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    The City of Words
    The City of Words
    The City of Words
    Ebook176 pages2 hours

    The City of Words

    By Alberto Manguel

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    About this ebook

    In the 2007 CBC Massey Lectures, Alberto Manguel leads us back into our literary tradition to find insight about one of the most contentious issues of our time: the rise of ethnic nationalism.

    The end of ethnic nationalism -- building societies around sets of common values -- seems like a good idea. But something is going wrong. Manguel suggests we should look at what stories have to teach us about society.

    With wit and erudition, Manguel looks at what visionaries, poets, novelists, essayists, and filmmakers have to say about building societies. From Cassandra to Jack London, the Epic of Gilgamesh to the computer Hal in 2001: A Space Odyssey, Don Quixote to Atanarjuat: The Fast Runner, Manguel draws fascinating and revelatory parallels between the personal and political realities of our present-day world and those of myth, legend, and story.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHouse of Anansi Press
    Release dateOct 1, 2007
    ISBN9780887848490
    The City of Words
    Author

    Alberto Manguel

    Internationally acclaimed as an anthologist, translator, essayist, novelist, and editor, Alberto Manguel is the bestselling author of several award-winning books, including A Dictionary of Imaginary Places, with Gianni Guadalupi, and A History of Reading. Manguel grew up in Israel, where his father was the Argentinian ambassador. In the mid-1980s, Manguel moved to Toronto where he lived for twenty years. Manguel's novel, News from a Foreign Country Came, won the McKitterick Prize in 1992. In 2000, Manguel moved to the Poitou-Charentes region of France, where he and his partner purchased and renovated a medieval farmhouse. Célébrité internationale à plus d’un titre — il est anthologiste, traducteur, essayiste, romancier et éditeur — Alberto Manguel est l’auteur du Dictionnaire des lieux imaginaires, en collaboration avec Gianni Guadalupi, et d’une Histoire de la lecture, entre autres succès de librairie. Manguel a grandi en Israël où son père était ambassadeur de l’Argentine. Au milieu des années 1980, Manguel s’installe à Toronto où il vivra pendant vingt ans. Il reçoit le McKitterick Prize en 1992 pour son roman News from a Foreign Country Came. Depuis 2000, Manguel habite la région française de Poitou-Charentes, dans une maison de ferme du Moyen-Âge qu’il a achetée et remise à neuf avec son compagnon.

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    • 4/5
      Compared with Manguel's other books, this is probably not his best effort. But it is still deliciously erudite and literary without a whiff of pretension, far beyond what most other essayists could ever attempt. While I have a soft spot for anything touching on Don Quixote, it is the final chapter critiquing the state of publishing and reading in our society that should draw special attention.
    • 5/5
      I very much enjoy his thought-provoking writing. I want to read it again for a deeper understanding.

    Book preview

    The City of Words - Alberto Manguel

    INTRODUCTION

    WHY ARE WE TOGETHER?

    I will deal with each aspect of this question by fragments, by unconnected pieces, because the passing from one area of knowledge to another fans the pleasure and ardour of reading. If I were to write the chapters of my book in a continuous form, each time exhausting the chosen subject, they would certainly be more complete, more comprehensive, of a nobler character. But I fear lengthy texts, and you, reader, are worthy and capable of grasping the whole by means of a few random details, and of knowing the end by learning the beginning.

    —Jahiz, The Book of Animals, IX cen.

    AFTER THE TWO World Wars of the past century, the exercise of assembling and disassembling countries gave birth to two opposing impulses. One was to enlarge the notion of society, to return to an altered version of the imperialistic model under the guise of a gathering of nations, none primo inter pares, and to call this patchwork the Western World or the Society of Arab Nations, the African Confederacy or the Pacific Rim Countries, the Southern Cone or the European Union. The other was to reduce society to a minimum common denominator, tribal if not familial, based on ancient ethnic or religious roots: Transdnistria, the Basque Country, Quebec, the communities of Shiites or Sunnites, Kosovo. In both cases, composite or singular, every society we conceive into existence seeks its definition as much in a complex multiple vision of itself as in its opposition to another. Every border excludes as much as it includes, and these successive redefinitions of nation act like circles in the set theory of numbers, overlapping and intersecting one another. Caught between definitions of nationality and globalization, between endemic loyalties and a chosen or enforced exodus, the notion of identity, personal and social, has become diffuse, uncertain. Within this endless flux, what name do we assume, singly and in groups? How does interaction with others define us and define our neighbours? What are the consequences, the threats, and the responsibilities of living in a society? What happens to the language we speak, supposed to allow us to communicate among us? In fact, why are we together?

    When I mentioned to Ronald Wright, whose brilliant Massey Lectures on the notion of progress were delivered a few years ago, that a possible title for my talks might be Why are we together? his response was: What’s the alternative? Of course there is no alternative. For better or for worse, we are gregarious animals, condemned to or blessed with the task of living together. My question does not imply that there is an alternative: instead, it seeks to know what some of the benefits and blights of togetherness might be, and how we manage to put this imagination of togetherness into words.

    Less a question than a series of questions, less an argument than a string of observations, the subject of these lectures is a confession of bewilderment. I have discovered that, with the passing of the years, my ignorance in countless areas — anthropology, ethnology, sociology, economy, political science, and many others — has become increasingly perfected while, at the same time, a lifelong practice of haphazard readings has left me with a sort of commonplace book in whose pages I find my own thoughts put into the words of others. In the realm of storytelling I’m a little more at ease, and since stories, unlike scientific formulations, don’t expect (reject, in fact) clear-cut answers, I can muddle around in this territory without feeling bullied into providing solutions or advice. Perhaps for this reason, these talks will have something unsatisfactory about them: because my questions must remain, in the end, questions. Why do we seek definitions of identity in words, and what is, in such a quest, the storyteller’s role? How does language itself determine, limit, and enlarge our imagination of the world? How do the stories we tell help us perceive ourselves and others? Can such stories lend a whole society an identity, whether true or false? And to conclude, is it possible for stories to change us and the world we live in?

    —ALBERTO MANGUEL, Mondion, 2007

    I.

    THE VOICE OF CASSANDRA

    "Vain was the chief’s and sage’s pride

    They had no Poet and they dyd!

    In vain they schem’d, in vain they bled They had no Poet and are dead!"

    —Horace, Odes IV:9 [trans. Alexander Pope, 1733]

    LANGUAGE IS OUR common denominator.

    Alfred Döblin, one of the greatest novelists of the twentieth century, was once asked in a questionnaire why he wrote: he answered that this was a question he refused to ask himself. The finished book doesn’t interest me, he said, only the book that is being written, the book to come. Writing was for Döblin an action that sifted through our present into our future, a constant flow of language that allowed words to shape and name the reality which is always in the process of being formed. Method has no place in art, folly is better, he wrote in a letter to the Italian poet T. F. Marinetti, after Marinetti had proposed, in the Paris Figaro of February 20, 1909, that artists adopt a futurist method to implement their craft, embracing action, violence and industrial change. Tend to your futurism, Döblin instructed his effusive colleague, I’ll tend to my Döblinism. But what exactly was this Döblinism? Alfred Döblin had served as a medical officer in the German army during the First World War before setting up his practice in the slums of East Berlin, whose identity he portrayed in his most famous novel, Berlin Alexanderplatz, of 1929. He was a man of awkward contradictions: a Prussian Jew who late in life converted to Catholicism, a radical socialist who opposed the tenets of the Russian Revolution, a psychiatrist who admired Freud but doubted the dogmas of psychoanalysis, and a proponent of an exuberant literature that constantly contravened its own rules but who sought in the traditional books of the Bible the basic mythology of his fiction. His subject was the changing identity of the twentieth-century world, but his hero was the everyman Job of the Old Testament, suffering but not meek, vocal but not strident, the paragon of unjustified victimhood. In 1933, under threat by the rising Nazi regime, like so many other German intellectuals Döblin sought refuge in France with his family and, seven years later, after the occupation of Paris, escaped by a dangerous route through Spain and Portugal to the United States. There he was offered several jobs, including that of scriptwriter in Hollywood: several scenes from Mrs. Miniver are said to be by his hand. But Döblin felt terribly isolated in his exile, unable to find a shared language in the land of his hosts. When a fellow writer who had remained in Germany during the Nazi years accused those who had left of enjoying the armchairs and easy chairs of emigration, Döblin answered: To flee from country to country — to lose everything you know, everything that has nourished you, always to be fleeing and to live for years as a beggar when you are still strong, but you live in exile — that’s what my ‘arm chair,’ my ‘easy chair’ looked like. And yet, even in the isolation of exile, Döblin continued to be, in his own words, possessed by the instinct to write.

    After the war, from 1947 to 1956, Döblin wrote some of his most powerful books in which language itself, the abused German language, is, to a great degree, the protagonist: showing the gradual abuses of power in the Third Reich shaped through the gradual abuses of meaning in the Weimar Republic, in the saga November 1918; echoing the present evils of imperialism in the baroque vocabulary of the seventeenth-century, in The Amazon Trilogy; and even imagining a future society somewhat healed of its wounds by means of the critical language of psychoanalysis in Hamlet or The Long Night Comes to No End. Sadly, Döblin’s work, with the exception perhaps of Berlin Alexanderplatz, has been largely and undeservedly forgotten. Nevertheless, his conception of language as an instrument both to shape and understand reality remains, I believe, utterly valid today. Language, for Döblin, is a living thing that does not retell our past but represents it: it forces reality to manifest itself, it burrows into its depths and brings forth the fundamental situations, big and small, of the human condition. It lets us know, in fact, why we are together. Most of our human functions are singular: we don’t require others to breathe, walk, eat, or sleep. But we require others to speak and to reflect back to us what we say. Language, Döblin declared, is a form of loving others.

    Language, when it appeared in our distant prehistory, probably some fifty thousand years ago, as a conscious method of communication, demanded to be a shared instrument based on a common and conventional representation of the world that lent a group of men and women the conviction, however uncertain in its proof, that their points of reference were the same and that their utterings translated a similarly perceived reality.

    This reality of the world conjured up through language was, paleontologists tell us, first presented to our consciousness as something magically material: in our beginning, words appeared to us as occupying not only time but also space, like water or clouds. The American psychologist Julian Jaynes argued that long after the development of language, when writing was invented some five thousand years ago, the deciphering of written signs produced in the human brain an aural perception of the text, so that the words read entered our consciousness as physical presences. According to Jaynes, "reading in the third millennium B.C. may therefore have been a matter of hearing the cuneiform, that is, hallucinating the speech from looking at its picture-symbols, rather than visual reading of syllables in our sense." Language, as we once knew, does not merely name but also brings reality into being: a conjuring act achieved by means of words, and by means of those accounts of reality’s events that we call stories.

    Stories, Döblin argued, are our way of recording our experience of the world, of ourselves, and of others. When Job in his suffering remembers the days in which the light of God still shone upon him, and declares that, in his goodness, I was eyes to the blind and feet was I to the lame, the recounted memory is not enough: Job wishes to be able to put down his experience as a story, as testimony of his faith. Oh, that my words were now written! he says in his lament, oh that they were printed in a book! As Job, and as the author of Job, knew, stories distill our learning and lend it narrative form, so that through variations of tone and style and anecdote we can try not to forget what we have learned. Stories are our memory, libraries are the storerooms of that memory, and reading is the craft by means of which we can recreate that memory by reciting it and glossing it, by translating it back into our own experience, by allowing ourselves to build upon that which previous generations have seen fit to preserve. In the mid-eighteenth century, Rabbi Uri of Strelisk asked: David was a gifted man, capable of composing psalms. And I? What can I do? His answer was: I can read them. Reading is a task of memory in which stories allow us to enjoy the past experience of others as if it were our own.

    Under certain conditions, stories can assist us. Sometimes they can heal us, illuminate us, and show us the way. Above all, they can remind us of our condition, break through the superficial appearance of things, and make us aware of the underlying currents and depths. Stories can feed our consciousness, which can lead to the faculty of knowing if not who we are at least that we are, an essential awareness that develops through confrontation with another’s voice. If to be is to be perceived, as that illustrious contemporary of Rabbi Uri, Bishop Berkley, remarked (and in spite of all attempts to reduce his observation to the absurd, it remains a daily experienced truth), then to know that we are requires knowledge of the others whom we perceive and who perceive us. Few methods are better suited for this task of mutual perception than storytelling.

    Dreaming up stories, telling stories, putting stories into writing, reading stories, are all complementary arts that lend words to our sense of reality, and can serve as vicarious learning, as transmission of memory, as instruction or as warning. In ancient Anglo-Saxon, the word

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