bow stave) the bow hair is pulled to the required tension. With the other hand, the string can be stopped at required points. For most of the Tlôkweng repertoire the fundamental of the (unstopped) string and a second above the fundamental is sufficient, whereas on both fundamentals the series of partials can be elicited. 5



e.g. “Daily News Online” and “Mmegi”, see bibliography

Previous studies The most significant description of the serankure playing technique has been published by Kirby: “... the variation in tensioning [the bow] is deliberate, and, together with the choice of spot, on which the string is bowed, serves to isolate certain harmonics of the string.“ (1934:216) He clearly describes two different things, according to him, happening at the same time. The first is: “... the variation in tensioning is deliberate, and [,…] serves to isolate certain harmonics of the string.“ and the second is: “ … the choice of spot, on which the string is bowed, serves to isolate certain harmonics of the string.“ After Kirby, England has published a more extensive description of the serankure as it happened to be played by Khoisan informants of the Marshall expeditions in the border area of Namibia and Botswana in the 1960s, the main focus of England’s study. However, he only takes up the second part of Kirby’s argument when he writes: „All the while the player must move his bow vertically, from lower to upper end of the string, to rub it at those nodes which are appropriate for the overtones that he needs for his melodies.“ England (1995:92). England also gives a complex drawing where he exemplifies this for a few seconds of transcribed music, see below (1995:93). All later authors writing about its playing technique, particularly Brearley and Phuthego have repeated this argument. Critique of previous studies In 1999 I had the privilege to learn to play serankure myself from Pae Moeketsane over a period of about two months. But immediately at my first attempts it became obvious that the tension of the bow hair is in fact the key parameter to elicit higher partials of the string whereas Kirby’s “choice of spot” was his own speculation and does not meet empirical facts. Unfortunately none of the authors preceding my work have attempted to play the instrument themselves, but took over Kirby’s apparently plausible explanation. And again un-



fortunately, the most convincing part of Kirby’s explanation “ … the choice of spot, on which the string is bowed” is completely wrong and can be falsified easily by anyone trying to play the instrument. For example, if the “ ... choice of spot, on which the string is bowed” were relevant, every song necessarily would have a particular sequence of bow movements along the string. This is, to any attentive observer, clearly not the case, rather the elliptical movement of the bow on the string is regular in its range and only related to the metre and tempo of the song played. In the end, Kirby’s first half of the explanation was very true, yet did not satisfy the expectations of the researcher, thus he felt a need to



add his speculation. And this speculation, appearing more plausible to the following researchers, became repeated and believed, whereas the true argument became neglected. However, testing either arguments on the instrument itself would have immediately clarified the issue. A new explanation Now the empirical fact is clear that the tensioning of the bow hair while playing is “deliberate” (Kirby) and “…serves to isolate certain harmonics …” – yet, the phenomenon needs an explanation how this is achieved. The technique of playing harmonics on European bowed instruments called flageolet requires a certain spot (a node in a vibration mode) where the string is touched (not actually stopped) and at the same time a different point where the energy is transmitted into the string. This is obviously not the case with the serankure in its standard playing technique in which the string is being touched by the bow only, and, at times, with the thumb of the player’s other hand to stop (or “fret”) the string.6 The solution to this problem has been established with the assistance of Fricke: hence the serankure and its bow can be modelled as a “double string system”, regarding the bow hair just as another string with the usual parameters that define the pitch of a vibrating string, that are: length, density, and tension. Now frictioning two strings at each other, what vibration will be able to establish in such a system? Only one that can establish in both parts of the system. Two of the pitch defining parameters of the bow hair by itself, length and density, are given, the third, tension, can be varied at the players will at any moment while playing, setting the “bow hair string” to a desired frequency. The pre-set frequency of the bow hair is now – literally – rubbed into the wire string which will resonate in the respective vibration it can deliver, being the fundamental or any other partial. The elliptical move6

Although in one modern playing style a flageolet technique actual occurs, it does not in the older repertoire of “traditional” pieces I mostly recorded.



ment of the bow on the string I believe helps to suppress the fundamental frequency of the wire string. The phenomenon of higher partials sounding when the bow-string contact point is varied is known to double bass players, but in western music culture considered undesirable. On a violin this effect may be less known, as I assume the length (and thus frequency) relation of bow hair and string are not as much overlapping in their ranges as is accidentally, to some extent, the case with a double bass. For the serankure, however, the overlapping frequency ranges of bow hair and string are an integral part of the instrument’s design. Although the argument put forward here is empirically tested and can be demonstrated, a quantitative study of the parameters involved remains desirable.

References Bleek, Dorothea Francis (1928): “The Naron. A bushmen tribe of the central Kalahari”, Cambridge: University Press, reprinted New York: AMS Press 1978 Brearley, John (1984): “A musical tour of Botswana, 1982”, in D. Nteta (ed.): Botswana Notes & Records, vol. 16, pp. 45–57 Daily News Online: online resource, retrieved February 25,2010, from http://www.dailynews.gov.bw/ Dargie, David (1984): “Xhosa music. Its techniques and instruments, with a collection of songs”, Claremont, South Africa, : David Philip Ellenberger, Vivien (1939): “History of the Batlôkwa of Gaberones (Bechuanaland Protectorate)”, in: Jones, J.D. Rheinallt; C. M. Doke (eds.): Bantu Studies, vol. 13, no. 3, September 1939, Johannesburg: University of Witwatersrand Press, pp. 164–198 England, Nicholas M. (1995): “Music among the Žũ’|’wã-si and related peoples of Namibia, Botswana, and Angola” New York, London: Garland Fricke, Jobst P. (retired Professor of musical acoustics at the University of Cologne, Germany): Personal communications in 2002 and 2003 Gretschel, E. (1913): “Die Buschmann-Sammlung Hannemann”, in: Jahrbuch des Städtischen Museums für Völkerkunde zu Leipzig, vol. 5, 1911/1912, Leipzig, pp. 89–113 Heinz, Hans-Joachim & D. Heunemann (1974: “!ko Buschmänner (Südafrika, Kalahari). Spielen eines monochords (‚Buschmann-Geige‘)”



in: Wolf, G.: Encyclopedia Cinematographica, Institut für den Wissenschaftlichen Film (IWF), E2123/1975, Göttingen, 5 minutes of film Hornbostel, Erich Maria von and Curt Sachs (1914): “Systematik der Musikinstrumente. Ein Versuch” in: Seler, Virchow, v. Luschan, et alii (ed.): Zeitschrift für Ethnologie vol. 46 (1914), pp. 553–590 Johnston, Thomas Frederick (1972): “Aspects of Tswana Music” in: Anthropos, vol. 68, pp. 889–896 Kirby, Percival Robson (1934): “The musical instruments of the native races of south Africa” Oxford University Press, London: Humphrey Milford Kubik, Gerhard (1991): Documentation of his field recordings in the Phonogrammarchiv of the Austrian Academy of Sciences, items nos. B 33725 – 33731 and B 33770 – 33778. Available through the online catalogue at http://www.phonogrammarchiv.at Mmegi: online resource retrieved February 25, 2010, from http://www. mmegi.bw/ Norborg, Åke (1987): “A Handbook of Musical and Other Sound-Producing Instruments from Namibia and Botswana”, Musikmuseets skrifter vol. 13, Stockholm Phillipson, David W. (1977): “The later prehistory of eastern and southern Africa”, London: Heinemann Phuthego, Mothusi (1999): “Segaba: An African zither and its potential for music education” in: Botswana Notes & Records, vol. 31, pp. 119–128 Pitch, Ian (ed.): (1998?) Distant echoes. Yo-Yo Ma and the Kalahari bushmen. Skyline Film and Television Productions Ltd. For Channel 4 in association with La Sept/arte and YLE Rycroft, David (1966): “Friction chordophones in south-eastern Africa”, in: The Galpin Society Journal, vol. XIX, April 1966, pp. 84–100 Schöpf, Jürgen (2006): “A unique Zulu stick zither in the National Museum in Copenhagen, Denmark” in: Christ, Heidi (ed.): Musik verbindet uns. Festschrift für Marianne Bröcker, Uffenheim (Germany), Forschungsstelle für Fränkische Volksmusik, pp. 135–147 Schöpf, Jürgen (2008): “The Serankure and Music in Tlôkweng, Botswana” Berlin: VWB-Verlag



Infancy: A brief musical history Sandra E. Trehub

The systematic study of infant music perception began in the 1970s. Before then, scholars speculated, from time to time, about the possibility of productive insights into the genesis of music from observations of infants. According to the renowned musicologist, Curt Sachs (1943), the babble songs of small children recapitulated the earliest known stages of music. Some years later, ethnomusicologist Bruno Nettl (1956) described his toddler’s invented songs, which were presumed to reveal features of “primitive” music, including repetitions of a single phrase, longer note durations at phrase endings, and descending contours. Highlights of the 1970s: Modest beginnings

By the 1990s, laboratory-based research with infants was well established but attention was largely focused on groundbreaking developments in of speech perception. The big news was that infants perceived stop consonants categorically (Eimas, Siqueland, Jusczyk, & Vigorito, 1971), as adults do. They also differentiated various consonants and (Trehub, 1973; Trehub & Rabinovitch, 1972), even non-native sounds that posed difficulty for adults (Trehub, 1977). Perhaps the major barrier to the study of music perception in infancy was the prevailing belief that infants could not engage in configural processing of auditory sequences. They were thought to attend only to the first sound in a sequence, being unable to engage in holistic processing of auditory patterns. As a result, stimuli in auditory research with infants were limited to single syllables or tones. Chang and Trehub (1977a), ignoring the conventional wisdom about these processing limitations, investigated configural processing of pitch patterns in 5-month-old infants. During a familiarization phase, they presented infants with 15 trials of a sequence of 6 tones selected 

randomly from the 24 chromatic tones spanning two octaves. Each infant heard the same pattern across trials, but different infants heard different randomly generated patterns. In a subsequent test phase, half of the infants received an upward or downward transposition of the familiarization pattern (3 semitones), which maintained the original contour and intervals. For the remaining infants, the original tones were reordered, resulting in altered contour and intervals. To ensure that potential differences in responsiveness between these two groups of infants did not arise from differences in the initial tone, the transposed and reordered versions of a particular pattern began with the same tone. Chang and Trehub (1977a) used heart rate deceleration to index infants’ response to the auditory stimuli. Because this heart rate response required 12–13 minutes to reach its maximum and return to baseline in 5-monthold infants, it was necessary to have inter-trial intervals of 15 seconds. Nevertheless, infants’ heart rate response waned or habituated over the course of the familiarization trials, presumably reflecting increasing familiarity with the auditory sequence. Remarkable, however, infants in the test phase showed renewed responding to the reordered pattern, with its contrasting melodic contour, but not to the transposed pattern whose contour remained unchanged. The implication is that infants considered the transposed pattern equivalent to the original. Despite previous notions to the contrary, infants could engage in configural processing of auditory patterns. Unfortunately, this seemingly impressive evidence was a blip on the radar at a time when speech perception was a central theme in psychology and empirical research on music perception, especially with novice listeners, was a peripheral enterprise. Nevertheless, evidence of configural processing soon emerged in the temporal domain. Specifically, infants succeeded in distinguishing one temporal grouping of sounds from a contrasting grouping or rhythm (Chang & Trehub, 1977b; Demany, McKenzie, & Vurpillot, 1977).



Highlights of the 1980s

Two seminal books, The Musical Mind (Sloboda, 1986) and Music Cognition (Dowling & Harwood, 1986), propelled music into the mainstream of cognitive inquiry. Although empirical research on music perception in the 1980s was still dominated by studies of musically trained adults, studies of infants began to appear with increasing frequency. It soon became clear that the pitch contours of musical patterns were especially salient for infants, as were the pitch contours of speech (Fernald, 1991). For example, infants tended to confuse transpositions of a melody with alterations that simply preserved the contour of the original melody (Trehub, Bull, & Thorpe, 1984). Moreover, they readily discriminated contour changes in a brief melody (Trehub, Thorpe, & Morrongiello, 1987), even if the change was limited to a single tone (Trehub, Thorpe, & Morrongiello, 1985). At times, infants succeeded in detecting interval changes in melodies, and the situations in which they did so were instructive. When the inter-stimulus intervals were brief and the standard and comparison melodies were in the same key, infants could detect a onesemitone change within a melody (Trehub, Cohen, Thorpe, & Morrongiello, 1986). They could have been responding to the presence of novel pitch rather than to alterations in pitch relations. Subsequent studies presented the standard and comparison melodies in different keys, which necessitated infants’ reliance to on pitch relations. As it turned out, the structure of the melodies made a substantial contribution to infants’ performance. For example, infants could detect interval changes in diatonic melodies but not in non-diatonic melodies (Cohen et al., 1987; Trainor & Trehub, 1992, 1993b; Trehub, Thorpe, & Morrongiello, 1990), raising the possibility that some melodic structures are inherently easier to encode than others. There were new perspectives on temporal grouping as well. Not only could infant group tones on the basis of proximity, or patterns of relative duration (Chang & Trehub, 1977b; Demany et al., 1977). They could also do  

so on the basis of frequency, intensity, and harmonic structure (Thorpe & Trehub, 1988; Thorpe, Trehub, Morrongiello, & Bull, 1987). For example, infants seemed to perceive an isochronous six-tone pattern consisting of three tones of one frequency followed by three tones of another frequency as two groups of tones separated by a brief pause (Thorpe & Trehub, 1988). They could also categorize tone sequences on the basis of their rhythm, ignoring changes in pitch and tempo (Trehub & Thorpe, 1989). Highlights of the 1990s

A surprising discovery was that infants noticed some interval changes and tuning changes that adults failed to notice (Trainor & Trehub, 1992; Trehub, Schellenberg & Kamenetsky, 1999). For example, infants detected tuning changes in invented scales with unequal pitch steps, but adults’ detection of small tuning changes seemed to be limited to familiar scales (Trehub et al., 1999). In such instances, infants’ ignorance of the Western music conventions was advantageous because knowledge of those conventions had the potential to interfere with performance. Intervals, it seemed, were not equally perceptible or memorable for infants. Some, like the perfect fourth and perfect fifth, were perceived and retained better than others (Schellenberg & Trehub, 1996; Trainor, 1997). Key relations also had consequences for infants, who more readily detected interval changes when the melodies to be compared were in related keys than in unrelated keys (Trainor & Trehub, 1993a). Moreover, infants 4 and 6 months of age exhibited a distinct preference for consonance over dissonant music (Trainor & Heinmiller, 1998; Zentner & Kagan, 1996). Comparable preferences in newborns came to light some years later (Masataka, 2006). The study of singing to infants also gained momentum in the 1990s. It became clear that parents everywhere sing in the course of caring for their infants (Trehub & Trainor, 1998). Their singing is marked by higher 

pitch level (relative to the singer’s usual pitch level), slower tempo, and warm, rather gushy voice quality (Trainor, Clark, Huntley, & Adams, 1997; Trehub, Unyk, & Trainor, 1993; Trehub et al., 1997). Adults readily distinguished these infant-directed versions of songs from non-infant-directed versions regardless of their musical or cultural background (Trehub, Unyk, & Trainor, 1993b, Trehub et al., 1997). Moreover, infants exhibited clear preferences for infant-directed versions of songs (Trainor, 1996), even as newborns (Masataka, 1999). Although play songs are the songs of choice for most North American and Western European parents, lullabies are ubiquitous elsewhere (Trehub & Trainor, 1998). In most cultures, lullabies speed the transition from distress or fatigue to contentment or sleep. Naïve adults readily distinguish foreign lullabies from non-lullabies even when the songs are matched on tempo and culture of origin (Trehub, Unyk, & Trainor, 1993a). Potential cues to the identity of lullabies include their simple pitch structures, repetitiveness, and falling pitch contours (Unyk et al., 1992). Highlights of the new millennium

Infants’ short-term memory for the temporal and pitch patterning of melodies had been evident for some years. New evidence emerged for long-term memory. After 2 weeks of brief daily exposure to passages from Mozart sonatas and a further 2 weeks without hearing the material, infants showed a preference for novel Mozart sonatas (Saffran, Loman, & Robertson, 2000). In other research, a single week of exposure to synthesized folk melodies revealed compa