Sub-Versions of History in Three Twentieth-Century Novels

The novels Nightwood, Genoa, and One Hundred Years of Solitude take intriguing ap p roaches to h i story which seem to question and subvert certain dominant socio-cultural att i tudes. No t only are we asked to re-view history and its narrative ident i ti e s, but also to re-consider related issues such a s the p l ace of women and desire in h i story; the body in hi s tory; the pr oblem of textuality (history/literature); and the status a n d identity of the human subject. Traditional humanist criticism is unsatisfactory in considering these prob l ems, so the critical perspective used here derives from Bakhtin and several poststructuralist and feminist theorists. After discussing significant terms (history, discour s e, body) and the critical approach in general, a chapter is devoted to each novel. Here the critical response i s reviewed, and the way the novel interacts with the topic is traced, with more specific discussion of relevant theories. Although quite different from each other, all three n o vels have in common a challenge to authority and the suggestion that there are ways of viewing history and the human subject which differ from the dominant. They i n vite us to rethink what it means to be human and ins i st that this cannot be separa te d from historical, social, cultural,


ABSTRACT
The novels Nightwood, Genoa, and One Hundred Years of Solitude take intriguing ap p roaches to h i story which seem to question and subvert certain dominant socio-cultural att i tudes. No t only are we asked to re-view history and its narrative ident i ti e s, but also to re-consider related issues such a s the p l ace of women and desire in h i story; the body in hi s tory; the pr oblem of textuality (history/literature); and the status a n d identity of the human subject.
Traditional humanist criticism is unsatisfactory in considering these prob l ems, so the critical perspective used here derives from Bakhtin and several poststructuralist and feminist theorists. After discussing significant terms (history, discour s e, body) and the critical approach in general, a chapter is devoted to each novel. Here the critical response i s reviewed, and the way the novel interacts with the topic is traced, with more specific discussion of relevant theories. iii ACKNOWL E DGEMENT I am enormousl y grateful to Professor John Leo who started me on this adventure, showed unfailing kindness, generosity and patience, a n d affirmed my feel i ng that studying literature and theory can be g reat fun.
I also want to tha n k Professors David Stineback, Robert Manteiga, Marjorie Keller, and J osie Campbell for their thoughtful comments and suggestions; they were immensely helpful.
A note of appreciation also to Jim Farney, whose computer expert i se and kindness saved the day more t h an once.
Finally, thank you to Arnie, my husband, who is always there when I need a fr i end. iv

INTRODUCTION
For centuries history has p l a y ed a varied and significant role i n literary works and it continues to engage the attention of wri t ers and critics. My purpose here is to examine three 20th-century novels (Nightwood, Genoa, and One Hundred Years of Solitude) which are preoc c upied with history in ways that question and subvert certain dominant socio-cultural attitudes and values. This treatment of hi s tory as problematic also raises and illuminates other significant issues, as the following brief summaries indicate.
Dju n a Barnes's Nightwood is about a gr ou p of outsiders, expatriates and Europeans, living on the Continent between the two wars, and it traces their relationship with a young American wom a n. By emphasizing history and weaving it into her narrative, Barnes makes provocative observations about the absence of women in official, that is patriarchal history, about the relation between history and desire, and about the "otherness" which can be located even in history. All three writers present, in widely differing contexts, a vision of dis-continuous history and dis-continuous subjects, marking a radical departure from the status quo. I am not aiming to create here a "unity" in this literary diversity, but rather to trace the dis t inctive 2 paths each r iter takes. This task will be guided by certain critical perspectives, but before discussing the bigger picture it may be helpf u l to explain some of my terms.
Rather than offer definitions which I fear would be too reductive or restrictive, let me suggest certain characteristics and a sense of the ground from which these notions arise. When I use the term "history," I think of it less as the actual events of the past and more as an archive of the past which has become an important discourse complete with its own set of discursive ideas, classifications, and practices (such as rules of inclusion and exclusion).
History there described is an inescapable feature of organized social life. As a discourse it encompasses philosophical and ideological issues, some of which will be raised in connection with the novels. I am not confining myself to literary history because these novelists themselves have a strong sense of the socio-cultural and political implications of history. However, I do emphasize history here as writing, as textuality, and agree with Bakhtin that the "real" world and the work exist in a process of constant exchange. The real world enters the text as part of the creative process, and remains as the work is renewed in successive readings. The text also enters and enriches the "real" historical world (Dialogic 254).
The dominant, familiar forms taken by history, which we can call patriarchal, monumental, idealist, an autonomous system of "Truth," seem to me to be what these novelists are writing against. They push us to think of that "history" in a n ultimate sense. As Derrida has expressed it, in the last analysis it is the history of meaning which confronts us . And in their own subversive ways these wr i ters then sugg e st that "hi s tory is substitution, sign ifi er, figure, difference, text, fiction" (Leitch 58).
Just as "his t ory" is no longer a simple and untroubled term, "discourse" becomes equally problematic in relation to my discussion here. Western culture views discourse from an idealist perspective, as a repository of truth formed through the exercise of reason to serve knowledge. One can gather various facts which already exist in the world and package or discover them in disco ur se (Leit ch 145). The works of Barnes, Metcalf, and Garcia Marquez compel us to reconsider th i s a ttitude and entertain alternatives.
Although it may seem simple and obvious, it is vital to keep in mind that discourse, all speech and writing, is first and foremost social, its primary condition being dialogue.
Whenever dialo gue takes place, it involves the positioning of speaker and audience; from the outset ther e are implications of power relations at work. Many discourses exist, and are distinguished by the types of institutions and social practices in which they are shaped, and also by the positions of speakers and listeners (Macdonell 1).
In the case of history it is easy enough to see its institutionalization by both the State and the Academy.
Historiography is recognized as a specific form of writing and usually viewed as part of the objective order, as a given. But Metcalf suggests that history writing is both more and less than this; it is a pose. Barnes suggests that the female desire which has been repressed in it is about to erupt and disrupt the present order. Garcia Marquez su~gests that history writing needs to re-create itself into a new identity.
All three writers show how history has practised certain kinds of exclusions. This is a feature of discourse, which focuses on certain objects, advancing selected concepts at the expense of others. We see this occurring in literary studies as well, where such areas as popular literature and women's writing have long been relegated to the margins (Macdonell 3). Djuna Barnes is just one example.
In humanist discourse, "literature" is defined as "full, central, immediate human experience," and based on the assumption that something recognizable as human experience or human nature exists outside linguistic and social forms.
The author then puts this experience into words (5). One of the most unsettling questions these three authors ask concerns the human subject, because they have moved off the comfortable old humanist turf. 5 By "subject" I mean more than a generalized concept of a thinking, acting human being. People are "subjects" because they are subjected to some particular notion of an i dentity. This subjection needs to be interro g ated and should include co n sideration of the role disco u rses play in situating people in their "places." Subjection works through ideologies (practices) which have a material existence and which include di sc ourses. Ideologi c al practice s directly affect language, thought, and the body (Macdo n ell 101-2 ) .
It is very significant that the novels under consideration here direc t a ttention to the physical being as well as the intellectual configuration of the subject. Francis Barker describes how the 17th century saw a change in the representation of the body, presenting a progessively more private and marginalized image. The result is that t h e body has been effectively hidden from history. By "body" he means neither a hypostatized object nor a simply biological machine, but "a relation in a system of liaisons which are material, discursive, psychic, sexual, but without stop or centre" (12). It is neither more nor less than a social construct, and as such has profound implications for the issues of gender and sexuality (Turner 5). Barnes and Metcalf in particular are engaged in dis-covering the body in history, in exploring both how the body has been acted upon by society, and how it has reacted.
It is no coincidence that Matthew O'Connor in Nightwood and 6 Michael Mills in Genoa are physicians. All three writers are concerned with the construction of the subject, and this necessarily focuses on the material as well as the inte l lectual. T h ey all show us eleme n ts of disorder and deviance--Robin's hysteria, Carl's mental and physical suffering and sociopathic behaviour, the Bu e ndias' terror of the child born with a tail and Jose Arcadio's insanity.
Turner rem i nds us that "all social struct u re s which institutionali z e inequality and dependency are fought out at the level of a micro-po l itics of deviance and disease." Since t h e body is a powerful metaphor for society, it is appropriate for disease to be the most salient metaphor of structural crisis, and all disease is a form of disorder, in a literal,symbolic, social and political sense (114).
Barnes, Metcalf and Gar c ia Ma rquez write about bodies rebelling agai n st the s o cia l and poli t ical order s which seek to regulate them, and i n doing so p r esent shif t ing views of the human subject which challenge traditional humanist assumptions.
The readings I discuss h e re result from studying the texts in combination with a critical perspective which derives from Mikhail Bakhtin and se v eral contemporary French and American theorists who can be grouped as poststructuralists. I have also drawn on the work of feminist critics such as Susan Gubar, Patricia Tobin, and ~ ' Helene Cixous; they explore the effects of the patriarchal 7 structures in which we all read and write. I f i nd them all helpful because they are engaged with the idea of history and its necessity for understanding cultural productions, never accepting it merely as a g iv e n . In the interests of brevity, I will not attempt to give detailed o ut l ines here of each theorist's work, but rather discuss specifics in relation to the literary texts in the following chapters. I hope to convey here in a more general way the attitude or appro a ch which emerges col l ectively from their thinking to influence mine.
There is a strong focus on the text as a representation, a complex system of signs, together with a sense of the impossibility of knowing absolute truth. Thus, even historiography can be v i ewed as a form of writing subject to the difficulties and problems of fiction or autobiography. One is given to search te x ts for ideological positions posing as objective facts or for exposures of such operations, and also to formu l ate questions about the operations of power and the status quo in a given text. Such strategies are useful, for example, in exploring the feminist implications in Nightwood.
Of course, the central influence on poststructuralist critics is Jacques Derrida. His thinking on "differance" in language, which can be construed as meaning dissimilarity, Al l the theorists upon whose ideas I draw bring to their task the awareness that we each read with a particular set of as s umptions and e x periences, that is, we have our own histories which can shape interpretations . They challenge the belief that texts contain fixed or absolute meanings which can be discovered with the "correct" critical tools.
Rather, they encoura g e readings that might uncover 9 "realities" other th a n the normative, and they never lose In the next three chapters I will discuss Nightwood, Genoa, and One Hundred Years of Solitude respectively. I will review the critical response to each novel, and then attempt to trace the way each work interacts with the topic of my study and how, in this process, it presents its own set of intriguing concerns and insights.
10 CHAPTER ONE

Nightwood
The novel--as Bakhtin more than anyone else has taught us to see--does not l ack its organizing principles, but they are of a different order from those regulating sonnets or odes. It ma y be said Jacobson works with poetry because he has a Pushkinian love of order; Bakhtin among theorists in re-vie wi ng h i story and its impl i cations, Barnes ma d e radical statements in her nov e l i n such a way as to challe n ge crit i c s and defy easy ca t e g orizations. Some eff o rt of the i mag i na t ion and inte l lect is required to appr e ciate th i s wo r k i n a l l its fullness.
Nightwood is not ge n e r al l y consid e red a major work in the Am e ric a n l iterary cano n . I n disc u ssions of expatriate writers of the 1 9 2 0 s and 30s Barnes  Barnes could draw upon objects at that time because, as Jameson tells us, they still had some human significance, some trace of labour, some expressiveness, since they were the products of an economy that was not yet completely industrialized (104). Some mystery remained, and surrealist writing could take advantage of that. In Nightwood the message is also direct: "In the passage of their lives together every object in the garden, every item in the house, every word they spoke, attested to their mutual love," followed by a catalogue of these things (55).

20
The satisfaction of desire is most ade q uately expressed universal. This is not to say that Barnes or anyone for that matter can avoid using pa t riarchal modes of discourse and representation, since these are dominant, but her work reveals a search f o r another way to speak.
Another aspect of Nightwood, related to the subject of desire, is the book's distinctive illumination of its historical moment. Jameson states that the novel always tries to reconcile the consciousness of writer and r eader with the objective world at large. When we j u dg e no v elists we are judging the moment of history they r e flect and on which they pass senten c e (42). Barnes avoids d i re c t references to contemporary political and even cult u ral matters, but s h e does ment i on dates ( 1 880, 1920, 1923, 1927 ) 2 1 and in various ways presents and pr ob es her time s o as to reveal its implications from a female perspective. Because such an approach is unusual, it brings with it some challenges.
The characters in Nightwood are obsessed with history and described in "historical" terms (e.g. Nora's appearance evokes U.S. history, 50-1), but most often it is the i dea of history which exerts fascination, rather than any particular event, and emphasis rests on personal matters. These two spheres intersect in an interesting way in Robin, whose puzzling actions make her seem not quite "normal." The patter n of her conduct suggests that she is an old-fashioned hysteric. Before dismissing this as a far-fetched notion, it benefits us to consider that a writer who is not above naming a l egle ss girl Mlle . Basquette is capable of establishi n g a playful dialogu e between history and hysteria. The root of hysteria means womb; history is both the tomb of the past and the womb which makes the future possible. Curiously enough, other characters are directly described as hysterics--Felix moves with a "humble hysteria" (11); Jenny attack s Robin in a hysterical fit (76)--but this term is never applied to Robin. Instead, she shows the classic symptoms throughout the story. Felix does imply that Robin may be "a little mad" for her errand, which entails interrogating the past a nd uncovering the "darker" aspects of her humanity ( 1 22). Jean-Martin Charcot, beginning in the 1870's, placed the seemingly random symptoms of this disorder into a system of positive laws. He c l aimed that a hysterical attack has four parts. The first sta g e is "tonic rigidity;" the second, movement resembling circus-like acrobatics; and third, dramatic emotional states like terror, love and hatred. The final stage is a "delirium marked by sobs, tears, and laughter, and heralding a return to the real world" (214).
Putting aside political questions r a ised by this systemization of mental illness, it matters less whether Charcot's view is "correct" tha n that it is available as a theory. Barnes has, whatever her intentions, incorporated this structure and dispersed it within the n a rrative o f Nightwood, and all four stages can be located in the te x t.
Robin's initial fainti n g spell, or the sect i on "La Somnambule" constitute stage one. Stage two appears in her emotional swings from Felix to Nora to Jenny and various strangers. It can be seen as well in the c i rcus acrobats in enforced the relegation to unconsciousness of these highly charged mental contents also encouraged the spread of the disease." Freud identified these factors as "civilized sexual morality," by which he meant that ethic which put work and advancement before pleasure, which demanded sexual abstinence before marriage only for women, and which held that a "proper" woman was effortlessly chaste, with no interest in, or desire for, sexual satisfaction. Thus, in Goldstein's view, hysteria "was a protest made in the flamboyant yet encoded language of the body by women who had so thoroughly accepted that value system that they could neither admit their discontent to themselves nor avow it publicly in the more readily comprehensive language of words" (212-3).
Hysteria is a complex subject and one risks oversimplification here, as well as excessive enthusiasm for a theory, not unlike the doctors mentioned in Goldstein's article. Once hysteria was given a formula and a place in medical discourse, those physicians interested in it "found" more hysterics than did their counterparts (220). Still, this reading of Freud provides a viable interpretation of Robin's "peculiar" conduct and is not in conflict with other factors in the novel. One could argue that even in the 1920s, and still in our own day, the bourgeois value system exercises considerable control over the bodies of women.
When Robin enters the story she is very young, and in her initial passivity offers herself up to the status quo, "as if Robin's life held no volition for refu sal " ( Barnes 43). She marrie s an d h as a child, moving trance-l ik e i n t h e roles prescribed for her. "Civilized se x u al mo r a li ty" becomes an oppressive b u r d en and sh e r eb els. Like the animals to which she is often compared, Robin is non-verbal ; that at least is th e impress i on th e te x t crea t e s. Ver y rarely are her words quoted , e v e n though s h e i s oc casionall y mentioned as s pe ak ing " i n l o ng , ramb l ing, i mpass i on e d sentences" (68). She has no official la n gua ge , her wo r ds a r e absent from the page as women have, for the mo st part . long been absent from offi c ia l histor y . I n stead, she ac t out her rebellion in her movement "down" and awa y from soc i all y approved modes of existence. We could say she is repressed and consequently rebe l lious. Her ~ehav io ur is har d ly circumscri b e d in her search fo r sexu a l f r e e do m, but Robin pays a price i n sufferi n g, both her ow n a n d her lovers'.
Felix and Nora are distress e d by her attempt to become "healthy'' by exploring her desires a n d defying conventional morality. Ironi c ally, even the "bohemian" Nora is a bourgeoise at heart. Robin suffers because of her conflict With social codes which label her beh a v iour as unacceptable; she may reject them but t h ey continue to haunt her. She embodies an important perspective on the historical condition of women. The end of the novel, seen i n these terms, makes a strong statement about the modern woman's slow progress in the struggle for genuine a u tonomy a nd 26 against patriarchal domination . Instead of seeing real II t • "progress over i me , she has been moving backwards, experiencing fr u stration in her attempt to speak for and of herself.
The rebelliousness in Nightwo od is not confined to the characters. Robin may not have a voice, but the author does.
,,. ' As Helene Cixou s observes, the a ct of writing, for a woman, can be viewed as an act of reclaiming her body. "Censor the body and you censor breath and spe e ch at the same time" (880), an apt description of Robin's condition. In perhaps a small way, Barnes' writing here is a heroic gesture, a reclamation of woman's body and her history. Her text suggests, though, that this is a history c onceiv ed differently from the familiar form, a history which Cixous describes as new, "a process of becoming in which several histories intersect with one another." Personal, national and world history blend with the history of all women. Its expression is marked by a writing which is anti-authoritarian, "an incessant process of exchange from one subject to another" (882-3). This process is dialo g ue at its best, as expounded by Bakhtin.
In Robin's "sickness" we may discover other implications about "history," by now a highly problematic term. She is a site of libidinal forces seeking expression and satisfaction, and she rejects conventional social restraints. Her lovers try to limit and direct these forces 27 partly for their benefit. Similarly, history might be thought of as not well-ordered but a series of random, sometimes irrational events which are given boundaries and meaning by those who have some power o ver that process.
Coming from quite another context but expr e ssing a similar view, Erich Auerbach speaks of the diff i culty of representing historical themes, as "the his t orical comprises a great number of contradictor y motives in each indi i dual, a hesitation and ambiguous groping on the part of g ro ups." Thus, for example, Old Testament figures p r oduce a more direct, concrete and "historical" effect than those of the Homeric world, "not because they are better described in terms of sense ••• but because the confused, contradictory multiplicity of events, the psychological and factual cross-purposes, which true history reveals, have not that the inverts of Nightwood attempt to return to prehistory, to those primal forces usually repressed by cultural categories. The cross-dressers who embody our "irrational, secret desires" reflect that wildness which "can only be hidden, never obliterated, in the forest of the nightwood that is sexu al ity" (500-1). Again we see desire, particularly female desire, as a secret or ignored area in history. Robin, whose cross-dressing expresses a need for power and visibility in the world, makes a strong statement when the force of her sexuality, her unconscious, is released. There is even a subtle suggestion that history itself is seductive. In 1936 this was hardly commonplace, although it appears in scholarly discourse now.
To complete this part of the discussion, we move to Robin converts to Catholicism from "an inscrutable wish for salvation" (46), and goes "forward and down" before the Church, as Felix does before history, but "she could not offer herself up." Refusing the surrender required of the faithful, she dwells instead on her height and on women in history rather than seeking a more appropriate devotion for a convert.
In Judeo-Christian tradition, one of the dominant views of woman portrays her as a source of sin and evil, and not surprisingly, her religious role is quite restricted. Both religion and history have maintained th anonymity of women.
A few exceptions am o ng women exist, but these too usually depend on males for their identity and prominence. Ro b in is described several times as anonymous. Her inability to submit to traditional theology is a form of rebellion against patriarchal controls. Her conversion is necessary for it shows her as a se e ker, and gives greater impact to her subsequent rejection and subversion of t r a di t ional religion. An appropriate direction for her ma y then be "out of time," to a condition resembling a pre-historic state.
She is often associated with the primiti v e, the supernatural, sorcery, witches, and anci e nt powers. We mi ght conclude that the only time women were not oppressed or ignored was in that mythic prehistoric period when the goddess reigned. However, this seems uns~c isfactory since Barnes does not succumb to nostalgia any w ere else in the text. More likely, she suggests that it is essential to move outside the status quo and beyond (patriarchal) representation, to cast off the burdens of traditional history as Nietzsche proclai ms, not to become ahistoric but to make history serve (female) human beings. Another "dream that has atrophied" is the Hegelian view of history which Nietzsche criticizes. In his discussion of history and theology, he objects to the view of a period (his present) as an "old age" of man, in the way that Barnes parodies this by undercutting pride and arrogance and presenting characters in all their human weakness. If her motley group is meant to represent civilization at its peak, the situation is indeed woeful.
No one here has evolved into a godlike being. As the ending in Nightwood makes clear, the human creature is still driven 37 by "uncivilized" impulses. Robin, the "b e ast turnin g human"   (157) Do things look in the ten and twel v e of noon as they l o o k in the dark? (85) No on e will be much or little except in someone's mi nd.
She couldn't tell me the truth because she had ne v er p l anned it; her life was a continua l acc i dent. (135) This destabi l ization includes t h e Volkbeins, (G u ido I and Felix) who are asso c iated with a model o f h i s tory which is continually discredited i n the te x t. They i l l s t rate Nietzsche's contention that "as lon g as the p ast is principally used as a model for i mitatio n , it is always in danger of being a little altered and touched up and brought nearer to fiction" ( 15). Their fraudulent li ne age is mockingly exposed, Felix has a bl in d eye, and his s o n i s retarded. In Felix, history is als o linked to circus and theatre, imply i ng that it shares with them t h e q ualities o f illusion, entertainme n t, and perhaps art; in short, it is also spectacle. This sug g es t s tha t while trut h may indeed exist somewhere, it is not so rea d ily a n d une q u ivocally apparent.
As European Jews the Volkbe i ns are in a v u ln e rable position. In a futile ge s ture to gain accept a nce, they worship the "great past" (a term implying a discours e , institutionalization) which ironically includes the persecution romanticized by Guido's black and yellow handkerchief. All three "bow down" to history in an act of subservience. In sharp contrast, Robin's bowing down is an attempt to reach b ey o nd this version of history and the oppressions of society into not only her own unconscious but also the historical and social "unconscious." Felix's history, an "interminable flow of fact and fancy" (44)  only what history might be but also one's relation to it-whether inside or outside for example--and to the institutions and con v entions with which it is intertwined.
The result is potentially liberating, but no t in a naive sense of "living happily ever after." Nightwood is rich in ambivalence as it challenges authority and the status quo, showing that reve a li n g the repres se d may be frightening, unpleasant, and beautiful (or th a t the bourgeois "ugly" must now be made "aesthetic"); that "freedom" is as elusive and problematic as "history"; and t h at the search and its terms must continually be r e formulated .

Genoa
In the for mal proc l amation si g ned by the President , designating October 1  language as a "whole," I prefer to concentrate on certain aspects of just one work, and discuss these in terms of theories I find especially pertinent. Given this, it seems that one cannot discuss Genoa without mentioning collage/montage, anatomy/physicality, and archaeology, which these critics include and which I hope to develop from my own perspective.
Another critic writes about Metcalf's modernism, and seems to suggest that Genoa hovers outside this category.
Robert Von Hallberg states that modernism can be seen as a style which affirms transcendence and continuity. Scratching which is a carnivalistic activity, with its sudden c n an g es of fate and its threshold connotations (Problems 143 ) . Carl drifts from place to place, seldom hav i ng a fixed address.
He was conceived "out of wedlock" ( 2 9), that is, outside of are highly signifi c ant in the struggle against "the inadequacy of all available life-slots to fit a n authentic human being," because they permit creation of con f us i on, teasing, parody of another's words, and the revelation of a personal life, eve n down to its unsavory secrets (Dialogic 162-3).
One major bourgeois institution whose falseness and hypocrisy is exposed through Carl (and through Melville) is the family. Far from being the harmonious cornerstone of society, it is shown in every instance to be troubled and fragmented, breeding death and insanity. In the Spanish family Carl joins, they are bus y k illin g each other over politics. The "family" he forms with Bonnie and the kidnapped child is cruelly parodic, a family of death.
Carl also challenges the hypocrisy in psychiatry, a significant institutio n alized discourse. Because   Laughter as a sociohistorical cultur a l phenomenon present in verbal expression works t h r ough parody to break down certain limits. istorically , laughter was able to rem ai n outside "o f fic i al f alsifications" which were characterized by ser iousness , conventionality and hypocrisy.
Language forms infused with laughter (such as parody) subject point of view to r einte r pretation. "There is a continued passi n g beyond the boundaries of the g iv en, sealed-off verb a l whole (one c an not understand p arody without reference to the parodied material, that is without exceeding t h e boundaries of the given context  Metcalf's concern with history is primarily centered on the United States, and he asks his questions in order to understand the American present. Even though we have Genoa and far-flung parts of the globe in this story, the focus is American. Allen Thiher has observed that "American writers are perhaps unique in their use of intertextual play as a way of affirming the space of writing as the locus for their cultural identity." He sees in Genoa a movement beyond intertextuality as play, to an emphasis on intertextuality and history, and the role of intertextuality in "the constitution of what we take to be the order of the real." The novel's underlying narrative structure testifies to the continuation of "a certain humanistic center to literat u re, for American writers appear far more reluctant to abandon humanistic ideology than their European counterparts" (185).
Thiher may be right, but I think Genoa c an also be read otherwise. Metcalf does not leave me with a comforting affirmation of man being the measure of a l l things. His book is too full of contradictory elements and disconcerting revelations. In his interview as well, he seems to be expressing this kind of view--"meaning, properly, is deeply encrusted, embedded, often hedged in with contradictions of itself, or at least paradoxes, ambiguities ••• maybe I'm a cranky Yankee, but today is a grim, drizzly December day, and I somehow don't mind it, I feel no need to 'transcend' it, prefer it, in fact, to a land where the sk i es are not cloudy all day" (O'Brien, RCF 251-2). I realize that what he says elsewhere must be taken "outside" Genoa, but he seems quite consistent in mood with the novel . And I think he has moved beyond that humanistic ideology mentioned by Thiher.

III.
Genealogy--An "Other" Voice carnival demonstrat e s, we r i sk encounters with "monst er s" when we ope r ate in the ma r gins, at the limits of discourse.
It is an intr i guing and painful site where discoveries are made, including that of our own "otherness." By exploring this region, Metcalf makes it c l ear his interests have outdistanced humanist versions of history and the self.
The h uman sub j ec t is not "dead," as s ome critics of contemporary European theory would have it; it is being reconfigured in a pr o cess that seem s i n fi n ite, and it is "other" rather than " s ame." The effort to understand what an "authentic" human being might be requires a dialogue wherein social const r uctions such as the body, histo r y, language, and power are studied for th e ir effects on each other, and also a recognition tha t none of these c a n be accepted merely as gi v en, as "natural."

CHAPTER THR E E On e Hundred Years of Solitude
It is no longer the sleep monsters and which l i berates that the attentiveness of s ch ola r shi p , and the grey patience of Counter-memory, Practice, p. Years. In his view, history in its current state is a lie for Garcia Marquez, and his task in fiction is to end it.
For emphasis MacAdam fills his text with references to the fiction of other writers who also see the "falsity" of Spanish American history (ch. 9). While we may appreciate the insight of these writers, this c r itic's response to the problem they raise seems woefully inept.  Frye's critique of the New Criticism is equally idealist and relies on similar transcendence. Saussure seeks to prove that language is a "self-governing system free from • •• historical determinants" (67). Poulet "seeks and claims an isolated, privileged, and transcendent space of human consciousness--as the goal of critical reading" (69). His and a view of the book stresses the priority of the subject refusal of history (75). The structuralists who posit cultures as heterogeneous produce a criticism which embraces universals, giving systematic models to explain diversity and emphasize the "unity" of Western culture (105). Even Barthes, who recognizes the historical nature of discou r se, seeks/finds transcendence in the form of "jou i ssance" through his "text of bliss" which suspends all signified values (144). The Yale group of "Derrideans" are presented as misinterpreters of Derrida's work which contains a historical consciousness they prefer to ignore. Emerging as the "hero" of Lentricchia's account is Foucault (not strictly speaking a l i terary critic), who makes positive use of Derrida's theories. Instead of the "isolate and elite privelege" of literary discourse (158) Meaning depends on context, and in this novel contexts keep shifting. There is however a strong suggestion that transcendence and solitude are interconnected and often unhealthy. As a young man, Aureliano Segundo shuts himself up and attempts unsuccessfully to decipher the manuscripts.
During this time he is "drawn into himself" (179). His isolation and studies end when his involvement with Petra Cotes begins. Much later in life, Jose Arcadio Segundo installs himself in Melquiades' room to study in complete solitude, indifferent to everything but the parchments. When Ursula comes upon him, he presents a dismal sight (and smell). At this point Ursula is blind, so the description of 89 his appearance comes from a narrative voice clearly expressing displeasure. "The only thing visible in the intricate tangle of hair was (sic) the teeth striped with green slime and his motionless eyes" (309). Hardly a flattering portrayal of the seeker after knowledge. He is caught up in contradictions--study requires isolation, but carried too far it makes him a pathetic creature leading an empty life. This is not to imply that every intellectual experience must be translated into practical activity in the "real" world, but the value of Jose Arcadio's endeavors is being questioned. Perhaps the severest criticism of him is that he does not question them at all.
The last Aureliano (Babilonia) is the most scholarly.
He spends his childhood studying in Melquiades' room, "absorbed in his reading," so that by the time he reaches adolescence he knows many things "by heart," possessing "the basic knowledge of a medieval man" but totally ignorant about his own time (328). He learns Sanskrit and spends years patiently translating the manuscripts, studying other languages, never leaving the house, deep in his solitude.
When he finally emerges, it is to enter the wise Catalonian's bookstore where he encounters new friends and new viewpoints. Up until now there has been a split between mind and body, between pursuit of knowledge and of carnal pleasures, and the division is never presented favourably.
Under the benign influence of the Catalonian, Aureliano combines lively discussions on diverse topics with visits to brothels. He even begins to realize the playful and irreverent aspects of literature. Later he abandons the manusc r ipts when he and Amaranta Ursula begin their affair.
When he finally returns to the parchments and is able to decode them, they tell him of his imminent destruction. This could be a comment on the futility of his life's work, on the power of a text, and on the magical properties of the reading act itself. Like the others, he seems to have a blind spot about the ideological implications of his activity, which is, after all, a study of history/literature. They fail to ask enough questions of themselves, and to allow the activity itself too privileged a space. Perhaps Garcia Marquez is indicating in his way, as Nietzsche did in The Use and Abuse of History, that history should not be deified but rather used to enhance life.
The wise Catalonian presents an alternative approach. He is not idealized, but seems to express well the subversive spirit of the novel. As a former professor of classical literature who has rejected affiliation with any institution or orthodoxy, he is a man who questions authority, even his own. After he returns to Europe his letters to the young men in Macondo urge them to leave the town, "forget everything he had taught them about the world and the human heart ••• shit on Horace ••• wherever they might be they always remember that the past was a lie, that memory has no return ••• " (370). This man whose "fervor for the written word" is "an interweaving of solemn respect and gossipy irreve r ence" (368) encourages his "students" to live in the world rather than separate themselves and their ideas from it, and to entertain a healthy skepticism.
The attention given in the novel to the reading and study of texts underlines the importance of this activity.
On the last page categories collapse as Aureliano reads a historical text which is also fiction--the novel, and thus becomes a reader of Garcia Marquez's book like the rest of us, as well as a character in it. What one makes of this is not just an "academic" issue, but touches deeply held beliefs and assumptions. Critics who subscribe to absolute forms of knowledge as expressed in traditional notions of history or literature are being mocked here, and can be expected to produce readings which neutralize the issue.
As readers we are caught in ambiguities. Reading is a solitary activity and a dialogue with the voices (or languages) in the text at hand and other texts; it is physically passive and one of our most common expressions of the will to knowledge. This will to knowledge usually remains unexamined and admired, but Garcia Marquez warns of its dangers, as does Nietzsche. According to Fou c ault, the Nietzschean historical sense enables a transformation of history into a different form of time and it opposes "history as knowledge" (160). Historical consciousness appears neutral, but it is an aspect of the will to knowledge which also has its violent, disturbing aspects.
The will to knowledge does not achieve universal truth--it multiplies risks, dissolves the unity of the subject, and demands sacrifice. It is not limited by the finitude of human cognition, rather "it loses all sense of limitations and all claim to truth in its unavoidable sacrifice of the subject of knowledge" ( 1 62-4). Here transcendence can be dangerous, not only for the theorist in his study or an amusing Buendia character. The will to knowledge harbours dangers to what we may value highly, and yet is necessary for this book to have been produced and read. To identify limits that may not exist could be as destructive as denial of all limits. Garcia Marquez often tests the limits of "reality" in this novel; his purpose is subversion rather than transcendence. He is thumbing his nose at us, teasing those who feel compelled by their will to knowledge to explore the many directions which his book takes. The novel constantly requires us to question limits and authority-including our own. It is a playful reminder tQ readers and critics to be humble and laugh at their pretensions. In Macondo, no one is fully in charge, and no single theory will allow us to encompass that worl d .

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A dilemma which always face s u s is the kn o wledge that the critical strategies we use are bound to privilege certain readings and exclude others. All I can do h e re is acknowledge it, and continue to work toward other r e a dings.
In that spirit, I have tried to remove these novels from their respective classificatory "ghettoes" (lesbian, avant-garde, Latin-American/foreign). Most of all, I hope that in the midst of the critical and theoretical discussions it remains clear that these are marvelous novels which amply reward the reader.